Sunday, November 22, 2026, at the High School.
The high school cafeteria hummed with a subdued murmur, a spacious, bright area that, before the chaos, had hosted laughter and full trays during lunches.
Now, barely a day and a half into the hell, the place felt like a makeshift but functional shelter: tables aligned in neat rows, chairs stacked against the walls to free up space, and the persistent aroma of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the faint smell of sweat and dust from the previous night.
Natural light streamed through the wide windows overlooking the campus green areas—a vast ground enclosed by tall concrete walls that separated this oasis from the city in ruins.
There was no need to board anything up; the walls, reinforced with barricades at the main entrances, were the real barrier against the Infected prowling outside. The main building, with its two- and three-story wings branching out like veins, and the separate blocks—gym, labs, auditorium—formed a complex similar to a university campus, self-sufficient by design.
Marlon, Sophie, Minnie, and Professor Carter had summoned every survivor capable of standing—about 400 in total, excluding those sleeping off their night watch shifts.
Before the fateful Friday, the high school housed nearly 1,300 souls: 1,200 vibrant students and about a hundred faculty and staff. Ten percent had missed the school anniversary that morning, and during the afternoon, another 25% had left early, unaware of the horror that lay ahead.
When the chaos erupted and the military retreated, around 150 people attempted to flee through the streets; no one knew if they had survived. The Infected—those walking dead who only went down with a precise hit to the brain, dragging themselves with insatiable hunger—had claimed 40% of the remaining lives throughout the afternoon, night, and early morning.
400 remained, a number that weighed in the air like a half-pronounced sentence.
The group huddled in the cafeteria, faces marked not by chronic terror, but by the discomfort of a night on improvised mattresses over hard floors or benches. Eyes were red from interrupted sleep, hair messy, clothes wrinkled with fresh sweat stains.
No one looked terrified—the night had been quiet, with no breaches in the barricades—but the incongruity was palpable: forced smiles contrasted with hunched shoulders, as if the body remembered the exhaustion while the mind clung to a fragile hope.
Marlon watched from the front, his mind a calculated whirlwind. He had learned from Alex to remain calm under pressure, but now, without that guiding figure, he felt the hollowness as a weight in his chest. Will I be able to keep them together? he thought again, noticing how some students whispered about distant families.
Sophie, beside him, maintained an intellectual serenity; her brain was already charting matrices of resources, ignoring the knot of worry for her parents stranded across the ocean. Minnie, with her fists clenched under the table, suppressed a muffled panic; she wanted to be strong, like when she brandished that pipe yesterday, but the memory of the screams in the gym made her tremble internally.
Carter, the history teacher with premature wrinkles, adjusted his glasses, delegating the role of spokesperson to himself to calm spirits. They need to see authority, not chaos, Carter reflected, giving the three young people a look of approval.
Carter stood on a raised table, his voice clear in the acoustic space.
"Listen up, everyone, please," Carter began his speech. "There are 400 of us here, and we have survived the worst of these first hours. First, an update: Alex, Tim, Emily, and a small group left this morning for Emily's father's shelter, outside the city."
A murmur ran through the room. Some students, like Brody, who had watched Alex dispatch Infected with surgical precision, exchanged looks of surprise and disappointment.
"And who protects us now?" one whispered.
Most, however, nodded with resignation; the news sparked an internal echo of envy. They escape, we wait, thought a math teacher, clutching her colleague's hand. Carter waited, letting the buzz settle, before continuing.
"Now, the essentials," Carter went on. "Inventory: we have food for 7-10 days if we ration—rice, canned goods, fruit from the garden in the green areas. Running water works indefinitely thanks to the campus well; electricity, at least another week from the backup generators; gas for cooking, over a month."
"Regarding security," Carter added. "The perimeter walls are solid; barricades at the four main entrances, reinforced yesterday, mean no Infected has crossed since the day before."
Sporadic applause and relieved murmurs erupted. "That's great!" exclaimed a sophomore, while others turned to their neighbors: "Hear that? Ten days!" Sophie noted the genuine smiles, but also the evasive eyes; the relief was superficial.
Then, a voice cut through the air from the back: "What about help? When is it coming?" It was a burly janitor, his face etched with lines of fatigue.
Carter looked back. Marlon maintained a stoic expression, but his fingers drummed the table—Don't lie, but don't crush them. Sophie frowned slightly, calculating emotional impacts. Minnie held her breath, her panic bubbling: Please, say soon.
Carter sighed, his voice firm but compassionate.
"The news is... complicated. The downtown streets are blocked by abandoned cars and growing groups of Infected. There is no clear path here yet. Emily's father, Ron, offered help—buses, trucks—but it could take days, maybe longer."
The minute of silence that followed was deafening. Murmurs grew like a wave: "Days?" "My brother is out there…" "We can't wait forever." A girl sobbed softly, hugged by her friend. Marlon felt a pang of guilt; he knew Ron was trying, but chaos didn't respect promises. Sophie mentally noted: Boost morale in the next announcement.
When the whispers died down, Carter raised his voice.
"That's why the high school is now in our charge." He pointed to Marlon, Minnie, and Sophie. "The three of them, with me, will lead. We will ensure this shelter holds out until help arrives—and if it doesn't, we will make it work on our own."
Massive nods greeted the words. Most sighed in relief: Let others carry the weight. Older teachers nodded vigorously—I don't want that responsibility. But a handful grumbled: a gym teacher crossed his arms, muttering "Students leading, what madness" to his colleague, who shook his head but remained silent.
A group of seniors exchanged skeptical glances, one whispering, "Marlon's good, but what if they fail?" No one spoke up; the fear of a leadership vacuum silenced them. Carter scrutinized the room—no open opposition—and nodded to Sophie.
She stood up, her tone firm but soft, like a teacher calming a restless class. "Thank you, Professor. Now, the first steps. We will form three main groups, volunteers where applicable, so that everyone contributes."
She paused, capturing their gazes.
"First: Defenders. Volunteers to maintain order and confront Infected at the barricades or nearby streets. Full meal rations—three meals a day. Marlon and Minnie join here," she announced, pointing to her friends next to her.
Marlon straightened his back, feeling a fleeting pride mixed with terror. Me, leading fights.... Minnie swallowed hard, but nodded.
"Yeah, I'm in," said an athletic boy from the front, raising his hand. Fifteen others followed, relieved it was voluntary.
"Second: Maintenance. Check walls, fortify entrances, build watchtowers or auxiliary shelters in the green areas. Full meal rations. Professor Carter will join this group."
Carter smiled slightly. "Count me in." Hands shot up: staff carpenters, shop students—about thirty in total. Sophie thought: Perfect, we cover structural weaknesses.
"Third: Support. Cooks, cleaning, supply distribution. A reduced, but nutritious meal—two full meals plus one light one."
Murmurs of protest arose. "That's not fair!" shouted a cook. "We work just as hard!"
Sophie raised a hand, serene. "I understand. But the Defenders risk their lives; Maintenance builds our salvation. You keep us healthy. It's balance, not punishment. Who volunteers?"
After a tense silence, hands went up—nearly a hundred, reluctant but resigned. Better than fighting, thought one woman.
"Vigilance: daily rotating shifts, one hour per person from all three groups. No one gets exhausted. We start today at noon."
Reactions varied: relief from the Defense volunteers—We just fight, no cleaning—; suspicion from Support, a boy muttering "Light meal, great"; drowned-out protests about rations, but general understanding. They bleed for us, a professor reflected.
The meeting ended with scattered applause. Marlon felt a guilty relief: It'll work... for now. Sophie jotted down names, her mind already on optimizations. Minnie, trembling internally, joined the Defenders: I am strong. Carter observed the dispersal, thinking: A day and a half, and we are already a system. Outside, a distant gunshot recalled the chaotic world surrounding them, but inside, 400 souls had a plan.
A few hours later, at midday.
The high school cafeteria, bathed in the midday light streaming through the wide windows overlooking the green areas, offered a mirage of normalcy in a world that was barely a day and a half into crumbling.
The long tables, still with faint traces of breakfast crumbs, were occupied by Marlon, Sophie, and Minnie, who had sat together for lunch following the pre-chaos schedule: twelve o'clock sharp, as if clocks still dictated daily life.
The aroma of canned soup and toast on the gas stove floated in the air, a fragile comfort against the distant echo of sirens filtering in from the city. Outside, the tall campus walls kept the horror at bay, but the weight of Alex and Emily's absence was felt with every bite.
Marlon chewed his bread with deliberate slowness, his mind reviewing the morning meeting. It went better than I expected, he thought, remembering how the 400 survivors had shifted from anxious murmurs to resigned nods.
"The meeting went well, didn't it?" he said, breaking the silence with a voice that tried to sound optimistic. "At first, they looked like zombies themselves, sitting there with funeral faces. But in the end, everyone joined the groups. Not a single riot."
Sophie nodded, stirring her soup with a plastic spoon. Her expression was serene, but internally she calculated percentages: 70% immediate adherence, the rest will be convinced over time.
"Yes, delegating to Carter was key," she said. "His teacher's voice calmed them. And excluding the wounded... that prevented protests. They have time to recover without feeling useless."
Minnie, sitting across from them, left her bowl half-eaten, her fingers drumming the table. Wounded... yes, and those who are worse inside, Minnie reflected, remembering the empty stares of those who had seen friends devoured in the gym.
"We talk about physical wounds, but what about those who saw... that? Friends torn apart, or girls like Alice, with the professor thing..." Minnie's voice cracked slightly, and the atmosphere turned somber, as if a cloud had crossed the sun.
"Without Alex, everything would have collapsed," she continued, as Marlon and Sophie looked at her. "Morale breaks fast in this. A day and a half, and already people look like they want to give up."
Marlon sighed, his fork halted mid-air. She's right. I saw Brody shaking last night, remembering the screams.
"Alex saved our asses," Marlon commented. "He gave us structure when no one even knew how to hold a stick. Imagine if he doesn't make it: zombies everywhere, and us fighting each other for the last can. Morale... it would have weakened with every scream."
Sophie looked out the window toward the green areas, where the lawn was still pristine, without the wear and tear of weeks of neglect. Precise: without leadership, the professor's abuse would have escalated to lynchings.
"Exactly," she added. "Situations like that erode everything. But now it's us. We have to move before the gloom consumes us."
They finished in silence, each lost in thought: Marlon visualizing defense shifts, Sophie optimizing rations, Minnie clinging to the image of Alex stabbing a zombie with lethal precision. They got up, trays in hand, and parted with a "see you tonight" that sounded like a promise.
Sophie walked down the main corridor of the central building, her steps echoing on the clean linoleum. The cafeteria now buzzed with representatives: about 280 in total, 70% of the survivors, regrouped by grade, faculty, and custodial staff.
Freshman students with backpacks, teachers with folders under their arms, janitors with aprons stained with fresh soap, as if they were trying to lie to themselves. Sophie stood on a raised table, her voice firm but accessible, like explaining a simple equation.
"Thank you for coming," she said with her characteristic neutral tone. "You represent the majority, so let's make this efficient. We divide into three subgroups: Food, Cleaning, and Support."
She pointed to an improvised blackboard with marked divisions. "Food: daily inventory, rationing from the pantry and green gardens. Cleaning: maintain floors, bathrooms, common areas—no infections from dirt. Support: the riskiest. They help Defenders on missions outside the walls, carrying supplies or distractions."
A biology teacher raised his hand; his forehead beaded with sweat. "Risky how? Going out there?" Murmurs of anxiety broke out.
Sophie nodded, serene. "Yes, but with protocol: never alone, always with Defenders. We cover 70% of the group; the rest are them... Volunteers?"
Hands rose tentatively—a hundred for Food, eighty for Cleaning, only thirty for Support, with pale but determined faces.
Better than nothing, Sophie thought, writing down names.
"We start this afternoon. Rotate every three days to avoid burnout."
Meanwhile, Minnie and Marlon crossed the green courtyard towards the east wing, where the 40 Defenders—the brave 10%—met in the separate auditorium. Four groups of ten, with Marlon and Minnie each leading one.
I learned from Alex: divide and conquer, Marlon thought, his pulse accelerating, though he still hesitated to leave Minnie in charge of a group. He knew she had faced zombies, but worry still accompanied him.
They assigned sides: Marlon to the south, another leader east, Minnie to the north, and the last to the west.
"Three fixed per night on watch," Marlon ordered. "They will rotate to prevent members of each group from getting exhausted... For the rest, morning and afternoon: the others kill zombies or patrol. No exhaustion."
Marlon led his group of 10 to the inner gym first. The air smelled of rubber and fresh sweat, polished floors without accumulated dust. "We'll start with simulations," he said, standing in front of the other 9 members of his group. "Pairs: one attacks, the other defends. Simulate a zombie—slow, deaf, only falls with a headshot." They paired up, broomsticks clashing awkwardly at first.
"Lower, temple or eye!" Marlon shouted, correcting a clumsy boy. Just like Alex corrected me.
They moved outside, onto the green grass under the sun. "Surrounded: form a circle, use the environment as a barrier. Zombies stumble; we don't." They simulated a horde, bodies feigning guttural growls.
A student, Javier, suggested: "What if we use noise to distract them through alleys?"
Marlon smiled. "Good point, write it down. But don't get complacent: one bite and you're one of them." The group, panting, gained confidence—nervous laughter, questions flowing. They're ready, Marlon thought, but warned: "This is a game. Outside, one mistake kills."
Minnie, in contrast, chose live fire.
Learn the hard way, like Alex did cleaning up the gym, she decided, her stomach churning, but her jaw set firm. She led her 9 companions north, down the green path to the north entrance. The barricade—tables, chains, labyrinthine spaces—creaked open.
Outside, the street was fresh chaos: abandoned cars with open doors, overturned bags, blood spattered on asphalt still damp from the previous night. Five zombies wandered: one, an ex-grocer in an apron, dragged its feet between vehicles; others emerged from a stationery shop, groaning deafly.
"Silence," Minnie whispered, knife in hand. "Blind spots: behind, noise distracts them. Aim for the skull." She took the lead, heart hammering. She approached the grocer from behind, silent steps on the concrete. A dull thud: knife in the temple, bone yielding with a wet snap. The body collapsed, inert.
The group gasped, eyes wide. "See! Easy if you think."
"Volunteer?" she asked. Charles, a thin boy, raised a trembling hand. Minnie guided him: "Same: stealth, back of the neck." Charles approached a staggering zombie, a makeshift spear raised. Hit: it pierced the base of the skull. The Infected fell, and Charles blinked in astonishment. "I did it!" Muffled applause erupted.
Minnie saw the dangerous gleam—too much euphoria.
"Good! But always cautious. One slip, and that zombie is you dragging yourself." They sent pairs: three more fell, precise strikes bringing contained cheers. The group, sweating, absorbed the lesson: We can.
But Minnie, wiping black blood from her knife, thought: We survived today. Tomorrow, who knows.
Midday advanced, the green campus contrasting with the stained street. Marlon and Minnie, from opposite ends, guided their companions with different methods, but with the same goal: survival.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
A new chapter, and this time it's not a short one.
We continue with the perspective of Emily's companions, who will have to overcome various difficulties. And perhaps in the future, they will have to fend for themselves in an increasingly chaotic world.
By the way, there will be a few more chapters like this, but not many. Only when 4 or 5 more days pass, when they reach the apocalypse week and must search for resources, will their point of view become truly important.
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Read my other novels
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future. (Chapter 85)
#Vinland Kingdom: Race Against Time. (Chapter 108)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 11) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]