Harem Apocalypse: My Seed is the Cure?!-Chapter 165: Galloway [2]

Galloway Township was a relatively small town still within the borders of New Jersey.

After several exhausting stops for rest, scavenging, and dealing with infected encounters, Margaret’s Municipal Office community along with Ryan’s group had finally arrived at the township’s outskirts this morning.

Everyone was thoroughly exhausted upon arrival—a bone-deep weariness that went far beyond simple physical tiredness. Their bodies ached from cramped positions in vehicles, from lifting supplies and fighting infected, from the constant low-level tension that came with traveling through hostile territory where death could emerge from any shadow.

Of course they’d been traveling in cars rather than on foot, which should have made the journey relatively comfortable by apocalyptic standards. But the fatigue they carried was predominantly mental rather than physical—the kind of exhaustion that came from hypervigilance maintained over extended periods, from constantly processing threat assessments and making life-or-death decisions, from carrying grief and trauma that had no outlet while survival demanded continued function.

They had been moving and traveling for three full days after fleeing Jackson Township. Three days that should have been more than sufficient to reach their intended destination of Long Branch on the coast. Three days during which hope had gradually eroded into something darker and more desperate.

It wasn’t like they’d attempted to drive from one country to another—the total distance covered couldn’t have been more than fifty or sixty miles as the crow flies. But they’d stopped countless times along the way: to rest when exhaustion became dangerous, to scavenge buildings for supplies they desperately needed, to clear infected from roads that had become impassable, to repair vehicles that broke down under the strain of apocalyptic driving conditions.

And more than the practical stops, there had been psychological pauses. Moments when people simply couldn’t continue, when fear or grief overwhelmed their ability to keep pushing forward, when the group needed to stop and allow traumatized survivors to process emotions that threatened to consume them if left unaddressed.

Hesitation pervaded every decision. Frustration built as different factions within the community advocated for conflicting priorities. It was extraordinarily difficult to get a whole community of around fifty people—individuals with different backgrounds, different losses, different fears and hopes—to feel unified about anything, much less agree on direction during crisis.

Until now, they hadn’t needed to move at all from Jackson Township. They’d lived there their entire lives—it was home in the deepest sense, the place where they’d been born and raised, where generations of their families had put down roots. Even after the outbreak had transformed the world into nightmare, they’d managed to build a safe haven within familiar territory. Jackson Township had represented continuity with the past, connection to everything they’d lost, the comfort of known streets and recognizable landmarks.

So this forced exodus marked the first time they’d had to truly leave their comfort zone, to abandon their birth town and venture into the unknown. The psychological impact of that displacement was devastating for people who’d already lost so much. Leaving Jackson Township felt like a final severing of connection to the old world, an acknowledgment that nothing could ever return to how it had been.

And for the first time during their journey, traveling beyond the borders of their familiar territory, they saw with undeniable clarity how catastrophically far the collapse had spread. Jackson Township’s fall hadn’t been an isolated tragedy—everywhere they looked, they found only more ruins, more infected, more evidence of civilization’s complete disintegration.

Even outside their town, nothing was doing any better. The revelation that America—that perhaps the entire world—might be genuinely doomed hit them with crushing force. Before, surrounded by the familiar streets of home, it had been possible to maintain some illusion that the apocalypse was localized, that somewhere beyond their immediate area, society continued functioning. That delusion had sustained hope during the darkest moments.

But now they understood the truth: there was no cavalry coming. No safe zones established by functioning government. No rescue operations organized by surviving military forces. Just more infected, more ruins, more desperate survivors clinging to existence in the wreckage of everything humanity had built.

The harsh reality devastated morale. Some people didn’t want to face that truth at all, couldn’t psychologically accept the magnitude of what had been lost. They begged to settle in the next town they encountered, any town, desperate to stop moving and establish new illusions of safety and normalcy.

They were tired beyond description, scared to the point of paralysis, and desperately wanted to stop traveling. The constant movement felt unbearable—every mile taking them further from the graves of loved ones left behind, every new location representing another place where they had no history or connection.

While others in the group took the opposite position, insisting they continue moving constantly, terrified that staying anywhere too long would allow infected hordes to locate and overwhelm them. The Screamer’s attack had traumatized them profoundly, creating paranoia that nowhere could ever be truly safe, that stopping meant death.

The Screamer had indeed left psychological scars that ran deep. People who’d been trapped in Jackson Township during those terrible hours—hearing that alien call drawing infected from every direction, watching friends and family torn apart or transformed—carried trauma that manifested as constant fear and hypervigilance. They startled at sudden sounds, couldn’t sleep without nightmares, struggled to feel secure even when surrounded by their community.

Even for someone as experienced and respected as Margaret, managing these conflicting needs and emotional states proved extraordinarily challenging. Despite having earned the trust and respect of virtually everyone in the community through two months of competent leadership, she found it nearly impossible to please all of them simultaneously. Every decision satisfied some people while angering or frightening others.

So Margaret had made the difficult choice to prioritize rest and mental wellbeing over rapid progress toward their destination. She wanted to take the journey slowly for everyone’s sake, allowing people time to grieve and process rather than forcing them to suppress trauma in service of efficiency.

Everyone had lost someone in Jackson Township’s fall—family members, friends, neighbors they’d known their entire lives. Those losses needed to be acknowledged, mourned, integrated into people’s understanding of their new reality. Rushing forward while ignoring that grief would only create deeper psychological damage that would emerge later in more destructive ways.

Because of Margaret’s compassionate leadership style and the group’s fragmented emotional state, their progress had been delayed significantly. What should have been a straightforward journey stretched into days of meandering advancement punctuated by extended stops.

Though the main reason the journey had taken three long days—far beyond any reasonable estimate—was the devastating discovery they’d made upon finally reaching Long Branch.

The coastal city was completely invaded by infected. Not scattered individuals or small groups that could be cleared with coordinated effort, but massive hordes numbering in the hundreds or perhaps thousands. The streets were clogged with shambling bodies, buildings were filled with infected waiting to surge out at any disturbance, and the strategic advantages they’d hoped to exploit were nullified by the sheer overwhelming numbers.

It was difficult to fathom the reason behind such concentrated infection. Perhaps Long Branch had been a major evacuation point during the initial outbreak, drawing people from surrounding areas until the sheer density of population had made it impossible to contain the spread. Or perhaps some factor about the coastal location attracted infected through mechanisms nobody understood.

Regardless of the cause, the sight had struck a devastating psychological blow to the entire group. Long Branch had represented hope—their destination, their goal, the place where they’d rebuild and establish new lives. Discovering it was utterly untenable shattered that hope completely.

They had unfortunately witnessed the nightmare that awaited them, and for many in the community, it felt like concrete proof that nowhere was safe anymore. If a coastal city with natural barriers couldn’t provide refuge, where could they possibly go? The question hung unanswered, breeding despair.

So they’d stopped briefly in the nearest town to Long Branch to gather supplies and rest while leaders frantically revised plans and tried to rebuild morale. And like that, one day became two, then three, as the group struggled to find direction and purpose after their primary plan had collapsed.

Before finally—after much debate and several false starts—they’d reached Galloway Township, located south of Jackson Township in Atlantic County. Galloway was closer to their destroyed home than Long Branch had been, making the three-day journey feel even more futile. They’d essentially traveled in a wide, inefficient arc rather than making meaningful progress toward any safe destination.

A journey that shouldn’t have taken more than a couple of hours even accounting for the current deteriorated state of roads and presence of infected had consumed three long, painful days. Days filled with hesitation at every intersection, insecurity about every decision, constant complaints from exhausted and frightened survivors, and depression settling over the group like fog.

They had also spent considerable time looking around nearby towns, wandering and driving somewhat aimlessly through the apocalyptic landscape until they’d chosen a clear destination just recently: Atlantic City.

Atlantic City represented a new hope—another coastal location like Long Branch, but approached with more realistic expectations after their devastating discovery. The city’s casinos and boardwalk infrastructure might provide defensible high ground and limited access points that could be fortified. The ocean would still provide strategic advantages and potential food sources. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something to aim for.

But before attempting to reach Atlantic City, they’d stopped in Galloway Township for necessary rest. The previous night had been particularly brutal, with infected encounters continuing well past dark. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

That night there had even been a genuine crisis when one of the cars holding a family of four who’d joined the Municipal Office community just before the final evacuation—had accidentally separated from the convoy in the darkness. By the time anyone noticed they were missing, the family had already been swarmed by infected attracted to their isolated vehicle’s noise.

For the others watching helplessly as infected surrounded the trapped car, it had looked like certain death. The family’s doom had seemed inevitable—they were going to die screaming while the rest of the convoy could only watch in horror, too far away to intervene before the infected broke through windows and dragged them out.

But Ryan and his group had saved them like some kind of superhero team arriving at the last possible moment. Sydney had used her enhanced speed to reach the car first, clearing infected with lethal efficiency. Rachel had deployed barriers to create protective zones. Cindy had provided covering fire with supernatural accuracy. And Ryan himself had torn through the horde with such calm that made him seem more force of nature than human.

Within minutes, what had looked like certain tragedy had been transformed into miraculous rescue. The family had survived with only minor injuries, their car damaged but functional, and their faith in Ryan’s group’s protective capabilities reinforced dramatically.

Truthfully, Margaret couldn’t help but feel profound gratitude that Ryan and his group had chosen to stay with the Municipal Office community despite having no obligation to do so. By no means did they have to follow along with the community’s slow, inefficient advance. They could easily have separated and made their own way to whatever destination they chose, traveling at their own pace without being slowed by fifty traumatized civilians.

But they had stayed. Remained with the convoy, provided protection, helped with every challenge that arose. Margaret didn’t know whether this was Ryan’s personal decision—the young man rarely spoke to anyone outside his inner circle anymore, his grief over Jasmine’s and Elena’s loss making him even more withdrawn than usual. Rachel had been the one to explicitly state they would accompany the community to Atlantic City, that they wouldn’t abandon people who’d become allies and friends.

Margaret suspected the decision was collaborative rather than coming from Ryan alone, but she remained grateful regardless of who’d made it. Ryan’s group had helped them tremendously over these three difficult days—clearing infected whenever the convoy stopped, helping search buildings for supplies, providing security during rest periods, and offering the kind of superhuman assistance that transformed impossible situations into merely difficult ones.

"How long will we be staying here?"

Brad’s annoyed voice cut through Margaret’s contemplative reverie. She’d been standing near the convoy of parked vehicles, mentally reviewing their supplies and considering their next moves, allowing herself a rare moment of quiet reflection.

She turned her gaze slowly toward the source of the interruption, already knowing what she’d find before her eyes completed the movement.

Brad stood about ten feet away with his arms crossed over his chest in a posture of aggressive impatience.

He wasn’t alone, of course. Brad was rarely alone these days, having cultivated a small following of like-minded individuals who amplified his complaints and reinforced his confrontational approach to leadership disputes.

Flanking him on either side were two other men around his age who could fairly be described as his henchmen—Kyle and Billy, both sons of longtime residents of Jackson Township who’d apparently decided that survival required following the loudest, most aggressive voice rather than the most experienced or thoughtful one.

Indeed, these three had played an outsized and consistently negative role in disrupting the community’s fragile sense of togetherness over the past three days. They complained constantly about Margaret’s decisions—not just the ones that went against their preferences, but even choices that actually aligned with what they claimed to want. It was as if the act of complaining itself had become their primary identity, defining who they were in this new world more than any positive contribution.

Despite their toxic behavior—or perhaps perversely because of it—a significant portion of the community seemed to be supporting Brad’s words. Many survivors didn’t really believe Margaret could protect them anymore, their faith shaken by Jackson Township’s fall despite that catastrophe being utterly beyond anyone’s ability to prevent.

All they cared about right now was survival in its most immediate, visceral form. Food. Shelter. Distance from infected. And they didn’t seem to think someone as old as Margaret—she’d turned sixty-three just before the outbreak—was still capable of commanding a community through apocalyptic circumstances that demanded physical strength and aggressive action as much as wisdom and experience.

Margaret didn’t fully understand why Brad was being so immature and confrontational. She’d known him before the outbreak—not well, but enough to recognize he’d always been somewhat difficult, prone to complaints and resistant to authority. But this level of hostility seemed excessive, almost personal, as if he blamed her specifically for everything that had gone wrong despite her having no control over alien invasions or viral outbreaks.

Regardless of his motivations, she could only respond to the immediate situation with as much patience and professionalism as she could muster.

"We’ve sent a few people to check the surrounding area for survivors and assess the town’s condition," Margaret replied, keeping her voice level and measured despite the exhaustion weighing on her. "And people need rest after what happened during last night’s travel, Brad. You were there—you saw how close that family came to being killed. Everyone is traumatized and exhausted."

"Sent whom? Only these guys from that fucker’s group, right?" Brad’s sneer was audible in his voice, contempt dripping from every syllable. "Just leave them be to do whatever. We should be moving on already instead of wasting time here."

Margaret looked at Brad with undisguised displeasure. The "fucker" in question—she knew perfectly well he was referring to Ryan, the young man whose group had saved a lot of lives over the past three days including the family Brad claimed to be so concerned about reaching safety quickly.

She didn’t understand why Brad hated Ryan with such visceral intensity when the latter had done absolutely nothing that could warrant such hostility. Ryan had been nothing but helpful toward their community since they met him after all.

"Not only Ryan’s group," Margaret replied with sternness, emphasizing each word to make clear her disapproval of both his language and attitude. "Clara, Martin, and several others from our community are also out there conducting searches. This is a group effort."

"Tch, only bootlickers of that fucker and his group," Brad scoffed dismissively, his expression suggesting he found anyone who cooperated with Ryan to be contemptible. "People who’ve been brainwashed into thinking those freaks are some kind of heroes just because they can move fast or whatever."

"Brad..."

"Brad isn’t saying anything wrong though." Kyle spoke up from Brad’s left, emboldened by his leader’s confrontational stance. He was a thinner man than Brad, with nervous energy that manifested as constant fidgeting and aggressive verbal support for whatever Brad claimed.

"Yeah, Margaret, everyone just wants to find a safe place and settle down," Billy added from the right. "But you’re just exhausting us and burning through our resources by stopping uselessly during every leg of travel. We should push through to Atlantic City without all these delays."

Margaret felt her patience—already stretched thin by three days of constant crisis management—beginning to fray completely. She really wondered what these three were actually thinking with their behavior. Did they genuinely believe their confrontational approach was helping anyone? Or had they simply found a dynamic that gave them power and influence they’d never possessed before, making them reluctant to abandon it regardless of the damage it caused?

"They are our people, our neighbors," Margaret said strongly, making eye contact with each man in turn. "I don’t need to remind you of that basic fact. We’ve all lived in Jackson Township together for years, decades in some cases. These aren’t strangers—they’re friends, family, people we’ve known our entire lives."

"So what?" Brad retorted with aggressive indifference. "If they’re so weak that they need constant rest breaks and can’t keep up with efficient travel, just let them find somewhere safe in these small towns and go on our own to Atlantic City already. We’re wasting precious time and resources because of dead weight slowing us down."

"Whether they are physically strong or not doesn’t matter," Margaret replied frowning. "We are all from the same community, bound together by—"

"Tch!" Brad clicked his tongue loudly, the sharp sound conveying contempt and dismissal more effectively than words. He turned abruptly without letting Margaret finish her thought, gesturing for Kyle and Billy to follow. The three of them walked away with exaggerated casualness, making their disrespect as visible as possible.

Margaret watched them go with a heavy sigh. Her shoulders sagged slightly, the brief moment of anger giving way to weariness that went bone-deep.

Leadership in normal times had been challenging enough—balancing competing interests, making difficult decisions, managing personalities and conflicts. But leadership during apocalypse, when every choice could mean life or death and traditional sources of authority had collapsed, was almost impossibly difficult. Especially when people like Brad actively undermined her at every opportunity, creating division when unity was their only hope for survival.

"How about you just slap him instead of wasting your breath on him next time?"

A voice called from behind her tinged with annoyance.

Margaret turned around, her expression immediately softening from weary disappointment into something warmer.

"Rebecca."