TWD:Zombie System

The atmosphere had changed.

Where once there was unease and uncertainty, the streets and open paths of our settlement were now alive with energy—people talking, laughing, training, and moving supplies.

The walls surrounding us now stood tall—ten meters high, built with steel, reinforced concrete, and salvaged materials from every source Max and his logistics team could find. The main gate was a marvel of layered defense: double-reinforced, hydraulically assisted, with retractable metal teeth that could stop even a charging vehicle. It wasn't perfect—but it could withstand a siege.

Around the perimeter, fifteen watchtowers had been constructed.

Ten of them were stationed along the walls, positioned at strategic points with overlapping fields of fire.

The remaining five stood along the beach near our dock, facing the ocean. Just in case something—or someone—came from the water.

Each tower could hold up to five people and was now outfitted with mounted machine guns, spotlights, and early warning systems. My engineers even rigged makeshift alarm systems linked by solar-powered comms.

Troy had been overseeing the arming and training of the tower teams himself.

Since I made the announcement about defense recruitment, over 500 people had volunteered to join our security force. Many were ex-military, police, hunters, or survivalists. Others were simply citizens who wanted to fight for their future.

We weren't just a safe zone anymore.

We were becoming a nation in the making.

Earlier that morning, I finalized something I had been thinking about since the beginning.

We couldn't keep calling this place "the camp" or "the resort."

We needed something stronger. A banner to rally under.

So I made it official:

"The Federation."

A name that implied unity, structure, and power. A name that would one day be feared or respected by anyone who heard it.

I sent Max to announce it to the population, to every household and radio operator across the settlement. He'd handle that while Troy kept training the new militia units.

While walking through the training area, I spotted two familiar faces. They were near the garden, enjoying the morning sun and chatting with others.

I approached with a smile.

"Good morning, Mrs. Anna Jones. Freya."

Jessy's mother and younger sister turned toward me. They looked so much like him—same strong features, same alert eyes. It felt like I was seeing Jessy through them.

Mrs. Anna smiled warmly. "Marcus. It's good to see you. Thank you… for watching over my son."

"He's family," I replied. "I'd trust him with my life."

Freya nodded, her voice quieter but sincere. "We're lucky. Most people out there didn't get a warning. We got time—because of you and Jessy."

I looked at the bustling settlement behind them. People building, cooking, farming. Children laughing.

"Yeah," I said. "We're the lucky ones. But it's our job now to make sure the unlucky ones find a place here too."

After a few more words, I said my goodbyes. They wished me well, and I promised to keep checking on them.

Not far away, I passed the training grounds where Jessy and Troy were working side by side. Ray was with them too. The three of us had always trained together—gun ranges, obstacle courses, survival drills.

We were bonded not just by money or foresight—but by something deeper.

Now, our training was being passed on to others.

I knew I'd get a report from Troy and Max later today, and probably from France over at Broke Jaw Ranch too. But for now, I just took it in—the sight of our people coming together.

As I walked back toward the administrative buildings, I ran into Leo Grant, the manager of the old resort—now one of the key organizers of our new world.

He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Leo," I said, raising a brow. "You should relax before you pass out. I might need you again in five minutes."

He gave me a long, tired look, then sighed and chuckled under his breath.

"With all due respect, sir, you already dumped half your job on me."

I smirked. "True. But you're good at it."

"Tell that to my eye bags."

I clapped him on the shoulder. "Seriously, go rest. Take a nap. You've earned it."

He gave a half-hearted salute and shuffled off muttering, "God help me if something explodes while I'm sleeping."

As the sky dimmed and the cool breeze rolled in from the coast, I stood by the window in my office, watching the soft orange hues bleed into the darkening waves.

The satellite radio buzzed.

"Sir, it's France," one of the guards said, handing it to me.

I pressed the receiver to my ear.

"Go ahead."

France's voice crackled through, steady and professional.

"Marcus, the last shipment of supplies arrived at the ranch this afternoon. Ammunition, food, spare parts—everything. I've also started training the militia. Including the eleven of us, our numbers are now forty-one strong."

"Good work," I replied. "Keep the area secure. Prioritize defense first. Then start sending scouts beyond the perimeter—into the city, rural areas. See if there are any survivors worth bringing in."

"Understood," he said. "Same protocol?"

"Same," I confirmed. "Be cautious. The time will come when not everyone can be trusted anymore."

"Copy that, sir," France responded, then signed off.

After the call, I took a long hot bath to wash off the fatigue of the day. The heat calmed me, the scent of cedarwood soap lingering in the air. It was one of the few luxuries I still allowed myself. In the world we were building, cleanliness and calm were rare currencies.

By the time I dried off and changed into a clean shirt, dinner was ready.

On the dining table in my quarters, Laseya—my personal maid—and Chef Dominique had laid out a fine meal. They'd both once worked in high-end hotels I owned, and when the world began to shift, I brought them—and their families—with me.

Tonight's dinner was as elegant as ever:

Seared wagyu steak, medium-rare, with a truffle glaze

A side of asparagus in lemon butter

Creamy mashed potatoes topped with chives and garlic oil

A glass of aged Bordeaux from my private collection

And for dessert: vanilla crème brûlée, torched just right

Even in the apocalypse, I kept the old world alive… at least for a little longer.

On the Balcony

After eating, I made my way to the balcony overlooking the central courtyard of the Federation. The torches below flickered as people moved about—some chatting, some training, others sharing food near the main fire.

Moments later, Max and Troy joined me, standing at either side.

The night breeze rustled my shirt as I looked out at the dark ocean in the distance.

"Troy," I said, turning to him. "I want patrols assigned. Not just along the walls—internal sweeps too. I don't want anything slipping through the cracks. Use shifts. Stay unpredictable."

He nodded firmly. "Understood."

"And prepare for operations at sea. We have boats, we have fuel. It's time we start securing the coastline. That beach may be our greatest strength—or our biggest weakness."

Troy cracked his knuckles. "I'll have crews assigned by morning. I've already had the ships checked. Ready to sail."

"Good."

Max leaned against the rail, arms crossed. "Everything's in motion," he said quietly.

I nodded, looking up at the stars above.

"It has to be."

We were building the future.

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