Week passed since the massacre. The fortress, once filled with screams and tension, now breathed with an unfamiliar calm. In those weeks, Peter, Bruce, and Will had found a strange sense of peace—though the shadows of the past still lingered in their eyes.
Each morning, they awoke early, helping the others with morning patrols or repairs. Peter, no longer just a silent follower, had begun teaching the teens how to maintain the old weapons and fix damaged vehicles. He'd even laughed a few times, something Bruce had taken notice of.
"You're starting to look alive again," Bruce joked one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow.
Peter only smirked. "Trying to be."
Will, always the quieter of the three, had taken on assisting Sister Maria in the makeshift clinic. Between tending to wounds and handing out water, he found a sense of purpose that had long eluded him.
---
In the bunker, Marcus stood before Dean, holding a clipboard and a grim look.
"We salvaged what we could," Marcus said. "Most of the soldiers' weapons are worn out. Rusted barrels, cracked stocks, old M4s barely holding together. But they'll shoot... barely."
Dean nodded. "Ammo?"
"Low, but manageable for small groups. Enough to hold a position, not take one."
Marcus paused, flipping the clipboard.
"Also found three Humvees. Two are beat-up—missing doors, flat tires. But one's operational. And… we got a tank. An M1 Abrams, but it's out of fuel and its comms are fried."
Dean chuckled. "A tank with no fuel is just a metal coffin. We keep it here. Might be useful later."
Marcus gave a tight nod. "Understood."
---
Later, outside near the gate, Dean approached Peter, who was helping a teen clean an old rifle.
"Got a question," Dean said.
Peter stood, wiping oil from his fingers. "Yeah?"
"Back in your camp," Dean began. "Any survivors left?"
Peter's expression tightened. "Yeah. Scattered group. Maybe twenty, maybe less. Hidden in what's left of a warehouse district. It was our fallback base when things went bad."
Dean looked out toward the horizon.
"You want to save them?" he asked.
Peter didn't hesitate. "Yes."
Dean nodded. "Then here's the plan. You, Bruce, and Will—you'll lead that group from now on."
Peter blinked. "Wait, lead?"
Dean stepped closer. "You've seen what happens when people like Malcom are in charge. You've been through enough to know how not to be like him. It's your turn now."
Peter was quiet.
"We'll send you out with one working Humvee and one backup, loaded with what we can spare. Guns, basic meds, food. The tank stays here— you three, You'll be the bridge. Build that camp back up. We'll maintain contact by radio. We'll resupply you every few weeks—so long as you keep the people safe."
Peter looked to Bruce and Will, who had stepped beside him. He saw the uncertainty in their faces. But also the trust.
He nodded.
"I'll do it," Peter said.
Dean smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Then start preparing. You leave at dawn."
Peter looked up at the rising moon and whispered to himself, "No more running."
Dawn arrived with a silver glow casting over the fortress walls, the early mist hugging the ground like a ghostly blanket. At the garage, Dean stood with Marcus, overlooking the preparations. The garage floor buzzed with activity—teens and adults alike helping load crates and containers into two battered but working Humvees.
Peter, Bruce, and Will walked in with determined steps.
"All set?" Dean asked, turning to Peter.
Peter nodded. "Ready."
Inside the Humvees were neatly packed supplies—three crates of ammo, mostly for M4s and a few sidearms. A duffle bag held loaded magazines, spare parts, and cleaning kits. Next to them were three large boxes of canned food, dried meat, and bottles of purified water. Marcus had also included two first aid kits, alcohol, gauze, antibiotics, and a defibrillator that still worked—barely. They even managed to scavenge a radio repeater unit and an old gas-powered generator for backup power.
Dean handed Peter a map.
"Follow the old highway until you see the burned-down cinema. Cut through the alley and it should lead you right to your old warehouse. It'll take hours, but keep quiet and don't waste fuel."
Peter grinned faintly. "Yeah, yeah. I know the roads."
Dean extended his hand. "You're not just going back, Peter. You're building something now."
Peter shook his hand. "I won't fail them. Or you."
---
By mid-morning, the Humvees rolled out through the fortress gates. The heavy doors groaned as they opened, revealing the barren, ruined stretch of city ahead. Bruce drove the first Humvee, Peter next to him with the map in hand, and Will followed in the second vehicle, eyes scanning the horizon.
The journey was quiet—eerily so. Burned-out cars, broken glass, and signs of past battles littered the road. Once or twice, they spotted a few roaming undead in the distance, but the convoy didn't stop.
---
They arrived by late afternoon.
The old warehouse looked exactly as Peter remembered—half the windows shattered, steel beams scorched from past fires, the heavy metal gate chained from inside. As they parked the vehicles and honked twice, the gate creaked open cautiously.
"Peter?" a voice called.
Out stepped a ragged group—ten, maybe fifteen people, men and women, older teens and a couple of kids. Among them was Lydia, a woman who once led medical efforts there, and Jerome, a former firefighter.
"You're alive!" Lydia gasped.
Peter stepped down and opened the crates, revealing the food and supplies.
"We all are," he said. "And now it's time we live better."
The survivors gathered around, eyes wide, some in tears. Peter explained everything—the truth of what happened to Malcom and John, the fall of the false leaders, and the massacre that brought their regime to an end.
"No more sending civilians to die for supplies," Peter said firmly. "No more silence when others suffer. We're building something here. Something real."
He handed out weapons to those who could handle them, making sure each person had at least basic training.
"These are for defense only. Zombies. Bandits. No one pulls the trigger on another survivor."
They nodded.
Then, the rebuilding began.
Using old scaffolding and metal sheets, they fortified the warehouse walls. Jerome took charge of welding steel panels to the front gate. Others reinforced windows with wood and rebar. The younger ones dug trenches for water flow and makeshift drainage in case of a storm.
Bruce and Will helped direct efforts while Peter stood on a crate, looking over the small but determined crowd.
"This place isn't perfect," he said. "But we will make it a home."
---
That night, the moon hung high as Peter sat inside the makeshift radio room. The old unit crackled, finally catching a signal.
"Dean, this is Peter. Do you copy?"
A brief silence. Then:
"Loud and clear," Dean replied.
Peter smiled. "They accepted us. We're already setting up the perimeter. Might take a week or two to be secure, but we'll manage."
"Knew you would," Dean answered. "I'll send a supply run in four days. Until then, hold the line."
Peter stared into the darkness beyond the window, then clicked the radio again.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"…Thanks. For everything."
A pause. Then:
"Just don't let it fall apart. Not again."
Peter nodded, even though Dean couldn't see it.
Dawn arrived with a silver glow casting over the fortress walls, the early mist hugging the ground like a ghostly blanket. At the garage, Dean stood with Marcus, overlooking the preparations. The garage floor buzzed with activity—teens and adults alike helping load crates and containers into two battered but working Humvees.
Peter, Bruce, and Will walked in with determined steps.
"All set?" Dean asked, turning to Peter.
Peter nodded. "Ready."
Inside the Humvees were neatly packed supplies—three crates of ammo, mostly for M4s and a few sidearms. A duffle bag held loaded magazines, spare parts, and cleaning kits. Next to them were three large boxes of canned food, dried meat, and bottles of purified water. Marcus had also included two first aid kits, alcohol, gauze, antibiotics, and a defibrillator that still worked—barely. They even managed to scavenge a radio repeater unit and an old gas-powered generator for backup power.
Dean handed Peter a map.
"Follow the old highway until you see the burned-down cinema. Cut through the alley and it should lead you right to your old warehouse. It'll take hours, but keep quiet and don't waste fuel."
Peter grinned faintly. "Yeah, yeah. I know the roads."
Dean extended his hand. "You're not just going back, Peter. You're building something now."
Peter shook his hand. "I won't fail them. Or you."
---
By mid-morning, the Humvees rolled out through the fortress gates. The heavy doors groaned as they opened, revealing the barren, ruined stretch of city ahead. Bruce drove the first Humvee, Peter next to him with the map in hand, and Will followed in the second vehicle, eyes scanning the horizon.
The journey was quiet—eerily so. Burned-out cars, broken glass, and signs of past battles littered the road. Once or twice, they spotted a few roaming undead in the distance, but the convoy didn't stop.
---
They arrived by late afternoon.
The old warehouse looked exactly as Peter remembered—half the windows shattered, steel beams scorched from past fires, the heavy metal gate chained from inside. As they parked the vehicles and honked twice, the gate creaked open cautiously.
"Peter?" a voice called.
Out stepped a ragged group—fifteen, maybe twenty people, men and women, older teens and a couple of kids. Among them was Lydia, a woman who once led medical efforts there, and Jerome, a former firefighter.
"You're alive!" Lydia gasped.
Peter stepped down and opened the crates, revealing the food and supplies.
"We all are," he said. "And now it's time we live better."
The survivors gathered around, eyes wide, some in tears. Peter explained everything—the truth of what happened to Malcom and John, the fall of the false leaders, and the massacre that brought their regime to an end.
"No more sending civilians to die for supplies," Peter said firmly. "No more silence when others suffer. We're building something here. Something real."
He handed out weapons to those who could handle them, making sure each person had at least basic training.
"These are for defense only. Zombies. Bandits. No one pulls the trigger on another survivor."
They nodded.
Then, the rebuilding began.
Using old scaffolding and metal sheets, they fortified the warehouse walls. Jerome took charge of welding steel panels to the front gate. Others reinforced windows with wood and rebar. The younger ones dug trenches for water flow and makeshift drainage in case of a storm.
Bruce and Will helped direct efforts while Peter stood on a crate, looking over the small but determined crowd.
"This place isn't perfect," he said. "But we will make it a home."
---
That night, the moon hung high as Peter sat inside the makeshift radio room. The old unit crackled, finally catching a signal.
"Dean, this is Peter. Do you copy?"
A brief silence. Then:
"Loud and clear," Dean replied.
Peter smiled. "They accepted us. We're already setting up the perimeter. Might take a week or two to be secure, but we'll manage."
"Knew you would," Dean answered. "I'll send a supply run in four days. Until then, hold the line."
Peter stared into the darkness beyond the window, then clicked the radio again.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"…Thanks. For everything."
A pause. Then:
"Just don't let it fall apart."
Peter nodded, even though Dean couldn't see it.
"I won't."