Rick and Grant moved down the broken sidewalk, their boots crunching bits of shattered glass and dried leaves. The late afternoon light filtered through the canopy of half-dead trees, casting long shadows over the street. Both men kept their eyes scanning the surroundings, alert for movement—human or otherwise.
Rick finally broke the silence.
"I didn't expect the survivor base Jasper talked about to be that large," he said, glancing over at Grant. "Eight acres, surrounded by reinforced concrete panels."
Grant looked over briefly, then back to the road. "Yeah. It was a collective effort. What made it possible was we had an architect and a structural engineer—both survivors. They designed the walls, reinforced the foundations, made sure the entire thing could hold up long term."
Rick nodded thoughtfully. "And the materials? Weren't they hard to find?"
"Surprisingly, no," Grant said. "Most people raided grocery stores and pharmacies. Construction supply depots were mostly untouched. We found tons of concrete panels, rebar, and even leftover pre-fab wall sections. We still have reserves stored for future use—repairs, expansions, other builds."
Rick grunted in appreciation. "Smart."
They walked on in silence, the tension tightening as they neared Rick's old neighborhood. Finally, Rick pointed. "My house is just around that corner."
But as they turned onto the street, three walkers shuffled aimlessly in the distance—two men and a woman, faces gray and slack, eyes blind with hunger.
Grant stopped and handed Rick a knife. "Here," he said. "Remember—they're not people anymore. Aim for the head. That's the only way to kill them."
Rick took the knife without a word and stepped forward carefully, boots silent on the pavement. He circled behind the first walker and drove the blade into the base of its skull. It dropped without a sound. The second turned at the motion, but Rick was faster. A clean stab. The third stumbled forward, arms half-raised. Rick pushed in and ended it.
Grant had his rifle ready, watching his back the whole time.
When it was done, Grant stepped up beside him. "How do you feel?"
Rick exhaled slowly. "Still feels wrong. They were human once… but I'll get used to it."
Grant nodded. "Just don't hesitate. That's what gets people killed."
They reached Rick's house. It looked smaller now—more vulnerable somehow, standing lonely and still on the quiet block.
Rick entered first, pushing open the door slowly. "Carl? Lori?" he called out. "Carl! Lori!"
No answer.
Grant stepped in behind him. Dust floated in the air, disturbed for the first time in weeks.
Rick headed straight to the master bedroom. Empty. The closet had been ransacked—but not by looters. Grant moved toward a chest of drawers and opened one.
"Clothes are gone," he observed. "Looks like they packed in a hurry."
Rick was already scanning the dresser top. "The photo albums are gone too."
They moved into Carl's room. The drawers were half open, clothes scattered across the floor. A small backpack sat half-zipped near the bed.
"They left in a rush," Grant muttered.
Rick knelt beside the bag and pulled out an action figure—a toy knight in full armor.
"This was Carl's favorite," Rick said softly, a small smile breaking through his worn features. "He never went anywhere without it."
Grant crouched beside him. "They probably went to Atlanta. Early on, the government said there was a refugee center there. Might've followed the broadcast."
Rick turned the toy over in his hand, then looked up. "Where did you say Fort Emberfield is again?"
"North of King County. Near the Tennessee border. Not far if you've got wheels."
Rick stood. "Thanks, Grant. But I've got to go to Atlanta. I need to find them."
Grant raised an eyebrow. "Why are you telling me that like I'm gonna let you go alone?"
Rick looked at him, confused. "You don't mean…"
"We'll help you," Grant said plainly.
Rick blinked. "But… your people. Fort Emberfield needs you. You're their leader."
Grant gave a half-shrug. "It's self-sufficient. I've got trusted folks keeping it running. We built it to survive without relying on one person. Besides, this matters too."
Rick nodded, deeply grateful but without the words to say it.
"First," Grant continued, "we head to Fort Emberfield. We'll gear up there—more men, food, ammo. Sun's already going down. We leave at first light."
A crackle came from the radio strapped to Grant's shoulder. Ghost's voice came through, calm and precise. "Ghost here. Morgan and his son have been retrieved."
Grant raised the mic. "Good. We'll rendezvous at the hospital. Radio a team to come get us. We'll be waiting there."
"Copy," Ghost replied.
Grant turned to Rick and clapped a firm hand on his shoulder. "Trust they're alive. Your friend—Shane was it? He probably kept them safe."
Rick nodded slowly.
They stepped outside together into the fading sunlight, the last rays catching on the quiet street like an echo of what used to be.
x
The sun was dipping lower into the horizon, casting a warm orange glow across the town's battered rooftops as Grant and Rick stepped out of the house. Shadows stretched long down the cracked asphalt as they made their way toward Harrison Memorial Hospital, the same place where Rick had first awakened to this nightmare.
As they approached the hospital's entrance, Rick noticed someone sitting alone on the front steps—Ghost, mask on, head slightly tilted as if listening to the silence itself. His presence was still and watchful, like a sentry at rest.
Rick and Grant approached. Without a word, they sat beside him—three silhouettes in the quiet of the falling dusk.
Rick leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His eyes wandered, watching the dying sunlight stain the sky in deepening hues of red and gold. His thoughts turned inward.
He wondered if Carl and Lori were safe—if they had found shelter, if they had food, if they were even still alive. The uncertainty gnawed at him. He hoped that Shane, his partner and friend, was with them. Shane was tough, capable. If anyone could keep them safe, it was him.
But as the sun vanished behind the treeline, Rick felt the weight of the world pressing down again. A world that no longer played by the rules he once upheld. A world where the dead walked and the living had to kill to survive.
His gaze shifted to Grant, who had stood up and moved a few paces away, now leaning under a tree near the hospital's main entrance. Grant's rifle hung across his back as he stared intently at the ground—not at tracks, not at anything visible. It was as if he was reading something only he could see. Rick furrowed his brow.
It wasn't the first time he noticed odd behavior from Grant—or Ghost, for that matter. Something about the two of them didn't sit squarely with the rest of what Rick knew about soldiers. They moved too precisely. Too calm. As if they were used to things beyond this world. But Rick kept his thoughts to himself. Everyone had their secrets now.
The distant rumble of an engine broke the silence.
A vehicle turned the corner and rolled into view, a pickup truck, familiar in its utilitarian form, with two figures aboard: a driver and a man sitting on the tailgate, rifle in hand.
The truck pulled to a slow stop in front of them. The driver stepped out, nodding respectfully.
"How are you, sir?" he asked Grant.
Grant returned the greeting with a slight smile and a nod, then turned and clasped the shoulder of the man sitting at the cargo bed, a silent form of camaraderie.
Rick, who had remained seated, suddenly remembered something.
"Grant," he said, standing up, "I forgot to tell you. There are guns back at the police station. We could grab them, carry what we can."
Grant chuckled lightly, slinging his rifle off his back as he opened the car door.
"About that, Rick... we already cleaned the place."
Rick raised an eyebrow, then let out a dry laugh of his own.
"Figures."
The exchange was brief, but it lightened the mood.
With that, the three of them—Rick, Grant, and Ghost—began boarding the truck. Rick and Grant entered the backseat of the cab. Ghost opted to ride in the cargo bed.
As the truck pulled away, the town fell behind them—silent and broken, like a memory turned to ash. The wind pushed gently through the open windows. Rick looked back once, seeing the dark outline of the hospital fade behind them.
Ahead lay Fort Emberfield.