Andrew stopped a few yards short of the gate and raised his hands, just enough to show he wasn't a threat.
The men behind the fence shifted. Shotguns stayed up. No one fired.
"That's close enough," one of them called. His voice cracked, just slightly.
Andrew nodded. "Fair."
He glanced back once, lifting two fingers. The Rangers halted with him, spreading out but keeping their weapons slung.
Andrew stepped forward alone.
"I'm Lieutenant Andrew Mercer," he said. "Army Ranger. I'm operating with what's left of the military presence around Atlanta. We've been checking nearby farms—seeing who's still holding out."
No response.
"We just came from Hershel Greene's place," he continued. "About two miles back. You know him."
That did it.
A murmur rippled through the people behind the fence.
"He alright?" someone called.
"He is," Andrew said. "Shook up. But safe."
The man at the gate hesitated, then lowered his shotgun an inch. Not much—but enough.
Andrew let the silence sit before speaking again.
"We're not here to take anything," he said. "Not animals. Not land."
A pause.
"What we are doing," Andrew went on, "is identifying farms that are still operational. Places that can help keep people from starving down the line."
"You want us to feed an entire city?" someone else called out.
Andrew shook his head. "No. Not a city. The number of survivors we've located so far barely reaches a thousand."
That landed hard.
"So few," someone whispered.
The older man stepped forward then—weathered, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp with worry more than anger. He looked back at the people behind him, then returned his gaze to Andrew.
"And what do you offer in return?" he asked. "World might've gone to hell, but I won't let anyone take advantage of my family."
Andrew met his eyes without flinching.
"Supplies," he said. "If you need something, we can provide. In exchange, you provide a portion of what you produce."
The man studied him.
"And if we refuse?"
Andrew didn't change his tone. "Then you are on your own. You scavenge, trade, and defend yourselves however you see fit."
The man's jaw tightened—but he didn't look away.
"There's also the risk of raiders," Andrew added. "If you work with us, we can help reinforce your security and respond if something moves through this area."
Silence followed.
The gate still didn't open.
But no one raised their weapon higher either.
For a long heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then the older man shifted his weight and reached back, pushing the gate just wide enough for one person to pass.
"You can come in," he said to Andrew. "Alone."
His eyes flicked past him, toward the Rangers. "Your men stay outside."
Andrew nodded without hesitation. " Alright."
He turned halfway, lifting his hand.
"Hold here," he said. "Set overwatch. Watch the tree line and the fence for walkers. No one drops their guard."
"Roger that," one of the Rangers replied immediately.
"Copy," another said. "We'll keep eyes out."
"Perimeter stays tight," a third added.
Andrew met their eyes one by one, a silent check-in.
"Call it in if anything moves," Andrew said.
"Will do," came the answer.
Satisfied, Andrew stepped forward.
The gate creaked as the ranch owner pulled it wider, just enough to let Andrew through before closing it again behind him with a heavy clang of metal on metal.
The sound echoed across the yard.
Inside the fence, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Chickens scattered across the dirt, pecking at feed spilled near a trough. A few women stood closer to the farmhouse, children tucked behind their legs, watching him with wide eyes. Elderly men lingered near the porch, hands folded, measuring him in silence.
Andrew stopped just inside the gate, hands still visible, posture relaxed but alert.
The ranch owner gestured toward the farmhouse.
"Let's talk."
Andrew followed him in, aware of the eyes on his back.
The ranch owner led Andrew away from the gate, toward the side of the farmhouse where a long wooden picnic table sat beneath a patchwork of shade. A tarp had been strung between two posts to block the worst of the sun.
Plates were still on the table. Tin cups. A half loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. A skillet sat cooling near the edge, grease congealed at the bottom. Breakfast, interrupted.
As they walked, Andrew's eyes moved naturally across the ranch. Cattle stood in a fenced pasture beyond the house, heads low as they chewed, tails flicking lazily. A few calves stayed close to their mothers. The fence line was reinforced with scavenged wire and rough-cut lumber, patched but solid. Gates were chained. Lines of sight had been cleared deliberately, the brush cut back, approach lanes opened.
Someone here knew what they were doing.
The people inside the fence watched them pass. Not openly hostile, but wary. Conversations hushed. A woman gathered two children closer as Andrew walked by. An older man leaned on the porch railing, eyes narrowed, measuring him from boots to shoulders.
Andrew kept his hands loose at his sides, palms visible when he could. His MP5 hung diagonally across his vest, sling tight but nonthreatening. The weight of his sidearm rested against his hip, familiar and reassuring. He didn't touch either.
He slowed as they reached the table, letting the ranch owner choose where to sit first.
The man pulled out a bench and sat, elbows resting on the scarred wood. He studied Andrew for a moment longer before speaking.
"Name's Thomas Reynolds," he said finally. "This is my land."
Andrew took the opposite bench, sitting carefully, posture straight but unforced, giving an acknowledgement nod.
Reynolds studied him for a moment.
"Alright," he said. "Then let's skip the dance. You said you can offer supplies. What exactly can you offer that we can't get ourselves?"
Andrew let the question sit for a beat.
"As I said before," he replied, "what you need, we can provide—in exchange for a portion of the food you produce."
Reynolds didn't interrupt.
"We plan to bring the power back on as well," Andrew continued. "There's still enough infrastructure left to make this work. Power lines are damaged, not gone. Substations are intact. Once we get the lines repaired, we can start bringing power back online—selectively."
Reynolds raised an eyebrow. "We've got generators. Plenty of fuel."
"For now," Andrew said. "Diesel breaks down. Gasoline goes bad even faster. You can stretch it, filter it, ration it—but sooner or later, it stops being reliable."
Reynolds stayed quiet, listening.
"If you're willing to coordinate food production," Andrew went on, "we can tie you into the restored grid. Cold storage. Pumps. Electric fencing. Lights at night. Constant power."
The wind shifted, rustling the tarp above them.
"And that's not all," Andrew added. "Atlanta has a hospital secured. Running. Staffed. Limited, but functional."
That got a reaction.
Reynolds' jaw tightened.
Silence settled over the table again. Somewhere nearby, cutlery clinked softly as someone cleared away breakfast.
Reynolds exhaled through his nose. He looked past Andrew once more, toward the cattle, the fences, his people.
Then back again.
"Alright, Lieutenant," he said slowly. "I agree to your offer." After a moment he added."But we'll need to discuss what and how much we can give you," he said, "and what we'll need from you in return."
Andrew inclined his head. "That's reasonable."
Several minutes passed as the two men talked it through—quantities, frequency, storage, transport. No raised voices. No posturing. Just careful, deliberate negotiation. When it was done, Reynolds extended his hand.
Andrew took it. Their grip was firm, mutual.
Reynolds stood and gestured toward the gate. "I'll walk you back."
They moved across the yard together. As they walked, Andrew kept his eyes moving—not scanning for threats, but reading people. The way conversations stopped when he passed. The way a few faces turned away too quickly. The way others watched him like they were waiting for something to go wrong.
Halfway to the gate, Andrew stopped.
Reynolds took another step, then noticed and turned. "Something wrong?"
Andrew looked at him. Really looked.
"Everyone here is on edge," Andrew said calmly.
Reynolds stiffened, just a fraction. "You showed up with soldiers and armored vehicles after two months of silence. I think that explains it."
Andrew didn't answer right away. He studied Reynolds' face, then glanced toward the farmhouse, the porch, the people gathered there.
After a moment, he stepped forward again—but not toward the gate.
The movement drew attention. A few hands tightened on shotgun stocks. No one raised a weapon.
"The world isn't the way it was before," Andrew said, his voice steady but carrying. "And it won't ever be again. Things have changed."
The yard went quiet.
"You and your family look like good people," Andrew continued. "You don't look starved. You don't look desperate. So I don't think you're hiding something because you've done something bad."
He paused.
"But you are hiding something."
No one spoke.
Then the farmhouse door opened.
A young man stepped out onto the porch.
Andrew noticed it immediately—the posture, the way he held himself, the way his eyes looked at him. Even in jeans and a work shirt, it was there.
"Evan," an older woman called sharply. "Evan, get back inside."
She hurried toward him, placing a hand on his arm, trying to guide him back. He shook his head gently but firmly.
"No, Mom," he said. "It's time."
Andrew turned to Reynolds, confusion flickering across his face.
Reynolds looked from the young man to Andrew, worry creasing his features—then confusion of his own when he saw Andrew's expression.
"You want to explain?" Andrew asked quietly.
Before Reynolds could answer, the young man spoke.
"I don't want my family to have problems because of me," he said. His voice was steady, but it cost him something to say it.
Andrew raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting.
"I was with the National Guard," the young man continued. "Part of the Atlanta deployment. When everything went to hell… I ran. I abandoned my post and came back here."
Around the yard, faces tightened. No one argued.
Andrew exhaled slowly, the tension easing into something more thoughtful.
"So that's it," he said. "Everyone's been on edge because you were hiding him. Afraid I'd mark him as a deserter."
Evan nodded once.
Andrew was quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head faintly.
"As I told your father," he said, "things have changed."
He looked directly at Evan.
"If you're worried I'm here to arrest you—don't be. The rules you're afraid of don't exist the way you think they do anymore."
A ripple of surprise moved through the group.
"Frankly," Andrew went on, "having someone with military training here improves your security. And between you and me, coming home probably saved your life."
The yard exhaled as one. Shoulders lowered. Hands loosened. The tension that had been coiled tight since Andrew's arrival finally broke.
The older woman let out a shaky breath and pulled Evan into a brief, fierce hug.
Andrew turned back toward the gate.
"We'll be in touch," he said to Reynolds.
Reynolds nodded, relief plain on his face now.
Andrew walked back toward his Rangers, posture calm.
Behind him, the ranch stood quieter than before.
····
The JLTV rolled out first, tires crunching over gravel. The Humvee followed close, engine growling low as both vehicles eased back onto the rural road.
Fields stretched out on either side, fences running parallel like guide rails. Early-afternoon sun burned high in the sky, turning.
Inside the JLTV, the tension finally bled off.
"Well," one Ranger muttered over the intercom, "that went better than expected."
Another snorted. "That's because nobody tried to shoot us."
"Yet," someone added. "Give it time."
A few quiet chuckles followed.
Andrew sat forward, one hand resting against the frame, eyes on the road ahead. He didn't interrupt.
"About the barn, i don't know how someone could sleep with those things so close to them," a Ranger said.
"Yeah," another replied. " Losing loved ones can really mess people up."
A pause.
Then, "Permission to say it, sir?" one Ranger asked looking at Andrew.
Andrew didn't turn. "Already did."
"That ranch?" the Ranger continued. "That's the first place today that felt… alive."
"Still living," another agreed. "Not just surviving."
"Yeah," a third said quietly. "And they were scared of us. That's new."
Andrew nodded once. "Get used to it."
The road curved gently, tree line closing in on both sides.
"What about the Guard kid?" someone asked. "Evan?"
"Smart move, staying home," another said. "More then two months ago, I'd have called it desertion."
"More then two months ago," Andrew replied, "none of this existed."
That ended that line of thought.
After a few miles, another voice cut in. "Lieutenant… you really think we can pull this off? Power, food routes, security?"
Andrew didn't answer right away.
"I think we do," he said finally. "Because the alternative is watching places like that ranch turn into graves."
Silence followed—not uncomfortable. Just understood.