The streets were a butcher's gallery.
Bodies lay everywhere now—not all rising, but most. The virus had spread faster than even I remembered. Whatever trigger had been pulled at midnight hadn't just activated the already-infected; it had accelerated the entire process.
I moved through the carnage like a farmer walking through wheat, harvesting as I went.
Each zombie I claimed felt like adding a thread to a tapestry. One by one, they joined my network—dead minds filling with my will, dead bodies responding to my commands.
Thirty-two. Forty-one. Fifty-three.
By the time I reached the shopping district four blocks from the compound, I'd nearly doubled my horde.
Ghost stayed close, her golden eyes tracking the zombies with wary fascination.
So many, she observed. Master's pack grows large.
"Pack." I smiled grimly. "That's one word for it."
What is proper word?
"Army. Horde. Abomination." I shrugged. "Depends on who you ask."
Ghost asks.
"Then we'll call it a pack. For now."
------------------------------
The shopping district was worse than the residential areas.
This had been a popular morning destination—coffee shops, bakeries, a grocery store that opened at 6 AM. When the outbreak hit, people had been gathering for their daily routines.
Now those routines had become death traps.
The coffee shop on the corner was a slaughterhouse. Bodies piled near the door where customers had tried to flee. The barista's station was smeared with blood. Through the shattered windows, I could see zombies still feeding.
I reached out with my Death Aura.
Eleven inside. All fresh, still fixated on the remains of their victims.
Mine, I commanded.
The resistance was minimal. One by one, they lifted their heads from their meals and turned toward me. Blood dripped from their chins. Their eyes found mine.
And they obeyed.
Sixty-four.
"Come," I said aloud.
They shambled out through the broken door, joining the formation behind me.
The grocery store was next. Then the bakery. Then the small park where families had gathered on normal Saturday mornings.
Seventy-three. Eighty-eight. One hundred and two.
My head was starting to ache.
------------------------------
At one hundred and seventeen, I hit the wall.
It wasn't a hard limit—more like a pressure, a strain at the edges of my consciousness. Each additional zombie required more effort to maintain, more of my will spread thinner and thinner.
I paused at the edge of a parking lot, surrounded by my horde.
One hundred and seventeen dead eyes watching me. One hundred and seventeen mouths silent and waiting. One hundred and seventeen bodies ready to move at my command.
Impressive, something whispered in the back of my mind. But not enough. Never enough.
I pushed the thought aside and assessed my situation.
The parking lot was attached to what had been a department store—three stories of retail space now converted to urban battlefield. Through my Death Aura, I sensed movement inside. Zombies, yes, but also...
Survivors.
At least a dozen of them, barricaded on the third floor. Their life forces burned bright against the cold presence of the dead.
And they'd seen me.
------------------------------
"Holy shit. Holy shit. Is that—is that guy controlling them?"
The voice came from a broken window on the third floor. A man's voice, high with fear and disbelief.
"That's impossible," another voice replied. A woman this time, older, more controlled. "Nobody can control those things."
"Then explain why a hundred zombies are just standing there like soldiers! Explain why they're all looking at the same guy!"
I tilted my head up toward the window.
"I can hear you," I called. "And yes, I can control them."
Silence. Then movement—faces appearing at the window. Six, seven, eight... I counted twelve in total, though my Death Aura told me there were more hiding further back.
"Who are you?" the woman called down.
"Someone who can help. Or someone who can leave you here to die. Your choice."
A pause. Then: "What do you want?"
"The same thing you want. To survive. To rebuild." I spread my arms, gesturing at my horde. "These are my tools. They don't eat. They don't sleep. They don't get tired. They do exactly what I tell them, when I tell them."
"That's not possible."
"It's happening right in front of you."
More conferring. Hushed voices I couldn't quite make out. Then the woman appeared at the window again.
"If you're lying—if this is some kind of trap—"
"If I wanted you dead, I'd send my army up those stairs right now and we'd see how long your barricade holds." My voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I'm offering partnership, not war. But the offer has an expiration date. Make a decision."
Thirty seconds of silence.
Then: "We're coming down."
------------------------------
The survivors emerged from the department store's service entrance—fourteen of them, more than I'd initially sensed. The extras had been unconscious or in shock, their life forces dimmed to the point of near-invisibility.
They were a mixed group. Young and old. Men and women. A teenager who looked barely fifteen, clutching a metal baseball bat. An older man in a security guard's uniform, his hand resting on an empty holster.
And leading them, the woman whose voice I'd recognized—tall, gray-streaked hair pulled back severely, wearing what had been a business suit before the bloodstains.
"My name is Dr. Elena Vasquez," she said, stopping ten feet from me and eyeing my zombies with barely concealed revulsion. "I'm a physician. I was here for a conference when... when everything happened."
"Wei," I said. "I control the dead."
"So I see." Her gaze swept over my horde. "How?"
"Does it matter?"
"It might. If you're some kind of... vector. If this is spreading through you—"
"It's not a disease," I interrupted. "It's power. My power, specifically. I didn't catch this from anyone. I was born with it." Not technically true, but close enough. "Your medical concerns are noted but irrelevant."
Dr. Vasquez's jaw tightened. She wasn't used to being dismissed.
"I have a compound four blocks south," I continued. "Fortified. Supplied. Currently housing nine survivors plus myself. You're welcome to join us, but there are conditions."
"Such as?"
"Loyalty. Usefulness. My leadership is not up for debate." I met her eyes. "I'm not building a democracy. I'm building a survival machine. If you can't accept that, walk away now. I won't force anyone to stay."
The security guard stepped forward. "And if we accept? What do we get?"
"Protection. Food. Water. A place to sleep that isn't about to be overrun. And eventually, when the dust settles, a position in whatever comes next."
"Whatever comes next?" The teenage boy spoke up. "What does that mean?"
I looked out at the ruined city—the smoke, the fires, the distant sounds of chaos still echoing through the streets.
"It means I'm not just planning to survive," I said. "I'm planning to win."
------------------------------
The walk back to the compound was a parade of the apocalypse.
One hundred and seventeen zombies marched in formation. Fourteen survivors walked in the center, surrounded by the dead, trying not to flinch every time a zombie brushed too close.
Ghost padded at my side, seemingly amused by the humans' discomfort.
They fear the pack, she observed.
"They're smart," I said. "Fear is appropriate."
But they follow anyway.
"Because the alternative is worse."
What is alternative?
I gestured at the bodies littering the streets. The burning buildings. The distant screams.
"That."
Ghost considered this.
Then pack is good. Pack is safe.
"Pack is survival," I agreed. "For now, that's enough."
------------------------------
Max Yang met us at the gate.
This time, she didn't ask questions. She just counted.
"One hundred seventeen zombies. Fourteen more survivors." Her voice was flat. "You've been busy."
"I told you I was building something."
"You did." She looked at the new arrivals—the doctor, the security guard, the frightened teenager. "Can they contribute?"
"A physician will be useful. The security guard knows combat basics. The rest..." I shrugged. "We'll figure it out."
Dr. Vasquez pushed forward. "I didn't agree to be—"
"You agreed to my leadership," I cut her off. "That includes being assigned tasks. If you have a problem with that, the gate is right behind you."
The doctor's mouth opened, then closed. She swallowed whatever she'd been about to say.
"Good." I turned to Max Yang. "Status?"
"The compound is secure. Liu Feng is on roof watch. Hui Zhang is cataloging supplies with that electrician—Harold. The new woman finally gave us a name. Jennifer. She's still not talking much, but she's helping with food preparation."
"And the child?"
"Sarah's keeping him occupied. He's... handling it. As well as can be expected."
I nodded. "Set up sleeping areas for the new arrivals. Dr. Vasquez can assess anyone who needs medical attention. I want a full skills inventory by sundown."
"Already on it." Max Yang paused. "Wei... one hundred and seventeen. That's more than the entire population of our block. How many more are you planning to take?"
I looked out at the city. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the ruins.
"As many as I can," I said. "Until there are no more to take."
"And then?"
I smiled.
"Then we move to the next block. And the next. And the next." I turned to face her fully. "This is Day 0. By the end of Day 1, I want every zombie within a mile radius under my control. By the end of the week, I want every zombie in this district."
"Is that even possible?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'm going to find out."
I walked into the compound, my army stationed at the perimeter, my new survivors finding their places in our growing community.
Behind me, the sun set on the first day of the apocalypse.
Ghost padded to my side, her golden eyes reflecting the dying light.
Master's pack is strong, she observed. But Master feels... stretched. Thin.
She was right. One hundred and seventeen connections, each one a thread of will linking my mind to theirs. The strain was there, constant now, like a low headache that wouldn't fade.
But it wasn't pain.
It was potential.
Through my Death Aura, I sensed them—all the other zombies beyond my range. Hundreds. Thousands. A sea of dead waiting to be claimed.
The soft limit at one hundred and seventeen wasn't a wall.
It was just the first threshold.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow, we break through.
Max Yang's voice drifted from inside the compound—organizing, commanding, building our foundation.
Outside the walls, Seattle burned.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
And then I felt it.
A pulse of power that wasn't mine. Different. Foreign. Deliberate.
I froze.
Through my Death Aura, something was looking back at me. Not the mindless void of my zombies, but something aware. Something that felt almost like... recognition.
Another awakened? Or something worse?
The presence flickered—there and gone, like a candle in the wind. But in that instant of contact, I'd felt it clearly: amusement.
Whatever was out there, it had noticed me.
And it wasn't afraid.
Master? Ghost's voice was uneasy. What was that?
I didn't answer immediately. My hand had moved to the wall, steadying myself.
"I don't know," I said finally. "But I intend to find out."
The night suddenly felt much darker.