The JLTV and Humvee rolled forward slowly, following the access road that curved around the high school's west side. As they approached, they now could hear the shouts coming from the parking lot — angry voices echoing faintly through the air — but from this angle they couldn't see anything there, only the front of the school, which looked calmer.
The two vehicles emerged from a nearby side street, engines growling softly as they came into view of the main entrance. A handful of National Guard soldiers stood near the front steps, their faces drawn and uniforms sweat-stained. The moment they spotted the JLTV and Humvee approach, their posture changed instantly — not with alarm, but with visible relief.
One of them waved an arm, signaling for the convoy to stop as the others lowered their rifles slightly, glancing at each other with a spark of hope.
Andrew raised a hand from the passenger seat, motioning for his driver to stop. The engines idled down. Dust hung thick in the air as the Rangers dismounted — disciplined, controlled, clearly well-armed and better equipped than the Guardsmen.
"Hey!" one of the Guardsmen called, stepping forward. "Who are you guys? We thought every unit near Atlanta was gone."
Andrew met him halfway, offering a firm handshake. "Lieutenant Andrew Mercer, Army Rangers. We're operating out of Fort Ironwood. We've got a local command structure established there — several senior officers and surviving units pulled together from the region."
The young corporal who had spoken blinked, a mix of surprise and relief crossing his tired face. "Fort Ironwood? Haven't heard of it before."
Andrew gave a node. "You wouldn't have. We set it up after the fall of the city. Pulled together whoever we could find — Guard, Army, Police officers, SWAT teams,civilians. We are starting to regain a level of control on the outskirts of the city."
The corporal let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's good to hear. And you're here to check on us?"
"Something like that," Andrew said. "We had intel on several established safe zones and wanted to confirm their status." He glanced toward the parking lot. "Looks like things are getting heated out there."
At that, one of the other soldiers muttered, "Heated's one way to put it."
The corporal grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. "They're pissed. Supplies are running thin. Since we lost contact with command supply trucks stopped coming more than two weeks ago, and people are scared. We've been doing what we can, but…" He let the words trail off.
Andrew nodded, glancing past him toward the barricaded entrance. A few soldiers stood watch there, eyes flicking nervously between the Rangers and the noise from the crowd.
"I get it," Andrew said quietly. "You're holding the line with what you've got. Trust me — we've been there too."
He straightened, tone firm but calm. "Look, Corporal. We need a sitrep. If you've got an officer in charge, I'd like to speak with them."
The corporal hesitated, then finally nodded. "Yeah… the one in charge is the Sergeant Major Owen Cross. He's running what's left of our unit. He's inside. But I'll warn you — he's not in the best mood these days."
Andrew gave a faint smirk. "Can't really blame him."
Turning to his squad , he gestured for three Rangers to accompany him, while instructing the rest to remain with the vehicles.
Turning back to the corporal, he told him to Lead the way.
The Guardsman nodded once. "Alright. Follow me."
The corporal led Andrew and his three Rangers through the main doors of Cranwell High.
The moment they stepped inside, the air changed — stale, heavy with sweat, disinfectant, and the faint metallic tang of generator fumes. Fluorescent lights flickered along the ceiling, casting a pale, uneven glow across the hallway. The sound of distant voices and the steady thrum of machinery filled the silence between each echoing footstep.
The place still looked like a school, but barely. A faded "Go Tigers!" banner hung crooked on a wall. The trophy case was starting to be covered in dust.
Handwritten signs were taped along the walls:
"WATER – CAFETERIA."
"MEDICAL TRIAGE →"
"KEEP HALL CLEAR."
A whiteboard stood near the entrance covered in scrawled lists — names, notes, and questions that looked weeks old:
"If anyone from Macon convoy sees this, we made it here."
"Missing: Lewis Warren – Age 9."
Andrew walked silently, taking everything in. His eyes moved from the cots lining the walls to the civilians huddled on the floor with blankets pulled tight around them. A few Guardsmen moved through the halls, checking rooms, exchanging quiet words.
They passed a classroom where the desks had been pushed aside to make space for stacked supply crates and hastily labeled boxes — "Medical," "Rations," "Water Filters."
A few volunteers moved between tables, organizing clipboards and sorting through lists. The smell of stale sweat and hand sanitizer clung to the air.
Andrew's gaze lingered for a moment before following the corporal deeper inside.
"This used to be the main academic wing," the corporal said over his shoulder. "We cleared it out and repurposed the classroom's."
As they turned a corner, the noise grew louder — murmurs, coughing, the faint crying of a child. The rhythmic beeping of medical monitors echoed through the double doors ahead.
The corporal pushed them open, and the gymnasium came into view.
Rows of cots stretched across the polished floor, separated by hanging FEMA tarps. Medical personnel — some in fatigues, others in worn civilian clothes with armbands — moved between the rows carrying clipboards or bottles of water. The air carried the sterile scent of antiseptic mixed with the faint must of unwashed clothes and diesel from the generators.
Andrew slowed his pace, scanning the scene.
Floodlights hummed along the walls, flooding the space with harsh white light. The bleachers were piled high with crates and labeled containers: "Medical," "Rations," "Quarantine Supplies."
A few elderly people lay resting under blankets, while others coughed softly or sat quietly with their families. A tired nurse adjusted a blanket over an older man and offered a reassuring smile.
"FEMA set this up a few days before the fall," the corporal said quietly. "We've kept it running since. Most folks here are fine — just scared, worn out. A few caught a cold or have older medical problems." after a moment of silence he added " we had a situation with few people being infected, but we dealt with it."
Andrew gave a small nod. "You've done well keeping this together."
They started toward the administrative hall on the far side when someone's voice called from behind — soft, uncertain, filled with disbelief.
"...Andrew?"
He stopped and turned.
A young woman stood near one of the medical partitions beside a man about her age. Her hair was messy, clothes wrinkled and stained, but her eyes were wide, fixed on him.
"Andrew," she repeated, stepping forward slowly, her voice trembling. "It's really you…"
The corporal hesitated, glancing between them, then took a small step back. Andrew studied her in silence.
He recognized the face — the same one from the photos on the phone he'd found weeks ago.
He remembered the texts, too — the arguments, the final message before the outbreak.
But that was another version of him.
And truthfully, he couldn't care less about her.
From the text , he understood she isn't a person that can be relayed on .
"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," she said, her voice breaking into a nervous laugh. "I thought— I thought you might've—"
Wanting to end this interaction as quick as possible Andrew cut in, his tone polite but cold.
"I'm going to stop you right there. Before all this started, you thought I'd lost it. Said the military had messed me up, then walked away."
She blinked, stunned. "Wait— I… I'm sorry, Andrew. I was wrong, I—"
He interrupted again, voice steady.
"Those things are in the past. Things have changed. And I don't want anything to do with you."
Her eyes filled with tears, her lip trembling as she tried to speak. But before she could, the man beside her stepped forward, his posture tense.
"Hey, don't talk to her like that," he snapped. "Who the hell do you think you are? You think just 'cause you've got a uniform and a rifle, you're better than the rest of us? I heard what the military's has done — the safe zones, the shootings. You're all the same."
Andrew stared at him blankly, irritation flickering behind his calm expression.
"You talk big for someone hiding behind soldiers you badmouth" he said evenly. "You've got no idea what it's like out there. And from where I'm standing, doesn't look like the people here are being hurt by anyone in uniform."
The man squared his shoulders, but Andrew leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low.
"If you don't know what you're talking about, it's better to keep your mouth shut."
His cold demineor made both of them freeze.
Andrew turned back to the corporal as if nothing had happened. "We should meet your commanding officer. The Sergeant Major Owen Cross, you said?"
The corporal quickly nodded. "Yes, sir. This way."
He and the corporal walked off, boots echoing across the gym floor.
....
The walk to the administrative wing was quiet except for the sound of boots on tile and the distant murmur of the gym. The hallways still looked like a school — motivational posters curling off the walls, lockers dented and dusty, and signs for year's football season.
The corporal led the way to the principal's office — now clearly a command room. Two Guardsmen stood outside, rifles slung.
Then a quick knock on the wooden door.
"Sergeant Major," the corporal called, "Lieutenant Mercer just rolled in from Fort Ironwood, and is requesting to talk with you, sir."
A gravelly voice answered from inside. "Send them in."
The corporal pushed the door open and stepped aside.
The office smelled of coffee. The principal's desk was buried under a map, and a half-functioning radio. A Georgia National Guard flag hung crooked behind the desk.
Standing behind it was Sergeant Major Owen Cross — tall, broad-chested, his fatigues worn and sleeves rolled to the elbows. His expression was calm but weary, the look of a man who'd been carrying too much for too long.
He snapped to attention when he saw Andrew's rank patch, giving a crisp salute. "Sergeant Major Owen Cross, Georgia Army National Guard, sir. Welcome to Cranwell."
" Lieutenant Andrew Mercer, Army Rangers" Andrew returned the salute. "At ease, Sergeant Major. You and your people have done well keeping this place standing."
Cross relaxed slightly, nodding in appreciation. "We've been holding it the best we can, sir. Though things are getting… tense."
Andrew took a step closer, his tone measured. "We saw the crowd outside. Looked like half the population's ready to riot. What's going on?"
Cross sighed, leaning against the edge of the desk. "Started with rumors, sir. Word got out about what happened in a few of the other safe zones — military units executing civilians. People panicked. Some of the families here lost contact with relatives in those areas, and you can guess how that went."
Andrew's nodded. " I see that you refused the order too."
"Of course i did," Cross said simply. "Didn't make sense then, doesn't make sense now. We had no confirmed infections inside the perimeter — not until a few days ago."
He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Three people died. Heart failure, or possible infection, who knows. Less then two hours later, they got back up. There were no bites, no contact. Just… turned."
Andrew's brows furrowed slightly.
"Families lost it. Thought we were covering something up — that we were killing people on purpose. We tried explaining, but… logic doesn't work too well these days." Cross said grimly.
He gestured vaguely toward the window, where faint shouting could still be heard in the distance. "Now someone's out there stirring the pot. Telling people that we're keeping supplies from them , that we intend to kill them. If this keeps up, we'll have a full-blown riot by nightfall."
Andrew nodded slowly, taking it all in. He stepped closer to the window, scanning the parking lot perimeter.
"Do you have any idea who's spreading it?"
Cross shook his head. "No proof. But a few loudmouths showed up two days ago — said they were from another camp that fell. They've been talking nonstop ever since. Civilians listen to them more than they do to us."
Andrew's voice dropped slightly, calm but sharp. "Alright. We'll get this under control before it spirals. I'll have my Rangers help reinforce the perimeter — but I'll need to talk to those individuals first."
Cross nodded, the faintest trace of relief crossing his face. "Understood, sir. I'll see if we can find out who they are."
Andrew straightened, then glancing at the map placed on the desk. "Good. Once we've stabilized this, we'll coordinate with Fort Ironwood. If Cranwell's going to hold, it's going to need proper support."
Cross gave a weary but genuine nod. "You've got no idea how damn good it is to hear that, sir."
Andrew returned the nod, his tone quiet but resolute. "Then let's make sure this place doesn't fall apart before we can help it."