Andrew scanned the parking lot, the smell of gunpowder still hanging in the air. The silence that followed the brief firefight with the walkers was uneasy — dozens of civilians standing frozen, staring at the corpses beyond the barricade.
Then came the sound — distant, faint at first.
A low, uneven groan carried by the wind.
More were coming.
He turned toward the nearest National Guard squad. "You, get in position, reinforce the barricade. Use the vehicles as cover. If it moves and isn't breathing, drop it."
"Yes, sir!" The squad responded , with a look of hesitation on their faces, then hurried towards the barricade .
Andrew faced the rest — a mix of Guardsmen and local police, all watching him with a mix of confusion and relief. "You heard me," he said, voice cutting through the noise of shifting boots and murmurs. "Form a line. Civilians stay behind the school walls. Anyone who can't fight, get them inside."
.
Then he turned to the crowd, eyes hard. "Listen up — I hope you've finally understood how serious this is. Don't be idiots. One wrong move and you'll get yourself and the people around you killed. Is that clear?"
He saw a few reluctant nods.
"All right. Everyone move!"
The officers and soldiers snapped into motion. The civilians, still stunned, began to back away toward the school doors under the direction of a few quick-thinking guardsmen.
As Andrew and the two Rangers beside him began coordinating positions, one of the rangers on the rooftop caught a flicker of movement in the middle of the crowd — someone wasn't retreating like the others. Instead, the man was weaving through the people, head low, moving deliberately.
"Sir," one of the Rangers muttered over comms, his voice tight. "Got something in the crowd. Civilian male, dark jacket, coming your way. Doesn't look right."
Andrew didn't turn his head immediately. "Keep eyes on him. Don't spook him."
The Ranger's voice came back a moment later. "He's getting closer. Thirty meters out. You want me to take him?"
Andrew's jaw tightened. "If he clears the crowd and draws, aim for arms or legs. No lethals, we need them alive."
"Copy."
The groans were getting louder now — the horde was close enough that a few civilians near the edge could hear it too, their faces shifting from skepticism to terror.
And then it happened. The man broke through the last row of civilians, pulling a pistol from inside his jacket.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. A few people even tried to grab his arm, shouting for him to stop — but the weapon was already rising, the muzzle glinting in the sunlight.
The shot came first.
A single crack from above.
The man screamed, the pistol spinning from his hand as he dropped to his knees, clutching the bloodied stump of his wrist. Panic surged again — people screamed and ducked, thinking shots were being fired at them.
Andrew didn't flinch. He strode forward, weapon still slung but his expression cold. The crowd parted instinctively.
He stopped beside the wounded man. The insurgent looked up, pain and hatred mixing in his eyes.
Andrew didn't need to say much. "You were about to make things a lot worse for everyone."
The man spat something under his breath — too low to hear — and Andrew motioned for a Guardsman. "Take him. Search him and anyone he talked to. I want names and where they came from."
"Yes, sir."
As they dragged the bleeding insurgent away, Andrew turned toward the civilians again. "Anyone else feel like testing their luck?"
No one answered. Even the loudest voices from before were silent now — faces pale, fear replacing their defiance.
Andrew keyed his radio. "Roof team, good shot. You've got the horde in sight yet?"
"Affirmative," came the reply. "Looks like forty, maybe fifty walkers. Closing fast from the east side."
Andrew nodded to himself. "Understood. Hold fire until they're close to the outer perimeter. Make every round count."
He turned to the nearest squad of Guardsmen. "You—spread out along that line. Set up fields of fire. Keep civilians behind the vehicles. If they break through, fall back toward the gymnasium."
As men and women moved into position, the first of the distant figures began to appear into view— swaying, stumbling shapes spilling out of the side street and into the open field.
Andrew lifted his MP5 and took a long, steady breath.
"Alright," he muttered. " Time to see this through."
——————————————
The city was quiet, the sun's orange glow glinting off buildings windows. Streets once choked with traffic now lay littered with abandoned cars, shattered glass, and the remnants of barricades.
Here and there, the dead wandered.
Slow. Aimless. Their hollow groans echoing down the empty boulevards.
One stumbled into another, both collapsing in a heap, limbs tangled. A third dragged itself by the arms, half its body missing below the waist.
Then, movement — quick, deliberate — broke the stillness.
From the shadow of a narrow alley, a hand shot out, gloved fingers locking around a walker's collar. A flash of steel followed — the blade of a combat knife driving cleanly into the base of its skull. The body went limp before it could even groan.
Ghost eased the corpse down to the cracked pavement, one knee braced to keep it quiet. He wiped the blade against the walker's torn jacket, then glanced back into the alley.
"Area's crawling with them," Ghost muttered over comms, voice low behind his mask.
Price's reply came almost instantly, a low rasp through the earpiece. "Copy that. Keep it tight. We move silent — no fireworks unless we've got no choice."
Ghost glanced back, giving a brief nod to the others. Price, Soap, and Gaz emerged from shadows of the alley behind him, their movements practiced and deliberate, taking positions on opposite sides of the alley's corners, eyes scanning for movement.
Soap let out a quiet breath. "Bloody hell… there's more of them here than in all the areas we cleared combined."
"Expected," Price said, voice steady. "Explosion at the CDC likely pulled half the city this way. Cleared a lot of streets in the process ."
Gaz added, "Makes sense. And most of those cleared areas had checkpoints, police departments, or supply depots. Good thing we got to them before others did."
Price gave a curt nod. "All the more reason we're here. We secure every department we find — last thing we need is insurgents getting their hands on proper weapons or gear."
Soap gave a short chuckle, shaking his head. "With this many walkers around, I doubt anyone's nicking anything soon."
Price's tone hardened. "Even a chance is too much, Sergeant. You know that."
That ended the chatter.
They advanced in formation out of the alleyway — Ghost on point, Price close behind, Soap and Gaz covering the rear — boots crunching softly over broken glass and scattered trash.
They'd been pushing deeper into Atlanta for the past few hours, clearing as they went — police departments, checkpoints, collapsed patrol posts — searching for survivors, weapons and gear . So far, they'd found weapons, tactical gear , but no survivors. Missing weapons and equipment from the armory were found one the officer's turned walkers, wandering the streets.
Ghost leaned out from behind a delivery van, eyes narrowing as he scoped the street ahead. "Eyes on the precinct," he said quietly. "Doors are shut. No movement inside. Large crowd of walkers out front."
Price's reply came steady, controlled. "All right, lads. Same plan — we find a way in, secure the building, then sweep the armory."
Ghost, Soap, and Gaz nodded in silent confirmation.
Above them, a faint wind stirred the American flag still clinging to its pole outside the precinct gates.
Below it, the dead shuffled aimlessly.
With the large number of walkers, they didn't take the boulevard.
Price had cut the obvious route when they left the alley — no main streets, no open squares where the dead clustered. Instead, they threaded through a patchwork of service lanes, fenced backyards, and collapsed porches. Whole blocks lay burned out or choked with abandoned cars, and where the sidewalks opened onto streets, the dead wandered aimlessly.
They moved like shadows through a row of shuttered storefronts, boots muffled against torn tarpaulins and wet cardboard. The stench of rot hung thick; flies swarmed around a fallen officer's badge glinting in a puddle.
They cut across a back lot, moving silent in a well-practiced formation — combat knives and suppressed pistols held ready.
When a walker stumbled into their path — torso scabbed, jaw slack — Ghost moved in one smooth, practiced twist of the wrist, driving his knife clean into the base of the skull. The body slumped without a sound. Ghost eased it gently to the ground.
"Soft kills," Price mouthed, not quite a whisper. "We take no chances with noise."
They passed through a chain-link gate that sagged on one hinge. A narrow service alley threaded between two row houses; a small pack of walkers wandered there, half-hidden behind dumpsters. Soap took point this time and moved in slow. One sharp strike to the temple — the first fell. Price grabbed the second, tripped it, then delivered a firm strike to the back of the head — the walker went limp.
Similarly, Gaz took down a walker with a swift blow to the temple, while Ghost dealt with the last two by throwing his knives one after another, each burying deep into their foreheads.
Every kill was choreography — clean, silent, efficient.
After Ghost retrieved his blades they moved on.
No shots were fired unless absolutely necessary. An occasional suppressor-fed round for a stray walker if the angle demanded it, but their default remained close, controlled, and deadly quiet.
They advanced — cutting through backyards, over low fences, across sagging porches. Where a house offered a roof low enough to climb, they took it, moving across tiles like hunters. When alleys bottlenecked, they moved single file and breathed shallow.
Once, a child's tricycle lay overturned in a yard, its paint blistered by heat. Price paused for half a second, eyes unreadable, then moved on.
When they reached the precinct's block, they slipped into the service grid. From this angle, the precinct's rear yard was a small, sunken lot ringed by chain-link fencing and an emergency ladder bolted to the brick. The ladder led two stories up to a maintenance hatch on the roof — not elegant, but discreet.
Price signaled stop. He peered over the low wall and scanned: a small cluster of walkers had wandered into the rear lot, milling between a smashed cruisers. The team couldn't just climb the ladder without clearing that pocket.
Price split the work — Ghost and Soap would handle the pocket, while he and Gaz secured the ladder and watched for flankers. They moved like an old, well-rehearsed routine — no chatter, only gestures. Ghost slipped down the alley, blade unsheathed, eyes cold. Soap moved opposite.
Ghost closed at a jog, then slowed, grabbing a walker by the shoulder, twisting, and driving his blade through its temple. The kill was quick. With Price, Gaz, and Soap catching up, two more walkers were dispatched swiftly, while a third stumbled toward them. For a heartbeat they paused — breath held — then Soap stepped forward and ended it with a surgical strike.
No other walkers stirred.
Price checked the ladder, thumbed the release, and nodded. "Up," he mouthed.
They climbed two at a time, the metal biting into their palms. On the roof, they moved to the hatch, hauled it open, and peered into the darkness of the precinct interior.