Fesir Town, outskirts.
Lieutenant Nawick was enjoying lunch with a plate in hand when one of his trusted sergeants entered the tent from outside, a hint of delight on his face.
"Boss, the scouts just sent word. They found a group of survivors more than ten kilometers away, beside Interstate Highway. There are over thirty of them."
"They captured our scouts, brought them into their camp, asked them some questions, and then let them go."
Nawick did not care whether the scouts lived or died. He set down his knife and fork and asked,
"What did they say? Do those survivors have many resources? How are their weapons?"
The trusted sergeant wore a slightly fawning smile and said excitedly,
"Apparently, those people hit the jackpot. They have not only a doctor and a nurse, but also several truckloads of alcohol. They're holding a feast right now—brandy, Rémy Martin, rum, all top-shelf stuff."
"They don't have many weapons, either. It seems they only have a few pistols and Shotguns."
Nawick's eyes lit up when he heard that. He had always been a drunkard, but in these times, finding a bottle of good liquor was extremely difficult. He had gone three days without satisfying his craving.
The lieutenant licked his lips and said to his trusted subordinate,
"Go gather our soldiers. Once we seize that supply, everyone gets a share."
The trusted sergeant's eyes brightened. His voice was filled with anticipation as he said,
"Boss, our brothers haven't had any fun for several months. They say there are pretty girls among those survivors, so why don't we..."
Lieutenant Nawick hesitated. After weighing it over, he said,
"The civilians in the camp are already harboring rebellious feelings. If word gets out about something like this, they might very well riot."
The trusted sergeant