After the walkers were cleared, I finally had a moment to myself.
I sat down, opened the interface, and checked the System that had activated during the battle. So far, its function seemed… simple.
[Zombie Control System Activated]
For every 10 Walkers killed, you may control 1.
No skill trees. No stats. Just this.
Honestly, I was expecting something more.
But in a world like this, even one controllable walker could make the difference.
"Better than nothing," I muttered. "Maybe it would've activated sooner if I'd gotten my hands dirty earlier."
I leaned back in the chair, eyes closing. The silence of my room was soon broken by a knock.
"Sir, it's Troy," his voice called out from the door. "There's an update from Virginia."
I stood, buttoned my shirt, and replied,
"Wait there. Give me a second."
After changing into something more presentable, I stepped out onto the balcony. Troy stood waiting, professional as ever. The sky was orange—sunrise painting the resort in warm hues.
"The team checked in using the satellite phone," he said, "The orphanage is safe. Everything is under control."
I exhaled. Relief, though brief.
"Make sure the man you sent can truly handle it."
"He will, sir," Troy replied without hesitation.
"Good," I said, then turned to him again. "Capture some walkers. Alive. As many as you can."
He raised an eyebrow, his face asking the question he didn't speak.
"There's something I want to test," I said simply.
He nodded, catching on fast.
"Copy, sir."
He left, and I returned inside.
Time to rest.
The Next Morning
I started the day early—hitting the gym on the fourth floor of Building 2.
A light workout. Nothing too heavy. Just enough to get the blood pumping.
Afterward, I met up with Jessy and Ray near the training grounds. We spent time together, catching up, then sparred lightly. Around us, dozens of people were training—some in pairs, some under instructors. The atmosphere buzzed with discipline and purpose.
We were building something. Something real.
Later, I took a shower, then headed to the dining hall.
My breakfast was already prepared by Laseya, my personal chef:
– Smoked salmon over sourdough toast
– Poached eggs with herbs
– A bowl of fresh fruit
– And a warm cup of imported black tea.
Luxury in the apocalypse.
Just then, Max arrived, documents in hand.
"Sir," he said, "Here's the latest report."
I scanned them. Everything was going smoothly.
The camp systems were running. Education was active. Medical, security, supply lines—all operational.
"We're two weeks away from harvesting," Max added. "And the fishermen hauled in a major catch this morning."
"Good," I nodded. "Make sure it's preserved properly. Salt-dried or frozen."
Later that afternoon, I found Troy in the barracks, inspecting gear with the others.
"Status?" I asked.
"Thirty walkers captured, sir. No casualties. They're locked up in the reinforced trucks near the north fence."
"Well done," I said. "Keep it that way. No unnecessary risks."
Troy nodded firmly.
Marcus Walt
"Follow me, Troy," I said calmly.
He gave a slight nod, already sensing this wasn't a routine order. I could feel his eyes on me as I walked toward the storage area where we had the walkers locked up. The sun was beginning to rise over the treeline, casting long shadows across the dirt and metal.
"Make sure it's just the two of us," I added, my voice low but firm.
"Yes, sir."
He turned, issued a quick command, and the other men moved away without question. No one ever questioned Troy—not after seeing what he was capable of. That's why he was perfect. Loyal. Efficient. And above all, dangerous in the right way.
We arrived at the rear lot where the trucks were parked—heavy-duty military vehicles modified to serve as mobile cages. I could already hear them inside, groaning, shuffling, scraping against steel. Thirty of them in total, rounded up and secured by our own men with no casualties. A win.
Troy glanced at me as we stood in front of one of the reinforced trucks. "What do you want me to do?"
"Open it," I said. "One walker. Just one—for now."
He hesitated for a brief second, then nodded and carefully unlatched the truck's side gate. The moment it opened, the stench hit us like a punch—rot, blood, and death all rolled into one. A single walker staggered out, arms twitching, mouth opening and closing like a broken machine.
After a few minutes
[System Notification]
You have killed 20 Walkers.
You may now control: 2 Walkers.
Please select your targets.
I selected two walkers from the truck—both relatively intact, with strong limbs and decent motor function. One was a former construction worker, judging by the tattered safety vest still clinging to its body. The other looked like a hiker—still in boots and cargo pants, but now with milky white eyes and blood-stained skin.
Control established.
Something shifted in the air.
The two walkers stood straighter. Their heads stopped bobbing. Their bodies ceased that unnatural twitching. They were waiting—for me.
"Walk forward," I said quietly.
They moved, slow but steady.
"Stop."
They froze instantly.
Troy stared, silent at first, until he finally said, "Sir… what the hell am I looking at?"
I turned to him, smirking. "Something impossible. A superpower. I don't know what it is or where it came from—but I can control walkers."
"For every ten I kill," I continued, my voice laced with calm authority, "I gain control of one. This makes twenty, so now I have two."
"This isn't fiction," Troy said slowly, still trying to process it. "This isn't supposed to be real."
"Yeah? Then explain what's in front of you."
He looked at the two undead figures standing obediently between us.
"This changes everything," I muttered to myself. "If I can lead a small group now… what about a hundred? A thousand?"
The strategic possibilities flooded my mind—hordes at my command, not just to attack, but to deceive. What if I surrounded our compound with controlled walkers, creating the illusion that it was overrun? No one would even think of coming close.
A psychological barrier. The perfect camouflage.
"And if I can find those evolved ones…" I whispered. "The ones who can open doors, climb walls—those are the elite troops I'll need later."
I looked up at Troy again. "This power isn't just for defense. It's a weapon. One I'll use if I have to—but only if we're truly threatened."
He nodded slowly, still visibly shaken, but already adjusting.
"What are your orders, sir?"
"Have these two escorted out. Keep them restrained, but not too far. I want them just outside the camp perimeter. Covered. Out of sight."
"Understood."
"And Troy—kill the rest. We can't afford any leaks. Burn the corpses, sanitize the area. Make sure no one gets infected. Blood contact, open wounds, anything—avoid it."
"Yes, sir."
Then I waited in the garden, the late afternoon sun casting golden hues over the rows of vegetables and the small fountain gently trickling nearby. The breeze was calm, the kind that would normally ease a man's nerves. But today, I was focused—my mind turning over the events of the morning, the possibilities that now lay before me.
An hour passed.
Footsteps approached.
Troy stepped out from the gravel path, his black uniform slightly dusted, a faint streak of blood on his gloves—likely from cleanup duty.
"It's done," he reported, his tone steady. "All walkers eliminated. Area's secure. And… the two are in position."
I nodded once.
"Where?"
"About 200 meters east, hidden in the trees beyond the wall. I made sure they're out of sight unless someone knows exactly where to look."
"Good," I said, then turned my gaze back to the garden. The vegetables were still young—lettuce, tomatoes, some beans, and carrots—but they were growing steadily. Just like my plans.
"I continued. They'll obey unless I say otherwise."
Troy blinked, then gave a short, tense laugh. "Right. Forgot they're basically dogs now… undead dogs."
"Loyal undead dogs," I corrected, smirking.
He said nothing, just gave a respectful nod before glancing out toward the trees.
"Anything else, sir?"
I stood, brushing off my coat. "Nothing for now."
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