Chapter 11

The fire cracked in the center of the gathered group, illuminating a circle of weary but hopeful faces. Bowls of Carol's stew and freshly opened MREs lay balanced in laps or on flat rocks. For a rare moment, there was laughter, small smiles, the feel of civilization trying to reassert itself.

But then…

"What's the catch?"

Shane's voice cut through the warmth like a blade. His brow was furrowed, arms crossed, tone edged with suspicion. The firelight deepened the shadows under his eyes—he didn't like things that sounded too good.

A few heads turned. Lori, seated beside Rick, shot him a sharp glare—tight-jawed and unreadable, but cold.

"Come on, man," Glenn muttered, disbelief laced in his voice.

Even T-Dog, who'd often stayed neutral, shook his head.

"Dude, they're military. And your friend Rick vouched for them."

Shane didn't back down.

"That's too vague, man. I've seen enough uniforms to know not every guy who served is someone you want to put your life in. You people didn't saw what I witnessed went down at Grady Hospital. Soldiers putting bullets in civilians. Not walkers but people."

There was a beat of silence. People shifted uncomfortably. The laughter from before had vanished.

Rick, calm but commanding, spoke up.

"I get that this is sudden. But I need you all to trust me. Especially you, Shane."

He looked directly at him.

"You've known me longer than anyone else here. Do you think I'd risk Lori's life? Carl's? Any of yours—for people I didn't believe in?"

Shane looked down at the dirt for a second, jaw clenching. Then, finally.

"I trust you, partner. Never doubt that."

Rick gave a subtle nod.

Then, Grant Cooke took a single step forward. The firelight lit only part of his face, but his voice rang out clearly, military and measured.

"Name's Major Grant Cooke. I served with Delta Force—Tier One. I was promoted to officer before the world fell apart. Spent most of my career doing things most people shouldn't have to imagine. After the outbreak… I took command of the few who survived and started pulling people out of this hell."

He paused. His gaze swept the crowd, letting the gravity of his words land.

"The one not here—wears a skull balaclava? That's Ghost. He's British, SAS. Worked in clandestine ops. He's likely out there now, checking our perimeter without anyone knowing. If you people are wondering about his name, he adapted that from his line of work."

People murmured. Even Shane seemed slightly taken aback.

Grant gestured beside him.

"This is Jack Reacher."

Jack stood from the hood of the Humvee, stew still in one hand.

"Retired U.S. Army major. Was out of the game before all this. Ran into Grant early in the chaos. We've been putting out fires since."

Then Dale, ever the observer, leaned forward, peering at Jack.

"Wait… You're that Jack Reacher? The one who was framed for murder a few years back?"

There was a sudden shift in the group. Even Rick's eyes narrowed slightly. Lori, Jacqui, Morales, and Andrea, the latter, a former civil rights attorney—recognized the headline. It had been on national news.

"You knew about my case?" Jack asked, surprised.

"Everyone with a working TV saw it," Dale replied. "You were on every cable channel for two weeks.

"That was a national case," Lori added as she glanced at Rick. "All over the news. They made you out like a ghost story."

"That was a hell of a time," Jack muttered, tone darker now. "Some bastard tried to make me take the fall. I cleared my name. But not before they buried my record."

Jim nodded.

"I remember that. You were called a patriot one day and a villain the next. Some senator's kid. They pinned it on you. Said you vanished into thin air."

The camp was quiet again—this time out of contemplation. Andrea, arms crossed, looked thoughtful.

"The case was full of holes. I always thought it stank."

Andrea then muttered quitely to Lori "He was acquitted. Charges dropped. The whole thing stank of political cover-up."

T-Dog, Amy, and Glenn didn't know the story, but from the way everyone reacted, it was clear Jack Reacher was someone with a real past.

From the distance, Merle, seated just outside the firelight with his stew, snorted and muttered something unintelligible. But he was listening. So was Daryl, further back, leaned against a tree, watching silently.

Grant raised his voice just enough to carry over the group.

"Now that we're all clear… here's how this works."

He set the bowl down on the ground.

"Every single one of you is welcome. No strings. If you want to come to Fort Emberfield, we'll take you in. But make no mistake, this is a working community."

He looked around the fire, meeting eyes.

"There are posts to fill—security, medical, logistics, food prep, construction, supply team, maintenance. Everyone pulls their weight. No free rides. But you'll get protection, a warm bed, real food, running water, electricity, and safety for your kids."

He let it sit a moment.

"If any of you decide you don't want to come? That's fine. We won't force anyone. But the door's open."

x

The sky was just beginning to pale with the first cold light of dawn. The trees surrounding the quarry still held onto their shadows, but the camp was beginning to stir.

Inside the Humvee, Grant sat slumped awkwardly in the front seat, the stiff angle of sleep making his neck ache. From the back seat, a muffled voice stirred him.

"Fuck this life…"

Ghost, mask removed, was rubbing his eyes, his sharp features tired and hollow. He reached behind the seat to grab his balaclava, pulling it over his face with practiced resignation.

"You gave them those coffee sticks?" he asked, voice half-muffled now behind the fabric. "Because I'm seconds away from strangling a squirrel for caffeine."

Grant, groggy, blinked blearily and grunted.

"Yeah. Gave 'em to Carol last night." He rubbed his face. "Go easy on the squirrel."

"No promises," Ghost muttered, reaching for his gear.

Grant nodded to him and stepped outside.

The camp was mostly quiet, bathed in that in-between stillness of early morning. A light breeze rolled in through the trees. The firepit was still smoldering faintly.

T-Dog was atop Dale's RV, binoculars loosely in hand, clearly in the last dragging minutes of his night shift. Below him, Shane sat on a log, dismantling and inspecting his sidearm with practiced intensity. Rick stepped out of his tent, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Morning," Rick said, spotting Grant.

"Morning," Grant replied, already stretching out his shoulders.

Grant moved a few paces away, settling into a deliberate sequence of breathing and bodyweight exercises—a personal ritual, forged in combat and discipline. Each movement deliberate and focused.

From the RV, Glenn emerged with a dramatic yawn, arms stretched wide as if trying to touch both ends of the sky. Not far off, Carol quietly exited her tent, cradling a pot and heading toward the firepit.

Lori, disheveled and still half-asleep, shuffled out behind Rick. She gave him a small smile and mumbled,

"Mornin'…"

Rick smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

Across the camp, Shane looked up from his gun. His jaw tensed subtly at the sight.

T-Dog, finally finished with his shift, climbed down from the RV, boots hitting gravel softly. Glenn smirked and slapped his backside playfully as he passed.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Mmph," was all T-Dog gave in response, stumbling toward the RV like a walker himself.

At the firepit, Carol began boiling water. The rich, unmistakable scent of instant coffee started to snake its way through camp like a memory.

"Coffee's hot," Carol called softly, not wanting to wake anyone who hadn't stirred yet.

That was all it took.

Lori, Rick, and Morales were the first to reach her. Morales blinked in disbelief when he saw the unopened sachet bag.

"Where'd you get these?" he asked, holding it up like it was gold.

"Grant gave it to me last night," Carol said, pouring water into tin mugs.

They each tore open a packet, poured in the powder, and stirred. Then came that first sip—and a chorus of muted reactions. A sigh. A gasp. A low, reverent "mmm."

"Okay," Lori said with a smile, "I forgot how much I missed this."

"This is what civilization tastes like," Morales added, chuckling.

Carol took an extra mug and climbed up the side of the RV where Glenn had settled in for watch.

"Here," she said, handing it to him.

"Ohhh, hell yes." Glenn took it and sipped. "Whoa! It's been so long. Thank you, Carol."

Carol smiled faintly and descended.

Soon, others were gathering by the fire. Grant, Ghost, Jack, Jacqui, and Shane took their seats, coffee in hand, steam rising like warmth in physical form.

Carl, Sophia, and Morales' kids were up, eating with the adults. The smell of MREs mingled with coffee, a strange but welcome breakfast.

As he sipped from his mug, Grant cleared his throat.

"A team from Fort Emberfield will arrive late afternoon to pick everyone up."

That turned heads. He continued:

"Jack and I are heading to Atlanta for a separate task. Ghost is staying here with you."

Jack nodded, mug in hand.

"We passed a nursing home when we first arrived in the city. People were still alive. We're going to see if we can bring them in."

The group digested that silently. Compassion, risk, and responsibility wrapped into one.

Grant stood, stretched his back, and headed for the Humvee. From a concealed rear compartment, he retrieved a canvas duffel and unzipped it. Inside: three M4s, four pistols, and extra ammo.

He walked back to the fire and dropped the bag with a solid thud beside Rick and Shane.

"You're too under-armed for my liking," Grant said. "You'll need more than bolt-action rifles and hunting knives to survive what's coming."

He locked eyes with Shane.

"Distribute these to whoever here can actually shoot."

Shane nodded and crouched to inspect the contents alongside Rick.

Nearby, Jack leaned against the Humvee, eyes sharp despite his patrol shift.

"Aren't you tired?" Grant asked with a smirk.

Jack grinned.

"You ask me that like I'm some lightweight. I've had coffee, remember? Plus the thought of having my face ripped off keeps me awake for the whole day"

Grant chuckled, shaking his head.

Then, he turned to Shane again.

"Where's Merle's tent?"

Shane raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"We're bringing him with us."

That stopped Shane cold.

"Merle? That hillbilly son of a bitch? You serious?"

Grant only gave a simple nod.

"Suit yourself," Shane said with a sigh, gesturing across the camp. "Over there, under the trees."

Merle Dixon, shirtless, was just stepping outside his tent, cigarette already lit, when Grant approached.

"Get dressed. You're coming with us."

Merle squinted through the smoke, caught off guard.

"What the fuck? You want my help?"

"I know you heard us last night. You want into Fort Emberfield. You want your brother safe. This is the price."

Merle exhaled slowly, as if weighing pride against practicality.

"Shit. You're a cold son of a bitch," he said. "Threatening to pull my ticket."

"I didn't threaten anything," Grant said flatly. "Just giving you a reason to do more than sit on your ass."

Merle gave a sardonic grin.

"Fine. You got yourself a deal, officer hard-ass. But don't expect me to salute or nothin'."

Grant ignored the jab and turned to leave, but glanced over his shoulder.

"You follow my orders. No arguments."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get your panties in a twist," Merle muttered, disappearing into his tent to get dressed.