The morning came with a gray sky and a sharp chill in the air. Everyone was up early. Joe and Rick digging a 6ft hole in the backyard, while Morgan comforted his son. By 9:30, the body was in the ground and a simple wooden cross marked the grave.
...
Rick stood on the porch of his home, a solemn quiet. A backpack slung over his shoulder, revolver at his hip, and a growing ache behind his eyes. But his jaw was set.
Joe checked the gear one last time, 3 rifles loaded, with 1 mag extra for himself, packs tight. He didn't say much. His silence was focused, efficient. The kind of silence soldiers wore like armor.
Morgan stepped out next, Duane close behind him. The boy wore a hoodie three sizes too big and carried a baseball bat duct-taped at the grip.
"You sure about this?" Rick asked.
Morgan gave a slow nod. "Ain't much left to hold onto here."
Joe glanced down at Duane. "Kid knows how to stay quiet?"
Duane nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
Joe nodded. "Good."
They walked down the street, four figures moving through the still morning, past empty homes and broken mailboxes.
The wind rustled the trees, and a single swing creaked somewhere in the distance, like the town was trying to remember the lives once lived.
"Police station's only a few blocks over. If it's still standing, we might find some presents."
Morgan raised a brow. "Think there's anything left?"
"Maybe. I still have my key."
Joe blinked. "You remembered your key?"
Rick pulled it from his pocket. "I wore it every day for twelve years. Muscle memory."
Joe chuckled once.
---
The station looked half-abandoned from the outside, but intact. Faded blue paint, cracked windows, a prestine police cruiser albeit with vines growing up the bumper.
Rick inserted the key into the back door.
Click.
He pushed the door open, handgun raised.
The air inside was stale, thick with dust and mold. Desks were overturned, papers scattered like leaves after a storm. Blood stained the linoleum in a trail that disappeared behind the reception desk.
They moved in formation—Joe sweeping right with his rifle, Rick straight ahead, Morgan watching the rear with Duane tucked close behind.
"Clear left," Joe whispered.
"Dispatch is empty," Rick confirmed.
They checked the briefing room. Empty. Holding cells... busted open, but no sign of activity.
Joe paused outside the armory door, hand on the knob.
"This the place?" he asked.
Rick nodded. "Yeah. But it's supposed to be locked—"
Crunch.
Joe kicked the handle once, then again. On the third strike, the warped metal gave way, and the door creaked open.
Inside: jackpot.
The armory had been looted, but not completely stripped. Three bolt action sniper rifles remained on the wall rack, along with six Glocks, 8 shotguns, a few spare uniforms, two bulletproof vests, and several boxes of ammo.
Joe whistled low. "Either the looters were in a hurry, or they didn't know what they were looking at."
Morgan grabbed one of the vests and inspected it. "I'll take rushed idiots any day."
Rick loaded one of the shotguns, checked the slide then placed it into a duffel bag with the Kings County logo.
"This might actually give us a chance."
Joe grabbed one of the rifles and checked the scope. "We're not gonna get lucky twice. Load everything even remotely useful."
The others nodded and swiftly loaded all the guns into 2 duffel bags, making sure to divide the ammo between two bags, in case they lose one.
The men having at least one firearm and rifle or shotgun, full ammo. Rick grabbing a spare uniform, even a spare pair of handcuffs, which he silently clipped to his belt.
Joe lingered a moment longer, checking one last time for anything useful.
Joe turned away.
Rick said with a smirk, "Anyone interested in a hot shower?"
Morgan shocked, "Hot Water!?" Duane echoing with equal excitement.
Rick nodded, "The station has its own grid and water system, I heard the backup generator running."
Duane said, "What are we waiting for? Let's go!" Joe smiled faintly, amused.
...
The locker room floor was soaked by the time they were done.
Rick stepped out in a clean deputy's uniform, slightly loose from the weight he'd lost, but familiar. He clipped his badge back onto the chest like it meant something again.
Joe dressed in spare tactical gear, freshly washed. His beard was shaped with a straight razor he found in one of the lockers. His condition starting to recover, a new scar on his thigh still stitched tightly. A serious expression on his face.
Morgan wore a patched-up patrol vest over his shirt, while Duane, now freshly scrubbed and beaming, wore police sweatpants and a T-shirt that said "Sheriff's Youth Day 2007."
They gathered in the briefing room, a makeshift map of the region spread across a desk.
Rick marked a path. "If Atlanta's still holding, we follow the highway south. It'll be rough. We don't know what we'll run into, and we might have to ditch the road depending on how thick the walkers are."
Joe nodded, checking over the M4 he'd strapped to his pack. "We move light. Quiet. Rest when we can, not when we want."
Morgan looked up. "What about vehicles?"
Rick nodded his head. "Police cruisers should be in good condition."
Joe said, "We might draw attention, but it's quicker. Worth it."
The group stepped outside and scanned the area.
Rick led them to a dusty police cruiser parked near the front steps. He pulled the keys from his belt and unlocked the doors with a satisfying click.
"Still works," he muttered, almost in disbelief.
They moved quickly.
Duffels filled with weapons, vests, ammo, and spare clothes were loaded into the trunk. Rick slid into the driver's seat. Joe took shotgun, rifle resting between his knees.
Morgan stood on the sidewalk, Duane beside him with his bat slung across his back.
"You sure about this?" Rick asked through the open window.
Morgan gave a slow nod. "I am. Duane… he needs time. To learn. To be ready. I won't drag him into that city blind."
Joe leaned out slightly. "You train him right, you'll both make it out of this mess."
Morgan smiled faintly. "You too. Watch each other's backs."
Duane stepped forward. "We'll meet again, right?"
Rick paused for second, looked him in the eye. "Yes."
Joe offered the boy a nod. "Stay sharp, kid."
Duane gave a firm nod back, trying to look brave.
Rick started the engine. The cruiser coughed to life, headlights flickering, then steady.
---
They pulled away from the station just past mid-morning. The tires crunched gravel. The radio was dead. The silence was thick.
Joe stared out the passenger window, eyes lingering on the town as it disappeared behind them, houses mostly untouched, empty mailboxes, faded memories.
He thought about Morgan. About Jennie. About the choice to stay behind to teach Duane. To prepare him for this world.
They had left Morgan with an M4, a sniper, and both two glocks, along with ammo to last a good long while.
Rick drove, eyes on the road ahead, jaw clenched.
Two men. One mission.
Find family.
Maybe find purpose.
Behind them, the small town stood still. Ahead, whatever was left.