Saturday, November 21, 2026, Southeast District of the City.
David's Haven, 5 AM.
David's house was bathed in the pale light of dawn, just past 5 o'clock in the morning. The cool air slipped through a half-open window, carrying the scent of damp grass and the distant echo of sirens that still resonated from the city center.
The internal streets of the residential area were quiet, dimly lit by streetlamps that flickered but remained functional. Outside, on the main road, a few figures ran with bulky backpacks, while a lone zombie—a man in a delivery shirt, head cocked—staggered under a lamppost, his grotesque shadow cast against a warehouse that had been closed months ago.
The ground was clean, without abandoned cars or scattered belongings; the chaos of the city center, with its traffic jams and looting, had not yet reached this far. Nevertheless, the tension of a world on the brink of collapse was palpable, like an electric hum in the air.
David woke up on a makeshift cot in the living room, his body aching from the previous night's adrenaline. His mind was a torrent of anxiety: the attack on the haven, the bitten man he failed to check, the blood spattering Michonne's door, André's crying.
My mistake, he thought, the weight of the blame pressing on his chest.
Then he remembered the call with Alex at 2 a.m.: Emily was safe, but the center was a swarming hotbed of zombies, growing like a plague.
They will move soon. Small hordes, drawn by the noise.
He recalled the local news from last night, the reporter at the northwest hospital, her voice trembling: "Victims of violent attacks, stemming from the protests, are rising hours later... attacking without motive." She mentioned some spoke of rage, others of a virus, the most daring of zombies.
The viral videos—shaky, recorded from cell phones around the world—showed the same thing: mangled bodies rising, dull eyes, global chaos.
Alex was right. And thanks to Ron, they could confirm it.
Ron's intelligence, from shady sources, had been clear: governments had been preparing beforehand, they knew this chaos was coming, but they failed to warn the populace. David felt like an idiot for underestimating the threat.
He stood up, the cold floor beneath his bare feet. In the bathroom, the mirror showed him an exhausted face: pronounced dark circles, stubble growing in. He washed his face, the cold water a shock that anchored him to the present.
No more mistakes.
The call with Alex had been a turning point: the center was a death trap, and the noise—soldiers firing, civilians fleeing, cars crashing—would draw the zombies to the outskirts, perhaps even here.
If they come, we will be ready.
In his mind, he was already laying out plans: stronger barricades, escape routes through the factories, food divided into strategic caches.
I won't let this collapse.
After a quick breakfast—a cereal bar and instant coffee, prepared in a functional kitchen with the electric light on—David walked toward the command-house, two streets into the residential sector.
The sky, now grayish, cast soft shadows over the houses, their gardens untended but intact. The electricity was still flowing; porch lights flickered, and a forgotten television in a neighboring house hummed with static. On the main road, beyond the fences, a zombie collided with a post, its low groan barely audible.
Quiet for now. But it won't last.
In the command-house, a room with bare walls and folding chairs, he found Rose and Edwin reviewing a portable radio that was tuning into fragmented news. The ceiling light, a fluorescent bulb, illuminated boxes of stacked food in a corner and a map of the city tacked to the wall.
Rose, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, looked up and smiled weakly. "Morning, David. Did you get any sleep?"
David gave a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Enough. What have we got?"
Edwin swiveled in his chair, pointing at the radio. "The same as last night. Streets are quiet here, but the neighbors near the industrial zone packed up and left. We saw a couple of walkers moving around, but nothing serious... For now."
Rose nodded, her voice lower. "The news says the curfew 'worked,' but that's pure spin. People are still trying to enter the center to rescue their families. And there are more and more of... those."
"Zombies?" David said, directly. "Call them what they are. That's what they are."
Edwin scratched his chin, thoughtful. "That's what they're saying in the videos. But the news avoids it. They talk about 'violent sick people.' And now there are people pleading for help from the center, through social media... Did you see Twitter? It's a disaster."
David nodded, recalling the shaky clips: a man in Tokyo being devoured in an alley, a woman in London fleeing a pack of the infected.
It's global and unstoppable.
"Alex told me last night. The center is infested. If people keep going in, they only feed the problem, creating more zombies."
Rose frowned, her tone worried. "So, what do we do? We can't stay here forever, can we?"
David took a deep breath, his mind racing with the plans he had outlined. "Not forever, but right now we secure this place."
"We'll start by reinforcing the outer walls and fences, with double barricades at the gates," David continued. "Escape routes through the factories—there are back exits that lead to a dry canal. Food and weapons divided into four points; we will separate the residential area into four distinct sections or shelters, each with its own cache. If a horde comes, they won't catch us unprepared."
Edwin whistled, impressed. "That sounds like a plan. But how do we fight the zombies when they come? Not everyone knows how to fight like you."
"That's why we'll teach," David said, his voice firm. "We start today, they will learn to use weapons: spears, machetes, pipes. How to move silently. Checking the people who come in... no one enters without a bite check."
"We'll also better divide the guard shifts," David added, looking at his friends, "every four hours, no excuses."
Rose hesitated, her hands twisting a napkin. "Regarding the children... I don't know if I want to see them touch a weapon. They're too young, David."
"I understand," he replied, softening his tone. "They won't fight. But they will learn to run, to hide."
She nodded, her eyes shining with comprehension. "You're right. Better safe than sorry."
Edwin stood up, giving a clap. "Then, let's get to work. I'll organize the guys to move those boards from the warehouse."
"No, let's start with other preparations," David said. "Clara and Rose's brother will help me move the trucks. But first, let's check all the fences and walls. Nothing gets in without us knowing."
The group moved, the camaraderie born of necessity fueling them. As they left, David looked out a window: the main street, under the lampposts, showed a zombie stumbling against a mailbox, and two figures running with backpacks.
The chaos grows. But here, in this corner, they had a chance.
One hour later.
The southeast residential area was an oasis of tense calm under a grayish sky that was barely brightening. The internal streets, illuminated by streetlights, were silent, with generic houses lined up in orderly rows, their doors ajar after David's group had searched them.
Beyond the iron fences that enclosed the sector on one side, the factories, closed months ago, stood like sleeping giants, their intact windows reflecting the dawn. The air smelled of damp grass and dust, with a faint hint of distant smoke from the center.
On the main road, a zombie—a man in a delivery shirt, dry blood on his neck—stumbled against a post, its low groan barely audible over the hum of a TV turned on in a neighboring house, showing news of the disturbances.
The electricity continued to flow, lighting porches and windows, an unsettling contrast to the chaos that David knew was brewing miles away, in the center, where abandoned cars, shattered windows, and fresh blood marked the hours since the collapse.
David, at the wheel of a cargo truck, maneuvered with precision inside the residential area, the engine roaring in the morning silence.
Before the chaos, he and Alex, armored truck drivers in the city, had used their savings—alerted by Alex's paranoia and Ron's intelligence about government movements—to prepare safe houses, warehouses, and vehicles like this one, armored with steel plates welded at the company.
Now, David used the trucks as a mobile wall, parking one on an internal street to divide the rectangular residential area into four sections: northeast, northwest, southeast, and southwest.
If a horde arrives, we will have fallbacks, he thought, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The plan was clear: each section with its own wall, separate entrances, and the possibility of being used as a shelter, a zombie trap, or an escape point toward the factories.
The roar of the engine attracted attention. Friends and family came out of the houses, their faces tired but alert. Some carried boards and metal pipes, others awkwardly drove trucks, while a small group watched the entrance gates, scanning for zombies drawn by the noise.
Edwin was in the command-house, organizing supplies, while Rose, in a dust-stained sweatshirt, helped unload boxes of food from another truck. David stepped down from his cabin, his boots crunching on the asphalt, and noticed two friends—a cousin of Edwin and a neighbor—struggling with a truck stuck in a corner.
"It won't move, David!" the cousin shouted, frustrated, hitting the steering wheel. "I don't know what I did wrong."
"Take it easy," David said, approaching calmly. "You're already helping. Let me finish the run, you guys take out the boxes."
His voice was firm but warm, diffusing the tension. The neighbor, embarrassed, mumbled: "Sorry, I'm not good with these beasts."
"No sweat," David replied, patting his shoulder. "Everyone contributes what they can."
He climbed into the truck and aligned it in minutes, his driving experience making the work fluid.
The others looked at him with admiration, but he just pointed at the boxes and said with a playful tone: "Come on, move them before dark."
"David, it's only 6 in the morning," Rose called out ironically from afar.
Everyone laughed at the shared joke, a contrast to the seriousness of the past few hours, but one they all enjoyed to lift their spirits.
Hours later, near noon.
The preliminary walls were taking shape. Four sections marked with trucks and boards divided the residential area, with the main entrance—the iron gates—still the only external access. Each section would have its own secondary entrance, but they lacked materials: more metal, chains, cement, and perhaps a few more trucks.
This will hold against a small siege. But a horde...
David did not finish the thought.
The sun was shining, and the electricity continued to power the lights in the houses, where TVs hummed with news of collapsed hospitals and civilians trapped in the center.
After a quick lunch—tuna sandwiches and bottled water—David gathered the adults in a backyard, the lawn still green under the natural light. In front of them, on a makeshift table, he laid out homemade spears, knives, machetes, axes, and lead pipes.
"Listen up," he said, raising a machete, his voice clear but serious. "This is not a game. Zombies don't stop unless you destroy the brain. We are going to learn how."
A friend, father of two, frowned. "This is... weird, David. Do we really have to kill like that?"
"Yes," David replied, staring at him. "I saw one devour a man yesterday. They are not people. They don't hesitate, and you can't either."
He lifted a spear. "This is long, it has good reach, but it's slow for beginners... Use it to keep your distance."
Then a pipe and a machete. "This pipe is heavy, it can break skulls, but it tires you out and can get stuck... The machete: fast, cuts deep, but you need to get close."
The faces, initially reluctant, hardened as they recalled viral videos: bodies rising, attacking without reason.
Rose, from the side, added: "I don't want to, but after the news... I want to be able to protect myself and protect them."
Her voice trembled, but her gaze was resolute.
"Exactly," David said. "Firearms come later. They are noisy, risky. One bad shot, and we all pay."
A murmur of agreement ran through the group, the camaraderie growing in shared necessity.
In the afternoon, David led a group of volunteers—Edwin's cousin, Clara the nurse, and two siblings—to the nearby streets.
The sunlight was fading, but the lampposts were still on, illuminating a zombie in an office jacket, dry blood on its shoulder, stumbling against a fence. The volunteers hesitated, their weapons trembling.
"It's not a person," David said, advancing with a machete. "Look at its eyes: empty."
He brought it down with a clean strike to the skull, the body falling with a thud.
"Like that. But don't get too close. Bites are death."
Clara, pale, nodded. "Understood. But... it's scary."
"That's why we practice beforehand and I'm with you now, so you can get used to it," David replied, his tone calm but firm. "Besides, you must always keep watch."
The group, more confident, killed two more zombies, their movements clumsy but effective.
Then, in reinforced cars, they circled the neighboring factories, chaining their entrances with heavy padlocks.
Nothing enters here and compromises our rear guard, David thought, checking the fences.
The work was arduous, but the group functioned: some stood guard, others secured chains, all alert for the echo of distant helicopters, probably rescuing someone.
Or patrolling?
Fires glowed on the horizon, and David felt a knot in his stomach.
Alex, Ron, are you okay?
There had been no news from them throughout the day, and that gnawed at him. Although he knew Alex had already faced zombies since they first learned about them, David knew the situation in the center, and getting out of there with Emily felt like an impossible mission to him.
Alex, I hope you make it.
Back in the residential area, at sunset, David observed the internal streets: houses with lights on, families organizing supplies, children looking out from windows. Some civilians ran past on the main road, but none asked for refuge.
The center is hell; here, you can still live with 'tranquility'.
The day had been productive: preliminary walls, basic training, secured factories. But David knew that the chaos of the center—traffic jams, looting, growing numbers of zombies—would soon reach these quiet streets.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
I was planning to post this chapter later, but to continue the thread and also show a contrast with what was experienced on the outskirts of the city, I'm posting it now.
Also, I was planning to write one about Ron, showing his anguish in the first hours, the despair of seeing everything in the city center getting complicated and his daughter still not being brought back by Alex. But in reality, it would be a very similar chapter to this one, only more emotional.
In the next chapter, we'll return with another story about another character, and then an Agent of Chaos. These are the sections we covered a few dozen chapters ago, by the way.
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Read my other novels
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time. (Chapter 111)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis. (Chapter 33) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File. (Chapter 12) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]