By the time the last container was secured, the sun had begun to sink behind the treeline, washing Terminus in a dim orange glow. Twenty railcars stood loaded — ten heavy forty-foot containers and twenty smaller ones — while three of the trucks carried two twenty-footers each. The air smelled faintly of diesel and warm metal. Andrew took a step back, scanning the convoy one last time before reaching for the long range radio.
"Ironwood actual, this is Lieutenant Mercer," he said, his voice steady but worn. "Containers are loaded and secured. We'll remain at Terminus overnight — the locals offered shelter, and it's getting dark. We'll depart at first light."
After receiving Major Griggs's acknowledgment, Andrew exhaled, glancing toward the group of people who had gathered near a fire pit. Mary approached, offering him a plate of grilled food and a tired smile. For a moment, Andrew hesitated — remembering what these same people would have become in another version of this world, driven to madness and cannibalism after raiders brocke them. But now, because the signs would never go up, their fate might be different.
He accepted the food with a nod of gratitude, joining his men briefly he before ordering night sentry shifts to be established , having their number encreased by the scout team.
By morning, a thin layer of mist hung over the rail yard. The air was cool and still. The men who had operated the locomotive the day before stood ready beside it, agreeing to help transport the containers to Atlanta , from where they will be transported to Fort Ironwood. Andrew promised they'd be brought back with the supplies Terminus had been promised. Engines rumbled to life, the day's first rays cutting through the haze as the convoy prepared to roll out.
Before departing, Andrew handed Mary, Gareth, and Alex a slip of paper with a radio frequency written across it.
"If anything happens, or if you need assistance, you can reach Fort Ironwood directly on this channel," he said. Mary nodded, tucking it carefully into her pocket.
To ensure the safety of the two operators on the journey, Andrew assigned a small team of Rangers to ride aboard the locomotive. They would oversee the transport and maintain security along the route — a necessary precaution as the train would be a tempting target for raiders.
Once everyone was in position and final checks were complete, the engines rumbled to life. The convoy rolled forward in unison, the train'sit steel wheels began to turn. Dust rose behind them, catching the morning light.
Andrew climbed into the lead vehicle,and grabbed the long range radio.
"This is Lieutenant Mercer to Ironwood actual. We're departing Terminus — train and convoy both. Notify Major Griggs of our ETA."
"Copy that, Lieutenant," came the reply from the operator. "Safe travels.Ironwood actual out."
As the line went silent, Andrew looked back once more at the settlement fading behind them.
...
The return trip was slower, more cautious. The convoy weaved between backroads and sections of the main highway. They avoided the choke points — intersections littered with wrecks, overpasses that might hide traps, and city stretches where the dead tended to gather. The train kept to a steady pace on a more direct line towards Atlanta, the steady rumble of its wheels occasionally echoing across the distance like a heartbeat in the silence.
After nearly an hour of travel, the road began to change. There were more signs of movement now — dried blood streaked across the asphalt, abandoned luggage in the ditches, and walker at the treeline.
It started with one, staggering out from the trees as they rounded a bend, then more shapes appeared between the trunks — slow, swaying. It wasn't the worst they'd seen, but it was clear the area wasn't as quiet as it had been the previous day.
The reason soon made itself known.
They heard it before they saw it — the shrill, broken wail of a car horn stuck on repeat. Then, just off the roadside, half-buried in brush and mud, was a wrecked sedan. The front end was wrecked, blood smeared over it, the windshield spiderwebbed and bloodied. The horn still blared, echoing through the woods. Around it, a cluster of walkers tore into something — or someone — sprawled beside the wreck, their movements jerky and wet.
No one spoke. The convoy kept rolling, engines low, every driver's eyes fixed forward. As they passed, a few of the dead lifted their heads, jaws hanging slack, staring at the vehicles that slipped by. One even began to stumble after them, soon followed by others.
The rest of the drive passed in uneasy calm. The roads stretched quiet under the weight of the afternoon light, lined with the cars and trucks that had been abandoned. A few soldiers in the back took advantage of the lull, heads resting against the metal frames, drifting into light sleep while others kept their eyes on the treeline.
As the convoy neared the outskirts of Atlanta, the air seemed to change. Burned-out houses dotted the roadside, their windows black and hollow.
Then, suddenly, the quiet broke.
A burst of static crackled from the vehicles's comms, making one of the dozing soldiers jolt awake. Someone must have brushed against the dial of the short-range radio — switched over to the general emergency frequency. Then, through the distortion, a voice began to break through—faint, intermittent.
"…—copy—this is Sergeant—ck—reporting from Big Spot, repeat, Big Spot. Any active units, please respond—"
The signal cut in and out as the convoy rolled through a stretch of ruined overpass. Andrew leaned forward, adjusting the dial. As they cleared the obstruction, the transmission sharpened, the voice steadier now, calm and measured.
"This is Sergeant Doyle, 223rd Support Battalion, holding position at Big Spot retail complex, south-west perimeter of Atlanta. We have established a provisional safe zone with surviving civilians and remaining personnel. Requesting confirmation—any active military units, respond on this frequency."
Andrew exchanged a glance with the driver, then reached for the handset, pressing the transmit key.
"Sergeant Doyle, this is Lieutenant Andrew Mercer. We read you, loud and clear."
There was a pause—a hiss of static, then a voice that carried both disbelief and relief.
"Copy that, Lieutenant. Good to finally hear another voice."
Andrew leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed ahead on the road as the convoy continued its slow approach toward the city's shadow.
The static faded briefly, and the operator's voice came through again, clearer this time.
"Are there others out there? We haven't heard a damn thing on this frequency in days. Thought we were talking to ghosts. What's your situation? We picked up an explosion from the city yesterday—big one. You got eyes on that?"
Andrew held the handset close, glancing at the soldiers in the cab. The rhythmic thrum of the engine filled the silence as he considered his words.
"Negative on the explosion," he replied evenly. "We're mobile, on assignment. I'll have to contact command for details."
"Copy that," came the voice after a short pause, the operator's tone measured but edged with fatigue, other voices could be heard in the background. "We're holding our position. Will maintain open frequency every half hour for contact."
"Understood," Andrew said, and the line went quiet except for the low hiss of static.
He grabed the long-range radio. "This is Lieutenant Mercer to Ironwood actual, priority transmission."
It took a few seconds before Major Griggs' voice came through, calm but alert.
"Go ahead, Lieutenant. Report."
Andrew straightened slightly, his tone professional. "We intercepted a transmission from a Sergeant Doyle, claiming to be with the 223rd Support Battalion. He's holed up at a location called Big Spot, southwest of Atlanta. Reports civilians present and a safe zone established. They mentioned hearing an explosion yesterday near the city. We've confirmed signal strength and coordinates."
There was a pause, the faint crackle of background chatter before Griggs responded.
"We picked up fragments of that transmission this morning—too garbled to trace. Good work confirming it. Do you have their exact location?"
Andrew nodded to himself, checking the map spread across the dashboard. "Affirmative, sir. Coordinates match roughly fifteen miles west of our current route."
"Copy that," Griggs said, his tone firming. " I want you to go there and make contact. Verify their situation. If they're stable, we'll see if we can coordinate with them."
"Understood" Andrew replied. " I will take two teams and move out immediately."
"Stay sharp, Lieutenant. Ironwood actual out."
The transmission ended, leaving only the steady hum of the JLTV engine and the distant caw of crows over the empty highway. Andrew exhaled, leaning forward to tap the map.
"Alright," he said to the driver, voice low but steady. "We're making a detour."
He exhaled through his nose, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Then he changed the frequency of the short-range radio to contact the rest of the convoy.
"This is Lieutenant Mercer. Listen up."
After a quiet moment, being sure that everyone is listening.
"We've picked up a confirmed transmission from a surviving unit — military and civilians holed up at a location called Big Spot, roughly fifteen miles southwest of our current route. Command wants verification."
A brief pause. Then he continued:
"The main convoy will proceed to Fort Ironwood as planned. Humvee One and Two, maintain escort on the transport trucks. JLTVs One and Two will divert and check the Big Spot. Copy?"
The replies came in, crisp and professional.
'Copy that, Lieutenant.'
'Humvee One confirms escort.'
'JLTV Two standing by.'
"Good," Andrew replied, settling the handset back into its cradle. "Let's keep it tight."
He glanced to the driver, then to the gunner perched at the turret. "We break off in five. Maintain formation until the next junction."
Outside, the highway stretched ahead under a washed-out gray sky. The last of the convoy rumbled past—a line of trucks carrying shipping containers, escorted by the armored Humvees.
The JLTVs veered onto the side road, asphalt cracking beneath their wheels. The landscape around them grew quieter, lonelier — the ruins of gas stations and diners slipping past. Somewhere in the distance, a single walker stumbled out, drawn lazily toward the sound of engines before fading into the dust behind them.
Inside the vehicle, Andrew keyed the intercom.
"Alright, eyes open. Let's go see who's still breathing out there."
The second JLTV followed close behind as they turned southwest toward the Big Spot.
...
It took them roughly forty minutes to reach the outskirts of the town where the Big Spot grocery store was located. The two JLTVs rolled through the near-empty streets, weaving between abandoned cars and overgrown curbs. The roads bore the quiet scars of chaos—burned-out vehicles, shattered windows, and military tape still fluttering from lampposts.
As they crested a small rise, the store came into view—and it wasn't hard to spot. The massive Big Spot sign hung above the front, and sitting like a crown atop the building was a military helicopter its olive-green fuselage glinting in the daylight.
"Guess we found it," the gunner muttered.
The scene ahead spoke of discipline and desperation in equal measure. The parking lot had been transformed into a fortified safe zone: double-layered fencing made from welded metal grates and chain-link panels surrounded the perimeter, reinforced with stacks of sandbags and razor wire strung along the top. Two Humvees were parked at the main entrance, their .50 cal turrets aimed outward toward the road.
Inside the perimeter, a small motor pool had been set up—two military transport trucks, an old pickup converted for supply runs, and what looked like a water purification trailer hooked to a generator. Near the far end of the lot, olive-drab tents were arranged in neat rows—some medical, others serving as barracks, not far from them there were few civilian tents . A few soldiers moved about with purpose, their uniforms worn but tidy, rifles slung and helmets strapped.
Closer to the building, civilians worked under a large tarp—sorting crates of canned food and bottled water, while a soldier kept watch nearby. Children played quietly near the tents, their laughter faint beneath the hum of generators.
As the JLTVs approached the outer barricade, a soldier at the gate raised a hand, signaling for them to stop. Another climbed onto the sandbagged position beside a mounted M240, scanning their vehicles through the scope of his rifle.
"Friendly welcome," one of the Rangers muttered.
Andrew keyed the radio.
"This is Lieutenant Mercer. We're answering your transmission. Permission to approach?"