As Andrew and Price finished settling on the route, footsteps crunched against gravel behind them.
Corporal Brady approached, carrying two fuel canisters. He set them down near the Humvee's front wheel.
"Here," Brady said. "For the bus."
Before Price could respond, Gunnery Sergeant Morales stepped forward from the road. "We'll handle the refuel," he said, already gesturing toward two of his Marines. "Get it done quick and quiet."
Price nodded once. "Make it fast."
Morales took one of the canisters while another Marine grabbed the second. A third moved to the bus, popping open the fuel cap and keeping watch as the others worked, rifles still slung but within easy reach. The smell of gasoline drifted faintly through the air, sharp and familiar.
Andrew turned back to Brady. "Your vehicles?"
"Fueled and ready," Brady replied without hesitation. "Both Humvees and the truck. We can roll whenever you give the word."
Andrew nodded, satisfied. "Fall in behind the convoy once we move."
"Yes sir."
Brady stepped away, his men already shifting positions, engines starting one by one.
Andrew let his gaze sweep over the people from the bus, civilians stretching stiff limbs, police officers and firefighters staying close together talking, Marines maintaining loose security while giving themselves a moment to breathe.
Price stepped up beside him. "Our numbers are growing."
Andrew nodded. "They are. We'll have to establish a new safe zone. The estate's already at capacity. The hospital isn't an option, and Fort Ironwood is our HQ and the staging area for operations, bringing more refugees there would be a security risk. We can't overload it."
Price considered that for a moment. "There are still open areas at the estate. Ground where we could set up tents. Temporary solution, would buy us time until we secure another zone."
Andrew pondered for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. We'll talk it through properly once we're back at HQ. For now, will have to do." He glanced toward the vehicles. "It's time to move."
Right on cue, Gunnery Sergeant Morales approached. "Bus is refueled, Captain, Lieutenant."
Price gave a short nod. "Good. Load the empty canisters into the Humvee and get your people ready to roll."
"Yes sir."
Morales signaled to his men, and together they carried the empty canisters away before heading back toward the bus.
Andrew turned and started walking toward his Humvee, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Alright everyone back in your vehicles. We're departing."
At Andrew's call, everyone moved with quiet efficiency.
Civilians filed back onto the bus in an orderly line, guided by the police officers and firefighters, parents keeping children close as they climbed aboard. The Marines followed last, weapons kept close.
Price climbed back into the driver's seat and pulled the doors shut with a hiss of compressed air. Up front, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost mounted the lead Humvee, settling in quickly and bringing the engine to life.
Inside the old commercial lot, the two National Guard Humvees and the transport truck rolled into position, engines rumbling as they prepared to join the convoy.
Andrew settled in his Humvee. The engine coming alive in unison with the others.
Moments later, the vehicles began to move.
As the convoy passed the open gate, Corporal Brady and his men pulled out behind them, slotting smoothly into formation.
The convoy rolled forward, engines low and steady, until the road opened into a cross street that fed into a narrow service road. Price slowed the bus at the junction, giving the lead Humvee time to clear the intersection and signal the turn.
Soap eased the Humvee left, tires crunching over broken pavement as it slipped onto the secondary road. The bus followed, wide and careful, with Andrew's humvee right behind them. The additional military vehicles fell in behind, their drivers spacing out to avoid bunching up.
The service road curved back on itself, skirting the edge of warehouses and fenced-off loading yards. Weeds pushed up through cracks in the asphalt, and rusted signage swung gently in the breeze. The route stayed quiet, no walkers close enough to react, no movement beyond the tree line.
After a short loop, the road merged back into the industrial boulevard.
The convoy straightened out and continued on, heading back toward Fayetteville, engines humming as the city slowly closed in around them once more.
As the convoy entered the city proper, they slowed slightly, engines echoing between storefronts and low-rise buildings. At a main intersection, the lead Humvee signaled and turned left, guiding the convoy onto a longer arterial road that cut deeper through Fayetteville.
The city was quieter.
Only a handful of walkers wandered the streets, isolated figures drifting out from alleys or standing motionless near abandoned cars. Some turned at the sound of engines, beginning their slow, uneven approach toward the road.
One of them stepped directly into the Humvee's path.
Small. Too small.
It staggered into the middle of the street, limbs jerking unnaturally, clothes hanging loose on a frame that had once belonged to a child. Its face was slack, frozen in a twisted echo of confusion and pain.
Soap stiffened behind the wheel.
For a split second, his foot hovered.
Then he pressed down on the accelerator.
The engine surged. The walker turned toward the noise, its ruined face lifting just as the Humvee struck it head-on. There was a dull impact, more vibration than resistance, as the body disappeared beneath the front bumper and passed under the tires.
The Humvee didn't slow.
Soap kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, hands locked on the wheel. No one said a word over the radio. The rest of the convoy followed through the intersection in silence, engines rolling over the empty asphalt.
In the passenger seat, Gaz looked away, jaw clenched, swallowing hard. His hand tightened briefly around his rifle before he forced it to relax.
"Bloody hell…" he muttered, barely audible.
Ghost said nothing.
His head dipped slightly, mask hiding whatever crossed his face, but his posture shifted, just a fraction, as if the weight of it had settled on him too. He kept his eyes forward after that, scanning the road with renewed intensity.
Soap exhaled through his nose, shoulders stiff. "Never gets easier," he said quietly.
"No," Gaz replied after a moment. "It doesn't."
Behind them, the street was still again, another shape left motionless on the road, another reminder of what this world had taken.
The convoy pressed on.
They cleared the last clustered streets of Fayetteville and continued north, the buildings thinning until the city fell away behind them.
The road narrowed into long stretches of two-lane highway bordered by dense woodland. Pine forests pressed close to the shoulders, broken occasionally by dirt access roads and rusted farm gates left standing open. Mailboxes leaned at odd angles along gravel driveways that disappeared into the trees.
Abandoned houses appeared sporadically—single-story homes set far back from the road, porches sagging, windows dark. Some had vehicles still parked in the yards. Others showed signs of hurried departure, doors ajar, belongings scattered near entryways, fences left unlatched.
Gas stations and small roadside businesses were few and far between. Those they passed sat quiet and stripped, pumps taped off, windows boarded or broken. Hand-painted signs warned of no fuel, no food, no help.
The farther they drove, the fewer signs of recent movement appeared. No stalled traffic. No crowds. Only the occasional walker drifting across an empty field or standing motionless near the tree line, unresponsive until the convoy passed.
Power lines ran parallel to the road, some sagging low, others snapped entirely.
As they drove on, the land flattened into long, quiet stretches of countryside.
King County lay ahead.
···
The land began to change again as they crossed into King County.
Road signs appeared more frequently now, some bent or half-hidden by vines, others still standing straight and intact. Familiar county markers slid past the convoy, paint faded but readable. The road narrowed slightly, tree cover thickening on both sides.
Then a hospital came into view.
It sat back from the road, partially obscured by trees, its white exterior scarred by fire. One wing was blackened, windows blown out, the roof collapsed inward in places. Smoke stains crawled up the walls. Whatever had happened there had happened violently.
The convoy rolled past without slowing.
Just beyond it, signs of a military presence emerged.
Tents, some lay collapsed and half-buried under debris other still intact, trucks left abandoned next to them. Crates were scattered across a cracked parking lot. A pair of Humvees sat abandoned near the treeline, doors open, equipment still strapped to their sides. Concrete barriers and sandbags forming a perimeter. And two helicopters, one with it's rotor blades broken and one that still looks intact.
A abandoned military camp.
Gunnery Sergeant Morales leaned forward from his seat in the bus, studying the site through the window. "Captain," he said, "we should consider stopping. There might be supplies worth salvaging."
Price glanced toward the camp, then reached for his radio. "Mercer," he said calmly, "Morales suggests a stop here. We got an abandoned camp up ahead. Possible salvage and resupply."
A brief pause followed.
"Agreed," Andrew replied. "We stop and check it."
"Copy," Price said.
The convoy began to slow as it approached the camp, engines idling lower, the road ahead quiet, with only a very small number of walkers wondering around.
The convoy rolled to a stop along the edge of the abandoned camp.
Engines idled low as movement began to stir beyond the edge of the camp.
From behind a thin stand of trees bordering the hospital, the first walker emerged, branches snapping softly as it dragged a shattered leg through the undergrowth. It lurched into the open, torso swaying, head tilted toward the sound of engines. Near the far end of the lot, something shifted beside an overturned sedan, then another walker pulled itself out from behind the wreck, one arm missing, jaw hanging loose as it staggered forward.
Closer to the tents, a shape rose slowly from the gravel.
The lower half of its body was gone, uniform torn and dark with old blood. It clawed its way forward using only its arms, fingers digging into the dirt as it followed the noise. More figures appeared in ones and twos, slipping out from behind supply crates, stepping around abandoned barriers, drawn from concealment.
Five. Maybe seven in total.
Gunnery Sergeant Morales was already moving, rifle coming up as he stepped toward the bus doors.
"Hold," Price said firmly.
Morales paused, turning.
"Rifles will only attract more," Price continued. "We don't need that."
He reached down and drew his combat knife, the blade catching the light briefly. "You and your men secure the perimeter. We'll handle this."
Morales gave a sharp nod and motioned his Marines back.
The bus doors opened.
Price stepped down first, calm and deliberate. From the lead Humvee, Soap, Gaz, and Ghost dismounted almost in unison, spreading out instinctively. Andrew exited his Humvee at the rear, moving to cover the opposite side of the lot.
They advanced without a word.
Soap closed the distance on the limping walker, sidestepping its grasp and driving his blade up beneath the jaw. The body collapsed immediately. Gaz took the next, hammering his knife down through the temple, then pushing the corpse away with his boot.
Ghost moved past them, silent and efficient. He knelt beside the crawler, planted a knee on its shoulder, and ended it with a single downward strike before it could reach out.
Andrew intercepted another that had wandered too close to the Humvee line. He grabbed it by the collar, turned it sharply, and drove his blade into the base of the skull, easing it down to the pavement rather than letting it fall.
The last two never made it close.
Price handled one himself, slipping inside its reach and planted his knife into the side of it's head. Soap finished the final walker moments later, stepping back as the body dropped.
The camp went still again.
Only thing that could be heard was the hum of idling engines and the rustle of fabric as they wiped blades clean and re-sheathed them.
Price turned back toward the bus. "Clear."
Morales nodded once from the bus and signaled his Marines forward to begin securing the camp.
With the immediate area cleared, the Marines moved in.
They fanned out across the abandoned camp with practiced efficiency, checking tents, overturned tables, and stacked pallets. Canvas flaps were pulled back. Zippers rasped open. Hands moved fast but controlled, cataloging what was still usable.
They found crates with olive-drab metal boxes stacked two high, stenciled markings faded but legible. Several ammunition cans. Others held medical supplies, ration packs, batteries, and loose gear that had been dropped where it stood when the camp was abandoned.
"Still good," one Marine called out, testing the seal on a crate before snapping it shut again.
Nearby, Corporal Brady and his men dismounted from their Humvees and truck, joining in without needing direction. Two took up a loose perimeter, rifles low but ready, while the others helped haul supplies into a central pile for sorting. The camp came alive again, briefly, with purposeful movement.
Andrew drifted away from it all.
He walked several paces toward the hospital, stopping near the rear of the building where the ground sloped slightly downward. Dozens of bodies lay there, arranged in rows, covered with stained white sheets that fluttered faintly in the breeze. Some had shifted, corners lifting just enough to hint at what lay beneath.
This was where they'd brought the dead when the generators failed.
Andrew stared at the building, eyes tracing scorched marks up one side where fire had eaten into the structure before burning itself out.
There weren't any walkers here in show, and without Rick's body anywhere nearby, he's either still in the hospital or he didn't passed through the camp when he left.
Price stepped up beside him without a word at first, following Andrew's gaze.
"You thinking of checking it?" Price asked quietly.
Andrew nodded once. "Yeah. Let's see if there's anything useful left inside ."
Price gave a short, thoughtful grunt and turned back toward the camp. He keyed his radio as he walked, voice low and steady, clipped British tones carrying easily over the hum of engines and distant movement.
"Morales," he said. "We're going to have a look inside the hospital. Small element only."
Morales looked up from where his Marines were sorting through recovered gear. He brought his radio up. "Copy that, Captain. You want us holding here?"
"Aye," Price replied. "Continue gathering supplies. Keep eyes out. If anything wanders in, keep it quiet. Don't fancy ringing the dinner bell."
There was no hesitation on the other end. "Copy that," Morales said. "We'll hold the perimeter. Be careful in there."
"Copy. Will do," Price answered, lowering the radio.
He glanced back toward Andrew, expression set. "We'll move quick," he said. "In and out. Check if there's anything left in there, we don't linger."
Andrew nodded once. "Let's see what the place still has to offer."
Minutes later, Andrew led the way toward the rear of the hospital, with Price close at his side. Ghost, Soap, and Gaz fanned out behind them in a loose file, spacing tight but flexible. Boots crunched softly over gravel as they passed between rows of bodies laid out in grim order, each one shrouded beneath stained white sheets that fluttered faintly in the breeze.
Soap glanced down at one of them as they passed. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. "Looks like things didn't go to well here."
No one answered him.
They reached the emergency exit stairs—a concrete stairwell bolted onto the back of the building, its metal door scarred and blackened around the edges. Andrew slowed, raised a fist, and the group halted. He reached for the handle and pulled carefully.
The door creaked open just enough to reveal darkness beyond.
"Lights," Andrew whispered.
Flashlights clicked on in near-unison, thin beams cutting into the stairwell's gloom. The air inside was stale, heavy with smoke and something older beneath it. They stepped through one by one, weapons up, and began climbing slowly, boots placed deliberately on each step to keep noise to a minimum.
As they ascended, a pale strip of light appeared above them—an open doorway further up the stairwell. Andrew slowed again, signaling. The team stacked instinctively, Ghost taking the near angle, Gaz covering high, Soap watching their rear.
They approached the doorway in silence.
Andrew leaned in first, then they flowed through together, muzzles tracking corners, sweeping left and right in practiced arcs. The hallway beyond was empty.
It stretched out ahead of them, dimly lit by daylight filtering through dusty windows along one wall. Papers littered the floor, some pinned beneath overturned carts.
They moved in a slow, practiced flow. Andrew in the lead, Ghost covering rear, Soap and Gaz offset, Price drifting just behind Andrew, eyes never still.
Rooms opened on either side, or what was left of them.
Beds lay overturned, frames twisted as if shoved aside in panic. Mattresses were ripped open, stuffing spilling across the floor like snow turned grey with grime. Bullet marks stitched the walls in tight clusters, some low, some wild and high, ending in dark splashes where rounds had found flesh instead of plaster. Dried pools of blood spread beneath doorways, smeared into long handprints that led nowhere.
Soap exhaled softly through his nose. "This doesn't look good."
"No, it doesn't," Gaz replied, nudging a spent casing with his boot.
The ceiling above them sagged in places, panels missing entirely. Through the gaps, charred beams and dangling wires told the rest of the story. Fire damage crept along the upper floors like rot, blackened and brittle.
Price glanced up, then back down the hall. "Someone tried to burn the place clean," he muttered. "Didn't finish the job."
They reached a set of double doors at the end of a wing. Both were blocked, wooden planks bolted across the handles, heavy chains looped through the push bars, a thick padlock hanging dead center. On the door was written with spray paint 'DON'T OPEN - DEAD INSIDE' The ceiling above them was worse here, partially collapsed, rubble piled against the walls.
Gaz frowned. "That's… comforting."
Before anyone could say anything else, something slammed into the doors from the other side.
The impact rattled the chains. Fingers shoved through the narrow gap between the doors, too many of them, scrabbling, nails broken, skin split and bleeding as they clawed for nothing. A low, wet moan bled through the wood.
Soap raised his weapon instinctively. "Whole lot of nope behind that."
Andrew studied the barricade for a beat.
Well , aren't those the ' DON'T DEAD - OPEN INSIDE' doors. Better leave them be, no reason to open them.
"Leave it," he said quietly. "They're contained."
Price nodded. "No need to introduce ourselves."
They backed away, re-forming their stack and moving on.
Further down the corridor, the beam of Soap's light caught movement.
A walker stood—or tried to—in the middle of the hallway. Its body was ruined, chest torn open, one arm hanging by sinew alone. It swayed toward them, jaw working uselessly, dragging one foot that barely held together.
Ghost didn't hesitate. He closed the distance in a blur, blade flashing once. The walker dropped without a sound.
"Quiet," Ghost said simply, wiping the blade on a nearby medical gown.
As they moved forward they paused at a doorway halfway down the corridor.
A single gurney sat near the wall, sheets neatly folded, wheels locked in place.
Soap eased the door open with the toe of his boot, rifle angled in as he leaned to one side. Ghost covered the opposite angle, Gaz watching the hall behind them. Andrew stepped in last.
The room was… untouched.
Cabinets were closed. No blood smeared across the tiles, no bullet holes pocking the walls.
Soap frowned. "This one didn't see the party."
Gaz let out a quiet breath. "Like time just stopped."
Price stepped in far enough to confirm it, eyes narrowing slightly. "Or there wasn't a reason for it to do so."
Andrew's gaze lingered on the gurney, then the door, then the corridor beyond.
Rick isn't here. Must have already left. He thought.
"Nothing useful," Ghost said, already backing out, voice flat through the mask.
Andrew nodded. "Alright. Clear. Let's keep moving."
Soap closed the door softly behind them, and they continued forward, only to find the next hallway completely blocked. A cave-in had collapsed ceiling and floor together, concrete and rebar fused into an impassable wall.
Soap shined his light into the rubble. "That's half the hospital gone."
Gaz checked another access point—same result. "Fire weakened the structure. Place folded in on itself."
Andrew took it in, jaw tight. "Anyone still inside would've had one way out. If they didn't take it…"
Price finished the thought. "They didn't make it."
They pushed on, clearing what little remained accessible, until the corridors opened up toward the front of the hospital. Daylight filtered in through cracked windows, illuminating empty desks, abandoned gurneys, and paperwork scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.
Nothing moved. No signs of life or anything else.
Gaz lowered his weapon slightly. "If anyone was here, they're long gone."
Andrew stood still for a moment, eyes scanning the silent space. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Looks that way."
Price gave one last look around, then turned back toward the way they'd come. "Right then," he said, voice low but firm. "Let's not push our luck. We've seen enough."
They regrouped and headed back, exiting the hospital through the main entrance, and walking around the building.
Turning another corner, the camp came back into view.
The parking lot was busy now.
One of the trucks sat with its rear open, crates being passed hand to hand. Police officers stacked boxes neatly inside, while firefighters and Marines worked the heavier loads with practiced efficiency. . Engines idled low, ready.
Gunnery Sergeant Morales stood near the truck, sleeves rolled up, helmet off, overseeing the operation with clipped gestures and short commands. He looked up as Andrew's group approached.
"Sir," Morales said, walking over. "Captain."
Price gave a nod. "Looks like you kept busy."
Morales allowed a brief, tight smile. "We did alright." He gestured back toward the vehicles. "Ammo crates, mostly standard issue. MREs, bottled water, medical kits. Found some spare comms gear and a few jerry cans that weren't bone dry."
Andrew glanced at the loading operation, taking it in. "Any surprises?"
"Nothing that tried to bite us," Morales replied. "Perimeter stayed quiet. Brady's people helped sweep the tree line and keep watch."
Price looked toward the road, then back at Morales. "How close to wrapped?"
"Ten minutes, maybe less," Morales said. "Once we secure the last crate, we're ready to roll."
Andrew nodded. "Good work. The hospital is mostly clear, nothing of interest."
Morales nodded. "Glad to hear it, sir."
Soap, Gaz, and Ghost lingered nearby, watching the edges of the lot, weapons relaxed but ready.
Price adjusted his grip on his rifle. "Alright," he said. "Finish it up. We don't want to be here any longer than necessary."
"Yes, Captain," Morales replied, already turning back to his Marines.
As he moved off, Andrew looked once more toward the hospital in the distance, its scorched walls silent and empty.
"Let's get moving," Andrew said as the convoy was almost ready.