Storms Brewing

Dim lights flickered inside a boarded-up building, Curtains and wooden planks sealed every window, shutting out the outside world.

Outside, a crude perimeter of abandoned vehicles and debris had been built up like a barricade, designed to keep anything—or anyone—from getting in.

Inside, a long table stretched across the room. At the head of it sat a man in a black leather jacket, a jagged, centipede-like scar running down his face.

In his hand, he toyed with a bright red shotgun shell, turning it slowly under the light.

"Police-grade large-caliber shotgun shells..." the man mused aloud. "Whoever has access to this kind of firepower isn't ordinary."

Spread across the table was a corpse—the body of the man Jason had shot earlier. Half of his head was blown clean off, making him barely recognizable.

"Any idea where these people came from?" the scarred man—Abel—asked coldly.

As Abel leaned forward, the sleeve of his jacket pulled back, revealing a tattoo on his wrist: the letters HEAVEN in bold, gothic script. The same tattoo the dead man bore.

"We only found the body when we got there," one of Abel's subordinates reported nervously. "It was already cold. Just some tire tracks left behind. But we lost the trail—they wiped their tracks clean."

Abel's face darkened. This was the first time since founding the Heaven Organization that someone had dared to kill one of his own—and gotten away with it.

"Send everyone out," Abel ordered, voice low and dangerous. "Find them."

Meanwhile, Jason and his friends, oblivious to the growing manhunt, were gathered around their campfire, sharing a simple meal.

Even if they had known someone was coming for them, Jason probably wouldn't have worried much. At worst, he figured, they still had the artillery shell.

Later that evening, Rick called a meeting with the group.

"In order to avoid becoming sitting ducks here," Rick said, "we've decided to move the camp. We haven't picked a destination yet, but we can figure it out on the road."

Everyone mulled it over seriously. Jason had already suggested the same thing earlier—and after today's events, no one needed convincing.

It made sense: follow the highway, bypass Atlanta, and find a better place to survive. Anything was safer than camping in the open.

"But the kids are still recovering," Carol pointed out. "They've improved after the meds, but we should give them a few more days before traveling."

That afternoon, Carol had carefully administered the anti-toxin and serums. The kids' fevers had finally broken, and their coughing fits were fewer—but they were still weak.

Jason nodded immediately. "This is the only choice we have right now," he agreed. "No matter what, the children come first."

Later, standing quietly outside the children's tents, Jason let his mind wander. He thought of everything they'd been through—and everything that lay ahead.

It wasn't the adults who would suffer the most from this new world. It was the kids—innocent, fragile, forced to grow up surrounded by fear and death.

"We have to build a 100% safe camp," Jason thought to himself, his hands curling into fists. "A place where the people inside never have to worry about zombies again."

A clear goal formed in his mind.

The best place to build a real stronghold wasn't some house or abandoned warehouse—it was a prison.

High walls, reinforced gates, sturdy buildings. Nothing short of heavy artillery could break it. Zombies could claw at those walls for a thousand years and never get through.

But Jason knew better than to rush in Before setting his sights on the prison, he needed to prepare. Their group still had too many weaknesses. They had no real medical expert. In a world where injuries and infections could mean death, that was a risk they couldn't afford.

He would need to find the right people—recruit new blood. Strengthen the team.

The road ahead wasn't just about survival anymore. It was about building something that could last.