The sun was fully risen now, casting long shadows across the outer walls of the fortress. Just outside the gates stood a group of weary-looking soldiers, their uniforms faded and wrinkled, gear scuffed by time and struggle. Atop the second floor balcony of the fortress, Dean stood silently, arms crossed, eyes cold and calculating as he scanned the platoon.
"Check, check," came a voice from a megaphone. "This is Captain Malcom of the 17th Reclamation Platoon. Is the leader of this fortress present?"
A burly sergeant stepped forward beside the captain and gave a half-hearted salute toward the walls, his face a mix of respect and faint disdain. To him, it was baffling that civilians had managed to build such a haven in the midst of a crumbling world.
Captain Malcom continued, "We come in peace. We've noticed your self-sustaining operation—crops, livestock, clean infrastructure. It's quite the accomplishment."
Dean picked up a megaphone of his own. "Let me stop you right there, Captain Malcom, is it? Don't tell me you're here to take everything from the people who actually did the work—who grew the crops and raised the animals."
Captain Malcom chuckled, the sound hollow. "Oho, of course not. We're talking just a little—to feed the military. You know, the people protecting you from the infected."
Dean smirked. "Ah, to feed you heroes protecting us from zombies? Well then, how much do you need?"
Malcom grinned, showing yellowing teeth. "Just a little—say, 85% of what you have now. Should be enough to keep us operational."
Inside the fortress, Marcus and the others clenched their fists, their anger rising. Dean, ever calm, surveyed the soldiers through binoculars, silently counting heads, gauging their condition. They were malnourished, gaunt, moving with fatigue. Their rifles were real but battered, many missing parts, others clearly low on ammo. Dean could see through them.
"We can't do that," Dean said. "If we give you 85%, we'll starve. How about 10%?"
Immediately the soldiers shouted in protest.
"What the fuck?!"
"Who do you think you are?"
"We're the damn military!"
The captain raised his voice. "Quiet!"
Captain Malcom, still forcing a smile, said, "Okay, okay. Maybe 85 was a stretch. How about 60%?"
Dean had seen enough. He exhaled slowly, then said, "Why don't we talk about this over breakfast? You can bring your two most trusted men, The captain then Smirked and called Sergeant John and Peter, A thin man with glasses and deep bags under his eyes stepped forward.
"Bring them in. The rest can wait outside—we'll bring food out for them," Dean offered.
Malcom's stomach growled. "Very well."
Dean radioed Marcus. "Open the gate. Bring them in."
He also radioed Linda. "Get Sister Maria to prepare food."
As the gate slowly creaked open, the military men were taken aback. The inside was a paradise compared to the outside world. Neatly grown crops in greenhouses, chickens clucking in well-maintained pens, clean water systems running through recycled filtration. A calm oasis in hell.
Captain Malcom, Sergeant John, and Peter were escorted into Dean's home, where the table was already set. Linda served steaming hot rice, eggs, bacon, boiled vegetables, and a jug of fresh milk. It was a king's meal.
Outside, Maria and Marcus handed out MRE-style rations to the waiting troops.
Dean walked down the stairs, cool and composed, his boots echoing lightly on the wooden steps. "Please, help yourselves."
Malcom didn't hesitate. Neither did John. Peter, however, stared around the room, sharp eyes scanning. He noticed something unusual—the elevator.
"If you don't mind me asking," Peter said, pointing. "That elevator—clearly not built for upward floors. Do you have an underground bunker?"
Robert, listening in through a small vent, clenched his pistol tighter.
Dean smiled casually. "Yes. We store surplus food down there. Got to plan long-term. I can take you on a tour after eating."
Peter nodded and finally began to eat. Dean's casual tone was a silent signal to Robert, who knew what it meant: hide everyone deeper in the bunker, near the tunnel. Just in case.
Dean standing facing the window looking at Marcus and Sister Maria giving away foods and facing away from them eating lit a cigarette.
"So, Captain Malcom, how's the government doing these days? Holding up well?"
Malcom didn't answer. He just kept eating, eyes focused on his plate.
Dean exhaled a stream of smoke and said, coolly, "You were never planning to just take a percentage, were you?"
The camera pans to the back of Dean's head. A gun clicks.
Peter stands, pistol pointed.
Dean exhales one last drag of smoke.
Smirking.