As the group trudged down the cracked road, weighed down with bags of supplies, a quiet sense of triumph hung in the air. The group finally began their return journey, exhausted but alive. The rescue mission, led by Maarg and Jack, had been a success—not without risks, but thanks to their quick thinking and bold tactics, they'd managed to bring everyone back. They moved through the quieter parts of the ruined streets, avoiding clusters of the undead with practiced steps. Jack and Maarg's speaker trick had worked like a charm—placing a loudspeaker in an alley, luring the zombies far from their path with the sound of static, music, and chatter. Most of the dead wandered off, giving them space to maneuver.
It was a strange kind of victory parade. Six newly conscious men walked in the center, still recovering from their injuries. Among them were Maarg's father, the quiet and dependable Liam Carter; nervous but kind-hearted Noah Tremblay; practical and quick-witted Aiden Thompson; calm and observant Ethan McAllister; and the youngest of them all, Tyler Singh, who had proven himself when it mattered most. They had been knocked out cold during a supply run ambush, left for dead—but not forgotten.
Also among the returning group was Mr. Whitaker, the colony's ever-complaining British expat. No one truly understood why he'd volunteered in the first place. He contributed little during the mission, spending most of the time grumbling and shouting at his dog, Buster, who was the only living being he seemed to care about.
Buster, a sharp-eyed, loyal Labrador, had done more to help the group than his master. It was the dog who had found the pile of unconscious bodies beneath collapsed shelves inside the looted grocery store. While others panicked, Buster sniffed and barked until Maarg and Jack followed him.
Now, on their way back, Buster kept walking ahead of the group, tail alert, nose sniffing the wind. Something changed in the dog's posture—ears stiffened, body tense. Without warning, Buster let out a sharp bark and darted away from the group, disappearing between two crumbling buildings.
"Buster!" Mr. Whitaker shouted, immediately sprinting forward.
Maarg stepped in front of him. "Wait! We can't afford to split up now!"
Whitaker stopped just inches from Maarg's chest, his face twisted in anger. "Move aside, you fool! That dog is my family!"
"I get that," Maarg said firmly. "But we're still a long way from the colony. If you go chasing after him alone, and something happens, no one will be able to help you. And zombies… they haven't been attacking animals. He might be safer than we are."
"Don't try and act like you know better than me, you little brown punk!" Whitaker snapped, voice rising with venom. "I should've known better than to trust your kind! Always pretending to be the hero!"
The tension in the air turned cold. Before anyone could react, Maarg's father, bruised and barely walking, stepped between them. His voice was calm but edged with steel.
"You say one more word like that," he growled, "and I'll knock your teeth out myself."
Whitaker flinched. The others fell silent.
"My son—my Indian son—is the reason you're even breathing," he continued. "He risked his life to find us. So don't you stand there and insult the very people who carried you out of death's grip. You think you're better? What exactly have you done?"
Tyler Singh stepped closer, gently placing a hand on Whitaker's arm. "We're all tired, man. Let's not fight now."
Ethan McAllister added, "Your dog's smart. He's gotten us this far. If he found something, he'll come back. But if you leave now, you might not."
Noah Tremblay, still limping slightly, nodded. "If he doesn't come back by the time we reach the colony, we'll go back for him. But you running off will only make things worse."
Aiden Thompson, ever the calm voice, pulled Whitaker aside gently. "Let's just breathe. We've made it this far together."
Whitaker stood frozen for a second, then muttered coldly, "Listen, boy… that dog is my family. If anything happens to him, nobody will be able to save you from me."
No one responded. The air remained heavy as the group silently resumed their walk. Buster hadn't even looked back—just disappeared into the ruins, driven by instinct or something no one could understand.
As they approached the hill overlooking the colony's perimeter, Maarg pulled out a single rocket firecracker—the last in their bag. He carefully planted it in an overturned flowerpot, lit the fuse, and stepped back.
With a shrill whistle and a burst of red and gold, the rocket shot skyward, exploding into color. It was their signal—simple but loud. Back in the colony, people would see it and know: the mission had succeeded.
When they reached the gates, a cheer rose from the barricades. The gates were flung open, and people rushed to help carry the unconscious men inside. Families cried, hands clasped together in disbelief and joy. For a few short moments, the nightmare of the world outside didn't matter.
Mr. Whitaker didn't linger. He broke away from the crowd and scanned the horizon, eyes desperately searching for Buster.
As the heavy gates closed behind them, Maarg stood beside his father, who gently placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"You did good," he said.
Maarg nodded silently, watching the gates as if waiting for one more figure to appear.