Price gave a short gesture with two fingers toward the convoy behind them.
"Dismount and hold position," he ordered.
Doors opened in unison. Soldiers in fatigues and helmets climbed down from the transport truck, followed by police officers clad in riot gear — black visors down, shields resting against their shoulders. The group formed up beside their vehicles, disciplined but tense, their boots crunching softly on the cracked asphalt.
"Stay sharp," Price called out. "Maintain formation and await further orders."
The soldiers acknowledged with short nods, fanning out to cover the road and the gate. The air hummed with the faint rattle of gear and the low idle of engines cooling under the sun.
Price motioned to Gaz, Soap, and Ghost, then started toward the scout team waiting by their Humvee. The scout leader straightened as they approached. His uniform was streaked with dust and mud — a clear sign they'd been out here a while.
"Captain," the scout leader said, snapping a quick salute.
"At ease," Price replied. "What've you got?"
The scout leader exhaled, rubbing a gloved hand over his jaw before beginning his report. "Sir, the community's still structurally sound. We counted forty-one houses total — all walls are intact, fences unbroken. Gates are functional, though the hinges are starting to rust."
Price nodded, his eyes scanning past the man to the quiet rows of homes beyond. "And the interior?"
The scout leader expression shifted — his voice dropping lower. "That's where it gets ugly, sir." He glanced back at his men, then continued. "We didn't find anyone alive. Checked every house, every room. All of them… infested."
Soap frowned. "How bad we talking?"
"Each property's got at least a few of them inside," the scout replied. "Some rooms are packed. In several houses, there are signs of struggle. No barricades, and it doesn't look like the walkers came from outside. Whatever happened here… it started from the inside."
Gaz looked past the convoy, at the row of houses, catching sight of one of the lifeless shapes lying farther down the road — a walker with its skull caved in, dressed in what might once have been a sweater.
"Bloody hell," Gaz muttered. "They thought they'd be safe here… without any real protection."
Price's jaw tightened. "Walls don't mean a damn thing if death's already inside."
He turned back to the scout leader. "You're certain you checked the entire estate?"
The scout leader nodded. "Yes, sir. We did. No movement outside — all walkers are located inside the houses."
Price gave a brief nod, eyes narrowing as he took in the eerie calm of Wiltshire Estates — the empty lawns, the still air carrying a faint scent of rot.
"Alright," he said finally. "You and your men take a breather. We'll take it from here."
The scout leader stepped aside, visibly relieved to hand the responsibility over.
Price turned to his team, voice steady but low. "We'll sweep the first few houses. Confirm what we're dealing with before we start clearing in full."
Soap adjusted his grip on his rifle. "Aye, Cap. Guess we're going house-hunting."
"Keep your jokes for later, Sergeant," Price said flatly, eyes already on the nearest row of pristine, silent homes. "Let's move."
Price stepped back from the scout team , his eyes sweeping over the assembled personnel. "Alright. Here's how we're doing this."
The soldiers and police officers leaned in, listening.
"Five entry teams," Price continued. "Each team is formed of four, two police officers upfront—shields up, steady lines. Soldiers follow directly behind. If walkers come at you, the officers pin them, the soldiers finish them with melee. Firearms are your last resort. We're clearing the houses silently, we don't want to draw half the county to us."
The officers exchanged quick looks, adjusting grips on their heavy polycarbonate shields. Behind them, the soldiers checked combat knifes, hatchets, machetes and sidearms, mentally preparing for close-quarters fighting they'd rather not think too hard about.
Price lifted two fingers. "Ten Rangers remain outside as support. If any team calls for backup, they move in. Fast."
One of the Rangers gave a curt nod. "We'll hold the street, Captain."
Price looked at each team in turn. "We go slow. We go methodical. First sign of a compromised position, you pull out and regroup. No heroics."
He paused, then added, "Before you enter any room, you try to draw the walkers out first. Use sound — knocks on walls, taps on doorframes, anything that'll pull them into the open. You don't walk blind into tight corners. Make them come to you."
A murmur of acknowledgment moved through the teams.
Orders rippled down the lines as team leaders relayed the plan. Shields locked into position. Soldiers ran last-second checks on their gear. The eerie quiet of Wiltshire Estates made every sound feel too loud, too sharp.
"Teams 1 through 5," Price called out, "take the first row. Start with the houses closest to the gate. Report clear before moving to the next."
One by one, the teams broke off — each pairing stepping toward a different front door, boots crunching on scattered leaves and debris. The well-kept neighborhood now looked like a stage set before the curtain rose on something unpleasant, the peaceful moments before the storm hits.
Price turned to his own team — Soap, Ghost, and Gaz already watching the nearest house on the right.
Gaz strapped the rifle to his vest, his combat knife taking it's place. "Ready when you are, Cap."
Soap rolled his shoulders, voice low. "Let's hope this place isn't as full as the scout made it sound."
Ghost simply checked his knife and nodded once.
Price chambered a round in his suppressed rifle, though he hoped he wouldn't need it. "House on the right. Let's make this quick and quiet."
The four of them moved toward the walkway leading to the nearest home — an untouched two-story house with neat shutters and a porch swing that creaked eerily in the wind.
Price reached the front steps and signaled a halt.
"Stack up," he ordered quietly.
Ghost moved to the door first, Soap just behind him, Gaz covering the rear. Price gave one last glance toward the other teams as they split off toward their assigned houses — five groups peeling away, each stacking at a different front porch.
Price's own team pushed through the doorway, combat knifes at the ready, steps controlled and quiet.
Inside, the house was unnervingly still.
They cleared the hallway first, then swept into the living room — sofas perfectly arranged, the TV dead , positioned in front of them. No movement.
"Clear," Soap murmured.
They moved into the kitchen next. Dishes still sat in the sink, a pot half-filled with something long-rotten on the stove.
"Someone left in a hurry," Gaz muttered under his breath.
"Or never got the chance," Price replied.
Parts of the ground floor were windowless, swallowed in shadow. Flashlights clicked on, beams cutting through the dust-hung air. They checked closets, corners, under the stairwell. Nothing.
"Ground floor clear," Price said. "Up we go."
They climbed the stairs slowly, every step measured. At the top landing, Price motioned to the nearest bedroom door and tapped twice on the wall beside it — the practiced knock meant to lure anything hiding inside.
A wet shuffle answered the sound.
A figure emerged from the dark — a young woman, or what was left of her. Her clothes were soaked in dried brown blood, and one of her hands was mangled, a large chunk torn away. A strip of makeshift bandaging clung to her forearm, useless and nearly black with dried blood.
Soap exhaled softly. "Poor lass…"
Gaz frowned. "Tried to patch herself up. Didn't work."
Ghost said nothing — only stepped forward.
The walker lurched toward them, jaw slack, fingers twitching.
Before it could release so much as a groan, Ghost struck — a precise, brutal blow to the temple with the combat knife. The corpse crumpled silently.
Price nodded once. "Good."
They continued sweeping the upper floor. Room by room. Another knock. Another pause. Silence every time.
No more walkers.
As they headed back toward the stairs, they passed the bathroom — the door hanging half open. Inside, blood was smeared across the sink and floor in desperate strokes. A medkit lay overturned near the tub, its contents spilled everywhere: torn gauze, broken vials, a pair of scissors bent out of shape.
Soap grimaced. "Looks like she desperately tried to save herself."
"Still for nothing," Gaz added quietly.
Price gave the room one last assessing look. "Move on."
They descended to the ground floor again, then down another set of steps into the basement. The air grew colder, the smell thicker. Their flashlights illuminated shelves of canned goods, a dropped laundry basket, and—
Movement.
Two walkers staggered out from behind a support beam. One was missing half its cheek; the other had a sizable bite taken from its shoulder. They growled quietly, stumbling into the light.
Before they could get close, Price's team dispatched them quickly — controlled, efficient strikes.
They swept the rest of the basement: storage room, utility corner, furnace area. Empty.
"Basement clear," Price said, exhaling.
Ghost lighted some shelves with his flashlight and said. "Nothing left but dust."
"Then we're done here," Price said. "Out."
They climbed back up into the daylight and stepped out onto the front lawn once more — one house down, dozens more to go.
···········
The forest lay thick and damp, the light barely managing to slip through the canopy.
Fifteen silhouettes crouched low among the ferns and brush, their shapes merging with the shadows. Binocular lenses glinted faintly as they watched the gated community, the soldiers moving methodically between the houses.
"They actually came," a middle-aged man whispered, lowering his binoculars. "All the way out here… for that place."
"Why?" another muttered. "Ain't nothing left in those houses but rot."
A wiry woman with a frayed bandana snorted. "Doesn't matter why. What matters is they're inside. If we can close the gates and stirr up the dead — they'll get swarmed. Overwhelmed."
Someone else, crouched beside her, nodded slowly. "And while they're busy, we take their vehicles. Those trucks , and the two vehicles with machine gun's, would help us a lot."
A few of the silhouettes murmured agreement.
But one of them — a young man barely into his twenties, with dirt smudged across his cheek and worry written deep into his expression — shifted uneasily.
"I… I don't know if that's a good idea," he said quietly. "We shouldn't be doing this. It's not helping anything. If we continue doing this, it just gets worse for all of us."
The woman with the hunting rifle snapped her head toward him, eyes flaring with anger.
"Not this again," she hissed.
Before he could retreat, she slammed the butt of her rifle into the side of his head. The young man dropped to one knee, dazed, blinking hard as the trees spun around him.
"I'm done listening to you whine," she growled, drawing a knife from her belt. "Don't care if you're the only one your sister's got left — i'm done it with you."
She raised the blade toward his temple.
The young man barely managed to lift a hand; his vision swam, his limbs useless.
But the knife never reached him.
A large hand clamped around the woman's wrist, halting the strike mid-air. The owner of the hand stepped forward — a broad, heavy-set man with a deep scar cutting across the right side of his face.
"That's enough," he rumbled.
The woman glared at him, but even she didn't try to pull free. "He's a liability."
"He's breathing," the scarred man replied. "And we don't kill our own."
"For now," someone muttered.
The scarred man ignored it. He hauled the young man to his feet with one rough tug.
"Get back to camp," he ordered, voice low but sharp. "Now."
The young man staggered away through the brush, holding his head, never looking back.
Behind him, the small group shifted, resentment still simmering.
The scarred man watched the soldiers in the distance for a moment longer — their organized movements, their weapons, their vehicles gleaming in the pale forest light.
When he finally spoke again, his tone was much darker.
"If we're doing this… we do it smart," he said. "No mistakes. No noise until I say so."
And the silhouettes returned to watching, waiting, planning — hidden just beyond the trees as the soldiers worked unaware.