The low rumble of engines carried across the quiet late morning air. The convoy drove along the cracked asphalt, steel and firepower moving in disciplined order.
At the very front, a JLTV rolled steadily ahead, its turret-mounted .50 cal swiveling with the soldier behind it scanning every rooftop and treeline. Just behind it, a Humvee mirrored the same setup, its frame humming as it kept the pace.
In the middle rumbled the heart of the convoy: three transport trucks, their trailers stripped down and reinforced for hauling heavy loads. Sandwiched between them, a truck with a crane mounted on , the vehicle groaned and rattled with every bump in the road. It had been salvaged from a nearby construction site only days earlier. The crane's extended arm was folded tight against its chassis, ready to lift the shipping containers once they reached the terminal.
Closing the formation, another JLTV and Humvee kept watch, their mounted gunners alert and fingers tight around the butterfly triggers. The entire column moved like a segmented beast, steady but dangerous, armed to the teeth.
Inside the lead JLTV, Andrew sat in the passenger seat, his rifle resting across his lap, as he scanned the roadside. His eyes weren't on the road so much as the shadows beyond it. It wasn't just walkers they had to worry about now—it was people. Hungry, desperate people who might see the convoy as prey.
The radio crackled briefly with updates from the rear vehicles, voices clipped and professional. Everything was calm—for now.
Andrew leaned forward as he spoke into the vehicles radio. "Convoy holds steady. Eyes sharp for any movement, is possible to encounter hostile groups of survivors. Keep it tight."
The Rangers and the National Guard soldiers answered in short affirmatives, their voices steady.
As the convoy pushed forward, Andrew's thoughts drifted to Terminus. The thought lingered like a weight at the back of his skull.
He remembered from the show, what is going to become— from a sanctuary to a slaughterhouse hiding behind warm words and painted signs. And all thanks to raiders who followed the signs and transmisions, only to take everything. They had beaten them, broken them, turning them into something worse than the dead.
Andrew shifted in his seat, fingers tightening on the weapon across his lap. No transmissions had been picked up yet, which meant Terminus likely hadn't started broadcasting. Still, the raiders are going to be a problem, there is no telling where those bastards are. The timeline was uncertain, and it was still early in the spocalypse.
The vehicle jolted as the wheels bounced over a pothole, snapping him back. He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the road ahead.
In the distance, Andrew caught sight of a lone figure moving along the side of the road. At first glance, he was ready to dismiss it as just another walker, one more shambling corpse wandering aimlessly. But as the convoy rolled closer, the figure turned toward them—and raised an arm.
It wasn't the sluggish, broken movement of the dead. The man was waving.
The driver flicked a glance at Andrew, waiting for a call. The JLTV rumbled on, tires grinding over asphalt. Andrew thought about just driving on. Strays on the roadside were just as likely to be dangerous , possibly part of a group of desperate survivors.
But then the man's movements grew frantic. He stepped closer to the road, both arms waving now, his body language shouting desperation, edging into the lane itself.
Not wanting to run the man over, with a sharp exhale, Andrew snatched up the radio. "Convoy, this is Iron One. Short stop ahead. Eyes up, weapons ready."
The line crackled with acknowledgments as the vehicles behind adjusted speed. Dust kicked up around the convoy as the engines throttled down.
The man wore tattered clothes, his jeans torn at the knees and a faded flannel hanging loose on his frame. A battered camping backpack on his back , the fabric frayed and stained from weeks on the road. He froze as the convoy slowed, his arm still raised in a half-wave, half-plea.
The JLTVs and Humvees came to a halt in practiced formation. Above, the gunners swung their turrets into position, heavy barrels tracking the treeline on both sides of the road. Every shadow between the trees became a potential threat.
Doors opened in unison, boots hitting the pavement. The soldiers fanned out, weapons at the ready but not quite raised, disciplined muzzles angled low as their eyes swept the surroundings. Fingers rested just above triggers, safety catches clicked off.
The man shifted nervously under their collective gaze, his hand falling to his side. The only sounds were the idling engines and the low metallic hum of the .50 cals overhead.
Andrew moved closer, his boots crunching on the gravel, and raised a hand to halt the man's eager steps. The stranger froze mid-stride, that brief spark of relief on his face faltering under Andrew's hard stare.
"Stop right there," Andrew ordered, his voice firm but not cruel. "Who are you and why the hell did you nearly throw yourself under our wheels back there?"
The man swallowed hard, nerves clear in the way his eyes flicked from Andrew to the soldiers behind him. He raised his hands, palms open, voice trembling but earnest.
"My name's… Dave," he said. "I've been camping out… staying away from towns, from people, from the dead. Figured the woods were safer." His voice cracked slightly, desperation bleeding through.
He took a shaky breath before continuing. "But I ran out of food no long ago. Water's running low, too. The forest isn't safe anymore—more of those things are wandering through every night. I barely sleep, just waiting for one to stumble on my camp." He shook his head, eyes darting as if replaying close calls. "I didn't know where else to go. When I saw you… I thought—" He broke off, words hanging in the air, his hopeful expression bordering on pleading.
Andrew studied the man for a long moment, his brows knit in thought. There was something about him that tugged at a sense of familiarity. Then he realized that he's the hitchhiker from the show . Shaking the thought off, he finally spoke, his tone level but firm.
"Are you alone? And do you have any weapons on you?"
The man steadied himself then "I'm alone," he said quickly. His hand brushed the strap of his pack, almost reflexively. "Only thing I've got is my camp axe… That could be considered a weapon."
Andrew's voice was steady, commanding. "Put the backpack down. We'll check you and your gear—make sure you're telling the truth."
He nodded quickly slipping the straps from his shoulders and handed the backpack to one of the soldiers.
Andrew stepped closer, patting him down with quick, practiced motions, searching for hidden weapons and possible bite marks. Meanwhile, two soldiers unzipped the pack and sifted through the contents—worn clothes, sleeping bag,a battered mess tin, two water bottles, a folded tarp, and the camp axe. Nothing that screamed danger. The man kept still the whole time, his eyes flicking nervously between the guns and Andrew's stern face, but he didn't resist.
When it was done, Andrew gave a short nod. "Alright. Looks like you were telling the truth." He straightened, meeting the man's eyes. "But we can't take you with us. We've got a mission, and bringing you along would complicate things."
The color drained from the man's face. His breathing quickened, panic welling up as he took a half-step forward. "Please—don't leave me out here. I'll do anything—"
Andrew cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Enough. I didn't said we're leaving you. I'll call someone to pick you up and bring you somewhere safe. But it won't be with us."
Before the man could answer, one of the gunners on overwatch called out, his voice tense: "Movement, treeline!"
Heads snapped toward the forest. Shadows shifted, and then figures emerged—stumbling, jerking shapes peeling out of the darkness between the trees. Walkers.
"Back in the vehicles, now!" Andrew barked. He shoved the man toward the convoy. "You're coming with us until we find you a safe spot. Stay close and don't do anything stupid."
Engines roared back to life as soldiers scrambled back into the vehicles.
....
The convoy rolled to a halt outside a roadside gas station, its sign hanging crooked above shattered windows, but the building itself looked intact enough. Andrew ordered a fire team to dismount with him, weapons raised as they swept the lot and pushed inside.
The place smelled of dust and stale fuel, but it was empty—just overturned shelves, scattered wrappers, and the silence of abandonment. No walkers. No people.
"Clear," one of the Rangers reported.
Andrew nodded, then turned to the hitchhiker. "This'll do. You'll be safe here until a team comes back for you. Barricade the doors with whatever you can find. Stay away from the windows. Don't go outside unless you have to."
The man's hands trembled as he adjusted the strap of his camping pack, relief washing over his face. "Thank you. I… I thought I was done out there."
Andrew fixed him with a steady look. " Follow the instructions, and don't take risks."
The soldiers did one last sweep, dragging a shelf across the main door to give him a start on barricading. Then Andrew gave the man a final nod before heading back to the convoy.
Once the convoy was moving again, Andrew grabbed the long range radio from his vest, then pressed the transmit key.
Andrew: "Ironwood actual, this is Convoy One. We've got a situation. Over."
Static crackled before Major Griggs' voice came through, steady but edged with fatigue.
Griggs: "Convoy One, Ironwood actual here. Go ahead."
Andrew: "We picked up a lone survivor about seven, maybe eight miles southeast of Atlanta. Male, cooperative, no immediate threat. We secured him at a gas station along Route Twelve, grid reference to follow. Requesting a recovery team to bring him back to the resort. Over."
There was a pause on the line, faint voices in the background before Griggs came back.
Griggs: "Copy that. We'll dispatch a team to his location. SWAT team's still at the base—they'll handle it. ETA thirty to forty minutes. Over."
Andrew glanced out the window, watching the treeline blur past. His voice dropped into something firm but cautionary.
Andrew: "Make sure they're careful, Major. Forest around there's not empty, and we stirred up some walkers before we pulled out. Tell them to expect trouble on approach. Over."
Griggs: "…Roger that. I'll brief them myself. Ironwood actual out."
Andrew attached the radio back on his vest, exhaling slowly. Another life spared.
...
The convoy pushed on, engines growling as they left the outskirts behind and rolled deeper into the Georgian backroads. Two weeks into the collapse and the world was already reshaping itself into something alien. Gas stations stood hollow and ransacked, their pumps dry and windows shattered. Fields that once held cattle were now empty, fences broken, with the occasional bloated carcass lying in the grass where it had fallen days ago. Along the roadside, cars sat rusting in haphazard rows, doors left hanging open as if their owners had fled in a rush—some streaked with dried blood, others eerily untouched. The deeper they went, the quieter it became—no birds, no crickets, just the rumble of engines and the creak of steel. Every now and then, a lone walker would stagger from the treeline, watching the convoy roll past before disappearing into the dust in their wake.
As the convoy rumbled closer to the rail yard, Andrew lifted his radio and called in to the scout team positioned ahead. A crackle of static answered before a Ranger's voice came through, low and steady. "We've got eyes on the rail yard, sir."
From their vantage point on a low hill, the scouts described what they saw—people. Families moved about the grounds, some tending to what looked like rows of newly planted vegetables boxed in with scrap wood. A crude rainwater catchment system glinted in the sun. Sheets and laundry hung between rusting railcars, swaying in the breeze. Children chased each other across the yard while older survivors carried supplies back and forth, patching walls with scavenged lumber.
"No weapons visible," the scout added. "They look settled."
"Copy that. Maintain overwatch. We're approaching the terminal. Over." said Andrew.
A brief crackle, then the familiar voice of the lead scout replied, steady and professional.
"Roger that. Eyes on all sectors. We'll hold position and report any changes. Out."
With that confirmation, Andrew eased the convoy forward, navigating carefully along the road. The landscape gradually opened as the rail yard came into view, fenced and worn from years of use. After a short stretch, the convoy slowed and came to a halt in front of the main gate. Soldiers dismounted with practiced precision, rifles slung but hands ready, scanning the perimeter.
Andrew's boots crunched against the gravel as he and three Rangers approached the gate. Beyond the fencing, dozens of faces stared back—tired, wary, but lit with a flicker of hope at the sight of armored vehicles and armed soldiers.
From the crowd, three stepped forward. A wiry man in his thirties with sharp eyes raised a hand in greeting.
"Name's Gareth," he said, voice measured but cautious. He gestured to the younger man beside him. "This is Alex, my brother. And that's our mother, Mary."
Mary, her face lined with exhaustion but softened with a weary smile, stepped up. "Welcome to Terminus," she said warmly, though her eyes darted past Andrew to the hulking convoy behind him. "It's been a long time since we've seen the military. You can imagine what your arrival stirs up in people."
Andrew gave a single nod, his stance firm but not threatening. "I can."
Alex shifted uneasily, folding his arms. "All those trucks, the guns… you're not here to push us out, are you?"
The tension in the crowd behind them rippled like wind through dry grass. Mothers held their children closer. A few men instinctively straightened, though no weapons were in sight.
Mary raised her hands, trying to calm both sides. Her gaze settled on Andrew, steady and searching. "We're glad to see you," she said carefully. "Truly. But we need to know—why are you here? What are your intentions with Terminus?"