"We're nearby," Grant said as he leaned slightly forward, eyes fixed ahead.
"Do you see the walls in the distance?" he asked, pointing with a subtle nod.
Rick squinted through the windshield. The silhouette of towering gray walls stood solid against the darkening sky.
"Yeah… that's a tall wall," he replied, almost in disbelief.
"Fifteen feet high," Grant confirmed. "Reinforced concrete panels, steel beams inside, anchored deep. Nothing's getting through unless it learns how to fly."
The pickup veered gently onto a makeshift dirt road. Tire ruts marked its passage through what had once been orderly farmland, now transformed into a perimeter-cleared approach. A wide clearing—void of trees or cover—stretched before the walls, giving clear visibility to the guards stationed in the looming watchtowers at each corner.
Rick took note of the tactical positioning.
"Why farmland?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Grant didn't hesitate.
"For a lot of reasons. First—self-sustainability. Farmland has fertile soil. We can grow crops, raise livestock. Most farms have irrigation, or wells nearby. You control your food and water, you control your survival."
Rick nodded, listening intently as the vehicle bumped gently along the dirt.
"Second—space and visibility. Open fields mean fewer places for walkers or looters to hide. You can see anything coming long before it reaches the walls. Defense becomes manageable, not reactive."
"And third?" Rick prompted.
"Strategic location. We're far enough from major cities that walker density is low. But we're still close enough to reach abandoned towns, scavenging routes, and old highways when needed." Grant cast a glance out the window.
"Fort Emberfield works because of all that."
Rick looked ahead, eyes drawn to the two watchtowers flanking the gate.
"How many of those are there?"
"Four in total—one on each corner," Grant replied.
They rolled to a stop just outside the guard station, enclosed with barbed wire coils. Twin floodlights mounted above the gate bathed the entrance in stark white. Guards armed with rifles watched attentively from behind reinforced sandbag posts.
One of the guards raised a hand to his radio.
"Unit Alpha-3 requesting gate access. Confirm vehicle ID."
A brief pause, then a crackle of static.
"Confirmed. Open the gate."
With a low mechanical hum, the double-leaf gate—crafted from reinforced steel plating over heavy-duty frames—began to open outward. Thick hydraulic pistons extended with a hiss, pulling the two massive panels apart. The locks disengaged with a metallic clank, and the hinges groaned under the weight as the gates slowly creaked open, revealing the interior of Fort Emberfield.
Beyond the gate, a new world waited—lit with organized paths, powered by solar arrays, and alive with movement.
The truck rolled forward into the compound and pulled left into the designated vehicle zone near the entrance. The engine stopped.
Grant and Rick stepped out first. Behind them, Ghost hopped off the cargo bed, landing quietly, while the other man followed. Rick instinctively scanned the area, and what he saw caught him off guard.
Inside the walls… was life.
People moved through the streets even as the sun had fully set—some carrying baskets, others standing in conversation. Over to the left, a small clinic with solar panels mounted on its roof hummed with quiet energy. Patients exited as a nurse dimmed the entry lights.
To the right, rows of military-style barracks housed residents. Their doors opened frequently—families, workers, and children passing in and out.
Rick noticed a garage where several survivors were tending to vehicles, tools in hand, working with purpose. Further ahead, a small park area glowed under mounted lights—laughter ringing out faintly as a few kids played under the watch of two adults.
He had heard of Fort Emberfield from Grant, but seeing it was something else entirely.
"Rick," Grant said, stepping beside him.
"These are the people I trust with the administrative side of Emberfield."
He gestured one by one.
"Johnston Green, David Hegg, Leo McGarry, Laura Montez… and this young man is Will Hunting, he's learning the ropes from them."
Rick nodded, offering each a handshake.
Johnston smiled.
"You must be hungry. Food's still hot at the communal hall."
"I appreciate that," Rick replied.
Grant gave Rick's shoulder a firm pat.
"I've got some things to handle. I'll catch up with you later."
Will added,
"Morgan and his son are probably at the hall already. Come on, I'll take you there."
As the others dispersed, Rick and Will began walking, the smell of warm food already reaching them.
x
Rick woke up in one of the military-style barracks of Fort Emberfield. The night before had been a blur of fatigue and hunger.
He hadn't realized just how empty he felt until he finished multiple plates of hot food. He'd met up with Morgan and Duane at the communal hall, sitting beside them to catch up.
Morgan had said, "I'm glad I took Grant's offer to join this place. Refusing it would've been a decision I'd regret for the rest of my life."
Duane, still smiling from a game he'd played with a few local kids, chimed in, "There are others here my age. It's nice not being the only kid anymore."
Now, dawn crept over the horizon, and Rick stepped out of the barracks. A low golden light bathed the land, chasing the cold from the night. He took a deep breath of fresh air and decided to walk the grounds before the day's journey began.
At the back area of the community, Rick found the agricultural zone alive with quiet activity even at this early hour:
Outdoor fields stretched across the flat land, growing staples like corn, potatoes, and beans.
A large greenhouse, framed in metal and thick plastic, held herbs, tomatoes, and leafy greens for year-round production.
A compost pit steamed faintly in the cool air, repurposing scraps into future soil.
Rainwater tanks and a gravity-fed irrigation system traced neatly between the rows.
To one side stood the livestock pens, where chickens clucked, ducks waddled, and cows, goats, and pigs milled about. A couple of caretakers were already tending the animals, moving quietly with practiced ease.
Continuing his walk, Rick saw a roving patrol passing through the inner perimeter. His eyes went up toward one of the four watchtowers, each positioned at the corners of the massive wall. A catwalk connected them, a high platform running the top of the fortification where guards moved with rifles at the ready, scanning the surroundings.
Next, he passed by the power and water hub:
A spread of solar panels caught the new sun.
Below them, rainwater collectors funneled into large tanks, each linked to a filtration system.
A manual pump stood nearby, clearly a backup, but well-maintained.
Nearby, a small chapel was under construction—wooden beams in place, with volunteers working even now. A reminder that people here weren't just surviving, they were rebuilding a life worth living.
Eventually, Rick returned to the barracks. Inside, Morgan was already awake, sitting on the edge of his cot.
"Morning," Morgan said, nodding.
Rick returned the greeting to Morgan and the others in the room, then headed to the small bathroom unit for a quick bath. When he returned, a familiar sight on his bed made him pause.
His old sheriff's uniform.
Morgan spoke from behind him. "Grant had it placed there. Said his men found it while clearing out the police station. Figured you might want to wear it."
Rick picked it up, his fingers brushing over the badge, the fabric. "I never thought I'd wear this again… not after the world went to hell."
Morgan chuckled. "Looks like the world didn't end everywhere."
Rick changed into the uniform. It fit a little looser, he'd lost weight since it all started but it still felt like nice to him.
Morgan nodded. "Grant said to meet him at the communal hall. Good luck out there, Rick. I hope you find them."
Rick looked at the clock—6:00 AM sharp. "Thanks, Morgan."
He made his way to the communal hall, where Grant was already waiting, sipping a mug of coffee by the door.
"That suits you," Grant said with a grin, nodding to the sheriff's uniform.
Rick smiled faintly. "Feels strange. But right."
Grant gestured toward two others who were standing nearby. "Ghost is coming with us—as you know. And this is Jack Reacher. Solid in a fight. Smart, too."
They shook hands.
After breakfast—quick, hot, and heavy on calories, they walked together to the storage and supply depot to gear up.
Inside, each man took a suppressed AR-15, loaded and inspected with care. Their sidearms were sleek, reliable: SIG Sauer P226s, favored for their balance of accuracy and rugged construction. Spare mags were handed out. Ammo packed into molle pouches.
Jack nodded in approval. "These'll do."
Next stop: the garage, where a soldier stood ready beside a Humvee—tactical green, modified for storage and light armor. He loaded crates of ration packs, water canisters, and spare gear into the rear compartment.
Grant, Ghost, and Jack all wore civilian clothes layered with tactical vests—gray, black, olive tones. Durable boots, radios, gloves. Rick, for his part, had the sheriff's uniform beneath a black vest Grant handed him, stitched with spare mag pouches and a first-aid kit.
The four of them climbed into the Humvee.
Jack got behind the wheel.
The vehicle drove slowly to the main gate, where the guards at the station radioed the tower.
Once again, the Double-Leaf Gate rumbled open, the steel-and-concrete slabs parting with a slow, commanding force.
The sun rose higher, lighting the road ahead.
Without fanfare, the Humvee rolled out of Fort Emberfield and onto the cracked road.
Destination: Atlanta.
And Rick Grimes was going to find his family.