I woke to the feel of Andrea and Amy's soft, warm bodies pressed tight against me, skin to skin. Naked and beautiful, their blonde hair fanned in tangled waves across the seat and my chest. Andrea's full breast rested heavy against my ribs, Amy's slender leg hooked possessively over my thigh.
The sight of their pale curves, the swell of hips and the inviting dip of waists in the dim light, sent a jolt of raw hunger through me. My rod stirred, hardening insistently against Amy's hip. It took a fierce act of will to clamp down on the heat coiling in my gut. Later, I told the primal urge. Now wasn't the time for another round, not with the dead weight of yesterday's losses pressing in from outside.
Carefully, so as not to wake them, I slid out from between their warm embrace. The chill air bit instantly. I pulled the thin, salvaged blankets from my building's apartments over their sleeping forms, tucking the rough fabric around their shoulders. The soft sounds of grief drifted through the APC's thin armor – muffled sobs, the low drone of exhausted prayers. The camp was awake, drowning in sorrow.
Slowly, I dressed, the routine a grim anchor. Then I gathered my gear, each piece a necessity in this graveyard world: the braces, greaves, my combat boots, the tactical vest, that now replaced my anbu vest, the cold steel of my sword, the worn leather of my kunai holder, the familiar weight of the gunbelt settling on my hips, and finally, the solid heft of the Winchester Repeater.
The comforting ritual was a stark contrast to the palpable despair seeping through the walls. I climbed down from the APC, the heavy door clanging shut as I locked it securely behind me. Stepping out was like plunging into cold water. The air hung thick with the smell of damp ash and rotting corpses.
I spotted the others already moving the bodies of the dead, heaving them onto a growing pile destined for the flames. Over forty to fifty walkers had stumbled blindly into camp during the night. The toll was brutal: out of the original sixty-seven of us, only thirty-four remained. Myself, Andrea, Amy, Glenn, Kevin, Matt, Harry, Simon, Jimmy, Charlie, T-Dog, Merle, Daryl, Jacqui, Morales, Miranda, Antonio, Elisa, Carol, Sophia, Lori, Carl, Rick, Shane, Dale, Jim, Dean, Sam, Jess, Bobby, Ellen, Rufus, Jo, and Ash.
We were all that was left. I'd known it would happen. I'd done nothing to prevent it. Clearing that horde yesterday morning… I'd thought it might shift the tide, change the timing or even prevent the attack altogether. But nothing changed. The assault came just the same, heavy and inevitable, as if the event itself was written in stone, untouched by anything I did.
Now, as I walked up towards the grim activity, I took in the hard-set faces of everyone working. Bobby, sleeves rolled up, was handing tools to Jim as they made the final fixes on Dale's RV, the old vehicle groaning under their ministrations. Nearby, Sam strained alongside Dean, Merle, Daryl, T-Dog, and Morales, dragging the stiff, bloodied corpses of the fallen walkers towards the pyre.
Matt had organized Kevin, Charlie, Jimmy, Harry, and Simon into a watch team; they stood tense at the camp's edge, rifles ready, scanning the shadowed treelines while Dale, perched high on the RV's roof like a weathered gargoyle, kept lookout.
Glenn knelt in the dirt with Jacqui and Carol, carefully turning over the bodies of our own fallen friends, their faces pale and slack, working to identify them amidst the carnage. The kids – Antonio, Carl, Sophia, and little Elisa – huddled close to Miranda, Morales's wife, seeking shelter near Rick and Shane. The two men stood locked in a heated, loud argument about the group's next move, their voices sharp and urgent in the heavy air. Jo, Ellen, Ash, Jess and Rufus moved with grim purpose, silently piling scattered tents, bags, and supplies back into the parked cars and trucks.
The attack from last night had acted like a cattle prod, jolting everyone into frantic motion, survival instincts overriding shock. The only ones not actively working were Lori, standing rigidly beside Rick and Shane like some imperious boss bitch observing her domain, and my two lovers, Andrea and Amy, who were still deeply asleep inside the APC, recovering.
Daryl, Dean, Merle, T-Dog, Morales, and Sam paused as I approached, their movements heavy with exhaustion. Sweat streaked the grime on their faces, eyes shadowed and red-rimmed from a night spent fighting and a dawn spent clearing the aftermath. They hadn't slept since the attack.
Daryl straightened up, wiping his forearm across his brow, leaving a darker smear. He jerked his head towards Glenn, who was still kneeling somberly beside Jacqui and Carol near the human dead. Irritation hardened Daryl's voice as he spoke;
"We can't waste time here anymore. We gotta pile all them bodies together and burn them. Glenn's gone all sentimental on us, and wants to bury our dead. You talk some sense into him, man."
Dean nodded grimly, shifting the weight of the walker corpse he'd been dragging. He echoed the urgency "Look, I get what he's saying, but we can't spend the rest of the day here. There might be more hordes headed our way."
Merle, cleaning his hands on a cloth, spat into the bloody dirt. "Sentiment gets ya killed, brother," he rasped, his eyes sharp. "Buryin' takes time we ain't got, diggin' holes makes noise we can't afford, and leavin' markers is like ringin' a damn dinner bell for every walker within five miles. Burn 'em quick, pack the trucks, and move. That's the only sense there is now."
The others – T-Dog, Morales, Sam – murmured agreement, their anxious glances flicking towards the surrounding woods. The message was clear: sentiment was a luxury that invited death.
"Alright," I said, the weight of their expectation settling on me. "Let's go talk to Glenn. The rest of you guys, just pile all the bodies together."
Daryl fell into step beside me immediately, Dean and Merle close behind, forming a grim, determined delegation as we walked across the camp towards Glenn, Jacqui, Carol, and the heartbreaking task of identifying the friends we'd have to burn. Behind us, T-Dog, Sam and Morales got to work again.
"Hey, no.. no.. our people go over there, we don't burn our own!" Glenn's voice cracked, raw with grief, as he watched Sam and Morales lift the limp form of old Mr. Peterson – a face etched in campfire memories, now slack and grey. He lurched forward, eyes wide with panic.
I moved instantly, stepping squarely into his path, blocking his view of the grim procession. My gaze held Carol and Jacqui first; their faces were pale masks of exhaustion, streaked with tears and dust. Behind me, Daryl, Dean, and Merle formed a solid wall, their expressions carved from stone – Daryl's jaw clenched, Dean's mouth a tight line, Merle's eyes narrowed in grim understanding.
"There's no time," I stated, the words flat and final. I turned back to Glenn, meeting his desperate stare. "We can't spend all day here, burying the dead. We gotta move, make sure those that still breathe get to a safe place." I held his gaze, letting the brutal necessity sink in. "We'll mourn our dead later. For now, we have to move."
Glenn stared back, his breath hitching. The fight drained out of him like blood from a wound. His shoulders slumped, then shook. A ragged sob tore loose, and tears carved tracks through the grime on his cheeks as he dropped heavily to his knees in the churned earth. The sound was pure, shattered loss.
I placed a firm hand on his trembling shoulder – a gesture of command, not comfort. My eyes flicked to Daryl. Daryl, catching the silent order, gave a curt nod. "C'mon," he grunted to Merle, already turning. They strode back towards the pyre, their movements sharp with purpose, ready to expedite the grim task.
I shifted my focus back to Jacqui and Carol. Their eyes were hollow, the shock of the night still clinging. "You two," I said, my voice softening fractionally but leaving no room for debate, "go rest up. We'll be leaving camp in about three hours."
They didn't speak. Carol just nodded numbly, pulling Jacqui's arm gently. They turned, shoulders bowed, and moved like sleepwalkers towards the small cluster of children huddled near Miranda.
Dean stepped forward then, his presence steady. He crouched beside Glenn, speaking low words lost in the crackle of the nascent pyre and Glenn's muffled cries. With surprising gentleness, he hooked an arm under Glenn's shoulder and helped the younger man to his feet. Dean guided him towards the looming bulk of Dale's RV. Bobby appeared at the door, his face grim, and pulled Glenn inside. Dean exchanged a few quiet words with Bobby and Jim before stepping back out, leaving Glenn in their care.
I found Matt directing his watch team near the perimeter. "Matt," I called, my voice cutting through the low murmur of activity. He snapped to attention. "Get your boys. Help Ellen, Jo, Ash, Jess and Rufus finish loading the trucks. Everything essential. Nothing gets left that we'll regret."
"On it," Matt confirmed, already turning to bark orders at Kevin, Charlie, Jimmy, Harry, and Simon. They broke away from their vigilance, joining the grim ballet of packing.
Watching them move for a moment, ensuring the order took hold, I then walked towards Dale's RV. The smell of solder and hot metal hit me as I approached where Bobby and Jim worked on the old camper. Jim was under the chassis, hammering. Dale sat perched above, scanning the trees, but his eyes were shadowed with fatigue. I stopped near Bobby, who was wiping grease from a wrench.
"She gonna be road worthy?" I asked, my gaze sweeping over the RV's battered flanks and the fresh welds scarring its underbelly.
Bobby wiped his greasy hands on an even greasier rag, squinting up at me from beside the RV's exposed engine. The metallic tang of hot oil and solder hung thick in the air.
"Yeah, just tuning her up one final time." He jerked his chin towards the arguing figures near the smoldering campfire where Rick, Shane, Lori, Miranda, and the kids were clustered. "You got any idea where we'll go after?"
"No," I said, following his gaze. Rick gestured emphatically, Shane's posture was rigid with opposition, Lori watched them like a hawk. "But I think Rick might have a few ideas."
Jim slid out from under the RV's chassis on a creeper, his face smudged with grime and exhaustion. He sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead with a dirty sleeve.
"Those two haven't been able to agree on where we should go since first light," he rasped, the frustration clear. "Last I heard them, they were arguing about Fort Benning and the CDC in Atlanta."
The names hung in the air. Fort Benning was a gamble, a symbol of order that might already be rubble or worse, overrun. The CDC… that was a known quantity, at least to me. "How far is Fort Benning from here?" I asked Jim, keeping my tone neutral, masking the fact its location meant little to me.
Jim shrugged, a weary gesture. "I don't know, maybe 80 to 90 miles away?" He glanced at the fuel truck parked nearby, its levels worryingly visible. "But it is far, even with the fuel truck, we'd barely make it before we run out." The unspoken truth: stranded vehicles on a hundred-mile stretch of apocalypse were death warrants.
The calculation was instant. "Than the CDC it is." I stated it flatly, turning my gaze back to Bobby. His pragmatism was valuable. "You agree?"
Bobby leaned against the RV's fender, contemplating. "It's closer," he conceded, ticking off points on greasy fingers. "And might have some military personnel still stationed there." He met my eyes, the next point critical. "And we are running low on ammo, so even if they aren't there, maybe they left behind some supplies."
Bobby had the right idea. He saw the immediate needs: proximity, potential refuge, and the desperate necessity for resupply. What he couldn't know, what only lived in my memory, was the scale of the abandonment. I knew the military had already abandoned the CDC.
Not just left, but fled in haste. And left out front of the CDC building were military grade, trucks, tanks, guns, humvees and armored trucks. The image solidified – not just scattered supplies, but an arsenal, a motor pool. Everything our group would need to change from a ragtag convoy to an armored military convoy. It wasn't just hope; it was a tangible, brutal upgrade in survival odds, sitting less than twenty miles away.
--------------------------
An hour later, the pyre roared.
We stood in a ragged half-circle around the towering inferno, the heat pressing against our skin like a physical wall. Flames devoured the monstrous pile – a grotesque amalgamation of walkers and our own fallen, now indistinguishable in the consuming fire. The stench was overwhelming, a nauseating cocktail of burning hair, fat, and something deeply organic, clinging to the back of the throat and stinging the eyes. Thick, greasy black smoke coiled upwards, staining the grey sky.
Amy and Andrea, finally roused, moved silently among the survivors, gathering scattered debris and broken weapons, their faces pale but set in lines of grim determination, joining the final push to erase the night's horror.
As the group stared, mesmerized by the flames and burdened by grief, Rick broke the silence. His voice cut through the crackle and pop of the blaze, strained and tight with the effort of maintaining control. "Alright, come on. Meeting, infront of Bobby's RV bus. We gotta decide where we move from here."
The command acted like a release. People turned away from the grim spectacle, movements slow and heavy. They shuffled towards the large, boxy shape of Bobby's RV. Ellen had already set up a collapsible table in front of it. On its scarred surface lay a large, unfolded map of Georgia, its lines and names suddenly the most important thing in the world – our potential lifeline sprawled out under the ashy sky.
Ellen had done her best, smoothing the large map of Georgia over the scarred surface. It looked alien under the overcast sky, a relic of a world that didn't exist anymore, its highways potential death traps, its cities gaping maws of the dead.
The flickering remnants of the funeral fire cast long, dancing shadows, making the lines on the map seem to writhe. Amy stood close to my left, her shoulder brushing mine, Andrea mirrored her on my right. Their presence was a low thrum of warmth against the pervasive chill of loss.
Glenn sat slumped on an overturned crate near Carol and Jacqui, his eyes red-rimmed and distant, staring at a point somewhere beyond the map. Dale perched on the RV steps, shotgun resting across his knees, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line. Bobby leaned against the RV's massive front tire, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that looked permanently stained.
Jim sat on the ground nearby, exhaustion etched deep into his features. Merle leaned against the side of the bus, picking dirt from under his fingernails with a knife, radiating cynical impatience. T-Dog stood with Morales and Sam, arms crossed. Ellen, Rufus, Jo, and Ash lingered near the parked cars, ready but waiting.
The kids – Sophia, Antonio, Elisa – were clustered with Miranda near the RV door, unusually quiet. Lori stood just behind Rick, her hand resting possessively on Carl's shoulder, her gaze sharp, watchful. Shane paced a tight circle behind Rick, radiating restless energy like a caged predator.
Rick placed a calloused finger on the map, near a cluster of lines representing Atlanta. His knuckles were white. "Alright," he began, his voice rough but trying for command. "We all know we can't stay here. The noise, the fire... it'll draw more. We need a destination. Somewhere fortified. Somewhere with resources. Maybe... maybe even people."
Shane stopped pacing, planting himself squarely opposite Rick. His eyes swept the group, landing briefly on Lori before locking back onto Rick. "Fort Benning," he stated, his voice firm, confident. He jabbed his own finger onto the map, southwest of Atlanta. "Hundred miles, give or take. It's a major military base, Rick. Walls, guns, troops – or what's left of 'em. Order. Safety. That's where we need to be headin'."
Rick sighed, a sound heavy with the weight of the past hours. "Shane, look at the distance." He traced a route with his finger. "Ninety, maybe a hundred miles. Through God knows what. We got vehicles, yeah, but that fuel truck?" He nodded towards the large tanker parked nearby. "Jim reckons it's maybe half full. Enough for some of us to make it if the roads are clear, which they won't be. What happens when that runs dry halfway? We abandon the trucks? Walk the rest? With kids?" He gestured towards the huddled group near Miranda. "Through hostile territory, low on ammo, low on supplies? It's a gamble we can't afford."
"It's the only real chance we got!" Shane countered, his voice rising slightly, tinged with frustration. He leaned over the table, palms flat. "The CDC? That's Rick's other bright idea." He scoffed, the sound harsh in the tense air. "A glorified lab in the middle of downtown Atlanta? You remember Atlanta, Rick? Crawlin' with those things! We barely got out alive last time! You wanna drive back into that hellhole? For what? Doctors? Scientists? They're probably dead or fled weeks ago!"
"Or bunkered down," Rick argued, his own frustration starting to show. He tapped the CDC location on the map. "It's designed for containment, Shane. Heavy doors, generators, maybe even supplies. And it's close. Twenty miles. We could be there by nightfall if we push. Conserve fuel. Scout the approach. Fort Benning... it's a hope, a symbol. The CDC is a tangible structure, right here, right now. We need shelter tonight, not a hundred-mile prayer."
"Tangible? It's a death trap!" Shane shot back. "Even if it's standing, getting to it? Through those streets? You saw 'em! It's suicide! Benning offers real security! A perimeter! Troops!"
"If it's still operational!" Rick retorted, his voice gaining an edge. "We have no contact, Shane! No radio, nothing! For all we know, Benning fell on Day One! Or it's overrun! Or it's locked down tighter than Fort Knox, shootin' anyone who approaches! We drive all that way, burn our last fuel, and find nothin' but ruins or a bullet? Then what? We're stranded a hundred miles from anywhere, with nothin'!"
The tension crackled between them, thick enough to choke on. Lori shifted, her hand tightening on Carl's shoulder. Andrea leaned in closer to me, whispering, "This isn't helping anyone." I gave her a nod, understanding her concern. The others; Kevin, Matt, Charlie, Jimmy, Glenn, Harry and Simon also glanced my way, as if waiting for me to say something.
Bobby cleared his throat, the sound loud in the sudden quiet that followed Rick and Shane's clash. All eyes turned to him. He pushed off the tire, stepping closer to the table. "Look," he said, his voice calm, pragmatic. "Rick's got a point about the fuel. That truck's got maybe 200 miles in her, tops, spread across all these engines? And that's optimistic. Hills, detours, idling... it drains fast. Benning's a long haul through unknown territory. CDC?" He shrugged. "Closer. Less fuel burned just getting there. Means we got reserves for scouting, for getting away if we need to. Fuel's life right now. CDC makes more sense on that count alone."
Dale spoke up from his perch, his voice weary but steady. "Safety isn't just walls, Shane. It's sustainability. Getting to Benning, even if it's standing... it's a massive risk with our current state. Low ammo, exhausted people, children... the journey itself could kill half of us before we even saw the gates." He adjusted his hat. "The CDC... is a hell of alot closer. We can check it out first. If it's bad, truly bad, and we haven't burned our only reserves getting there. We can pivot. Find somewhere else closer. A school, hell maybe even a courthouse... something. Benning's an all-or-nothing play. We ain't got the chips for that table right now."
Jim lifted his head from where he'd been staring at the ground. His voice was a rasp. "I drove trucks for fifteen years. Bobby's right. That fuel won't get us to Benning, not with this convoy. Not safely. We'd be pushing it bone dry, praying for a miracle gas station that ain't been siphoned or burned. CDC... it's a shorter sprint. Less time exposed on the road. Less chance of breaking down a hundred miles from nowhere. It's not even worth a debat. I say CDC." He coughed, a dry, hacking sound. "Sentiment ain't feedin' the engine or stoppin' a bullet."
Merle let out a derisive snort. He stopped picking his nails and flicked the knife closed with a sharp snick. "Practicality? Y'all sound like a buncha accountants starin' at a ledger while the wolves are at the damn door!" He pushed off the bus and sauntered towards the table, his one eye gleaming. "Benning. Military. Means guns. Means lots of guns. Ammo stockpiles. Vehicles that ain't held together by rust and prayers. Maybe even some hard sons-a-bitches who know how to actually fight this shit instead of cryin' over burnt meat." He spat near Rick's boot. "This CDC? A fancy hole in the ground fulla dead eggheads? What're we gonna do, Rick? Hide behind test tubes? You think them heavy doors held? You think the geeks inside didn't turn and eat each other weeks ago? Benning's got force. That's the only language them walkers understand. Only thing that keeps you breathin'. CDC's a fool's hope. Benning's a fighter's chance."
Ellen stepped forward from near the cars, her arms wrapped around herself. "Merle's got a point about weapons," she said, her voice quieter but clear. "We are low. Dangerously low. If Benning is operational, even partially... the firepower..." She trailed off, looking at the meager pile of salvaged weapons nearby. "But... the kids." She looked towards Carl and Sophia. "A hundred miles... every mile is a risk. Every hour on the road is another chance for... for something to go wrong. The CDC is closer. Maybe... maybe safer for them in the short run? I don't know." She sounded torn, frightened.
Rufus, standing beside Ellen, nodded grimly. "Ammo's the key," he rumbled. His voice was deep, weathered. "Without bullets, we're just meat waitin' its turn. Benning promises that, even if it's a gamble. This CDC... it's a question mark. Might be empty. Might be a tomb. Might have nothin' but dusty lab coats. Risin' a hundred miles on fumes for a maybe at Benning is crazy. But walkin' into downtown Atlanta for a maybe at some lab supplies... that feels just as crazy. Only difference is the distance. And the distance..." He looked at the fuel truck. "...might kill us before the walkers do if we aim for Benning. But without ammo, the walkers will get us eventually, CDC or not. Damned if we do..." He left the thought hanging.
Daryl, who had been leaning silently against a nearby tree, arms crossed, watching the exchange like a hawk watches field mice, finally stirred. He didn't move closer, just tilted his head, his gaze fixed on Shane, then Rick, then finally sweeping over the map. "Benning's a ghost," he stated flatly, his voice a low rasp. "Or a graveyard. Or a fortress shootin' anything that moves. Ain't nothin' but a name on a map now." He shifted his weight.
"CDC... it's a building. Stone and steel. Might be crawlin'. Might be clear. Might have somethin' useful left behind. Might not." He paused, his eyes, sharp and calculating, met mine briefly before flicking back to the group. "Twenty miles versus a hundred. Burn less fuel. Less time out there exposed. We get there, we see. Bad? We leave. Fuel left means options. Benning... you get there, it's bad? You're stuck. No gas. No options. Just dead." He fell silent again, his point delivered with brutal simplicity. Survival distilled. Minimize risk, preserve options.
Shane saw the tide turning. He stepped forward, his posture radiating intensity, trying to recapture the group's focus. "Listen to me!" he implored, his voice vibrating with conviction.
"I hear you on the fuel. I do. It's a concern. But what's the point of saving a little gas if we hole up in a deathtrap? The CDC is in the city! The heart of it! You think those things just vanished? They're thicker than flies on shit down there! Getting to it will be a bloodbath! Then, even if we get inside, what? We're trapped in a building surrounded by thousands of 'em? No way out? Fort Benning is open ground. Military infrastructure. Perimeter defenses we can use. Space to maneuver. Room to breathe! It's a fort, people! Not some underground lab! And the weapons! My God, the weapons and ammo they must have stockpiled! We're down to our last clips! A few more attacks like last night and we're done! Benning means survival! Real, long-term survival! CDC is just... delaying the inevitable in a fancier coffin!" He slammed his fist lightly on the table near the CDC mark. "Don't let fear of the drive blind you to the death sentence that place is!"
Rick flinched slightly at Shane's fist hitting the table, but he held his ground. He looked around at the faces – the fear in Ellen's eyes, the exhaustion on Jim's, the cold calculation in Daryl's, the grim pragmatism on Bobby's. "Fear?" Rick asked, his voice quieter now, but carrying a different weight – the weight of shared burden. "It's not fear, Shane. It's reality. Look at us." He gestured around the circle.
"We're battered. We're grieving. We're running on fumes ourselves. We have children who need rest, safety, now, not after a grueling hundred-mile gauntlet run. The CDC is a known location. Close. We can scout it. Dale's right – if it's bad, we haven't burned our bridges getting there. We can find a school, a warehouse, something nearby with walls. Benning... it's a leap of faith across a chasm we might not clear." He looked directly at Shane, a flicker of the old friendship buried deep beneath the strain. "It's not about fear. It's about not risking everything we have left on a symbol when a potential shelter is twenty miles away. We need a haven, Shane. Tonight. Not a promise for tomorrow that might be a mirage."
The group was silent again, the crackle of the dying pyre the only sound. The arguments hung in the air – Shane's passionate plea for the security and firepower of Benning, Rick's desperate pragmatism for the closer, tangible shelter of the CDC. Eyes flickered between the two men, the weight of the decision pressing down. Lori watched Rick intently, a mixture of anxiety and something else – calculation? Glenn just stared blankly at the map. Carol held Sophia tighter. Merle looked openly contemptuous of the hesitation. Daryl remained an impassive statue.
Shane opened his mouth, ready to launch another volley, his face flushed with the effort of persuasion. "But the ammo—"
"Enough."
The word cut through the tension like a knife. My voice. Calm, low, devoid of the heated emotion that had filled the air, but carrying an undeniable finality. Every head snapped towards me. Amy's hand found mine, squeezing briefly. Andrea straightened slightly beside me.
Shane whirled, his eyes blazing. "What did you say?"
I met his gaze evenly, stepping slightly forward, closer to the table, placing myself physically between the map and the arguing factions. "I said enough, Shane. We're wasting daylight. Arguing won't fill the gas tank or find us bullets."
Rick looked at me, a flicker of wary hope in his eyes. Shane's jaw clenched. "So what's your brilliant solution? Hide in the city and pray?"
"No," I said, my voice still level. I pointed at the CDC location on the map. "We go here. Rick's right. It's the only play that makes sense with what we have."
Shane threw his hands up. "For godsake kid, I know you and I haven't seen eye to eye since you got here, but come on! We need guns! We need ammo! CDC ain't got that!"
"Maybe not inside," I conceded, keeping my gaze locked on the map, on the point that represented far more than Rick or Shane knew. "But Rick's point stands. The journey to Benning is too long, too uncertain, with our fuel state. We wouldn't make it. Or if we did, we'd be arriving on fumes, vulnerable, with no back up plan. Jim confirmed it. Bobby confirmed it. Daryl's right – Benning is an unknown quantity at best, a death sentence at worst, at the end of a road we can't afford to travel."
I looked up, sweeping my gaze across the group, deliberately avoiding Shane's furious stare for a moment. "The CDC is close. Twenty miles. We can be there before 4 in the afternoon if we move now and haul ass. That gives us shelter tonight. Walls. Doors. A place to breathe, to regroup, to tend to wounds," I glanced at Jim, who looked pale, "without one eye constantly on the treeline." I paused, letting that sink in. The promise of real walls, however temporary, was potent.
"But the ammo..." Ellen whispered, voicing the shared fear.
"Here's what you don't know," I continued, my voice dropping slightly, commanding attention. "I know the military abandoned the CDC. Pulled out fast, maybe a week or two into this mess. Ordered to fall back, consolidate elsewhere. Probably Benning, or somewhere like it."
I saw Shane perk up slightly, thinking I was bolstering his argument. "But they didn't just leave quietly. They left in a hurry. And they left everything they couldn't immediately load onto choppers or fast movers." I paused for effect, seeing the comprehension start to dawn on Bobby's face, a flicker in Daryl's eyes. "Parked right out front of the CDC building, abandoned where they stood when the order came down... are military vehicles. Not just trucks. Armored vehicles. Humvees. Maybe even a tank. And they were guarding a major facility. They left behind crates. Ammo crates. Weapons. Supplies they couldn't take."
A collective intake of breath. Shane stared at me, disbelief warring with sudden, sharp interest. "You know this? How?"
"Cause when all this shit happened, and you were all up here hiding, my ass was in the thick of it, in Atlanta." I countered flatly, an obvious lie, because I remembered, in the show there were military trucks surrounding the CDC building.
"The point is, the CDC isn't just a potential bunker. It's a potential armory. A motor pool. Everything Bobby was hoping for at Benning? It might be sitting twenty miles away, not a hundred. Abandoned. For the taking. If we can get to it, secure the building or just the perimeter long enough to load up..." I let the implication hang. "We go from a ragtag convoy barely holding together to an armored column. Military-grade transport. Firepower. Protection for the kids." I looked directly at Ellen, then Jo. "We change the game."
Silence. Thick, profound silence. The crackle of the pyre seemed louder. The weight of the revelation settled over them. Rick looked stunned, then a wave of cautious relief washed over his face.
Dean whistled low under his breath. "Armored vehicles? Ammo crates? Just... sitting there?"
"Abandoned," I confirmed. "Left in the rush. The military prioritized personnel and maybe critical intel. Hardware got left behind."
Daryl pushed off the tree, taking a step closer, his hunter's eyes intense. "You saw this?"
"Yeah, I saw them run out of there." I lied again, with confidence. "It's all just laying their infront of the CDC building. The vehicles, the crates... they were there when the last unit pulled out. Odds are high they're still there. Walkers don't drive tanks."
Rufus let out a low, appreciative chuckle. "Well, guess we gotta go see for ourselves then. Lootin' Uncle Sam's lost and found? Now that sounds like my kind of salvation." He chuckled, with interest.
"I'm in." Dean said grinning, "Let's go check it out."
"Yeah, alright." Sam also nodded, "If what Hadrian say's pans out. We'd be set."
"Heh! Fine, I'll follow your lead kid. Just toss me a couple them ammo boxes if you have extra later."
Shane was still grappling with it. The foundation of his argument – Benning's superior resources – had just been potentially undermined by a treasure trove much closer. "If... if this is true..." he stammered, uncharacteristically hesitant.
"It is," I said, finality returning to my tone. "The CDC is right at our doorstep, immediate shelter, and the highest chance of resupply with exactly what we need most – heavy weapons, armored transport, and ammo. Fort Benning offers a distant hope and a journey we likely won't survive. The choice is clear." I looked around the circle, meeting the eyes of those who had spoken, those who had stayed silent. "We head for the CDC. Secure the building if possible. Secure the vehicles and supplies outside if not. We move. Now. Before whatever's drawn by the pyre gets here."
I didn't ask for consensus. The momentum had shifted irrevocably. Bobby nodded firmly. "Makes sense. Alright people, we got our destination. Let's prepare and haul ass outta here."
Dale sighed, but it was a sound of acceptance. "Twenty miles... we can manage that. Scout carefully."
Jim just nodded, too tired for words, but relief evident in the slight slump of his shoulders. "Come on, Dale! Let's get your camper moving."
Ellen looked at Rufus, who gave a single, grim nod. "Ammo and armor beats a long walk any day," he muttered.
Daryl simply grunted, a sound that conveyed assent. He was already turning, scanning the perimeter, shifting into movement mode. "Bout time, thought we'd spend an hour here, listening to two grown men bellyache."
Dean smirked. "Come on, Sam. Get Jess on the GMC and and check your guns, looks like we're riding into a fight."
Glenn didn't react, still lost in his grief. Carol gently touched his arm. Jacqui watched me, a new, wary respect in her eyes.
Rick let out a long breath, the tension visibly draining from him. He looked at me, a complex mix of gratitude and something else – perhaps a dawning realization of the hidden depths and knowledge his mysterious camp-mate possessed.
"Alright," he said, his voice regaining some steadiness. "CDC it is." He turned to the group. "You heard him. We move. Now. Finish loading the trucks. Secure everything loose. Matt, keep your watch sharp until we roll. Everyone else, move with purpose. We roll out in ten minutes. Daryl can you take the lead and scout ahead for us?"
Daryl grunted a nod and left to saddle up his bike. He was followed by Merle who had a smirk on his face, carrying his shotgun.
Shane stood rigid for a moment longer, conflicting emotions warring on his face – frustration, lingering disbelief, but also the undeniable pull of the potential prize I'd described. Finally, with a curt, almost imperceptible nod, he turned away, his shoulders set. He didn't agree, but he wouldn't fight it. Not now. The decision was made. The grim reality demanded action, not argument. The brief council of survival was over. The caravan to the heart of the dead city was about to begin.
-------------------------
Just as we were preparing to leave and setting up the structure of our convoy, Morales dropped a bombshell. He was leaving with his family for Birmingham. I didn't try to convince him to stay because I didn't feel like speaking with an idiot.
After they said their goodbyes, they drove off into the hazy morning, their taillights vanishing around a bend choked with overgrown kudzu. I watched them go, the rumble of their engine fading into the eerie silence of the Georgian backroads. A bitter taste lingered in my mouth—not just at Morales' stupidity, but at the gnawing certainty that the open road was a death sentence for a family alone. Still, his choice was made.
I then had Rick hand out CB radios to all the cars and trucks in our convoy. The plastic casings felt cheap and dusty, but they were our lifelines now. It was around 9 AM, so we had time and daylight on our side. The air was already thick with humidity, promising another scorching day. Cicadas droned in the pines, a surreal soundtrack to the apocalypse.
I gave Andrea, Amy, and Carol a crash course on gun safety right there in the shadow of my APC, "The Beast." The armored hull radiated heat, and the smell of oil and diesel clung to us. I showed them how to reload, aim, where to switch off the safety, and what to do if the chamber got jammed. Don't ask me how I knew how to do that because I just did. It must have had something to do with my Sharingan's ability to learn things fast—a flicker of crimson in my mind's eye, dissecting movements into fluid steps.
After I taught them the basics, I distributed guns. Andrea's eyes hardened with focus as I handed her one of my M4A1 assault rifles. I even showed her how to load and shoot the M203 grenade launcher attached to it, her fingers trembling only slightly on the cold steel. Amy bit her lip, a mix of fear and determination crossing her face as I gave her my last HK MP5 with the red laser attachment. I taught her about shooting in short bursts, the clack-clack of the dry-fire drill echoing sharply. For Carol, I gave her my silenced Glock 17. Her hands shook, but she gripped it like a lifeline, knuckles white. I didn't really need it since I now had the Winchester Repeater, which felt natural—balanced and deadly—in my hands.
Aside from the guns, I gave all three a combat Ka-Bar knife each. They secured them with their belts to their hips. The blades glinted dully in the morning light, wicked and purposeful. These knives were among the things I'd first gotten from the APC's storage lockers. Jo had also come over, her boots crunching on the gravel, to help me teach the girls how to handle the weapons. Her presence was steadying, her instructions crisp.
We even bantered and joked while doing it. Amy fumbled a magazine reload, and Jo quipped, "Easy there, Annie Oakley. Save the fireworks for the walkers." Carol managed a shaky laugh, and Andrea rolled her eyes but smiled. The longer we talked, the more I found myself enjoying Jo's company. She was witty, smart, and very good-looking. Plus, she had an athletically pleasing body—lean muscle under a worn leather jacket, movements economical and sure.
"Alright, load up! Daryl's gonna scout ahead and radio back if the coast is clear. Then we move!" Dean yelled, climbing into his black Impala. The engine roared to life, a deep-throated growl that shattered the stillness.
"Keep up," Jo said to me with a grin as she walked past, swaying her hips slightly. She even shot me a provocatively seductive look over her shoulder as she strode toward the Impala, her ponytail swinging.
I was more than surprised by her teasing. I'd figured she and Dean would have something going on, like in the Supernatural series. But when I thought about it more, Jo and Dean interacted more like an older brother and bratty younger sister. Even Sam treated Jo like a sibling, his protective glances more fraternal than possessive.
'Guess things are different in this world,' I chuckled inwardly, already trying to come up with a way to get Jo to join my coupling alongside Amy and Andrea. The image was… compelling. A challenge worth pursuing.
"Everybody listen up!" Shane barked, walking to his Jeep. He slapped the hood for emphasis. "Now that everyone has a CB, thanks to Hadrian's generosity, we're gonna be on channel 40." His eyes scanned the group, lingering on the families huddled by the RV. "So, if you have trouble or spot something, speak up. Alright? We watch each other's backs out there."
"Come on, y'all, get your asses into gear!" Merle yelled, hefting his shotgun as he climbed into his rust-streaked pickup. "My baby brother's already out there riskin' his ass for you lot. Let's get this show on the road!"
"Alright, Carol, get Sophia into the Beast. Girls, let's go," I said, walking over to climb into the APC. The armored door hissed shut behind us, sealing us in the dim, cool interior. Sophia clutched her doll, her eyes wide but trusting.
Five minutes later, everyone was ready. In the lead was Daryl on his bike, a shadow on wheels. Behind him was Dean in his Impala, Jo riding shotgun. After them came Sam and Jess in their sturdy GMC. Followed by Dale, Jim, Matt, and Glenn in the old, lumbering camper. Right after them were Bobby, Kevin, and Matt in the RV bus, its engine rattling like loose change. In the middle were Ellen, Jacqui, Ash, Simon, and T-Dog in the SUV. Then came Rick, Lori, and Carl in their Volkswagen. Shane followed in his Jeep, trailed by Merle in his pickup. Bringing up the rear were Rufus and Harry in the shuddering oil tanker. I took the very rear in my APC, "The Beast," with Amy, Andrea, Carol, and Sophia.
We convoyed south toward Atlanta, a ragged metal snake winding through corpse-silent countryside. We didn't stick to the main highway; instead, we took back roads—Rick's idea, saying the smaller routes would be safer, with fewer traffic graveyards blocking our path.
The scenery was somehow serene and breathtaking. Sunlight dappled through towering pines and ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss. Kudzu smothered abandoned barns, turning them into green, shapeless mounds. Wildflowers bloomed defiantly along fence lines. There was no sign of life anywhere. The roads were empty except for the occasional lone walker shuffling through overgrown ditches or staggering across fallow fields. No cars, no humans. Just wide-open country, blue skies, and the grotesque punctuation of walkers roaming the land.
To pass the time, Amy decided to play I-Spy over the CB. "I spy with my little eye… something gray and crumbly," she chirped, her voice crackling through the static.
Glenn's voice replied first, "Uh… that busted concrete bridge?"
"Nope! Shane's mood!" Merle cackled.
Laughter erupted across the channel. Shane's grumble was audible even without the radio. The game caught on. Jacqui guessed "clouds," Dale offered "asphalt," and Sophia whispered, "The old man's hat?"—meaning Dale's bucket hat. More laughter followed. Sophia even started doing knock-knock jokes with Carl. Their young voices, bright with forced cheer, were infectious.
Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Boo.
Boo who?
Don't cry, Carl! It's just a walker!
Their giggles fizzed over the airwaves, a fragile bubble of normalcy.
But like all things, it had to end. Courtesy of an uptight, anal Shane. "Enough!" His voice slashed through the static. "This ain't a damn road trip! Channel 40 is for threats and coordinates only. Save the chatter!"
Silence followed. Even in the Beast, the mood dampened. But Amy just switched off the CB mic and grinned. "Fine. We'll play in here." So we did. Andrea spotted a rusted water tower ("T"), Carol a faded sunflower mural on a crumbling gas station wall ("S"), Sophia a skeletal deer picked clean by scavengers ("D"). The small joys felt like rebellion.
It was a long drive to Atlanta. About an hour in, we had to detour around a jackknifed semi trailer, its cargo of furniture spilling across the road like the guts of some giant beast. We found a narrow service road choked with weeds, tires crunching over brittle branches. By the time we were two blocks away from the CDC building, the sun hung low, casting long, distorted shadows. It was already 3 PM.
Zzzt <"This is Daryl. The way up to the CDC is clear. But be careful driving up—there's a lot of dead bodies. Like, everywhere.">
Zzzt <"Got it."> Dean replied, his voice tight.
Zzzt <"Eyes open, we're here."> Rick's warning crackled as we rolled to a stop across the street from the CDC. Daryl stood beside his bike near the intersection, crossbow held loosely but eyes sharp.
"Jesus…" Andrea breathed beside me, her knuckles white on her rifle. Behind us, Amy gasped, and Carol choked back a whimper. Sophia buried her face in her mother's side.
The scene was a slaughterhouse frozen in time. Everywhere the eye could see were bodies in torn military gear—camouflage uniforms dark with old blood, helmets askew or missing entirely. Some wore civilian clothes, but they were few, swallowed by the uniformed dead. The stench was a physical blow even through the APC's filters—coppery decay, cordite, and something cloyingly sweet.
I could also see the discarded tools of a failed last stand: guns littering the pavement like metallic weeds, ammo crates spilled open, their brass contents gleaming dully. Military trucks sat abandoned, doors hanging open. Hulking MRAPs and lighter M-ATVs were parked haphazardly, some riddled with bullet holes. Heavy turrets mounted on sandbag emplacements pointed uselessly down empty streets. Tanks and personnel carriers were silent behemoths in the afternoon gloom. They were all just… there. Forgotten.
I even spotted a few collapsed Red Cross tents, their fabric stained and sagging. Inside, glimpses of crates and boxes hinted at their contents. 'Meds. And a lot of it,' I thought, a spark of grim satisfaction cutting through the horror.
We all got out of our vehicles, weapons raised, the clicks and clacks of safeties switching off unnervingly loud. Everyone grouped up near Daryl's bike, a tense huddle in the open.
"Alright," Rick said, his voice strained but steady. He scanned the desolate plaza fronting the CDC. "It looks clear. We'll go over and check it out together. No one falls behind." He took the lead, his sheriff's hat pulled low.
Shane flanked him, shotgun held high and tight to his shoulder, eyes sweeping the corpse-strewn approaches. Lori and Carl followed close behind, Lori's hand gripping Carl's shoulder. T-Dog, Jacqui, Dale, and Jim quickly fell in line.
"Glenn, Matt," I called out, low and urgent. "Take the boys and do a quick sweep on your way forward. Stab the corpses in the head. Make sure they don't stir awake and grab someone after they pass."
"On it," Glenn replied, pulling out his knife. Matt gave me a sharp, determined nod.
They took Jimmy, Kevin, Charlie, Simon, and Harry. The group moved methodically, blades flashing down with sickening thuds and crunches as they silenced the dead permanently, following Rick's group toward the imposing CDC entrance.
"Dean, Sam," I turned to the Winchesters. "Take everyone else and catch up. Then you're in charge of them." I met Dean's eyes, conveying the unspoken weight. "Merle, you and Daryl back them up."
"Alright, come on, Sammy," Dean said, already turning.
"Sure, kid," Merle drawled, spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto a dead soldier's flak jacket. "What about you?"
"I'm gonna check things out here. Scavenge a little. Maybe see if these military toys got any goodies left," I replied with a smirk, patting the hull of the nearest MRAP.
"Hadrian, hurry!" Amy urged, grabbing Andrea's arm as they moved to follow Sam and Dean. Carol gave me a pleading look.
"Don't worry about me. Go. Get in there. I'll be fine," I smiled and waved them off, projecting a calm I didn't entirely feel.
I watched them go, a tight knot of survivors moving across the killing field toward the sealed glass doors of the CDC. Then I turned, slinging my Winchester over my shoulder, and calmly walked toward a large 6x6 military cargo truck parked near a sandbagged .50 cal position. The truck's canvas cover was torn, flapping in the hot breeze.
I climbed onto the running board and peered into the cab. A corpse in a Private's uniform slumped over the wheel, skin waxy and sunken. With a quiet thunk!, I drove one of my kunai into its temple. The body slumped further. I hauled it out, its weight thudding dully onto the asphalt. The key was still in the ignition. I turned it; the engine wheezed but didn't catch. The fuel gauge hovered just above 'E'. Just enough to move it later, I noted.
I was about to climb into the cargo bed when Amy and Andrea's frantic shouts echoed across the plaza. "HADRIAN!"
I spun around. The CDC's heavy main doors were sliding shut with a final, echoing clang. The group was inside, visible through the thick glass for a split second—Rick pounding on the door, Andrea's face pressed against it, wide-eyed with panic. Then opaque steel shutters slammed down over the glass with a sound like a vault sealing. They were locked in. I was locked out.
A low chuckle escaped me. Perfect. I walked calmly over to the sealed entrance, my boots echoing in the sudden silence. I consciously circulated my chakra, weaving it around me like an invisible cloak, masking my presence, my heat, my very scent. To any walker nearby, I was now just a ripple in the air, a trick of the light.
Amy and Andrea's muffled voices came from behind the shutter. "Hadrian! The door—it locked! We're stuck!"
"Listen to me," I said, my voice low but carrying through the metal. "Follow the others deeper inside. Stay with Sam, Dean, and Bobby. I will find another way in later. Tell them—all the fighters—to eat whatever they're given and rest as much as they can. When I come back, we move. Got it?"
A pause, then Andrea's voice, tight but controlled: "Okay. Okay, Hadrian. Be careful."
"Always," I replied.
I heard their footsteps retreat. Moments later, I moved towards the front of the building, where there was a floor to ceiling reinforced plexi glass window beside the main shutter. Daryl and Merle stood there looking out at me, crossbow and shotgun ready.
"Place is locked up tighter'n a drum," Merle grunted, scanning the bodies around us.
"The place looks abondoned. Empty." Daryl added, his eyes narrowing. "Smells like desperation and cheap whiskey in here."
"Good," I said. "I need you two to scour the place. Focus on supplies, anything that could benefit us. See what's salvageable, what's got fuel, keys, or useful cargo."
"Lootin' time?" Merle grinned, a gold tooth flashing.
"Call it, being opportunistic," I countered. "Be thorough. But be quiet. Don't wake the neighbors." I gestured to the scattered dead.
Dean and Rufus appeared next, standing where Daryl and Merle had stood. Dean's expression was grim. "Place feels… wrong. Like eerily quiet in here."
"Figured," I nodded. "Help Daryl and Merle gather supplies. Pack anything useful near the entrance or in a vehicle we can drive. When I get back inside, we're leaving. Oh and there might be doctor in there. Keep an eye out for him."
Rufus gave a curt nod. "We'll keep the lid on."
Soon they turned and joined the others in their tense search. I was alone in the open grave of Atlanta's last stand.
I turned, not looking back at the silent CDC. I could get in later. Through ventilation shafts, service tunnels, or simply by blowing a hole in the right spot. For now, I had work to do. It was time to become the ultimate opportunist, to gather every piece of useful scrap the panicked military had left behind. After all, it was all just sitting here. Rotting. Rusting. Waiting.
'Who better than me to claim all these toys?' I chuckled inwardly, the sound lost in the wind whistling through skeletal buildings. The scale of the task was immense, but the Sharingan's cool clarity settled over me. I moved toward the nearest Red Cross tent, my senses expanding, cataloging every crate, every weapon, every drop of fuel. The dead watched with empty eyes as the looting began.
---------------------
(Dean POV)
"Hello?" Rick yelled into the cavernous, sterile lobby. His voice bounced off the polished marble floors and towering columns, swallowed by the oppressive silence. He gripped his Colt Python, knuckles white.
Everyone clustered just inside the entrance, a tight knot of exhaustion and wary tension. The air smelled of antiseptic and dust, chillingly at odds with the decaying world outside. Dean instinctively stepped in front of Carol, Lori, and the kids, his own modified .45 pistol held low but ready.
Behind him, Bobby racked the slide of his Winchester shotgun with a sound like bones breaking. "Idjits," he muttered, eyes scanning the shadowed mezzanine above. Rufus mirrored him, his hunting rifle stock snug against his shoulder, gaze darting across potential ambush points—doorways, the reception desk, the dark mouth of a corridor.
Sam moved in front of Jess, Amy, and Andrea, his tall frame a protective wall. His hand rested near the small of his back, likely on the grip of the Taurus pistol he carried. Merle Dixon and his brother Daryl stood back-to-back near the sealed entrance, an island of feral readiness. Merle's shotgun muzzle swept the room while Daryl's crossbow tracked any flicker of movement.
The others—Dale, Jim, Glenn, T-Dog, Jacqui, Ellen, Ash, Simon, Matt, Kevin, Jimmy, Harry—formed a ragged semi-circle, putting the kids at their backs. The only sounds were ragged breathing and the soft tick of cooling engines from outside, muffled by the thick walls.
Chk-clack!
The sharp, unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked shattered the stillness. Every weapon in the group snapped toward its source—a heavy metal door marked 'AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY' on the left. It stood slightly ajar.
A man stepped into the dim light filtering through the shuttered entrance. Middle-aged, maybe late 40s, but he looked a decade older. Deep shadows bruised his eyes above a salt-and-pepper beard that hadn't seen a trim in weeks. His lab coat was stained and wrinkled, hanging loosely on a frame that seemed too thin. He held an M4A1 carbine trained shakily on the group. The smell of cheap bourbon cut through the sterile air, clinging to him. Dean's senses went on high alert. This guy wasn't just tired; he was drowning. Hammered. Desperate.
Dean caught Rufus's eye. The older hunter gave an almost imperceptible nod. 'Yep. Drunk and dangerous.' Dean thought. 'Is this the doctor Hadrian mentioned? The one he wanted us to watch?' He sized the man up: the tremor in his hands, the sweat sheening his forehead despite the cool air, the wild, haunted look in his eyes.
"Anybody infected?" the doctor demanded, his voice raspy, strained. He licked dry lips, his gaze flicking nervously across the armed group.
"No," Rick replied firmly, lowering his Python slightly but not holstering it. His posture remained tense, ready. "None of us are. We came here looking for shelter."
"Possibly food as well," Bobby added, his voice gravelly and sharp. His eyes never left the doctor's rifle. "Place looks like it oughta have a pantry."
The doctor stared for a long moment, the barrel of the M4 wavering slightly. Then, like a puppet with cut strings, his shoulders slumped. He lowered the gun, the aggressive tension bleeding out of him, replaced by a profound weariness. His demeanor shifted from cornered animal to something hollow, resigned.
"That's asking an awful lot these days," he said, managing a weak, humorless smile. "But lucky for you, today just happens to be one of the good ones."
"Sigh… Thank god," Lori breathed out, the sound heavy with exhaustion and relief. She pulled Carl closer.
A collective release of held breath washed through the group. Shoulders relaxed; weapons dipped fractionally. Jo moved then, stepping close to her mother Ellen. She leaned in, whispering urgently. Ellen's eyes widened slightly, then she turned and murmured to Sam. Sam listened, his brow furrowing, then leaned toward Dean, keeping his voice low.
"Andrea told Jo," Sam murmured, his breath warm against Dean's ear. "Hadrian wanted us to relax for a couple of hours once inside. He said to rest, eat whatever's offered, and be ready to move when he gets back."
Dean nodded slowly, absorbing the message. 'Rest up. Gear up. Get ready to run.' The pieces clicked. Hadrian hadn't just been looting out there; he'd known something. Known this place wasn't sanctuary. Known it was a trap, or a tomb, or both. The way he'd acted, the specific warnings… it was like he had a script. Dean didn't know what it was yet, but the certainty in Hadrian's orders spoke of impending disaster.
"Before anything else," the doctor said, turning and gesturing vaguely down a brightly lit corridor, "I'd like to ask you all to submit to a blood test." He started walking, not looking back. "It's just basic protocol. Nothing serious. A simple price for admission."
"We can do that," Rick agreed after a brief glance at Shane. He holstered his Python, a signal for the others to partially stand down.
They followed the doctor—Jenner, he'd later introduce himself—through the sterile, echoing halls. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, reflecting off spotless linoleum. It felt like walking through a hospital after hours, amplifying the sense of isolation. Dean and Daryl exchanged another look, a silent understanding passing between them. Merle's lips twitched, barely suppressing a knowing smirk. 'Well, Hadrian,' Dean thought, eyeing the elevator doors at the end of the corridor. 'Hope you got a plan for this deathtrap too.'
"If you've got stuff to bring with you, do it now," Jenner said, gesturing vaguely back towards the lobby entrance as they approached the heavy security doors guarding the elevator bay. "'Cause once those doors close…" He trailed off, the implication clear.
A few people grabbed hastily packed bags—Dale with his toolbox, Glenn with a backpack of scavenged parts. The heavy security doors hissed shut behind them with a final, ominous thud, sealing them off from the outside world and the fading daylight. The air felt recycled, artificial.
"Rick Grimes," Rick offered, extending his hand as they crowded into the large service elevator. It smelled of ozone and stale air.
"Doctor Edwin Jenner," the doctor replied, shaking Rick's hand limply. His palm was damp.
Jenner pressed his thumb to a scanner. A green light blinked, and he spoke into an intercom. "Vi? Initiate descent sequence. Authorization Jenner, Edwin. Priority Alpha." A muffled, computerized female voice acknowledged. The elevator lurched, then began a smooth, unsettlingly silent descent. It felt like being swallowed.
Rick and Jenner talked during the five-minute ride, their voices echoing in the cramped space. Rick spoke of the quarry, the highway, the herd. Jenner listened with detached interest, his eyes distant, haunted. He offered platitudes about safety, about resources, but Dean heard the hollow ring beneath them.
They emerged into a stark, concrete-lined corridor that screamed 'bunker.' Jenner led them into a cold, utilitarian lecture hall. Rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs faced a large monitor and a lectern. "This will do," Jenner mumbled, setting up a portable blood-drawing kit on the lectern with practiced, if slightly unsteady, hands.
One by one, they filed up. Jacqui went pale as her blood filled the vial, swaying on her feet. Jenner caught her arm, his concern seeming genuine, if weary. "Low blood sugar, most likely. Adrenaline crash. Come," he said, his voice softening fractionally. "Let's get some food into everyone."
He led them down another corridor to a surprisingly normal-looking kitchenette. Stainless steel appliances, a large table, chairs. He opened a heavy pantry door, revealing shelves stacked high with vacuum-sealed meals, canned goods, bottles of water, and… wine. Real, packaged food.
'Score,' Dean thought, the sight momentarily pushing aside his unease. 'Hadrian was right about the supplies.' But the sight also deepened his suspicion. This much food, this deep underground… for one man? The storage room Jenner had opened felt like just the tip of the iceberg. 'What else is hidden down here?' The question hung heavy as Jenner began distributing frozen yogurt and bottles of water. 'And why does one doctor need a fortress?'
---------------------
(Daryl POV) - An Hour Later, The Kitchen - 4:21 PM
The sterile kitchen was transformed. Wrappers from MREs littered the table. The smell of processed beef and chemical cheese sauce mingled with the richer aroma of opened wine bottles. Laughter, genuine and slightly hysterical, bounced off the concrete walls. It felt jarring, wrong almost, in the bunker's depths, but desperately needed.
Daryl Dixon sat on a stool near the door, picking at a packet of crackers. He wasn't drinking. Needed a clear head. Beside him, Dean Winchester nursed a bottle of water, his eyes constantly scanning the room's single entrance, his posture deceptively relaxed. Daryl recognized the vigilance—it mirrored his own.
Lori Grimes laughed, a bright, brittle sound, as Dale argued good-naturedly about Carl having wine. "Well, when Carl's in Italy or France, then he can take a sip," Lori insisted, shaking her head but smiling.
"Well, when in Rome… or Atlanta's ass-end bunker," Rick chuckled, clapping Dale on the shoulder. "Come on, Lori. One sip won't hurt."
Lori sighed dramatically, playing along. "Fine. One sip. No more."
Dale, beaming, poured a minuscule amount of red wine into a plastic cup and placed it before Carl with a flourish. The room quieted, all eyes on the boy. Carl, cheeks flushed with the attention, picked up the cup carefully. He took a tiny sip. His face instantly contorted into a grimace of pure disgust.
"Ewww!" he spat, slamming the cup down. "Yuck! That tasted nasty!"
The room erupted. Shane barked a laugh, T-Dog slapped the table, Jacqui covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Even Jim managed a weak smile. Merle, perched on a counter away from the main group, snorted into his own bottle. "Kid's got taste! That swill is nasty!"
Daryl watched the scene, the forced merriment, the shadows under everyone's eyes that the laughter couldn't erase. 'Hadrian said rest. But he also said be ready.' He caught Dean's eye again. The Marshall gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the door. 'Time to move.'
Quietly, while Dale launched into a story about Tuscan vineyards and the group's attention was diverted, Daryl and Dean stood and slipped out into the corridor. The sterile silence of the hallway was a shock after the kitchen's noise.
They'd taken three steps when Jo Harvell appeared around a corner, her arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face. "Hey. What's going on?" she asked, her voice low but sharp. "Why are you two sneaking off? Date night?"
"Hadrian wanted us to search the place," Dean answered bluntly, not breaking stride. "Weapons. Supplies. Anything useful."
"Dude!" Daryl hissed, shooting Dean an exasperated look. "I thought we were s'posed to keep it quiet!"
"Hadrian didn't say not to tell people we trust," Dean shrugged, a hint of challenge in his eyes as he looked at Jo. "You in?"
Jo's smirk widened into a fierce grin. "Try and stop me. Let's go." She fell in step beside them, leading the way down the featureless corridor with confident strides.
Daryl shook his head but followed, a reluctant grunt escaping him. Even though he didn't want to admit it, it felt… solid. Having these Dean and the others from their group around. People who moved like hunters, thought like survivors. People he and Merle could maybe, just maybe, trust to watch their backs without expecting a knife in it later. People Hadrian had vouched for.
Fifteen Minutes Later - Generator Room
The generator room was a cavernous space dominated by the huge, greasy bulk of the main power unit. It thrummed with a deep, mechanical vibration that resonated in Daryl's chest. The air smelled of diesel fumes and hot metal. Banks of monitors glowed green on one wall, showing schematics and blinking status lights.
Jo was crouched beside a row of large, industrial fuel drums lined against the far wall. She rapped her knuckles on them one by one. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sounds were hollow, empty. She moved to the last two. Thunk. Thunk. Solid, but barely. She unscrewed a cap on one, peered inside, then cursed softly.
"Shit," she announced, standing and wiping grease from her hands onto her jeans. "The generator's almost out of fuel. These two drums have maybe an inch of sludge in the bottom. The rest are bone dry."
Daryl felt a chill that had nothing to do with the bunker's cool air. He looked at the massive machine, its rhythmic thrum suddenly sounding like a death knell. "Damn it. How long you think we got 'til this place goes dark?"
Dean was studying the flickering monitor readouts, his face grim in the green glow. He traced a finger down a digital fuel gauge bar that pulsed a warning red. "Fourteen, fifteen hours at most," he estimated. "And that's me being generous. Could be less if this hunk of junk is sucking fumes."
"So with the supply room, the medic station, the security room, and now this," Jo summarized, gesturing around the echoing chamber, "I'd say we've found all the worthwhile supplies this tin can holds."
"Damn straight," Daryl muttered, frustration warring with urgency. "Ain't nothin' else down here 'cept concrete and bad news."
"Then we grab what we found and get it staged," Dean said, turning away from the ominous monitors. "C'mon. Time's wasting."
Dean led the way back to a small storage alcove near the main elevator shaft they'd discovered earlier. It was stacked with their haul: Cases of MREs and bottled water hauled from the main pantry; duffel bags bulging with medical supplies—bandages, antibiotics, suture kits, painkillers—liberated from the well-stocked infirmary; backpacks filled with tools, flashlights, and batteries from a maintenance closet; and sacks containing the real prize—guns and ammo discreetly pulled from a surprisingly lax security locker: several Beretta M9s, boxes of 9mm ammo, two Remington 870 shotguns with a box of shells, and even a pair of Taser X26s with spare cartridges.
They'd worked fast and quiet while the others ate. Now, they loaded up: Daryl hefting two heavy duffels of ammo, Dean slinging three backpacks over his broad shoulders, Jo dragging a case of water. They made multiple trips, carrying everything to the bottom of the emergency stairwell—a grim, utilitarian metal staircase that led back up towards the surface levels.
They piled their loot near the bottom steps: eight heavy metal cases, ten overstuffed duffel bags, five bulging backpacks, and three lumpy sacks. It represented everything of immediate value for survival in the world above. Everything they could carry quickly when the lights went out.
"Alright," Daryl grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The thrum of the dying generator seemed louder here, vibrating the metal stairs. "Now that's done, let's go back. Pretend we're just gettin' seconds on that 'nasty' wine."
"Let's go," Dean agreed, his eyes lingering on the stacked supplies. "Play normal. Eat. But stay sharp."
The three of them walked back towards the sound of forced merriment in the distant kitchen. Daryl carried the weight of their secret. Hadrian's orders made sense now—the urgency, the focus on being ready to move. This place wasn't a refuge; it was a sinking ship. Looting it wasn't greed; it was survival. And Daryl Dixon felt not a shred of guilt about stripping this doomed tomb to give their group a fighting chance.
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(MC POV) - Timeskip: 2 Hours Later, Outside the CDC - 7:05 PM
The street was transformed. The apocalyptic graveyard that had greeted our arrival was now… organized. Cleared. Mine.
It had taken me nearly three relentless hours. Three hours of focused, Sharingan-enhanced efficiency amidst the silent dead and the deepening twilight. The kunai had flashed, finding skulls in walkers drawn by the noise of engines coughing to life.
The storage scroll had absorbed mountains of gear, its chakra-infused parchment accepting crates, weapons, and pallets with silent hunger. My muscles burned, sweat plastered my shirt to my back despite the cooling air, and dust coated my throat, but the sheer scale of the haul was exhilarating.
The chaotic sprawl of bodies and sandbag barricades was now mostly pushed aside or stacked against buildings, clearing paths for the vehicles I'd resurrected. The weapons left strewn like discarded toys were gone—secured. The medical tents stood empty, their life-saving contents now safely nestled in the dimensional space of my scroll.
Parked in a formidable armored column, engines silent but ready, were the fruits of my labor:
Five RG33L 6x6 MMPV MRAPs: Hulking beasts of rolled steel, their V-shaped hulls designed to deflect blasts. Each sported a roof-mounted remote weapons station—two with snarling M134 Miniguns, three with heavy M240B machine guns. Their diesel engines purred with latent power, fuel gauges showing healthy levels siphoned from other wrecks.
Three Oshkosh M-ATVs: Lighter, more agile than the MRAPs, but still heavily armored. Each had an M2 Browning .50 Cal machine gun mounted prominently on its hardtop, the massive barrels gleaming dully under the last rays of the sun. Perfect for scouting and rapid response.
Two M927 5-ton 6x6 Military Cargo Trucks: Workhorses. Their long beds were packed high and secured under taut canvas covers, filled with the crates and metal cases of ammo I hadn't been able to fit into the scroll—mainly .50 cal, 7.62mm, and 5.56mm belts and boxes. One truck had an M2 Browning and a crate of ammo secured in the cab, just in case.
Three M1025 Humvees: Familiar silhouettes, each crowned with a functional .50 Cal turret. Parked strategically near the front for quick deployment.
This place had been a motherlode. A military convoy caught in the collapse, ordered to hold this position, then overrun or abandoned. I'd picked its bones clean. The roof-mounted weapons were just the tip of the spear. Inside each vehicle was a carefully curated arsenal: racks of M4s and M16s, crates of grenades (frag and flashbang), stacks of body armor, helmets, and load-bearing vests. Survival gear—water filters, MRE cases, medical kits—filled remaining spaces.
The sheer volume couldn't all fit into the vehicles, even packed tight. That's where the storage scroll came in. Nearly 80% of the non-vehicle loot resided there now, a treasure trove compressed into a roll of parchment:
Weapons Cache:
M4A1 assault rifles (no attachments) x16
M16A2 assault rifles w/ M203 Grenade Launcher x19
M60E4 Light Machine Guns x8
M240B Heavy Machine Guns x13
CAR-15 assault rifles x9
Mossberg M500 shotguns x5
HK M27 IAR assault rifles x12
M136 AT-4 Rocket Launchers x3
M107 Long Range Sniper Rifles (Barrett .50 Cal) x6
MK-19 Automatic Grenade Launchers x3
M72 LAW Rocket Launchers x4
M14 Enhanced Battle Rifles (EBR) x2
M17 handguns x17
M9A3 handguns x13
M249 SAW Light Machine Guns x14
M82A1 SASR Sniper Rifles x2
MK22 MRAD Multi-Role Sniper Rifles x4
M26 MASS Modular Accessory Shotgun Systems (w/ scopes) x7
M110 SASS Semi-Automatic Sniper Systems x8
Remington 870 shotguns x3
HK MP5 submachine guns (no attachments) x8
Remington M24 Sniper Rifles x4
Colt 9mm SMGs x12
Flare guns x17
Support Gear:
Riot Shields x20
Taser X26P stun guns x13
Ka-Bar fighting knives x19
Full military-grade tactical gear sets (helmets, vests, pouches) x5
Twin Mountable M2HB Browning .50 Caliber Machine Gun systems (only two sets)
Crates of suppressors, optics (red dots, ACOGs, sniper scopes), cleaning kits
Cases of fragmentation grenades, stun grenades, smoke grenades
Boxes of specialized ammo (tracer, armor-piercing)
The medical tents yielded an Aladdin's cave: pallets of antibiotics, painkillers, IV bags, surgical tools (scalpels, clamps, sutures), defibrillators, portable oxygen tanks, and stacks of sterile bandages and gauze—all vanished into the scroll.
After securing the military loot, I'd taken the massive oil tanker semi. Its diesel engine roared to life, a monstrous sound in the silent city. Predictably, walkers shambled from alleyways and broken storefronts, drawn like moths to the noise. By the time I reached a shell-shocked gas station a few blocks north, a small horde was pawing at the tanker's sides.
Stepping down, I masked my presence completely. To the walkers, I became air, a ghost. I moved among them, their rotting faces inches from mine, their groans vibrating in my chest. They ignored me, fixated on the noisy semi. Inside the gas station's shattered store, I grabbed armfuls of packaged snacks, bottled water, and a few dusty road maps, tossing them into the semi's cab.
Then, the slow, tense process of filling the massive tank began, the petrol fumes sharp in the air as the walkers milled around the truck, confused and agitated. It took another hour, every second stretched thin with potential disaster. When the tank was brimming, I drove the behemoth back, parking it like a steel fortress wall beside my APC.
After that, I had left to go look for the Vatos, taking care of the elderly somewhere in the city. I had a pretty good idea of where they had been. So it didn't take me long to find them. It was the meeting and convincing them part that had gotten... a little out of hand.
(Flashback: Northside Care Home)
The fading sun bled crimson over the crumbling Atlanta skyline as I approached the Vatos' stronghold. The "Atlanta Sunset Care Home" was less a sanctuary and more a fortress carved from desperation. Sandbags choked the windows, razor wire glinted atop chain-link fencing reinforced with scavenged sheet metal, and the air hung thick with the smell of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and the faint, ever-present tang of decay. Shadows moved behind barricaded slits. Eyes watched.
I walked openly down the center of the debris-strewn street, the Winchester slung casually over my shoulder, hands visible. Fifteen distinct heartbeats. Ten inside the main building, clustered near the entrance hall. Five more positioned as lookouts – two on the roof, one in a wrecked car to the left, two flanking the gate.
A voice barked from behind a sandbagged window, sharp and laced with suspicion. "Alto! Quien eres? Que quieres?" (Stop! Who are you? What do you want?)
"Hadrian," I called back, my voice echoing flatly in the street's silence. "Looking for Guillermo. Heard he run things here. I have a proposition."
Laughter, harsh and humorless, came from the roof. "Propositions get you dead, man! Turn around. Now."
"Need to talk to Guillermo," I repeated, taking another step forward. The click-clack of multiple weapons being readied was the only answer. The lookout in the wrecked car stood, leveling a sawed-off shotgun. The two flanking the gate – wiry men clutching tire irons and machetes – stepped into the street, blocking my path about twenty feet away.
"Last warning, cabron!" the gate guard on the left snarled.
Itachi's instincts, honed in countless silent ambushes and brutal confrontations, flared within me. Their aggression was predictable, their stances unbalanced. They relied on fear and numbers, not skill. A waste of potential.
The gate guard on the right lunged first, tire iron whistling towards my temple. Time seemed to slow, the Sharingan's crimson pinwheels spinning lazily in my mind's eye. His movements were telegraphing sludge. I flowed under the swing, my leg snapping out in a low, devastating sweep (Suiton: Mizu Guruma - Water Wheel adaptation). His ankle bone cracked with an audible snap, and he hit the pavement screaming. Fractured.
The second guard hesitated, shock widening his eyes. That instant was fatal. I closed the distance in a blur, my fingers lancing out like striking vipers (Juken - Gentle Fist principle). Two precise strikes – solar plexus, throat pressure point. The air exploded from his lungs in a choked gasp, and he crumpled, gagging silently, paralyzed.
Chaos erupted.
The lookout in the car fired. Buckshot shredded the air where I'd been a microsecond before. I was already moving, a phantom skipping across the asphalt. Three men burst from the main doors – one with a bat, one with a kitchen knife, one with a pistol. From the roof, a rifle cracked; a bullet sparked off the pavement near my feet.
The pistolero fired wildly. I read the muzzle flash, the minute tremor in his wrist. Before the echo died, I was inside his guard. My palm slammed upward under his chin (Shoten Jutsu - Ascending Heaven Palm), snapping his head back with brutal force. He dropped like a sack of grain.
The bat-wielder swung wildly. I sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and used his momentum, augmented by a subtle chakra push, to hurl him headfirst into the knife-wielder charging behind him. They collided in a tangle of limbs and pained grunts.
A fourth man, burly and roaring, charged from the side with a fire axe. 'Predictable'. I met his charge, ducking under the wild overhead swing. My elbow drove into his kidney (Ura Renge - Reverse Lotus principle), a strike amplified by focused chakra. He bellowed, knees buckling. A swift chop to the back of his neck silenced him.
The rifleman on the roof fired again. I tracked the trajectory, sensed the second shooter shifting position. I scooped up a chunk of concrete and hurled it with chakra-enhanced speed and precision. It struck the first rifleman's weapon with a sharp crack, sending it spinning from his grasp. Before he could react, I was scaling the wall beside the gate in three fluid, chakra-adhered steps (Mizu no Kokyu - Breath of Water wall-walking).
He scrambled back, drawing a knife, eye's wide with shock and fear. But he was too slow. My foot lashed out, catching him square in the chest and catapulting him off the roof. He landed hard on a dumpster below, groaning. Luckily for him, we weren't that high up. The second rifleman froze, staring down the barrel of my Winchester, which I had drawn from my back. He slowly lowered his rifle, raising his hands.
Back on street level, the remaining six from inside had poured out, Guillermo at their forefront. He was younger than I expected, maybe late twenties, but his eyes held the hardened weariness of a leader burdened by survival. He held a well-maintained Glock, aimed steadily at my direction. His crew fanned out around him – baseball bats, pipes, one with a hunting rifle trembling slightly.
"Enough!" Guillermo shouted, his voice tight with fury and shock. He'd seen me dismantle ten of his fifteen men in less than a minute – none dead, but all incapacitated or neutralized. Broken limbs, paralysis, disarming precision. "What the hell are you? What do you want?"
I lowered the Winchester slowly, slinging it back over my shoulder. I kept my hands visible, my posture relaxed but ready. The Sharingan's glow faded from my eyes, leaving only focused intensity. I then dropped down from the top. Creating a small gust of dust scattering.
"I told you," I said calmly, stepping over the groaning man with the broken ankle. "A proposition. My name is Hadrian. I lead a group. Larger than yours. Better armed. Better protected. We're heading south, away from the cities, looking for sustainable shelter."
Guillermo's eyes narrowed. He tried to hid the surprise in his eyes after he saw me casually land back on the ground, "And you want our stuff? Our home?" He gestured bitterly at the fortified care home.
"No," I stated flatly. "I want you. Your people. Your fighters. Your loyalty."
Laughter erupted, this time tinged with disbelief and fear. "You come here, beat down half our crew, and ask us to join you? You're loco, man!" one of the men spat.
"I didn't kill them," I pointed out, my voice cutting through the noise. "I could have. Easily. Every single one of you. But I didn't. Because you have value. You held this place. You protected your people. That takes guts and skill. It's wasted here."
Guillermo kept his Glock level. "Why? Why us? Why not just take what you want?"
"Because the world isn't about taking scraps anymore," I said, locking eyes with him. "It's about building. Surviving isn't enough. We need to thrive. My group has mechanics, doctors in training, fighters. We have heavy armor, enough weapons and ammo to start a war, and a tanker full of fuel." I saw a flicker of interest beneath his suspicion. "But we need more good people. People who know how to fight, how to scavenge, how to hold a line. People who understand loyalty. Your crew has that."
"And what do we get?" Guillermo demanded. "Besides a new boss who kicks our asses?"
"You get survival with a future," I said bluntly. "Real protection. Not hiding behind sandbags waiting to starve or be overrun. You get food, medicine, clean water, safety for your families – I saw the elderly inside the windows." His grip on the Glock tightened. "You get a place where your skills are respected, used to build something lasting. You get a seat at the table, Guillermo. Not as a subordinate, but as a leader within our group. You keep your people together. And also gain the trust of others who'd see as one of them, your people integrating with ours. We become one."
Silence stretched. The moans of the injured men were the only sound. His crew looked from him to me, fear warring with a dawning, desperate hope. The care home was a dead end; they all knew it.
"The old ones… Abuela Rosa, Mr. Harding… they can't travel far," Guillermo said, his voice thick. "It's too dangerous."
"We have armored personnel carriers," I countered. "MRAPs. Like rolling tanks. We have an military trucks. We have buses. We carry our vulnerable inside steel walls. Safer than this place could ever be. We have meds, Guillermo. Real meds, scavenged from military tents. Things your people might need."
He lowered the Glock a fraction, the fight draining out of him, replaced by the crushing weight of responsibility. "And if we say no?"
"Then you stay," I shrugged, the movement deceptively casual. "I walk away. I don't take your supplies. I don't harm anyone else. But you know how this ends. Hordes grow. Supplies dwindle. People get desperate. This fortress becomes a tomb." I held his gaze. "Or you join us. I'm gonna bring my people here, too stay and merge. When the next day comes, all of us will leave this city together, as one group. You become part of something stronger. You give your people, all your people, a real chance."
Guillermo looked back at the care home, at the frightened faces peering from the upper windows, at his injured men groaning on the pavement. He looked at his remaining crew, seeing the same calculation in their eyes. Survival was a brutal math. His shoulders slumped, then straightened with a new resolve. He holstered his Glock.
"Alright, Hadrian," he said, the name tasting strange but decisive. "We join. But your word – protection for the old ones. My crew stays together. We get fair share. And you help us move them, carefully, when it's time to leave."
"My word," I affirmed, extending my hand. "Welcome to the convoy, Guillermo. Gather what you can. And be prepared, once we group up here, we'll rest, then tomorrow we leave Atlanta in the rear view."
He grasped my forearm in a firm, warrior's grip, not a handshake. There was no trust yet, only a hard-won truce forged in the necessity of survival. "We'll be ready. Felipe, Rico – help the injured inside! Martin, start packing Abuela's things! Move, people! Let's get our stuff prepared for a long drive!"
As Guillermo barked orders, his crew scrambling with newfound purpose, I felt a flicker of satisfaction. Fifteen more fighters. More importantly, fifteen more souls added to the strength of the whole. Guillermo was a natural leader; he'd be an asset. The Vatos were mine. The Care Home's value wasn't in its walls, but in the hardened survivors it contained. They just needed the right opportunity… and the right person to show them the path.
The memory of the brief, brutal fight and Guillermo's grudging acceptance faded as I approached the CDC's sealed entrance. The Vatos would be preparing, packing their stuff and waiting for us. Fifteen more fighters. More eyes, more guns, more hands to build. The encounter solidified my advantage. Atlanta's ruins had yielded not just weapons and fuel, but human capital. Guillermo's pragmatism mirrored my own – a recognition of power and a path to survival.
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