Stopping in their tracks, the four men exchanged quick, uneasy glances. Andrew's grip on the shield tightened, then he stepped back to the heavy evidence storage door. Raising his fist, he knocked firmly against the steel.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
For a moment there was only silence, then—faint but distinct—came a reply:
KNOCK. .. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK … KNOCK. KNOCK.
Andrew's brows furrowed. He looked back at the others. "That's not random." He leaned closer to the door, voice steady but cautious. "Uh… hello? Anyone in there?Can you hear me?"
A muffled voice came back almost immediately, rough and desperate. "Yes! Yes, i can hear you! The door's locked, we can't get out. Can you help us?"
Foley stepped forward, motioning with his chin. "Flashlight here." Andrew angled the beam of the flashlight onto the electronic keypad. Foley crouched to inspect it, running a gloved hand along the scratched metal casing.
"When the power cut out, the keypad went dead. That left the bolt engaged, locking this door shut." He tapped the side of the mechanism with his knuckle. "Still… looks like there's a secondary mechanical system built into it. That means there's a key. Find the key, and we can get it open."
Rook let out a sharp breath, frustration bleeding into his voice. "Great. So we're looking for one tiny key in a building full of corpses. Sounds like a damn lottery."
Andrew ignored the complaint, turning back toward the thick door. "How many people are in there? And do any of you know where this key might be?"
There was a pause on the other side, followed by some muffled shuffling—voices murmuring back and forth. Then the same man answered. "There's nine of us in here. But… no. None of us know where the key is. Could be either in the detective's office's or with the Captain."
The four looked at eachother , groaning that they will now most likely have to search the entire second floor for the key. Ramirez shook his head and lifted his flashlight again, sweeping its beam down the rest of the corridor. The cone of light cut across the concrete walls until it stopped at another heavy door near the end of the hallway.
The generator room , a steel door marked with stenciled black letters: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY." A faint smell of oil clung to the air, even from the hallway.
"There's the generator room," Ramirez said, angling his flashlight toward the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor. "If we get it running, it should power up the keypad. If those people inside still have their keycard, we can get the lock open from their side."
Foley grunted in agreement. "Makes a hell of a lot more sense than tearing apart the precinct looking for a key that might not even be here." Rook nodded as well, adding, "Faster, too—and those folks don't look like they've got days left to wait."
Andrew stayed quiet for a moment, weighing it. His shield rested against his leg as he rubbed at his jaw. Finally, he shook his head. "It's a good option—but the problem is the noise. You fire up that generator, it's gonna sound like a dinner bell to the walkers in the garage. Might draw more from outside, too."
"We'll manage it," Foley cut in, voice steady. "Ramirez and I will hold the door shut. You and Rook focus on the generator and getting this keypad live."
Andrew gave a short nod and turned back to the heavy evidence room door. Raising his voice slightly, he called out, "Do any of you have the keycard on you?"
For a moment there was only muffled shuffling and low voices from the other side. Then the same man who'd spoken before answered, his tone apologetic. "No—we don't have it. Must've dropped it when we locked ourselves in."
"Check the floor out here," Foley suggested grimly.
Andrew and Ramirez lowered their shields and began sweeping their flashlights across the dusty concrete. The narrow beams caught discarded shell casings, blood smears, and dark scuff marks from boots. At last, Ramirez's light flickered across a thin rectangle of plastic half-hidden in a streak of dried blood. He crouched and picked it up carefully, grimacing as he glanced at the two corpses nearby.
"Got it," Ramirez said quietly, holding up the bloodied card for the others to see.
" Good, now let's get to it," Andrew said firmly.
Ramirez gave a short nod and handed the blood-smeared keycard to Rook. Andrew motioned for him to follow, and together they advanced down the corridor toward the generator room. The heavy steel door loomed ahead, stenciled with AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in fading black letters. Andrew tested the handle first, shield raised. To their surprise, the latch gave with a metallic click.
"Unlocked," Andrew muttered, pushing the door open cautiously. He led with the shield, Rook sweeping the flashlight given to him by Andrew into the room beyond.
The generator room was compact but functional, its concrete walls painted a dull gray. Pipes and conduit ran along the ceiling, and a single desk sat against one wall, scattered with maintenance logs and a half-drunk cup of coffee long since turned to sludge. Dust motes floated in the flashlight beams, but otherwise the room was clean, orderly—evidence that someone had cared for it.
At the center stood the generator itself: a bulky diesel unit with scratched but intact casing, its exhaust pipe running up into the ceiling. A faint oily tang lingered in the air. Andrew crouched beside the control panel, fingers brushing over the switches.
"System looks fine," he said, glancing to Rook. "Just needs juice."
Rook's beam swept the room landing eventually to the corner, where two metal canisters stood upright beside a low storage shelf. Both were dented but sealed tight. He tapped one with the butt of his hatchet, the hollow metallic thunk reassuring. "We're in luck."
Rook rolled one closer to Andrew, with him uncapping it with deliberate care before pouring the fuel into the generator's tank. The sharp smell of diesel filled the room. When it was topped off, he twisted the cap back into place and gave the panel a final once-over.
"Alright," he said, gripping the starter lever. "Let's wake this thing up."
With a sharp pull, the generator coughed, sputtered, then roared to life. The noise filled the small room, vibrating through the floor and echoing into the hallway. Almost immediately, the room's and the corridor's lights above flickered, buzzing weakly before stabilizing into a steady glow.
Andrew and Rook exchanged a look, then stepped out of the room.
Meanwhile, Foley and Ramirez moved to the door leading into the motor pool. Foley raised a hand for silence, then eased it open just a fraction, just enough for them to see through.
The lights above suddenly flickered to life, illuminating the motor pool, casting sharp angles over rows of parked vehicles. And with the darkness gone, the shapes in the dark became clear.
Walkers.
Over a dozen of them, scattered through the garage. Some shambled aimlessly between vehicles, bumping into doors. Others stood eerily still until the light fell across their ruined faces, triggering guttural groans that rolled into the air.
Foley exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the door. "Well," he muttered under his breath, "looks like we've rung the dinner bell."
...
Andrew and Rook retraced their steps back down the dim corridor, the rumble of the generator filling the silence with a steady, vibrating thrum. Their flashlights were no longer needed—the overhead bulbs now burned weakly but steady, casting pale light across the concrete walls.
The evidence storage door loomed ahead, with the electronic keypad glowing faintly beside it. A small red light pulsed in a slow, steady rhythm, the universal signal that the door was locked tight.
Rook pulled the recovered key card from his pocket, the plastic scuffed and bloodstained from where they'd found it. "Let's hope this still works," he muttered, sliding it through the reader.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sharp beep, the red light blinked to green, followed by the metallic thunk of the bolt retracting. Andrew stepped forward, shield raised out of habit, and pulled the heavy door open.
The smell of stale air and sweat hit them first. Then movement.
One by one, people began filing out—nine officers in total, most in tattered uniforms, exhaustion written across their faces. Two of them wore riot gear, helmets clutched under their arms, padding scuffed and smeared but intact. The rest looked gaunt, unshaven, and hollow-eyed, their relief palpable as they stumbled into the corridor.
"Thank God…" one officer breathed. Another, younger and pale, muttered, "Didn't think anyone was still out there."
Several of them nodded their thanks, murmuring gratitude, while an older sergeant stepped forward. His face was lined with fatigue, but his voice was steady as he asked, "What's the situation outside? We… we heard explosions. Felt the ground shake days ago. What the hell happened?"
Andrew paused,thinking for a moment, then explained the situation to them.
"Containment failed," Andrew said evenly, his tone quiet but heavy. "The infection spread too fast. The military tried to hold the city, but when it got out of control…" He exhaled slowly, eyes hardening. "They bombed it. Tried to burn it out."
A silence fell over the group, broken only by the faint rumble of the generator. The officers exchanged grim looks—shock for some, grim acceptance for others. The two in riot gear bowed their heads slightly, helmets hanging loosely at their sides.
Finally, one of them muttered, "So this… this really is the end of it."
Andrew gave a faint, steady nod. "It's not the end. Not yet. You're out, you're alive—and we've still got work to do."
The brief silence after Andrew's words was broken by a low, guttural sound. It rolled faintly through the corridor, reverberating off the concrete walls—the unmistakable groaning chorus of walkers.
Heads turned toward the heavy door leading into the motor pool. The sound wasn't distant anymore; it was close, pressing against the walls that separated them. The groans rose in uneven waves, punctuated by the dull thuds of bodies colliding with something solid.
Foley stepped out from where he and Ramirez had been stationed, his face grim in the flickering light. He kept his voice low but urgent. "They're getting restless. Generator's got them stirred up." He jerked a thumb toward the motor pool door. "They've started moving toward the sound—piling against the walls instead of wandering like before."
As if on cue, the muffled impact of rotting flesh hitting concrete echoed through the corridor again. The dull scrape of fingernails dragged along the other side of the wall, accompanied by the hollow slam of a walker's body slamming into metal.
One of the freed officers—helmet clutched tightly in his hand—looked pale. "They… they know we're here?"
"No," Andrew said quickly, his tone clipped, steady. "They're not that smart. They hear noise, they move toward it. Walls, doors, doesn't matter. They'll claw at whatever's in the way until they can't anymore."
Foley gave a tight nod. "Exactly. They might not even be capable to think of looking for another way around.
The groans swelled again, the sound thick and hungry, like a storm pressing in just beyond the concrete.
Andrew glanced between his team, then to the newly freed officers.
Andrew's eyes lingered on the steel door leading into the motor pool, the guttural chorus of walkers bleeding through its seams. He turned to Foley, his voice low but steady.
"They're all pressed against the wall closest to the generator?"
Foley nodded. "Aside from a couple stragglers further out, yeah. Most of 'em are packed tight, pushing and clawing like they'll break through if they shove hard enough."
Andrew's jaw tightened. He mulled it over for a moment, then stepped toward the door. Resting his hand briefly against the cold steel, he eased it open just enough to peer inside. The dim light from the flickering overheads caught the pale faces and ruined uniforms of the walkers. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder, a restless, mindless mass clawing at the cinderblock wall where the noise reverberated strongest. Fingers scraped and thudded uselessly against concrete.
For the first time in a while, Andrew felt the weight of fatigue pressing heavy in his chest. His arms ached from swinging the hatchet, his shoulder burned from holding the shield through one too many shoves. He looked down at the battered riot shield still strapped to his arm, then at the hatchet clipped to his vest. With a sigh, he leaned the shield carefully against the wall beside the door.
"Enough of this," he muttered, more to himself than the others. Straightening, he reached behind him and unclipped the silenced MP5 from where it rested against his backpack . The weapon came up smoothly into his hands, the faint glint of the suppressor and rest of attachments catching the overhead light.
Behind him, the others exchanged uneasy looks—some puzzled, others worried.
Andrew turned to Foley and Ramirez. His voice was calm, deliberate. "You two cover my back. Keep anything from sneaking up on us."
The sergeant and his corporal both gave curt nods. No questions, no hesitation.
Andrew eased the door open wider and stepped into the motor pool. The smell of decay hung heavy in the stale air. He lifted the MP5, sighted on the nearest walker, and squeezed the trigger.
Pffft.
The round cut clean through its temple, the walker dropping like a puppet with its strings cut. Foley and Ramirez slipped in behind him, weapons at the ready, guarding the flanks.
Andrew steadied his stance, bracing against the edge of a concrete pillar for balance. He adjusted his breathing, then began picking them off—one, then another, then another. Each suppressed burst of air from the weapon was nearly lost under the constant rumble of the generator. The walkers didn't even flinch.
One by one, they collapsed in heaps, the front ranks crumpling and tripping the ones behind them. When a straggler finally turned, breaking from the press of the group, Andrew adjusted and fired—only for the creature to stumble over the growing pile of bodies.
Still, fatigue gnawed at him. His arms trembled slightly with every careful squeeze of the trigger. A few shots went wide, thudding into the wall instead of skull. The magazine ran dry, the bolt locking back with a click.
Andrew quickly swapping mags. In the meantime, Foley and Ramirez stepped forward to dispatch any walkers wandering out from between the parked cruisers. They fought with visible strain—Ramirez grunting as he drove his machete into a walker's skull, Foley breathing hard after splitting another's skull with his axe.
The fight dragged on longer than any of them wanted, but eventually, silence reclaimed the motor pool. Dozens of bodies lay scattered, some collapsed in grotesque piles against the far wall, others sprawled between abandoned vehicles.
For a long moment, none of them moved. They stood in the stillness, weapons raised, listening. The generator thudded on, its steady rumble filling the void.
When no new groans came from the shadows, Andrew finally lowered his MP5, chest rising and falling heavily. Foley and Ramirez exchanged weary glances, then lowered their own weapons in unison.
Foley glanced toward the far end of the garage, squinting past the parked cruisers. "We need to close that bay gate," he said, pointing to the large rolling door—the kind wide enough for squad cars and vans to exit. It was half-open, leaving a jagged strip of daylight bleeding into the motor pool. "That's an invitation we don't want to leave open."
Andrew nodded, wiping a streak of grime from his face with the back of his glove. "Agreed. Let's lock it down."
They stepped back into the corridor briefly, where Rook and the nine officers waited.
"The motor pool's clear," Andrew told them, voice steady but roughened with fatigue. "Stay here with them, Rook. We'll close the access gate before anything else wanders in."
Rook gave a sharp nod.
Andrew, Foley, and Ramirez turned back into the garage. Their boots crunched on broken glass and empty shell casings as they moved between rows of police cruisers. The smell of burnt oil and copper lingered heavy in the air.
"Hey," Ramirez said quietly, noticing a hulking vehicle parked near the wall. Its black paint glinted under the flickering lights . "That's a SWAT van."
Andrew slowed, taking it in—the armored frame, reinforced bumpers, and mesh over the windows. It sat squat and heavy, designed for breaching hot zones.
Foley let out a low whistle. "That could be of use out there. Tough enough to get us through a crowd if we need it."
Andrew gave a grim nod. "We'll come back for it. First, the gate."
The three of them pressed on until they reached the large roll-up door. Its steel tracks were bent slightly, and grime streaked the panels, but the locking mechanism was intact. Foley grabbed the handle, straining against the weight as the door groaned in protest. With Ramirez lending a shoulder, they dragged it down until it slammed shut against the floor, sealing off the last beam of sunlight. Andrew slid the manual lock into place, giving the handle a firm tug to test it.
"Secure," he said, finally allowing himself a moment to roll his aching shoulders.
They retraced their steps back through the garage. Back in the corridor, Rook looked up at them, and the rescued officers shifted anxiously at their return.
Andrew's tone was firm but carried a note of finality. "Before we start gathering anything useful, we need to rest. We're no good to anyone running on fumes."
Foley , Ramirez and Rook , all nodded in agreement. Their shoulders sagged, but none of them argued.
Andrew turned toward the stairwell. "First floor. We'll regroup there."
Together, the group began the slow climb back up, boots echoing in the quiet corridor, leaving the motor pool secured .