3rd Person POV
The squad now sat around the dining table. Their primary weapons were no longer slung over their shoulders, but none had strayed far. Some leaned their rifles against their chairs, others laid them carefully on the floor within arm's reach. The table, though plain, carried the signs of a hastily prepared meal—bowls of instant noodles, opened cans of preserved fish, and a pot of rice still warm from the stove. The savory aroma of broth and soy hung faintly in the air.
From the kitchen, the commander emerged carrying two chipped plates—one piled with golden-brown fried tofu, the other with neatly halved boiled eggs. Without a word, he set them down at the center of the table and took his seat.
Alpha glanced at him, eyes thoughtful.
Sensing the gaze, the commander spoke. "We need to fill our stomachs and get proper rest tonight. Tomorrow's going to be a full day of physical work."
Foxtrot shifted slightly, a question clearly forming—but before he could speak, the commander added, "Yes, the night watch will still be in place."
A brief pause followed. The commander's gaze fell to the rice.
"Well," he said dryly, "apologies if the food doesn't suit your taste. If anyone wants to cook something different, just let me know."
He reached forward, scooping a portion of rice onto his plate. His next words came without looking up.
"We'll talk about tomorrow after we eat."
Delta, seated near the end of the table, had just begun to raise a hand—but at the commander's tone, he quietly lowered it. The squad exchanged glances, the unspoken question still lingering in the air.
Then, as the commander chewed a bite of tofu, he glanced up and said with a faint smirk, "It's not that I can read minds. I just know."
Several of the squad members froze, their eyes widening—not in fear, but in quiet astonishment. The words had echoed exactly what they were thinking.
They turned to Alpha, who gave a small nod. That was enough.
Silently, the squad began to eat. The room fell into a calm, almost reverent quiet—broken only by the occasional clink of metal against the plate and the soft hum of the outside wind against the windows.
It wasn't a luxury. It wasn't peace.
But for the first time since the blood moon rose—they were eating together, and that was enough.
✦✦✦
After dinner, the squad had moved into the parlor. With little to do, they sat scattered across the room, backs against the walls, quietly resting. A few still fiddled with their weapons—field-stripping and reassembling them more out of habit than necessity. The air was quiet, heavy but no longer hostile. The house had been cleaned. The bodies of the guards had been removed and laid outside in a respectful row. The floors, once marked with dust and dried blood, now bore only the dull scuff of boots.
Then, a soft creak broke the silence.
From one of the locked bedrooms in the middle room, the door creaked open. The commander stepped out, carrying three rolled-up mattresses and a large rolled-up carpet in his arms.
At once, several of the soldiers stood. Without needing to be told, they moved to help—taking the mattresses and carpet from the commander, unrolling the carpet first, then laying out the mattresses and spreading the simple bedding. They didn't speak, but worked in unison, each movement practiced and purposeful. Once done, they settled near the commander, their attention quietly turning toward him.
He felt their eyes on him.
Sitting on the edge of one mattress, the commander met their gaze and began speaking.
"As I said earlier—tomorrow will be a full day of physical work."
His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it.
"We'll clear the area. And by that, I mean we'll locate every infected corpse, gather them, and properly dispose of them. Whether we bury them or burn them depends on how much dry wood and fuel we can find."
The squad listened closely, silent but attentive.
"That brings us to the second point. We'll check every vehicle—cars, trucks, bikes—anything still within reach. If they're still functional, we'll move them and park them in that open lot we passed earlier, near the front of the residential zone. From there, we sweep the buildings."
His tone sharpened slightly.
"I want every room searched. Every drawer opened. We're not leaving anything useful behind. Home Generator, Batteries, ropes, compasses, cold weapons, carpentry tools, tarps, clothes, fire kits, radios—anything that's remotely useful in an apocalypse, we take."
Foxtrot raised a hand.
The commander nodded. "Go ahead."
"In one of the upstairs rooms, sir, we found some radios," Foxtrot said. "There were bloodstains on them."
The commander leaned forward slightly. "Still functional?"
"Yes, sir. But there's been no signal."
"Leave them for now," the commander replied. "If you pick up a transmission—anything at all—report it to me immediately."
There was a short pause, then he added quietly in his mind, 'If I had to guess... Danny must've tried to call in the outbreak. That's likely why he was on the second floor instead of accompanying Andre, and Andre was probably already turned by the time he tried.'
The commander's tone shifted—lower, sharper. "Those radios were standard police issues. And those two corpses in the hallway? Plainclothes officers. They were sent to 'guard' me."
He let the word hang in the air for a moment.
"Same as the two men Alpha and I took out in the first engagement."
The subtle emphasis on the word "guard" didn't go unnoticed. Some of the squad glanced at one another, thoughtful. The implication was clear.
The commander continued, tone steady again. "Now—back to the second point. I know you've all realized it by now. Everything we need to do—clearing, salvaging, securing—it's a lot. And doing it all with just seven people? That's going to be a heavy load."
"That's why I want to hear your thoughts. Should I summon more troops... or are we going to handle this ourselves?"
He looked around the room, meeting their eyes one by one..
Alpha was the first to speak. "What kind of troops can we currently afford, sir?"
The commander gave a short nod. "At our current capacity, we have two practical options. First—Option A—for 1,000 points, we can summon one trooper of our choosing from the top 50 standing armies in the world. The second—Option B—costs 500 points and gives us a randomized trooper from any of the other 145 recognized national forces. Less reliable, but more cost-efficient."
He paused, scanning their expressions, then added, "There are also some options like choosing a troop from certain country special forces, or various PMC. But their costs are significantly higher. We also need to reserve points for ammunition, equipment, and emergency contingencies. We can't afford to burn everything on manpower alone."
At that, Charlie and Alpha fell into silent thought, their gazes sharpening. The rest of the squad instinctively turned toward them, watching Alpha in particular.
The commander continued, "There are more economical alternatives. We could summon troops from earlier eras—World War I or II, for example. Lower cost, higher quantity. For tomorrow's task—clearing infected remains—we'll need manpower more than advanced combat ability. But after that... we'll be heading out into the unknown. Quality will start to matter again."
Delta raised a hand and offered his idea. "What if we summon two troops from the top 50—get a solid backbone—and then eight or ten from the rest to fill out the numbers? We could train them as we go, during operations."
Charlie glanced over, shaking his head lightly. "It's not a bad idea. But training takes time—and resources. And if we start sheltering too many survivors or green units, it'll stretch our focus. Too many people, too many fronts to protect."
He looked toward the commander, then back to Delta. "Still, your approach has merit. We just need to adjust the ratio. Find the right balance."
There was a pause, then Alpha spoke—his voice calm, deliberate. "Charlie's right. Delta's plan balances quantity and quality, which we'll need if we want to hold this ground and push forward. There's another path, though—focus on summoning a handful of special troops and supplementing them with survivors we train ourselves. But that's a higher risk."
The commander looked at each of them, eyes steady. "What Delta, Charlie, and Alpha propose—all valid options. The truth is, we can't rely entirely on survivors. There's a real possibility that some of them have already formed factions. The moment we start to spread, they could send spies disguised as survivors seeking refuge."
The room fell quiet.
"And then there's the Xh'kral." His voice sharpened. "Considering some unnatural elements that we already face, it wouldn't be a surprise if they had a device or ability to shapeshift or even control bodies and minds. We need to be cautious. Prepared for the worst."
The squad didn't respond immediately. Their silence spoke volumes. The weight of the new reality was starting to settle into their bones. The world no longer obeyed the rules they once knew.
Finally, Alpha leaned forward. "What do you think the ratio should be, sir?"