Huddled in the shadow of the sanitation truck, Quinn became a student of chaos. He did not see the horde as a single, terrifying entity anymore. He watched it as a soldier observes an enemy force, studying its movements, its patterns, its weaknesses. He saw how the mass of infected ebbed and flowed like a tide, drawn by distant sounds, their attention span short and singular. He noted the slight downward slope of the highway leading away from the bridge. He saw the way the wind was blowing, a gentle but steady breeze moving north, away from their intended path.
And he saw the fuel tanker. It was the centerpiece, the lynchpin of the desperate gambit forming in his mind.
"It's a multi-stage plan," he said, his voice low and intense as he gathered Hex and Lena close. He used a shard of glass to scratch a crude map in the oily dirt. "It's about misdirection and timing. We have one shot at this."
