Chapter 7: Men in Yellow Suits
The growth of Zealot's territory created a new problem.
Visibility.
In the early days, the surrounding streets had been almost entirely abandoned.
Most survivors either hid indoors or fled the city altogether.
Now, however, things were beginning to change.
Through the eyes of his scouting minions, Zealot noticed more and more survivor groups moving through nearby districts.
Some searched for food.
Some searched for medicine.
Others simply searched for a place to sleep.
Humanity had not vanished.
It had merely fragmented.
And fragmented people were unpredictable.
The larger his operation became, the harder it would be to hide.
Dozens of zombies moving in organized groups was not normal.
Sooner or later someone would notice.
Questions would be asked.
Rumors would spread.
Curiosity would follow.
Curiosity led to investigation.
Investigation led to discovery.
Discovery led to problems.
Zealot preferred avoiding problems before they appeared.
So he began looking for a solution.
***
The answer arrived unexpectedly.
One of his eastern scouting minions had entered an industrial district several kilometers away.
The area contained numerous warehouses.
Most had already been looted.
A few had burned down.
Others had collapsed.
But one building remained largely intact.
Through the zombie's eyes, Zealot read the faded sign above the entrance.
EMERGENCY RESPONSE SUPPLY DEPOT
His interest was immediately piqued.
Ordering the minion inside, he began exploring.
The warehouse was enormous.
Shelves stretched across the entire structure.
Most contained emergency equipment.
Protective clothing.
Medical supplies.
Industrial cleaning equipment.
Respirators.
Gloves.
Protective masks.
Then Zealot spotted them.
Hundreds.
Perhaps thousands.
Bright yellow hazmat suits.
For several moments he simply stared.
Then a smile slowly spread across his face.
An idea formed instantly.
***
Two days later, a convoy of minions arrived at the warehouse.
The operation lasted nearly twelve hours.
By the time it was finished, truckloads of supplies had been transported back to the apartment complex.
The hazmat suits quickly became the most valuable acquisition.
Zealot immediately began testing them.
The results exceeded expectations.
When fully dressed, his zombies looked surprisingly human from a distance.
The suits concealed pale skin.
The masks concealed faces.
Gloves concealed hands.
Even their slightly unnatural movements became less noticeable.
Especially to frightened survivors observing from afar.
For the first time, his minions could move openly without immediately revealing their true nature.
The implications were enormous.
***
The transformation began the following morning.
Groups of zombies lined up in the apartment courtyard.
One after another they were fitted with protective suits.
Masks.
Boots.
Gloves.
Respirators.
When the process finished, Zealot examined the results.
The sight was almost comical.
Dozens of zombies stood silently before him.
All dressed as emergency response personnel.
To anyone observing from a distance, they appeared to be members of some government disaster response team.
The irony was not lost on him.
A chuckle escaped his lips.
"If only they knew."
The zombies remained motionless.
Waiting for instructions.
As always.
***
The effectiveness of the disguise was tested sooner than expected.
Three days later, a survivor group entered the outer edge of his territory.
Eight individuals.
Armed.
Cautious.
Clearly experienced.
Rather than avoiding them entirely, Zealot decided to experiment.
He selected four hazmat-clad minions.
Each carried warning signs.
Large signs prepared specifically for situations like this.
WARNING
CHEMICAL CONTAMINATION
EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY
DO NOT ENTER
The zombies approached from a distance.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The survivors immediately noticed them.
Weapons were raised.
Tension filled the air.
Then the survivors noticed the protective suits.
Confusion replaced hostility.
One of the survivors shouted something.
The zombies ignored the question.
Instead, they simply raised the warning signs.
Several moments passed.
The survivor group exchanged nervous glances.
Chemical contamination was not impossible.
Industrial accidents occurred frequently even before the apocalypse.
Combined with the obvious disaster surrounding them, the warning seemed plausible.
Eventually the survivors retreated.
Exactly as planned.
Watching through a nearby minion, Zealot smiled.
The strategy worked perfectly.
***
Over the following weeks, the system became standard procedure.
Whenever survivors approached important locations, hazmat teams appeared.
Warning signs were displayed.
Contamination stories were implied.
Most people left voluntarily.
Those who remained were carefully monitored.
The arrangement provided several advantages.
First, it protected Zealot's growing territory.
Second, it avoided unnecessary conflict.
Third, it allowed survivors to believe they had discovered the reason independently.
People trusted conclusions they reached themselves far more than direct orders.
As a result, rumors began spreading.
Through intercepted conversations, Zealot learned that nearby survivor groups now believed large portions of the city suffered from toxic chemical leaks.
Some districts were supposedly contaminated by industrial accidents.
Others were rumored to contain dangerous airborne pathogens.
The stories became increasingly exaggerated.
Zealot made no effort to correct them.
In fact, he quietly encouraged them.
The fewer people investigating his territory, the better.
***
While the hazmat strategy solved one problem, another emerged.
Food.
Specifically long-term food security.
The supplies collected from apartments and nearby stores remained substantial.
But they were finite.
Eventually they would run out.
Even if Zealot himself required relatively little food, future growth demanded sustainable production.
He needed agriculture.
Livestock.
Renewable resources.
Fortunately, his scouting network had already located a solution.
Several kilometers outside the city sat a large farming region.
Unlike urban areas, the farms had suffered relatively limited damage.
Many animals remained alive.
Fields remained intact.
Equipment remained operational.
The discovery immediately attracted Zealot's attention.
Over the following days he carefully observed the area.
Cattle.
Goats.
Chickens.
Pigs.
Large quantities of crops.
The resources available there exceeded anything found within the city.
An idea began forming.
Rather than repeatedly traveling long distances for food...
Why not bring the food closer?
Why not create a farm inside his territory?
The more he considered it, the more attractive the idea became.
***
Preparations began immediately.
Several teams of minions were dispatched.
Fences were gathered.
Agricultural tools collected.
Vehicles acquired.
The operation would be complicated.
But entirely achievable.
One location stood out above all others.
A large public park located relatively close to the apartment complex.
The area contained open land.
Access to water.
Natural sunlight.
Enough space for future expansion.
Perfect.
Standing on the rooftop one evening, Zealot gazed toward the distant park.
The wheels of his growing empire continued turning.
The apartment complex had become a fortress.
The surrounding streets had become territory.
The hazmat disguises protected his secrets.
And now, the foundations of a self-sustaining food network were beginning to emerge.
Every day brought new improvements.
Every week increased his strength.
The kingdom of the Zombie Sovereign was no longer merely surviving.
It was evolving.
And soon, it would begin producing its own food.
A critical step toward true independence.