Ethan's improved Endurance was a small mercy, allowing him to push through the gnawing pain and the weariness that still clung to him like a shroud. He moved with a new, grim determination, navigating the dense Georgia woods. The sun, filtered by the thick canopy, cast dappled shadows that played tricks on his eyes. Every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig, sent a jolt of primal fear through him. He was hunting, but he was also constantly being hunted.
His eyes, sharpened by the slight boost to his Perception, scanned the environment. He wasn't looking for safe havens anymore; he was looking for anything useful. Discarded bags, abandoned vehicles, even the faintest signs of human activity. He knew from his past life that suburban areas, even overgrown ones, offered the best chance for supplies.
He headed in a general south-southwest direction, a vague internal compass guiding him towards the fabled Greene Farm. The journey would be long, measured in painful steps and desperate gambles.
Hours passed. The meager water and granola bar were long gone, the thirst and hunger returning with a vengeance. His muscles ached, but the upgraded Endurance kept him from collapsing. He stumbled upon an old, overgrown logging road, barely more than a dirt path, but it was easier to traverse than the thick undergrowth. Hope flickered. Roads often led to something.
As he followed the winding path, the forest around him grew unnaturally quiet. The buzzing of insects faded. Even the distant groans of isolated Walkers seemed to vanish. An ominous stillness settled. Ethan's instincts, honed by months of brutal survival and now bolstered by his reincarnated memories, screamed at him. This was the calm before the storm.
Then, he heard it. A low, collective moan, growing steadily louder, accompanied by the shuffling, dragging sound of many feet. It wasn't one or two. It was a group. A small horde.
Hostile detected: Walker Horde (Mixed Class - I). Estimated count: 8-12.
Warning: Hostile group detected. Evasion probability: Moderate (due to current terrain). Combat probability: LOW (due to host condition).
A horde. Just what I needed. Ethan cursed silently. Eight to twelve. In his state, that was nearly insurmountable. His Agility was still only a 2, not enough for a quick escape if they got too close. His Strength was a 3, better, but still far from optimal for multiple targets.
He immediately dove off the path, scrambling behind a thick cluster of rhododendrons, trying to make himself invisible. He held his breath, clutching his bat tightly. The sound grew deafening. The groans, the shuffles, the occasional wet splat as one Walker bumped into another. The air grew heavy with the sickening stench of decay.
Through a gap in the foliage, he saw them. A ragged, shambling line, slowly but inexorably advancing down the logging road. Most were standard Walkers, but he spotted a bulkier form in the middle a Thug. Its massive arms hung low, its movements slower than the others, but its sheer mass was terrifying. He also saw a flash of quick, frantic movement on the periphery of the group, an Infected, likely drawn by the larger group's noise, darting back and forth.
Damn it. A Thug and an Infected in the same group. This wasn't just a handful of slow shamblers. This was a death trap.
His System chimed again, confirming his analysis.
Hostile composition: Predominantly Walker (Class-I), 1x Thug (Class-III), 1x Infected (Class-II).
BP potential upon neutralization: Significant (Thug: 5 BP, Infected: 3 BP).
The potential reward was immense. Eight Battle Points. If he could somehow clear this group, he'd be halfway to becoming formidable again. But the risk was almost certain death.
The horde was still some distance away, giving him a few precious seconds. He looked around wildly. No easy escape route. The forest was too dense for him to outmaneuver them quietly. He had to think. What did he know about Thugs? Slow, strong. Vulnerable to limb damage, surprisingly. What about Infecteds? Fast, aggressive, but fragile if you could land a hit.
He spotted an old, dilapidated shed through the trees, a small, rickety structure, probably used by loggers long ago. It was off the main path, partially hidden by thick vines. A desperate idea sparked in his mind.
He moved, not running, but a rapid, silent hobble, favoring his less injured side. He reached the shed, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his side screaming. The wooden door was warped, barely clinging to its hinges. He yanked it open, a cloud of dust and the smell of rot filling the air. He slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him, wincing at the groan of the old wood. He tried to brace it with a fallen beam he found, but it was flimsy.
He was trapped. But he had a plan. A risky, suicidal plan.
He peered through a crack in the warped wood, watching the horde draw closer. The ground vibrated with their approach. He knew he couldn't stay inside. The shed wouldn't hold. He needed to thin their numbers, isolate the threats. And he needed to do it using his limited resources and newfound knowledge.
He scanned the shed's dusty interior. A few rusty tools, some rotting sacks. Nothing he could use immediately. He looked at his bat, then at the knife in his belt. This was it. His last stand, or his desperate ascent.