Hi everyone. While moving forward with the story, i thought of trying few things, like writing a short story of a side character every now and then. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.
________________________
Officer Andre Mitchell tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the radio crackled again. Another call about an attack. Another vague report about people "biting" others. At any other time, he would've chalked it up to drugs, meth, or the usual chaos that came with Friday nights in Georgia.
But it was barely past noon. And this was the third call today.
His phone buzzed on the console. A picture of his wife and daughter lit up the screen—Lena smiling, baby Camille in her arms.
He felt a familiar tug in his chest.
Just a few more hours. Finish the shift. Go home.
"Unit 12, be advised," dispatch said, voice tight with static. "Multiple victims reported in the parking lot behind Jackson Pharmacy. Caller says… says they witnessed people being eaten."
A long pause.
"…Repeat, victims being eaten."
Andre blinked hard.
"Dispatch, clarify that last—"
"Just get there, Mitchell."
He flipped on his lights and sped toward Jackson Pharmacy.
The moment he rolled into the lot, something in him locked up.
Bodies.
Five—no, seven—people sprawled across the cracked asphalt. Blood everywhere. Limbs bent wrong. And three figures crouched low over them, shoulders jerking with an ugly ripping motion.
At first, it didn't register.
Then he saw one of them lift its head—mouth smeared red, jaw working as if it were chewing.
His stomach churned.
Cannibals? What the hell…?
Mitchell stepped out of the cruiser, hand immediately going to his holster. He drew his pistol and leveled it toward the attackers.
" Police!" he barked, forcing strength into his voice. "Stand up and put your hands where I can see them!"
The three figures didn't react at first.
Then—slowly—one turned.
Andre's breath caught.
A man's face, or what was left of it—skin grey, eyes milky, lips torn. No recognition. No fear. Just a hollow hunger.
The others turned too.
And as one, they began stumbling toward him.
"STOP!" he yelled, taking a step back. "Stop right there, or I will open fire!"
They didn't stop.
His mind raced. Aiming at the torso of the closest, he fired.
BANG!
The first round punched into the lead figure's chest.
There was no reaction.
It just kept coming.
BANG. BANG.
Two more hits. Nothing.
"Jesus—"
He fired again, this time hitting the thing in the neck. It staggered… then kept walking.
Panic surged.
He aimed higher. Hands trembling, he fired at the head.
CRACK!
The skull snapped back, and the figure collapsed instantly.
The others followed after several more shots, all dropping only once he hit their heads.
When the echo faded, Andre stood alone in the bloody lot, chest heaving, gun shaking in his hands.
These weren't drugged attackers.
These weren't people.
No Answer
He backed toward the cruiser, eyes darting around, waiting for more of them to appear.
Inside, he grabbed the radio.
"Dispatch, this is Unit 12, respond."
Only static answered.
"Dispatch, come on—respond!"
Nothing.
He tried twice more, then slammed the radio back into its cradle.
A movement outside caught his eye.
Through the windshield, he saw the bodies he'd thought were victims begin to twitch. One rolled over. Another pushed a broken arm against the asphalt, trying to rise.
Andre's skin crawled.
"No, no, no. Oh, hell no…"
The corpses—bloodied, mauled, missing pieces—were standing up.
That was all he needed to see.
He threw the cruiser into reverse and tore out of the lot.
Checking different frequencies , he found the radio chatter had devolved into chaos—screams, partial reports, some officer yelling that people "weren't dying right," then silence.
He switched to the news. It was worse.
"…emergency rooms overwhelmed—"
"…advising citizens to avoid contact—"
"…bite victims—violent behavior—"
"…stay indoors—"
He grabbed his phone and dialed home.
Lena answered on the second ring, breathless.
"Andre? Baby, what's going on? People are running outside—there's smoke—"
"Listen to me," he said, harsher than he meant to. "Get inside, lock every door and window, and don't let anyone in. I'm coming home. Right now."
"What happened?"
"I'll explain when I get there. Just stay inside. Keep Camille with you."
"I love you," Lena whispered.
"I love you too."
He shoved the phone away, flooring the accelerator.
While he was making his way through a residential road when he saw two men waving him down—Shawn Greene and Chet. A sedan was smashed sideways across the street, blocking the way.
Chet yelled, "Officer! Road's blocked—we gotta move it before more of those things show up!"
Andre hesitated—his family was waiting. But he couldn't leave them stranded to die.
"Alright," he said, stepping out. "Let's move it fast."
As they approached the car, he spotted two more figures— a man and a small girl clutching his hand.
"Y'all alright?" Mitchell asked.
"We're alive," the man answered.
Shawn jogged up first, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Hey, Mitchell, they're with us," he said quickly, gesturing to Lee and Clementine. " He's Lee, the babysitter and she is Clementine."
Mitchell looked Lee over — blood on his shirt, shock in his eyes, the girl clinging to his hand.
"You bitten?" Mitchell asked sharply.
Lee shook his head. "No. Neither of us. We were… one of those things got into the house."
Shawn let out a shaky breath. "It's bad everywhere. We saw at least a dozen on the main road."
Mitchell nodded grimly, then glanced at Clementine. "You hurt, sweetheart?"
She shook her head silently.
"Good," he said, holstering his pistol. "Stay close to him."
Shawn motioned toward the blocked road. "Look, we've gotta move this car or we're trapped here."
Chet swallowed hard. "They're coming, man. I swear I saw them at the end of the street."
They didn't waste time. The three men heaved the vehicle enough to create a gap. Walkers spilled onto the street behind them.
"GO!" Andre shouted.
They piled into their vehicles. Mitchell cleared the way and escorting them down the road toward the Greene farm.
Once they arrived, Shawn thanked him.
Chet hurried towards his house, after saying his goodbye.
Andre stayed only a minute—just long enough to make sure they were safe.
"I gotta go," he told Shawn. "My family's out there."
" Alright. Take care, Andre ."Shawn replied.
He nodded once, jumped back into the cruiser, and sped away.
Driving toward his house, he thought of every call he'd received in the last 48 hours—fights, bites, people screaming about loved ones turning violent. All written off as caused by drugs.
He should've known something was wrong. He should've paid more attention.
He turned the radio back on, scanning for anything useful.
"…repeat, the designated relief center for all residents in surrounding areas is Cranwell High School. National Guard presence expected. Proceed there for evaluation and shelter…"
A relief center.
Thank god , someone knows what to do.
He pressed harder on the gas.
"Hang on, Lena… I'm getting you and Camille out of this."
·····
It had been weeks since the supplies transport's stopped coming, even with the supplies scavenged by the soldiers, it isn't enough to least for long.
Earlier, people had been gathering in the parking lot, angry, anxious and restless. Mitchell had been worried it would turn into a riot.
When all the shouting stopped, it looked like things might settle.
Then the gunfire started.
Sharp, rapid bursts echoed from the far end of the lot. He's first thought was the worst possible one—soldiers and officers firing on civilians. His stomach dropped.
But from what he heard, that wasn't the case, it was even worse.
Dozens of infected maybe more attracted by the noise, were heading straight for the school.
A cold, creeping terror gripped him.
···
When the gunfire in the parking lot finally died down, it erupted again—this time from different sides of the school. The infected were hitting multiple points.
Mitchell stood with another officer inside the main hall, trying to keep several civilians calm—his wife and baby among them. Both he and the other officer had their rifles ready, eyes fixed on the doors and windows.
A group of soldiers and police officers jogged towards them, weapons at the ready. One of them, a Ranger lieutenant, stopped just long enough to bark an order.
"Keep these people steady. If anything changes, you radio it in immediately. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Mitchell quickly replied.
The lieutenant nodded once and moved on with his group, their boots pounding down the corridor.
····················
The worst was over—at least for now.
Andrew rubbed a hand across his forehead as he stepped closer to the entrance leading into the main hallway. The acrid smell of gunpowder still clung to the air, mixing with sweat, fear, and the unmistakable sting of blood. The school was quieter now— the mass of living dead having left everyone shakend.
One of the Rangers approached him, helmet under one arm, rifle slung across his chest.
"Sir," the Ranger said, "how should we proceed next , all national guard soldiers along most of the police officers , have been positioned to ensure that there are no blind spots."
Andrew nodded, forcing his mind to stay organized despite the fatigue clawing at him.
"Alright," Andrew said, straightening slightly. "For now, everyone holds their positions. Tell the Guard and the officer's to stay put. No one moves until we've got a proper sentry and patrol schedule established to mentain constant watch over the perimeter."
Before the Ranger could answer, a burst of static crackled from Andrew's radio.
"Rooftop to command— we got contact, small group of walkers moving in from the south. Maybe five or six."
Andrew pressed the transmit button.
"Copy that. Maintain overwatch. Call out their direction and distance for the ground teams. Provide support if needed."
"Understood. We'll keep you updated."
Another voice cut in— different part of the rooftop.
"Two more drifting in, front of the building. Slow movers."
"Same protocol," Andrew replied. "Track them, report movement, provide support fire if needed."
The line clicked off. Andrew exhaled a slow breath. No matter how many they killed, more always found their way towards them. The perimeter would hold for now.
He turned back to the Ranger sergeant.
"Alright," Andrew said, adjusting the radio on his vest. "Keep coordinating with the Guard and police officers. I'll be back once I finish with Sergeant major Cross."
"Yes, sir," the Ranger replied, already moving to relay the orders.
Andrew turned and walked towards the door leading into the building .
Andrew stepped through the double doors and into the main hallway of the school. The echoes of frightened voices carried faintly off the walls—families whispering, children crying quietly, people clutching blankets or backpacks like lifelines.
He moved past them, offering brief nods of reassurance where he could, even if he didn't fully feel it himself. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting long, uneasy shadows.
He rounded a corner—then stopped as Sergeant Major Cross came striding toward him, boots heavy on the tiles.
They both stopped halfway, meeting in the middle of the hall. Cross looked worn but steady, his sleeves flecked with blood and dust.
"That was close out there," Cross said, voice low but firm.
"Too close," Andrew replied. "We need sentries and patrols established before it gets dark. Rotations, fixed posts, flood lights, everything. We can't afford to let our guard down."
Cross nodded once—but then his expression shifted slightly.
"Speaking of which," he said, "I heard about the guy with the bullet wound in his hand. The one screaming in the gymnasium. I was told he tried to shoot you. That true?"
He added, "he was one of the two who riled people up earlier."
Andrew exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Yeah," he said. "He pulled a pistol. One of the Rangers on the rooftop saw him reaching, but before he could aim it… the Ranger took the shot the moment the guy started lifting the weapon. Hit him in the hand clean."
Cross muttered a curse under his breath. "Idiot's lucky that Ranger had restraint."
Andrew nodded. "Lucky is one word for it."
" But why the hell would he want to shoot you, Lieutenant?"
Andrew kept his voice leveled.
"Because he's likely part of the hostile civilian group," he said. "We've been informed of them not long ago. They're openly hostile to any military presence."
He paused.
"We have flagged them as insurgents."
Cross blinked once, taken aback. His brows lifted, then drew into a deep frown.
"Insurgents?" he repeated.
The disbelief faded quickly into irritation.
"Lieutenant," he said, tone sharpening, "why wasn't I informed of this?"
Andrew mentained his expression unreadable.
"Because tension here was already high," he answered. "People were scared and confused. The last thing I wanted was the soldiers and the police hovering over civilians with their fingers on the trigger."
He kept his voice calm but firm.
"If word got out that there were insurgents among the civilians, it could've sparked something ugly."
Cross let out a slow breath through his nose, clearly not pleased—but not ready to argue the point either.
"I don't like being kept out of the loop," he said. "Not one damn bit."
Andrew nodded. "I understand that, Sergeant Major. But right now, we need stability more than anything."
Cross grunted, the irritation settling into reluctant acceptance.
"Fine," he said at last. "We'll deal with it later. Right now we focus on the job at hand and keep this place from tearing itself apart."
Andrew nodded once.
"Agreed."