Chapter 160: Farewell Jackson Township [1]

Jackson Township had been completely invaded by infected.

I stared out the camping van’s window through the early morning light, watching the nightmare unfold in real-time across what had once been our safe town. The Screamer had inflicted terrifying, catastrophic damage to this town—damage that might prove irreversible, that might have destroyed Jackson Township as a viable settlement forever.

These last two months had been dedicated to painstaking reclamation work. With Mark’s engineering expertise, and contributions from everyone in both our house and the Municipal Office community, we’d systematically cleared the infected from Jackson Township’s streets and buildings. Every single one we could find had been hunted down and eliminated through coordinated sweeps that took weeks of dangerous, exhausting effort.

We’d established countermeasures—barriers, early warning systems, patrol routes, safe zones. Created protocols for dealing with stragglers and preventing new incursions. The infected population in Jackson Township had dwindled to nearly zero, making it one of the safest locations we knew of in this apocalyptic landscape.

Not a lot of infected could be seen wandering the streets anymore—at least, that had been true until tonight. Until the Screamer’s attack had destroyed all that effort in a single catastrophic event, unraveling months of progress in mere hours.

I looked outside the window as Rachel drove the camping van through the ruins of our work, my expression empty and hollow. The emotional exhaustion had drained me so completely that I couldn’t muster reactions anymore—just observed with detached numbness as our world continued falling apart.

The infected roamed everywhere now, drawn from surrounding areas by the Screamer’s calls. They wandered the streets in groups of dozens, stumbling over debris and crashed vehicles, their movements uncoordinated but relentless. Some clustered around buildings we’d fortified, clawing uselessly at reinforced doors and boarded windows. Others shambled aimlessly through intersections, responding to stimuli only we couldn’t perceive.

But they seemed confused—disoriented by the artificial screams emanating from the devices Mark and I had placed strategically throughout Jackson Township. Those recordings played on endless loops, broadcasting synthesized versions of the Screamer’s calls from multiple locations simultaneously. The infected couldn’t distinguish real signals from artificial ones, couldn’t determine which sounds indicated actual threats or opportunities.

So they wandered in circles, drawn first one direction then another as competing audio sources pulled at whatever remained of their neural processing. It was working better than I’d dared hope—our camping van drove right past clusters of infected without drawing their attention, the engine noise completely overshadowed by the louder, more compelling artificial screams.

At least Rachel didn’t have to plow through hordes of infected or risk getting the van stuck on bodies. That was one small mercy in an otherwise unmitigated disaster.

I’d found this camping van in perfect condition several weeks ago, parked in front of a house whose owners had apparently evacuated before the outbreak reached Jackson Township. The vehicle was a real find—spacious interior with a U-shaped sofa arrangement in the back, kitchenette with working propane stove, storage compartments, even a small sleeping area. Everything we could possibly need for extended travel.

The moment I’d first seen it sitting there with keys still in the ignition, I’d immediately recognized its potential value. If we ever needed to evacuate in a hurry—if our home became compromised or Jackson Township fell—this van could mean the difference between survival and death.

So I’d claimed it, filled the tank with fuel from our reserves, and methodically stocked it with supplies. Canned food, bottled water, medical supplies, tools, weapons, blankets, clothing in various sizes. Everything necessary to support our entire group on the road for an extended period until we could find new shelter. I’d even created a checklist, regularly rotating perishables and ensuring everything remained functional and accessible.

Just in case. Always just in case, because hoping for the best while preparing for the worst had become my default approach to existence in this nightmare world.

But even though I was the one who’d prepared this escape vehicle so meticulously, I really hadn’t expected we’d actually need to use it. Certainly not this soon. I’d genuinely believed we could fight back against the Screamer, could find some way to neutralize or destroy it before it could devastate Jackson Township.

We’d learned about its existence extremely far in advance through the alien Box—that piece of technology that had warned us about incoming threats and provided fragmentary intelligence about the Starakians’ plans. We’d had time to prepare, to strategize, to coordinate our defenses.

Yet despite all that advance warning, despite all our preparations and planning, we had been—

I

had been—unable to prevent the catastrophe. Unable to save Jasmine. Unable to stop Jason’s transformation and betrayal. Unable to protect the town.

I clenched my fists hard enough that my nails dug into my palms, creating sharp points of pain that barely registered through the emotional numbness.

No matter how many scenarios I replayed in my head, it was utterly useless. I’d thought leaving Jason alone to cope with his jealousy and inadequacy on his own terms was the right approach—giving him space, respecting his need for distance, believing he’d work through his issues eventually and come back stronger.

But in the end, that decision had been a complete disaster. The worst possible choice I could have made. If I’d confronted him directly, if I’d forced the conversation he didn’t want to have, if I’d recognized how deeply his resentment ran and addressed it before the Screamer could exploit it...

Maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe Jasmine would still be alive. Maybe Jason could have been saved from himself.

Or maybe everything would have happened exactly the same way regardless, and I was torturing myself with counterfactuals that changed nothing.

Just when I was spiraling deeper into that particular mental loop, I noticed someone’s presence directly in front of me. I blinked, refocusing my attention on the physical world.

Ivy stood there, her expression as calm and unreadable as ever. She held a pharmacy box in her hands—one of the comprehensive first-aid kits we kept stocked with everything from bandages to antibiotics.

"Treat the others before me. It’s fine," I said automatically, deflecting attention away from myself. My injuries could wait. The others needed care more urgently.

"I already treated them," Ivy replied with characteristic dryness. "You’re the last one."

Huh already?

I glanced to the side, taking proper inventory of our group for the first time since we’d loaded into the van.

We were all seated on the U-shaped sofa arrangement in the back of the camping van, the seating configuration creating a semicircle that allowed everyone to see each other. The space was cramped with so many people, knees almost touching, but it was better than being exposed on the streets.

Elena and Alisha sat together on one section, sisters leaning against each other for comfort and support. They were speaking quietly, their voices too low for me to make out words, but the tone suggested they were processing everything that had happened. Elena looked exhausted but alive, her enhanced healing already working on the various cuts and bruises she’d accumulated. Alisha appeared relatively uninjured.

Daisy had positioned herself next to Rebecca on another section of the sofa, the two of them engaged in quiet conversation. Daisy looked shaken but physically intact, though her hands trembled slightly where they gripped her knees. Rebecca seemed frustrated—probably at being sidelined while her sister fought, forced to evacuate instead of staying to help. But she was alive and unharmed, which was what mattered.

Liu Mei sat directly beside me, having claimed that spot with her usual presumptuous confidence. She’d crossed one leg over the other elegantly despite the cramped quarters and somehow produced a book from somewhere—probably something she’d grabbed during the evacuation. Even now, surrounded by destruction and trauma, Mei maintained her composure with the rigid discipline that defined her personality.

Though even she showed signs of damage. Burns marked her arms and neck—first and second degree from the appearance, probably from proximity to flames or a fire-based attack. The injuries had been treated with what looked like burn gel and wrapped in gauze, but they were clearly painful despite Mei’s stoic refusal to acknowledge discomfort.

As for Christopher and Cindy, they occupied the seats closest to Rachel’s driver position. Both were leaning forward slightly, speaking with Rachel about something—probably discussing the route ahead, where we should try to shelter, what our immediate priorities should be now that Jackson Township had fallen.

Christopher looked beat to hell—bruises darkening across his face and arms, his clothes torn and bloodied. But he was conscious and functional, which meant Ivy’s medical treatment had stabilized whatever injuries he’d sustained.

Cindy seemed similarly worn down but intact. Her blonde hair was matted with ash and dried blood, her clothes in tatters, but she was moving and speaking normally. The Dullahan virus’s healing factor was doing its work on whatever damage she’d accumulated during the fighting.

"Remove your clothes," Ivy said suddenly, as she knelt down in front of me with the medical kit.

I looked at her, meeting those perpetually calm eyes that never seemed disturbed by anything they witnessed. As always, her expression was completely neutral—neither concerned nor detached, just professionally focused on the task at hand.

I shrugged off my jacket first, the leather material stiff with dried blood—Jason’s and my own mixed together into a grotesque coating. The garment fell to the floor with a heavy thump, weighted down by accumulated gore.

Then I reached for the hem of my shirt and began pulling it upward over my head. The moment the fabric started lifting away from my skin, I groaned involuntarily as pain lanced through my torso.

The shirt had adhered to my wounds, dried blood acting like glue to fuse cloth and torn flesh together. Pulling it off meant tearing open partially clotted injuries, restarting bleeding that had barely stopped, and generally inflicting fresh trauma on already catastrophically damaged tissue.

When I finally got the shirt over my head and dropped it beside my jacket, I heard Elena gasp—a sharp, involuntary intake of breath that cut through the van’s ambient conversation.

I turned toward her reflexively, and discovered that everyone was now looking at my exposed torso. All conversation had ceased. Every pair of eyes in the van had locked onto my body with expressions ranging from shock to horror to something approaching revulsion.

It wasn’t a pleasant sight, I had to admit.

The main damage came from barbed wire—multiple strands that had been wrapped and tied tightly all over my torso when Jason’s trap had captured me. The infected under the Screamer’s control had bound me to a chair with cruel efficiency, using wire designed to tear flesh with every movement.

Because I’d struggled violently to free myself—thrashing against the restraints with desperate strength born of panic and rage—I’d lacerated my skin even further. Every twist, every pull, every attempt to break free had driven the barbs deeper into my flesh, creating hundreds of puncture wounds that spiraled around my chest, arms, and back.

And then I’d fought while still partially attached to the chair, battling the Enhanced Infected with wire still cutting into me. The combat had been brutal, involving impacts and grappling that had ground the barbs even deeper, creating compound trauma that looked like I’d been attacked with thorny whips.

Beyond the wire damage, I also bore extensive bruising from the Enhanced Infected’s attacks. That creature had been impossibly strong—each blow had felt like being hit with a sledgehammer wrapped in flesh. Dark purple and black bruises covered my ribs, shoulders, and arms where I’d blocked or absorbed strikes. Some were so dark they looked almost like necrotic tissue, suggesting deep muscle and possibly bone damage beneath.

The overall effect made my torso look like it had been processed through industrial machinery—a chaotic mess of lacerations, puncture wounds, bruising, and exposed tissue. Blood still oozed from dozens of the deeper wounds, the Dullahan virus’s healing factor overwhelmed by the sheer volume of damage.

I regretted removing my shirt here, in front of everyone. Should have waited until we’d stopped and I could be treated privately. Now they all had to witness the physical evidence of my failures, had to see exactly what had been done to me while I’d been captured and helpless.

Mei, sitting directly beside me, had developed a particularly twisted expression on her face as she stared at my ruined torso. Her usual mask of arrogant superiority had cracked, revealing something that might have been concern or distress beneath. She opened her lips as if to say something—probably some cutting comment about my carelessness or weakness—but in the end, no words emerged. She simply closed her mouth and looked away, unable or unwilling to articulate whatever she was feeling.

That non-reaction was somehow more unsettling than if she’d actually spoken. It suggested my injuries were bad enough to silence even Liu Mei’s characteristic sharp tongue.

"Ryan..." Elena stood up from her seat beside Alisha, clearly intending to come closer, to examine my injuries more carefully or perhaps just to offer comfort.

But I raised my hand immediately, stopping her before she could take more than a single step.

"It’s fine... Ivy is taking care of it," I said quickly.

Elena hesitated, clearly torn between respecting my wishes and her obvious desire to help.

"Man, what the hell?" Christopher’s voice drew my attention as he approached from where he’d been speaking with Rachel. He leaned in closer, examining my torso with an openly horrified expression that he didn’t even attempt to disguise. His face twisted into a grimace, his features contorting as he processed the full extent of the damage.

"Just got caught in a trap..." I said.

Behind Christopher, I caught sight of Cindy. She’d turned to look at me when Elena had stood up, and now her blue eyes were wide with shock and distress. One hand covered her trembling lips. Her face had gone pale.

Rachel, however, kept her gaze fixed steadfastly ahead as she drove, not looking back at me even once. Her hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, her shoulders rigid with tension that suggested she was holding herself together through sheer force of will. She didn’t say anything—didn’t offer commentary or concern or comfort—just focused entirely on the task of navigating us away from the ruins of Jackson Township.

I couldn’t tell if her silence was because she was too focused on driving to spare attention for my injuries, or if seeing the physical evidence of what had happened to me was simply too much for her to process on top of everything else she’d endured tonight.

"He had been beaten by a tall infected," a calm voice stated from above me.

I raised my gaze, surprised by the speaker, and found Wanda lying on one of the narrow sleeping berths built into the van’s ceiling structure. The bed hung and was perfectly attached to the ceiling directly in front of where I sat, creating a compact sleeping space that maximized the vehicle’s vertical space.

Wanda lay there with her back pressed against the narrow mattress, staring at the roof of the van that was positioned barely a foot from her face. Her expression was as blank as it had been since I’d found her.

"A tall infected? You mean those big ones—the Enhanced ones?" Christopher asked, his expression shifting from horror at my injuries to surprise at this new information. "I and Sydney fought something like that too. One of those bastards showed up at the Municipal Office during the attack."

"Huh, really?" I asked, genuine surprise cutting through my exhausted haze. One of the Enhanced Infected had appeared at the Municipal Office as well? I’d assumed Jason’s trap at the radio station was the only location where those particular nightmare creatures had been deployed. "Did everyone make it out okay?"

I started to raise my gaze toward the sleeping berth directly above me—opposite to Wanda’s position—where Sydney should have been resting. But before I could complete the motion, Ivy’s hand pressed firmly against my shoulder, holding me in place.

"I said don’t move," she staid.

"Y...Yeah," I muttered immediately, chastened.

Christopher noticed the exchange and laughed. "Yeah, Sydney’s up there sleeping. Exhausted herself completely taking that thing down." His expression sobered quickly, the brief moment of levity fading as he continued. "It was brutal, man. That Enhanced Infected was stronger and faster than anything we’d faced before. Sydney threw everything she had at it—used her speed and whatever her power was to the absolute limit. Martin helped us too."

"Martin..." I repeated the name. "How is everyone at the Municipal Office? Did they evacuate successfully?"

The question emerged with more desperation than I’d intended, worry for the broader community suddenly crashing over me. If the Screamer’s attack had destroyed that as thoroughly as it had destroyed our home...

But before Christopher could answer, I groaned involuntarily as Ivy applied something to one of my fresh injuries—a cotton swab soaked in what felt like liquid fire. The antiseptic burned with such intensity that tears immediately sprang to my eyes, my entire body tensing involuntarily despite my best efforts to remain still.

"Don’t move," Ivy repeated with increased sternness, her grip on my shoulder tightening to keep me from jerking away from the pain.

"Yes," I replied as if I had been scolded.

Christopher watched the exchange with clear amusement dancing in his tired eyes, but his expression quickly shifted back to concern as he turned his gaze toward the road ahead.

"I don’t know if everyone made it out," he said. "Things were chaos when we left. Infected everywhere, fires spreading, people scattering in every direction trying to escape the Screamer’s calls. I just hope they managed to evacuate alive, that Mark and the others got everyone organized enough to implement evacuation plan."

"We’ll know soon enough," Rachel’s voice drifted back from the driver’s seat. "We just left Jackson Township."

I turned my gaze to the window on the side of the van, looking back toward where we’d come from. The motion made Ivy huff with annoyance—more movement when she’d explicitly told me to stay still—but she didn’t stop me from looking.

Yeah...

Jackson Township was fading into the background now, growing smaller with each passing second as Rachel maintained steady speed along the cracked and debris-strewn road.