The Cadet Mess in Washington Hall was a sprawling mess hall filled with hundreds of ten-person tables. Various military and historical artifacts decorated its walls, banners, painted glass windows, and murals, which some dated all the way back to the Revolutionary War.

There was a gaping hole in the middle: The Armory.

The entire Corps ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner here, part of their drill exercises to make the cadets disciplined and organized. If you need to gather all the soldiers in one place, usher them into the armory, this would be the place.

"It could be a trap," Logan whispered. He glared at Armas warily, but the other man didn't notice. "He's sketchy."

"Yeah. Dude just tried to shoot me, but I think he's rattled," I said.

"You trust him?"

"I don't trust anybody."

"You trust me."

"You're an exception, captain obvious. I meant strangers."

Armas was the first to go down the stairs into the armory, and we watched him disappear in the darkness. Logan quickly followed after him, rifle in hand. "I'll make sure he doesn't grab a gun while he's in there."

I rolled my eyes. Armas already had a rifle with him. He could quickly turn around and started shooting us, but I didn't stop Logan from going down to the armory. Vectors pounded against the door. I was glad that the doors were 3 inches thick of hard oak, two stories high, grander, and imposing across the dining area. It reminded me of Harry Potter's Great Hall.

I smelled gunpowder when I peered down at the armory. It wasn't a hole that someone had to burst their way in. It was a sliding bulkhead situated below the high arches at the center of the dining area, where there was an open floor space (or used to be). Stairs led down to another bulkhead, and there, it spread out to a bigger room, large enough to store six or seven SUVs. Rows of gun shelves, cabinets, boxes, and among other things, stood in the darkness. Armas switched the lights on, illuminating the space. Most of the racks were empty, but there was plenty enough for us to go around. Clearly, they left in a hurry, leaving many things behind.

"If there weren't thousands of vectors heading our way, we could make this building into a fortress," Aria said, disappointed.

A couple of .50 cal machine guns sat on one shelf. Below was a rack of M4 carbines, some shotguns, a couple of sniper rifles, and a few ammunition boxes to go with them. Pistols, grenades, tactical vests, bayonets, M50 gas masks, accessory kits, and literally anything we could use to protect ourselves for a very long time. The others stayed away from touching the grenades.

We emptied the entire armory for about an hour, laying down all the weapons on the dining hall tables while putting the heavy-duty ones were on the marbled floor.

I turned to Armas. "Is there a tailor shop nearby? A workshop?"

"Why do you need that for?" Armas asked.

"Uniforms."

It took him a moment to realize what I meant. His face scrunched up in confusion, then to shock, anger, and then disgust. "Are you trying to insult me by wearing our uniform?"

"No. But what do you think our chances are of getting into Albany? Many survivors and refugees are heading over there, and I'm sure they've already blockaded most of the city off from outsiders. It is already one of the pincer cities against an attack from the south. We need to take advantage of all we can get that would put us past those perimeters, and we can do that by wearing a disguise. It might work, or it might not. Still, one can't be too careful. I'll use you, too. You can make us all look legit."

"No way. This doesn't seem right."

"Wrong? You abandoned your post, cadet. You are in no position to tell me what is right or wrong when you dusted your unit. You can make it up by helping us live another day. If not, we'll find it ourselves, so why don't you make our job a little easy so we can get the fuck out of here?"

"This uniform serves a greater meaning to the United States of America!"

"Then prove it to me."

We had to sneak out of the Washington Hall building to another one across Derussy Road. Luckily, we had to take the backdoor without alerting the vectors gathering by the front, whose moans grew weaker, quieter, the hunt for prey diminishing. They probably thought we were gone.

I hoped.

The tailor workshop had uniforms and other kinds of clothing, some half-finished, some already put on the racks to be delivered to the students. What I was looking for were the combat uniforms with the universal camouflage pattern. Most of these uniforms were ordered by would-be graduating cadets who would become second lieutenants in the army, wearing these uniforms with their last names sewn on their UCP blouse.

We came back to Washington Hall via the same door with three hours of daylight left, dumping all the clothes on another table, and tried each of them on.

I slipped into maybe two or three sets before finding matching sizes, a name tag sewn: MILLER. It was still a little roomy, but I'll have to get used to it. I found a private spot to change into the tan-colored shirt and the entire gear. I had Armas helped me properly secure the vest, blouse, or anything that might drive suspicion. He was still hesitant about us wearing other people's uniforms; some of them probably belonged to one of his friends. It was akin to someone wearing a priest's robes when one wasn't even a priest.

I had us wear the helmet and the kevlar IOTV, the latter with the modular full systems components like back protection, deltoid protection, and groin protection, as well as the external pouches and kits tethered to little dangling hooks. I also let them carry the M50 gas masks and handed the rest to everyone. Logan managed to find the two-way CB radios, giving them to everyone and placed them to channel twenty-eight to communicate with one another. Logan switched back and forth to channel nineteen and relayed the information to Gabe.

I almost convinced myself that I was now a soldier. Still, I hoped Armas could see my side in things because he might be able to talk us out of some tough situations if we encounter a few checkpoints. He had connections, knew the call signs, and I'm sorry to say, but I'm going to exploit it.

I stood there for what seemed like a minute, looking at the mirror, and I realized how fucking heavy these things were. Maybe Luke and I hadn't really planned this all through if we're ever going to be wearing these things all the way to Albany. I didn't think I could take it walking in this thing for hours, all sweaty and gross. I felt like a beached whale, flopping on the shore, trying to get accustomed to what the hell I was wearing.

I decided to focus on loading my weapons and refilling my ammunition, carefully picking a couple of pairs of various grenades, one for frag, smoke, and flashbang, putting them in my vest's pouches (safer that way). I got strange looks from the others when I picked them up, and Steve almost flinched, a rare sight from such a mellow man, who seemed unbothered by everything.

I picked up the SIG Sauer M17 pistols, the newest service pistols that the military was now using since 2017. This would come in handy as a backup if we ever ran out of bullets with our primary long-range weapons. I loaded two on my holster (by the hip) and one I placed around my ankle (the M18, or the smaller version). I loaded a couple of 9mm magazines (18 rounds each) and put them in the left pouch of my tactical vest.

"Say, how much do you think this all cost? I don't want Uncle Sam billing me for trying to save my ass and yours," Logan said. "Not that your ass needs saving from time to time."

"It probably costs about three or four houses. And don't talk about my ass. It's weird."

"Luke seems enamored by it."

"You're just jealous."

"And what if I was?" Logan dropped his smile, staring at me. "What if I was, Bren?"

I sighed. Okay. I'll play along. "Well, let me see. Every girl from Florida and all the way to Alaska would be crying by now, with joy that the great Logan Hardy won't have to pursue them incessantly with bad poems and cliche one-liners. You'd lose your bad reputation. We can't have your skilled attention directed at me. I mean, what good will it do?" I said, giving him a little wink.

"Ouch. That kind of hurt, Watts."

"Peg down your ego a bit?"

"You did more than that. Are you saying I'm not your type? I worked hard for my glutes, these biceps, abs, and you know, all this." Logan let out a chuckle, looking down at his own body.

He was now dressed in the combat uniform, and as hard as I tried not to admit it, Logan looked great in one, filling it as Chris Hemsworth would in combat gear, the fabric hugging around the ripple of his muscles, showing out his chest, and his thick thighs. I admit that he, in a uniform, did something in my stomach that I would not say right to his face.

I blamed it all on body chemistry and science when it came to the male form.

"There's more to attraction than looks," I said.

"Oh please. Don't say a personality? That's gaaa—lame," Logan said.

I shot him a dirty look with the latter before he corrected it with a sheepish grin. "And you've just proven my point."

It was then Logan slapped my butt hard and laughed. "You're no fun, Bren."

"Fun is not my middle name. I have to deal with the crazies outside our door. You know. Kill them."

Logan scoffed. "Pfft. I'll do more than that." He mimed a mushroom cloud of explosions above his head.

"And can you do one more thing, Logan?"

"Hm, yeah. What is it?"

"Don't slap my butt ever again."

Logan gave a small shrug and smirk, which told me that he didn't promise anything. I hid my smile, of course, and I appreciated this 'locker talk.' It made it easier to communicate between the two of us.

I returned to focus on the weapons that I would bring with me, placing whatever was left into the NYPD duffel bag to bring back as extra weapons along with the ammunition. I still had my trusty shotgun with me. Blasting the vectors to oblivion seemed to get rid of them faster than shredding them with 9mm.

In the end, I must be carrying up to 35 pounds of added weight; the military tactical vest, uniform, duffel bag, and weapons. It was twice the weight of the police vest that I had been wearing for the past week, so at least my body had been half-accustomed to it. I doubted the others lucked out much.

Only Logan and Luke seemed comfortable in their gear, trained as athletes all their life. Miguel had a little trouble, but Yousef was miserable, trying to hide his discomfort. Aria whispered something in his ear, a look of concern on her face, but I distinctly heard Yousef tell her that he had to get used to it, or putting it off might kill him or her. Aria smiled, said she understood.

Aria had also changed her clothes out from her blood-soaked blouse, cardigan, and pants after the escape from New York. Now she wore only the tan-colored shirt, trousers, and combat boots. She propped her already short hair into a ponytail. The weapon I gave her, one of the M17 pistol, was holstered on her hip. I made sure everyone in the group had a gun, even if they were uncomfortable handling one.

Last, I put on the combat helmet, securing it around my head. It felt like I had a large ceramic bowl on top of me. I strode out to the middle of the hall, where most of the others gathered. Luke let out a whistle, looking at me up and down.

"You look good," he said.

"As do all of you."

Logan, most notably. The man looked like a giant in armor. Logan had the advantage of height and built, thanks to playing years of football and a lucky draw in genetics. Armas paled in comparison when he stood next to him. Though, this meant that if we're ever going to encounter hostile humans (and the chance of finding one was high), they will shoot him first. It would be him and Luke since they're the tallest ones out of all of us. They were imposing, and thus, the more significant threat.

"The sun is almost down," Miguel said. "I don't think we can reach Gabe in time with the vectors lose."

"I can tell him on the radio to wait," Logan said.

I shook my head. "We can't take out the vectors at night. It's too risky. The only working humvee that we have is behind those front doors, and they're swarming it."

"We can just shoot them," said Yousef, shaping his hand like a gun and firing pretend bullets at the door. "We now have the firepower."

"Well, no matter how wonderful it is to shoot things, there are a ton of better ways to deal with vectors, Yousef," Luke said. "Without infected children around, they're pretty stupid and one-track-minded. We don't have to kill them all and waste more bullets. We have two cars parked at Thayer Hotel. We got the keys. Why not use them as bait and lead them away from the door?"

It was risky but very doable. However, the Thayer Hotel was less than a mile away. A long walk...in the dark...with vectors surrounding us...

"So, who wants to go on a little drive?" I asked.