CHAPTER 55: JACKSON TOWNSHIP GROUP [1]

"By the way, you all look quite young," Martin said, his weathered face creasing into a concerned frown as he studied our group while we walked. "Are you all high schoolers? And traveling alone?"

I could understand his confusion. From an outsider’s perspective, we must have looked like an odd bunch—me, Elena, and Christopher were clearly still teenagers. Rachel, at best, could pass for a college student. Yet here we were, armed and moving through infected territory with a coordination that spoke of experience far beyond our years.

And we obviously weren’t siblings. Our different builds, facial features, and the way we interacted made it clear we were just a group of young people who’d somehow found each other in this hellscape. No parents, no older guardians—just kids trying to survive in a world that had gone completely insane.

"We’re from New York," Christopher answered. "We barely managed to escape from there, and no, we’re not completely alone. The others are staying in a house not far from here. We just went out to investigate those gunshots we heard earlier."

"Oh, yes..." Martin suddenly reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun, its black metal surface catching the dim afternoon light. He held it up with a rueful expression, checking the empty chamber one more time before sighing heavily. "I wasted all my bullets back there. Damn thing’s useless now."

"What were you three doing out here, away from your main group?" I asked, genuinely curious about their situation. It seemed risky for just three people to venture out, especially when one of them was clearly struggling with the physical demands of survival.

Clara shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the heavy backpack on her shoulders before answering. "We were scavenging for supplies," she admitted, guilt evident in her voice. "We have around sixty people at the municipal office, and feeding everyone is becoming... challenging. We thought we could gather more provisions from the stores and houses in this area." She paused, then added with obvious self-recrimination, "I guess we got a bit too greedy and wandered farther than we should have."

It was clear from her tone and body language that the expedition had been her idea. Martin and Joel probably hadn’t wanted to venture so far from safety, but had gone along to protect her.

"What about you folks?" Joel asked, his breathing having returned to normal now that we’d settled into a steady walking pace. "Coming all the way from New York—do you have family here in Jackson Township? Some reason for choosing this specific place?"

I shook my head, kicking a small piece of debris out of our path. "No family connections. We just escaped New York when everything went to hell and kept moving until we found somewhere that looked manageable. We were hoping to find a place with fewer infected than the city."

"Well, there are still plenty of those bastards around here," Martin said with a bitter laugh, "but I imagine New York must be an absolute nightmare. The population density alone..." He shuddered visibly. "Did you manage to find what you were looking for? A peaceful place, I mean?"

"More or less," I replied cautiously. "We found an abandoned house that we’re using as a base. It’s defensible, and the infected population in the immediate area is manageable. We’re thinking of staying there for the foreseeable future."

Martin’s expression brightened slightly. "Well, if you ever need a more permanent solution, you’d be welcome to join us at the municipal office. I mean, it’s not luxury living by any stretch, but we have walls, security, and strength in numbers."

Christopher let out a short laugh. "Thanks for the offer, but we’re fine where we are. Besides, no offense, but living with sixty other people sounds like it would be awkward as hell. Too many personalities, too many potential conflicts."

His bluntness might have offended some people, but Clara actually laughed at his honesty. "You’re not wrong about that," she admitted with a grin. "We’re a pretty conservative bunch here in Jackson Township. Small-town mentality, you know? Everyone knows everyone else’s business, and privacy is... limited."

"Still," Martin said, his expression growing more serious as he looked at our small group, "in times like these, we should all be helping each other. We’re all victims of this virus, this collapse of everything we knew. It wouldn’t hurt to maintain contact, maybe trade resources or information when needed."

I found myself nodding in agreement. He was right—isolation might feel safer, but cooperation could benefit everyone in the long run.

Martin’s expression suddenly shifted, becoming more guarded and intense. "By the way, I have to ask you something," he said, his casual tone from moments before replaced by something much more serious.

"What’s the question?" I asked.

Martin stopped walking entirely, turning to face us directly. "You aren’t the ones who destroyed the gates, are you?"

The question caught all of us completely off guard. "What?" I asked, genuinely confused. Elena and Christopher exchanged bewildered looks, and even Rachel seemed taken aback by the unexpected inquiry.

"What gates?" Elena added, voicing what we were all thinking.

Martin studied our faces carefully, as if trying to detect any hint of deception. After a long moment, he scratched his cheek and looked somewhat embarrassed. "No, forget about it. I was just thinking something stupid. Of course it couldn’t be you—you just arrived here, right?"

"Yesterday," I confirmed, though I made a mental note to ask more about these mysterious gates later. "We’ve barely had time to get our bearings in this area."

"Then it’s fine," Martin said, though he still seemed troubled by whatever had prompted his question.

We continued walking for the next five minutes, the conversation dying down as we focused on the immediate task of staying alive. The street wasn’t heavily populated with infected, but we encountered enough wandering corpses to keep us alert. A lone infected stumbling out of a pharmacy, its pharmacist’s coat stained with dried blood. Two more emerging from behind an overturned delivery truck, moving with that characteristic jerky gait that made them so unsettling to watch.

We had obviously dealt with them easily. Our group moved in coordination, taking down the infected quickly and quietly to avoid attracting attention from any others that might be lurking nearby.

Finally, as we rounded a corner past a row of abandoned shops, the municipal office building came into view.

It was an imposing structure—long, wide, and built with the kind of solid brick construction that spoke of an era when government buildings were meant to last centuries. The red brick facade was marked by tall, narrow windows that were now mostly boarded up with plywood and metal sheeting. Large block letters spelling "MUNICIPAL OFFICE" stretched across the front of the building, though some of the letters had been damaged, giving it a somewhat post-apocalyptic aesthetic that was probably unintentional but eerily appropriate.

What immediately caught my attention, however, was the entrance. The original gates and main doors were completely gone—not damaged or broken, but entirely absent. In their place, someone had created a makeshift barrier using cars parked bumper-to-bumper, creating a wall of vehicles that blocked direct access to the building.

"This way," Martin said, leading us toward what looked like solid wall of automobiles.

As we got closer, I could see there was actually a narrow gap between two of the cars—barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways. It was cleverly disguised from a distance, making the barrier appear completely solid to casual observation.

Martin led us through the gap, and I had to admire the ingenuity of the setup. Anyone trying to force entry would have to come through single file, making them easy targets for defenders inside. The cars themselves would provide excellent cover for anyone shooting from within the building.

Once through the vehicle barrier, Martin approached what appeared to be the original main entrance—a heavy wooden door that looked like it had been reinforced with additional metal plating. He knocked in what was clearly a predetermined pattern: three quick taps, pause, two taps, pause, three more taps.

Weren’t they overdoing it a bit?

"It’s us, guys. We’re back," he called out in a voice just loud enough to be heard through the door but not loud enough to carry far beyond the building.

There was a moment of silence, then the sound of multiple locks being disengaged—deadbolts sliding back, chains being removed, what sounded like a heavy bar being lifted. Someone inside had taken security very seriously.

The door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man with graying hair and worry lines etched deep around his eyes. He was holding what looked like a baseball bat, though he lowered it immediately upon seeing Martin’s familiar face.

"Finally," the man said, relief evident in his voice. "We were starting to get worried when you didn’t come back at the expected time."

"Sorry about that, Mike," Martin replied with an apologetic grimace. "We ran into some trouble out there. Had a close call with one of those infected dogs, actually."

Mike’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and concern. "One of the big ones? Jesus, Martin, you should have turned back the moment you saw it. Those things are—"

"I know, I know," Martin interrupted. "But we had some help." He gestured toward our group. "These young folks saved our bacon out there. Especially this one," he added, nodding toward me with something approaching awe in his expression.

Mike’s attention turned to us for the first time, and I could see him taking in our youthful appearances with the same confusion Martin had shown earlier. His grip on the baseball bat tightened slightly—not threateningly, but in the way of someone who’d learned to be cautious about strangers in this new world.

"Well," Mike said after a moment of assessment, "I suppose we should properly welcome our rescuers inside. It’s not safe to be standing around out here, anyway."

"Right... come on in," Martin said finally stepping aside and gesturing for us to enter.

As we crossed the threshold into the municipal office, I had to admit I was genuinely impressed by what I saw. The transformation was remarkable.

What had once been a typical government reception hall—complete with uncomfortable plastic chairs, outdated informational posters, and that distinctive smell of bureaucracy—had been completely reimagined as a functional living space. The original furniture had been pushed to the sides or repurposed entirely. Sleeping areas had been created using office dividers and hanging blankets to provide some semblance of privacy. A central area near what used to be the information desk had been converted into a communal gathering space, with mismatched chairs and cushions arranged in a rough circle.

The ingenuity was evident everywhere I looked. Filing cabinets had been repurposed as storage for personal belongings and supplies. Office desks had been pushed together to create larger surfaces for food preparation and communal activities. Someone had even figured out how to string up lights using what appeared to be car batteries and salvaged electrical components, providing adequate illumination throughout the space.

But what struck me most was the sheer number of people occupying this improvised living area.

There had to be at least twenty people visible just in this main reception area, all engaged in various activities. Some were sitting in small groups, engaged in quiet conversations. Others were working on practical tasks—mending clothes, organizing supplies, or cleaning weapons. A few were simply resting, their faces bearing the kind of exhaustion that came from constant vigilance and stress.

The moment we entered, however, all activity ceased.

Every single person in the room turned to stare at us, their conversations dying mid-sentence as they took in the sight of unfamiliar faces. The silence that fell over the room was so complete I could hear the faint hum of whatever generator was powering their improvised lighting system.

I could feel the weight of their scrutiny, and it wasn’t entirely friendly. These people had clearly learned to be suspicious of strangers, and I couldn’t blame them for that. In a world where anyone could be infected, or worse, where other survivors might pose their own unique threats, caution was the difference between life and death.

"Who are these people, dear?"

The voice belonged to a woman who approached Martin with the kind of familiarity that suggested a long relationship—possibly his wife, based on the way she positioned herself slightly protectively near him. She was probably in her forties, with prematurely gray hair pulled back into a practical ponytail and wearing what had once been nice clothes but now showed the wear and practical modifications of survival living.

"Skyler, we met them in the town center," Martin explained, his voice carrying a note of enthusiasm that suggested he was hoping to defuse any tension before it could build. "They came from New York, and they actually saved our lives out there."

"New York."

The snort of derision came from across the room, accompanied by the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. I turned to see a man rising from where he’d been sitting near what used to be the reception desk, and immediately I could tell this was going to be a problem.

He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with wild blond hair that hung in unkempt waves around his face. His clothes—a worn leather jacket over a stained t-shirt and ripped jeans—gave him the appearance of someone who’d been trouble even before the world ended. But it was the way he carried himself that set off alarm bells in my head. The casual arrogance in his posture, the metal bar he held like it was an extension of his arm, the cigarette dangling from his lips despite the enclosed space filled with other people.

He approached us with the kind of swagger that suggested he was either looking for a fight or trying to establish dominance through intimidation. The metal bar—which looked like it had been torn from some piece of construction equipment—swayed slightly in his grip, not quite threatening but not exactly peaceful either.

"New York," he repeated, this time with more venom in his voice. "Let me guess—you city folk couldn’t handle the heat when things got real, so you decided to come bring your problems to our quiet little town?"

The cigarette smoke drifted toward us as he got closer, and I had to resist the urge to wave it away. The last thing we needed was to escalate this situation with unnecessary gestures that could be interpreted as aggressive.

But then something changed.

The man’s hostile advance suddenly came to an abrupt halt, his posture shifting from aggressive to something else entirely as his gaze fell on Rachel. His expression transformed in an instant—the sneer melting away, replaced by something I really didn’t like the look of.

Great, I thought, Here we go.