"Are you sure we're really doing this, boss?" one man whispered, his voice barely louder than the faint crackle of his cigarette.
The small group stood far from the supermarket's main entrance, tucked behind stacks of abandoned carts and half-broken crates.
It was a spot most people avoided—too dark, too quiet, too close to the shattered windows where zombies once clawed their way in.
From here, they watched the others inside the supermarket.
People were busy, all moving with purpose.
Some reinforced the doors with metal sheets Ross had provided.
Others sorted through supplies, cleaning up the place and trying to make it feel like a real shelter instead of a temporary hiding spot.
Their faces were tired but hopeful, trusting Ross to keep them safe.
The leader exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift upward before answering.
"I'm sure," he said, eyes narrowing as he observed Ross's supporters inside. "But we don't rush anything. No mistakes."
The others leaned closer.
