TWD:Zombie System

We pitched our military-grade tents just beside the Black Hawk, the soft hum of its cooling systems fading into the desert night. A few lanterns flickered under the dark sky, casting long shadows over our black uniforms. The others kept their rifles nearby—just in case—but I told them to relax, at least for tonight.

Sitting around a makeshift campfire, Garry passed around a can of beans while Wen double-checked our equipment manifests.

"Think they'll cooperate?" Wen asked, stirring his cup of instant coffee.

"They're desperate," Garry muttered. "They'll take the help."

I looked across the camp to where some locals were watching from a distance—half curious, half suspicious. A few kids peered out from windows. Their parents stayed behind fences.

"They're not used to uniforms," I said. "Not like ours."

Wen nodded. "We look like we belong in Baghdad, not a ranch."

"Let them wonder," I said. "By morning, they'll know exactly why we're here."

The Next Morning

The Ranch came to life with quiet motion—people feeding animals, moving crates, patching up fencing. For a place prepping for collapse, it looked… surprisingly normal.

Then Jeremiah Otto called everyone to the courtyard.

People paused, curious. Whispers filled the air as they gathered around the open space between the barns and the main house. I stood near the front, arms behind my back, flanked by Garry and Wen. My men stayed near the tent, alert but still.

"Who are they?" someone whispered nearby.

"I heard they flew in last night. From Florida or something."

"Are those real guns?" a teenager asked, wide-eyed.

Once the crowd settled, Jeremiah stepped forward, his voice loud and clear.

"I want to thank everyone for showing up on short notice. We've had new arrivals. Some of you have noticed the helicopter outside, and I know many of you have questions."

He gestured toward me.

"These men were sent by Marcus Walt—some of you may have heard the name. Young entrepreneur, and investor. Marcus has built something back east. Now, he joins us as one of the Founding Five of Broke Jaw Ranch."

The crowd murmured at that.

"Standing here is France Oxwel—Marcus's representative. He speaks with Marcus's authority."

Jeremiah stepped back and gave me the floor.

I stepped forward, letting my voice carry:

"My name is France Oxwel. I'm here on behalf of Mr. Walt, who couldn't be here in person due to operations at our Florida base. However, he's entrusted me with full command of all security and defense matters at this Ranch."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"From this day forward, I will be working closely with one of your own founders, Phil McCarthy, to structure and train our defenses. Patrols. Watch systems. Safe zones. Everything."

Phil, standing beside me now, raised a hand.

"Marcus didn't just send troops," he said. "He sent us a lifeline. One hundred million dollars—in hard cash. Delivered last night. That money will help us secure the last shipment of supplies, weapons, fuel, medical gear, and more. The final delivery arrives this afternoon."

That got a reaction.

"One hundred million?!"

"He gave that much for us?"

"What's the catch?"

"Does that mean we're joining his… what, his group?"

Some were excited. Others skeptical. But hope had a voice again.

I raised my hand to settle the murmurs.

"Marcus Walt doesn't believe in ruling people. He believes in building something that lasts. But that takes structure—and security. That's my job now."

A moment of quiet passed over the crowd.

Then a voice in the back said, "It's about time someone took security seriously."

Another muttered, "If they're bringing real soldiers, I'll sleep better tonight."

I stepped back, letting Jeremiah close it out.

"We've got a long way to go," Jeremiah said. "But with this new support—we've bought time. Let's use it wisely."

The crowd dispersed slowly, more energized than before. Some glanced back at me. Not with fear this time—but maybe with trust.

Or at least curiosity.

After breakfast, the sun had risen high enough to bake the dust under our boots. My team and I sat beneath a large shade tarp near our camp, sipping instant coffee and eating ration packs. The locals had offered us some eggs and bread, which we gladly accepted. It wasn't much, but it meant something. A gesture of peace.

A few curious ranch residents lingered near our tents—asking light questions, mostly harmless.

"You guys from the government?" one man asked.

"Private unit," I replied simply. "We work for someone who planned ahead."

"That Marcus guy?"

I nodded.

Some asked about the Black Hawk. Others asked where we were from. Wen did most of the talking—he had a calm tone people found reassuring. Garry remained silent, always watching.

Once things settled down, I stood and spoke loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.

"We're looking for volunteers," I announced. "Anyone who wants to learn. Who wants to protect their home. You don't need to be a soldier—just willing."

I told them we'd be waiting near our camp, and by noon, anyone interested could stop by.

A Few Hours Later

By mid-afternoon, a group began to form.

Thirty people stood before me—some uncertain, others already gripping rifles with practiced ease.

Among them was a young man I'd seen earlier hanging around the main house. He stood with confidence, arms crossed, a pistol at his side.

I approached him.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Troy Otto," he replied.

I blinked. "Jake's little brother?"

He nodded. "Yeah. That's me."

He had the same sharp eyes as his brother but a far more volatile edge.

"You know how to handle a weapon?" I asked.

"Better than most," he said with a smirk. "Want me to prove it?"

I chuckled. "No need. I believe you."

Among the others was Mike Trimbol, who introduced himself shortly after.

"I'm Mike," he said. "Vernon's son."

"Another founder's kid?" I noted. "Looks like this place has more spine than I thought."

He and Troy stood together, clearly already close. Both young, but both experienced. Behind them, Phil McCarthy stepped forward—hands clasped behind his back.

"I want in, too," Phil said.

"You're a founder," I raised a brow.

"I'm also a soldier. I served once, I'll do it again."

That caught me off guard—but it made sense.

"Alright," I said. "Including the three of you and my men, that gives us forty-one."

I glanced at the faces. "That's a militia."

I couldn't help but smirk.

Marcus sent me here with more than just money and weapons. He sent me to plant a seed. He wants to expand, not just resources, but influence—and he's doing it through me.

"Smart bastard," I murmured under my breath.

Some of the volunteers looked nervous, but others—like Troy and Mike—were eager.

We handed out basic gear to those without weapons, and Garry split them into three provisional squads.

After the gear-up, I addressed the group again:

"Next step is patrol duty. I want to know every inch of this land—inside and out. We're going to scout the perimeter, establish routes, identify weaknesses, and log every useful resource or possible threat within a five-mile radius."

Troy stepped up beside me, already checking the map.

"I know the terrain," he said.

"Good. Then you're leading the first recon team."

Mike nodded and joined him.

I had Wen begin mapping out patrol zones and supply caches. Garry began assigning comms to each squad leader.

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