Watching them obey my every command through the system sent a surge of satisfaction coursing through me. Each movement, each groan, every mindless step—they were mine. My army. My weapon. My shield. The power to command death itself… it was intoxicating. Like being the conductor of the world's worst marching band, complete with rotting instruments and a smell that could kill on its own.
But I knew the truth.
If anyone else saw this—saw me standing here with a sea of the dead moving like soldiers under my silent orders—they wouldn't feel awe. They'd feel terror. Pure, soul-crushing dread. To them, I wouldn't look like a savior or a leader. No… I'd look like a monster.
And maybe… maybe they wouldn't be wrong. I mean, look at me—bloodstained clothes, dead eyes following my every move, whispering sweet nothings like "Good boy" to a zombie with half its jaw missing. Yeah… if there was a 'Most Likely to Become a Villain' award in college, this moment just confirmed the vote.
Hell, if Taylor saw me like this, she'd probably cancel that dinner date faster than you can say "rotting apocalypse boyfriend."
I smirked at the thought, glancing at my loyal little death squad.
"Guess it's official," I muttered. "I'm either humanity's last hope… or the opening act for the end of the world."
Phase Three was now underway. Time to slip out.
I moved slowly, each step deliberate, careful not to draw the attention of the sea of walkers I had gathered. My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest, every rustle of clothing sounding like an explosion in the silence. One wrong move, one misplaced breath, and this entire nightmare would turn on me.
Halfway through the alley, my boot scraped against a loose metal can. Clang!
I froze, every muscle locking in place as a dozen rotting heads snapped in my direction. Their milky eyes stared at me with that eternal hunger, their jaws working like broken machinery. For a second, the world stopped spinning.
Then—silence.
They turned back, lured by the distant moans of my controlled walkers echoing through the streets. My system-given soldiers were doing their job—herding the dead away from me like obedient sheepdogs.
I let out a shaky breath. That was close… too close. One more mistake like that and I'd be joining the herd permanently.
Whew… I made it out alive.
The moment I cleared the outskirts of Pine Town, relief washed over me like a tide. My boots crunched softly against the damp forest floor, the smell of moss and wet earth replacing the stench of decay that clung to the town. Towering pine trees surrounded me, their thick branches blotting out most of the sunlight. This forest was my cover, my shield—and now, my planning ground.
I pulled out the folded map from my pocket, smoothed it against the trunk of an old oak, and studied the routes. The Federation was positioned deep within Florida's coast, but there were still five main access roads leading toward us—five lifelines that could also become threats if left unguarded.
I marked them one by one with a red marker:
North Highway Route – A cracked four-lane road running through the remnants of suburban neighborhoods. Abandoned cars littered the highway like tombstones, perfect for funneling walkers into a kill zone.
Coastal Service Road – A narrow route hugging the shoreline. Scenic before the world ended, now it's a death trap—flanked by cliffs on one side and dense mangroves on the other. If I seed walkers here, no one will risk passing through.
Old State Route 76 – Once a scenic bypass for tourists, now overgrown with vines and trees splitting the asphalt. The isolation makes it a perfect choke point for a walker ambush.
Pine Creek Trail – A dirt road cutting through the forest. Hunters used it before; now, it'll serve me well as a natural corral for my herd. Easy to block, easy to control.
Western Freight Route – An industrial road lined with warehouses and loading docks. Wide enough for convoys… and perfect for a massive wall of the dead to make sure no convoy gets through.
These five roads were arteries leading to the Federation. If anyone wanted to reach us, they'd have to pass through one of these—and when they do, they'll meet my first line of defense: the horde.
I grinned faintly. This wasn't just defense. This was psychological warfare. Anyone who sees a thousand walkers standing in the middle of the road will think twice about coming closer. And if they try? The horde moves on my command.
I folded the map, pocketed it, and looked up at the canopy. Sunlight streamed through the gaps like dying embers. Two more days. Two more days and the final phase will be complete.
Just as I finished marking the fifth spot on my map and slid it back into my jacket, a sharp beep-beep echoed faintly through the forest. I froze instantly. That sound didn't belong to the dead. It was mechanical—clean, sharp, and very out of place here.
Then came the low rumble of an engine, rolling over broken asphalt and crunching through dead leaves. My pulse spiked. What the hell…?
I dropped low, my hand instinctively gripping the hilt of my sword as I crept toward the sound. Every step was deliberate—slow, calculated—so the forest wouldn't betray me with a snapped twig.
Through the gaps in the brush, I finally saw it.
A military transport truck crawled along the road. There were six men, not a full squad. Two in the cab, four riding in the flatbed, rifles across their laps.
Their gear was a patchwork of U.S. military fatigues mixed with scavenged armor. No clear insignias. No rank patches. Their boots were worn, and their helmets dented. They didn't look like active-duty soldiers anymore. They looked like men on the run—soldiers who had abandoned something.
The truck slowed near a cracked road sign, engine humming low. The leader—a tall man in a black tactical vest—jumped down first with an M4 slung across his chest. He scanned the treeline, his sharp eyes sweeping the forest with predatory precision. The others followed, boots thudding softly on asphalt, moving in a loose formation that screamed training.
Not civilians, I thought grimly. Ex-military. Dangerous.
One of them pulled out a radio, static hissing. I strained my ears as he spoke quietly, his words cutting through the silence.
"…command… repeat… this is Sierra-3. We're out. I said OUT. You can shove your orders—Operation Cobalt is a death sentence."
A voice on the other end barked something unintelligible, but the soldier snarled back, louder this time:
"No! We're not bombing civilians! You want to burn entire cities, you do it yourself! We're done taking those orders. We're done!"
The leader ripped the radio from his hands and clicked it off, his jaw tight with rage. He spat on the ground and muttered,
"Cobalt… what a damn joke. Wipe everything clean, they said. Kill anyone left breathing, they said. No way in hell."
The others nodded grimly, tension thick in the air. Another spoke up, voice low:
"So… what now, Cap? We're deserters. They'll brand us traitors if they find us."
The leader's lips curled into a bitter smile.
"Then they better not find us. We stick to the plan. Fuel, food, and warm bodies. Anyone we find, we take them. We need numbers if we're going to survive what's coming."
My stomach twisted. Warm bodies? Numbers? These guys weren't looking for friends. They were looking for assets. Tools. Maybe slaves.
I stayed perfectly still, crouched behind a thick oak, the damp earth pressing against my palms. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to move, but I didn't. I needed to hear everything.
"…and if we cross paths with any other groups?" one asked.
The leader's voice was cold, decisive:
"We do what we have to. No loose ends."
Shit. These weren't just deserters. They were wolves without a leash.
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