The morning light didn't bring much warmth, but it brought clarity. After a night of fitful sleep and the rhythmic scratching of Jenny Jones against the front door, the group moved with a grim, silent efficiency.
Rick was looking more like himself. Morgan had found an old set of clothes for him—a civilian jacket and work pants that replaced the thin hospital gown. But it was Rick's suggestion that set the day's objective.
"The station," Rick had said over a breakfast of cold granola bars. "The precinct isn't far. If it's still standing, we can get weapons, vehicles, and maybe a way to communicate. We're going to need more than a baseball bat and a flashlight if we're heading into Atlanta."
Ken nodded in agreement. "Inland or urban, firepower is the only universal language right now. We need to go."
The walk to the King County Sheriff's Department was tense. Ken took the point, his grey eyes constantly scanning the eaves of houses and the gaps between parked cars. He moved with a low center of gravity, a habit from years of patrolling narrow streets in the Middle East. He felt light—dangerously light without his ceramic plates and combat load—but his speed was undeniable.
When they arrived, the station looked like a fortress that had simply been forgotten. A few walkers lingered near the perimeter fence, their skin sagging off their bones like wet parchment.
"Stay back," Ken whispered to Rick and Morgan.
He didn't want to use the rifle and draw a crowd. Instead, he drew the heavy kitchen knife he'd taken from Morgan's. He whistled—a sharp, short burst. One of the walkers, a man in a tattered business suit, turned its head with a sickening wet crack and began to shuffle toward him.
Ken waited until it was within five feet. He stepped inside the creature's reach, grabbed the back of its matted hair, and drove the blade upward through the base of the skull. The walker went limp instantly. He repeated the process for the second one, his movements fluid and devoid of hesitation.
Rick watched him, his brow furrowed. "You've got a talent for that, Ken. A scary one."
"It's just biology, Rick," Ken replied, wiping the blade on the grass. "Let's get inside."
…
The interior of the station was remarkably preserved. It smelled of stale coffee and old paper. Rick led them straight to the armory. The heavy steel door was locked, but Rick found his old keys in a hidden drawer.
As the door swung open, the sight was enough to make Ken's tactical heart skip a beat. Racks of Remington 870 shotguns, rows of Glock 17s, and several Colt M4 carbines sat waiting in the dim light. Crates of ammunition were stacked along the back wall—9mm, .223, and 12-gauge shells.
"Jackpot," Ken breathed.
He moved with professional intent. He didn't just grab everything; he organized. He grabbed two heavy-duty duffel bags from the supply room. In one, he packed the long guns and extra magazines. In the other, he began stowing boxes of ammunition, ensuring the weight was balanced.
"Take this," Ken said, handing Rick a Colt Python that had been sitting in a glass display case. It was a beautiful piece of hardware, heavy and reliable.
Rick took it, the weight of the steel seemingly grounding him. "This was mine. Or one like it."
"Keep it close," Ken said. He then turned to Morgan, handing him a Remington shotgun and several boxes of shells. "Morgan, you know how to use this?"
"I do," Morgan said, his voice low.
While they were packing, a low hum began to vibrate through the floorboards.
"The generator," Rick said, a look of disbelief on his face. "It's on an automatic cycle. If there's still fuel in the tank, it's still running."
The realization hit them all at once. In a world that had gone cold and grey, the idea of a generator meant more than just lights. It meant the boilers were still holding onto a flicker of heat.
"Hot water?" Morgan whispered.
They didn't waste time. They took turns in the station's locker room. For Ken, stepping into the shower was a religious experience. The hot water hit his skin, washing away the grime of two different lifetimes. He looked down at his body—the lean, unscarred muscles of an eighteen-year-old. He felt the strength returning to his limbs, fueled by the calories he'd forced down that morning.
He scrubbed his short black hair, closing his eyes. For five minutes, he wasn't a Marine, and he wasn't a survivor. He was just a kid in a shower.
When he stepped out, he felt reborn. He dressed in a set of tactical fatigues he'd found in a locker—they were slightly big, but he cinched the belt tight. He felt like a soldier again.
…
They met back at the loading dock, their bags packed and a white sheriff's cruiser gassed up and idling. The hum of the engine felt like a roar in the silence of the town.
The air was different now. The brief moment of comfort in the showers had passed, replaced by the reality of the road ahead.
"We're heading for Atlanta," Rick said, looking at Morgan. "The refugee center. My family... they would have gone there. You should come with us."
Morgan looked back toward the neighborhood, his eyes drifting. He held the shotgun Ken had given him with a white-knuckled grip. "I can't. Not yet."
Ken watched Morgan's face. He knew exactly what the man was thinking about. He was thinking about the woman at the door. He was thinking about the "problem" he had to solve before he could move forward.
"Morgan," Ken said, stepping forward. "You don't have to do it alone. I can come back with you. We can clear the house, make it safe, and then catch up to Rick."
Morgan shook his head, a single tear tracking through the steam-cleansed skin of his cheek. "No, Ken. It's my burden. I let it happen. I have to be the one to end it. I have to... I have to say goodbye."
Ken saw the resolve in the man's eyes and knew that further pushing would only cause a rift. He reached into his pack and pulled out a small, handheld radio they'd found in the station.
"Channel four," Ken said. "Every day at dawn. We'll check in. If you change your mind, or if you get into trouble, you call. We won't be far."
Morgan took the radio, nodding solemnly. "Thank you. Both of you."
Rick and Morgan shook hands—a silent pact between two fathers who had lost the world. Then, Morgan turned and began the long walk back toward the suburban houses, the silhouette of the shotgun over his shoulder.
…
Ken climbed into the passenger seat of the cruiser, his duffel bags at his feet. Rick took the wheel, his hands steady on the column.
As they pulled out of the station parking lot and began to drive toward the highway, Ken looked out the window. The town of King County was shrinking in the rearview mirror.
"You okay?" Rick asked, glancing at the teenager.
Ken checked the action on the Glock he'd tucked into his waistband, the metallic clack-slide a comforting sound. "I'm fine, Rick. Just thinking about the map."
"What map?"
"The one in my head," Ken replied. "Atlanta is going to be a hornets' nest. The military tried to hold it, which means it's where the most people went, and where the most people died. We aren't going to the center. We stay on the outskirts until we find a vantage point."
Rick looked at him, surprised by the strategic depth. "You really are your father's son, aren't you?"
Ken looked at his young, brown reflection in the side mirror. His grey eyes looked older than the face they were set in.
"I'm whoever I need to be to get us through this, Rick," Ken said.
The cruiser accelerated, the tires humming against the asphalt as they left the small town behind. Ahead of them lay the highway to Atlanta—a road paved with abandoned dreams and thousands of hungry ghosts. But for the first time, Ken didn't feel like a victim of fate. He was a Marine with a mission, a de-aged warrior in a world of monsters, and he was finally ready to start writing his own story.
"Let's go find your family," Ken said.
Rick nodded, his jaw set. "Let's go."