The Walking Dead: Survival Code

Cabin—4 hours later.

< Glenn Rhee P.O.V. >

"Glenn," I heard someone call. It was a soft, polite voice. I turned on the makeshift bed, blinking to shake off the sleep as I tried to recognize who it was. The female voice sounded again: "The food is ready."

"Thank you for letting me know," I murmured, my voice hoarse from exhaustion. With a sigh, I stood up and reached for the holster of my Beretta M9, a standard issue pistol of the American army, which I had found inside one of the eight boxes of weapons and ammunition in downtown Atlanta. It was an enormous stroke of luck, something that would probably never happen twice. Two boxes full of those pistols, one with M16A4 rifles, another with Mossberg 500, a fifth with M1014 shotguns, and three filled with various types of ammunition.

I secured the Beretta in the holster on my belt, and, on the other side, I slid in my tactical hunting knife. It was heavy but reliable, something I always carried with me. I left the tent. 'It's still daytime, but it will soon be night,' I thought, adjusting my wrinkled shirt, and finally saw the owner of the voice.

Amy. She was standing, still near the entrance of my tent, with a shy smile. Her blonde hair shone under the weak light of dawn, and her bright eyes always seemed to see the good side of things, even in the chaos we lived in. She was young, 24 years old, an optimistic and impetuous girl who always tried to keep the peace among everyone. She was very different from her older sister, Andrea, who was stubborn, opinionated, and much more pragmatic.

"Hey, Amy." "Thank you," I said again, with a nod. She returned the gesture and went back to the central bonfire, where most of the group was already gathered.

As I made my way to the center of the camp, I took a quick look around. The main campfire was surrounded by familiar faces: Andrea was sitting next to Dale, with her inseparable fishing hat. Jim, the former mechanic and a man of few words, was eating in silence next to T-Dog and Jacqui while Morales laughed at something with his wife and children. Lori was next to Carl, who seemed distracted by the comic book I had given him earlier, and Shane wore a thoughtful expression as he bit into a piece of meat.

By the campfire next to them, Carol was with her daughter, Sophia, sharing a peaceful meal. I didn't see her husband, Ed, and I was pleased about it. The idiot was probably sleeping, as always.

I gave a quick wave to the group as I passed by, receiving smiles and a few words of thanks for the deer. I walked over to the large improvised water tank we had built for the camp's supply. I opened one of the taps and took two quick gulps, letting the cold water run down my face afterward. I ran my hand through my wet hair, pushing it back, and felt a little more awake.

Back at the tent, I dried myself with an old towel before finally joining the group around the campfire. The food was delicious, and laughter filled the air, bringing a rare sense of normalcy.

Dale, always the most reflective among us, began to speak while holding his bowl of meat. "It's good to be here with all of you," he said, his voice laden with gratitude. "Even with the world like this, it's a blessing that we found each other." He looked at me and continued, "Thank you, Glenn." And to Daryl as well. That deer gave us more than a meal; it gave us a reason to keep going.

I nodded my head in thanks, a slight smile on my lips. Dale was a kind of moral compass for all of us, someone whose wisdom I always sought when I was in doubt. He mentioned that Daryl had stopped by earlier to grab a piece of the deer, probably for himself and his brother, and I almost laughed at the thought of Merle complaining about something while eating.

While the conversations around the campfire continued, I let my eyes wander through the flames. Amidst the chaos, moments like this reminded me of what we were fighting to preserve. One more night. Another day. And, with luck, another chance to survive.

It was already late. The weight of the food and the laughter around the campfire still lingered over me, but I knew I couldn't waste any more time. Tomorrow would be an important day. It would be my last solo foray into the city in search of supplies, and I needed to be prepared.

I got up from the campfire circle and said goodbye to everyone with a brief smile and a wave. Amy replied with a "Good luck tomorrow, Glenn," while Dale gave a slight nod, as if he knew what was coming but didn't want to push.

I walked back to my tent, my mind already occupied with everything I would need to organize. First, I started with the weapons. I took my Beretta M9, cleaned it, and loaded the magazines. I did the same with my backup weapon, a .38 J-Frame revolver, small, light, and reliable. It was perfect for emergencies.My next task was to prepare the Mossberg 500. This shotgun, with its pistol grip and an additional handle, was extremely practical to carry and use. The handling capability was an advantage in confrontation situations, especially when the space was tight. Although we also found some M16A4s in the military supply crates, I chose not to take one. There was no available ammunition for them, making them useless for the mission.

From there, I moved on to the materials I would take. I grabbed a sturdy, waterproof backpack with multiple compartments. It was light enough not to hinder me but big enough to carry the essentials. I also added some foldable bags, in case I found more supplies than expected.

In the backpack, I organized everything in order of priority:

Tools: Crowbar, flashlight, lighter, and a roll of sturdy adhesive tape.

Personal protection: gloves, a thick jacket to minimize the risk of bites, sturdy boots, and a gas mask in case you need to enter a place with smoke or contaminants.

Water and purification: A full canteen and purification tablets, in case you need more during the journey.

Food: Cereal bars and some cans of food.

Medications and first aid: Pain relievers, antiseptics, bandages, dressings, antibiotics, as well as scissors and tweezers.

Navigation and communication: A physical map of the Atlanta commercial area, a compass, and a hand-crank AM/FM radio, useful for listening to broadcasts or keeping in touch with the camp.

After checking the backpack, I walked to the car I had chosen for this mission: a 2008 Subaru Outback. It was discreet but reliable, with four-wheel drive and enough space to carry anything I might find. Even though it was dirty on the outside, which helped avoid unwanted attention, I made sure to check the engine, the tires, and the fuel levels. Everything seemed in order.

Back at the tent, I set the alarm for 5:00 AM. This would give me enough time to do a brief exercise routine, eat something, and leave before sunrise. I lay down in the makeshift sleeping bag, adjusted the pillow made of folded clothes, and closed my eyes.

Sleep came quickly, but my mind was still working. Tomorrow, the weight of responsibility would be on me once again. One last journey. And, with luck, one more step to ensure everyone's survival.

...

|October 19, 2010|

< Third Person POV >

The alarm clock rang at 5:30 in the morning, the sound discreet enough not to alert the walkers but loud enough to wake Glenn. He turned off the alarm with a quick touch and sat up on the makeshift bed, rubbing his eyes as he mentally prepared for another risky day.

After a few minutes to fully wake up, he got up and started his morning exercise routine: some push-ups, sit-ups, and stretches to keep his body agile and ready. He couldn't afford to lose his rhythm, not in a world where every wrong move could be the last.

After finishing the exercises, Glenn went to the small camp pantry and grabbed a piece of stale bread and a can of beans. He ate slowly but efficiently, knowing he needed energy for the long day ahead.

Already dressed in practical clothes—jeans, sturdy boots, and a long-sleeved shirt—he checked his backpack, weapons, and supplies. As he stepped out of his tent, the sun was beginning to light up the horizon. It was 6:00 AM when he found Shane and Dale next to the main trailer of the camp.

"So, what's the plan today?" Shane asked, crossing his arms.

Glenn adjusted the strap of his backpack before responding:

"I'm going to the city. I'm going to get more canned food, ammunition, and, if I'm lucky, some useful tools."

Dale, always meticulous, intervened:

"And the return schedule?"

"A little before sunset, around 5:00 PM. As soon as the sun starts to set, I'll be back."

Shane nodded.

"Alright. We'll have someone on watch waiting for you from 5:00 PM to 6:30 PM. If you don't show up by then, we'll start rounds every 30 minutes until midnight."

Dale added with a darker tone:

"After that, let's assume the worst. If he doesn't come back, we prepare for an attack and put the escape plan to the CDC into action."

Glenn knew that these measures, as severe as they were, were necessary. He himself had drafted the rules: if he didn't return, the camp should assume he was dead or captured. He wouldn't risk everyone's lives because of his own mistake.

"It's fine; I know the risks" said Glenn, with a slight smile. "If I'm alive, I'll send a smoke signal from the city."

The three exchanged a look of understanding before Shane wished him good luck with a firm handshake.

Glenn headed towards the car but ran into Daryl on the way. The archer, always straightforward, simply said:

"Good luck. Don't screw up."

Glenn waved in thanks and got into the car.

In the city, he began his work. He picked up supplies requested by Shane and Dale, always discreetly and changing routes to avoid being followed or cornered. He made several round trips to the car, carrying only what was necessary to move quickly. This strategy, although time-consuming, allowed him to accumulate supplies without overloading.

On his last trip, Glenn entered an abandoned building. Inside, he encountered 19 walkers. He acted quickly and with precision. The Beretta M9 silenced 16 of them with quick shots to the head. After reloading the spare magazine, he killed the last three with his tactical hunting knife.

Gasping, Glenn began to search the building, but he didn't find anything immediately. When he was about to give up, a pile of rubble caught his attention.

"It's worth a look," he murmured to himself, kneeling on the ground.

Rule number one of scavenging for supplies: there is nothing left in this world that isn't hidden.

After a few minutes rummaging through the rubble, he found three smoke grenades.

"Good enough," he said, quickly putting them in the backpack.

When he went to grab the shotgun leaning against the rubble, he heard the metallic click of a gun being cocked. Before he could react, he felt the cold barrel pressed against his head.

A harsh voice thick with accent sounded behind him:

"Don't move, son of a bitch."

Glenn closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the tension grow in his muscles. Only one word crossed his mind.

"Shit."

...

< Lorenzo "Renzo" Martinez POV >

The world has changed, but the laws that govern it have not. It's still the law of the jungle. Survive the strongest, the smartest, the most relentless. Lorenzo "Renzo" Martinez knew this long before the dead began to walk. And now, in this chaos of rotting flesh and muffled screams, this truth was more evident than ever.

The Vatos were his family. Not by choice, but by necessity. At first, they were nothing more than a group of men trying to survive, taking care of their elderly relatives left to die in the asylum. The world crumbled, and they took on the responsibility that no one else wanted. But that responsibility came at a price. Supplies were scarce, and weapons even more so. And if they depended solely on Guilhermo, the leader, that group wouldn't last long.

Renzo respected him, but he knew he was soft. Guilhermo had a big heart, a dangerous quality in this world. He always said, "We scare, but we don't hurt without necessity." Their motto was a facade to protect the group without shedding blood. But Renzo knew the truth: sometimes, blood was necessary.

Now, everything was missing. And that last chance to make things change, the boxes of weapons found by one of the men, had evaporated. When they reached the truck, it was already gone. It was no coincidence. "The Ghost" had passed through there. He was a legend among the survivors of Atlanta: a man who looted the city with almost supernatural efficiency. But Renzo knew he wasn't a ghost. He was just a man. A man who had something they needed.

"If you find that guy, bring him to me," Guilhermo had said with that calm and conciliatory tone that irritated Renzo. He knew that the leader's plan would be to try to negotiate with that Ghost. But Renzo had other plans. He wasn't going to negotiate. He was going to take it.

That's why he, Diego, Pedro, Miguel, and González had been driving through the city for hours. They were scouring every corner, every building, in search of supplies and, if possible, the Ghost. And then, at the corner of a narrow street, Renzo saw something.

"Look there," he said, pointing to a man entering a building. He was wearing a cap, carrying a backpack, and had a shotgun.

"Could it be him?" Diego asked, adjusting his cap backward and looking in the direction Renzo was pointing.

"There's only one way to find out," replied Renzo, with a cold smile.

They drove quickly to the building, parking the car on the sidewalk. Upon entering, they spread out like predators surrounding their prey. Renzo felt his heart race as he held a revolver in his hand. The shadows of the building stretched as the sun set outside.

After a few minutes of searching, they found him. He was facing away, rummaging through the backpack, the shotgun leaning against a pile of rubble beside him.

"It's him," Renzo whispered to Diego, his eyes shining with excitement.

Without hesitation, he moved forward. Renzo gripped the handle of the Taurus .38 revolver tightly, the coldness in his eyes contrasting with the tension in his body. In front of him, the man in the cap remained hunched over a backpack and a shotgun. Renzo's voice sounded like a blade in the silence of the building:

"Don't move, son of a bitch."