Chapter 177: Atlantic City Scouting Group [2]

I descended the van’s steps and emerged into the early evening light to find Brad standing about fifteen feet away, flanked by his two constant companions—Billy and Kyle. All three were fully dressed in what looked like preparation for travel or activity, wearing jackets and carrying packs meaning they’d geared up for some purpose.

Don’t tell me...

The moment Brad’s eyes met mine, his smirk widened into something nastier. "Well, well, if it isn’t our self-appointed hero," he drawled with contempt. "All geared up and ready for action, thinking you’re some kind of monster hunter or post-apocalyptic knight?" His tone dripped with mockery. "Too bad for you, I’m not one of the brainless morons who buys into your bullshit superpowers. Never have been, never will be."

Before I could formulate a response to his provocative opening, Christopher descended the van steps behind me.

"Pissing people off in the evening now, Brad?" Christopher asked with a slight grimace. "Don’t you have literally anything else productive to do with your time? Hobbies? Skills to practice? Equipment to maintain?"

Brad’s gaze snapped toward Christopher, eyes narrowing with immediate hostility. "I should have fucking known you’d turn traitor the first chance you got," he spat with disgust. "Ran right back to your old group soon as things got difficult, didn’t you? What a pathetic coward, abandoning the Municipal Office community when we needed every capable person."

The accusation was factually inaccurate—Christopher had never abandoned anyone, had actually stayed with the Municipal Office longer than necessary despite having previous connections to our group. But Brad didn’t care about accuracy clearly.

Sydney emerged from the van behind Christopher right after. "Did you knock a few screws loose when you tripped over that infected yesterday and face-planted pathetically into the dirt, Brad?" She asked. "Because you’re making even less sense than usual, and that’s genuinely impressive."

The comment about yesterday’s incident hit its mark perfectly. Brad’s face flushed dark red, color spreading from his neck up to his hairline in a wave of embarrassment. The incident Sydney referenced had apparently been particularly humiliating—something involving Brad stumbling during an infected encounter in front of witnesses who’d no doubt shared the story widely.

A little pity I wasn’t there to witness though.

Regardless, only Sydney possessed the particular combination of fearlessness and sharp tongue necessary to get under Brad’s skin so easily and consistently. She wasn’t the type to mince words or employ diplomatic phrasing even in situations where it might be strategically wise. If she thought something, she said it, and if it happened to be brutally mocking, well, that was just bonus entertainment.

"Look at that guy Brad, calling his little friends for backup support," Kyle laughed at me. "What a coward, can’t even have a conversation without his crew."

"Does this guy ever do anything alone to begin with?" Billy added with sneering disdain, clearly pleased with what he thought was a clever observation about my tendency to work with my group rather than operating solo.

"Dear God," Sydney muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head. "This is genuinely giving me secondhand embarrassment. Like watching a child’s school play where everyone’s forgotten their lines."

"You’re not alone in that feeling," Cindy agreed as she descended from the van to join our expanding group.

"And yet you haven’t had the profound misfortune of living in the same building with these three for weeks on end," Christopher added with the haunted tone of someone remembering genuine trauma. "Count yourselves blessed you were spared that particular nightmare."

"I’d rather willingly turn into an infected than spend extended time trapped with Brad’s faction," Sydney said seriously"At least infected are honest about wanting to eat you."

The three self-proclaimed tough guys—Brad, Billy, and Kyle—stiffened as they registered that we were quietly dismissing them, treating their presence as more annoyance than threat. Their expressions shifted through various stages of wounded pride, mounting anger, and that particular masculine outrage that came from not being taken seriously.

I decided to cut through the escalating verbal sparring and address the question that mattered. "What exactly are you doing here, Brad?" I asked directly, though I already feared I knew the answer. "Why are you and your friends geared up for travel?"

"We heard that you’re planning to scout Atlantic City tonight," Billy answered aggressively. "So we decided we’re coming along with you. Non-negotiable."

"There’s absolutely no need for additional personnel," I replied. "We already have sufficient numbers and capabilities for effective reconnaissance. Adding more people would compromise only our scouting."

"Who the fuck died and made you the boss who gets to decide these things?" Brad growled, his voice rising in volume as his temper flared. He took an aggressive step forward, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I’m not about to let you be the only one checking out the safety conditions of my future home. I have every right to scout the location myself and verify your assessments. You don’t get to monopolize information or make decisions about where we’re all going to live."

"That’s not the core problem here," Christopher interjected. "The issue isn’t about rights or authority—it’s about capability and reliability. You three simply aren’t well-suited for this type of plan."

"And how the absolute fuck would you know that?" Brad asked. "You don’t know shit about what we can handle!"

"I don’t know?" Christopher’s eyebrows rose with incredulous disbelief. "Let me think about that for a moment. This reconnaissance requires calm under pressure, ability to cooperate without ego conflicts, and sufficient intelligence to make sound smart decisions in rapidly evolving situations. Now, examining the three of you objectively—are you confident you got all those qualities?"

He was right.

We needed people who could maintain composure when surrounded by infected hordes, who wouldn’t panic and make noise that would draw every infected in hearing range directly to our location. We needed people who had extensive experience dealing with infected on a constant basis—people like our enhanced group, Martin, and Clara, who’d spent months scavenging dangerous areas and clearing threats systematically.

Brad, Billy, and Kyle, by contrast, had spent most of their time safely tucked away inside the Municipal Office building, letting others handle the dangerous work of scavenging supplies and eliminating infected that wandered too close to their safe zone.

Taking them along represented a genuine liability that could endanger the entire group and I wasn’t that eager either to take them along.

"Fuck off with your condescending bullshit, Christopher," Billy snarled in response. "We’re not helpless toddlers here—we’re all adults who’ve survived the apocalypse just like you. And we’ve dealt with more infected than you have already!" He thrust his hand forward, displaying a long, sharp knife. "Look at this—we came prepared!"

"Yeah, we’ve all got proper weapons," Kyle added eagerly, pulling out his own knife to wave around like it was some kind of trophy. "We know what we’re doing!"

"And at worst—" Brad smirked with triumph, reaching into his jacket to produce a handgun. "We’ve got serious firepower if things get hairy."

"Yeah, that’s exactly the worst possible weapon to use in an urban environment filled with infected, you absolute dumbass," Sydney scoffed with withering contempt. "Congratulations on bringing the one tool guaranteed to draw every infected within half a mile directly to our position the moment you fire it. Brilliant thinking."

"You little bitch!" Brad’s face contorted as he glared at Sydney, his grip tightening on the handgun in ways that made my own hand drift unconsciously toward my axe. "Watch your fucking mouth before I—"

"Alright, that’s enough from everyone."

Martin’s voice cut through the escalating confrontation as he and Clara approached from where they’d been making final preparations. Both were fully equipped for the scouting mission— sturdy clothing, loaded packs, weapons readily accessible.

"Since Brad and his friends are apparently so eager to contribute and help secure our future settlement," Martin said, "let them participate, Ryan. Sometimes people need the opportunity to prove themselves one way or another."

I turned to look at Martin directly, searching his face for any indication he was joking or being sarcastic. "Are you genuinely sure about this decision?" I asked quietly, not bothering to hide my skepticism.

Martin nodded slowly, though his expression remained serious rather than confident. "I understand your concerns, and I largely share them. But preventing them from coming would create more problems within the community than allowing their participation." He turned to address Brad and his companions directly. "However, let me be absolutely crystal clear about expectations: you are completely responsible for your own actions and consequences. Don’t expect Ryan or any of the rest of us to jump in and save your lives if you ignore instructions or make stupid decisions that put you in danger. We’re not running a rescue operation—we’re conducting reconnaissance. If you can’t keep up or follow basic rules, you’re on your own. Understood?"

Brad snorted with dismissive arrogance. "We don’t need any help from you people. We can handle ourselves just fine without your so-called ’superpowers.’"

"Alright then, it’s settled," Clara said. She reached into her pocket and produced a set of car keys, tossing them through the air toward me. I caught them reflexively, the metal cold against my palm. "We’ll take two separate vehicles for the trip."

I looked down at the keys in my hand. Our group had been traveling exclusively in the camping van since leaving Jackson Township, so we had to borrow one of their cars.

I mean, taking a camping van or a bus in a place infested by Infected was stupid even more when we might need to hurry up.

"Yeah," I said finally, accepting the key. "Two vehicles. We depart in fifteen minutes."

I watched Brad and his two companions snort audibly at my words. Then they turned in synchronized motion and walked off toward their chosen vehicle.

The three of them moved like teenage boys who’d just been lectured by a teacher they didn’t respect, convinced of their own invincibility and convinced everyone else was simply overreacting to minimal risks.

"Sorry about this entire situation, Ryan," Martin said quietly, approaching me with an apologetic expression. "I know this complicates it significantly and adds unnecessary risk factors."

He paused, running one weathered hand through his hair. "It’s just... even though they present themselves as belligerent idiots—which they absolutely are, don’t misunderstand me—Brad has accumulated considerable influence within the community over the past weeks. Especially in recent days, his support base has grown substantially. Refusing him participation in this reconnaissance mission now, at this particular moment, would only create dramatically more troubles and pain for everyone. He’d use our exclusion of him as evidence of elitism or conspiracy, and that would fragment the community even further."

I’d been vaguely aware that Brad had been making problems within the Municipal Office community—stirring dissent, questioning Margaret’s decisions, building his own faction of supporters—but I genuinely hadn’t realized the situation had deteriorated to this level of severity.

The community was apparently split into distinct sides: one faction loyal to Margaret’s experienced, compassionate leadership, and another increasingly large group aligned with Brad’s aggressive, self-interested approach.

Had I really underestimated so much what kind of influence that loudmouthed troublemaker had managed to accumulate? How had Brad, with his obvious character flaws and complete lack of valuable survival skills, managed to build such significant support among rational adults who should know better?

"Unfortunately, this explain a lot of Brad’s rising influence," Christopher said. "The original Municipal Office community that survived Jackson Township’s fall is now comprised predominantly of people around Brad’s age—in their twenties to early thirties. The older generation that initially formed the community’s core was hit disproportionately hard during the Screamer’s incident."

He gestured vaguely toward where various community members were visible settling into houses for the evening. "The younger ones are much easier for Brad to sway than Margaret. They don’t have the same decades of personal history with her. They only know the past three terrible days of evacuation and the traumatic collapse of Jackson Township. And Brad’s been very cunning about framing that disaster as Margaret’s failure rather than an unavoidable tragedy caused by alien weapons beyond anyone’s control."

The explanation made uncomfortable sense but I couldn’t accept it.

"How could they possibly turn on Margaret after everything she’s done for this community?" I asked. "She’s literally held that community together through impossible circumstances, made consistently sound decisions prioritizing everyone’s welfare over her own comfort. How does anyone with functional memory blame her for alien attacks and viral outbreaks she had zero ability to prevent or control?"

Clara’s expression twisted into something bitter. "Margaret handled absolutely everything amazingly well while we were still at the Municipal Office—that’s objectively true. No one with any intellectual honesty could claim otherwise. But after what happened during Jackson Township’s fall, and especially during our last three days traveling in these stressful conditions..."

She trailed off, shaking her head with visible frustration before continuing. "There have been numerous significant disagreements about her decisions. Not necessarily because those decisions were wrong—in most cases, I think Margaret made the best possible choices given impossible circumstances and limited information. But people are traumatized, scared, looking for someone to blame for their suffering. And Brad took advantage of this."

"What exactly does Brad even want to do differently?" I asked, frowning. "What’s his actual proposed approach to community survival and management that people find so compelling compared to Margaret’s proven track record?"

"I honestly don’t know," Martin sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging. "I’ve tried multiple times to get Brad to articulate a coherent alternative vision—to explain concretely what decisions he would make differently and why those alternatives would produce better outcomes. But he never provides substantive answers."

Martin’s expression conveyed profound weariness that went beyond simple physical exhaustion. "Brad’s appeal isn’t based on any actual policy platform or strategic vision. It’s purely emotional and oppositional—he positions himself as the strong man who won’t tolerate weakness or hesitation, who promises decisive action without the moral complications Margaret grapples with. He tells people what they want to hear: that survival should be easier, that their suffering is someone else’s fault, that following him will somehow make everything better without requiring difficult sacrifices."

He wasn’t entirely stupid it seems.

"Well, regardless of his political maneuvering, Brad is fundamentally stupid but he’s not completely suicidal," Clara said. "Even he won’t do anything genuinely stupid that puts his own life in serious danger during this reconnaissance. Self-preservation instinct should keep him from the worst excesses of recklessness. He talks big, but when actually confronted with mortal threat, survival instinct tends to override ego."

"I have serious doubts about that," Sydney said crossing her arms.. "People do monumentally idiotic things that get themselves killed literally every single day, even in non-apocalyptic circumstances. Add in ego, wounded pride, desire to prove something, and lack of real combat experience? Recipe for disaster, especially for Mister Brad.

"Oh come on, you’re being overly pessimistic," Clara said with an exasperated eye roll. "Brad’s survived this long, hasn’t he? He must possess some minimal survival instincts even if he’s terrible at risk assessment."

She turned and walked off toward the vehicles where final preparations were underway, Martin following close behind.

"Well, there goes my fantasy of a romantic Atlantic City date with Ryan," Sydney sighed once they were out of earshot. "I had this whole scenario planned—moonlit reconnaissance through abandoned casinos, fighting infected together, adrenaline-fueled passion against the backdrop of urban decay. Very cinematic."

"Didn’t it occur to you that both Rachel and I would obviously be present on this mission?" Christopher asked with genuine incredulity, staring at Sydney as if she’d just suggested something completely nonsensical. "How exactly were you envisioning this ’romantic date’ scenario playing out with multiple chaperones?"

"You don’t count as cockblocks, Chris," Sydney replied. "You’re basically furniture. Background characters. I can work around you."

"Fuck off with that characterization," Christopher shot back.

I turned my gaze away from their banter, scanning the area until I spotted Rachel approaching from the direction of the camping van. Behind her, visible through the van’s windows, I caught a glimpse of Rebecca climbing back inside—apparently retreating to the vehicle’s interior rather than remaining outside where she might encounter me again.

I hoped the sisters’ conversation had ended at least somewhat positively rather than escalating into worse conflict.

"I’m so sorry again for Rebecca’s behavior earlier," Rachel said as she reached me. "She was completely out of line with what she said to you, and I’ve spoken with her about controlling her temper and showing basic respect even when she’s worried or upset."

"Why do you keep apologizing on her behalf?" I asked with mild confusion, genuinely not understanding Rachel’s apparent need to take responsibility for her sister’s independent choices and words. "I honestly don’t mind Rebecca’s hostility toward me—it doesn’t hurt my feelings or impact my ability to function. And honestly, she didn’t actually say or do anything wrong. She’s worried about you, scared you’ll get hurt or killed."

"She absolutely did behave wrongly, and you are definitely spoiling her far too much by refusing to acknowledge that," Rachel replied with unexpected sternness. "Rebecca needs to learn that emotional distress doesn’t excuse verbal abuse or disrespect toward people who’ve done nothing to harm her. You keep making excuses for her behavior instead of setting appropriate boundaries, and that permissiveness only reinforces her worst impulses."

"Spoiling her, you say..." I repeated slowly, genuinely puzzled by this characterization. I couldn’t recall doing anything that would qualify as spoiling Rebecca. If anything, I’d been maintaining careful distance from her to avoid exacerbating the obvious tension she felt about my relationship with her sister.

"Yeah, you definitely are spoiling her," Sydney chimed in with immediate agreement, nodding vigorously. "Like, objectively. It’s actually kind of impressive how much inappropriate behavior you’ll tolerate from her specifically while holding others to much stricter standards. I mean you never use that scary ’I will rip you to shreds if you speak again’ gaze to any of us especially Rebecca."

I don’t remember doing such gazes to anyone!

"Gotta completely agree with that assessment, buddy," Christopher added. "The double standard is extremely obvious to everyone except apparently you."

"Alright, enough of this," I cut them off before they could form an impromptu council dedicated to analyzing my supposedly problematic interactions with Rebecca. "Let’s pack up our gear and finalize preparations—we’re leaving for Atlantic City in ten minutes."

Sydney and Christopher watched me leaving almost amused.

"He’s fleeing."

"Definitely."