The first time was a line.
The second was a test.
The third stopped being an event.
By the fourth, Harry understood—it was no longer experience.
It was a skill.
He didn't look for the dead.
He looked for places where they appeared.
Small towns. Suburbs. Highway exits. Places where people had stopped "just for a moment"—and never left.
Locust Grove, Georgia
The town looked like it had been paused.
Not destroyed.
Not burned.
Simply abandoned.
The police station stood near the center—an old brick building with a flag still hanging on the pole. In front of it, parked crookedly near the entrance, was a police cruiser, as if the officer had stopped in a hurry.
Harry parked a block away.
Watched.
Listened.
The silence wasn't empty.
The cruiser stood right by the station doors.
Windows intact.
Doors closed.
Something shifted inside.
Harry approached slowly, keeping to the left side of the hood. He didn't open the door immediately—took position, measured the angle, planned the exit.
One short thrust through the cracked window.
Straight into the base of the skull.
The body jerked once—and went still.
Harry didn't step away.
He searched the corpse.
This wasn't looting.
It was finishing the job.
Inside the shoulder holster he found a revolver.
A Smith & Wesson Model 10, .38 Special.
Old. Simple. Reliable.
Six chambers.
Four loaded.
"Doesn't jam," Salazar observed.
"And doesn't need attention," Harry agreed.
He took the revolver, spare rounds from the pockets, the radio clipped to the uniform, and the keys. From the trunk—an emergency kit, a flashlight, and a basic ballistic vest.
The body stayed where it fell.
The Police Station
Dark inside.
Two hallways.
Several offices.
Stale air.
Harry moved slowly.
One walker emerged from the records room—slow, delayed.
One clean strike with the gladius ended it.
Inside, he found:
9×19 ammunition
several body armor vests
handheld radios
cable restraints
duty flashlights
an empty safe
"Someone was here first," one of the Potters noted.
"Which means someone was thinking," Harry replied.
The Hunting Store
It sat near the edge of town.
The display window was broken, but the door was still locked. Inside—disorder, but not total chaos. People had taken what looked impressive, not what lasted.
Harry locked the door behind him.
First—silence.
Then—movement.
Two walkers in the storage room.
Arrow.
Head.
The second—knife.
Inside the store he found:
a mid-strength crossbow
bolts of various lengths
several hunting knives
blade maintenance kits
basic optics
firearm cleaning supplies
And in the back room—the important part.
A disassembled bolt-action rifle of the same class as his own.
Same design philosophy.
Same tolerances.
Same parts.
"Spare components," Harry said.
"And years of use," Salazar answered.
He took everything that fit his system.
Between stops, he watched the living.
People still arguing over fuel.
Recording videos.
Waiting for official explanations.
They didn't watch rooftops.
Didn't listen to the silence.
Didn't keep distance.
"They're still in yesterday," Sirius said.
"And yesterday is gone," Harry replied.
By evening, the house on wheels was full.
Not cluttered.
Organized.
Weapons sorted by type.
Ammunition by caliber.
Medical supplies by use.
The rule remained unchanged.
Head. Always.
That night, Harry sat in the dark.
This wasn't the end of the world.
It was a new system.
And he had already learned how to function inside it.
End of Chapter 9