Looking down the hallway, Andrew assessed the situation with practiced calm. The corridor was too open—they wouldn't be able to advance without being seen. The four guards, stood casually outside the VIP room door. Their postures were relaxed, their weapons holstered or dangling at their sides.
Their guard was down.
Andrew's eyes narrowed. The screaming and harsh laughter from inside masked any sound from the hallway. The heavy bass of some distorted music leaked through the thick door, covering any subtle movement. This was their opening. A brief window.
He gestured with quick hand signals that he and Mason would take care of them .With everyone else prepared to intervene if needed .
They'd have one shot at this. No hesitation.
Andrew whispered, barely audible:
"Fast and quiet."
A round of silent nods answered him.
Then—he moved.
Boots silent on the carpet, the squad surged forward like a wave. The moment the guards spotted motion, confusion flared in their eyes—but it was already too late. A suppressed burst from Andrew's MP5 took one in the chest .The other three barely had time to draw their pistols before Andrew and Mason dropped them with short, suppressed, efficient shots.
The whole thing lasted seconds. No alarms. No shouts.
The bodies slumped quietly to the floor.
Andrew raised a fist, signaling a brief halt.
To ensure that they won't turn , he put a bullet through the head of each one .
He then turned to Whitaker.
"You, Tanner, and Diego—hold this position. Guard the hallway. Once the shooting starts, the rest of the raiders will come running."
The three of them nodded silently, understanding what they have to do.
With that, Andrew turned his attention back to the door.
He crouched next to it—its frame pulsing faintly with music and chaos on the other side. The smell of sweat, blood, and alcohol drifted through the small gaps. Muffled cries continued, mixing with the harsh jeering of the men inside.
This was it.
The squad took positions, weapons raised. Andrew glanced at the others, his expression cold, focused.
"On my mark," he mouthed.
Keeping his MP5 trained on the door with one hand, Andrew reached for the handle with the other. A quiet breath steadied him.
Then—he pushed.
The door swung inward without resistance, revealing a dimly lit VIP suite—luxurious, but desecrated by the violence within. At the center of the room, slouched in a plush armchair, sat the raider leader. His shirt was torn, a blood-stained bandage wrapped clumsily around his side. His face was twisted into a scowl, frustration simmering in his eyes.
Next to him stood the woman from the car—now cleaned up, hair pinned back, her elegant posture marred by a cruel, delighted smile. She looked down at the suffering before her like a queen over a pit fight.
On the floor in front of them, two men in police uniforms. One lay dead—eyes open, a single bullet wound between them. His legs still bound, but the ropes at his wrists had been snapped . Beside him, the other officer knelt, arms and legs tied behind his back, shoulders trembling as he watched—helpless.
Near a cluster of sofas, the scene grew darker. Several raiders surrounded two women—a mother and her teenage daughter—who were trying to resist the sick hands of the men forcing themselves on them . Another woman, broken and barely conscious, lay nearby—her blouse torn Her husband dead on the floor.
Laughter, cruel and mocking, bounced off the walls. No one noticed the door opening. Not yet.
Andrew's jaw clenched. His finger brushed the trigger.
Moments later, the door burst open, slamming against the wall as Andrew and the soldiers swept into the room with grim precision, weapons raised , fanning out . The sight before them twisted their expressions with disgust and fury.
The leader, seated in the armchair , flinched in surprise. His face contorted with rage as he lunged for his sidearm — but he never got the chance. Andrew's MP5 barked once, the suppressed shot punching clean through his skull. His head snapped back, and he collapsed sideways in the chair, lifeless. The smug grin from the woman vanished , her expression freezing in stunned disbelief and fear.
Then all hell broke loose.
The four raiders, caught off guard and half-naked, scrambled in a frenzy, knocking over furniture as they reached for scattered weapons. But the terrified women were too close for the soldiers to fire on the raiders . The soldiers held their fire not wanting to risk hiting them .
"Close combat!" Andrew barked.
Ramirez and Caleb surged forward, driving the butts of their rifles into the nearest raiders. One strike caught a man square in the jaw with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling. Another raider blocked a blow with his forearm and tackled Dawson into a low table, both crashing down hard. Mason struck low, slamming a rifle into a raider's ribs, only to get shoved back as the man clawed for a pistol on the floor.
Amid the chaos, the terrified women's hid behind the sofas, the other diving to the far end of the room.
With a clear line of fire, the rifles opened up. Three short, controlled bursts echoed like hammers . One raider went down mid-lunge, another tried to run and was cut down by a double-tap to the back. Mason wrestled the fourth to the floor, pinning his arm just as Caleb fired point-blank into the man's head .
The room fell into silence, broken only by the panicked breathing of survivors and the music that was still playing. Blood pooled around the fallen. Andrew lowered his weapon and walked to the stereo system, turning it off , scanning the room, he nodded once .
" Put a bullet in their heads to make sure they don't turn," Andrew ordered coldly. "Then secure the hostages."
Immediately, the soldiers moved in, drawing sidearms and placing clean, controlled shots into the skulls of each downed raider — ensuring none would rise again.
Andrew crouched down and released the officer from his bindings, then turned his attention to the woman who had been beside the raider leader. She had already started speaking, her voice trembling, hands half-raised. "I didn't want any of this… they forced me, I was just—"
She was cut off mid-sentence when a heavy glass whiskey decanter , slammed into the side of her head with a dull, sickening crack. She dropped to the floor instantly.
It was the wife of the dead police officer who had struck her — face pale, but eyes burning with rage. Without a word, she stepped forward and brought the decanter down again and again, each impact thudding wetly, until the woman on the ground stopped moving completely. The improvised weapon shattered in her hand, slick with blood.
No one stopped her. No one said a word.
Tears streamed down the woman's face, her breathing ragged as she stood over the bloodied corpse.
"She was lying… that bitch was with them," she sobbed, voice shaking but filled with fury. "She watched. Smiling. Like it was a show for her. Every time we cried, she just looked pleased — she enjoyed seeing us suffer."
There was a wildness in her eyes — the kind born from long suffering finally breaking loose. The woman on the floor maybe she didn't directly participated.But it's clear that she enjoyed seeing the suffering and the despair .
Andrew stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "I understand. Believe me, I do. But it's over now . Put the decanter down. It's going to be okay."
Before she could say anything else, a sudden burst of automatic gunfire erupted in the hallway.
...
Footsteps thundered up the stairs as the remaining seven raiders, drawn by the distant sounds of gunfire, rushed toward the VIP hallway. They weren't coordinated — just a mix of angry shouts and hurried movements, driven by adrenaline and panic.
The first raider turned the corner at a sprint — and was met instantly with a sharp burst of gunfire from Whitaker's M4. He crumpled before he could even raise his gun . The others hesitated, now facing trained soldiers under the cover of a service trolley, a marble column, and an overturned cleaning cart.
Tanner let off short, disciplined bursts, bullets sparking off the hallway's polished tile as another raider dropped with a cry. Diego held the flank, laying down suppressive fire that pinned the others near the corner.
The raiders fired back wildly — barely aiming, rounds chewing into walls and doorframes — but it was clear they were outmatched. Within seconds, two more fell, leaving only three .
Pinned and panicked, the last of the raiders exchanged hurried glances. One screamed, "Screw this!" and bolted, the others quickly following, retreating back down the stairs in a mad scramble. The hallway fell silent again — smoke drifting in the air, shell casings scattered across the floor.
Andrew moved into the hallway, hugging the wall as he advanced with his weapon raised, eyes sharp and scanning for any movement. Behind him followed Mason, Kyle, and Caleb, each mirroring his caution, boots silent on the polished floor. Ramirez and Dawson remained in the VIP room, staying with the rescued hostages, working to calm their panic and check for injuries.
As Andrew reached Whitaker, she stepped away from her cover and quickly reported, "Three of them broke off during the fight. They ran."
Without hesitation, Andrew nodded. "Pursue. Don't let them escape."
He immediately assigned Kyle, Mason, and Caleb to join Whitaker's team. The group moved quickly, weapons up, checking corners with practiced efficiency as they pushed through the corridor and descended to the ground floor. The distant echo of running footsteps urged them on.
When they reached the front lobby, they saw headlights flare to life through the shattered glass doors. The three fleeing raiders had already jumped into a car parked just outside. The engine roared as the vehicle sped toward the wide-open resort gates.
Without wasting a moment, the soldiers opened fire, controlled bursts lighting the night. Bullets struck the rear and sides of the car, spider-webbing the back window and punching through metal.
The raiders ducked low, trying to avoid the incoming fire. But a single round found its mark—shattering the driver's side window and striking the man behind the wheel squarely in the head. His body slumped instantly, and the vehicle jerked violently to the side just as it passed through the open resort gates.
With no one steering, the car veered off the road, bounced over the uneven shoulder, and slammed through a cluster of thin trees at the forest's edge. Branches snapped under the weight, and the vehicle disappeared into the brush with a loud crack, followed by a muffled metallic thud and the whine of a revving engine choking out.
The soldiers stepped forward , ready to check the wreck —but froze when movement stirred between the trees.
From the shadows of the forest, several figures staggered into view—walkers, drawn by the noise of the gunfire and the crash. Pale faces twisted with hunger, arms raised, they shambled toward the open gates.
"Fall back!" Whitaker called out, weapon raised.
"Close the gates—now!" she ordered sharply.
Together, the soldiers backed up, eyes still on the treeline as they pushed the heavy wrought-iron gates shut with a metallic clang. A sliding bolt was dropped into place, locking the gates just as the first walker reached the boundary, pressing its rotting hands through the bars.
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Hi everyone. Thank you for reading my fanfic.
For the The walking dead side of the story i intend on making a mix of comic and show , and from Call of Duty , aside from character's , i'm thinking about maybe integrating few things from CoD zombies . If you have an idea or suggestion, please leave a comment.