The camp settled into a steady rhythm as the last crates were lashed down and engines idled in readiness. The Marines moved with practiced efficiency, police officers and firefighters passing ammo cans and sealed boxes hand to hand before stepping clear.
Andrew headed back toward his Humvee, boots crunching softly on gravel. He slowed as he passed the bus, where Captain Price and Gunnery Sergeant Morales stood talking near the curb. Beyond them, one of the two the helicopters sat where it had been left, dusty but intact, rotors still, fuselage unmarred save for grime and sun-fade.
Andrew's eyes lingered on it. "You check the helicopter?" he asked Morales. "See if it's flyable?"
Morales nodded. "We did a once-over, sir. Aside from fuel being damn near empty, it looks clean. No obvious damage. Avionics are dead without power, but the frame's solid."
Price glanced at the helicopter, then away, already dismissing the thought. "Doesn't do us much good without a pilot," he said. "We'll have to leave it where it is. Maybe circle back if things line up later."
Andrew gave a small nod, accepting it. Resources were only useful if you could actually use them.
From up front, Soap's voice cut through the low rumble of engines, carried back from the lead Humvee. "Let's go—we're losin' light."
That settled it.
Andrew turned and continued on to his vehicle, climbing in as the convoy began to stir. One by one, engines rose from idle, tires rolled, and the line of vehicles pulled forward, leaving the hospital and the abandoned camp behind as they set their course onward.
The convoy rolled slowly along the quiet King County road, engines kept low as they threaded past rows of modest houses and abandoned cars. Sunlight filtered through trees that had begun to reclaim the sidewalks, leaves scattered across cracked asphalt.
···
A few blocks away, Duane hammered a loose plank into place at one of the front windows, then paused.
The sound reached him faintly at first—the sound of engines, multiple and at a steady rhythm. His head turned toward the noise before he even realized he'd stopped working. Curiosity tugged harder than caution ever could.
"Dad?" he called once, half-hearted, already backing away.
Morgan didn't hear him, busy blocking a window on the side of the house.
Duane slipped down the driveway and walked through the alley between two houses toward the street where the noise was coming from, keeping low the way his father had taught him. He ducked behind an abandoned sedan, crouching beside the rusted wheel well as the convoy came into view at the far end of the road.
Humvees, a bus, and a military truck.
His breath caught.
In the lead Humvee, Gaz's eyes were scanning ahead—methodical, practiced.
"Movement, eleven o'clock," Gaz said, calm but alert.
Ghost leaned forward a fraction. He didn't reach for his weapon. Just watched.
"Kid," Ghost said quietly. "Behind the car."
Soap glanced through the windshield, then keyed his radio.
"Price. Mercer. We've got a civilian. Looks like a child."
After a moment of crackling radio noise, a reply came through.
"Copy. We'll stop and investigate."
Soap replied immediately, "Copy."
The convoy began to slow, engines downshifting one by one. Tires rolled softer against the pavement as vehicles eased to a stop.
Duane froze, realizing too late he'd been seen.
Back at the house, Morgan walked to the front to check on Duane.
Duane wasn't there.
"Duane?" he called.
Panic hit fast.
Hearing vehicles nearby, Morgan grabbed his rifle from where it leaned against the wall and sprinted down the side of the house, boots slapping against concrete. He cut through the alley between two homes, breath hard, heart pounding.
He burst out onto the street—and stopped.
His son stood near an abandoned car, wide-eyed, soldiers close by.
Morgan lifted his weapon instinctively, the barrel rising as fear took over.
"Hey!" he shouted.
In the same instant, Gaz and Soap snapped their rifles up, muzzles trained on Morgan.
"Easy!" Soap called out, firm and commanding, accent sharp but measured. "Lower the weapon!"
"Sir, drop it!" Gaz echoed. "Now!"
Morgan hesitated, torn between instinct and reason, eyes darting from the soldiers to his son.
Andrew and Price approached from the direction of the bus, their pace steady. They didn't raise their weapons. The tension in the street was already thick enough.
Having a better look at the two Andrew recognized them imidietly.
That's Morgan and his son. He then looked at Duane. I'm glad that his son is still alive, Morgan is a good man, he doesn't deserves to go through that pain.
Closest to the abandoned sedan, Gaz and Soap held their rifles trained on Morgan, feet planted, muzzles steady but not twitchy. Duane stood frozen beside the car, eyes wide, breath shallow.
Andrew stepped forward, putting himself slightly ahead of Price and clearly into Morgan's line of sight.
"Easy," Andrew said, voice calm, even. "No one here wants to hurt you. Not you. Not your boy."
Morgan's grip tightened for half a second, fear still driving his hands. His eyes flicked to Duane, then back to the Soap and Gaz, then to Andrew.
Duane took a hesitant step away from the car.
"Dad…" he said quietly.
Glancing at his son Morgan's shoulders sagged as the adrenaline drained out of him. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the rifle until the barrel pointed at the pavement. After another beat, he let it hang by the sling at his side.
Duane crossed the last few steps and pressed in close to him.
Andrew nodded once. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate that."
Gaz and Soap eased their rifles down but didn't sling them, staying alert without crowding the moment. Price remained just behind Andrew, watchful, silent, letting the de-escalation stand on its own.
Morgan swallowed, then shook his head slightly. "I'm… I'm sorry," he said, breath unsteady. "When I couldn't find him, I—" He glanced down at Duane, one hand coming up to rest on the boy's shoulder. "We were reinforcing the windows. Thought it'd be safer if we stayed put. When he wasn't there, I panicked."
Andrew's expression softened, just a fraction. "That's understandable," he said. "Anyone would've reacted the same way."
The street fell quiet again, the convoy idling behind them, weapons lowered, with the situation having been defused.
Morgan drew a long breath in through his nose, then let it out slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders. His grip loosened on the rifle as his eyes drifted past Andrew, taking in the convoy for the first time with any real clarity.
Humvees. A military truck. And a bus.
Through the bus windows he could see faces pressed close to the glass, children, older men and women staring out.
He looked back to Andrew, voice quieter now.
"Where you all headed?"
"Atlanta," Andrew replied.
Morgan's head snapped up. "Atlanta?" There was a flicker of hope there, quickly tempered by caution. "We haven't heard a word out of there in over a month. Thought it was gone. Is it… safe?"
Andrew didn't soften the truth. "The original safe zones failed. A lot of people didn't make it." He paused, then continued, steady and honest. "But it's not over. We've got a secured zone established. We're trying to rebuild, set up more safe areas as we go."
"So the city's still dangerous," Morgan said.
"It is," Andrew agreed. "But we're containing it."
Morgan fell silent. He looked down at Duane, who had edged closer to his side without saying a word. Then his gaze shifted back to the bus, to the people inside.
He was still weighing it when Price's voice cut in, calm but firm.
"We'll need to get moving soon."
Duane looked up at his father, eyes searching.
Another second passed. Then Morgan turned back to Andrew.
"Could… could we come with you? Me and my son."
Andrew didn't hesitate. "You can."
Relief crossed Morgan's face. He nodded once. "Thank you. We'll grab a few things. Won't take long."
"Take what you can carry," Andrew said. "We'll come with you."
Morgan didn't waste time.
He turned and jogged back toward the house, Duane close at his side. Andrew followed immediately, weapon low but ready, while Gaz slipped behind him without a word.
Behind them, the convoy held its ground. Price, Ghost, and Soap spread out along the vehicles, Marines and National Guard soldiers forming a loose perimeter. Engines idled. Weapons stayed lowered, but every eye tracked the quiet streets.
The house was only a short distance away.
As they reached the house Andrew stopped Morgan, grabbing him by the arm and told him. "Essentials only. Food, water, clothes. Nothing else."
Morgan nodded, then hurried inside pushing the door open and ushered Duane inside, moving with purpose now, panic replaced by urgency.
He grabbed a backpack from beside the couch and began stuffing it with canned food, a flashlight, spare batteries. Duane mirrored him, smaller hands working fast, stuffing clothes into a worn school backpack.
As Morgan zipped the duffel closed, his eyes caught on something resting on the kitchen counter.
The radio.
The same one he was to use to contact Rick.
He picked it up, thumb brushing over the cracked casing. For just a second.
Then he shoved it into the bag and slung the strap over his shoulder.
Outside, a low moan drifted through the empty street.
Then another.
Andrew's head snapped toward the sound.
Walkers were drifting in from between the houses, drawn by the noise, slow and uncoordinated. One stumbled out from behind a fence. Another dragged itself from a neighboring yard.
"Time's up," Andrew said sharply. "We need to move."
Morgan grabbed Duane's hand, hauling him toward the door. They spilled out onto the driveway just as the moans grew louder.
Before they'd gone ten steps, Price's voice crackled over Andrew's radio.
"Mercer," Price said. "We've got movement converging. You need to move. Now."
Andrew brought the radio up as he jogged. "Copy. On our way."
Gaz was already moving, rifle up, eyes flicking from house to house. "This way," he said, voice calm, controlled.
They moved fast.
Gaz led them down the street, back through the alley. Morgan and Duane stayed tight behind him, Andrew bringing up the rear, weapon tracking the shadows.
Gunshots cracked in the distance—short, controlled bursts.
As they rounded the last corner, the convoy came into view.
Walkers were closing in from multiple directions, some already down on the asphalt, unmoving. Others still staggered forward, dropping as soldiers engaged them with quiet, precise fire.
Andrew waved them in. " Get into that Humvee," he said.
Morgan followed the directions, breath coming hard. As they crossed the road, his eyes caught on a body lying just off the pavement.
He stopped.
There, sprawled on the asphalt, was a woman in a nightdress. Hair matted. Skin dark gray. Face slack and lifeless.
His wife.
The world narrowed to that single point.
"Dad?" Duane whispered.
Andrew reacted instantly.
He grabbed Morgan by the shoulder and shoved him forward, hard but controlled. "Move!"
Duane stumbled, and Andrew all but lifted him, forcing both of them toward the Humvee. Morgan resisted for half a second, then the moment shattered under urgency and noise.
Andrew slammed the Humvee door shut behind them and climbed in after, breath tight in his chest.
Around them, engines roared to life.
As the last soldiers piled back into their vehicles, the convoy rolled forward, leaving the street, and the bodies behind.
Morgan sat rigid in the seat, staring back to where the body of his wife laid motionless on the asphalt, Duane pressed close at his side.
The convoy rolled out of the neighborhood and back onto the wider road, engines settling into a steady rhythm as the houses thinned behind them. King County slipped away in fragments—boarded windows, abandoned cars, the occasional shape wandering near a tree line.
Inside the Humvee, the air felt heavier than before.
Andrew kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel. After a few moments, he turned his head just enough to glance at Morgan in the passenger seat.
"It was your wife, wasn't it?" he asked quietly.
Morgan didn't answer.
His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the road ahead as it unspooled beneath the hood. Duane sat behind him, small hands gripping the straps of his backpack, silent.
Andrew let the silence stretch. He didn't push it.
After another minute, he spoke again. "Anyone else still back there?"
Morgan shook his head once, slow. Then, after a pause, he spoke, voice rough but controlled. "There was a cop."
Andrew glanced at him again. "What happened to him?"
"He left," Morgan said. "He's looking for his family. Said he was going to Atlanta. Maybe that's where he's gonna find them." His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "That was not long ago, just this morning."
Andrew nodded. " Who knows, maybe he'll find them."
Ahead of them, the convoy stretched out along the rural highway, moving as one, leaving King County behind as Georgia opened up into fields, tree lines, and long, empty roads.
The road bent gently and opened onto a wide forecourt choked with vehicles.
Andrew eased his gaze to the right as the convoy rolled past a gas station half-swallowed by abandonment. Cars sat nose-to-tail and at odd angles, doors hanging open, trunks yawning wide as if frozen mid-panic. Some had been dragged up onto the low hillside behind the station, where a scatter of collapsed tents clung to the slope—nylon torn, poles snapped, ropes trailing through weeds. A few tarps flapped lazily in the breeze, snapping against rusted shopping carts and overturned coolers.
The ground was littered with the remnants of hurried lives. Blankets, shoes without pairs, children's backpacks split open and spilling notebooks bleached pale by the sun. A teddy bear lay facedown in a patch of gravel near a pump, one arm torn loose. Empty water bottles crunched under the convoy's tires.
Inside two of the cars, bodies slumped motionless against steering wheels, long past any struggle. Windows were clouded, interiors dark. Flies lifted in brief, lazy clouds as the vehicles passed.
Andrew felt the recognition settle in his chest.
The gas station.
This is the gas station from the first episode of the season one.
The convoy didn't slow. Engines stayed steady, disciplined. No one broke formation.
As they passed, the station slipped behind them, swallowed again by trees and distance, left exactly as it was.
The convoy rolled on beneath a sky washed pale by late afternoon, the road narrowing as it bent toward the outskirts of Atlanta. Weeds pushed through cracks in the asphalt, and the remains of abandoned traffic thinned to scattered hulks along the shoulder.
Ahead, a police cruiser sat half on the gravel, half on the road.
The driver's door hung open.
Andrew glanced at it.
Morgan leaned forward in his seat, breath catching. Duane did the same, pressing closer to the windshield.
"That's it," Morgan said quietly. "That's his car."
Duane nodded. "That's the one Rick had."
Andrew glanced at them, then back to the road. "No blood," he said after a moment. "No body either. Means he left it. Is possible that he ran out of gas."
Morgan swallowed, eyes fixed on the cruiser as it slipped behind them. "So… he could still be alive."
"There's no proof he isn't," Andrew replied.
They drove on in silence for a short while after that, the hum of engines filling the space where words might've gone.
As the skyline ahead began to thicken, distant shapes of overpasses, skeletal towers, and smoke-darkened concrete. Andrew reached for his radio.
"Price," he said, switching to the command frequency. "Once we're clear of this stretch, I'm contacting Fort Ironwood. Inform them of ETA and updated headcount."
A beat of static, then Price's voice came back calm and even. "Roger that. I'll keep the convoy tight."
Andrew toggled frequencies, the radio crackling as it locked onto the familiar channel.
"Ironwood Actual, this is Ranger Actual, Lieutenant Mercer," he said. "We're closing in on Atlanta, approximately thirty minutes out."
The response came almost immediately. "Ranger Actual, Ironwood Actual copies. Go ahead."
"Mission objective updated," Andrew continued. "In addition to original tasking, we recovered a contingent of U.S. Marines, multiple law enforcement officers, firefighters, and civilian survivors."
There was a brief pause on the line.
"Copy all," the operator replied. "Be advised, Lieutenant Mercer—Major Griggs has requested your presence upon arrival. Immediate debrief."
Andrew wandered what might be about. "Understood. Ranger Actual out."
He switched back to the convoy frequency. "Price," he said, "Griggs wants us as soon as we roll in."
Price answered without hesitation. "Figures," he said dryly. "We'll hand everyone over, then go see what fresh hell he's cooked up."
Andrew allowed himself a thin, humorless smile as the road carried them forward.