"Alright, we're done here for now," Major Griggs said, straightening in his chair. "I'll focus on establishing the search-and-rescue teams first. Fort Benning can wait a little longer. There's still a lot of work ahead, and we'll need to thoroughly discuss our next moves." He paused, tapping a finger against several stacked reports on the desk. "That includes power. The generators are burning through fuel faster than I'd like. The solar panels help, but they don't produce nearly enough to sustain operations at this scale. And food—while we've got enough stockpiled, from the surrounding areas to keep us going for a while, scavenging isn't a long-term solution. We'll need a stable, renewable source sooner rather than later." His gaze shifted between Andrew and Price. "We have several options but we'll postpone those discussions until we find Lieutenant Welles's unit and bring them in."
Andrew nodded in agreement. "I've already thought of a possible food source that could help for the long term, so that we can sustain ourselves without relying on continuous scavenging for resources. I will present it at the next meeting."
Griggs returned the nod.
Price then turned toward the communications station. "Anything on our friends at the hospital?"
The operators exchanged a glance as one adjusted his headset. After a brief pause, he looked up. "Yes, sir. We've received a response. No life-threatening injuries reported. They've been treated and are currently resting."
Major Griggs exhaled slowly, the tension easing just enough to show in the faint smile that crossed his face.
"Looks like you've got some time before you're departure," he said, gathering the papers on his desk into a neat stack.
He looked from Price to Andrew, his tone shifting back into command mode. "Both of you, restock your ammo. Get cleaned up, too. You're tracking blood and half the forest with you. Grab some food and get what rest you can. I want you ready to move in an hour."
Griggs picked up the request forms from the desk. "I'll handle the paperwork for the search-and-rescue teams, and I'll look into where to station Lieutenant Welles and his unit. It's not a good idea to keep everyone in one location."
He paused at the door and glanced back at them. "Enjoy the quiet. You never know how long it'll last."
···
Andrew and Price stepped out of the command room and into the hallway, the heavy door closing behind them with a muted thud. The hum of generators and distant voices filled the space, routine sounds, almost comforting after the chaos of the last few hours.
They walked side by side toward the armory, boots echoing softly against the wooden floor.
Price broke the silence first. "I'll check on my team," he said, already adjusting the strap of his rifle. "Make sure everyone's squared away."
Andrew glanced down at the MP5 hanging across his chest, flecks of dried blood still visible along the foregrip and receiver. "I'll clean my weapon," he replied. "Quick maintenance, then some rest."
Price gave a short nod. "Good call."
The armory was already busy—soldiers cycling through in ones and twos, turning in spent magazines and gear. Behind the counter, the armorer worked methodically, barely looking up as Andrew and Price stepped forward.
They placed their empty magazines on the counter.
"Swap," Price said simply.
The Staff sergeant counted them, slid them into a bin, and replaced them with freshly loaded magazines, the dull weight of full ammo unmistakable as they were passed back.
"Stay safe," the armorer muttered, already reaching for the next set.
Andrew and Price secured the magazines to their vests and stepped back out into the open air, the late light casting long shadows across the compound.
Price slowed slightly as they headed toward the hotel. "About the safe zone Welles and his lot spoke off," he said, eyes forward. "If what he told us lines up, they were holding their ground properly. They had fences. Order. A command structure."
Andrew nodded. "And it still collapsed."
"Yeah," Price replied grimly. "Which means we shouldn't get complacent. Safe zones fail when discipline slips, or when people panic." He paused. "We'll need to hear where the rest of his unit is. If they're still intact, they could be an asset."
They reached the hotel entrance and stepped inside the reception area.
"I'll hit the mess hall first," Price said. "Brief the lads, then I'll get cleaned up."
" Alright," Andrew replied.
Price gave him a nod and headed off down the corridor, already slipping back into command mode.
Andrew watched him go for a moment before turning toward the stairwell. On the way, he stopped at a small supply table set up near the lobby, where snacks had been laid out. He grabbed a bag of chips, an energy bar and a can of soda, then kept on moving.
He crossed the lobby at an unhurried pace, reaching the stairwell and started up to the second floor. The steps creaked softly beneath his boots, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet space. A pair of soldiers passed him on the way down, exchanging brief nods.
At the top of the stairs, Andrew turned down the corridor lined with closed doors.
He stopped in front of his room and unlocked the door, slipping inside and closing it behind him.
The room was small but comfortable. A neatly made bed with a patterned comforter dominated one side of the space, flanked by matching nightstands. A modest desk and a chair positioned near the far wall.
Beyond the bed, the sheer curtains stirred gently in the airflow from the balcony door.
Andrew exhaled and finally allowed himself to slow down, he walked to the desk and placed the snacks on it.
He then unclipped his MP5 and set it carefully on the bed before reaching for the buckles of his chest rig. One by one, he loosened the straps, the weight coming off his shoulders as he slid it free and laid it on the floor next to the bed. His duty belt followed,holster, spare magazines, knife, placed neatly beside the MP5.
Andrew exhaled and reached for the hem of his uniform top, peeling it off slowly. The fabric was stiff with dried sweat and grime, faint streaks of blood darkening the sleeves and front. He dropped it over the back of the chair, then took off his boots and stripped out of the rest of the uniform, folding what he could and leaving the rest in a loose pile near the chair. From his duffel, he pulled out a clean undershirt and a spare set of fatigues, the fabric cool against his skin as he changed.
For a moment, he just stood there in his undershirt, hands resting on the edge of the bed.
Andrew rolled his shoulders once, grabbing the cleaning kit from the desk he began to take apart the MP5 so he could clean it properly.
He cleared it first, magazine out, bolt locked back, chamber checked twice, then let the bolt ride forward and began disassembly.
The pushpins came out smoothly. He separated the trigger group, slid the stock free, and worked the receiver apart. The familiar rhythm calmed him. A bore brush dipped in solvent ran through the barrel, once, twice, until the resistance eased. He followed it with clean patches, pushing them through until they came out white instead of gray. He wiped down the bolt assembly, scraping carbon from the locking surfaces with the edge of a cloth, then applied a thin coat of oil, just enough to protect, not enough to attract dirt. Springs were checked, rails lightly lubricated, every motion deliberate, methodical.
As he worked, his thoughts wandered.
Things weren't lining up anymore.
It isn't just me. Captain Price shouldn't exist here. Neither should Ghost, Soap, or Gaz. Entire events were unfolding differently. The helicopter crash alone proved that. In the show, it had happened months into the outbreak, and it had set off an entirely different chain of events. Now it had happened too soon. It's good that we can save people and get a grip on thing, but god knows how much things changed.
Even Hershel's farm wasn't the one i expected.
It looked like it had been pulled straight from the comics, same layout, same feel, yet Beth and Maggie were the ones from the show.
Andrew exhaled through his nose, irritation mixing with unease.
"Can't rely on the script anymore to know what will happen," he muttered to himself.
He finished the last pass over the internals, wiped his hands, and reassembled the MP5. The pieces slid together cleanly. A quick function check, bolt back, trigger reset, safety, everything solid. Satisfied, he set the weapon aside on the bed.
After a moment, he stood and crossed the room, reaching for a small notebook and a pen from his bag.
He flipped the notebook open and sat back down, pen hovering over the first blank page. With his other hand, he reached for the bag of chips he'd brought with him, tearing it open and fishing out a handful. The familiar crunch was oddly grounding.He washed it down with a sip of soda, the cold sweetness cutting through the stale taste of adrenaline that still lingered."Fuck, i really missed those."
After a moment, he began to write.
King County.
Rick Grimes. Hospital. Sheriff's department.
Morgan and his son.
He underlined the location once, then moved on, pausing only long enough to grab another chip.
Atlanta.
His pen hovered.
Glenn and the camp of survivors—exact location unknown.
CDC — destroyed.
Hospital — secured.
He tapped the pen against the paper, a faint, hollow sound. Something else tugged at the back of his mind.
"There was… another group," he murmured, taking a slow drink from the can.
There was a group protecting elderly people somewhere in the city during the early days.
He wrote it down.
Group protecting elderly survivors. Location unclear.
Next line.
Hershel's Farm.
Andrew leaned back slightly, staring at the words as he folded the top of the chip bag closed and set it aside. The place was more like the comics than the show. If that was true—
He grimaced.
Possible overlap with comic timeline.
Possible for Lee, Clementine, and their group to be out there.
He wrote their names carefully, then added:
Motel — likely current location.
He dragged a hand down his face, then forced himself onward.
Prison.
Infested with walkers.
Four surviving inmates.
Not an immediate priority.
Another pause. Another quiet sip of soda.
The Helicopter crash occurred too early.
Then, at the bottom of the page, he wrote the name he'd been avoiding.
The Governor.
With how everything is, god knows what version of that bastard is out there.
Andrew closed his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly.
Events weren't progressing the same.
And that meant whatever was coming next couldn't be predicted the way he'd hoped.
He sighed, pen resting motionless above the paper, and stared at the notebook as if it might give him answers if he looked long enough.
Andrew glanced down at the watch on his wrist. More time had passed than he realized, nearly an hour gone.
He closed the notebook with a soft thump and slid it into the desk drawer, pushing it shut.
Placed the half empty chips bag on the desk , thrown the empty soda can in a nearby trash can and placed the energy bar in one of his pockets.
He then began re-gearing with practiced efficiency. The chest rig came first, straps tightened until it sat snug against his torso. Magazines were seated and checked by touch alone. The duty belt followed, holster secured, knife returned to its sheath, pouches fastened in the familiar order.
Andrew picked up the MP5 last. He ran a quick function check, charging handle back, release, safety, then gave the weapon a final once-over.
Satisfied, he slung it across his chest and headed for the door.
The handle turned, the door opened, and Andrew stepped back into the corridor, locking the door behind him.
···
Andrew walked out of the hotel and into the open air at the front entrance. The sun casting long shadows across the courtyard, the hum of generators and distant voices blending into a steady background rhythm. A Humvee idled near the curb, engine low and patient.
Captain Price was already there, leaning against the front fender.
He'd changed out of his blood-stained kit. Gone was the torn combat blouse and webbing. Now he wore a clean, weathered tan field jacket over a dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms. His rifle rested within easy reach against the vehicle. A
His boonie hat sat low on his head, shadowing his eyes, giving him that familiar, unbothered look of someone who'd been doing this far longer than most people had been alive.
Price glanced up as Andrew approached.
"You good to go?" he asked calmly.
Andrew nodded once. "Yeah."
Price pushed off the Humvee and moved around to the driver's side. Andrew took the passenger seat, the door shutting with a solid thunk as he settled in. The interior smelled of oil, dust, and old canvas.
Price shifted into gear, giving the radio a quick check before pulling forward.
The Humvee rolled out, passing through the checkpoint and leaving Fort Ironwood behind as they drove into the open road.
The Humvee rumbled along the narrow rural road, tires crunching over loose gravel as Fort Ironwood faded behind them. Rural Georgia stretched out on both sides, rolling fields broken up by tree lines and the occasional farmhouse, quiet in a way that felt unnatural now. Fences stood open, tractors sat abandoned in fields half-tilled, and mailboxes leaned at odd angles, untouched for weeks.
Price kept one hand on the wheel, eyes constantly vigilant.
They passed another Humvee coming the opposite way, its turret-mounted gun scanning the woods. A handful of soldiers rode inside. One of them raised a hand in a brief, wordless salute as they rolled past.
Price returned it with two fingers off the wheel.
"Still holding the outer routes," he muttered. "Good sign."
Andrew nodded, watching the patrol disappear behind them. Their presence was thin, but deliberate, patrols, outposts.
The road gradually widened as they pushed closer to Atlanta. Trees gave way to industrial buildings, then to long stretches of stalled vehicles abandoned where they'd died, doors open, suitcases still strapped to roofs. The skyline loomed ahead.
Entering the city, both men stayed alert.
Entire streets were blocked off with vehicles pushed nose-to-nose, reinforced by concrete barriers and debris. The Humvee moved slowly, engine kept low, tires crunching over broken glass and asphalt. Price drove with deliberate patience, choosing routes that offered sightlines and room to maneuver.
Andrew sat still, eyes scanning without turning his head.
That was when he saw it.
Movement—high up. A flicker in an upper-story window of an office building they were about to pass.
He didn't shift his posture.
"Price," Andrew said quietly.
"Yeah," Price replied just as calmly. "I see them."
"Next street."
Price nodded once and kept driving as if nothing had changed. As they passed the building, Andrew caught a clearer glimpse—two silhouettes moving back from the window, fast and purposeful.
Price turned right at the next intersection and immediately braked. The Humvee rolled to a stop, angled for cover.
Both men were out in seconds.
They moved to the mouth of a narrow alleyway, backs to the brick walls, weapons up but not exposed. Price took the right side, Andrew the left, both covering the alley's exit.
They didn't wait long.
A metal door farther down the alley creaked open.
"I told you," one voice hissed, urgent. "There's still someone out there."
"Shut up," the other snapped. "Let's move. We're losing them."
Two men stepped out, breaking into a hurried walk that quickly turned into a jog—straight toward the alley's mouth.
Andrew let them close the distance. Close enough to see their faces.
Then he raised his weapon.
"Stop," he ordered, voice sharp and controlled. "Hands up. Now."
Price mirrored him, weapon steady, using the wall for cover.
The two men froze.
One stumbled over his own feet and dropped hard to the pavement. The other nearly followed, catching himself at the last second.
"Hey—hey, hold on," the standing man blurted. "Don't shoot!"
"Hands up," Andrew repeated, not raising his voice. "All the way up."
They complied.
The standing man raised his hands slowly, breathing hard. The one on the ground lifted his hands while still seated, eyes wide, fear plain on his face.
Price shifted slightly, tightening the angle.
"Good," he said evenly. "Now don't move. Either of you."
The alley went silent except for the distant wind and the low idle of the Humvee behind them.
Andrew kept his sights trained, already cataloging details.
The one on the ground was young, thin, maybe early twenties. Baggy jeans, white top, clothes worn but deliberate rather than ragged. His hands were raised, trembling.
The standing man was older. Bald head, thick beard and mustache, shoulders squared despite the rifle aimed at his chest. He hadn't moved since the command.
Neither tried anything. They knew better.
Price shifted just enough to bring his radio up, never taking his eyes off them.
"Keep 'em right there," he said evenly. "I'll call this in."
Andrew nodded.
His weapon stayed trained center mass, finger indexed along the trigger guard, ready to adjust to a headshot if either of them so much as twitched.