Inside the Chinook, the roar of the rotors swallowed everything else. The ramp was sealed, the aircraft banking hard as Nikolai pulled them away from the intersection.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
Then the adrenaline crash hit.
Several of them slumped back onto the webbed canvas bench seats lining the interior of the cargo bay. Weapons rested between boots, muzzles down, fingers finally easing off triggers. Breathing came heavy and uneven, chest rigs rising and falling in sharp bursts.
Soap pulled his helmet back just enough to wipe sweat off his brow.
"Bloody hell," he muttered. "That escalated fast."
Gaz leaned forward, elbows on his knees, exhaling slowly. "Fastest jog I've had in days. Should charge gym fees for that."
One of the Rangers let out a shaky breath and shook his head. "Thought we were done for back there. Never thought I'd be glad to hear a Chinook that much."
Andrew stayed standing for a moment, bracing himself against one of the cargo frame struts as the helicopter leveled out. His ears rang, heart still hammering.
"Alright," he said, voice cutting through the hum. "Everyone check yourselves. Arms, legs, neck, don't assume you're good just because you're breathing."
Ghost was already doing it,methodical, silent, running gloved hands over his gear and limbs, then giving a short nod.
"Clean," he said.
Soap checked his forearm, then his side. "No bites. No blood. Just pride damage."
Gaz snorted. "That's permanent."
Two Rangers compared notes quietly, one with a scrape along his knuckle, the other with a torn sleeve but intact skin.
"Nothing serious," one said. "No breaks. No bites."
Andrew finally took a seat, setting his MP5 across his knees as he checked himself, cuts, tears, blood. He exhaled when he found none.
"Good," he said. "Let's keep it that way."
Price sat across from them, elbows on his thighs, calm as ever. His eyes moved across the group, counting heads.
"Well done, lads," he said. "Could've gone a lot worse."
Soap glanced toward the sealed ramp. "Any word on the med bird?"
"Nikolai said they broke clean," Price replied. "Hospital's expecting them."
A moment of quiet followed, only the thrum of the engines and the faint rattle of loose gear.
One of the Rangers finally spoke, voice low. " They might be in a bad shape, but at least they are alive. If we were even few minutes late, they would have been eating alive."
Gaz grimaced and nodded. " Not a nice way to go."
Andrew leaned back slightly, the exhaustion from the stress finally settling into his bones. And then the realization hit him.
The crashed helicopter. The survivors.
They were the same ones, from the show.
But something isn't right.
In the show, the helicopter crash happened months after the outbreak, with only one survivor. It was a turning point, the spark that ignited the Woodbury arc. This...this...was happening far too early.
Andrew's gaze drifted to Price, then to the others strapped into the Chinook.
It was obvious that, things weren't following the same script.
He exhaled slowly, then said.
"Once we debriefed Major Griggs we'll want to talk with Lieutenant Welles. We need to find the rest of his unit."
Price nodded. "Aye. We'll see to it."
The Chinook surged onward through the morning sky, carrying them back to Fort Ironwood.
·····················
The medical helicopter vibrated steadily as it cut through the air, rotors chopping rhythmically above the cabin. Inside, the space smelled of antiseptic, fuel, and sweat.
Two medics worked over Private Franklin on the stretcher, their movements practiced and efficient. One monitored his breathing while the other checked the IV line, calling out the vitals. Franklin remained unconscious, chest rising and falling beneath the straps as the aircraft shuddered with turbulence.
Lieutenant Welles had already been seen to.
The gash along his leg had been cleaned thoroughly, fresh bandages wrapped tight. His head wound, shallow but messy from shattered glass, was washed and dressed, a thick pad held in place by gauze. There was nothing immediate life-threatening but further check ups are needed.
He sat strapped into a jump seat near the window, one hand resting on his thigh, the other gripping the webbing beside him. Across from him, Private Sean sat slumped in his own seat, head similarly bandaged, eyes half-lidded but alert, the adrenaline finally draining from his system.
Neither of them spoke.
Outside the window, the landscape slid past beneath the early light. As they drew closer to Atlanta, the signs of collapse became impossible to ignore. Car crashes, roads clogged with vehicles, dark scars of burned-out neighborhoods cut through the city grid. Entire blocks lay blackened and hollow..
Welles stared out at it in silence.
A burst of radio chatter crackled through the cockpit speakers, muffled by static and engine noise.
After a moment, the pilot leaned back just enough for his voice to carry into the cabin, eyes never leaving the flight path.
"ETA five minutes," he called out. "Hospital helipad is secure. Medical staff and armed security will be waiting on arrival."
One of the medics gave a quick thumbs-up without looking away from Franklin.
"Copy that."
Welles nodded once. "Understood."
The pilot turned forward again, the helicopter banking slightly as the city came into full view beneath them.
Welles shifted in his seat and looked out the window.
Atlanta sprawled below like a corpse that hadn't realized it was dead yet. Streets were clogged with movement—slow, uneven, countless. Shapes drifted through intersections, clustered in parking lots, spilled out of alleyways and buildings like rot made visible. From this height, the walkers looked small.
There were far too many of them.
Sean leaned closer to the window, breath catching as he took it in. Neither man said a word. There was nothing to say.
Dread settled heavy in Welles's chest, followed by something worse—sorrow. For the people those shapes had once been. For the city. For the certainty that whatever order had existed down there was gone, replaced by a tide that never slept and never stopped.
The medical helicopter swung in low over the hospital and eased down onto the helipad, skids scraping lightly as it settled. The pilot brought the engine down, and the roar of the rotors gradually faded into a heavy, echoing thrum before the blades finally slowed to a stop.
Almost immediately, medical staff and armed security moved in, their steps practiced and efficient. Inside the helicopter, the two medics unlatched the side doors and helped Welles and Sean out, steadying them as their boots hit the concrete. Fresh medical personnel stepped in to take their place, while another team moved to the rear of the aircraft. The back compartment door swung open, and the stretcher with Franklin on it was carefully taken out, the straps checked and rechecked before they began moving him off the helipad.
With security forming a tight escort, the group headed toward the nearby elevator entrance. As he was guided along, Welles glanced around the rooftop. Rows of solar panels covered much of the space, and among them moved people, teenagers and adults alike, adjusting panels, checking cables, working with quiet urgency.
As they moved toward the elevator, Welles paused long enough to look over the edge of the rooftop. Far below, the hospital was encircled by thick walls of HESCO barriers, forming a rough but solid perimeter. Dark figures moved along the barricades in steady patrols. From this height he couldn't make out details, but the shape of their gear told him enough. Riot police, he guessed. Another layer of defense.
Moving on, the elevator was large enough to accommodate the stretcher, the medics, and their armed escort. The doors slid open with a soft chime, and they filed inside. As one of the guards pressed the button, Welles broke the silence.
"How are you keeping all this running?" he asked. "Generators should be burned through fuel to keep the building operational."
One of the security officers glanced at him. "They would've," he said evenly. "But we're being resupplied. Fuel, medical stock, food, enough to keep the hospital operational."
The doors closed, and the elevator began its descent.
...
The elevator descended in silence, the only sound the low hum of machinery and the faint rattle of cables. No one spoke. When it finally stopped with a soft ding, the doors slid open and the medical personnel moved out immediately. Welles and Sean followed a step behind, flanked by security, while Franklin was wheeled ahead on the stretcher.
The hospital looked… almost normal.
Doctors and nurses moved briskly through the corridors, clipboards in hand, voices low but steady. Elderly patients sat along the walls, some wrapped in blankets, others staring off into nothing. A few injured groaned softly as they were tended to. Yet the differences were impossible to miss—two police officers wearing protective arm guards patrolled the hallway, pistols holstered but ready, eyes constantly scanning.
As they passed, patients and staff alike looked up, their gazes lingering on the battered state of Welles and his men—bloodstained uniforms, bandages.
They were guided into an empty room and brought to a stop.
"You'll be checked for internal injuries and possible infection," one of the medics said calmly, already moving to work.
Welles nodded. Sean did the same, though Welles caught the briefest flinch at the word infection—so slight it might've been missed by anyone else.
Nearby, nurses surrounded Franklin, hanging IV bags on a pole beside the bed, checking his pulse and temperature, calling out quiet readings to one another. The room filled with the soft beeping of monitors and the steady rhythm of medical routine.
····················
The Chinook sat silent on the airstrip behind them, rotors locked in place.
Andrew walked away from the airstrip alongside Captain Price. The airstrip buzzed with controlled activity, technicians, soldiers, and vehicles moving with purpose, but the urgency had shifted towards the aftermath of the mission.
Off to their left, Nikolai remained near the Chinook, speaking with another pilot, one hand resting against the fuselage as he talked. Whatever he was saying, it looked technical. Nikolai glanced their way once, gave a quick nod, then turned back to the conversation.
Ghost, Soap, and Gaz split off near the perimeter road.
Soap rolled his neck, letting out a long breath. "Close one," he muttered, half to himself.
Gaz checked the magazine in his rifle as he walked. "Aren't they all?"
Ghost said nothing, already drifting ahead, posture loose but alert, like he hadn't fully come down from combat yet.
The four Rangers veered in the opposite direction, heading back toward their unit's staging area. One of them raised a hand briefly in acknowledgment before moving on.
That left Andrew and Price.
They crossed the open ground toward the command building, boots crunching softly against gravel. For several seconds, neither spoke.
Price broke the silence first. "We got them out alive. That counts for something."
Andrew nodded. "It does."
With the command building coming into view, they squared their shoulders and kept walking.
Andrew and Price pushed through the doors of the command building and moved with purpose down the hallway, boots echoing faintly against the wooden floor. The distant hum of generators followed them as they headed straight for the command room.
Inside, Major Griggs stood behind his desk, several sheets of paper in hand, eyes scanning lines of reports and handwritten notes. He looked up the moment they entered. Without a word, he gathered the papers together and set them neatly on the desk, his full attention shifting to them.
Andrew and Price each gave a brief nod.
Griggs returned it, relief visible on his face.
"Good to see you both back," he said. "And I'm glad to hear it went down without anyone losing their life."
Andrew nodded shifting his weight, then spoke. "There's still the rest of Lieutenant Welles's unit out there, we'll need to speak with him as soon as possible—get a location, figure out their status."
Major Griggs nodded without hesitation. "Agreed. From what you told me, he didn't seem to have any severe injuries, we'll check on his status and speak with him."
A brief silence followed, broken only by the faint rustle of paper as Griggs tapped the reports on his desk. Captain Price glanced at them, then back at Griggs.
"These reports," Price said. "What are we looking at?"
Griggs leaned back slightly. "Requests. A lot of them. Soldiers, police officers… even civilians." He paused. "They're asking to be allowed out—or for teams to be sent—to search for their families."
That drew a look from both Andrew and Price. Surprise, brief but genuine. Then understanding.
Andrew frowned thoughtfully, memories surfacing. The quarry. He didn't know where the group is, but if search teams were established, there was a chance they could be found, if they were even alive with how different things are.
Price noticed the pause. "Your take?" he asked Griggs.
Griggs exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ignoring or denying those requests outright is a good way to breed resentment. Worse, desertion." He straightened. "I'm approving the formation of dedicated search-and-rescue teams. Controlled deployments. We've got upgraded drones now—good range, decent optics, good for reconnaissance."
"We'll have to discuss the details for it." He said.
Then he reached for a different sheet of paper.
"One more thing," Griggs said. "Reacher finished his interrogation."
Both Andrew and Price focused.
"Unfortunately," Griggs continued, "the two detainees don't appear to have any ties to the group that attacked you at the estate." His eyes flicked briefly to Price. "For now, they'll remain in custody until we decide what to do with them. We've got bigger problems demanding attention."
He set the paper down.
"I'll need you both to speak with Lieutenant Welles once this meeting's done. Get the location of his unit and assess whether they're still operational."
Andrew and Price nodded in unison.