Rick adjusted the fit of the scuffed sneakers he'd scavenged from the floorboard of an abandoned sedan. They weren't a perfect fit—slightly tight across the toes—but he wasn't walking barefoot anymore, and that was enough.
He kept his eyes moving. Everything around him felt surreal.
The world had bled into silence. No hum of engines, no distant chatter of TV sets, no barking dogs or overhead planes. Just wind, rustling weeds, and the faint growl of the undead somewhere out there—always just beyond sight.
Rick looked up at the sky.
The sun was dipping westward, its position casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt and tilting the world into gold and amber hues. The clouds glowed with soft heat, and the angle of the light hit the hospital's walls in slanted rays. That kind of light—soft but low—told Rick what he needed to know.
It was afternoon.
Late, maybe two or three hours of light left.
Ahead of him, Grant suddenly raised a fist and stopped cold. Rick mirrored the motion instinctively, his cop training still alive inside him like muscle memory.
Grant narrowed his eyes toward the far end of the street, then turned slightly toward Ghost and Rick.
"There's a man up ahead," he said in a low voice. "Adult male. Black. And a kid with him. Boy. Might be his son."
He didn't say it aloud, but there was recognition in his eyes.
"Ghost, stay with Rick," Grant said. "I'm going ahead."
Grant moved swiftly, slipping down the street with silent precision. But then, he froze mid-step.
Across the intersection, a cluster of walkers—eight in total—were emerging from alleyways and broken doorways, slowly encircling the man and child. Rick watched as the man already swinging a metal bat tried to cover his son, turning in frantic arcs as the walkers shuffled closer.
Without hesitation, Grant dropped to a crouch. His rifle rose.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Eight precise, suppressed shots rang out, sharp and clean like nails driven into wood.
Each bullet found its mark, through an eye socket, a cranium, the rotted base of a skull. One by one, the walkers dropped mid-step, collapsing in grotesque silence.
The man froze, bat still raised. He looked around at the sudden carnage, breathing hard. Then he saw Grant, lowering his rifle from the crouch, already rising to his feet.
Grant raised one hand in a slow wave that is non-threatening, and then motioned behind him.
"Let's show ourselves," he called softly over his shoulder.
Rick and Ghost stepped into view.
The man's posture shifted, not exactly defensive, but guarded and protective. The boy stood close to him, wide-eyed and shaking slightly.
Grant approached with calm confidence, keeping his hands visible.
"You okay?" he asked.
The man nodded slowly, still catching his breath. "I… yeah. Thank you. You—saved us."
"It's no problem," Grant replied. "You were in trouble. Helping people's still the right thing to do."
He gestured behind him.
"My name's Grant. The man in the mask is Ghost. And the other one is Rick. He was the sheriff of this county."
Rick gave a small wave, unsure of what to say. He was still adjusting to the idea that this was his town, his world that is now hollowed out and broken.
The man relaxed, just slightly.
"I'm Morgan. Morgan Jones."
He nudged the boy beside him, who was still trembling.
"Go on, son," Morgan said softly.
Grant knelt slightly so he was closer to the boy's level. "You're safe now," he said gently.
The boy swallowed, nodded once, and spoke.
"M-my name is Duane. Duane Jones."
"Good to meet you, Duane," Grant said with a reassuring smile.
Grant glanced at Morgan and Duane, then spoke with steady confidence.
"We have a survivor camp—well, actually, it's more than that now. It's a community. A proper community."
Morgan raised an eyebrow. "What's the difference?"
Grant nodded, as if expecting the question. "A camp is just people trying to get by, barely holding on. But a community—well, it's organized. It's got structure. Rules. People living together with a purpose beyond just surviving."
He paused, looking toward the distant farmland visible beyond the trees. "It's set up on farmland, a few miles out from here. Not far, especially if you have a car. It's fortified, established… it's a place people can live, not just hide."
Morgan's gaze sharpened, shadows crossing his face. "Is it safe? I'm tired of seeing people die. I want Duane to be safe. I want us both to be safe."
Grant met his eyes directly. "It's as safe as anything can be nowadays. The base is surrounded by reinforced concrete panels—thick, solid walls built to keep walkers out. The whole thing covers about eight acres."
Morgan looked skeptical but stayed silent, listening.
"We have people manning it 24/7. Watch posts, patrols. There's a medical team—doctors, nurses—right inside the walls. We grow our own food, so we're not always out scavenging."
Grant's voice grew firmer. "This base isn't just a camp. It's a safe-zone. People live there. They sleep without fear of walkers shuffling in. They eat without scrounging through garbage. They're protected."
Morgan's eyes went wide, the weight of Grant's words sinking in. It was hard for him to believe something like that still existed.
Then a small voice broke through Morgan's heavy thoughts.
"Dad," came Duane's shaky whisper, "we should go. We'd be safe there. We wouldn't have to look for food all the time, or be scared of walkers at night."
Morgan looked down at his son, the boy's hope shining in his eyes.
Slowly, Morgan nodded. "Alright. We'll go."
Grant smiled and pulled a radio from his pack. "Good. I can call ahead. They'll send a retrieval team to pick you up."
Morgan glanced at Grant. "How about you three? What will you do?"
Grant's eyes hardened with determination. "We're helping Rick find his family first."
Morgan nodded in understanding. "Then we'll head to the community first. I hope you find your family."
Rick gave a small but hopeful smile.
Grant keyed the radio. "This is Grant. Two survivors here for pickup."
Static crackled for a moment before a clear voice replied: "Copy that. Retrieval team en route. ETA ten minutes."
Morgan looked down the road. "We'll need to go to the house where we left our things."
Grant nodded. "Ghost will come with you. When the retrieval team arrives, let me know over the radio."
He looked at them both with genuine warmth. "Welcome to the community."
Duane's eyes brightened, and he asked, "What's the community's name?"
Grant smiled softly. "It's called Fort Emberfield."
Duane's brow furrowed. "Why that name?"
Grant explained, "An ember is a small, glowing spark—something that survives even after the fire dies down. Fort Emberfield represents that spark of hope, the light we're all fighting to keep alive."
Morgan smiled faintly, and Duane nodded, as if that spark was already beginning to glow within them.
x
The group had split at the crossroads—Grant and Rick heading toward Rick's old home, while Morgan, Duane, and Ghost made their way through the silent, overgrown streets toward the house where Morgan and his son had been staying.
As they walked, Ghost kept a measured pace, his eyes sweeping every alley and rooftop with the instincts of a soldier. Dressed in worn civilian clothes under a tactical vest, his skull-patterned balaclava gave him an aura that left Duane both fascinated and slightly unsettled.
"How far's the house?" Ghost asked, voice gravelly but calm.
"Two blocks out," Morgan replied.
Duane, curious as ever, glanced up at the masked man walking ahead of them. "What's your real name?"
Ghost turned his head slightly, pausing for a beat before answering. "Name's Riley, kid. But call me Ghost."
Morgan smiled faintly at the exchange. "He's always been a curious one."
Ghost gave a slight nod but didn't respond further.
Morgan, walking beside him, spoke again. "You military?"
"Yeah. I was," Ghost said flatly, not elaborating.
"How'd you guys manage to build a walled community like that? I mean, materials must've been hard to come by."
"You'll have to ask Grant," Ghost replied, brushing the question off. "Or wait till you're at Fort Emberfield."
The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Ghost was not the type to make idle conversation, and Morgan sensed it. Duane, though curious, kept his questions to himself, occasionally glancing at Ghost with a kind of wide-eyed wonder.
As they walked, Morgan's thoughts drifted. He couldn't stop thinking about Jenny—his wife. She would've loved a place like Fort Emberfield. A home. A real one. Safe, with food, doctors, walls, and people.
But she was gone. And it was his fault.
[FLASHBACK]
The memory came back in sharp, colorless fragments. A quiet house they thought was safe. Morgan hadn't checked the entire place—he was tired, careless. And Jenny… she had gone into the kitchen to look for food.
The sound that followed would haunt him forever.
A snarl. A crash. Then screaming.
He rushed in to find her pinned beneath a walker, its teeth already sinking into her shoulder. He pulled it off, smashed its skull with the bat, but it was too late. She was bitten.
"I'm not staying," she had said later, her voice calm but resolute, masking the fear behind it. "You and Duane won't be safe if I turn."
Morgan stood there, frozen. He couldn't speak. Couldn't stop it.
Jenny hugged Duane tightly, whispering, "Be brave. I'll always be with you, baby."
Then she turned to Morgan and said "I love you" —he couldn't even meet her eyes—and walked to the door. She gave them both one last look.
And stepped outside.
Morgan never forgave himself.
[END FLASHBACK]
The rest of the walk passed in silence. Ghost, ever alert, surveyed rooftops and windows. Duane kept close to his father.
They reached the house.
Inside, Morgan and Duane quietly gathered the few things they had: food, spare clothes, a framed picture of their family. Ghost stayed at the door, eyes on the road, rifle in hand.
Then a crackle came through his radio. "Retrieval team here. Just arrived at the corner."
Ghost peeked out and saw the pickup truck rolling to a stop down the street. He whistled sharply and waved an arm.
The driver responded, steering the truck toward them.
"Your ride's here," Ghost called out.
Morgan and Duane stepped out with their bags just as a man from the truck's cargo bed hopped down. He was lean, sharp-eyed, and carried himself like someone who'd seen combat. A rifle was slung across his back.
He approached Ghost, who gestured toward Morgan and Duane.
"Hello there," the man said, addressing Morgan. "Are these all the things you'll bring with you?"
Morgan nodded. "Yeah, that's everything."
The man extended a hand. "Jack Reacher, by the way."
Morgan shook it, smiling despite himself. "Morgan Jones."
Jack turned to Duane. "Let me give you a hand with that."
He helped load their things into the back of the pickup as Morgan hoisted his own bag into the cargo. As he did, he noticed Ghost turning to walk away.
"Be safe," Morgan called out.
Ghost paused and gave a silent nod, then vanished down the street like a shadow.
Jack clapped Morgan on the shoulder. "Don't worry about Ghost. He was special forces. It's not him folks should worry about. It's whoever's stupid enough to cross him."
Morgan gave a tight nod and climbed into the backseat with Duane. Jack returned to the truck bed, rifle at the ready.
The truck started with a low rumble and began to pull away from the house.
Morgan leaned back, glancing out the rear window one last time.
And then he saw her.
His wife.
Jenny.
Or what was left of her.
She was walking—staggering—toward the road, pale and lifeless, her eyes vacant, her movements hollow. A walker. Drawn by the noise of the engine.
She just walked after the truck, arms twitching slightly, mouth parted.
Morgan couldn't speak.
Duane hadn't seen her—thank God.
The truck turned a corner, and Jenny disappeared from view.
Morgan lowered his eyes.
He didn't say a word.