Chapter 220: Claiming Atlantic City [1]

Half an hour later, we finally reached the outskirts of Atlantic City.

Our camping van led the procession, with the long trail of vehicles from Margaret’s community following in our wake as we navigated the main road leading into the city. This was the same route that, just two days ago, we’d traveled when first exploring Atlantic City—back when we’d stopped our vehicles at a safe distance and proceeded on foot to scout the area, uncertain of what we might encounter.

This time, however, we brought the entire convoy much closer to the city limits before stopping. There was no need for the excessive caution we’d employed on our initial reconnaissance. We already knew what dangers lay ahead—we’d mapped out the territory, identified the major threats, and developed a concrete plan for how to proceed. The unknown had become known, which meant we could operate with greater confidence.

"Yeah, stop here," I said to Rachel, pointing to a relatively clear section of the road ahead. "And park perpendicular to the road, blocking as much of the width as possible. We might be absent for several hours clearing the target area, so—"

"You want to use the camping van as a makeshift barrier for the people staying behind," Rachel finished, reading my intention perfectly as she began maneuvering the vehicle into position.

Obviously, we weren’t planning to take everyone into Atlantic City for the dangerous work of clearing out the Infected from our chosen settlement area. That would be both tactically foolish and unnecessarily cruel to those who couldn’t meaningfully contribute to combat operations.

There were elderly members of Margaret’s community who lacked the physical capability for sustained fighting. There were young children who absolutely should not be exposed to that kind of violence and trauma. There were mothers with infants who needed to focus on caring for their babies rather than swinging makeshift weapons at monsters. And there were simply people who, for various physical or psychological reasons, couldn’t fight effectively and would be more liability than asset in a combat situation.

All of those individuals would be staying here with the vehicles, hopefully safe from harm while the capable fighters advanced into the city to do the brutal work of securing territory.

And while there weren’t massive hordes of Infected roaming this particular area—our previous scouting had confirmed the concentration was relatively low here compared to deeper in the city—the non-combatants would certainly encounter at least a few scattered individuals. Having the camping van positioned as a defensive barrier, something they could retreat behind or use as cover if things went wrong, just made obvious sense.

"The thought of sacrificing our dear camping van—our home on wheels—as a shield to protect Brad and his useless gang makes me want to cry," Sydney said sighing from her perch on the ceiling bed, though her tone was more sarcastic than genuinely emotional.

"Wait, aren’t they coming with us into the city?" Cindy asked, surprised by the implication that Brad’s group might stay behind with the non-combatants.

"I honestly don’t know," Sydney replied with a dismissive shrug. "They’ll probably come up with whatever excuses they can manufacture to justify staying back here where it’s safer. I mean, did you see how absolutely terrified they were two days ago when facing just one single Infected? Kyle definitely pissed his pants—I’m almost certain I saw a wet stain."

While Sydney’s assessment was characteristically harsh and probably exaggerated for comedic effect, I couldn’t entirely deny the core truth of her observation. All three members of Brad’s little crew—Brad himself, Billy, and Kyle—acted tough and talked a big game about being capable survivors. But when it came to actual combat against Infected, when they were face-to-face with shambling corpses trying to tear them apart, they weren’t particularly expert or effective fighters. Their bravado tended to evaporate pretty quickly when real danger materialized.

"Alright, everyone grab your weapons," I announced to the group inside the camping van, pushing aside my thoughts about Brad’s competence. "Make sure you’ve got everything you need before we disembark."

I personally took only my hand axe—the reliable, well-balanced weapon that had served me through countless encounters—and my Glock pistol with two spare magazines. That loadout should be more than sufficient for what we were about to face. I’d learned through experience that carrying too much equipment just weighed you down and slowed your reactions.

For this clearing expedition into the city, nearly our entire group would be participating. The exceptions were Rebecca, Daisy, and Mei, who’d all volunteered to stay behind with the non-combatants.

Though all three of them had expressed a genuine desire to help with the fighting—Rebecca especially had been vocal about wanting to contribute rather than always being protected—they also understood and accepted their own limitations. They lacked the combat training, the physical enhancements, or the experience necessary to be effective in the kind of intense, sustained fighting we’d be engaging in. Their presence would create additional people we’d need to protect rather than additional combat power we could rely on.

Rebecca in particular had stopped complaining about her sister ’always rushing toward death’s door’ because she’d finally begun to truly understand and accept that Rachel was genuinely different now. Rachel possessed abnormal strength, speed, and resilience that put her on a completely different level than ordinary humans—the same enhanced status that Sydney, Cindy, and I had achieved through our symbiotic relationship with Dullahan. Rebecca had watched enough fights, seen enough impossible feats, to finally accept that her protective instincts toward her older sister were misplaced.

Nonetheless, all three of them followed us outside when we exited the camping van, wanting to participate in the final briefing and send us off properly before we ventured into danger.

Once outside, I immediately spotted Martin standing about twenty yards ahead, positioned in front of a group of approximately twenty people from Margaret’s community. He was conducting what appeared to be a final weapons check, examining his own handgun and the makeshift spike rod he’d fashioned from a metal pipe and some wickedly sharp screws. His expression was serious, focused as he spoke.

The people gathered around him represented the entirety of Margaret’s community who were both willing and capable of participating in combat. Each person carried some form of weapon—spike rods similar to Martin’s, baseball bats wrapped with barbed wire, sharpened lengths of rebar, sturdy knives, even a few improvised spears. It didn’t particularly matter what specific weapon each person wielded as long as it was capable of delivering sufficient force to crush an Infected’s skull or sever its brain stem. That was the only requirement that truly mattered—the ability to permanently end the threat.

They all had firearms as well, though the distribution was nowhere near universal.

"We have exactly ten functional firearms among our group," Martin announced, gesturing toward a duffel bag at his feet that presumably contained the weapons in question. "The collection includes various models—mostly handguns with a couple of hunting rifles mixed in. Only people who genuinely know how to use firearms should take one. If you’re confident in your aim and your ability to operate the weapon safely without accidentally shooting one of us instead of the Infected, step forward and claim a gun."

The group responded with nervous laughter at Martin’s dark joke about friendly fire, though the underlying concern was very real. An untrained person with a firearm in a chaotic combat situation was potentially more dangerous to their allies than to the enemy.

"There are some weapons missing from that count, aren’t there?" Brad’s voice cut through the moment as he approached from where he’d been standing with Billy and Kyle.

So they were planning to participate in the clearing after all. At least they seemed to possess enough backbone to fight rather than hiding with the non-combatants, though I couldn’t help hoping their motivation came from genuine courage rather than petty ego and a need to prove themselves.

"I distributed the remaining six firearms to the people staying behind with the vehicles," Martin explained calmly. "We don’t know what might happen while we’re gone. There’s a hostile group led by that Callighan roaming around Atlantic City, and I’d rather our non-combatants have some means of defending themselves if his people show up looking for trouble."

He paused, his expression growing more grave. "Or worse, if they encounter one of the strange Infected variants—the Enhanced ones."

Martin had met and actually fought one along Sydney and Christopher in the Municipal Office so he knew damn well about the threat in question.

I genuinely hoped though the people staying behind wouldn’t encounter any Enhanced Infected, but if they did, their only realistic chance of survival would be to concentrate fire on the creature’s head and pray they could destroy its brain before it killed them all. Six firearms wouldn’t guarantee success, but it was infinitely better than having no ranged weapons at all.

Brad snorted derisively at Martin’s explanation. "Let’s just hope they don’t waste bullets shooting at shadows and getting scared by their own reflections," he said with obvious contempt for the non-combatants’ capabilities.

"Let’s hope you don’t waste any bullets," Christopher shot back immediately, apparently unable to resist the opportunity to take Brad down a peg. "The last time we encountered Infected together, your grip was trembling so badly while you were holding your gun that I thought you might drop it. Didn’t exactly inspire confidence in your marksmanship, Brad."

Christopher’s observation earned quite a few poorly suppressed laughs from the assembled fighters, many of whom had apparently witnessed the same display of nerves.

Brad’s face flushed an angry crimson, the color spreading from his cheeks down his neck. Without warning or apparent thought, he whipped out his handgun and pointed it directly at Christopher, his finger dangerously close to the trigger.

"You want to see exactly how good my aim is, Christopher?" Brad snarled. "I can demonstrate right now if you’d like."

The laughter died instantly, replaced by shocked silence. Several people took instinctive steps backward, away from the line of fire.

"What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Brad?" Martin intervened immediately as he moved to position himself between Brad and Christopher. "Lower that weapon now."

For a tense moment, Brad continued to point the gun at Christopher, then, with like with reluctance, he scoffed and lowered his arm, tucking the pistol back into his waistband.

Well, none of us really thought he was going to fire but definitely has some problems inside his head.

Martin sighed heavily.

He turned away from Brad’s group and toward where our group stood, and a smile spread across his lips.

"Ryan, are you and your group ready as well?" Martin asked, his gaze shifting to where we stood assembled and armed.

"Yeah, we’re ready," I confirmed with a nod.

"Is everyone from your group coming, or are some staying behind?" He asked, his eyes scanning the faces behind me.

"No, Rebecca, Daisy, and Mei will be staying here with the non-combatants," Rachel explained, gesturing toward where the three of them stood together near the camping van. "The rest of us will be participating in the clearing operation."

"That’s probably wise," Martin said with an approving nod. "This isn’t going to be an ordinary day by any stretch of the imagination. It’s going to be brutal, exhausting work."

"Which is exactly why we need to make absolutely sure everyone remembers the plan," I said, wanting to confirm that all the tactical details we’d discussed were firmly established in everyone’s minds. "Martin, do you remember everything we talked about?"

"Yeah, I’ve got it all clear," Martin replied confidently. He reached into his backpack and withdrew the folded map we’d been marking up during our planning, spreading it out in front of us so everyone nearby could see.

The map showed a detailed street layout of the section of Atlantic City we’d targeted for settlement. Someone—probably Martin himself—had already used a red pen to draw a square shape encompassing the area we were aiming to clear as our first priority.

"We all advance together to this general area," Martin said, tracing the route with his finger. "Once we arrive at the target zone, we systematically clear everything from this street here"—he indicated the western boundary—"all the way to this block here"—shifting his finger to mark the eastern limit. "We work methodically, building by building, making sure nothing gets left behind that could come back to bite us later."

"Exactly right," I confirmed, leaning in closer to study the map. "Now, Marlon and his Boardwalk community are established right beyond this large commercial mall structure here." I pointed to the building that would serve as the dividing line between the two settlements. "We’ll be taking the territory on this side of the mall. The building itself will function as a natural separation between us and them."

"Eventually, do you think we’ll want to clear out the interior of that mall?" Martin asked, jokingly.

"Well, eventually we might consider it," I acknowledged. "There could be valuable supplies and resources still inside—clothing, tools, maybe even preserved food if we’re lucky. Commercial spaces like that tend to have useful inventory. But for right now, our absolute priority has to be establishing the clear boundaries of our territory and making it secure. We can worry about scavenging expeditions later."

I moved my finger on the map to trace the perimeter we’d be focusing on. "We start by clearing approximately two to three blocks on each side radiating outward from this central point—the Whitesun Hotel." My finger landed squarely on the building that would serve as our community’s primary residence.

That was the structure we were specifically targeting to transform into our main living space. The concept had crystallized in my mind during my visit to the Boardwalk community, when I’d seen how Marlon’s people had converted the Emerald Hotel into a functioning residential complex. Each room housed different individuals or families, creating a concentrated community under one roof with shared security and resources.

The efficiency and safety of that arrangement had immediately struck me as the perfect approach for our situation. Rather than clearing dozens of separate houses scattered across multiple blocks—which would spread our defensive capabilities dangerously thin and make it nearly impossible to provide security for everyone—concentrating the entire community within a single large building made far more sense. At least for now, while we were still establishing ourselves and building our strength, we needed to stay together in one fortified location. Isolated, separated households were vulnerable; a unified stronghold was defensible.

"And what about the Whitesun Hotel itself?" Martin looked up from the map to meet my eyes directly. "That’s going to be a massive undertaking on its own. How are you planning to handle clearing an entire hotel?"

"We’ll clear it," I said. "My group will handle the hotel while your people focus on the surrounding blocks."

The division of labor made sense given our respective capabilities. Martin and his group of twenty fighters would systematically work through the apartment buildings, shops, and smaller structures surrounding the hotel, eliminating any Infected and securing the perimeter. Meanwhile, I, Rachel, Sydney, Cindy, and Christopher would tackle the much more dangerous job of clearing the multi-story hotel building floor by floor.

"Ryan, that building might be twenty stories tall," Martin reminded me, his expression concerned. "Maybe more, but it’s definitely one of the taller structures in that area. That’s potentially hundreds of rooms, dozens of hallways, stairwells, utility spaces... the number of places Infected could be hiding is astronomical."

"Don’t worry about us completing the entire building today," I said, trying to sound reassuring without downplaying the difficulty of the task. "We’ll focus on securing at least the first ten floors thoroughly. That should provide more than enough rooms to house everyone in the community comfortably, with space to spare for storage and other functions."

I’d done some rough calculations based on standard hotel room counts. Ten floors of a building that size, assuming roughly thirty to forty rooms per floor, would give us somewhere between three hundred and four hundred individual rooms. Even accounting for structural damage, rooms that were too compromised to be safely habitable, and the need to designate some spaces for communal purposes like food storage and meeting areas, we’d still have plenty of capacity for Margaret’s sixty-person community with significant room for future growth.

"How much time do you think clearing ten floors will take your group?" Martin asked then.

"Realistically? A couple of hours minimum, possibly three or four if we encounter significant resistance," I estimated, trying to be honest rather than optimistic. "If you and your people finish securing the surrounding blocks before we’re done with the hotel, don’t wait around—we’ll join you to help complete whatever’s left. But regardless of how long individual tasks take, before the sun starts setting we absolutely must ensure that both the hotel and its immediate surroundings are completely secure and safe. I don’t want anyone spending the night in a building that hasn’t been thoroughly cleared, and I definitely don’t want us fighting Infected in the dark if we can possibly avoid it."

Martin nodded slowly. Then he carefully folded the map back up and tucked it into his backpack.

"Let’s do this, then," he said.