Chapter 2: Improvised Recruitment
Perspective: Kiyotaka Ayanokouji
The remnants of civilization crunched beneath my shoes, as if reminding me that all of this once had structure. Every step confirmed the same truth — there was no order left. No law. No purpose.
I saw the store by chance. It didn't stand out, yet its façade was too intact.In a world where everything collapses, what still stands screams a message.
I went inside without much thought.
The air smelled of old wood and dust. The walls were lined with useless objects — radios, clocks, cameras, books no one would ever read again. I wasn't looking for anything.
A shelf in the back was pushed slightly forward. I crouched and found an improvised hinge. I pulled. It opened into a crude compartment, hidden behind old boards and moldy posters. Inside, a metal box sealed with a numbered lock.
Carved above it, with a knife, was a riddle — deliberate, selective. Not meant for the weak, but to separate them.
He who walks among wolves and stays silent does not fear death.
Divide the number of bodies that fell in Boston by the letters of the one who started it.
Subtract the years since the outbreak.
Add the steps between the capitol and the bench where Betty's body was found.
The result is the code.
I read it in silence, again and again. This wasn't an ordinary trap. It required specific knowledge — access to events that few would even remember. But I had the pieces.The name Betty wasn't new to me. I had found her corpse on a bench, checked her bag, and there it was — her ID.
I counted the steps I'd taken from the nearest capitol building to that same bench.I looked through the magazines scattered around the shop, checking their publication dates.
It took me less than five minutes.
1301.
The lock fell open with a dry click.
Inside the box: a precisely folded sheet of paper and a dusty radio. I opened the paper.
Jackson. 43.6026° N, 110.7368° W.
If you solved this, then you live for something beyond instinct.
Come. We'd like to meet you.
Jackson. A fortified community.
I didn't feel excitement. I wasn't sure if it was curiosity… or boredom.But I decided to go.
Time Skip.
The sun was setting slow. Its orange light brushed across the rotted wood, stretching long shadows over the dirt path.Before me rose Jackson's wall — primitive logic made tangible: height, thickness, vigilance.
I stopped.
A figure moved atop one of the towers. Another followed. Seconds later, two rifles leveled at my head.
"Don't move!" one of them shouted. His voice was tired but firm.
I didn't raise my hands. I simply looked at them.
"I came by invitation," I said calmly. "I solved it."
They exchanged glances.
A brief murmur, then radios crackled.Minutes later, the heavy gears groaned — the massive gate opening like something long asleep.A man appeared through the gap.
Rugged clothes, trimmed beard, steady eyes.
"You solved the riddle?" he asked, voice calmer now but still measuring every detail of me.
"The metal box. The shop near the 89 crossing. The radio. The coordinates."
I said everything plainly.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "I left that box there years ago. Never thought anyone would find it, much less solve it."
He studied me carefully, as if trying to understand what didn't fit.
"Tommy Miller," he said, offering his hand. "Welcome to Jackson."
I accepted.
He gave a small nasal laugh and turned around.
"Lower your guns, boys. He's here on his own. Let him in."
The gate opened fully. I stepped through without hesitation.
Inside, the world was different. Decay still clung to everything, but here, the struggle was alive. Children ran with worn but clean shoes. Makeshift gardens. Laundry swaying on ropes. People. Life. Structure refusing extinction.
Tommy walked beside me.
"That uniform…" he said, glancing at me. "Don't see much of that around."
"You could say that."
Not a lie — just omission.
"And you're still wearing it," he added after a pause. "How long have you been out there?"
"I was born a few years after the outbreak."
Tommy gave a soft whistle — more respect than surprise.
"Got a name, kid?"
"Kiyotaka."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
He nodded, not pressing further.
We crossed a small plaza — a woman knitting beside a fire, two men hauling sacks, a barking dog tied to a post. Everything worked. Fragile, but functional.
"What were you looking for?" Tommy asked. "Why follow those coordinates?"
I didn't answer right away. Watched the children playing with a deflated ball, an adult joining their laughter.
"I wanted to see if the message was real," I said finally. "If there were still people capable of building something. People with humanity."
Tommy went quiet. Then smiled faintly.
"Maybe there are," he said — with a kind of hope I'd never seen before.
We kept walking.
He stopped in front of an old building that once might've been a library. Now the windows were boarded and a rough wooden sign hung above: Coordination Center.
"What can you do, Kiyotaka?" he asked as we went inside. "You don't seem ordinary."
"Who knows," I said.
Tommy chuckled under his breath, as if he'd expected that.
"There's a group of kids around your age training here — part of the patrol system. They rotate shifts, watch the walls, check the crops… small jobs."
"Volunteers?" I asked, more confirming than curious.
"Mostly. Some were born here, others showed up like you. Carrying sacks of flour, risking your life, killing infected — not everyone finds that thrilling."
I nodded in silence.
"Ever handled a weapon?" he asked as we descended into what looked like a logistics basement.
"Yes."
Not a lie. The White Room had taught me far more than any army could.
"Combat experience?" he asked, cautiously this time.
"Also."
Tommy stopped, studying me — curiosity and distrust crossing in his gaze.
"You don't look military," he said. "But you don't talk like a civilian either."
"Maybe because I'm neither."
He didn't reply. Then opened a metal door at the end of the hall.Inside, a group of teens trained with bows, blunt knives, and maps spread across a table. One hurled a makeshift spear at a target — missed by inches.
"This is the young squad," Tommy said. "Not soldiers, but they know how to move. They patrol in teams, report suspicious stuff, help when there's trouble outside."
A curly-haired girl turned toward us.
"New guy?"
"Maybe," Tommy replied. Then looked at me. "If you want to stay in Jackson, you'll have to contribute. We can give you a bed, hot meals, safety… but not for free."
"Can I choose to join?" I asked.
"Sure," Tommy said. "Or you can stay with the civilians. But if you've already survived out there, this might feel… familiar."
I watched the group. Some laughed together; others traced routes on the maps. None seemed weak, but they weren't soldiers either.
"When do they start?" I asked.
"In two hours — short patrol west. One of the veterans leads them. You can tag along if you like."
"I will."
Tommy smiled.
"Good. I'll get you a radio, a light pack, and a sector map. Oh, and some clothes that actually fit…"
Time Skip: Jackson — a few hours later.
The air smelled of rust and damp.The walls of the abandoned warehouse were thick with mold, the windows long shattered. Dust floated like a fine mist. Outside, silence. Inside, everything felt trapped.
Dina led the group. A sawed-off shotgun slung across her back, worn from years of use. She turned, scanning each of us.
"Remember what Tommy said — no splitting up. If you hear anything weird, you tell me."
Her eyes paused on me for a moment. She said nothing.
There were five of us total: one girl besides Dina, two boys, and me. The warehouse was part of the old west route, a checkpoint used to scavenge tools, wiring, and sometimes signs of raiders.
"Think there are infected here?" asked the girl clutching her knife.
"If there are, they shouldn't be moving in this cold," Dina replied, steady.
We advanced in line. I walked behind her, silent, observing more than speaking. Every corner, every shadow, every object on the ground — potential traps.
One side door hung half open. Dina raised her hand.
"Wanna check that out, Kiyotaka?" she said, not fully turning. "Since you're so quiet."
I stared at her for a few seconds.
"I'll check it."
I stepped forward carefully. The door creaked faintly. Inside — a small office with no roof, soaked papers, toppled cabinets. Nothing useful. Nothing alive.
I came back.
"Well?"
"Dead as the old radios at Coordination," I said.
She let out a dry, short laugh.
"Well, look at that… he does have a sense of humor."
We kept moving until the room opened wider — tall metal shelves, most empty.Then I heard it.
A dry, guttural click.
"Clicker!" Dina shouted — just before one leapt from above, landing on the youngest boy.
Everything blurred. Screams. Knives clattering. A shelf collapsing in a thunderous crash.Another infected lunged from behind some crates, tackling one of the girls to the floor.
Dina raised her shotgun — too far. She wouldn't make it.
But I could.
I jumped on the infected pinning the girl. No scream. No hesitation. I drew the knife strapped to my leg and drove it straight into its decayed throat. The clicking stopped instantly.
I turned. The boy was still struggling beneath the first one.
I ran.
A rusted pipe lay on the ground. I grabbed it, swung hard — the skull cracked with a dull, wet sound. Silence followed.
Only ragged breathing remained.
The girl stared up at me, eyes wide. The boy's face was streaked with blood — not his own.In the distance, Dina lowered her shotgun.
"Jesus…" she muttered, walking closer. "Everyone alright?"
"I… yeah…" the girl stammered.
"Thanks…" the boy whispered, trembling.
I wiped my hands with a rag from my pack. Said nothing. Just scanned the room.
"How did you know they'd attack right there?" Dina asked, checking the shelves.
"It smelled of moisture and meat," I said. "And there was an echo when we passed through the aisle."
The steel gates groaned open.
The air here smelled different: burnt wood, fresh bread, wet dogs. The hum of a generator. Murmurs of life.
Dina dismounted first, shotgun slung over her shoulder.I followed, one strap of my pack hanging loose.
Tommy was waiting, walking fast toward us, jacket open, flashlight in hand.
"What happened out there? That was supposed to be a dead zone, not a red one," he said, eyeing the group's state.
Dina didn't answer immediately. She looked back — at the exhausted, scraped, silent kids.
"Clickers," she said. "Two. Maybe three."
Tommy frowned. "And everyone made it?"
"Yeah. Thanks to him." She gestured toward me — dryly, as if careful not to sound impressed.
Tommy looked at me closely.
"You saved them?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stood there, dust clinging to the edges of my jacket.
"They were distracted."
Tommy folded his arms, nodding slowly. "Guess you weren't bluffing when you said you knew how to handle yourself," he said, genuinely surprised.
Dina clicked her tongue with a small grin.
"Come with me a sec," Tommy said.
Time Skip – Minutes later. Jackson, Residential Zone.
We walked through dim streets. The sun still clung to the world.Children ran past in oversized coats. Someone strummed a guitar in the distance.
"This place isn't perfect," Tommy murmured, "but we try to make it livable."
He led me to a two-story house a bit apart from the others. Wooden walls, solid roof. Not luxurious — but warm. An old flag hung at the porch corner.
"Not many free spaces left," he said, searching his pocket for a key. "But this one's good. Sturdy. Private."
He opened the door.
Inside: clean, old furniture in decent shape. A small stove, a made bed, a shelf of disordered books.
"They'll give you clean clothes at the supply center. There are shower shifts if you want one. Meals twice a day — unless you're on patrol."
I turned to him, waiting.
Tommy studied me — that mix of leader and older brother.
"What you did out there… they told me, and I saw it in their faces."
"And here, that counts."
He walked toward the door.
"Tomorrow, talk to Maria. She'll want to know more about you. And if you don't mind… I'd like you to keep joining the patrols."
"With Dina?"
"With her, with others. We'll see."He smiled slightly."You'll fit in fast. You already are."
He closed the door softly, leaving me in this new silence.
Just a bed. A stove.And for the first time in a long while… something that resembled home.
By the way… who's Maria? Well, he's gone now.
Since I came here, since I arrived, I've let the tide carry me. And now I'm here.
Is this freedom?Is this what I was aiming for back there?
I wonder what comes next.
End of chapter.