Van hadn't expected this either. Three-inch-thick stainless steel—the beast was now a bunker on wheels.
"But how do we change a tire?" Jane asked, kicking the armor plating near the wheel well.
Van crouched, ran his hand along the edge, and found a recessed latch. He flicked it with his thumb. With a soft clunk, a section of plate over the front tire swung upward, revealing the lug nuts.
"Genius," Jane said, a real smile on her face for the first time.
Back on the road, the silver-grey fortress bulled its way forward. When the next batch of Rotters spilled from the houses, Van didn't slow. He aimed the blunt nose of the Express and planted his foot.
THUMP-CRUNCH.
THUMP.
Bodies bounced off the reinforced bull bar and thick windshield. The ones that didn't clear the grille were pulled under with a sickening series of pops and crunches.
CHIME.
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The chimes in his mind were a grim soundtrack to their progress.
"They're all coming from the houses," Jane observed, twisting in her seat to watch the receding figures. "Why aren't they just wandering the streets?"
Van had no answer. As they left the residential zone, the stragglers thinned to nothing. Silence fell, broken only by the engine's low rumble.
The town center loomed—a few squat, six-story buildings. Jane spotted movement on a rooftop. "Survivors. Up there."
"Noted," Van said, his tone flat. He didn't slow.
"But... shouldn't we at least—"
"No." The word cut through the cab, hard and final. "We don't stop. We don't signal. We don't risk it."
Jane's jaw tightened. "You can't just ignore everyone."
"I can," Van said, his eyes locked on the road. His voice dropped, stripped of all warmth. "You haven't seen what happens when 'everyone' turns into 'anyone.' When the rules vanish and it's just you and the predators."
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The ice in his voice carried the memory of broken glass, stolen goods, and the hollow look in a mother's eyes after a normal Tuesday turned into a riot.
"Strangers aren't people you help; they're problems you avoid." He'd learned the lesson in blood and fire long before the world ended: trust was a luxury paid for in corpses.
Jane looked at his profile, the rigid set of his shoulders. The argument died on her lips, replaced by a cold understanding. His pragmatism wasn't cruelty. It was scar tissue.
The Express rolled deeper into the silent downtown core. The road ahead was clear. Too clear. Then they saw it.
Just past an intersection, the entire width of the street was blocked. Not by cars, but by a tangled, deliberate wall of heavy debris—overturned dumpsters, rusted I-beams, chunks of concrete, and twisted scaffolding.
It was makeshift, ugly, and completely impassable for any normal vehicle. A roadblock.
And leaning against the wall of junk, casually holding hunting rifles and shotguns, were four men. They weren't Rotters. Their eyes were sharp, calculating.
They watched the approaching armored truck not with fear, but with the wary interest of predators sizing up a new animal in their territory.
Van's foot lifted off the accelerator. The Express slowed to a crawl, stopping thirty yards from the barrier.
One of the men, a tall figure in a greasy denim jacket, spat on the ground and took a step forward, his rifle held loosely but ready. He raised a hand, not in greeting, but in a clear, universal signal to halt.
"Now what?" Jane whispered, her hand drifting toward the Remington on the floor.