After thinking of a good plan and finding some useful things to put it into practice, Jason walked toward the makeshift staircase leading to the third floor. He stopped in the shadow at the foot of the makeshift stairs, using his sharpened senses to assess the situation upstairs. A few moments later, he moved back into the common room he had just cleaned. He picked up one of the almost-empty whiskey bottles that one of the dead men was holding and hurled it with precision against the wall of the second-floor hallway.
CRRRSSHH!
The glass shattered loudly, echoing like a dry gunshot.
Then he kicked a plastic chair to the floor, creating a metallic crash that reverberated up the stairs.
KRUNK!
Finally, he let out a long, hoarse groan—not a scream, just the sound of someone injured trying not to make noise...
This successfully drew the attention of the group upstairs.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the floor above. Low, irritated voices.
"What the fuck was that?"
"Probably that idiot Billy knocked some shit over again…"
"Go check it out, damn it. Take two with you."
Three pairs of boots descended the creaking staircase.
Leaving the common room, Jason retreated into one of the dark bedrooms near the common area, door left slightly ajar, body pressed against the wall. The three men appeared in the second-floor hallway: two with rifles slung over their shoulders, the third holding a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. They stopped when they saw the broken glass and the fallen chair.
"What the hell…"
The first one crouched to look at the shards.
Jason emerged from the shadows like smoke.
The knife entered the back of the crouched man's neck before he could finish the sentence. The second man spun too quickly—Jason was already pivoting, the blade slicing cleanly across the exposed throat in a perfect arc. Hot blood sprayed the wall. The third managed to raise the shotgun about half a meter before Jason kicked the barrel upward and drove the knife up under the chin, piercing through the palate into the brain.
All three fell almost simultaneously, bodies piled up in less than eight seconds.
Silence again.
But it didn't last.
One of the dead men was still gripping the trigger of the sawed-off shotgun. As the body slumped, the dead finger squeezed. The shot exploded in the narrow hallway like thunder, blowing a hole in the plaster ceiling and filling the air with dust and the smell of gunpowder.
Shit.
Shouts came from the third floor.
"FUCK! GUNSHOT!"
"They're down there!"
"Get down! Everyone get down!"
Frantic footsteps above. Jason didn't wait. He immediately pressed himself against the wall beside the staircase—the blind side, where anyone coming down wouldn't see him until they were almost on the last step. MP5 now in his right hand, finger on the trigger, barrel pointed upward. Slow breathing. Steady heartbeat.
He heard the first man rushing down, boots slamming on the old wooden steps, panting breath, AK-47 in hand.
"Billy? Mike? What the fuck happened down th—"
Jason waited until the man passed the final step, body already turning toward the hallway. Only then did he take a single lateral step, pressing the MP5 barrel against the man's temple before he could finish the sentence.
The finger squeezed.
Three short, controlled shots.
The head exploded in red.
He didn't stop to admire the work.
Instead of waiting for the others to come down, Jason improvised in the same instant.
He spun, MP5 still hot in his right hand, and climbed the old makeshift wooden stairs in a silent, controlled sprint. His feet barely touched the steps; weight distributed on the balls of his feet, exactly as the urban infiltration books described: feline movement, zero creaking. His sharpened senses picked up everything—the smell of nervous sweat from above, the anxious click of magazines being checked, the racing hearts of men…
Halfway up the stairs, two men suddenly appeared on the upper landing, rifles raised, eyes wide with panic. The first, a skinny guy with a messy red beard, was already lifting an AK-47 to aim downward. He had no time. Jason leaped the last three steps in one bound, body twisting in the air like a trained acrobat. The butt of the MP5 struck the redhead's chin with a wet crack, shattering bone and snapping the head back. Before the man could fall, Jason was already spinning the Damascus knife in his left hand and driving it into the exposed throat of the second man—a fat guy in an open shirt who was trying to draw a pistol from his waistband…
The blade entered cleanly through the carotid, exited the back of the neck. Hot blood sprayed in an arc, painting the rusted handrail. The fat man gurgled once, eyes bulging, and collapsed backward, body tumbling down the stairs with a dull thud. The redhead was still trying to scream, but Jason stomped on his chest with his heel, crushing the sternum. Two short, suppressed shots from the MP5 to the chest, just to be sure…
After killing those two, he quickly climbed the rest of the stairs; a narrow, makeshift corridor came into view, built from plywood and tarps, with five doors to old rooms—clearly thrown together by the group, since this floor was an attic. Cigarette smoke and the smell of alcohol hung in the air. Exactly five men remained—Jason counted them by the footsteps and echoing voices.
"Fuck, was it those morons?"
"I don't know, but Mike went down and didn't come back!"
"Arm up, idiots! I'm not dying here!"
Jason gave them no time to organize. He moved fast, body low, MP5 now slung on his back; knife in his right hand, left hand free for balance. First room on the left: curtain swaying, a lone man with his back turned, frantically loading a hunting shotgun.
Jason entered silently, left arm wrapping around the neck from behind in a perfect rear naked choke.
The knife rose and fell twice—once at the base of the skull, once in the kidney.
The body convulsed, but Jason held it against his chest, cushioning the fall.
He left the room and pressed against the tarp wall. The next man appeared in the makeshift corridor, improvised flashlight in his left hand, Glock in his right.
"Hey, Spencer? Did you hear—"
The sentence died as Jason emerged from the darkness.
A low kick to the knee—dry snap of ligament tearing.
The man dropped sideways, mouth open to scream.
Jason was already on him: knee on the chest, knife straight through the left eye into the brain. Instant death. He withdrew the blade with a clean twist, wiping it on the dead man's shirt as he rolled the body into the next improvised room.
Three dead on the third floor.
The last two were in the large room—unlike the others made of tarp and curtain, this one looked like the motel's old storage room, so it had actual walls and a functioning door.
Jason heard the click of a weapon being cocked inside.
The last two knew something was wrong.
One of them, deep voice—probably the leader—shouted:
"Whoever you are, there's two of us! Come out, you son of a bitch!"
Jason smiled coldly. He took an improvised hand grenade he had found earlier in the pocket of one of the dead men on the second floor—it was really just a homemade pepper spray can with a cigarette fuse, but it would do. He lit the fuse with the Zippo lighter he had stolen earlier and rolled the can down the hallway toward the half-open door.
Three… two… one…
PSSSSSSSHHH!
The spray erupted in a thick cloud of pepper and smoke, filling the entire room. Screams of pain exploded from inside:
"MY EYES! FUCK, MY EYES!"
Jason was already moving. He entered the room, eyes narrowed against the burning cloud—his sharpened senses let him "see" through sound and smell.
The first man, the gray-bearded leader, staggered blindly, rubbing his eyes with one hand while trying to aim a .45 ACP pistol…
Jason kicked the gun away, spun, and buried the Damascus knife in the exposed armpit, twisting until he felt the heart stop.
The man dropped to his knees, gurgling.
The last one—a skinny kid in his early twenties, face streaming with pepper tears—stumbled backward against the wall, drawing a hunting knife. He still tried to attack blindly. Jason sidestepped elegantly, grabbed the boy's wrist, and snapped it with a dry twist.
The knife fell.
Then Jason pulled him close and drove the Damascus blade into the throat, entering through the trachea and exiting the back of the neck.
The body slid slowly to the floor, eyes still burning with pepper and terror.
Jason took one deep breath, feeling the hot air sting his lungs slightly.
It was in that moment that his sharpened senses picked up several hoarse moans, dragging footsteps, uncoordinated banging against already-broken doors and windows. Even muffled, the gunshots had carried far enough. The walkers that roamed the highway and nearby fields were now converging on the motel, drawn like moths to a flame…
He approached the shattered, crooked-framed window and peered down.
…Holy shit!
Maybe more than fifty walkers scattered across the parking lot and the road.
He exhaled slowly.
"Shit…"
There was no room for hesitation. If he waited, he'd be surrounded.
He started moving, sweeping the entire floor in under five minutes.
The armed group had accumulated a considerable arsenal, plus supplies enough for weeks.
In the first room, he found boxes of stolen canned goods: beans, corn, soup, canned meat, packets of rice and instant noodles, bottles of purified water, and warm soda cans. At least two months of food for ten people.
In the second room, a pile of weapons: five modified AR-15 rifles with optics, three 12-gauge shotguns with sawed-off barrels, a dozen assorted pistols—Glocks, Sig Sauers, a few common Berettas—hunting knives, improvised axes. Ammunition in boxes: thousands of rounds of 5.56mm, 9mm, 12 gauge, even grenades…
In the third room, medical supplies: stolen antibiotics, bandages, morphine ampoules, anti-inflammatories, even a basic surgical kit with scalpel and suture thread. Tools: pliers, screwdrivers, portable gas welder, extra batteries. And hidden under the bed, a modern compound bow—matte black with camouflage accents, high-tension string, holographic sight attached, quiver with twenty carbon arrows tipped for hunting…
In the last room, more food: protein bars, dried fruit, beef jerky, bottles of whiskey and vodka. Miscellaneous supplies: flashlights, batteries, rope, tarps, sleeping bags. He filled another bag.
In the last room, a hidden compartment behind a false wall: more ammunition, two sniper rifles with scopes, real smoke grenades, and a box of C4 plastic explosives with remote detonators…
Jason left nothing behind. With his superhuman strength, carrying everything was simple—it was just a matter of organizing and distributing the weight into sturdy canvas bags and backpacks he had found.
After clearing the third floor, he cleared the second, which had some useful items and weapons from the men he had killed, and then went down to the ground floor.
When he descended the stairs, the ground floor was filled with the sounds of walkers banging against doors and windows.
He exited through the side rear door.
He slipped out the side door and advanced in a zigzag pattern between the abandoned vehicles, using them as cover. Four walkers had already reached the parking lot.
The first fell with a clean knife strike to the temple. The second had his knee destroyed by a precise kick; before he hit the ground, Jason had already driven the blade into the base of the skull. The third came staggering; he sidestepped and buried the knife in the eye, straight to the brain. The fourth managed to grab his sleeve because of all the backpacks he was carrying, but Jason swept his legs and crushed the skull with his heel—quick and final.
Without pausing, he reached the black van parked in front—an old Ford Transit with the rear doors still open. He threw the bags inside, stacked the backpacks, propped the rifles against the sides so they wouldn't slide. The interior was almost full: canned goods piled up, ammunition hastily organized, rifles braced between the seats…
He slammed the rear doors, circled the vehicle, and got into the driver's seat.
He checked the dashboard.
Tank nearly full.
He searched for the key and found it hidden inside the glove compartment. After grabbing it, he started the van…
The engine roar broke the silence and drew attention. More walkers appeared, lurching forward with that uncoordinated haste.
Jason didn't wait.
He shifted into gear and accelerated. Two dead were hit head-on; the crumpled bumper crushed fragile bones as the vehicle surged forward without slowing. He swerved sharply onto the side road, leaving the motel and the swarm behind.
In the rearview mirror, the building receded under the warm light of late afternoon.
The sun was already sinking on the horizon.
Everything had gone according to plan…
He had wiped out an entire group of survivors…
All he needed to do now was return to the farm.
_______________________
(A/N: Advanced chapters have been posted on my Patreon, and releases there will be more regular.
My Patreon: patreon.com/Adam_Kadmon
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