Later that night I climbed onto the farmhouse roof, binoculars in hand, Ghost by my side, gaze fixed on the horizon. Atlanta was dying. "You're seeing history," I murmured, the last light of civilization rubbing the back of my neck. "Guess it's just you and me for now." Ghost leaned against my leg. I let out a quiet sigh. "It's been a long time since I had anyone or anything watching my back.""Don't worry," I said softly. "I've seen worse than this. We'll make it through." I climbed down, locking up behind me. The farmstead felt smaller at night—too quiet, too still. Ghost circled twice before settling down in my sleeping bag. I poured some kibble into his bowl and sat it down. Ghost ate eagerly. I opened a can of beans for myself. "All right, boy, here's the deal," I said between bites. "You bark if something's wrong. I shoot if something's wrong. Got it?" Ghost looked up from his bowl, his tail thumping twice on the floor. "Good talk." After I finished eating I cleaned my rifle at the table, the motions precise and automatic. The faint click of metal was oddly comforting. When I finished I leaned back and looked at Ghost: his chest rose and fell steadily, ears twitching in his sleep. "Two days had passed," I whispered to myself. "Tomorrow's day zero." I checked my watch: 00:07. Then, after a long silence, I lay down beside the dog, fast asleep.
The morning air tasted different—heavy, sterile; even the birds were gone quiet. I adjusted my rifle on the passenger seat as Ghost sat alert beside me, ears twitching at every sound. The old truck rumbled quietly beneath us as we made our way toward the city. As we got closer to the city, sirens, car horns, and shouting filled the air—people running with suitcases, bags, and panic in their eyes. The National Guard filled the highway. I slowed the truck, scanning the chaos through the windshield. "It's starting," I thought. The outbreak had officially begun. From above, calling the city a mess was an understatement: soldiers in full gear were setting up perimeter fences, shouting orders at terrified civilians, helicopters flying above, loudspeakers blaring directions to evacuation centers—deathtraps, I muttered to myself. Families were herded into buses with red crosses, destinations unknown. Parking two blocks away from a half-collapsed supermarket, I whispered to the dog, "Stay sharp, Ghost." Inside, the smell of rot was already beginning to mix with bleach. Shelves were overturned but not empty. I loaded cans, batteries, alcohol, medical kits, and cigarettes—most into my inventory, a few in my backpack. "Gotta keep appearances for now," I whispered to myself. That's where I heard the first gunshot.
Morgan Jones, 1st POV:
My hands were shaking as I tried to reload my rifle. Jenny clung to Duane, her breath ragged; all around was chaos—soldiers shouting, people pushing through barricades. A soldier screamed something about containment, then opened fire on a man who'd turned mid-argument. "Morgan, move!" Jenny shouted, pulling Duane into an alley. A shambling walker blocked their path. I fired once—missed; the second shot took the thing down, but three more appeared behind it. We were trapped.
Zephyr, 1st POV:
I turned the corner and I saw them: a man, a woman, and a kid. I instantly recognized them—Morgan Jones, Jenny Jones, and Duane Jones. "Get down!" I shouted. Three clean shots and the walkers dropped like puppets with strings cut. Morgan stared at me, chest heaving. "Who the hell are you?""Someone who still knows how to aim," I said. "You can't stay here." I told them the military was locking down the city; camps won't save them. I could see the fear and disbelief in their faces. Jenny shook her head. "We have to—" they said. "They'll help.""They won't," I cut in, my voice sharper than intended. "You've got days, maybe less, before this place burns." Morgan looked at his son, then back at me. He didn't trust me, not yet at least, but he'd seen enough death to know when a man wasn't bluffing. "Come with me," I said. "I've got a safe place outside the city: a farmstead—food, water, walls. You want to live? Follow me." Jenny hesitated, but Duane reached for Ghost, who wagged his tail once and licked the boy's hand. That seemed to break her. "All right—lead the way," Morgan nodded.
We had only driven a few miles when we hit the highway and stopped. Hundreds of vehicles stretched for miles, bumper to bumper, most abandoned, some burning or wrecked, and a faint sound of shouting echoed down the road. "Stay in the truck," I told Morgan as I grabbed my rifle. Ghost jumped out beside me, following the voices. An RV surrounded by walkers appeared before me. A gray-haired man was shooting from the roof with an old hunting rifle while two young women and another man tried to fight off the walkers with wrenches and crowbars. "Ghost—heel!" I ordered, then took position behind a car, shooting down walkers—one bullet, one walker. The last one fell face-first against the RV door. The old man peered down. "Hell of a shot." I approached, weapon lowered slightly. "You folks all right?" The old man climbed down. "Name's Dale. This is Andrea, Amy, and Jim. You just saved our hides." Andrea, the older blonde, nodded, breathing hard. "We were heading to the city, then everything just fell apart." Jim looked broken, his eyes hollow. "They killed my family right in front of me. They tore them apart." I sighed heavily. I'd seen that look before—back in the desert, in war zones that never made the news. "Then don't let their deaths mean nothing. Come with me. I've got a farmstead outside the city. We can make it before dark." Andrea frowned. "And what—what, we're supposed to trust some guy with a gun?" I smirked lightly. "You trusted me to save your life five minutes ago." Dale chuckled under his breath. "He's got a point." Andrea glared at him but said nothing, then turned to me. "All right. We'll go."
(To be continued...)