The parking lot where they had set out was near the bay, an ideal spot for business, considering the heavy foot traffic and pleasant scenery.
But when they needed to flee into the mountains, that location became rather remote. Heading east meant practically crossing the entire city.
Old Mike knew the city well. He did his best to avoid roads that might be congested, but zombies would occasionally burst from the dark roadside and slam into the front of the vehicle, turning into clouds of bloody mist. The sudden appearances of the dead made his scalp tingle.
Driving at night in the past meant nothing more than mosquitoes and bugs splattering against the headlights. But now, one look at the windshield wipers, stained red and tangled with sticky entrails, was enough to show how bad things had become.
"How are things along the way through the city?" Thomas came forward from the rear compartment and sat in the passenger seat. He tossed the old driver another cigarette. "Have you seen any Survivors?"
Old Mike shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. He did not know whether to say that they had not encountered any Survivors, or that he had been so focused on escaping that he had not paid attention to the roadside at all.
The veteran saw his state and seemed to understand everything at once. He said nothing, merely patting the old man on the shoulder.
"Don't burden yourself with it. Whether other people can be saved is their fate. We're not saviors, just three ordinary people on the run. We have neither the responsibility nor obligation to risk ourselves for others."
After saying that, he secretly waved at Martha behind him, signaling for her to come quickly and observe the subject's reaction.
Hearing Deathstroke's words,