Friday, November 20, 2026, Southeast Sector of the City.
David's Group Headquarters, Industrial Zone.
It was nearly 8 PM, and the setting sun was staining the abandoned factories a bloody orange, while smoke from distant fires rose like black fingers against the sky.
David stood in front of a two-story house, his mind racing with recent events.
Just minutes ago, he'd hung up a call with Ron, Alex's contact who had supplied them with most of their resources: canned food, batteries, medicine, even weapons.
"I can't go for Emily," David had rasped, his voice raw with exhaustion. "Something... serious happened here."
Ron had understood, only pleading that David try to contact Alex for help, since he hadn't been able to reach him. David hung up, the phone still warm in his hand, and leaned against the brick wall, taking a deep breath. The weight of his guilt crushed him like a hydraulic press.
The memories preceding the call assaulted him like flashes from a living nightmare.
It had all started that same afternoon, when he and a few friends returned from downtown with Rose and her family, dodging improvised barricades and burning cars. In the haste—the rising chaos, the distant screams, the first few zombies shattering windows—they had rescued four strangers: two men, a woman named Michonne, and her son, André, a three-year-old boy with frightened eyes.
A fatal mistake, David thought, closing his eyes.
He'd always discussed this with Alex: "Always check for wounds... A bite is certain death and a danger to any group."
But the panic of the moment—organizing multiple people, distributing supplies, securing perimeters—blinded him. He hadn't checked.
One of the men, a burly guy in a t-shirt, had hidden the bite on his forearm beneath his sleeve. They entered the shelter, and in less than an hour, the horror erupted. David was in the designated headquarters' living room, counting ammunition, when he heard Michonne's bloodcurdling scream from the upper floor of her house.
He ran down the street, then sprinted into his house, racing upstairs, his heart pounding, and he saw it: the man, now turned, blood covering his body—but it wasn't his. The zombie was turning toward Michonne's door, pounding on it with putrid fists. André was crying inside, huddled against his mother.
David didn't hesitate. He drew his hunting knife—a gift from Alex—and plunged it into the attacker's skull with a wet crunch, black blood splattering his shirt. The body dropped like a sack of sand.
He warned Michonne to stay inside the room while he went to check on the second man. But it was already too late for him: he had bled out and was resurrecting with a guttural moan. He tried to rise, but David finished him with a precise strike to the eye, the blade slicing through bone and brain.
André's father, David thought, his stomach churning. He could have been saved by simply isolating his friend. My fault.
Now, in front of the house, David took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs. He turned slowly and saw Michonne in the doorway, André asleep in her arms. Her face, beautiful but marked by terror, was pale; restrained tears glistened in her dark eyes. She wore tight jeans and a leather jacket, practical for the end of the world, but her rigid posture screamed of the effort not to break down in front of the child.
She's strong, David thought. Stronger than I am right now.
Before he could speak, Rose stepped out of the house, her blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail, followed by two women from the group: Clara, a nurse, and Lena, a mother of three.
"Michonne, come," Rose said in a soft but urgent voice, touching her shoulder. "We'll take you to the house next door. It's secured; it has beds."
André stirred in his sleep, muttering something about 'Dad.' Michonne nodded, her voice a broken whisper. "Thank you, David. For saving us before... and now." Her eyes met his, a flicker of gratitude mixed with raw pain. "If you hadn't arrived..."
"Don't say anything," David cut her off, his throat tight. "I should have seen it. The bite."
She shook her head, but Rose gently guided her toward the neighboring house, a similar building. André snuggled closer to her, oblivious to the horror. David watched them go in, the door closing with a metallic click.
If he had only checked... André would still have a father.
The weight sunk him. He blamed himself, a burning knot in his chest. Alex was right about what was coming, and Ron's information confirming Alex's fears verified it.
But in the whirlwind of rescues, prioritizing Rose and her family had made him completely forget.
Idiot. It cost a life.
Cautious footsteps pulled him from his trance. Edwin, his friend of years—neat beard, tired eyes under a baseball cap—approached, keeping a respectful distance. David knew him like his own shadow: he needed space, but not complete solitude. He stopped six feet away, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket stained with dried blood.
David sighed deeply, breaking the silence first, his voice tinged with bitter sarcasm. "Well, what a way to inaugurate the shelter, huh? We rescue four, and in an hour, we lose two. Great, David... just great."
Edwin managed a sad smile, shrugging. "It was an accident, man. Anyone makes mistakes in this mess. You saved the ones who were left. That counts."
David looked at him, grateful for the attempt, but shook his head, his voice even rawer. "No, Edwin. You don't get it. Alex and Ron warned us: 'Check for bites first.' I knew it beforehand. I should have done it on the way, or before entering the shelter. That guy... André's father... he could be alive."
Edwin stepped forward, his tone firm but warm, like their late-night beer talks about 'what if.' "Look, the center was hell: zombies everywhere, Rose screaming for her kids, traffic at a standstill. You gathered fifteen people in hours, fed them, secured the perimeter. Do you expect to be perfect? Alex said it: delegate. Build a real team, don't be the lone hero."
The words sank in. David felt a knot unravel, and without thinking, he hugged Edwin tightly, surprising him. Edwin patted his back, laughing nervously. "Hey, hey, don't get sentimental, big guy."
David stepped back, eyes damp but determined, a new spark in his gaze. "Thanks, man. You're right... No more stupid mistakes."
He paused, straightening up.
"Gather everyone. Now. Rose, Clara, Lena, the others. We're going to organize this once and for all. Guard shifts, mandatory wound checks, full inventory. There's no time to 'adapt.' If we want to survive, we act now."
Edwin nodded, a genuine smile crossing his face. "That's my friend... I'm on it." He turned, whistling quietly to call the scattered group.
Soon, voices echoed: "Edwin says meeting!", "Bring the lists!".
David stood alone for a moment, looking toward Michonne's house. The child slept, oblivious; she endured for him.
No more failures.
The chaos roared outside—a zombie hitting a distant dumpster, sporadic gunshots—but here, in this industrial corner, they would forge something solid. Alex would be proud. Ron, too, when Emily was safe. He took a deep breath, the cold air clearing his mind.
Time to act.
Half an hour later.
The residential zone where David, his friends, and their families were sheltering was a place David had scouted days ago as a location that could protect them in the short term.
It was surrounded by 3 factories on the east, north, and south sides, whose abandoned walls and facilities, already unused for months, served as a natural barrier. The fourth side, protected by high walls and iron gates that sealed the main entrance, turned the place into an enclave, now transformed into a bastion.
The house designated as headquarters, a modest two-story building like the rest in the industrial residential area, was buzzing with contained energy following David's call for an urgent meeting.
He stood facing them in the main living room. The air smelled of fresh wood and the recent dinner—rice and canned tuna—mixed with the nervous sweat of those present. Outside, the chaos that began a few hours ago was still unfolding: distant growls, intermittent sirens, and the echo of gunshots from the city center, where curfew had just gone into effect at 8:00 PM.
The residential zone, however, maintained a relative calm, with internal streets quiet beneath streetlights that were still functioning. Outside the walls, only a few slain zombie bodies and the occasional scream of someone fleeing painted the exterior scene.
His friends and the adult members of their families—parents, siblings, friends of friends—looked at him with a mixture of surprise and expectation. They looked confused, their faces drawn from the day's madness: some had arrived believing in the 'dangerous pandemic' David warned them about days earlier, others deceptively convinced it was a 'family trip.'
However, now, after seeing the viral videos on their phones—hospitals assaulted by shambling hordes, fires downtown, military shooting civilians who acted "strange"—reality was hitting them. David understood their bewilderment; he himself had prepared this with Alex, but seeing his loved ones face the end of the world was another level of horror.
They're here because of me, he thought, his stomach churning. I can't fail them now.
David, standing in front of a makeshift map on the wall, felt the weight of their gazes. He tried to think how to phrase it: direct, but without terrifying them, guiding them toward a structure that would prevent unforeseen problems in these first days.
Start with the basics: what they are, how they act, how to survive.
But as he mulled it over in his mind—the man's bite, André's father's death, Michonne's scream—the silence stretched, causing uncomfortable murmurs. Edwin, from a corner, subtly signaled him, raising an eyebrow. David blinked, realizing he had taken too long.
Enough circling the issue. Be honest. He cleared his throat, his voice rough but firm.
"Thank you for being here," he began, looking at everyone. "I know this is crazy. Some of you came because I or the guys told you something big was coming, others because you trusted me. And now... well, look outside. That isn't just a simple pandemic; it's something much more complicated."
A middle-aged woman, Rose's sister, timidly raised her hand. "David, thanks to you, we're safe. If you hadn't insisted on coming... we'd be downtown with those crazy people."
Others nodded, a murmur of gratitude rising.
"Yes, thank you," said a robust man, father of one of Edwin's friends. "But... what the hell are those things? In the videos, they attack like animals."
David nodded, cutting straight to the point.
"They are zombies. Not human anymore. They die clinically—the heart stops, the breathing ceases—and then they reanimate. Their sole purpose is to devour. They don't distinguish: they would attack their own children if they could."
He glanced at Michonne, sitting in a corner with André asleep on her lap. She held his gaze, her expression stoic but with a glimmer of pain. The group whispered, incredulous, but the recent attack in the shelter lent credibility.
"It's not science fiction," David added. "It's real. And if you get bitten, you turn into one."
A young woman, a friend of one of the families, frowned. "How do you know? Did you see one up close?"
"Yes," David replied, his voice grave. "And we lost someone because we didn't check them in time. Don't make my mistake."
The conversation flowed, the tension giving way to practical questions. David explained their behavior: "They are slow, clumsy, attracted by noise and movement. They don't think, just instinct. Main weakness: the head. A strike or shot there stops them for good. Anything else only slows them down."
He demonstrated with a gesture, mimicking a blow with an imaginary stick.
"Strength: they don't feel pain; they don't get tired. They come in hordes if you make noise... I repeat, they are highly sensitive to noise."
Edwin intervened, his tone casual to lighten the mood. "I saw one trip over a box, hit itself hard, and just keep moving like nothing happened. They're tough to kill, but predictable. We can use that to our advantage."
"How do we prevent what happened before?" asked Rose's mother, her voice trembling but curious.
"Isolation for the bitten," David said. "Thorough check upon entry: strip down, look for wounds."
"As for avoiding bites," David continued. "Thick clothes, gloves, helmets—everything helps prevent bites. Stay away; don't fight unless necessary." The group nodded, some making mental notes.
A man raised his hand. "What if they attack in a group?"
"Distract them with distant noise," David explained. "Or barricades. Here, the gates help, and we can create barricades to keep them from gathering nearby."
"However, it's better to learn how to deal with them in case something happens," David added. "You must learn to fight and where to strike: knife to the eye, bat to the temple. Don't waste bullets... Besides, they make a lot of noise and can put you in more danger."
Camaraderie emerged naturally, born from familiarity—friends of years, families united by bonds—and shared necessity. Nervous laughter surfaced when Edwin joked: "I'll be the one to distract them with my awful singing."
David seized the moment. "Now, how we proceed from here: we divide tasks. Cooking, cleaning, guard duty," David commented. "Everyone contributes. Whoever can fight, learns. Not for pleasure, but out of necessity... Even the children."
Some women, mothers with children, seemed reluctant. One of them said, "Even the little ones? I don't want my son touching a knife."
David understood, his tone gentle but firm. "I don't expect them to ever use it. But I won't carry the guilt of not teaching them. If something happens, I want them to survive. All of them."
The woman looked at him, noting his sincerity—not selfishness, but genuine concern.
"You're right," she murmured. "But start with those over eight. No weapons for the little ones yet."
The group agreed, the tension dissipating.
The meeting continued for fifteen more minutes: rationalizing food ("One can per person per day"), guard shifts ("8 hours each"), expeditions ("Only if vital, in pairs").
David guided them, patiently answering doubts. "We won't go out on a whim; it will be to search for food. Always focused on surviving first."
In the end, everyone dispersed to their assigned houses, murmurs of "good night" and tired hugs. Those on guard duty stayed behind, flashlights in hand.
David walked toward the chain-link walls, the night enveloping him.
Streetlights illuminated the streets outside the walls, showing only a few zombies roaming with their figures lit by the lamps, as well as figures fleeing in the distance.
Productive, he thought. With supplies, defenses, and support, this would last.
He muttered to himself: "A 6.5 short-term, but long-term, we need to find something far from the city."
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
New chapter, and as I mentioned before, we'll return with the perspectives of other characters, in this case David.
Here we see not only how other groups known to Alex are developing. However, I don't want to go into too much detail about the other groups, so as not to bore you, and I'll only focus on important days or any clashes with Alex.
By the way, people support David's measures because they are well-known, not just strangers.
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Read my other novels
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time. (Chapter 109)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 32) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File. (Chapter 11) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]