Andrew kept his rifle trained on the two men, stance squared, breathing steady. Both had their hands raised now, palms open, fear and defiance mixing on their faces. The younger one—skinny, barely out of his teens, was trembling, his baggy jeans hanging low on his hips, a loose shirt stretched thin across his chest. A bandana was tied around his wrist, frayed at the edges. The older man stood half a step ahead of him, bald head gleaming with sweat, beard unkempt, jaw set like he was daring Andrew to pull the trigger.
Moments later, boots crunched behind Andrew.
"I've got a unit inbound from the hospital," Price said as he stepped back into view, rifle lowered but ready. "A SWAT team. Should be here shortly."
The older man's eyes flicked between them. "There are more?" he snapped.
"Of course there are," Price replied evenly.
Less than fifteen minutes later, a matte-black SWAT van rolled into the street, brakes hissing as it stopped. The rear doors flew open and armored figures poured out with disciplined precision, helmets, visors, rifles already tracking rooftops and alley mouths. The sudden show of force drained what little bravado the two men had left.
The older man took a slow breath, shoulders rising and falling once before he spoke.
"A-alright, let's calm down, we didn't look to hurt anyone," Filipe said, eyes never leaving Andrew's rifle.
Price tilted his head slightly. " You two don't seem the loner type. What about your group?"
Filipe hesitated, then answered, "We call ourselves the Vatos. We are not looking for problems."
Andrew didn't show any reaction, but he recognized them. "And what were you doing out here?"
Filipe swallowed. "We noticed movement. The helicopters."
Miguel nodded quickly beside him. "We thought that there's maybe someone at the hospital."
Price's voice stayed calm. "So you came to take a look."
"Yes," Filipe said. "Just to see who was moving through the area. Se what we could find."
Andrew studied him for a beat. "So you were scavenging."
"Yes," Filipe said hesitantly. "And we were sent to observe. That's it."
"We don't want trouble," Miguel added quickly. "We just watch for our people."
Price exchanged a glance with Andrew.
"Take us to them," Andrew said.
The hesitation was brief. Then Filipe nodded.
Weapons stayed trained as they moved.
They followed the two men through desolated streets —shuttered storefronts, burned-out cars, graffiti scrawled hastily across brick walls. Eventually, they reached what looked like a dead end: a derelict industrial block with a massive double wooden gate reinforced by scavenged metal plating.
The gate creaked open.
Men stepped out.
Half a dozen at first, then more—pistols raised, fingers tight on triggers. They wore worn jeans, layered shirts, hoodies with sleeves cut off, bandanas tied around their heads or forearms. Some had leather jackets, others flannel shirts stiff with old sweat and grime.
Andrew and Price raised their weapons in response, muzzles steady.
A man stepped forward from the group.
He was broad-shouldered, dark short hair, eyes sharp and calculating. His pistol stayed level, unwavering.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
Price didn't hesitate. "Captain John Price Task force 141."
Andrew spoke next. "Lieutenant Andrew Mercer. Army rangers."
A ripple of anxiety passed through the Vatos. Murmurs. Tight grips.
The leader's eyes flicked to Filipe and Miguel. "Están heridos?"
"We're fine," Miguel said quickly. "They didn't hurt us."
Guillermo exhaled slowly, then looked back at Andrew and Price. "Drop your weapons."
Price's answer was immediate. "Not happening."
Guillermo tilted his head. "You are outnumbered."
Andrew raised an eyebrow slightly. "Are you sure about that?"
At his signal, armored figures appeared on nearby rooftops—SWAT operators snapping rifles into position, optics trained down. Red dots danced briefly across concrete and brick.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Price broke the silence, voice calm, authoritative. "Let's lower the temperature. Nobody wants this to go sideways."
Another heartbeat passed.
The standoff held, until a frail voice broke through it.
"Guillermo?"
An elderly woman shuffled into view from behind the Vatos, a small paper cup clutched in her trembling hand. Her grey hair was loosely tied back, strands falling free as she looked around in confusion, eyes widening at the raised weapons.
"Guillermo, mijo," she said, stepping closer. "I was looking for Filipe. Mrs. Alvarez needs her medicine."
Guillermo turned sharply. "Abuela, go back inside."
She didn't.
Instead, she looked past him—at Andrew, at Price, at the rifles, the armed men on the rooftops.
Her brow furrowed. "What's all this? Why are there guns?"
Andrew didn't move. Neither did Price.
"They're soldiers," Guillermo said carefully. "They came here."
The woman's gaze flicked back to Andrew and Price, fear creeping in, then something else. Understanding, slow and imperfect.
"They didn't hurt you?" she asked, turning to Filipe and Miguel.
Miguel shook his head quickly. "No, señora."
Her shoulders sagged in relief.
"Then please," she said, voice breaking just a little as she looked back at Andrew and Price. "Please don't take them away. They're good boys. All of them."
Guillermo opened his mouth to speak, but she kept going, words tumbling out.
"They protect us. They bring food. Medicine. They sleep outside so we can sleep safely." Her eyes glistened. "We don't have anyone else."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Weapons stayed raised, but hands loosened.
Andrew slowly lowered his rifle just a few inches, not enough to be careless, but enough to show intent. Price followed suit.
"We're not here to take anyone," Price said calmly. "We just want to talk."
The woman nodded, grasping at that. "Then come inside," she said. "Please. It's not safe out here."
She turned back to Guillermo, touching his arm. "Lower the gun."
Guillermo hesitated—then exhaled and lowered his pistol.
One by one, the others followed.
Andrew lifted a hand and gave a subtle signal.
From the rooftops, SWAT operators eased back into cover, rifles still ready but no longer aimed.
The woman smiled weakly, already turning away. "Filipe," she called, voice wavering. "Don't forget the medicine."
As the old woman was walking back inside followed by Filipe, Andrew signaled the SWAT operators to come down.
As they walked to the gate Andrew stopped them," you will remain here to secure the perimeter, keeping watch for walkers. If anything happens, you radio in."
He got several affirmative responses in return.
Turning towards the gate Andrew and Price followed Guillermo inside.
They firstly passed through a garage, then left the building through what looked like an emergency exit, emerging into a narrow alley sealed by a reinforced wooden fence, and finally into what looked like the back yard of a nursing home.
They entered through the back door.
It opened into what had once been a service corridor, wide enough for laundry carts and supply trolleys.
The air inside was noticeably different from the street. Cooler. Cleaner. It carried the faint scent of antiseptic and cooked food, layered over old upholstery and soap.
Low fluorescent lights lined the ceiling, powered by extension cables that ran neatly along the walls, zip-tied in place. A few fixtures flickered, but most burned steady, casting a soft, utilitarian glow.
Beyond the corridor, the building opened into the heart of the nursing home.
It was in good shape—better than Andrew had expected. The floors had been swept recently, the linoleum worn but clean. Wheelchairs were parked in orderly rows along one wall, some occupied, others empty but positioned carefully, like someone expected them to be needed again soon.
Old men and women sat in common areas or rested in open doorways, wrapped in sweaters and blankets despite the mild temperature. Their eyes followed the newcomers with curiosity rather than panic. A few smiled. One man lifted a trembling hand in a half-wave.
"Military," he said softly, like it was reassurance rather than an accusation.
The walls told their own story. Faded pastel paint still clung stubbornly in places—soft greens and blues meant to calm. Bulletin boards displayed old activity schedules, now partially updated in marker:
Breakfast – 0800
Meds – 1000
Check doors – Every 2 hours
Night watch – Always two
Different handwriting. Different levels of confidence. A shared effort.
The reception area had been converted into a supply station. Pill bottles were sorted into labeled bins, charts clipped together with careful notes written in Spanish and English. A stack of folded blankets sat beneath the desk, each one clean, edges aligned.
Someone had taped a crayon drawing to the counter—two stick figures holding hands beneath a sun, the word SAFE written crookedly at the top.
Andrew felt his jaw tighten.
Guillermo watched them closely.
Minutes later, they stepped back outside into the yard behind the building. The door shut behind them with a muted thump, cutting off the low murmur of voices from inside.
After several moment Price spoke.
"This might be a problem," he said quietly.
Guillermo's voice snapped from behind them, sharp and immediate.
"And what problem is that?"
Andrew turned slowly.
Guillermo stood a few steps back, eyes narrowed, the door open behind him. Around him, his men stiffened as one. Hands slid to pistols. Fingers rested close to triggers, not yet squeezing—but close enough.
Andrew raised his hands just enough to show he wasn't reaching for his rifle.
"Easy," he said evenly. "We should talk somewhere else. Away from them."
Guillermo shook his head once. "No. You talk. Now."
Price shifted his weight slightly, voice calm but edged with warning. "Nobody here wants this to turn ugly."
Andrew exhaled through his nose.
"Suit yourself."
He met Guillermo's stare and didn't blink.
"Whatever this is," Guillermo said, "you say it now."
Andrew nodded once. "With everything you do, you deserve to know."
He chose his words carefully.
" About the outbreak," Andrew began, " We have researcher's that studied the virus."
One of the Vatos scoffed. "We know what it does. We've seen the dead walking."
"That's not the part you're missing," Andrew said. " Being bitten isn't the only way you can turn into a living dead."
Guillermo's jaw tightened. "Meaning?"
"Meaning everyone is infected," Andrew said flatly.
The yard went quiet.
Another Vato laughed once, sharp and nervous. "Bullshit."
Andrew shook his head. "I wish it was."
Price stepped in. "Doesn't matter who you are, or where you're from. It's already inside you."
Silence stretched.
One of the younger men swallowed hard. "So… anyone could turn? Just like that?"
"No," Andrew said. "Not like that."
He pointed to one of them. "You don't turn unless you die first. Bitten. Gunshot. Fever. Heart attack. Doesn't matter."
A beat.
"When you die," he finished, "you come back as one of them."
The words settled like ash.
Guillermo didn't speak. Slowly, he turned his head and looked back at the building—the boarded windows, the silhouettes watching from behind them. Frail shapes. Wheelchairs. Faces pressed close to the glass.
His voice was quiet when he finally spoke.
"So that's the problem."
Price nodded. "We're not here to take anyone away. And we don't want to hurt anyone. But a place like this…" He trailed off, choosing his words. "It's fragile."
A door creaked open behind them.
"Guillermo?"
The elderly woman stepped outside, shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her eyes flicked between the armed men, confusion and concern written plainly across her face.
"Why are you all standing out here?" she asked.
Guillermo turned to her immediately. "Go back inside," he said gently. "I'll be there in a minute."
She hesitated. "No trouble, right?"
"No," he said. "No trouble."
She nodded, trusting him, and disappeared back inside.
Guillermo faced Andrew and Price again.
"You've said enough," he said. "We'll think about what you told us. But I don't want soldiers anywhere near this place."
Price inclined his head slightly. "Understood."
Andrew nodded. "We'll leave."
Under escort of several Vatos, they walked back toward where the SWAT team waited, weapons lowered but alert.
The SWAT team leader stepped forward. "Everything good, Captain?"
Price exhaled slowly. "As well as it could have."
Andrew added, "They're not a threat. Just locals. They're protecting a nursing home."
The SWAT operators glanced past them, catching sight of several Vatos standing near the gate. No hostility. Just guarded stares.
A few of the SWAT members gave brief, respectful nods.
Then everyone turned back the way they came and into their vehicles.
Engines started.
The two vehicles pulled away, heading toward the hospital, leaving the nursing home, and the people inside it, behind.
···
The hospital perimeter loomed ahead, a fortress of stacked HESCO barriers forming high, uneven walls. The main checkpoint had been improvised from a city bus positioned sideways across the road, a thick metal plate welded to its side to seal the gap. On either flank, gun nests had been built from more HESCOs, sandbags, and whatever scrap material could be scavenged, manned by armed personnel scanning the approaches.
The SWAT van rolled through first, cleared by the guards, then signaled and peeled off to the right toward the underground garages.
Following behind, Andrew and Price waited until the lane was clear before driving forward and pulling up near the hospital's main entrance.
That was when Andrew saw it.
Several officers in riot gear were maneuvering a heavily restrained walker across the entryway using capture poles. Its arms were bound, jaw secured behind a reinforced mask, legs tied just loosely enough to allow controlled movement. The thing thrashed weakly, emitting muffled, wet growls.
Nearby stood Dr. Edwin Jenner, clipboard tucked under his arm, observing with clinical detachment.
Price's expression darkened.
"Hold it," he said. "What the hell is that thing doing here?"
"Research," Dr. Jenner replied calmly, as if the answer were obvious.
Andrew's jaw tightened.
For fuck's sake.
This was straight out of a bad movie. Capture the infected. Study it. It breaks loose. People end up dead.
"And you didn't think to come to us first?" Andrew said coldly.
Dr. Jenner muttered something under his breath about urgency and limited windows of opportunity.
Andrew turned sharply to one of the armored officers nearby and pointed at the struggling walker.
"I want that thing under constant armed surveillance," he ordered. "I also want a QRF on standby in case of a containment breach."
"Yes, sir," the officer replied immediately.
Dr. Jenner bristled. "That won't be necessary. We've prepared extensively and taken all appropriate precautions."
Andrew turned back to him, eyes hard.
"I'm not taking chances with this," Andrew said. He stepped closer and pointed a finger at the doctor's chest. "And from now on, you and your colleagues don't do anything involving live infected without informing us and receiving explicit authorization. Understood?"
Dr. Jenner swallowed. He didn't argue. He simply nodded, a flicker of unease passing across his face.
Without another word, he turned and followed the officers as they escorted the restrained walker toward the interior.
Andrew exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
A hand settled on his right shoulder.
He looked up to see Price beside him, giving a brief, approving nod.
Andrew returned it, then straightened.
"Let's move," Price said.
They headed toward the entrance.
Andrew and Price pushed through the hospital's front doors and into the lobby.
The interior still felt like a hospital—sterile lighting, tiled floors, the faint scent of antiseptic, but the atmosphere was heavier now. Armed officers in riot gear stood at key points, weapons slung but ready. Some civilians moved quietly between chairs and walls, keeping their heads down, voices hushed.
Andrew scanned the space once out of habit, then stepped toward a uniformed officer posted near the security desk.
"Officer," Andrew said. "We are here for the soldiers brought in earlier. What floor are they on?"
The man straightened slightly. "They were taken up to the third floor, sir. Trauma ward."
Andrew nodded. "Room number?"
"Don't have that, sir," the officer replied. "Medical staff's been moving patients around all day. Best ask one of the nurses up there."
"Understood," Price said. "Thanks."
They turned away and headed for the elevators at the far end of the lobby. One of the doors slid open almost immediately, and they stepped inside, the hum of machinery filling the brief silence as the doors closed.
The ride up was short and quiet.
The elevator chimed, doors opening onto the third floor. The smell of disinfectant was stronger here, mixed with the low murmur of voices and the distant beeping of monitors. Nurses moved briskly between rooms, charts tucked under their arms.
Andrew stepped forward and caught the attention of a nurse passing by.
"Ma'am," he said. "We're looking for the soldiers admitted earlier today. Three of them."
She slowed, nodding as she thought. "Yes. They were moved about half an hour ago."
She glanced at her clipboard, then pointed down the hall. "Room 317. End of the corridor on the left."
"Appreciate it," Andrew said.
"Thank you," Price added.
The nurse offered a quick, tired smile before continuing on her way.
Andrew and Price exchanged a brief look, then turned and headed down the corridor toward Room 317, their footsteps steady and deliberate as they approached the door.
Lieutenant Welles was awake when they entered the room, propped slightly on one elbow, the glow of the city bleeding in through the narrow window beside him. His head was wrapped in fresh bandages, one arm resting stiffly atop the blanket, turning his head towards the door when he heard footsteps.
"Captain. Lieutenant," Welles said quietly, voice rough but steady.
Andrew and Price returned the greeting with brief nods, keeping their voices low out of respect for the two sleeping forms nearby. Sean lay curled on his side, while Franklin remained unconscious, IV line running into his arm while machines humming softly at his bedside.
"How are you holding up?" Price asked.
Welles huffed a dry chuckle. "Still breathing. Docs say I'm lucky." His gaze drifted back to the window. From here, the HESCO barriers were visible, layers of earth-filled walls encircling the hospital like a modern fortress. Armed silhouettes moved along the perimeter catwalks, methodical, relentless. "Didn't expect to see something like that again. Walls. Guards.
Andrew followed his line of sight. "They've turned the hospital into a hard safe zone. The only one in the city."
Welles nodded slowly. "Good. At least someone's thinking ahead."
"What about your men." Asked Andrew turning towards Sean and Franklin." How are they."
Welles turned to look at the two " doctor said that Sean has a concussion, some bruising and several brocken bones, but nothing life threatening. Franklin on the other hand is still unconscious , the doctor said that isn't uncommon but will have to monitor him."
"He's going to recover, don't worry." Said Price.
Then, they spoke for a few more minutes—about the hospital, about the chaos in the city below, about how fast everything had unraveled. Eventually, Price steered the conversation where it needed to go.
"Lieutenant," he said evenly, "we need the location of the rest of your unit."
Welles didn't hesitate. "We were operating out of a temporary camp, near Fayetteville Industrial Boulevard. Old commercial lot, easy access to the road network. If they stuck to protocol, they'll still be there, or nearby."
Andrew committed it to memory immediately.
"We'll find them," he said. "And we'll bring them in."
Welles turned from the window and met his eyes. "I appreciate that. They're good soldiers."
"So are you," Price replied.
With that, they took their leave, offering a final reassurance before stepping back into the hallway.
Minutes later, Andrew and Price exited the hospital and returned to their Humvee at the front entrance.
Andrew keyed his radio. "Fort Ironwood, this is Mercer. We've got the location on Welles' unit , near Fayetteville Industrial Boulevard."
Major Griggs acknowledged immediately, his voice crisp. "Copy that. Keep in touch in case you need reinforcements ."
" Copy that, Mercer out." Said Andrew, ending the transmission.
Then Price switched frequencies and contacted his own team. "Soap, Gaz, Ghost, rendezvous point incoming. Mark your maps."
Coordinates followed.
Engines turned over, radios crackled to life, and within moments they were rolling again, another mission lined up.
An hour later, Andrew and Price met up with Soap, Ghost, and Gaz near the highway entrance. Engines hummed in the quiet afternoon air, the low rumble of armored Humvees cutting through the silence. They pulled over, settling into the shade of an overpass, and unfolded a well-worn map across the hood of the lead vehicle.
Price traced a route with a gloved finger. " The location given to us by Welles is here," he said, tapping the map. "We'll need two options. Primary route looks clear, but some streets might be clogged with abandoned vehicles."
Andrew marked potential hazards. "Blocked intersections. Burned-out cars. Narrow alleys. Anything we can't get through, we'll have to bypass."
Ghost leaned over the map, checking the lines. "We'll have to keep our eyes on rooftops and alleyways. No surprises."
Gaz added, "And if we hit walkers, we keep it quiet until we're close. Don't want to tip more of them off."
They exchanged nods. With that, they mounted their Humvees and rolled out, tires crunching over gravel as they merged onto the highway.
The Georgia countryside stretched out on either side—fields overgrown with tall grass, fences sagging under the weight of neglect. Almost two months into the outbreak, it looked deceptively normal, save for the eerie absence of traffic and the occasional abandoned home.
As they passed an abandoned gas station tucked between the trees, Andrew's eyes caught something familiar. A weathered bulletin board, with several missing persons posters curling at the edges. Names and photos of people long gone, or at least unreachable now. His chest tightened as he realized what he was looking at.
That's… that's from the 400 Days—Telltale game, he thought. The same board he'd seen in the video game.
Price noticed the pause in Andrew's gaze. "Something you want to share, Mercer?"
Andrew shook his head, forcing himself to refocus. "Just… a reminder of how fast things go south."
Price gave a curt nod. "Yeah. Keep your head in the game. Eyes forward."
They continued along the highway, the abandoned towns and roads whispering of lives interrupted. Every overgrown lot, every forsaken house, was a potential threat, walker or desperate survivor alike.
The Humvees pressed on toward the coordinates Welles had provided. Silence hung over the convoy, tense but focused.