The ink on the land deed was barely dry when Marcus folded the heavy paper and slid it into his pocket. A quarter of a square mile. One hundred and sixty-one acres of dense Georgia timber, rolling hills, and thick brush, all sitting just a few miles down the road from a small
town that would soon cease to exist.
The brothers stood at the edge of the dirt road, looking at the overgrown entrance of their new property. The sun was hot, beating down on the red clay. For three months, they had a window of peace before the world rotted, and day one was already slipping away.
"It looks like a mess," Elias said. He was leaning against the rusted frame of an old fence post, cracking his knuckles. He looked short next to Marcus, but his shoulders were wide, his frame packed with dense, heavy muscle that looked entirely unnatural for a guy who was supposed to be twenty-six. He had a small, hard lollipop stick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. "Lots of clearing to do. Lots of blind spots."
"Blind spots can be fixed," Sam said. He was sitting on the hood of the truck they had bought cash down in town. He was seventeen, lean, and looked more like a swimmer than a brawler, but his eyes moved constantly, taking in the treeline, the road, and the sky. "The point is the space. No neighbors looking over our shoulders while we dig trenches. No town council asking why we're laying five hundred yards of high-grade steel fencing."
Marcus didn't say anything at first. He just looked at the land. At six-foot-four, with skin tanned deep from his previous life and hair as white as fresh salt, he stood out like a
beacon against the green woods. He rubbed his palm against the rough fabric of his jeans. His skin still felt weirdly coarse—like sand paper, a weird effect from whatever force had dropped them here.
"We walk the perimeter," Marcus said, his voice deep and quiet. "We map the boundary lines, find the high ground, and locate the water. We need to know exactly what we own before we start bringing in the trucks."
"What about the cash?" Sam asked, sliding off the hood. "The bank account cleared. Five million, seven hundred forty-one thousand. Each. The guy at the local branch looked like he was going to throw up when I asked for a cashier's check."
"We don't spend it all in one place," Marcus replied, turning to walk into the brush. "We use enough to look like rich city boys building a private hunting lodge. The rest stays in the
system until the electricity goes out. Come on."
The woods were thick, filled with briars, pine needles, and the heavy smell of damp earth. Walking through it would have exhausted a normal person within an hour, but the three of them moved with an easy, effortless stride. The transmigration hadn't just given them money, it had packed their bodies with a strange, deep reserve of raw physical power.
Branches that should have scratched their skin cracked and broke against them. They didn't tire. Their hearts beat at a steady, slow rhythm as they pushed deeper into the trees.
Marcus took the lead, keeping his eyes on the iron survey pins left by the county. Every few hundred yards, he would stop, close his eyes, and focus. With a small movement of his hand, a heavy steel spade would appear in his grip from nowhere, then vanish a second later back into his interdimensional storage space. They were all testing their boundaries, ensuring their pockets worked exactly the way the rules said they should.
"The air is clear," Sam remarked, walking a few paces behind. "No smell of rot yet. It's hard to believe this place is going to be full of dead things in ninety days."
"Smart dead things," Elias corrected, spit-shining a small stone he'd picked up. He
squeezed the rock between his thumb and forefinger. Suddenly, the stone stopped moving entirely, locked hard in place in mid-air by his ability, suspended as if gravity didn't touch it.
He tapped it, and it fell to the ground. "The notes said they remember stuff from season one. Turning doorknobs. Using stones to break glass. They aren't just going to stand there and let us shoot them."
"Which is why the fence comes first," Marcus said without turning around. "Three layers. Deep concrete footings. If they can think, they can learn to climb or dig. We don't give them the chance."
They walked for two hours, tracing the jagged rectangle of the property line. The land rose into a rocky ridge on the northern edge, providing a clear view of the surrounding valley.
From up there, Marcus could see the distant roof of a massive white farmhouse surrounded by green pastures and cattle fences.
"That's Hershel's place," Sam said, squinting through the heat shimmer. "The Greene farm. The old man, the two girls, the hired hand. We're close."
"Too close if we aren't careful," Marcus said. "We don't need them looking at us like we're a threat. Right now, we're just three wealthy brothers who bought a big piece of land to build a family retreat. We keep that story straight."
As they descended from the ridge toward the western boundary, the sound of rushing water grew louder. The trees thinned out slightly, replaced by thick bank-grass and old willow
trees. A wide, clear creek cut directly through the middle of the valley, its water cool and
bubbling over grey river rocks. It was a perfect natural resource—wide enough to act as a minor barrier, deep enough to pump from, and clean enough to filter for drinking water.
Marcus stopped at the bank, looking down at the water. "This is the spot. We build the main house three hundred yards back from here. High enough to avoid seasonal floods, close enough to run pipes."
Elias suddenly froze. His dark eyes narrowed, his head tilting toward a bend in the creek further upstream. His hand dropped instinctively toward his waist, where a heavy pistol was hidden beneath his shirt.
"Someone's here," Elias whispered.
Marcus held up a hand, signaling for silence. Sam stepped back into the shadow of a oak tree, his face losing its easygoing look, replaced by the cold, calculating expression of a man who spent his past life reading marks in dark alleys.
They walked quietly along the bank, their boots making no sound on the damp moss.
Around the bend, the creek widened into a shallow pool. A large, wooden water cart drawn by two heavy workhorses sat near the edge. A young, stocky man with a wide brimmed hat was busy adjusting a leather hose attached to a iron pump on the back of the cart. Standing next to him, leaning on a thick hickory walking stick, was an older man with a long white beard, suspenders, and a stern, weathered face.
It was Hershel Greene.
The older man was watching the pump, his brow furrowed. "Get that valve tight, Otis. We don't want to lose half the load on the ridge road. The south pasture is bone dry."
"Working on it, Mr. Greene," Otis grunted, his face red from the effort. "The leather's getting stiff. Needs some oil."
Marcus stepped out from the brush first, his tall frame breaking the treeline. Sam and Elias followed a step behind, their expressions carefully neutral.
The horses snorted, shifting their weight in the mud. Otis jumped, his hand dropping to the small tool belt at his waist, while Hershel turned around slowly, his grip tightening on his walking stick. His blue eyes scanned the three newcomers, taking in Marcus's white hair, Elias's heavy build, and Sam's casual posture.
"Can I help you boys?" Hershel asked, his voice crisp and suspicious. "You're trekking through private property."
Marcus kept his hands visible, his default easygoing smile appearing on his face. He didn't look angry, he looked like a man out for a pleasant afternoon walk. "Actually, sir, I think it's the other way around. We just finalized the deed this morning. This creek sits about fifty yards inside our eastern boundary line."
Hershel's face darkened. He took a step forward, planting his stick hard into the dirt. "Now hold on just a minute. I don't know who you are or what kind of paper you signed in town, but the Greene family has been drawing water from this bend since my grandfather built the homestead. This creek feeds our cattle. It's been our water source for forty years."
Otis stepped up beside Hershel, looking uncomfortable but ready to back his boss. He looked at Elias's thick arms and Marcus's height, his eyes widening slightly.
"I'm sure you have," Marcus said, his voice calm, steady, and entirely devoid of threat. "I'm Marcus Daystar. These are my brothers, Samuel and Elias. We bought the 161 acres from the estate sales down in Atlanta."
"Daystar," Hershel muttered, tasting the name. He looked at the three of them, his
suspicion not fading, but shifting. "You're those city fellas people were talking about at the diner. Buying up land cash, talking about putting up security fences. Look, Mr. Daystar, I don't care how much money you brought from the city. You can't just come down here and cut off a man's livelihood. My cattle need this water."
Elias shifted his weight, his eyes locking onto Hershel with a quiet, dangerous intensity. He didn't like the old man's tone. To Elias, people who stood in the way of the family were just problems to be solved. He reached into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around another lollipop, his jaw tightening.
Sam saw the shift in Elias and subtly stepped into his line of sight, his disarming, charming smile firmly in place. "We aren't here to cut anyone off, Mr. Greene. We're your new neighbors. The last thing we want is to start a feud over a little bit of mud and water."
"It's not a little bit of water," Hershel snapped, though Sam's tone seemed to take some of the wind out of his sails. "It's the lifeblood of that valley. If you dam this up or pipe it out, my farm goes under."
Marcus took two steps forward, his boots sinking slightly into the clay. He didn't look at
Hershel with anger, he looked at him with the pragmatic focus of a businessman closing a mutually beneficial deal. He knew the story. He knew Hershel was a good man, stubborn to a fault, but loyal to those who treated him right. If they fought him now, they would be outcasts when the walkers arrived. If they helped him now, they would have an ally with a massive barn full of supplies and a family they needed to get close to anyway.
"We aren't damming anything, Mr. Greene," Marcus said clearly. "And we aren't piping it away from you. You've used this creek for decades. As far as I'm concerned, you can keep using it exactly the way you always have."
Hershel blinked, his defensive posture faltering. He looked at Marcus, then down at the water, then back up. "You're just going to let us take it? No charge? No legal talk?"
"No legal talk," Marcus agreed, nodding toward the water cart. "The world's a small place,
Mr. Greene. It pays to be friendly with the people next door. Fill your tanks whenever you
need. If you ever have trouble with the pump or the ridge road, you let us know. We're going to be living here a long time."
Hershel was quiet for a long moment. He was an old-school country man, used to developers from the city trying to squeeze every penny out of the local farmers. He looked for the catch in Marcus's eyes, but Marcus just kept that small, relaxed smile on his face.
"Well," Hershel said slowly, his grip on the stick relaxing just a fraction. "That's… neighborly of you, Mr. Daystar. I appreciate it. And I apologize for the sharp tongue. A man gets protective of his land."
"I understand completely," Marcus said. "We're the same way."
Otis let out a breath he'd been holding, looking relieved. "Thanks, mister. Truly. This ridge road is a pain, but the water's worth it."
"Name's Marcus," he corrected gently. "We're going to be starting construction next week.
Clearing trees, putting up some fencing, laying a foundation. You'll probably hear the machinery from your porch."
"What kind of fencing?" Hershel asked, his old suspicions flaring up just a bit. "People in town said you were ordering heavy steel. Like a prison."
Sam laughed, a light, easy sound that made the whole interaction feel normal. "Marcus is paranoid, Mr. Greene. He thinks the economy is going to pieces. Wants a big, sturdy wall to keep out trespassers and poachers. We've got some expensive stock coming in later, and we don't want anyone wandering onto the property by mistake."
Hershel grunted, shaking his head. "City paranoia. The world's changing, I suppose. But around here, a good dog and a shotgun usually do the trick."
"We like to be sure," Marcus said.
"Well, as long as your fences don't cross the creek bed, you build whatever you like,"
Hershel said, turning back toward the cart. "We'll be out of your hair in a few minutes. Otis, finish up that tank."
"Yes, sir," Otis said, pumping the handle with renewed energy.
Marcus nodded to Hershel. "We'll leave you to it. We've still got a few acres to check before dark. Good to meet you, Mr. Greene."
"You too, Marcus," Hershel said, watching them with a thoughtful look as the three brothers turned back into the woods.
Once they were a hundred yards away, out of sight and earshot of the creek, Elias let out a sharp breath, spitting his lollipop stick into the brush. "You're too soft, Marcus. We could have told him to clear out. What happens when we need that water for the base defenses?"
"We don't need it all," Marcus said, his voice dropping back into its cold, administrative
tone. "The creek flows from the north. It hits our land before it hits theirs. We can tap into it upstream, build our storage tanks, and let the overflow run down to him. He won't even notice the difference."
"And more importantly," Sam added, his eyes bright with strategic interest, "we just bought his goodwill for nothing. He thinks we're decent guys. When we go over there to meet the rest of the family, the old man is going to welcome us instead of reaching for his double-barrel. That gives us a foot in the door."
"Exactly," Marcus said. "We need the Greene farm. We need their knowledge of the local area, we need their connection to the town, and when the outbreak starts, we need them to trust us enough to move into our perimeter. Rushing things will only make them
suspicious."
"What's the plan for next week then?" Elias asked, his mood shifting back to the work. "We start hiring?"
"Yeah," Marcus said, stopping near a massive oak tree that marked the center of their land. "Sam, you head into town tomorrow. Find a local contractor who doesn't ask too many
questions if the cash is green. We need crews to clear the center forty acres, pour the foundation for the main house, and start setting the outer posts."
"What about me?" Sam asked. "I'm not staying out here in a tent while the dust flies."
"You won't have to," Marcus said. "Once the contracts are signed, you move into town. Find an apartment near that bakery we saw on the maps. Keep your eyes on the local police chatter, track the news, and start buying up dried goods from the local suppliers. Elias and I
will stay out here, working with the crews, watching the perimeter, and building the physical fort."
Sam smiled, a slow, predatory expression that looked exactly like his character sheet
described. "The town apartment. Sounds good. I can do some intelligence gathering. See what the local flavor is like."
"Just don't get distracted," Marcus warned, his sand paper skin tightening as he frowned slightly. "We have ninety days. That's it. Every hour we waste is an hour the dead get closer to our throat."
"I won't waste time," Sam said.
Elias looked back toward the creek, his dark eyes fixed on the direction of the farmhouse. "The Greene girls. When do we get to meet them?"
"Soon," Marcus said, turning toward the dirt road where their truck was parked. "Hershel will tell them about us tonight. We give it a few days, let the construction noise start, and then we'll pay them a neighborly visit. For now, we get to work."
The sun was setting over the Georgia hills, casting long, bloody shadows across the 161 acres of land. The three brothers walked back to their truck, their minds already moving through the logistics of concrete, steel, and survival. The first piece of the puzzle was in place. They had the land, they had the money, and they had the first connection to the neighbors who would eventually become their family—or their responsibility.
The world was ending, but as the truck engine roared to life and they drove toward the small town, Marcus felt a cold, steady certainty in his chest. They were going to ready.