Approaching the hospital, the three elements broke off toward the positions they had established earlier. Andrew and the first squad of Rangers hugged the wall of the building, boots crunching lightly against broken glass as they advanced toward the main entrance. At the corner, Andrew halted, raising a clenched fist. The formation froze instantly, weapons up, the rearmost Ranger sweeping their six o'clock with steady precision. Peering around the corner, Andrew counted five walkers drifting in loose patterns across the entrance plaza, their movements slow and aimless.
He turned back to his men, his voice low but firm. "Five at the front. We keep it quiet—melee only. Two stay on overwatch in case we get company."
The Rangers nodded without hesitation. Metal clinked softly as rifles were slung and secured, combat knives drawn with practiced ease. One man pulled free a hatchet, another a battered camp axe. The two designated sentries shifted position, rifles up, scanning for threats beyond the shambling dead.
They moved with disciplined silence. In pairs, the Rangers surged forward, blades flashing in quick, efficient arcs. One by one the walkers dropped, crumpling to the pavement without so much as a groan. Within moments, the entrance was clear.
Drawing closer, they found the hospital's main doors barricaded from the inside with an improvised barricade — hospital gurneys, steel filing cabinets, and lengths of plywood stacked waist-high.Andrew signaled for cover, the squad crouching low along the barricade as he leaned to peer over it. The lobby beyond was still and lifeless, no movement in the shadows. There were no bodies but they could see some blood in parts of the room. There wasn't a smell of rot either. Just scattered papers and overturned chairs.
" Move in, controlled and quiet," Andrew murmured.
Working methodically, they pried open a narrow gap wide enough for the squad to slip through, every motion slow and deliberate to avoid noise. One by one, they slipped inside, weapons raised, before pulling the barricade back into place behind them. Daylight filtered in through the glass, casting long streaks across the lobby floor.
The squad fanned out, clearing corners and entryways until the room was secure. Andrew keyed the radio clipped to his vest. "Bravo- 1, Charlie-1, this is Alpha-1. We're inside the main entrance. Lobby secured. No contact. Beginning sweep of ground floor. Over."
Static crackled before Price's clipped voice came back. "Copy. We're in position." Moments later, the second Ranger squad checked in as well.
With their sectors covered and no immediate threats, Andrew motioned his men forward, their boots whispering across the tile as they began their slow, careful sweep of the hospital's ground floor.
...
Clipping the radio back onto his vest, Price pivoted toward his men. Ghost and Soap had already taken position on either side of the rear service door, weapons angled low but ready, eyes flicking over the shadows. Gaz and Nikolai covered the rear, keeping their muzzles steady on the alleyway behind them, scanning rooftops and broken windows for movement. The back of the hospital was theirs for now, secured and quiet.
"Alpha's inside," Price murmured. "Our turn."
He gave a hand signal, and Ghost tested the door. It creaked faintly but gave way—it hadn't been locked. That alone made Price uneasy. He gave a short nod, and the stack formed up. Ghost slipped in first, his movements smooth and deliberate. Soap followed, then Price himself, Nikolai close behind, and Gaz bringing up the rear.
The corridor beyond swallowed them in gloom. Faint daylight filtered through grimy, narrow windows, but most of the hall was draped in shadow. The smell of mildew and stale disinfectant lingered in the air, a reminder that the hospital had been abandoned mid-function.
"Lights," Price ordered softly.
Beams of white cut through the darkness. Ghost secured his weapon to his vest and raised his pistol in a two-handed grip, his combat knife glinting in his left hand, ready for close work. Soap mirrored the discipline, pistol steady in his right while he swept his flashlight with the left, slicing the shadows apart one corner at a time.
They advanced in silence, boots barely making a sound against the linoleum. Ghost moved with fluid precision, clearing doorways as they passed. Soap's voice was a low whisper, muttered in his Scottish burr as he checked angles—half to himself, half to steady the nerves of anyone listening.
Behind them, Nikolai covered midline with his rifle, keeping an eye on stairwells and branching corridors, while Gaz guarded the rear, his barrel never straying from the darkness behind.
Every few meters they halted, listening. The silence was thick, broken only by the drip of water somewhere in the pipes and the faint hum of their flashlights. Price studied the corridor ahead, his instincts coiled tight. Hospitals always felt wrong in places like this—too many rooms, too many shadows, too many unknowns waiting in silence.
"Steady, lads," he muttered under his breath. "One floor at a time."
And with that, the team pressed deeper into the hospital's rear corridors, their every step coordinated, every sense strained for the first sign of threat.
Reaching a stairwell, Ghost raised a hand, signaling the team to halt. Soap moved first, weapon and flashlight angled high as he checked the stairwell, then gave a curt nod. One by one they ascended, boots landing softly on concrete steps, the muted beams of their flashlights cutting upward into the gloom. The stairwell echoed faintly with their movements, each scuff of gear and creak of metal seeming louder than it should in the still air.
After reaching the door to the second floor, they re-formed their stack. Soap slid up to the door, flashlight angled low, and pressed his ear against the frame. Nothing—no scratching, no shuffling, no human voices. He glanced back, gave a quick gesture, and pushed through.
They spilled into the second-floor corridor, muzzles sweeping side to side, beams slicing through the dim lighted hallway. The hallway stretched long and narrow and empty . The smell of dust and faint mildew hung in the air.
They held position, listening. Silence. Not even the telltale groan of a stray walker. After a long moment, Price gave a short nod, and the team began their methodical sweep. Door by door, corner by corner, they cleared rooms—checking offices, storage closets, and empty patient wards, their training showing in their movements.
The search dragged on. By the time they finished fifteen minutes passed and the floor was clear. No walkers, no survivors, just dust and shadows.
Finally, Price's team linked up with Andrew's squad near a central junction. The Rangers were already waiting, weapons low but ready, their expressions set. A brief exchange of nods confirmed both groups had secured their respective floors.
Before pushing higher, the squads paused to coordinate. Andrew and his Rangers would continue up the main stairwell, while Price and his team shifted to the service stairs on the far side of the building, keeping their advance staggered but synchronized.
The next few floors were much the same—empty halls and signs of life long gone. Bullet holes marked some of the walls, dark smears of blood streaked across tiles. Here and there were spent medical supplies, but every cabinet they checked had already been stripped bare. Whoever had been here before had taken everything of value and left nothing behind.
It wasn't until they neared the higher levels that the silence broke. As Andrew led his squad up another flight, faint voices drifted down the stairwell. He immediately raised a clenched fist, and the Rangers froze mid-step, rifles angled toward the unseen. With practiced discipline, they shifted to cover the angles, one man watching the rear as the others pressed against the walls, minimizing their silhouettes.
The voices grew clearer—two men, their tone casual, not alarmed. One complained in a low grumble about having to patrol the lower floors. "Nothin' down there. Been sweepin' the same halls for days. Probably never was anyth—"
He stopped dead mid-sentence as his eyes locked onto Andrew and the squad of Rangers. In an instant, half a dozen muzzles leveled on him and his partner.
The two men froze where they stood. Police uniforms clung to their frames, the badges visible on their uniforms. Both slowly raised their hands, palms open.
The second officer glanced sidelong at his partner, lips twitching with dark humor despite the barrels pointed at him. "You were saying?" he muttered.
After a tense exchange of words, the two officers explained themselves. They weren't raiders, just Atlanta PD officer's who had taken charge when the everything fell apart. With a gesture from Andrew, the rangers lowered their weapons, but not their guard. With Andrew giving the order to move. Rangers flanked the officers as they guided the squad upward, toward the floors still in use.
The atmosphere shifted the higher they climbed. Instead of abandoned halls and silence, there were signs of life—cots and makeshift bedding pressed into corners, IV poles repurposed as coat racks, and tired faces peering out from open doorways. People in gowns and normal clothing paused mid-step, watching the heavily armed soldiers with wide eyes. A few staff members—nurses and even one doctor in a lab coat—stopped their work to stare, the weight of exhaustion in their expressions breaking into flickers of relief.
As they walked down the hallway, a heavy door opened. With three officers stepped out, all armed, their badges pinned on their uniforms. The one in front was older, stockier, his uniform pressed with care despite the situation. The Captain. At his side was the lieutenant Andrew remembered from the show.
The Rangers tightened their formation instinctively, rifles steady but angled low. Andrew stepped forward, hands open but his voice even and firm.
"We're not here to cause trouble. We're here on a mission. We came across your people on patrol." He nodded toward the two officers who had led them in. "They brought us to you."
The Captain studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he gave a slow nod. "Name's Hanson. You're in command ?" His gaze flicked over the Rangers' uniforms, then to Andrew's own gear.
"Lieutenant Andrew Mercer," Andrew replied. " We've secured a safe location outside the city—organized, fortified. We're here because we need to recover a helicopter we've confirmed on your rooftop."
Hanson's was in disbelief, as though the sight of Andrew and his squad finally made the idea of real rescue tangible. He glanced at Dawn Learner, then back to Andrew. "That helicopter on the roof—it's still here. We've kept it ready, in case we would need it. I'll be honest with you, Lieutenant, we didn't think anyone was coming."
Learner stepped forward, her voice steadier than her tired features suggested. "If you're here, that means things are getting under control… right?"
Andrew lowered his rifle, though his posture stayed professional. "That's not quite right. Contact with the government and any military command has been lost. We're working on a local command structure. We need the helicopter for an operation—clearing a large number of walkers."
Hanson and Learner exchanged confused looks at the word walkers. Andrew explained quickly, "That's what we call the infected. I don't feel like explaining why, so don't ask." After a brief glance at each other, the two officers nodded.
The corridor had gone quiet. A few nurses and patients lingered at the far end, watching the exchange with wide, hopeful eyes. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped steadily, the sound strangely grounding.
Then bootsteps echoed faintly behind them. Both Hanson and Learner turned just as Captain Price and his team emerged from the opposite side of the hallway.
"Looks like introductions are in order," Price said, his voice low but carrying.