Miles away from Atlanta, the sound still carried—faint, but impossible to ignore.
A distant, rolling echo of explosions, layered with the sharper, intermittent rattle of gunfire. It wasn't constant like before. It came in waves and spaced out.
Rick slowed to a stop on the sidewalk, his head turning slightly as he tried to place the rhythm of it.
"It sounds different," he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. "Not like before."
Shane had been a few steps ahead, scanning the street out of habit more than necessity. At Rick's words, he paused as well, glancing back toward the horizon. He listened for a second longer, narrowing his eyes slightly as another distant echo rolled in.
"Yeah," he said. "It's more organized." He tilted his head, focusing on the sharper sounds layered beneath the explosions. "And that gunfire… that's high caliber."
Rick gave a faint nod.
"I heard that they will use attack helicopter's."
"Most likely the case," Shane replied with an even tone.
The street around them was far from empty. People moved about in small clusters—some carrying bags or supplies, others simply walking with nowhere urgent to go. Conversations stayed low, cautious, but present.
A couple of kids were playing near one of the porches across the street, their laughter brief but genuine. It stood out in a way that felt almost out of place, yet strangely grounding at the same time.
It looked like something close to normal, if you didn't think too hard about what lay beyond the walls.
Rick adjusted the sleeve of his uniform unconsciously. The dark blue fabric still felt strange on him—not because it was unfamiliar, but because of everything that had happened between the last time he'd worn something like it and now. When the military had brought them in, processed them, asked what they had done before all this…
With them having been deputies.
That had been enough.
They had been reinstated, given police uniforms, badges, sidearms. A role that felt both familiar and entirely different in this new world.
Rick's gaze drifted back toward the skyline, barely visible past the rooftops.
"They said they were going to clear the city," he said.
Shane shifted his weight, one hand brushing briefly near his holster before dropping again.
"Yeah," he replied. "Heard the same thing during the briefings."
Another distant rumble followed, softer this time, as if the sound itself was starting to wear out.
Rick let out a slow breath, watching the horizon.
"Sounds like they're actually doing it," he said.
Shane didn't answer right away. His eyes moved across the street instead—over a couple walking past, over a man sitting on a porch step with his head in his hands—before settling somewhere in the middle distance.
"Or trying to," he said eventually.
Rick glanced at him, picking up on the hesitation.
"You don't think it's working?"
Shane gave a small shrug, but it didn't feel dismissive. More like he didn't want to commit either way.
"I think there's a lot out there," he said. "More than people realize. You start hearing numbers, estimates… doesn't really hit until you've seen it."
Rick nodded slowly. He understood that part.
He'd seen enough himself.
But even so—
"If anyone can handle it, it's them," Rick said. "They've got the manpower, the equipment."
Shane let out a quiet breath, almost a half-laugh, though there was no humor in it.
"Yeah," he said. "They've got structure."
Rick studied him for a moment, noticing the edge in his tone.
"You don't sound convinced," he said.
Shane hesitated again, just briefly.
"It's not that," he replied. "It's just… fixing something like this isn't the same as containing it."
Rick didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted again toward the horizon, thoughtful.
"Maybe it doesn't have to be fixed all at once," he said. "Maybe it starts like this. One city, one area at a time."
There was something steady in the way he said it. Not blind optimism—but not resignation either.
Shane looked at him then.
Rick still believed that things could come back. Not perfectly, maybe not even close, but enough. Enough to not worry about food, a place to sleep or being eaten alive.
Shane wished he could meet him there.
But his thoughts didn't follow the same path.
"Maybe," he said quietly.
His attention shifted again, this time toward one of the houses nearby. The glance was brief, almost instinctive—but it lingered just a fraction longer than it should have.
Lori was there.
The thought settled in his chest in a way he couldn't quite ignore.
His jaw tightened slightly before he forced his gaze away.
Things weren't the same.
Rick placed his right hand on Shane's shoulder, breaking the silence.
"We should keep moving," he said. "Finish the route."
Shane gave a short nod, grounding himself again.
"Yeah," he replied.
They fell back into step, continuing down the street together.
Around them, the safe zone carried on, people talking, doors opening and closing, small pieces of normal life trying to hold together.
But in the distance, the echoes of the fight for Atlanta still rolled faintly across the air.
••••
Back over the kill zone, the battlefield below had fully revealed itself.
There was no more smoke or dust to hide it.
Just the aftermath.
From above, the scale of destruction was unmistakable. The center of the open ground had been shattered by the bombardment, entire sections flattened and layered with bodies. What had once been a dense, moving mass was now broken into uneven clusters, separated by stretches of debris and collapsed forms.
In some areas, the remains had piled high enough to form obstacles of their own. Walkers still moving through the area were forced to climb over one another, dragging themselves across mounds of bodies that shifted and gave way beneath their weight. The movement was slower now, more fragmented, but it hadn't stopped.
The two Apaches circled above at a controlled distance, maintaining altitude as they continued their attack runs. Without the interference of smoke, their pilots had a clear view of the ground, and the pattern of engagement had shifted accordingly. There was no need for wide-area suppression anymore.
Now it was about precision.
"Adjusting pattern," the pilot said, easing the helicopter into a shallow bank. "Focus on remaining clusters."
"Copy," the co-pilot/gunner replied, already tracking movement below through the targeting system. "Still plenty of targets."
The nose-mounted chain gun followed his input with mechanical precision.
When it fired, the sound was immediate and aggressive—a sustained, rapid burst that echoed across the open ground as 30mm rounds tore into the largest remaining concentration. The effect was brutal. Walkers dropped in succession, the line collapsing as the burst swept across them in a controlled arc.
"Good effect," the pilot noted, keeping the aircraft steady as the gunner adjusted aim. "Keep it tight."
To their flank, the second Apache mirrored the maneuver, its own chain gun engaging another pocket of movement. The two aircraft worked in coordination, never overlapping dangerously, but close enough to maintain constant pressure across the entire area.
There were no wasted movements.
"Rockets, last of them," the second pilot called over the radio.
"Make them count," came the response.
A pair of rockets streaked downward, leaving brief trails behind them before slamming into a dense cluster attempting to push through one of the collapsed sections. The explosion tore through the group, scattering bodies and momentarily clearing the space.
"Winchester," the gunner confirmed.
"Same here," the first pilot replied. "Rockets are dry. Guns only from here."
The engagement shifted again.
Both helicopters tightened their orbits slightly, lowering just enough to maintain optimal angles for their chain guns. The bursts became shorter, more deliberate, each one placed into areas where movement was still concentrated.
Below, the horde was fractured.
Reduced to small pockets of walkers.
"Front, near that pile—movement's building again," the gunner called out.
The pilot adjusted immediately, bringing the nose around.
"I see it."
"Send it."
Another burst cut through the air, striking the cluster as it tried to force its way over a mound of bodies. The rounds punched through multiple targets, collapsing the group before it could build momentum.
The second Apache followed up moments later, its own fire sweeping across the adjacent area, ensuring nothing slipped through.
For a brief moment, both helicopters held their positions, scanning.
Then a call out was made through the radio.
"Ammo check," the Viper-one pilot said.
There was a short pause as the gunner glanced at the readout, his tone shifting slightly when he answered.
"Guns are still up," he said, "but we've burned through a lot. We're getting low."
Over the radio, the second aircraft responded almost immediately.
"Viper-Two, same here. We're still good, but not for long."
The pilot nodded to himself, eyes still locked on the ground below.
"Copy that," he said. "Keep it controlled. Short bursts only."
The pace of fire adjusted again.
Still lethal and constant, but more measured now.
Below them, the battlefield had transformed into something grim and uneven. Movement remained, scattered across the open ground, forcing the Apaches to keep working, to keep pressing the advantage while they still could.
Because even after the mortars, the rockets, the sustained fire—
There were still targets left, though their numbers was extremely lower, in comparison with the original number of walkers.
••••
Back on the rooftop of the Fox News building, the wind carried the distant rhythm of gunfire in steady bursts.
By now, the pattern was familiar.
Every few seconds, the deep, mechanical thud of rotary cannons echoed across the city, rolling over rooftops and between empty streets.
From the edge of the roof, Andrew stood with his binoculars raised, tracking the distant engagement. Even at that range, the movement was visible in flashes—small shifts, brief breaks in what had once been a continuous mass.
Above it, the two apaches circled.
They moved with purpose, carving slow, controlled arcs in the sky as they worked the remains of the horde.
Price stood beside him, arms resting lightly on the ledge, his gaze steady and unblinking as he watched the same distant scene unfold.
Soap leaned slightly forward near them, squinting toward the horizon. "They're still at it," he muttered. "Thought the mortars would've done most of the job."
"They did," Ghost replied from a step behind, his voice flat as ever. "That's what's left."
Gaz shifted his weight, watching another faint flicker of impacts in the distance. "Still a hell of a cleanup," he said. "Those things just don't go down easy."
Behind them, a mix of Rangers and civilians stood scattered across the rooftop. Some kept their distance from the edge, others had edged closer, drawn by the sight despite themselves.
Diego and Leonard stood near one of the ventilation units, both staring toward the distant fight. Eleanor, Nia and Iris stayed a bit further back, their expressions tense.
The twenty survivors from the floor below who followed Andrew and Price to the rooftop, watched what was unfolding without any word spoken.
For them, it was something entirely different.
The realization of how large this had become.
Another distant burst of cannon fire echoed across the skyline.
Gaz exhaled slowly, then glanced away from the horizon, turning his attention back toward the rooftop.
"Well," he said, brushing his hands together lightly, "we've done our part here."
He paused, then gestured subtly toward the civilians behind them.
"Only question is… what about them?"
Andrew lowered the binoculars, his gaze shifting from the distant battle back to the rooftop.
For a moment, he didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked over the group—their posture, their expressions, the way they stood a little too still, like they weren't sure yet what came next.
"It's already taken care of," he said at last, calm and matter-of-fact. "We called it in. Reported the number of survivors on-site."
Gaz gave a small nod at that, but didn't say anything else.
Before the silence could settle, Price straightened slightly beside Andrew.
"Extraction's inbound," he added, his tone steady. "Two CH-47 Chinooks. Shouldn't be long."
That drew a reaction from the civilians.
A shift among the civilians—subtle at first, then more visible. Shoulders easing, glances exchanged, the weight of uncertainty lifting just enough to let relief settle in.
Soap let out a quiet breath, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Now that's what I like to hear."
"Assuming they don't keep us waiting," Gaz added dryly.
"They won't," Price replied without looking at him.
Ghost remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the distant skyline where the Apaches continued their work. Another burst of cannon fire echoed faintly, followed by a pause.
Andrew slipped the binoculars back into his vest and stepped closer to the edge again, though his focus had shifted now—not just on the battlefield, but on the timing of everything that came after.
"Once those birds arrive," he said, "we move fast. No delays."
Behind him, the Rangers subtly adjusted their positions, already anticipating the transition. Weapons were checked, gear shifted, attention divided between the skyline and the rooftop access points.
The civilians, meanwhile, stayed where they were. Waiting.
For the first time in weeks, they had hope for survival.
And above the city, faint at first but growing clearer with each passing second—
The distant, unmistakable thrum of approaching rotors began to rise.
The sound reached them before the helicopters did.
A deep, rhythmic thrum rolled across the skyline, growing louder with each passing second until it began to dominate everything else—the distant gunfire, the wind, even the low murmur of voices on the rooftop.
Heads turned almost in unison.
From beyond the nearby buildings, two CH-47 Chinooks swept into view, their tandem rotors cutting through the air with heavy, deliberate force. They came in low and fast before flaring slightly as they approached the rooftop, slowing just enough to hold position.
The downwash hit a second later.
Loose debris skittered across the concrete, clothing snapped against bodies, and people instinctively raised arms to shield their faces as the wind roared over the rooftop.
"Alright, this is it!" one of the Rangers called out over the noise, already moving into position. "Civilians first—let's go!"
There was no hesitation this time.
Diego was among the first to move, guiding Nia and Eleanor forward while Leonard and Iris followed close behind with the other twenty civilians just behind them. The earlier uncertainty had been replaced with urgency. A pair of Rangers quickly formed around them, ushering the group's toward the nearer Chinook as it held steady above the roof.
"Stay low, keep moving!" another Ranger shouted, motioning them forward.
One by one, the civilians were guided aboard, hands helping them up, pulling them inside against the force of the rotors. Even Karen and Derek moved without argument now, whatever tension had existed earlier drowned out by the sheer presence of rescue finally arriving.
Within moments, the first helicopter began to fill.
Andrew watched just long enough to confirm the transfer was underway, then turned back toward the rest of the team.
"Alright," he said, raising his voice slightly over the noise. "We're up."
Price gave a short nod, already moving.
Ghost and Soap fell in behind him without a word, while Gaz cast one last glance toward the skyline before turning away.
"Would've liked to see how that ends," he muttered.
"You've seen enough," Price replied evenly, not breaking stride.
They moved toward the second Chinook, where the rear ramp had already dropped open.
Inside, the interior lights cast a dim glow over the cargo bay—
And at the front, visible through the cockpit frame, was Nikolai.
He glanced back over his shoulder as the first of them approached, a familiar grin already forming beneath his headset.
"Took you long enough!" he called out over the noise. "I was beginning to think I would have to come up there and drag you myself."
Soap smirked as he stepped onto the ramp. "You'd need more than that bird for the job."
Nikolai gave a short laugh. "Ah, but I would manage. I always do."
Gaz climbed in next, shaking his head slightly. "Comforting."
Andrew and Price followed close behind, the rest of the Rangers and drone operators boarding in quick succession. There was no wasted movement, each man finding a seat or a hold point as they secured themselves for immediate departure.
Nikolai's voice came again, more focused now.
"Everyone in?" he called.
"Move it!" one of the Rangers near the ramp shouted, giving a final look across the rooftop before slapping the side of the frame. "We're clear!"
The ramp began to rise.
Outside, the first Chinook was already lifting, its rotors biting harder into the air as it pulled away from the rooftop with the civilians safely aboard.
A second later, Nikolai's helicopter followed.
The weight shifted beneath them as the aircraft lifted, the city dropping away as they climbed above the surrounding buildings. The rooftop shrank beneath them, quickly disappearing from view as altitude increased.
Inside, the noise settled into a steady, familiar roar.
Nikolai adjusted the controls smoothly, guiding the helicopter into formation with the other Chinook.
"You know," he said casually over the intercom, "for a rescue mission, this one was almost relaxing."
Soap let out a short laugh. "Remind me never to ask what you consider stressful."
Nikolai chuckled, banking the helicopter slightly as they turned away from the city.
Behind them, the echoes of gunfire faded.