Following the map, they left the highway at one of the next exits.
Concrete gave way to wide arterial roads lined with shuttered businesses. Fast-food chains sat gutted, drive-thru windows smashed inward. Gas stations had been ransacked down to the studs, shelves stripped bare, glass crunched beneath tires. Digital price signs stood dark and lifeless. Through shattered storefront windows, walkers wandered aimlessly inside, bumping into counters and walls like insects trapped in jars.
Cars lay scattered where people had abandoned them, half on curbs, doors left open, hazard lights long since dead. A white minivan rested on the median, angled as if its driver had meant to pull over for only a moment and never got back up. There were no bodies nearby, but dark red smears stained the hood and streaked along the doors, dried and flaking in the sun.
The road carried them deeper, past neighborhoods built for commuters, identical houses, identical mailboxes, streets designed to funnel people in and out every morning.
Some homes were sealed tight, windows boarded from the inside, curtains still drawn. Others stood wide open, front doors hanging crooked on broken hinges. Lawn furniture lay overturned. Children's bikes rusted where they had fallen, their bright paint dulled by dust.
Walkers appeared in ones and twos.
They drifted along sidewalks or stood motionless in the middle of the road, heads tilted as if listening for any noise. A woman walker in office attire wandered near a blood-soaked bus stop, one leg bended at an unnatural angle. Nearby, a body in a high-visibility vest lay unmoving on the ground, covered in blood.
They passed signs pointing toward EMERGENCY SHELTERS and EVACUATION CORRIDORS, arrows leading towards Atlanta.
Eventually, the road narrowed toward a checkpoint.
Concrete barriers blocked most of the roadway, leaving only a narrow gap wide enough for a single vehicle. Behind the barriers sat two military Humvees, abandoned where they'd last rolled to a stop. In front of the barricade, three civilian cars were jammed together at odd angles—one had backed hard into the passenger side of another, windows spider-webbed with cracks. The third had lost control entirely, its front end crushed against the concrete barrier.
Wandering between the vehicles were several walkers.
Some wore everyday clothes, torn and soaked in old blood, flesh hanging loose from exposed bone. Others wore uniforms. Reanimated soldiers and police officers staggered through the checkpoint, helmets askew, vests sagging under the weight of gear. Rifles lay scattered across the asphalt or dangled uselessly attached to vest's.
Beyond the checkpoint, civilian cars and police cruisers littered the road, doors flung open, trunks popped. One had rammed into a light pole at low speed, the windshield coated from the inside with dried blood.
An ambulance rested on its side in a shallow ditch, red paint scorched black along one flank. Its rear doors hung open.
Empty.
On the ground over two dozen of unmoving corpse laied with gun shots to their heads.
Further down the road, they could see a truck on its side, the long flatbed sprawled across both lanes as if it had simply lost the argument with momentum and gravity. The cab was crushed in on itself, windshield spider-webbed and opaque with grime, while the trailer had skidded sideways and jackknifed into a solid wall of steel. Cars were packed in behind it, nose to bumper, some still angled as though their drivers had tried to swerve at the last second or attempted to drive off the road. Doors hung open. Windshields were smeared dark and tacky, handprints dragged across glass and paint. Blood streaked the asphalt between tires, pooled beneath a sedan, and splashed across the side of a delivery van like someone had been thrown against it. Whatever panic had erupted here hadn't lasted long, but it had been close, violent, and final, sealing the road to the town beyond under a graveyard of stalled vehicles and dried red stains.
The two Humvees rolled to a stop at a distance that wouldn't immediately draw attention.
Andrew and Price exited the lead vehicle. Soap, Gaz, and Ghost stepped out of the second. They spread slightly, eyes constantly moving, weapons held low but ready as they surveyed the checkpoint and surrounding streets.
Price frowned. "Road's the most direct route."
"Alternate puts us backtracking at least two kilometers," Gaz added.
Soap squinted, counting. "Fifteen, maybe twenty walkers. We can handle that."
"The rest of the road's clear," Gaz said, nodding toward the far end of the checkpoint.
Ghost tilted his head, scanning rooftops and alleys before finally speaking. "Messy, but doable."
Andrew took a slow breath, sweeping the area one more time. Aside from the walkers clustered around the checkpoint, there was no movement nearby. Nothing closing in.
"We go through," he said finally.
Price nodded. "Suppressors. We'll try to keep this as quiet as possible."
The team climbed back into the Humvees and rolled forward at a crawl.
Getting closer they stopped several yards short of the checkpoint.
The engines idled just long enough to draw attention.
Heads turned. Walkers began to shuffle forward, drawn by the low rumble of the vehicles.
"Move," Price said quietly over the radio.
Doors opened in near-unison.
Andrew and Price moved to the front of the lead Humvee, using the hood for a more stable firing position. Soap and Gaz fanned out near the second vehicle, Ghost drifting slightly behind them, already lining up his first shot.
Suppressors coughed softly.
One walker dropped. Then another.
They worked methodically, each shot placed with calm precision. The walkers fell easily, a single rounds through the skull, bodies collapsing where they stood.
The walkers with the helmet still on their heads were another matter.
Rounds struck helmets with dull thunks, glancing off or knocking heads aside without properly penetrating them. A walker in full kit staggered forward, jaw hanging loose beneath his chinstrap.
"Helmets!" Soap hissed.
Andrew switched tactics instantly, closing distance. He drove his knife up under a soldier's chin, twisting hard. The body went limp as he shoved it aside.
Price brought his rifle up, firing into a walker's face, a point-blank shot right through the eye socket.
Ghost moved like a shadow, slipping between vehicles. When shots failed, he switched to his knifes, driving them into soft gaps beneath helmets or at the base of the skull. Gaz followed suit, with his own combat knife.
The sound never rose above suppressed gunfire and wet impacts.
Within minutes, the checkpoint fell silent.
Bodies littered the road.
They swept the area twice, confirming kills.
"Clear," Gaz finally said.
They checked the crashed vehicles next. Both engines were dead, radiators blown.
"Figures," Soap muttered.
Together they shoved the cars aside, muscles straining as metal scraped against concrete. It took time, effort, and more noise than they liked, but eventually they cleared just enough space for the Humvees to pass through.
As they walked back toward the vehicles, Andrew slowed.
Something caught his eye.
A brief flash—then gone.
He frowned, almost dismissing it as sunlight off glass. Then it flashed again. Short. Deliberate.
A pattern.
His expression hardened.
Andrew turned and moved quickly to Price. "You see that?"
"See what?"
Andrew pointed. "Glint. Intermittent. That's not random."
Ghost was already reaching into the second Humvee. He pulled out binoculars and raised them to his mask.
"Got it," Ghost said after a second. "Fire station, on the rooftop."
"How many?" Price asked.
"Several," Ghost replied."
Soap's eyes widened slightly. "Could be Wells' unit."
Price checked his radio. Static. Nothing.
Andrew scanned the area, then walked toward a nearby police cruiser. He leaned inside, checking the dashboard and radio controls.
"Maybe they're on the same frequency," Andrew said as he worked the radio.
Then the radio crackled to life.
A burst of static filled the cruiser, sharp enough to make Andrew flinch. He reached for the transmitter, fingers already closing around the mic when a voice pushed through the noise—strained and hurried. The static ebbed, fading into a clearer signal as the transmission stabilized.
"—can you her me?—" crackle "—repeat, can you hear me? Respond."
Price stepped up beside Andrew immediately, one hand resting on his rifle. Soap, Ghost, and Gaz spread out instinctively, weapons up, eyes scanning the nearby trees and alleyways as the sound carried across the quiet road.
Andrew lifted the mic. "This is Lieutenant Mercer, Army Rangers. Identify yourself."
A brief pause, then the voice returned, steadier now. "This is Gunnery Sergeant Morales, United States Marine Corps. We're holed up at Fire Station Seven, approximately two blocks east of your location."
Price leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Gunnery Sergeant, what's your status?"
"We were manning the checkpoint you've just cleared when everything collapsed," Morales replied. "Pulled back with remaining personnel and civilians. The fire station was the most defensible structure in the area. We've been stuck here since."
Andrew glanced toward the distant fire station, its red brick walls barely visible between buildings. "Who's 'we?"
"Thirty-three Marines total, myself included," Morales said after a second. "We've also got twelve police officers, six firefighters, and civilians—twenty-eight of them."
Andrew was surprised of the number of people, but mentained an even tone.
Price asked the next question without hesitation. "Supplies?"
A longer pause this time. Static crept back in around the edges of the transmission. "Low," Morales admitted. "Food's rationed down to scraps. Ammo's not great. Medical's worse. We've got a large concentration of infected surrounding the station, close to a hundred at least. They haven't breached yet, but they haven't dispersed."
Soap muttered under his breath, "That's a bad situation, if ever heard one."
Andrew lowered the mic slightly, turning to Price. "That's not something they can just wait out."
Price's jaw tightened. "Our mission's still Welles unit."
"I know," Andrew said. "But if those Marines fall, that's thirty-three trained soldiers gone. Plus police officers, fire fighters and civilians."
Gaz shifted his grip on his rifle. "If we leave them, they're dead. No question."
Soap nodded. "And with Welles unit's still out there, having them with us could help a lot."
Ghost stayed silent, gaze fixed on the fire station's roofline. "Helping them will cost time. Noise. Ammo."
Price considered that, eyes flicking between the street, the Humvees, and Andrew. "Morales," he said into the radio, "what's your defensive setup?"
Morales answered immediately, relief creeping into his voice. "Barricaded ground floor. Rooftop overwatch. Limited firing lanes. We're holding, but not for long."
Price exhaled slowly, then glanced at Andrew. "If we do this, we do it clean and fast, preferable in a way that will alow us to conserve ammunition."
Andrew nodded. " Agreed, we'll have to be less direct."
Price raised the mic again. "Morales, sit tight. We're discussing options."
"Roger that," the Marine replied. "And… appreciate you answering. We were starting to think that no one was left to help us."
The transmission clicked off afterwards.
Price looked at his team. "Alright. Opinions are on the table."
"This feels a bit like déjà vu," Andrew said quietly, eyes fixed on the fire station in the distance.
Price let out a short breath through his nose. "Fort Benning," he said. "Different place. Same mess."
Soap glanced toward the streets choked with shambling figures. "Only difference is, last time we had speakers to pull the dead off our backs."
"We don't need them," Ghost said flatly.
Soap turned toward him. "And what exactly does that mean?"
Ghost tilted his head slightly and nodded toward one of the abandoned police cruisers. Its trunk was still open, wires and equipment exposed. Mounted inside was a megaphone, .
Soap followed his gaze. "Alright," he admitted. "That helps."
Gaz folded his arms, scanning the area. "Still need something to keep the noise going. Can't just shout at them and hope for the best."
Andrew's attention drifted across the debris-strewn street. Then he stopped.
Near the curb, half-buried beneath trash and ash, lay something absurdly out of place—a brightly colored toy monkey clutching two metal cymbals. The plastic was scuffed, one ear missing, but the winding key on its back was unmistakable.
Andrew stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.
No way, he thought. That's the monkey.
He walked over and picked it up, turning it in his hands. The mechanism still felt intact.
"What've you got there?" Price asked.
Andrew held it up.
Soap raised an eyebrow. "Is that… a toy?"
Andrew nodded. "If it still works, it's a noise maker on a timer."
Gaz looked skeptical. "You really think that thing's gonna pull a horde?"
Andrew shrugged. "Walkers don't need much incentive. Just something loud and repetitive."
Ghost studied it for a second, then nodded. "Noise is noise."
Price considered it, then gave a slow nod. "That will do."
With a plan forming, they split into two teams.
Ghost, Soap, and Gaz would set the lure, placing the megaphone and the toy monkey far enough from the fire station to draw the bulk of the dead away. Andrew and Price would handle securing transport, whatever that might mean in a neighborhood this far gone.
Price looked at the fire station, then at Andrew, Soap, Gaz and Ghost. "Once the noise starts, we move fast. Any mistakes and the hoard will be all over us. Stay vigilant and watch your backs," after a pause Price added. " Let's move."
Andrew nodded. "Let's get these people out."
The monkey's cymbals clicked softly as Andrew tested the mechanism.
Still ticking.
···
Ghost led the way.
They slipped off the main road and into the narrow backstreets, moving single file through alleyways choked with trash and weeds pushing up through cracked asphalt. The city felt tighter back here, walls closer, shadows deeper. Every sound seemed louder: the scrape of a boot, the soft clink of gear, the distant moan of walkers echoing between buildings.
Soap kept his rifle shouldered, eyes constantly shifting from corners to darkened doorways. "Feels like the kind of place where something grabs your ankle and doesn't let go," he muttered.
"Then don't let it," Gaz replied quietly, stepping over a collapsed shopping cart without breaking stride.
They paused at a corner. Ghost raised a fist.
Three walkers drifted into view at the far end of the alley, slow and uncoordinated. Ghost angled his head, calculating distance. Soap didn't wait, he slowly approached them unsheathing his knife and drove it straight into the side of one of the walkers skull. Gaz followed his lead, taking down the second walker in a similar manner. The third staggered forward until Ghost closed the gap, driving his knife cleanly into the base of its skull. The body slid down the wall without a sound.
They moved again.
The route took them through side streets lined with dumpsters and boarded-up storefronts. A sedan blocked part of the road ahead—perfect.
"This'll do," Gaz whispered.
Ghost nodded once.
They worked quickly. Gaz took out the megaphone. Soap climbed onto the sedan's hood, scanning the streets while Ghost placed the monkey in the sedan on the backseat.
The toy felt wrong in Ghost's gloved hands—bright, childish. He twisted the key.
Click.
The internal timer began to tick, soft but steady.
Soap glanced down. "That thing better be loud."
"It will be," Gaz said, checking the megaphone's settings, and placing it next to the monkey. "Once it starts."
Ghost backed away slowly, eyes never leaving the toy. The ticking seemed louder now, echoing in the quiet street.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
They retreated into cover, slipping behind a brick wall just as the monkey's cymbals clashed together with a sharp, metallic clang. The megaphone roared to life a second later, feeding the noise back on itself—an awful, constant wail that cut through the city like a blade.
Groans answered immediately.
From every direction, walkers turned, heads snapping toward the sound. Shapes began to emerge from side streets and alleys, drawn in by the relentless noise.
Soap peeked around the corner. "Yeah," he said under his breath. "That's working."
Ghost brought his radio up. "Price," he said calmly, as if they weren't standing feet away from chaos. "Lure's active. You're clear to move."
A pause, then Price's voice came back. "Copy. Good work."
Ghost clicked the radio off and gave a short nod. "Time to disappear."
They melted back into the alleys.
···
Price and Andrew moved cautiously through the streets, advancing a block at a time, scanning storefronts, intersections, and abandoned vehicles for anything that could move a large number of people quickly. The silence felt fragile, ready to shatter at the slightest mistake.
They found a charter bus half a street over, parked crookedly on the side of the road. No walkers lingered nearby.
Price approached first, weapon up, checking under the chassis and through the windows before signaling Andrew forward. Together they climbed aboard. The interior was dusty but intact. Seats were torn, but the aisle was clear. Andrew checked the engine while Price tested the controls.
"It'll do," Price said after a moment.
They waited.
Then Ghost's voice came over the radio. "Price. Lure's active. You're clear to move"
Price grabbed his radio and replied.
"Copy, good work."
Almost immediately, the sharp clatter of metal cymbals echoed through the city, amplified by the megaphone into a relentless, piercing wail.
Andrew grabbed his radio, already tuned to the fire station's frequency. "Morales, get ready. We're coming in. You'll need to move fast."
"Copy that," Morales replied without hesitation.
When the sound of the horde pulled farther away, Price turned the ignition. The engine coughed once, then roared to life. He drove straight for the fire station, braking hard as he pulled up to the bay doors.
Andrew was out before the bus fully stopped.
He sprinted across the street just as the fire station doors swung wide. Marines spilled out first, weapons raised, sweeping the intersection with practiced efficiency. Andrew waved them forward.
"Move, now!" he told them. "We don't know how long the horde stays distracted."
The evacuation unfolded fast. Police officers and firefighters ushered civilians toward the bus, lifting children, steadying the elderly, keeping heads down. The Marines held the perimeter until the last civilians boarded, then followed in disciplined order.
Just before climbing aboard, a man stopped short, staring at Andrew.
"It's you," he said.
Beside him, a disheveled woman froze, clutching two children close. Recognition flickered across her face.
Andrew frowned, confused, until the man continued. "The supermarket. Your advice—avoiding crowds, watching for sick people. It saved us. We wanted to thank you—"
"Later," Andrew cut in firmly. "Now's not the time. Get on the bus."
The man nodded, understanding immediately. He ushered his family aboard.
Moments later, the last Marine climbed in. Andrew walked to the front, just behind Price.
As the monkey's clattering finally stopped, the city's silence shattered again, this time by guttural moans. The walkers turned their attention back towards the fire station, now agitated, drawn toward the bus. Some broke into uneven jogs. Others stumbled and fell over one another in their haste.
Price didn't wait any longer.
He drove fast through the streets, then off-road, bouncing over curbs and debris, avoiding the clogged road entirely. The bus thundered past abandoned cars, finally slowing as it reached the road where the Humvee waited.
Then they stopped, waiting for Ghost, Soap, and Gaz.
Moments later, an engine roared from the direction of the town.
A Humvee burst into view between abandoned cars. Soap was at the wheel, pushing it hard. Ghost sat in the passenger seat, rifle angled out the window, while Gaz was in the backseat.
Soap skidded to a stop beside the bus.
"We're clear—barely," he called out.
Andrew leaned toward Price. "We can't sit here. I'll take the Humvee."
Price nodded once, already reaching for the bus door controls. "Do it."
The doors hissed open.
Andrew stepped out, boots hitting pavement as he sprinted for the Humvee. Behind them, walkers began to spill into the street, pushing between the dead vehicles clogging the road, their groans rising as they locked onto fresh noise and movement.
Andrew vaulted into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut.
Soap pulled forward immediately, the Humvee taking point. Andrew followed, slotting into position behind the bus just as Price eased it into motion.
The convoy formed imidietly, Soap's Humvee in front, the bus in the center, Andrew's Humvee bringing up the rear.
They accelerated as one.
Walkers lurched after them, some stumbling into each other, others clawing uselessly at the empty air as the vehicles surged past. Andrew checked his mirrors, weapon resting across his lap, eyes tracking movement between the wrecked cars as the distance grew.
Within seconds, the road fell away behind them.
The town, and the dead were left shrinking in the mirrors as the convoy pushed forward, engines roaring, not slowing until the streets ahead finally opened up.