They climbed down onto the top floor of the precinct — two at a time, rifles sweeping the dark. The air inside was heavy, stale with dust and something older — the scent of dried blood and mold.
Ghost and Soap dropped first, landing soft on what used to be an office floor. Desks were overturned, papers scattered and half-rotted underfoot. They moved quick, barrels shifting from doorway to doorway.
"Clear left," Soap whispered.
"Clear right," Ghost replied, his voice flat behind the mask.
Price and Gaz followed, lowering themselves through the hatch, boots thudding lightly against the tile. They kept low, forming a tight perimeter around the ladder until Soap signaled all clear.
The only light came from the outside — thin bands of daylight cutting through windows, casting long stripes across the hallway. Dust floated in the beams like ash. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose ceiling tile creaked.
"Keep it quiet," Price murmured, eyes scanning the corridor. "We move floor by floor — same pattern. Watch the corners."
They advanced down the hall, every step deliberate. Their movements stirred faint echoes — of their footsteps . Ghost reached a door marked Detectives Division, nudged it open with his boot, and swept his rifle through the gap.
Inside were signs of a struggle — overturned chairs, empty shell casings, a radio knocked off its mount. A half-eaten ration pack sat on a desk, wrapper still open.
"Someone was here recently," Gaz muttered quietly.
Price gave a single nod. "Eyes sharp. Could still be."
A faint sound cut through the silence — soft, muffled, coming from somewhere below. A voice. Or maybe a cough.
The four of them froze.
Ghost's head tilted slightly. "You hear that?"
Gaz gave a short nod, grip tightening on his rifle. "Lower floors, maybe. Could be survivors… or not."
Price's tone was calm, but his eyes were alert. "On me. We check it. Quietly."
After they ensured that there weren't any walkers on the current floor, they stacked at the stairwell door — weapons raised, ears tuned to the faint shuffle echoing from below.
Price gave the signal. Ghost turned the handle and eased it open, leading them into the stairwell, with them seeming to be on the fourth floor.
Ghost went first, cracking the door open just enough to peer through. The narrow shaft beyond was pitch black, no windows, no emergency lights. Only silence.
"Lights," Price murmured.
One by one, flashlights flicked on — tight white beams cutting through the dark. The metal stairs groaned faintly under their weight as they descended in a slow, disciplined rhythm, ears straining, rifles steady, covering every angle.
When they reached the third-floor door, Price gave a silent hand signal. Ghost opened it carefully, the hinges protesting with a low creak.
They slipped out, spreading into the hallway — Price and Gaz forward, Soap and Ghost covering rear and flank. The faint daylight bleeding through a few windows but wasn't enough, most of the hallway was still covered in darkness . Dust motes hung thick in the beams of their flashlights.
Price's voice broke the quiet, low but clear.
"Anyone alive down here?"
For a few seconds, only silence answered. Then — movement.
From behind a corner near the end of the hallway, several shapes emerged, hands raised slightly in caution. Price's team tensed, rifles still trained until faces came into focus — they weren't walkers.
The first man was massive. Easily six-foot-five, broad-shouldered, built like he could bend a doorframe if he felt like it. A grey T-shirt stretched across his frame, sleeves tight around his biceps, dark trousers and worn sneakers completing the look. His eyes were sharp, calm, assessing — like he was doing math in his head.
Behind him stood a tall Black man in a loosened dress shirt and tie, glasses smudged, expression controlled but alert . To his side, a woman with auburn hair, a sheriff's badge clipped to her belt, pistol holstered at her hip.
Price lowered his rifle, giving a curt nod."Name's Price. These are Soap, Ghost, and Gaz."
The woman stepped forward a bit, still keeping one eye on the stairwell. " Roscoe Conklin." She introduced herself, then asked "How did you get in here ? Because outside's crawling with those things."
Price opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the big man spoke — his tone even, analytical.
"Not through the front. They came in quiet. Roof, most likely."
Price raised a brow, saying nothing.
The man's eyes flicked to the faint stains on their sleeves, the grime streaked on their gear. "Took the back routes — service alleys, yards, narrow passages. Avoided the big clusters. A few close encounters, judging by the blood pattern… but all clean kills."
Soap gave a short chuckle under his breath. "You a detective or somethin', mate?"
"Something like that," the man said, folding his arms.
Price gave him a look that was half amusement, half respect. "Good eye." He adjusted his grip on his rifle. " Mind giving a name ?"
The man studied Price for a moment.
"Reacher," he said finally, voice calm, almost casual. "Jack Reacher."
He didn't offer a hand — just a brief nod.
The man beside him adjusted his glasses, straightening slightly despite the fatigue on his face. His voice carried the clipped tone of someone used to authority, but worn thin by circumstance.
"Oscar Finlay," he said. "Chief Detective — or at least I was, before all this."
He gestured vaguely toward the windows and the world beyond.
"Now," Finlay added dryly, "I suppose I'm just another survivor trying not to get eaten."
Roscoe gave a faint, humorless smile, glancing between them. "You and the rest of us."
Price's eyes swept the hallway as he nodded slightly. "Now that introductions are out of the way — how many of you are here, and what's your situation?"
Reacher stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "We've got others with us — four firemen, two more police officers, and several civilians. All accounted for."
Oscar Finlay added, his tone measured but carrying a hint of exhaustion, "They're on this floor and the one below. No infections inside so far, thank God."
Roscoe Conklin nodded, glancing toward the stairwell. "Everyone's alive, but supplies are running thin. And the noise outside isn't helping morale."
Price gave a short nod, taking it all in. "All right. We'll secure the rest of the building, make sure—"
Reacher cut in, his tone straightforward but not confrontational. "Already did. Ground floor's sealed. We barricaded every entrance we could find — heavy desks, shelving, filing cabinets. Nothing's getting in easy."
Price regarded him for a moment, a faint look of respect crossing his features. Then he nodded. "Good work. Saves us the trouble."
Reacher shrugged slightly. "Didn't have much choice. Couldn't sleep with the doors wide open."
Price allowed himself the ghost of a smirk. "Can't argue with that." Then adjusted the sling on his rifle, his tone steady and professional.
"Our original objective was — and still is — to secure this precinct. That includes any weapons, gear, or equipment stored inside."
Reacher studied them for a moment, his sharp gaze moving from their rifles to the way they carried themselves — relaxed but ready, disciplined even when standing still. His expression shifted slightly, not with suspicion but understanding.
"So there's a conflict," he said finally. "You're not just stockpiling. You're trying to keep this stuff out of someone else's hands."
Price's brows lifted slightly. Soap gave a quiet snort. "Bloody hell."
Even Ghost turned his head a fraction, curious.
Price regarded Reacher with measured respect. "All right, then — I'll bite. How'd you figure that?"
Reacher's tone stayed even, analytical. "Posture. The way you move — you're expecting a fight, not just the dead. Your weapons are pointed at doors and corners, they're held like you're anticipating someone shooting back. You said you're 'securing' the precinct, not clearing it. Means there's another group — probably hostile — trying to do the same. Your gear and accent tell's me you're SAS, and you're not alone. You're part of a larger unit… something organized. Task Force, maybe?"
Price's lips twitched in a faint, knowing smile beneath his mustache. "Good eye, mate." He gave a subtle nod. "You're not wrong."
Gaz muttered, half under his breath, "Bloody Sherlock over here."
Reacher just shrugged once. "Just paying attention to details."
Price gave one last look toward the windows, then turned back to the group.
"All right. Everyone get ready for extraction. Once we've cleared and checked the armory, we'll signal for a bird to pick us up from the roof."
Oscar Finlay nodded immediately. "Understood. I'll make sure everyone's ready to move."
Price gave a short nod of thanks, then motioned to his team. "Let's move, lads."
Reacher and Roscoe took point, guiding them down the hall toward the armory. The floor creaked under their boots, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of old gun oil.
Halfway down the corridor, Reacher spoke without looking back. "This hostile group you mentioned earlier — who are they exactly?"
Price exhaled slowly through his nose before answering. "It started with the collapse," he said. "When the infection spread and command lost control, an order went out to the safe zones — to cut losses. Evacuate key personnel, burn everything else."
Reacher's jaw tightened. "I've heard versions of that."
"Yeah," Price said quietly. "Most of the safe zones ignored the order. But some didn't. They followed through with it— executed civilians, anyone left behind. Now the survivors from those zones … they're hunting anyone in uniform. Doesn't matter if they followed the order or not."
Soap muttered, "Can't really blame 'em, Cap. If I'd watched soldiers torch my home, I'd be out for blood too."
Price gave a small nod. "Aye. Doesn't make it any easier, though. We're just trying to make sure the wrong people don't end up armed."
Reacher glanced over his shoulder at him. "Sounds like the world hasn't changed much — just the uniforms."
Price gave a grim half-smile. "Ain't that the truth."
They reached a heavy steel door marked ARMORY in faded paint. Ghost checked the handle, then glanced at Price. The Captain nodded once.
"Let's see what's left."
Soap eased the door open, muzzle sweeping first. The beam from his flashlight cut through the dark, catching the dull gleam of metal.
"Clear," he said quietly.
Price stepped in behind him. Rows of weapon racks lined the walls — most still stocked. Shotguns. Carbines. Service pistols. Riot shields stacked in one corner beside crates of tear gas and beanbag rounds. Lockers stood open with body armor, vests, and tactical kits still hung in order. Some dust began to settle on everything, but the gear was intact.
Soap gave a low whistle. "Looks like Christmas came early."
Gaz moved past him, running a gloved hand across a rack of rifles. "A bit more than any of the other stations we've hit."
Price nodded, scanning the inventory. "Yeah. This precinct was probably meant as a fallback point. Never made it that far."
They started their sweep, marking crates, checking serials. No rush, no panic — just the quiet efficiency of men who'd done this before.
When Roscoe asked, "You're not taking all of it?" Price shook his head.
"Not yet. We've cleared enough armories to know what we need. We'll tag it, lock it down, and pick it up later."
Reacher tilted his head slightly. "And if those insurgents you mentioned get here first?"
Price pointed toward a window, where faint moans of walkers could be heard.
"Then they'll have to get through that lot first. Walkers'll surround the building once the helo comes in. Noise'll draw them in thick. We block the route we used to get here, seal the armory, and they won't get near it."
Reacher gave a slow nod — it was sound logic, and ruthless in its own way. "Can't argue with that."
The discussion carried on as they worked. Reacher asked more questions — direct, practical.
"You've got a secure base? Somewhere you're regrouping?"
Price didn't look up from the crate he was marking. "Yeah. A resort. Reinforced, self-sustained. Enough room for civvies and troops both."
"Safe zone?" Reacher asked.
"Closest thing left to one," Price replied.
Reacher nodded again, taking in the answer, his expression unreadable. He moved to a nearby locker, unbuckled a set of riot gear, and began securing the forearm and leg guards with practiced motions. From the racks, he slung a rifle and a shotgun across his back, then bagged several magazines and a sidearm.
"Never hurts to be ready," he said simply.
Price gave a faint grunt of agreement. "That's the spirit."
When they finished the inventory, the team swept the remaining offices — communications room, evidence lockup, briefing halls. What electronics or comms gear they couldn't take with them, they moved into the armory and sealed it tight.
Once done, they regrouped on the third floor. The survivors — firefighters, police officers, and civilians — had packed what food, water, and medical supplies they could scavenge. Reacher stood near the window, watching the street below where the dead still drifted aimlessly between the cars.
Price checked his watch, then keyed his radio. "Nikolai, this is Price. Package secured. We're ready for extraction. Total of twenty one survivors, including us."
A burst of static, then Nikolai's voice came through, calm and steady. "Copy that, Captain. Twenty one souls. Not a problem. I'll have the bird on your position in ten minutes. Make sure the LZ's clear."
Price looked to his team. "You heard him. Roof in ten. Let's get everyone ready to move."
Reacher tightened the strap on his rifle, nodding once. "Guess it's our lucky day."
Price gave him a sideways glance and the faintest of smiles. "You might be right about that."
Afterwards they gathered on the fourth floor, at the ladder leading to the rooftop.
Price slung his rifle, then looked over the group. "Everyone's ready? Once we're on that roof, we move fast. Don't stop for anything."
Nods all around — nervous but determined.
Ghost climbed first, his boots clanking softly against the metal rungs of the ladder, then turned to help pull others through the hatch. One by one, they emerged into the cold, early evening air. The city stretched out around them.
Price climbed up last, scanning the sky before reaching into his vest. He cracked a red flare, the light bursting to life in his hand, painting the rooftop in crimson. He tossed it onto the flat concrete. The bright glow was like a beacon.
"Signal's up," Soap said, watching the flare hiss and smoke.
For several long minutes, there was nothing but the wind. Then — faint at first — the rhythmic chop of rotor blades rolled across the rooftops.
"Contact," Gaz said, looking to the horizon.
The sound grew louder until the shape of a CH-47 Chinook broke through the haze, navigation lights blinking. It banked low, the heavy downdraft scattering dust and papers from the rooftop. The massive aircraft hovered over the rear of the precinct, the twin rotors thundering above as it stabilized into position.
"Right on time," Price muttered.
The ramp began to lower, the inside bathed in dim red light. Behind the controls, Nikolai's voice came through on comms — rough, accented, but steady.
"Captain Price, get on — we'll keep her steady."
"Copy, Nikolai. Let's make it quick."
Ghost and Soap moved first, helping the civilians up the ramp along the police officers and fireman, while Gaz covered the rear with his rifle for any possibility. The thrum of the rotors grew deafening, echoing through the city streets below.
On the ground, movement stirred. Dozens — then hundreds — of walkers turned toward the sound, drawn by the chopping sound of the rotor blades. From the vantage point of the roof, they could see the flood beginning — shapes converging from the intersections, their pace quickening.
Price's gaze followed them, jaw tight. "There they are… first layer of security."
As predicted, some of the dead funneled into the alleyways behind the building, crowding the rear lot. Others clawed uselessly at the front barricade, the sound of their impacts lost beneath the storm of the helicopter.
"Let's move, lads!" Price shouted over the noise. "Everyone on board!"
Reacher was one of the last to climb the ramp, helping lift an older firefighter inside before hauling himself up.
Once the last man was aboard, Ghost hit the ramp control, sealing the hatch. Nikolai's voice crackled again. "We're good, da? Hang on back there."
The Chinook lifted, heavy and deliberate, engines straining as it climbed above the rooftops. Below them, the precinct disappeared beneath a seething mass of the dead — drawn in exactly as Price had predicted.
Through the open side hatch, Price looked down one last time, the flare's red glow swallowed by the shadows below.
"Another one secured," he said quietly.
Soap leaned beside him, smirking faintly. "And not a scratch on us."
Price gave him a sidelong look. "Don't jinx it, Sergeant."
The Chinook banked south east, leaving the city behind.
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I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter.
No long ago i was suggested to add Reacher .
I watched the first season and i really liked it , so i decided to bring Reacher into the story.
Opinions on his depiction are appreciated.