TWD:Zombie System

A full week had passed since the completion of the 10-meter reinforced walls that surrounded our coastal sanctuary. The Federation was no longer just a secured resort—it had become a self-sustaining city.

Within the repurposed buildings, a school was already up and running. It wasn't fancy, but it was effective—classrooms filled with desks made by our own carpenters, stocked with salvaged textbooks and whiteboards. Education was free for most, though a few higher-level classes cost a minimal unit fee—just enough to keep the system running.

One of the larger side buildings had been transformed into a fully equipped gym. Entry was priced at 3 units, affordable even for the volunteers and soldiers. Many of the gym's weights and treadmills had been purchased beforehand; others were manufactured on-site by our skilled engineers. It was a place not just for fitness, but for morale. Even in a world falling apart, people still needed purpose and strength.

The orphans I supported, now numbering in the hundreds, had been given a large, newly constructed home beside the school, complete with proper insulation, solar power, bunk rooms, and a wide yard. They played, studied, and helped where they could—being raised not in fear, but in hope.

Thanks to the carpenters, engineers, and volunteers, everything was built at record speed. We had professionals from nearly every essential trade—and they worked like their lives depended on it. Because in truth, they did.

Patrols were now fully operational. The volunteers who signed up a week ago had been officially trained and turned into militiamen by Troy and Jessy. They knew how to shoot, how to track, how to respond.

With the influx of newcomers and trained personnel, Max officially announced the name of our new community: "The Federation."

The name spread fast.

People whispered it at the water stations.

They greeted each other with it in the gym.

Including my original staff, volunteers, and trained recruits, our standing army now stood at 623 soldiers.

Each unit was assigned a rotating shift: patrols along the walls, internal surveillance, supply guarding, coastal defense, and crisis response.

From the west docks, our patrol yachts and boats began sweeping nearby islands and shores, looking for survivors. Only in the early days of the fall can you trust strangers. Later? Desperation changes people.

That's why now—while order still flickered—we searched.

Unfortunately, communications were already starting to fail.

A few days ago, the internet went down completely. Most cellular and satellite lines were severed. I couldn't get in touch with Alex Caruso, my lawyer.

I had managed to send him a final message before the lines died:

"If you can't reach me, head for the resort or Federation now. Go by sea. It's safer than land."

Whether he received it or not… I didn't know.

The convoy I dispatched to Virginia, to protect my largest orphanage, had also gone silent. No radio contact. No message. Just… silence.

I hoped it was just congested highways. I've seen the traffic pileups from the watchtowers—hundreds of abandoned cars, some bloodied, some with broken windows. Whatever happened, I could only wait.

That morning, Troy approached me, holding a satellite receiver with a grim look.

"Sir, I just intercepted a shortwave from the government," he said.

"They're declaring Safe Zones in key cities across multiple states. Florida, Texas, California, Georgia, New York."

I took a deep breath.

That lined up. If I was right, this was the same time Madison and her family were trying to flee Los Angeles, only for the military to arrive and lock down the city.

The clock was ticking.

Just as the evening sky dimmed over the resort, Troy's radio crackled to life.

"Sir, this is Watchtower 3—be advised. We've spotted movement. Dozens approaching from the roadside… heading toward us."

Troy glanced at me sharply.

"Sir… we've got company."

I stood from my seat on the balcony and nodded.

"Let's move."

We rushed through the compound, climbing the makeshift wooden stairs built into the interior of the wall. These stairs led to the upper battlements, where several soldiers were already stationed inside the reinforced wall outposts—an intentional design choice during construction.

Atop the wall, the wind blew gently, but the atmosphere was tense. Men and women lined the parapets, rifles aimed outward. Spotlights lit the road beyond.

I stepped forward, Troy right behind me. One of the younger soldiers turned to me, confusion and anxiety in his voice.

"Sir… what the hell are they doing? Why are they walking like that?"

I squinted into the distance.

They were shambling figures—dozens of them—staggering down the road, their bodies jerking unnaturally. Some limped. Others dragged broken limbs. Blood smeared their skin and clothes. But most terrifying was the look in their eyes:

Empty. Dead. Hungry.

"They've noticed us," I muttered. "Look at how they move."

Another soldier whispered in disbelief,

"Are those… people?"

"Look closely at their faces," I said. "They're already dead."

Gasps rippled through the line.

"Raise your weapons. Aim for the head. Don't fire until I give the order."

They obeyed, though hesitation was thick in the air.

"Sir… are we really going to shoot at people?" one of them asked, voice trembling.

"They're not people anymore," I said grimly. "But if you don't believe me, shoot one in the body."

A soldier near the center fired—a clean hit to the chest of one of the walkers.

The figure stumbled… but then kept walking.

Another soldier tried. Then another.

The results were the same. The undead kept advancing.

Now panic set in.

"What the hell?!"

"Why aren't they going down?"

"It went through him!"

I raised my voice.

"HEADSHOTS ONLY. They're already dead!"

That snapped them out of it. The remaining volunteers steadied their aim. The next volley of shots rang out with a chilling rhythm—crack, crack, crack—as walker after walker dropped with holes in their skulls.

Troy stepped beside me, eyes narrowed.

"Sir… how did you know?"

I didn't flinch.

"Got a tip from someone inside the CDC," I lied. "He warned me."

Troy nodded, though I could tell he was skeptical.

"Give me a weapon," I said.

Troy reached over and handed me a custom FN SCAR-L rifle, modified with a red dot sight and an underbarrel grip.

I stepped forward, took aim, and fired.

One shot. One kill.

The walker's head burst like a watermelon.

Just then… a sound echoed in my mind.

Ding!

System Activated

—Zombie Control System—

My eyes widened. The world seemed to freeze for a moment.

What the hell? A system? In the world of The Walking Dead? Is this real?

I stared at the words hovering in front of me—blue holographic text, just like in an RPG or a novel. No one else seemed to notice it.

I blinked hard. The gun still warm in my hands. Gunfire continued beside me, soldiers now executing walkers without hesitation.

Is this some kind of hallucination?

No. It felt… real.

The text updated again:

Host Recognized: Marcus Walt

Zombie Control System Unlocked

You can now control walkers.

Conditions: One for every 10 you've killed.

This... is insane.

A system—like in those stories—but in The Walking Dead world?

I shook my head, refocusing as the last few walkers dropped under a hail of bullets. Smoke rose from barrels. The air stank of blood and decay.

Troy looked at me.

"Sir… you okay?"

"Yeah," I replied, gripping the rifle tighter. "Just… processing."

But deep inside, I knew—

Everything just changed.

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