The hopeful energy of the previous night curdled into a knot of anxiety in Haider's gut as dawn painted the refugee column in grey light. His first stop wasn't breakfast or weapon checks; it was the makeshift information desk, a chaotic hub of lists and desperate inquiries manned by harried volunteers under military supervision. Leveraging their newly minted Auxiliary status and the minor reputation earned by bringing in the mutant carcass, Haider approached.
"Looking for family," he stated, projecting calm despite the churning inside. "Haider, parents: Abdul Halim and Nasima Akter. Younger sister, Tamanna. From Dapunia village." He described their homestead location near the highway.
The volunteer, a middle-aged man with kind eyes shadowed by exhaustion, scanned handwritten lists and tapped on a cracked tablet connected to a sputtering generator. He cross-referenced names, locations, early evacuation manifests. Minutes stretched. Malik and Mahin stood silently beside Haider, sensing his tension.
The volunteer finally looked up, his expression apologetic. "No records, brother. No Haider family registered from Dapuniya in this column, or the early lists we have access to. Mymensingh Central might have more complete data, or..." He trailed off, seeing the flicker of despair in Haider's eyes.
"Maybe... maybe they got out early?" the volunteer offered gently, leaning forward. "The first waves, before the big collapses, before the worst mutants... they moved fast. Headed straight for Mymensingh or even further south. They might already be safe, just not on *our* lists yet."
The words were a lifeline tossed into dark water. *Early escape.* It made sense. His family lived near the highway. If they'd reacted quickly, avoided the initial village chaos... hope, fragile but potent, surged back. Mymensingh wasn't just a refugee camp; it was the key to finding them.
He turned to Malik and Mahin. "We leave today. Ahead of the main column. We move faster alone." They nodded instantly, their loyalty unwavering. The promise of the main base, the assessment watches, the resources – it all aligned.
As they prepared to depart, gathering their packs and new weapons, a small group of refugees approached – a haggard family and two weary-looking men. "Sahib," one man pleaded, "take us with you? We can carry, we can fight a little... safety in numbers?"
Haider shook his head firmly, though not unkindly. "More people mean more noise. More scent. Draws more of *them*, and the bigger beasts. Slows us down. Stay with the column, follow the soldiers. It's safer for you." He saw the disappointment, but also understanding. The risks were visible to all.
**The Gas Station Ambush:**
They set off at a brisk pace, Haider's enhanced perception constantly scanning the roadside and surrounding fields. The highway itself was still choked, but the verges and parallel service roads were navigable. By mid-afternoon, the heat was oppressive. They spotted a dilapidated gas station ahead – a potential source of bottled water or sealed snacks.
Approaching cautiously, the silence felt wrong. Too complete. Haider sensed life inside the station's small shop – multiple signatures, tense, coiled. He signaled caution, hand resting on the heavy axe haft at his belt, his iron spears strapped across his back.
As they neared the entrance, the door burst open. Five rough-looking men spilled out, two leveling crude shotguns, the others holding pipes and knives. Their eyes were hard, desperate, and devoid of empathy. Behind them, huddled in terrified silence near the drink coolers, were two teenage girls in torn school uniforms and three younger boys, maybe 10 or 12, their faces streaked with dirt and tears. Hostages.
"Back off!" snarled the apparent leader, a gaunt man with a scar across his cheek, gesturing with his shotgun. "This spot's claimed. Move on, or lose your gear... and maybe more."
Haider kept his voice level, hands visible but ready. "We just want water. We don't want trouble. Let the kids go, take what you want, we'll leave."
"Let 'em go?" Scarface laughed harshly. "They're our little lures. Draw the walkers nice and close. Makes 'em easier to pick off from the roof." He gestured upwards where another man leaned over, holding a rifle. "Five already fed the dead for us. These are next."
The casual cruelty ignited fury in Haider. Negotiation was over. His perception flared, mapping positions.
It happened in a blur. Haider ducked low as the first shotgun roared, pellets tearing into the gas station sign above him. Malik lunged left, his cutlass flashing, engaging a thug with a pipe. Mahin, reacting with surprising speed, thrust his hand forward. A jagged ice spike slammed into the gunman on the roof, sending him tumbling with a cry. Haider was already moving. He closed the distance to Scarface in two strides. The man swung his shotgun like a club. Haider caught the barrel mid-swing, wrenched it aside with terrifying strength, and drove the heavy steel head of his axe into the man's chest with a sickening crunch. He went down, lifeless.
Chaos erupted. Malik fought fiercely, his new sword deflecting a knife thrust before he buried it in his attacker's side. Mahin froze the leg of another thug, who screamed as Malik finished him. The last thug dropped his weapon and bolted into the fields. The fight lasted less than thirty seconds. Five thugs were down.
The hostages stared, frozen in shock, then rushed forward, sobbing. "They... they caught us yesterday," one girl stammered. "Made us scream... to bring the monsters... then shot them from the roof... Killed Anika, Rahim..." She dissolved into tears.
Before Haider could reassure them, his perception screamed a warning. A low moan, then another, rising into a chorus. Hundreds of them. Drawn by the gunshots, the screams, the spilled blood. They emerged from the surrounding fields, from behind wrecked cars on the highway, a shambling tide converging on the gas station.
"Back door! NOW!" Haider barked, shoving the hostages towards the rear of the building. "Malik, Mahin, get them out! Head south, stick to the drainage ditch! RUN!" He shoved spare shotgun shells into his pockets and grabbed one of the fallen shotguns.
As the others fled out the back, Haider ran *towards* the front. He kicked over a stack of oil cans near the pumps, the viscous liquid spilling across the concrete. He smashed the nozzle off a diesel pump, fuel gushing out, mixing with the oil. He climbed onto the roof of a wrecked car near the station entrance.
"HEY! OVER HERE! FRESH MEAT!" he bellowed, firing the shotgun into the air. *BOOM!* The sound was a magnet. Every milky eye in the advancing horde snapped towards him. The moans intensified into hungry snarls. They surged forward, a rotting wave, drawn inexorably to the noise and the figure on the car.
Haider watched them flood into the forecourt, stumbling through the spilled oil and fuel, pressing against the station itself. Hundreds packed the space. When the tide seemed thickest, he fired the shotgun one last time straight into the pooling fuel near the pumps.
**WHUMPH!**
The ignition wasn't a simple flame; it was a rolling explosion. Fire raced across the oil-slicked concrete, engulfing the packed jombies instantly. It roared up the station walls, igniting the spilled diesel. The air filled with the horrific stench of burning flesh and fuel, the crackle of flames, and the agonized, mindless shrieks of the burning dead. The gas station became a towering pyre.
Haider had already leaped from the car, sprinting for the perimeter fence. He vaulted over it easily with his enhanced strength, landing in tall grass as the inferno raged behind him. He caught up with the others a kilometer down the ditch. They watched the black smoke pillar into the sky.
**The Harvest:**
Hours later, the fire had burned down to smoldering ruins and charred, twitching forms. Hundreds of jombies were reduced to ash and blackened bone. But dozens on the periphery, only scorched or caught later, still moved, crawling, dragging themselves.
"Stay here," Haider ordered, his voice grim. He strode back towards the hellscape, axe in one hand, shotgun in the other. This wasn't combat; it was grim extermination. He moved methodically, efficiently. Crushing skulls with the axe butt, blasting heads at point-blank range with the shotgun when they lunged. Each kill yielded its faint orb – purple, crimson, amber – but they were weak, diluted, the energy thin compared to mutants or powerful jombies.
But the *volume* was staggering. Dozens. Then scores. He lost count. He moved like an automaton, absorbing orb after orb as he walked through the carnage. A hundred? More? The cumulative effect was immense. Each orb was a trickle, but a hundred trickles became a flood. He felt his muscles swell with latent power, his senses sharpen further, his endurance reserves deepen to an almost bottomless well. The world seemed slower, clearer. He felt invincible, capable of tearing a tiger apart with his bare hands, of running for days. The sheer, brutal efficiency of the harvest was horrifying, yet undeniably empowering. He had turned the thugs' horrific tactic against the horde itself, reaping a grim bounty of strength.
Finally, the field was silent. Nothing moved except the drifting smoke. Haider stood amidst the ashes and char, coated in soot and grime, radiating palpable power. He looked south, towards Mymensingh. He tossed the empty shotgun aside; its purpose was served. He hefted the heavy axe, its weight now negligible. He walked back to where Malik, Mahin, and the rescued hostages waited, their eyes wide with awe and a touch of fear. Without a word, he gestured south. The journey to Chandpur, and the hope of finding his family, continued, now fueled by the ashes of hundreds and the cold, hard strength they had unwillingly provided.