TWD:Zombie System

The afternoon sun beat down on the dry hills of Blaine County, casting long shadows over the modest ranch house that served as the heart of the Broke Jaw Ranch. Inside, the air was cooler—tense, but calm.

Four men sat around an old wooden table, their voices low but firm.

Jeremiah Otto, founder and de facto leader.

Russell Brown, the realist and businessman.

Vernon Trimbol, ex-military and their logistics planner.

Phil McCarthy, the stubborn one, and their quartermaster.

Sitting off to the side but clearly listening were Jeremiah's sons—Troy Otto, arms crossed and always twitchy, and Jake Otto, calm, leaning on the armrest of the couch.

Jeremiah leaned back in his chair, sipping lukewarm whiskey.

"We've got enough supplies to last months," he said. "But it's the next shipment—the last bulk—that'll make or break us long term."

Phil McCarthy scowled, voice tight. "It's not just supplies, Jer. It's ammo, fuel, the things that'll really matter. If we don't get that shipment. How are we gonna use our guns? since our ammo won't last for a long time."

Vernon nodded. "We didn't expect things to escalate this fast. Whatever's happening… it's going global."

Russell cleared his throat. "There's something else. A rumor."

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

Russell leaned in, his voice dropping.

"Word is, Marcus Walt just liquidated all of his assets. His lawyer, Alex Caruso. Quiet move, but it leaked."

Phil narrowed his eyes. "The soon to be billionaire investor Marcus Walt?"

"Yeah," Russell said. "Owns tech, and business in various industries, even some resort land down in Florida. My guy helped Caruso process the paperwork. Marcus told them to rush it, no delays."

Vernon whistled low. "If he's moving, that means he knows what's coming."

Phil tapped his fingers on the table. "Then that last shipment matters even more. And maybe… just maybe—we bring Marcus in."

Jeremiah glanced at him.

"You want to bring him into this?"

Phil shrugged. "We're building a community. He has money, resources, connections. Why not invite him? Or partner up."

Russell added, "He had over 300 million in assets. If he's serious, he's already built something. But if we play our cards right, we can still get him on board."

Jeremiah sighed, pulled out his old satellite phone, and hit a number.

"Let's find out."

Marcus:

"Jeremiah," He said evenly.

"Marcus," My gruff voice crackled through. "I heard what you've been doing. Liquidating your assets. Building something."

He didn't say anything.

"I've started something too. A safe place. A ranch in Nevada—Broke Jaw Ranch, Blaine County. We've got people, land, water, fences… but the truth is—we're strapped. The supplies I ordered are stuck. The rest of my assets are tied up."

"I know you've got resources, Marcus. We've worked together before. If you're in a better position, maybe you'd consider backing us. Or even joining us."

There was a pause.

Marcus:

"I already have my own stronghold, Jeremiah. Fully secure. We're building a self-sustaining city here."

Silence.

Then, quieter—just a little softer—I said:

"Understood. Still... I'll send you our coordinates. Let's keep the lines open. Maybe we can still work together in some way."

[The call ended.]

I put the phone down.

No one spoke for a moment.

Phil was the first to break it.

"That's it? He's got a fortress in Florida, and we get crumbs?"

Vernon rubbed his chin.

"Didn't sound like he was closing the door completely. He's just... cautious. Probably thinks we'll fold."

Russell added, "Or maybe he's watching. Waiting to see if we survive before he commits anything."

Jake Otto, who hadn't spoken yet, finally said:

"Smart move. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn't trust anyone either. Not with the way things are going."

Troy scoffed, standing.

"Doesn't mean we stop. Means we prove we're worth backing. He's not the only power out there—but he might be the biggest one rising."

I nodded. My grip tightened on the table edge.

I want everyone to hold for now," I said firmly, my voice cutting through the room. "Wait a day or two.

POV- France

The rotors sliced through the desert night like a whisper of war.

Inside the UH-60 Black Hawk, the low hum of the engine was the only sound besides our steady breathing. Night vision goggles glinted faintly over black uniforms. Eleven men, fully geared, locked and loaded.

"Almost there, sir," the co-pilot said through the headset.

"Good," I replied, then turned back to my men.

"Stay sharp. This might be peaceful, but we don't take chances."

I glanced at Garry Sandhu, my right-hand man. He held the sealed aluminum briefcase on his lap—inside it, $100 million in crisp, pre-arranged stacks. Marcus had entrusted it to me, and his word was final.

This bird wasn't empty either. Our Black Hawk was military-grade, outfitted with:

Two M134 Miniguns mounted on the doors

Countermeasure systems

Advanced comms gear

Reinforced armor plating

Our loadout matched—black tactical gear, encrypted comms, ballistic vests, thermal scopes. We looked like a private army, and in truth, we were Marcus Walt's first line of defense.

As the Ranch's perimeter lights came into view, a voice crackled over the radio.

"Unidentified Black Hawk, this is Broke Jaw Ranch. State your intent. Over."

I smirked slightly.

"Jake Otto?" I said into the radio. "This is France Oxwel, representing Marcus Walt. We spoke years ago—back when your dad tried to acquire those logistics drones from us."

There was a short pause. Then:

"France…? Alright. Permission granted. Landing pad is clear. Over."

We descended silently into the Ranch, our landing stirring up a small sandstorm. People emerged from nearby buildings, eyes wide, alarmed. Many weren't armed, only a few had rifles slung on their shoulders. Clearly, they weren't used to this kind of presence.

I motioned for Garry and Wen, one of our logistics officers, to follow me. The rest of the team remained with the helicopter, keeping guard.

We stepped onto the ground—boots crunching against dry dirt—as heads turned our way. Whispers followed us.

Jake Otto met me halfway, hand extended.

"Didn't expect a full escort," he said, half-smirking.

"You know Marcus," I replied, shaking his hand. "He doesn't do things halfway."

Jake led us into one of the larger homes, a dimly lit room where five men were seated around a wide wooden table. The scent of cigars and coffee lingered in the air.

Among them, I recognized:

Jeremiah Otto, the Ranch patriarch

Phil McCarthy

Vernon Trimbol

Russell Brown

And a younger man I didn't recognize, likely a junior.

I didn't waste time.

"Gentlemen," I said, placing a hand on the case Garry carried. "Marcus Walt sends his regards. He is currently leading preparations elsewhere and cannot be here in person. However, he's granted me full operational authority to act in his name."

I gave Garry the nod. He unlocked the suitcase and opened it with a smooth hiss—rows of tightly packed bills, glinting under the light.

"One hundred million dollars," I announced flatly. "Marcus wants you to use this immediately. For food, weapons, fuel—whatever you need to finish your setup. But do it fast. He believes something big is coming. Soon."

The room fell silent.

Phil leaned forward, nearly gawking. "This is real money?"

"Every bill is certified and clean," Wen replied calmly. "We flew it straight from Florida."

Jeremiah cleared his throat. "And what does Marcus want in return?"

I looked each of them in the eye.

"Marcus wants a seat as one of the founding members of Broke Jaw Ranch. In name, and in influence. And as for me—I'll be handling all security matters moving forward."

Russell looked skeptical. "You're taking over security?"

"I'm reinforcing it," I clarified. "You're spread too thin, unarmed, and exposed. I'll coordinate with one of you—whichever founder you assign—to help oversee the defense of this place."

There was a long pause.

Then Jeremiah nodded. "Done. He's earned it. And we could use the support."

The others nodded in agreement, one by one. Even Phil, after a moment's thought.

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