The streets of Atlanta had gone quiet.
Not empty—never that—but quiet in that eerie, loaded way, like the city was holding its breath. Guillermo stood on the roof of the abandoned nursing home, watching the smoke trail from a car fire still smoldering three blocks away. The sky was grey. The heat was thick. And the dead never stopped moving.
Below him, the courtyard buzzed with activity. His people—his family—were busy with the usual routine: reinforcing barricades, distributing rations, calming the elders.
Miguel was checking the shotgun racks again. Antonio helped Old Man Ramirez down the stairs, one hand on his back and another gripping a pistol. Sergio played lookout at the back entrance with Eduardo, both young but already hardened.
These weren't gangbangers anymore.
They were survivors.
And Guillermo had somehow become the one they all looked to.
He hadn't asked for it. He was just a janitor at this place before the world ended. Miguel was his cousin. Antonio was his neighbor. Eduardo had once tagged buildings down the block. But when the walkers came… when the police fell apart… when the city burned… they didn't run.
They stayed.
For the old folks.
For abuelas who couldn't walk. For men like Mr. Morales who couldn't remember his own name anymore. For Ms. Ortiz, who still called every young man "mijo" and offered candy no one had seen in weeks.
Guillermo exhaled and scanned the rooftops through his binoculars. No movement. That was good.
But it was never quiet for long.
Inside the Shelter
"This ain't gonna last, G."
Antonio's voice was low as they sat in the staff room, maps spread across a table.
"I know," Guillermo replied.
"We got, what—maybe two weeks of meds left? Water filters are old. The generator's coughing like it's about to croak."
"We'll stretch it," Guillermo said, though he didn't sound confident.
Miguel leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Ain't nobody coming to save us, man. We're on our own."
Guillermo nodded. "We always were."
He looked around at the flickering lights, the homemade barricades, the cots lined with people too weak to run, too stubborn to die. This place was a fortress only because they made it one.
They'd raided nearby pharmacies for antibiotics. Traded food with two other small groups before both were wiped out. Fended off looters. Buried their own when bites took hold.
And every damn day, he looked out that window, wondering if today was the day the barricades failed.
Still… they stayed.
Guillermo stood and looked at his crew.
"We ain't bangers. We ain't thieves. Not anymore. We're the right arm of this building. The muscle that holds it up. And we don't break until the whole damn world does."
That got nods—even from skeptical Sergio.
That Night
The howls of the dead came again, echoing like wolves between the alleyways. A few walkers pressed against the front gate—drawn by a fire or a scream a few blocks away.
Miguel was the first to react.
"Two at the fence. You want 'em down quiet?"
Guillermo shook his head. "Let 'em be unless they push through."
Sergio climbed up the side ladder with a grim expression. "Spotted some people near the south side yesterday. They were armed. Didn't look friendly."
"Could be scavengers. Could be worse," Antonio muttered.
"Let's hope they're neither," Guillermo said.
But deep down, he knew hope was thin around here.
The Next Morning
Breakfast was a few crackers and canned beans split twelve ways.
Ms. Ortiz thanked him anyway. Mr. Morales smiled like he didn't remember yesterday.
They still had something to protect.
Guillermo checked the stockpile.
10 rifles, most scavenged
6 shotguns with limited shells
12 pistols
6 grenades they barely knew how to use
A few crates of food left, barely a week's worth
Medical supplies? Almost gone
They could last a few more days. Maybe a week if they rationed even tighter.
That's when Sergio burst into the room.
"Boss! You need to see this. There's a guy outside. Walking in the open. Alone."
Miguel grabbed his rifle. "Another looter?"
Guillermo frowned. "Maybe. Let's go see."
They moved to the alley, weapons drawn, eyes on the street.
Then they heard the voice.
"I'm not here to fight. Just want to talk."
The man stepped forward, hands up. Dirty sheriff uniform. Bandages on his side. And eyes like a soldier—not just a cop. He wasn't panicking. He wasn't begging.
He was… assessing.
"You got a lot of nerve showing up here, homie," Miguel called out.
The man nodded. "Guillermo, right? I know who you are."
Everyone tensed.
Guillermo stepped forward slowly. "How do you know my name?"
"I've been around," the man said. "I know about this place. About your people. About what you're doing here."
Miguel raised his gun. "You better start making sense, amigo."
"I know you're not a gang," the man continued. "I know you stayed when no one else did. You protected the old folks. You made something here."
Guillermo's hand lowered an inch.
The man—Rick, he said his name was—spoke calmly, clearly.
"I'm building something too. A safe zone. Strong walls, food, farmland, patrols. I want you and your people to be part of it."
Guillermo looked back at his crew.
He thought about the old folks upstairs.
He thought about dying here in two weeks—or living somewhere that actually had a future.
He looked back at Rick.
"You sure about this? You're offering a lot."
"I'm sure. We need each other."
Guillermo took a breath, then nodded.
"Alright. Let's talk."