They moved past the rows of tents and parked military vehicles, past pallets stacked high with scavenged supplies and fuel drums lashed together with ratchet straps.
As they neared a cluster of low concrete buildings, a Marine in digital patern camo jogged toward them, boots thudding against the tarmac. He came to a sharp stop and snapped a crisp salute.
"Major Griggs. Captain Price. Colonel Tarchick sent me to escort you to him."
Griggs returned the salute. "Lead the way, Marine."
The Marine pivoted and headed toward a squat concrete structure. Sandbags were stacked along its base, layered three high, forming a hardened perimeter. Two armed guards flanked the entrance, their rifles held across their chests. They nodded once as the three men approached.
Inside, the temperature dropped noticeably. The air smelled faintly of fuel, dust, and hot electronics.
The hallway stretched long and narrow, its concrete walls lined with thick cable bundles secured in metal brackets overhead and along the floor. Power conduits, fiber lines, and antenna feeds ran in every direction, disappearing through junction boxes and into sealed rooms. Radios crackled somewhere deeper inside. A generator hummed steadily beneath it all, a constant mechanical heartbeat.
Marines and airmen passed them carrying crates, tablets, and rolled maps. Some barely glanced up. Everyone had somewhere to be.
The Marine stopped at a set of reinforced double doors. He pulled one open and gestured them inside.
The command room opened up before them — once a briefing hall, now transformed into a full operations center.
Several long tables had been pushed together in the middle of the room, covered in maps of Georgia, Atlanta, and the surrounding counties. Documents were spread across the surface, pinned down with paperweights and spent shell casings. Markers, radios, tablets, and laptops lay scattered between them.
Along one wall, a bank of screens displayed live camera feeds from the base perimeter and checkpoints. Operators sat at terminals beneath the screens, discussing to each other while monitoring each feed.
At the far end of the room stood a tall Air Force officer with rolled sleeves, his cover tucked under one arm. His posture was rigid, authoritative. Gray streaked his dark hair.
Colonel Timothy E. Tarchick.
He looked up as Price and Griggs entered.
"Major Griggs," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Good to see you. You made good time."
He stepped away from the table and extended a hand. Griggs shook it.
"Colonel."
Tarchick's gaze shifted to Price. Griggs turned slightly.
"Colonel, this is Captain John Price. SAS. Task Force One-Four-One. He was en route to D.C. when everything went to hell. Had to divert through Georgia."
Tarchick studied Price for a moment, then nodded and took his hand in a firm grip.
"Good to have you here, Captain."
"Likewise, Colonel," Price replied evenly.
Tarchick gestured toward the other officer standing near the table.
"This is Colonel Marcus Hale," he said. "He's commanding the Marine contingent currently stationed at Dobbins."
Hale gave a brief nod in greeting.
Tarchick's expression darkened slightly as he continued. "Until three days ago, National Guard operations were overseen by Major General William Nesbitt. There was an incident involving one of his family members. It happened before anyone could have intervened. Nesbitt was bitten, but we managed to contain the situation before it spread."
The room went still.
"He didn't make it," Tarchick added quietly. "With the rest of the senior Guard leadership lost during the early containment attempts in Atlanta, their units are now operating under my authority."
Griggs nodded slowly.
Exhaling, he said, "I don't like it. But there's nothing that can be done now. There's a funeral home in one of the areas we cleared out. If you want to, i can have someone prepare everything needed for a ceremony."
Tarchick inclined his head. ,"I'm sure that, what's left of his family would really appreciate it." After a moment, he added."To make sure there won't be any more incidents of that kind, we've increased medical screenings across the base. Without any exceptions."
Griggs nodded, then began stepping closer to the table, his eyes moving over the maps. "Good. Now, I want to explain why I asked to meet with you. We're preparing large-scale operations inside Atlanta. I need to know exactly what ordnance and air support you can provide."
As Griggs began outlining the operational requirements, Price drifted toward the wall of security screens.
One of the feeds showed the main gate they had entered earlier. Two civilian vehicles had stopped just outside the checkpoint.
Price stepped closer.
From the first car, a woman rushed toward the gate clutching what looked like a child in her arms. A man followed close behind her. From the second vehicle, several others stepped out, five in total, but they stayed back, hesitant.
Price leaned closer to the bank of monitors, the glow reflecting faintly off his eyes.
The main gate feed filled the center screen.
The woman was on her knees in front of the Marines, clutching the child to her chest. Her mouth moved in frantic, silent words. The man hovered just behind her, one hand hovering uselessly at her shoulder. The others people stood back near the second vehicle, keeping their distance. No one tried to approach.
One of the operators imidietly grabbed one of radios placed on the desk.
"Gate team, confirm status. What's your situation, over."
Static. Then one of the Marines came back on.
"Gate team here. Possible infected child. Woman refuses to release him. Requesting medical team on standby."
On the screen, the woman shifted the boy in her arms.
For a moment, it looked like he had began to move.
Price looked at the woman face.
He could barely see it, but it seemed like the woman smiled in relief, but that was just for a second.
Then the child's head snapped up.
The movement was sudden, violent. The small body lunged forward, teeth sinking into the woman's neck. She jerked back, hands flying up in instinct as she stumbled, her grip loosening.
The man panicked, shouting.
On the feed, one Marine rushed forward and grabbed the woman, trying to pull her back. Another Marine seized the child from behind, wrenching him away. The woman collapsed to the pavement, clutching her throat.
The civilians stepped back, slow and controlled
Price heard the communication through the radio.
"Infected child secured!"
"Adult female is down, requesting medical attention!"
"Get her separated!"
The child thrashed in the Marine's grip, snapping and growling.
The woman rolled onto her side. Her hands holding onto her throat. Her eyes fluttered. Blood pooling beneath her.
Then she went limp as medical teams were approaching the gate.
The woman stopped moving.
But the child didn't.
The Marine holding him hesitated. His side arm was already up. His jaw clenched.
Then the shot rang out and the he small body went limp.
The man went still.
The Marines lowered their weapons. One of them knelt beside the woman, checking the bite on the neck.
Over the radio, his voice came back tight and controlled.
"Gate team to command. Adult female is bitten. No pulse. Possible reanimation."
Another Marine stepped in, rifle already in hand. He glanced once at the man standing a few steps away, then back at the body.
"Confirm."
The first Marine nodded.
"She's turning."
The woman's fingers twitched.
Her jaw shifted.
A low, broken sound bubbled out of her throat.
The Marine with the rifle hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.
Then he raised the muzzle and fired.
The woman's body went still.
The radio carried only breathing for a moment.
Then."Adult infected neutralized."
A corpsman who had just walked through the gate stopped short, eyes on the body. He lowered his bag slowly.
Silence followed.
The man stood frozen in front of the bodies. His hands hung at his sides. He looked from his wife to his son and back again, like he was waiting for one of them to move.
On the feed, a Marine stepped toward him, saying something that couldn't be heard.
The man shook his head.
He turned slowly and walked back toward his car.
One of the Marines called after him.
He didn't stop.
Price kept on watching the screen.
The man opened the driver's door and reached inside.
A Marine started hurrying toward him.
The man sat down in the driver's seat.
The Marine reached the door just as the man lifted a handgun.
The Marine staggered back as the man pulled the trigger.
The man's body slumped forward against the steering wheel.
The gate fell completely still.
No one moved.
Price straightened slowly, the hum of the screens seeming to be louder now.
Around him, the command room had gone silent.
·····
The sunlight spilled over the farm, casting long shadows across the yard as Andrew walked toward the barn. The Rangers followed silently, boots crunching on the ground, spreading naturally around him. Weapons were slung, combat knifes and hatchet's in hand, movements precise and practiced.
The barn loomed ahead, its faded red siding marred with peeling paint and streaked with age. Through the gaps in the wooden planks, faint thumps and low groans pressed outward—the slow, aimless movements of the walkers inside. The smell of decay hung heavy in the air, sharper than the hay and dust, a grim reminder that these bodies were far from fresh but not gone.
Andrew slowed as they neared the barn, glancing briefly at Hershel, who lingered just behind, hesitant. His hands rested on the pole he'd been using to manage the walkers, eyes flicking toward the structure as if weighing the risk.
" Keep your distance," Andrew said quietly to Hershel. "We'll do this slow. Controlled."
Hershel nodded stiffly, gripping the pole tighter, unease written across his face.
Andrew stepped up to the barn doors, glancing at the Rangers flanking him. Two moved forward, planting themselves at the handles to hold the doors ajar just enough for one or two walkers at a time to walk out.
Andrew's hand hovered over the latch, taking a slow, measured breath. The late morning light glinted off his combat knife, mirrored by the hatchets and knifes held ready by the Rangers.
"Stay sharp," he murmured. "One step at a time."
The Rangers nodded, muscles coiled, eyes locked on the gaps in the barn doors. Andrew swept the yard one last time, then gently lifted the latch. The doors shifted slightly under the tension, held steady by the Rangers at the handles.
A low groan echoed from inside. The stench of decay intensified. Andrew tightened his grip on the knife and took a step back, ready for the first walker to emerge, confident that his team could control the flow.
Hershel swallowed hard. "I hope you know what you're doing."
Andrew gave a firm, reassuring nod.
The barn's doors slowly open. Late morning light spilled inside, illuminating the bodies pressed together, pale and decomposed.
Andrew held his stance just outside the barn doors, eyes scanning the shadows within. The rest of the team joined him formed a semi-circle around, weapons ready, knives and hatchets prepared.
A low groan echoed from inside. The first walker shuffled forward, pale skin stretched tight over bone, eyes milky and unseeing. Andrew's gaze flicked to the Ranger nearest him. No words were exchanged; the subtle nods were enough.
The walker emerged fully into the yard, its movements slow and uneven. Andrew shifted his weight slightly, watching for any sudden jerks. The Ranger in front stepped forward, thrusting the combat knife into the walker's temple. The body jerked once, then collapsed limp on the ground.
Another groan, louder this time. Two walkers pushed forward together. Andrew raised a hand—just a slight tilt—and the Rangers adjusted, ensuring only one could step fully out at a time. The first was met with the edge of a hatchet striking down on the top of its skull, followed by a second, precise swing to the side. It slumped immediately.
Andrew kept his stance firm, calm, his voice low but controlled. "Step up when ready. One at a time. Keep your angles clean."
The Rangers obeyed without hesitation. Each time a walker emerged, it was dispatched with quick, efficient strikes, knife to the side of the head, hatchet to the temple or back of the skull. There was no hesitation, no panic, just the controlled rhythm.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Hershel tighten his grip on the pole, body tense. Andrew glanced at him, voice quiet but commanding. "Stay behind us. Watch, don't interfere. We've got this."
Hershel nodded.
Another walker stumbled forward, its hands clawing at the doorframe. Andrew signaled the two Rangers holding the doors. They adjusted, letting it slip just enough into the yard. The Ranger on the flank moved in with a knife, a clean thrust to the back of the head, and it dropped instantly.
Andrew moved fluidly with the team, eyes sweeping the barn interior and the perimeter of the yard. "Keep it tight. Let's not overreach," he said, voice calm and measured but with a commanding tone.
The next few walkers emerged slowly, one or two at a time, slipping through the narrow opening held by the Rangers. Hatchets and knives met skulls with precise strikes. Andrew stepped in when a pale, decomposed walker lunged at the edge of the doorway, his combat knife slicing cleanly through the side of its head. It dropped immediately. Another, staggering closer, was met with the flat of a ranger's hatchet, the top of its skull splitting with a single, brutal swing.
The Rangers moved as a single unit, flowing around him, every strike coordinated by instinct. Low groans echoed from deeper within the barn, the smell of decay thickening in the air, but no panic broke their rhythm. Bodies hit the floor with dull thuds, each one adding to the growing pile in the yard.
Walker after walker shuffled forward, and Andrew watched for any sudden shifts. A larger walker, partially trapped in the corner, swiped at a Ranger. Andrew stepped in without hesitation, driving the knife into the back of its head. The body slumped, lifeless. Another Ranger dispatched one from the side, a hatchet striking the temple and finishing the kill cleanly.
The barn creaked under the strain of motion, the muted sound of wood adjusting to the repeated impacts. Every so often, Andrew paused to glance at Hershel, who lingered behind them, pole in hand, still hesitant but watching carefully. Andrew's calm gaze and controlled movements served as silent reassurance.
Step by step, they worked their way through the walkers. Two walkers pushed forward through the opening. Andrew dispatched one with a quick slash to the side of the head and a ranger drove his hatchet into the second one's skull a moment later, the sounds muted but definitive.
After nearly half an hour, the barn's low groans had dwindled to occasional, scattered shuffles from deeper corners. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of decay. Andrew lowered his knife slightly but didn't relax. "Alright," he said, voice calm, carrying authority without panic. "That's enough for now. Keep your positions. We'll do another sweep in a few minutes. Don't get sloppy."
The Rangers shifted slightly, steadying their grips, muscles coiled for any sudden movement.
Andrew's gaze swept over the barn, the yard, and the surrounding team. Calm and focused.
They were almost done.