The air tasted like metal and smoke. The sky above the military installation southwest of Atlanta was ripped open by pillars of fire; what remained of the broken fences rattled with the moans of things that should not exist. Ethan Cole crawled out from what was left of the bunker, heavy rifle slung over his shoulder, breath scraping like his lungs were empty drums.
Around him, the world had turned into war and noise. His team—five shadows he knew better than his own blood—was no longer complete. Ghost was at the front, cracked mask, hollow eyes behind the fabric; Echo limping with a deep shoulder wound; Gaz hauling ammunition; and Price spitting blood. Soap… Soap had vanished in the collapse, and Ethan knew that if he didn't show up soon, he never would.
"Ghost?" Ethan's voice came out low, steady. The scar running down his left eye burned as if fresh. "Status."
"Four alive. One missing. Core overrun." Ghost pointed to the north, where smoke cut through the stars.
There was no time for grief. The operation had collapsed the moment the infection—whatever it was—tore through the facility. People who had been soldiers yesterday now walked with open mouths and empty eyes. The team shifted into survival mode.
Ethan's escape route led through the forest, avoiding blocked roads. Ammo was scarce. Radio signals nearly dead. Every step demanded a decision: listen and run, or shoot and waste what remained? He chose silence—always silence.
By the third day, when their water had run out and some boots were starting to fall apart, the urban landscape finally opened: twisted fences, abandoned cars, street signs missing letters. Atlanta smelled like fear that had settled into the concrete.
They moved toward the center, looking for shelter, supplies, any point of communication. They didn't know where the government had retreated—if it had retreated at all. They only knew one thing: there had to be survivors out there. And Soap… they had to find Soap.
It was in a narrow alley near a small plaza that they heard them—human voices that were not their own. Ethan froze, signaling. Ghost peeked around the corner and saw a small group trying to push a stuck vehicle: a tall man, dirty, with the look of someone who had woken into another world; a young man with bright eyes; another wearing a makeshift vest; and two more—faces hardened by too little time in the new world.
Walkers were everywhere, drawn erratically as if something unseen pulled them toward a point. When the sound of metal scraping alerted a nearby horde, the small group was seconds from being torn apart.
"They're dead if we don't move," Gaz whispered.
Ethan didn't let the moment breathe. He ran.
The entry was professional—just like the drills that separated them from civilians. Ghost detonated a small, controlled charge to split the horde; Echo and Gaz created a firing corridor; Ethan moved with deadly precision, every strike efficient and final. In seconds, the walkers threatening the group were down.
The tall man—Rick Grimes, still carrying traces of uniform and blood—stared at Ethan and his team with a mix of suspicion and relief.
"Who are you?" Rick asked, voice rough.
Ethan lowered his rifle but didn't put it away. His posture said he could kill as easily as he breathed.
"What's left of a military unit," Ethan replied, eyes scanning every face. "Anybody hurt?"
Glenn, the young one, stepped forward—cautious but clearly impressed.
"Uh… thanks. We thought that was it for us."
Daryl stayed back, measuring the newcomers. T-Dog held the far side of the group, ready to pull Rick back if needed. Shane watched the alleys, jaw clenched—he didn't like this.
Ethan saw everything: the balance of power, the unspoken chain of command, the exhausted leadership radiating from Rick. It wasn't tense enough to spark a fight—just recognition.
"We're passing through," Ghost said, voice muffled behind the mask. "Looking for extraction. Info and supplies. Trade? If you help, we can stick around for a bit."
Rick exchanged a long look with Shane. A heavy second passed.
"We have a camp a few miles from here," Rick finally said. "We can give you a place to rest… if you help us gather what we need first."
It was the start of a fragile pact. Ethan's lip curled in a small, sarcastic almost-smile.
"Deal. But if things get ugly, I take command."
Shane's teeth ground together. "Command" was not a word he surrendered easily. But there was something in Ethan's presence that said: better this man in command than none. Rick, exhausted, nodded.
On the way to the camp, Ethan noticed the quiet questions everyone avoided. Who were they really? Where had they come from? What had they done? He kept the answers to himself—for now.
As night fell, the campfire lit their faces. People stared, whispered, took measure. Dale greeted them with the caution of someone who had seen too many roads end in death.
Ethan leaned back, watching them. Glenn's fascination was obvious. Daryl wandered close enough for a silent exchange of mutual respect. Shane watched from afar, tension coiled in his shoulders.
For now, there was food. Shelter. A temporary purpose. Ethan still needed to find his missing man. And then—maybe—decide whether this small group was worth protecting.
In the distance, the wind carried soft groans—reminding them all that peace was a fragile lie.
Ethan tightened his holster and made a silent promise:
He would lose no one else without a fight.
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