Morning came, and today's priority was clear—designing the official uniforms of our Federation's soldiers. I met up with Max and the rest of the experts in our tailoring division inside one of the repurposed buildings we'd converted into a makeshift design workshop. I laid it out clearly: "I want uniforms that are functional, durable, and commanding. Something that makes our people feel like they're part of something powerful."
We decided to make 1,000 uniforms to start. The design was sleek but battle-ready. I personally favored black and white as the base colors, and so the uniforms would reflect that: a long black coat that reached just near the soldier's knees, sturdy yet lightweight, with inner compartments for ammo clips, radios, and medical kits. Underneath, each soldier would wear a white dress-style shirt with reinforced fiber mesh in the lining—something comfortable, breathable, but resistant to tearing or damage.
The pants were tactical, fitted but flexible, jet black with multiple deep pockets secured with Velcro and buttons—perfect for utility tools and sidearms. The uniform overall gave off a polished agent-bodyguard aesthetic, but with militarized functionality. It wasn't flashy. It was sharp. Professional. United.
I then turned to footwear.
"We're not walking on red carpets," I told them. "We need boots that grip, run, kick, and stomp."
The combat shoes we designed were high-performance tactical boots. Solid black, waterproof, with reinforced steel toes and ankle guards. They had shock-absorbing midsoles for long treks and long hours, and a side holster built discreetly into the inner boot for a hidden knife or multitool. The soles had deep traction for rain-soaked roads or forest terrain, and the upper mesh allowed breathability in Florida's humidity. Combat tested and apocalypse-approved.
My own uniform, of course, stood apart. The same design, but accented in deep red—crimson lining on the coat, subtle red threading along the seams, and a custom insignia over the left breast pocket. My boots, similarly, had red stitching around the heels and the Federation emblem etched onto the outer sides. A leader's mark.
Jessy and Ray joined me during the fitting. Their families were hesitant at first, but the two insisted they wouldn't let me lead alone. I respected that. We were more than just friends—we were brothers. Both of them volunteered to be among the first to wear and field-test the uniforms.
Ray examined his coat with a grin. "We'll look like a damn strike force."
Jessy chuckled while lacing his boots. "Not just look—we'll move like one too. These are solid."
Max reported that, with volunteers assisting and getting paid 5 units a day, they expected to finish the first batch of uniforms in a week or less.
I stood back, watching the tailors and volunteers at work, and felt it in my chest.
This was the beginning of our nation—The Federation. And soon, our people would wear their pride like armor.
After the meeting with the uniform designers, I met up with Troy just before noon. Time was tight, but there was no room for idleness. He brought with him a detailed topographic map of Florida—pin-marked and color-coded to represent various critical zones. Each mark symbolized a potential high-value looting location. Shopping malls, abandoned gun stores, gas stations, pharmacies, police precincts, hardware depots, even a few military surplus shops.
"There are 30 marked zones so far," Troy told me, pointing to each one with precision. "We'll likely find more as we scout deeper, but these are the ones worth prioritizing."
I leaned closer. "These two—gun stores here and here—mark them with red. Prioritize them. Eventually, others will try to loot them, and I want everything we can get before they do. Ammunition. Firearms. Tactical gear. I want it all."
Troy smirked. "Already assumed that, boss."
He then reached into a case by his side and pulled something out.
"A gift," he said, holding it with both hands.
A sword.
But not just any sword—it was sleek, forged in dark carbon steel with a slightly curved blade resembling a mix between a katana and a modern tactical saber. Its edge gleamed under the sun like obsidian, and the spine had jagged notches near the hilt—good for catching or snapping enemy blades. The grip was wrapped in black leather, molded to fit perfectly in my hand, with red stitching winding down to a black steel pommel. The crossguard was minimalistic, with faint engravings of phoenix wings—Troy's idea of symbolism, I suppose.
"The sheath is being crafted," he added. "Carbon composite, lightweight, and magnetically locks to your belt or back. No noise when drawn."
I gave a nod of appreciation. "Perfect."
He nodded back, then turned serious. "You're going outside alone later, right?"
"Yeah. Time to tend to my undead."
My plan had changed. Initially, I intended to surround our walls with my controlled walkers as a defense mechanism. But I realized that would trap us in just as much as keep others out.
So I came up with something better.
Instead of surrounding the Federation's walls with undead, I would lead small herds—each controlled and stationed—along main roads, crossroads, and access points to confuse, deter, or trap anyone trying to approach. Thousands of walkers if I could manage it. Just like the Whisperers used herds, but without needing to wear skins.
Anyone who'd try to enter the Federation would see endless walkers moving unnaturally… and turn back, thinking it's suicide to proceed.
And if we ever needed to go out? I'd command my undead to part the sea.
Control them like a river, parting for us and crashing back down on our enemies once we passed.
Herding and manipulating the undead like trained wolves.
It was brilliant.
Troy just stared at me, trying not to smirk. "You're insane, you know that?"
"I prefer the word prepared," I said with a grin.
This afternoon, it begins. The dead will become my cloak. My shield. And if need be—my sword.
Afternoon came.
Max stood in front of the gate, tense and visibly agitated, his voice sharp as he raised it again. "Marcus, this is reckless. You don't need to go out there. We can send someone else—Troy should be handling this. That's his job!"
I adjusted the strap of my sheath, the handle of my sword tilted over my shoulder. A rucksack hung on my back, and a sidearm—a matte black Glock—rested firm in my grip. I was dressed in full gear, my custom red-trimmed uniform billowing slightly with the wind, ready.
Troy stood a few feet back, clearly uncomfortable as Max's voice cut into him.
"Unbelievable," Max continued, pointing at Troy. "You're supposed to lead the security team, and instead, he's walking into the wild on his own like it's nothing!"
Troy's jaw clenched, his usual sharp gaze cast downward. "It's his choice, Max."
The other guards stationed near the gate shifted awkwardly. The tension was thick—my decision clearly put everyone on edge.
I stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "Max… I have to do this. You wouldn't understand. There's something I need to handle personally. It's not about pride—it's about control."
He looked at me, frustration in his eyes. "And what if something goes wrong out there, Marcus? What then?"
I paused for a second, then said quietly, "Then blame Troy."
Max's eyes narrowed. "Don't joke like that."
"I'm not. But nothing will go wrong."
He exhaled heavily, clearly fuming but unable to stop me. "You're the damn leader. If something does happen—if we lose you—then what? Do you think Jessy or Ray would just accept that?"
My heart skipped for a moment. Thank God they're not here right now.
I tightened my grip on the Glock and turned toward the gate. "This'll just take a few minutes. Keep the gate locked behind me. I'll signal when I'm close."
Max crossed his arms but said nothing. Troy gave me a nod—tense, but respectful.
The gate creaked open slowly.
With the sun beginning to dip low in the sky, I stepped out, wind brushing my coat, the steel of my blade whispering behind me.
Let the world watch.
The man with the undead walks alone.
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