After learning the rules for entering the quarantine zone, every survivor finally understood the truth.
They’d been used by the military from the start.
Whether they entered the zone or left the city, all the supplies they’d fought so hard to gather would belong to the military.
Some hot-tempered survivors erupted in fury, vowing never to accept such outrageous terms.
But others, realizing that if they didn’t enter now they might never get another chance, silently returned to their homes and began packing.
A few tried to protest through marches and vandalism.
This time, the military didn’t tolerate it.
They arrested the instigators on the spot, charging them with public disturbance during a state of emergency.
The penalty was severe: permanent disqualification from entering the quarantine zone and immediate expulsion from the city.
The message was clear.
The protests stopped.
Though the terms were harsh, especially for a nation that prided itself on freedom and democracy, the quarantine zone was still a sanctuary for those living in constant fear.
Most accepted the reality, even if they resented it.
But some refused to hand over their hard-won supplies.
They found hiding spots throughout the city, determined to wait out the military and slip away after everyone else had entered the zone.
And so, with everyone holding their own secrets, time slipped by.
A week passed.
Amid the constant drone of construction, a wall dozens of meters high now encircled a fifth of Dallas.
Red spray paint spelled out the letters “FEDRA” across its surface.
Some had packed their bags, ready to enter.
Others had already moved their supplies into hidden caches, waiting for the military to withdraw into the zone.
A few, disillusioned by the “New America,” had abandoned everything, taken their families, and left the city with whatever rations the military provided.
But most chose to stay.
And looking at the endless sea of people, everyone knew the zone couldn’t hold them all.
Some would inevitably be sent to other quarantine cities.
Dallas was a central hub for the south-central region.
After the entire South fell, refugees flooded in, creating massive overcrowding.
Now that the wall was mostly complete, hundreds of soldiers stood ready at registration posts across the city.
At the appointed hour, they would fan out to every survivor camp and begin processing.
Military vehicles patrolled the streets, loudspeakers blaring the latest announcement: “Attention all residents.
Please have your ID or ration cards ready.
Registration will begin at 9:00 AM at the nearest post.
We will record your information and conduct a lottery to determine which survivors will be relocated to other quarantine zones.
Volunteers for relocation may apply at the nearest administration office.
We will prioritize your requests based on preference.” Brian stood at the curb, watching the convoy roll past.
His eyes followed the vehicle until it disappeared down the road.
He checked his watch.
8:00 AM.
The registration post near the abandoned factory lot was still empty.
No one had arrived yet.
After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and walked toward the administration office two blocks away.
All along the street, people were watching the time, ready to sprint to the registration posts the moment the clock struck nine.
Their nervous faces told the story.
A rumor had been spreading for days that the first five thousand to register would be guaranteed entry without risking transfer to another zone.
Everyone knew it was probably a lie.
But they believed anyway.
No one wanted to risk being sent away.
The military administration office.
This had once been a local bank.
The outbreak had shut it down temporarily, but as survivors flooded Dallas, the military had converted it into a district management center.
A dozen people huddled outside the entrance, whispering nervously.
“Do you think they’ll lie to us?” “Why don’t you go in first?” “No way.
You go.
I’ll wait.” They pushed each other forward, none willing to be the first through the door.
Most of these people were refugees from the South.
They had no family in Dallas.
They didn’t want to stay.
But they were too terrified of the infected outside to leave.
So they’d resigned themselves to spending the foreseeable future in this unfamiliar city.
Or worse, being shipped to some other unfamiliar city.
But the morning’s broadcast had offered a glimmer of hope: volunteers who requested relocation could have their preferences prioritized.
Was it true?
Or was it another trap?
They’d come this far, but none dared take the first step.
Two fully armed soldiers stood rigidly at the entrance, watching the crowd with cold contempt.
Their expressions said everything—if not for their orders, they’d have chased these people away long ago.
Then a boy, about twelve or thirteen, walked past them.
He didn’t hesitate.
He climbed the steps, pushed open the door, and disappeared inside.
One of the soldiers glanced at the boy, then at the grown adults still milling about below.
He muttered under his breath, “A bunch of cowards.
Can’t even match a kid.” Ding!
The glass door swung open with a pleasant chime.
Brian found the office nearly empty.
A few staff members, a few armed guards.
No other visitors.
He walked up to the counter.
The clerk looked up, mildly surprised at the sight of a child.
Brian sat down and spoke calmly.
“Hello.
If I volunteer to go to another quarantine zone, can I choose where?” The clerk recovered from her surprise.
It wasn’t unusual to see a lone child in Dallas.
Orphans and runaways were everywhere.
Some found shelter.
Others fended for themselves.
This one probably belonged to the latter group.
The “New America” government hadn’t forgotten about children like him.
But family reunification and orphan processing would only begin once the quarantine zones were operational.
Kids were valuable resources for the future.
“Please, have a seat.
Where would you like to go?” “Washington.” The clerk’s fingers paused over her keyboard.
She slowly shook her head.
“Washington D.C.
is outside our jurisdiction.
Unless you have…
special clearance, I can’t authorize that.” “Understood.” Brian wasn’t surprised.
The capital would be flooded with high-profile survivors.
He didn’t have government connections or a scientist’s pedigree.
Special clearance wasn’t coming his way.
“Then what’s the closest place to Washington I can actually go?” The clerk tapped a few keys.
Her expression softened slightly.
“Let me check.
The farthest we can send you is Greensboro, but they’re not accepting new arrivals anymore.
The nearest places still open are St.
Louis and Memphis.” Brian stood up and walked to a wall map of the United States.
His eyes traced the route from Dallas to St.
Louis, then to Memphis.
His expression darkened.
Both were still impossibly far from Washington.
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