After a tense few seconds of static, a voice crackled back over the radio.
"Copy that. Hold on a moment."
Through the armored glass, Andrew watched one of the soldiers at the gate press a hand to the radio clipped to his vest, speaking quickly into it while his partner kept his rifle trained on the JLTVs. The exchange was short. Then the first soldier nodded to the gunner on the sandbag post, who lowered the barrel of his weapon.
Andrew could see the tension ease across their posture. A small wave from the gate guard signaled them forward.
The JLTVs rolled past the gate, the heavy chain-link squealing as it swung shut behind them. The vehicles came to a halt near a cluster of tents and supply crates marked with half faded military insignia.
Andrew stepped out, dust rising around his boots as he scanned the area. Rangers dismounted, weapons low but ready, eyes sharp. They didn't have to wait long before a man approached from between two parked Humvees — tall, lean, his fatigues stained and sun-bleached, rifle slung loose over one shoulder. His face was marked by exhaustion.
"Lieutenant Andrew Mercer?" he asked, voice steady, with the calm weight of someone used to shouting orders over gunfire.
"That's right," Andrew replied, extending a hand. "You must be Sergeant Doyle."
Doyle took it, grip firm, then offered a thin, tired grin. "Welcome to the Big Spot, Lieutenant. Sorry about the jumpy welcome at the gate. The boys've been on edge."
Andrew raised a brow. "Yeah, I caught that. You mind telling me why?"
The grin faded. Doyle's jaw tightened. " First, one of our patrols got hit last week — ambushed while checking a nearby town . Luckily there weren't any casualties. Then they attacked the safe zone, if you can call it safe anymore. Anyway, they weren't well equipped, so wasn't difficult to force them into retreating. "
After a moment of silence Andrew asked "Raiders?"
Doyle shook his head. "No. Not raiders, exactly." He let out a slow breath, eyes distant for a moment. "When things started falling apart, higher-ups gave the order to execute civilians. Didn't matter if they were infected or not." He paused, voice low. "Us and most of the other unit's refused. We stayed. Kept this place running. But others…" He looked away briefly. "Others followed through."
Andrew frowned. "And now the ones attacking you—?"
Doyle nodded, expression hardening. "Yeah. Most likely people who survived the purge."
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Do you have confirmation of that?"
Doyle nodded. "A few from the patrol that was ambushed heard them — shouting, almost like a war cry. Something about avenging the people we killed. We're guessing they meant the military as a whole."
Hearing all that Andrew started thinking, he knew from the show that the military began executing civilians when things spiraled out of control. But this… this was new. There'd never been mention of survivors fighting back against the army, or of military controlled safe zones attacked by vengeful people. In the show, the collapse came from within , mainly because of walkers .
Doyle broke his train of thought. "You haven't gotten the order?" the sergeant asked, watching him closely.
Andrew answered, keeping his tone steady. "No. We didn't have the necessary communication equipment. Even if we had, we wouldn't have followed it."
Doyle studied him, then gave a small nod. "Good. Means you're the kind of men we can trust."
Doyle gestured for Andrew to follow. "Come on. I'll show you around — and we can continue our discussion."
After instructing the Rangers to remain with the JLTVs, they began walking through the safe zone, boots crunching on gravel. They passed the military tents; inside, Andrew could see three wounded soldiers being tended by two people in medical attire. Nearby, several civilians stayed close, clearly their families. In another tent, two more soldiers rested, minor injuries visible on their arms and faces.
As they moved past, Andrew remarked, "From the way your soldiers act, it seems like they're protecting this place for more than just duty."
Sergeant Doyle gave a small chuckle. "That's because most of their families are here, Lieutenant. Mine included."
Andrew hadn't expected that, but said nothing further.
They walked by a Humvee parked near the tents, a few bullet holes pocked across its side .
On their way toward the entrance of the Big Spot grocery store, they passed the civilian tents where people were eating quietly. Parents tended to their children, and one soldier could be seen crouched beside his family, smiling faintly amid the exhaustion.
Doyle slowed his pace. "We've got maybe forty civilians, fifteen soldiers fit for duty. Ammunition's running low, but we've got enough fuel and food to last a while. Morale's holding steady. The real problem is that this place is too exposed, and we've got a hostile group knocking at our door. During the last attack, we managed to hold them off without losses — but it proved something. This store isn't as safe as we thought, it doesn't provide a good defensive position."
Andrew nodded slowly, scanning the perimeter. He agreed, if another attack came, the Big Spot would suffer heavy casualties, both soldiers and civilians alike.
....
Reaching the entrance, Andrew noticed that, much like in the show, the shelves inside still held a surprising amount of supplies — canned goods, bottled water, and medical kits neatly stacked, as if time had stopped mid-collapse.
They moved through the aisles, their footsteps echoing softly against the tile floor, until they reached the stairwell leading up to the rooftop.
Reaching the rooftop, Andrew saw the CH-47 Chinook in the center of the roof, its twin rotors still and silent, . Nearby, the pilots and another soldier stood talking, their voices carried faintly by the wind. Toward the edge of the rooftop, above the store's main entrance, a sentry was positioned behind a line of sandbags — a makeshift strongpoint overlooking the approach.
As Andrew and Doyle crossed the open space toward the sentry, Andrew's eyes lingered on the helicopter for a moment before moving on.
They stopped near the sandbagged position overlooking the parking lot below. The sentry gave a brief nod to Doyle and returned to scanning the perimeter.
Doyle crossed his arms, studying Andrew for a long moment. "I'll be honest, Lieutenant — you and your men act different. Coordinated. You don't seem to be another group of stragglers."
Andrew met his gaze evenly. "We've had time to organize," he said.
Doyle tilted his head, curiosity edging into his tone. "Organize? You telling me you've got some kind of structure running out there?"
Andrew nodded. "We do. Local command structure, mixed personnel. National Guard, and Army Rangers. We've got police officers and SWAT folded in too. Civilians with useful skills — engineers, mechanics, medics."
Doyle gave a low whistle. "That's more than I expected to hear these days. You actually have a base?"
We call it "Fort Ironwood," Andrew confirmed. "We're working on fortifying it . There's a hospital in the city that we secured too.
For a moment, Doyle said nothing. The wind tugged at the loose fabric of the sandbags, carrying the faint sound of laughter from below — children playing, a reminder of what they were all fighting to protect.
Finally, he spoke. "You're telling me there's still a chain of command."
Andrew gave a faint nod. "It's not the old world's kind of order, Sergeant. But it's a start."
Doyle let out a quiet breath, part disbelief, part relief.
Doyle leaned against the sandbags, arms folded, eyes narrowing in thought. "So you've actually got command running again. Who's calling the shots in this new setup of yours?"
Andrew glanced toward the horizon, then back at Doyle. "There's Major Griggs — he oversees operations and commands the troops," Andrew said evenly. "Then there's Captain Price and me. We handle the fieldwork — operations, logistics, security. It's not perfect, but it works."
Doyle nodded slowly, processing that. "Then maybe you can help us, Lieutenant. You've seen the layout here. You know we can't hold this for long." He gestured toward the tents below. "If your people have a fortified base, help us relocate. Civilians, supplies, what's left of our vehicles. We can't keep gambling on luck."
Andrew didn't answer right away. The request hung in the air between them. Finally, he spoke. "We'll have to discuss this with Major Griggs, to coordinate it properly. He'll want to know what you've got here — numbers, supplies, transport capacity. If we're moving you, we do it right."
"Then let's talk to him," Doyle said, pushing off from the sandbags.
Together they made their way back across the rooftop, boots echoing on the concrete. As they descended the stairwell, the dim light flickered against the walls.
Outside, the Rangers near the JLTVs straightened as Andrew approached. Doyle followed close behind as Andrew climbed into the lead vehicle and reached for the long-range radio.
He flipped the power switch, and the radio came alive with a soft crackle of static. Adjusting the frequency dials, Andrew leaned forward. "Ironwood Actual, this is Lieutenant Mercer, over," he said into the radio.
The radio hissed for a moment, then Major Griggs's familiar voice broke through — firm, steady, cutting cleanly through the noise.
"Lieutenant Mercer, this is Ironwood Actual," came Major Griggs's voice through the speaker — clear but edged with static. "Report status."
Andrew leaned toward the mic. "Sir, we've made contact with a surviving National Guard unit operating out of a safe zone at the Big Spot grocery store, on the outskirts of Atlanta. Approximately fifteen soldiers from the 223rd Support Battalion and around forty civilians. They've established a functional perimeter but are running low on ammunition. The site's too exposed to hold much longer."
There was a pause — only the low hum of the radio filling the JLTV's cabin.
"Copy that," Griggs said finally. "Who's in command on-site?"
Andrew glanced toward Doyle, then keyed the mic again. "That would be Sergeant Doyle."
"Patch him through," Griggs ordered.
Andrew handed over the handset. Doyle hesitated briefly, then brought it to his mouth. "Major, this is Sergeant Doyle, 223rd Support Battalion, Georgia National Guard.". We've been maintaining a civilian safe zone here since thebeginning of the pandemic . We've kept our people alive, maintained order, but our perimeter's weakening. I'm requesting relocation for all personnel, civilians, and supplies to your secured base of operations."
The line went silent for several seconds — long enough for the faint hum of the generator nearby to bleed through the still air.
Finally, Griggs's voice returned, steady and clipped. "Understood, Sergeant. You're requesting full evacuation and integration under Fort Ironwood's operational command?"
"That's correct, sir," Doyle replied firmly. "We still have manpower, transport, and fuel enough to make the trip. But one more attack, and we won't hold."
"Copy that," Griggs said. "We'll need a full inventory — personnel, weapons, vehicles, medical supplies. Lieutenant Mercer will coordinate with you on-site and lead your convoy once the route is confirmed secure."
"Yes, sir," Doyle said.
Griggs continued, "Lieutenant Mercer, once the relocation plan's finalized, you'll oversee the movement. Maintain radio contact every thirty minutes. If anything changes report immediately. Understood?"
"Understood, sir," Andrew replied.
"Good work, Lieutenant," Griggs said, his tone softening slightly.
The radio crackled once more, then fell silent.
Doyle handed the handset back, exhaling through his nose. "Well," he said with a small, tired grin, "looks like we've got ourselves a ride."
Andrew nodded, glancing out toward the Big Spot's parking lot where soldiers and civilians moved between tents. "Let's get your people ready. The sooner we move, the better chance we have to make it before nightfall."
...
By the time the sun began to sink behind the distant treeline, the Big Spot safe zone was no longer a camp .
The once-bustling parking lot had turned into a scene of controlled motion. Soldiers moved with quiet purpose, their figures cast in the fading orange light. The last of the tents — military and civilian alike — were being broken down and folded, canvas snapping faintly in the evening breeze. Crates of supplies were being stacked and secured carefully into the belly of the CH-47 Chinook parked on the rooftop ramp.
The heavy thump of rotors occasionally stirred the air as its engines idled, ready for departure. Fuel drums were rolled into place, generators lifted by hand and strapped down. Every usable item — medical supplies, ammunition, rations — was packed. Inside the now-empty grocery store, shelves stood bare for the first time since the outbreak, stripped of anything that could serve another day.
A group of civilians — families mostly, some carrying duffel bags, others clutching children close — gathered near the trucks, waiting to get on . The soldiers of the 223rd worked among them, guiding and reassuring, their exhaustion hidden behind calm professionalism.
Andrew stood near the lead JLTV, watching the scene unfold. Doyle approached from behind, wiping sweat from his brow, a faint smudge of oil streaked across his sleeve.
"That's the last of it," Doyle said. "We've packed everything that isn't nailed down — and a few things that were."
Andrew allowed himself a small smile. "Good. The convoy's ready to roll?"
"Yeah," Doyle nodded. "Trucks with civilians in the middle, Humvees at the rear. The bird'll take off once we're clear of move out." He glanced toward the helicopter, its lights blinking steadily in the dusk. "We'll keep radio contact the whole way."
Andrew gave a curt nod and turned toward his JLTV. "Then let's move out."
The Rangers began mounting up, engines rumbling to life one by one. Headlights cut through the dimming air as the convoy lined up at the gate. Doyle climbed into one of the transport trucks, giving a brief salute through the open window.
Andrew climbed into the passenger seat of the lead JLTV, radio headset already in place. "All units, this is Mercer," he said, voice steady. "Convoy's moving. Keep spacing tight, watch your sectors, and maintain comms."
One by one, the vehicles rolled out onto the darkening road — a line of lights vanishing into the coming night, leaving behind the hollow shell of the Big Spot and the faint hum of the wind through the empty fences.