Jason continued exploring the city for a while longer. Unfortunately, to his bad luck, he didn't find anything truly interesting. Or rather… to avoid saying he found absolutely nothing, he did manage to find a few useful things, even if they were simple.
Among the abandoned buildings, he found a backpack full of supplies, left on the back seat of an old car; it contained everything from canned food to junk like chips and other processed garbage. In a carpentry shop forgotten by time, he discovered a very sharp axe, still in excellent condition. Finally, in an equally abandoned hardware store, he found two more combat knives.
It wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but in that scenario, it was already something.
At least now he had the firearms he had found earlier in the mansion.
The sun was already high when he reached the other end of the city, the side opposite the direction of the farm. It was a more commercial area, with small shops, a looted gas station, and at the end of the main street, an old bar called "The Raven". The dark wooden facade displayed a crooked sign hanging from a rusted chain; the windows were clouded with grime and age.
Jason frowned when he heard voices coming from inside.
They weren't zombie moans—they were human voices, coarse laughter, muffled shouts… and the unmistakable sound of someone crying and begging…
The noise had already attracted zombies. About eight or ten were gathered at the entrance, dragging their feet and pounding on the wooden doors, drawn by the sound.
Perhaps out of curiosity or the unease of confirming what those sounds implied, he decided to investigate.
Jason quickly brought Duke under control, pulling the reins firmly and guiding the horse into a narrow side alley—strategically close, near enough for a quick getaway, yet well hidden behind an abandoned commercial building that blocked any approaching zombies. He dismounted in silence, tied the reins to an exposed iron bar, and murmured low to the animal:
"Never thought I'd find people in this place…"
He fell silent for a second. His jaw clenched; his honey-colored eyes hardened.
The problem is…
…not every survivor is good.
He hoped those sounds weren't what his mind had feared in that first instant.
After making sure Duke would be safe, he ran toward the bar, silent, drawing one of the Beretta 92FS pistols from its holster in a fluid motion. The chrome pistol, with gold accents, caught a faint gleam under the sun. He gripped it with both hands, barrel pointed down, body slightly forward—exactly as the manuals on armed combat and stealth taught—his movements so perfect it seemed he had done this his entire life.
After moving along the side of the bar and avoiding the zombies at the front entrance, he crouched beneath one of the fogged windows, slowly rose, and peered through the dirty glass.
The scene made his pupils dilate.
His fist clenched the pistol grip so hard his knuckles turned white.
It was something he wouldn't forget anytime soon.
And it precisely confirmed what had crossed his mind…
In the center of the bar, under the dim light of a bulb dangling from a single wire, a woman was on the floor, being forced to move over a man lying on his back while another held her by the hair.
Her screams were muffled, desperate, mixed with sobs.
Her boyfriend or husband was tied to a chair a few meters away, gag in his mouth, eyes wide with horror and helpless rage, face red from straining against the cloth. He looked in terrible condition, as though he had been badly beaten…
Two more men sat at a nearby table, drinking warm beer straight from the cans, watching the scene like it was a sick performance. They laughed quietly, made vulgar remarks, raised their cans in sadistic toasts.
The fat man holding the woman by the hair wore a dirty white shirt and dark pants pulled down to his waist. In his free hand, a double-barreled shotgun alternated between pointing at the woman and the bound boyfriend. He barked hoarse orders:
"Ride faster, you bitch! And suck him properly, come on!"
The man beneath her—thin, patchy beard—laughed like an idiot, slapped her ass, and shouted:
"Calm down, Tony. We've got all the time in the world to fuck this bitch. Look at the cuck over there… he's loving the show."
Tony, the fat one, let out a deep laugh, raising the shotgun toward the ceiling and firing a shot upward just to scare them.
The blast echoed down the street.
More zombies began approaching the entrance.
As soon as the gunshot rang through the bar, one of the seated men—a skinny guy with greasy hair, patchy beard, and a worn Metallica T-shirt—shot to his feet, knocking over his beer can.
"Fuck, Tony! Are you insane?!" he shouted, voice hoarse with anger and booze. "You trying to call those idiots from the road gang? They passed near our camp two days ago and came into town—who knows if they're still close! If they hear that, they'll come here!"
Tony turned his flushed face toward him, the shotgun still smoking in his hand.
"Relax. It was just one shot. They must've passed the highway a long time ago. They're too far away to hear it by now."
The other seated man—older, bald, scarred face, torn leather jacket—placed a hand on Carl's shoulder, squeezing hard to calm him.
"He's right, Carl. Just noise. Now sit down and drink more. The show isn't over yet."
The man under the woman slapped her ass again, laughing as he forced her to keep moving.
"We just need to stay out of town for a few days…"
"Anyway, finish it already… I don't want your excuses or stupid words…" Carl snorted coldly.
"Ah, come on, it was just getting to the good part!"
"…Carl, you're such a buzzkill!"
Tony let out a heavy laugh, the sound echoing through the empty bar. He raised the double-barreled shotgun and pointed it at the woman, who was still sobbing and trembling on top of the man. He had already finished, and the previous shot had been born of the moment's excitement. Now, though… it was time to end it.
"Then let's wrap this up."
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
The first shot blew the woman's head apart in a red-and-white blur. Her body slumped forward, lifeless, onto Rick, who cursed loudly as he shoved her aside.
Before the tied-up boyfriend could react or even make a sound beyond the muffled scream behind the gag, Tony spun the shotgun and fired the second barrel.
The man's skull exploded backward, blood and bone fragments splattering the wall.
Tony lowered the weapon, blowing smoke from his mouth as if he had just finished a cigarette. He began pulling up his pants with his other free hand while speaking.
"Done. Playtime's over. Let's go before more of those dead things show up."
The man who had been on the floor stood up, wiping the woman's blood from his hands onto the pants he quickly pulled on.
"Goddamn, Tony. Could've waited a bit longer."
Carl was still standing, staring at the bodies with a hard expression.
"Let's move. That shot's gonna bring company."
The four began to move, grabbing backpacks, weapons, remaining beer cans, laughing quietly and commenting as if nothing had happened.
Outside, Jason heard everything and saw everything in silence.
For a long moment, his mind became a battlefield. What he had just witnessed fit perfectly into the category of things he would have had no hesitation interrupting with violence before the world ended. It was disgusting, cruel, and inhuman. Every second those voices continued inside felt like it was scraping something deep within him.
Rage came first.
His fingers tensed at his sides, as if they already knew what to do. Part of him—the simplest, most direct part—wanted to walk into that bar and end the four men without a second thought.
But he didn't move.
Because he had never killed anyone before and was still trying to find the courage.
Guilt for not acting began to squeeze his chest.
Then his mind simply shut off.
All that remained was apathy.
His fist gripped the Beretta so tightly the metal creaked against his finger bones.
His eyes, normally calm and calculating, were now cold as ice.
He wasn't a judge.
He wasn't an avenger.
But he also wasn't someone who stood by while that happened.
He took one deep, controlled breath.
Then he moved.
Silent.
The back door of the bar opened with a low creak, and the men stepped out laughing quietly, backpacks on, weapons slung over shoulders, still commenting on the "fun" as if it had been an ordinary party…
They walked toward a car parked behind the building—an old black Ford F-150, license plate caked in mud, hood dented, but apparently functional. Keys jingled in Tony's hand as he approached the driver's side.
Jason waited until they were five meters from the vehicle.
Then he acted.
Carl was first. Jason emerged from the shadows as if designed for that exact moment. The Beretta in his right hand rose in a straight line, the barrel pressing against the back of Carl's neck before he could turn. A dry shot echoed across the block. The skull burst forward in a red jet; the body fell face-first to the ground without a sound.
The skinny one with the patchy beard spun around instantly, eyes wide.
Jason was already moving. He pivoted in a perfect lateral step, left hand drawing the Damascus knife in a fluid motion. The blade entered the left eye socket, piercing through to the brain with a wet crunch. He twisted once, pulled, and let the body drop sideways, still twitching.
Tony and the scarred bald man reacted at the same time—Tony raising the double-barreled shotgun in slow motion, the bald one drawing an old pistol.
Jason gave no time.
He advanced so fast it looked like a movie scene.
The scarred man was next. Jason kicked low, striking the knee with surgical precision—dry snap, joint shattered. The man fell screaming. Jason stomped the hand holding the pistol, crushing the finger bones, and drove the Damascus knife into his throat. Blood sprayed in an arc, the scream turning to a gurgle, body collapsing backward…
Tony was last.
The fat man tried to aim the shotgun, but Jason was already on him.
With a quick motion, he grabbed the barrel with his left hand, deflecting it upward and to the side. Tony pulled the trigger by reflex; the shot blasted skyward, the recoil nearly knocking him over.
Jason spun, using the momentum to twist Tony's arm until the shoulder popped.
The shotgun fell.
Tony screamed in pain.
Jason kicked the back of his knee; the fat man dropped to his knees with a heavy thud.
Before Tony could react, Jason drove the Damascus knife deep into his right thigh—far enough to hit the femoral artery, but not enough to kill instantly. Blood pulsed out in strong spurts. Tony roared, trying to crawl backward.
Jason stepped on his chest, pinning him to the cracked asphalt. The Beretta now pointed directly at the fat man's face.
"Talk," Jason said, voice cold, low, emotionless. "How many are you? Where's the camp? Who else is there? Weapons? Vehicles? Everything."
Tony breathed heavily, face red, sweat mixed with blood.
"Go fuck yourself…"
Not liking the answer, Jason slowly twisted the knife in Tony's thigh—deliberately. The fat man screamed loudly, the sound echoing down the empty street.
"Last chance," Jason said, tone unchanged. "Or I make this last."
Tony choked, tears of pain streaming down his face.
"Thirty… They've got heavy weapons, the camp… old motel on Highway 45… about 15 kilometers north…"
Jason tilted his head.
"Anyone else? Women? Children?"
Tony gave a hoarse, bloody laugh.
"Just… real men… not faggots like you…"
Jason remained silent for two seconds.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The bullet entered Tony's forehead and exited the back of his skull in a red spray.
The body went limp instantly.
Jason stood still for a moment, breathing controlled, staring at the four bodies on the ground.
…Did it seem easy?
I mean, he wasn't a psychopath. The lack of emotion didn't always come from that—sometimes it came from how someone was raised. But that wasn't his case either.
It was something else.
It was simply what he had come to recognize as his "survival mode." His brain seemed to activate this state whenever emotions threatened to spiral out of control or when he was about to do something dangerous.
A cold, functional shutdown that was perfect for staying alive.
Whatever it was, he felt no guilt or remorse for killing the four.
And he would do it again without hesitation.
Well, it was time to eliminate that group…
If they were capable of what they did in the bar, then they needed to die. He didn't even want to imagine what would happen if they found the farm—or even came close to Maggie…
Just that thought was enough.
Because of it, he was more than determined to kill every last one of them.
_______________________
(A/N: Advanced chapters have been posted on my Patreon, and releases there will be more regular.
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