"Now," Andrew began, his voice steady but low, "we'll need to establish contingencies in case things get out of control. On our way here, we didn't spot any walkers in the immediate area around the school."
Cross nodded. " We send patrols out regularly — make sure nothing infected gets anywhere close. Or walkers, as you call them."
Andrew gave a small nod, but his tone darkened. "That won't matter much if things go bad in here. If shots are fired, the noise will draw them in. And there's… something else you need to understand."
Cross frowned, studying him. " Go on."
Andrew hesitated for a second, then said quietly, "We've learned that being bitten isn't the only way someone turns."
That made Cross straighten, his expression tightening. "What do you mean? How else can someone get infected?"
Andrew exhaled slowly. " It's not about getting infected," he said. " We're already infected — all of us. Whatever this thing is, it's dormant while we're alive. But once a person dies… it activates. Doesn't matter how. Heart attack, gunshot, doesn't matter, as long the brain is intact they come back."
The words hung in the air like a weight.
Cross didn't speak at first. His eyes dropped to the desk, then to his hands, which were beginning to tremble slightly. "You're telling me…" he murmured. "Those old folks that died here. It wasn't because of exposure. They just—"
Andrew shook his head. "It was inevitable."
Cross pushed away from the desk, standing slowly. He turned toward the window, staring out over the parking lot where the noise of the growing crowd drifted faintly through the glass.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, in a low, bitter tone, "Christ almighty…"
His reflection in the glass looked worn, beaten, the face of a man who'd held his ground without knowing the truth.
Andrew remained silent, giving him space to process. The hum of the generator filled the quiet, steady and cold.
Finally, Cross spoke again, his voice rough. "If the people out there ever find out about this…"
" They can't," Andrew said firmly. " Not yet. Panic will tear this place apart faster than the dead ever could."
Cross nodded slowly, still staring out the window. "Understood, sir. We'll keep this contained. But if it spreads — if word gets out…"
Andrew met his gaze in the reflection. "Then we act fast. Before we lose control of the zone."
Cross turned back from the window, rubbing a hand across his face. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased.
Andrew straightened. "I need to get a message back to Fort Ironwood. They need to know what's happening here — the unrest, the risk of a possible riot."
Cross nodded slowly. "Understood. I'll start setting up contingencies in case this crowd gets any worse — and look into an evacuation plan if it comes to that."
"Good," Andrew said, heading for the door. "After i'm done informing the Major of the situation, i will go and see if all of this can be resolved peacefully."
He stepped out into the corridor, his three Rangers falling in behind him without a word. Their boots echoed down the hall — a steady, practiced rhythm.
One of them finally spoke up, voice low. "Sir, things sound bad in there. Think this place'll hold?"
Andrew kept walking, eyes straight ahead. "Depends on how scared people get. Fear spreads faster than infection."
Another Ranger gave a dry snort. "Guess we'll be busy either way."
Andrew glanced at him briefly. "That's the job."
They reached the entrance hall, where the light from outside spilled through the doors. The distant noise of the crowd had grown louder — raised voices, a chant starting to build in the parking lot.
Andrew pushed through the doors, the dry air and heat hitting immediately. The JLTV and Humvee waited near the curb, engines off, dust still clinging to the tires from the road in. The Rangers keept an watchful eye on the perimeter while Andrew climbed up to the JLTV's side compartment.
He pulled open the reinforced panel, revealing the long-range radio. The familiar hum of static filled the air as he adjusted the frequency dials.
Pressing the transmit key, his voice came out steady and clear.
"Lieutenant Mercer to Ironwood Actual, come in."
A few seconds passed — just the crackle of interference — before a voice answered, faint but recognizable. "Ironwood actual, receiving. Go ahead, Lieutenant."
"This is Mercer. We've reached the Cranwell High School safe zone. Situation here's unstable — civilians are getting restless, and command is stretched thin. Sergeant Major Cross is doing what he can, but supplies are short and tension's high."
"Copy that, Lieutenant," the operator replied. "Be advised, Major Griggs is currently in the middle of another assignment. I'll relay your report to him as soon as he returns."
"Understood," Andrew said. "Make sure he gets it in full. We may need reinforcements or at least supplies if things go south here."
"Roger that. Anything else to add, sir?"
Andrew glanced back at the high school — at the nervous soldiers near the doors, and the faint roar of the crowd beyond. "Tell him this place is holding for now… but not for long."
He released the key, the radio hissing softly before fading back to static.
For a moment, Andrew stood therelistening to the sound of arguing voices coming from the parking lot.
He then straightened his vest and slung his weapon, his expression calm but focused. "Alright, listen up. We've got a situation building out there. We're not here to escalate — we're here to keep things contained."
The Rangers gathered close, attentive.
"I'm heading to the parking lot," Andrew continued. "I'll try to talk them down, see who's stirring the pot. You four," — he gestured to the nearest group — " two of you get inside and up to the rooftop. Two of you are coming with me . The two on the rooftop are to keep overwatch on the crowd. Look for anyone who's armed or acting off."
One of the Rangers frowned slightly. "Rules of engagement, sir?"
Andrew met his gaze evenly. "Shoot only if a clear threat presents itself. And if it comes to that, make your shots count. We're not making martyrs today — avoid unnecessary casualties."
The men nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Move out."
They split smoothly — Two Rangers heading through the front doors of the school, boots clattering on the tile as they disappeared inside, heading for the stairs that led to the rooftop access.
Andrew paused a moment, watching them go, then turned toward the parking lot along the two Rangers beside him.
The air outside was heavy, thick with heat and tension. He started down the steps, passing two weary Guardsmen standing watch by the barricades. Both looked relieved to see someone who seemed to know what they were doing.
The sound of shouting hit harder now that he was closer — dozens of civilians packed near the lot, faces flushed, voices raised. Arguments sparked at the edges, while a few people waved their arms, shouting about food, safety, rumors.
Andrew adjusted his weapons strap across his shoulder and began walking forward, calm but deliberate, scanning faces and movement the way a soldier reads a battlefield. From above, he knew his Rangers would already be settling into position — scopes sweeping the crowd, eyes sharp for any sign of a weapon or hidden handoff.
Every instinct told him this was about to break one way or another.
He squared his shoulders and stepped up to the thin line of soldiers and police officers trying to hold the civilians back.
"Alright," he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing slightly, "let's see if we can still reason with those people."
As Andrew along with the two Rangers moved across the lot, the tension became tangible — an almost physical pressure hanging in the humid air. The noise rose and fell in waves: shouting, arguing, fragments of words blending into frustration and fear.
He passed several National Guard soldiers and a few police officers, their faces tight with exhaustion as they held their line between the civilians and the school entrance. Each man and women looked seconds away from losing control of the situation.
Andrew's eyes swept over the crowd, calculating. In chaos like this — protests, riots, panicked crowds — there was always someone louder, someone who gave shape to the anger. The mob always followed the ones louder than the rest.
He didn't intend to talk to everyone. He just needed to talk to that person.
It didn't take long to find it. Near the front of the crowd, close to the entry leading into the school, a woman seeming in her thirties was practically shouting over the others — face flushed, hair tangled, voice sharp with fury.
"People are dying out there while you sit around with your guns!" she yelled, pointing at a young police officer who was trying, and failing, to calm her down. "We deserve to know what's happening! You think you can keep us locked up like prisoners?"
The crowd behind her murmured in agreement, the noise swelling as she threw out another accusation.
Andrew adjusted his weapons strap and started forward, each step deliberate but unhurried. As they approached, heads turned. Soldiers, police officers, and civilians alike shifted their attention to the three men in the unfamiliar gear — calm, silent, and unmistakably military.
The young police officer looked up, caught sight of Andrew, and the relief on his face was almost immediate. He stepped slightly aside, as if instinctively making room for someone who looked like he knew what to do.
The woman turned her anger toward Andrew now, voice dripping with suspicion. "And who are you supposed to be? Another one of them trying to keep us quiet?!"
Andrew stopped beside the officer, his posture straight but unthreatening , with the rangers a step behind him. He raised his voice but didn't shouted, he didn't need to. His tone carried just enough weight to cut through the noise around them.
"Ma'am," he said evenly, "I will have to ask you and everyone else to calm down. I'm here to make sure no one gets hurt — that includes you and everyone else here."
The crowd's shouting faltered for a moment, just enough for people to hear him.
The woman folded her arms, glaring. "Then maybe you can explain why no one's telling us anything! We've been stuck here for weeks — you control the food! We've heard what happened in the other so-called 'safe zones' run by the military!"
Andrew met her gaze, calm and unreadable, feeling the tension coil tighter around the crowd like a drawn wire.
This was the moment he'd been waiting for — the argument that could either defuse the situation… or make it explode.
"First thing," Andrew said, raising his voice just enough to carry, "I'm going to need everyone to quiet down—"
"Why do you think you can tell us what to do?" a man shouted back before he could finish. "We want the truth!"
That was all it took — the crowd erupted again, voices blending into a wall of noise. People shouted over one another, hurling accusations: that the military had staged the outbreak, that the virus was population control, that soldiers were executing civilians in other zones.
Andrew felt his patience thinning. These people hadn't seen what they had — the cities burning, the streets crawling with corpses. They still believed they had the luxury of protest.
"Enough!" His voice cracked through the chaos like a rifle shot. "Everyone shut the hell up!"
The crowd fell silent, startled by the authority — and the anger — in his tone.
"Prisoners?" he barked. "Who's keeping you here? Behind you, the only thing between this school and the open streets are a several parked cars. You can leave whenever you want — no one's stopping you." His eyes swept across the sea of faces. "You complain about food — have you not been fed? You—"
He was cut off by another burst of shouting, the noise swelling again. The woman stomped toward him, face twisted with rage, fists clenched.
"Who the hell do you think you are to—"
She froze. Andrew had drawn his pistol in a fluid motion, the matte-black Glock leveling directly at her head.
Every sound in the lot died instantly.
The two Rangers flanking him raised their weapons, scanning the crowd for sudden movement. The National Guard soldiers and police tightened their grips on their rifles, faces tense and uncertain.
For a few long seconds, the only sound was the wind and the faint hum of generators from the school.
Andrew's voice broke the silence — steady, cold, edged with restrained fury.
"Listen up. I tried to do this diplomatically, but it seems your entitled asses aren't grasping the situation. There's a virus out there bringing the dead back to life. People have died — and are still dying."
Someone from the crowd yelled, "The military's the one killing people!"
Andrew snapped his gaze toward the voice. "Quiet!" he barked, his tone slicing through the air. "You don't know a damn thing about what's happening. I am aware of what went down in other zones. But look around you — these soldiers haven't hurt you. They've kept you alive."
A man near the back shouted, "You call this safe? This—"
Andrew cut him off sharply. "If you think it's better out there, you're free to leave. Try your luck."
Before the crowd could react, his radio crackled.
"Lieutenant, rooftop. We've got movement — east side, behind the cars. Looks like walkers. Seven, maybe more."
Andrew's expression didn't change. He seized the opportunity.
"Copy that," he said into the radio. "Reposition for clear shots. Hold until I give the word."
The exchange made the crowd uneasy — anxious whispers rippled through them. Some still didn't believe, convinced the soldiers were bluffing, that this was just another intimidation tactic.
The woman's voice came again, quieter now. "What are you talking about? Who are you—"
A scream cut her off from somewhere deep in the crowd.
The Rangers on the roof saw it first — the twisted, half-rotted shapes of the walkers pressing against the cars that formed the outer barricade, their arms clawing, jaws snapping. The cars rocked under the weight of the dead piling against them.
More screams followed as the crowd realized what was happening. Panic spread like wildfire, people pushing back from the barricade, shouting, crying, tripping over one another.
The woman turned to Andrew, her face pale. "What's happening?"
Andrew's voice was flat. "Consequences."
He broke into a jog toward the barricade, his two Rangers and several Guardsmen and officers following close behind. The civilians instinctively made way, fear dissolving their anger.
The walkers were hideous up close — skin sloughing off in patches, organs spilling from open wounds on their abdomen. Some were missing limbs, others dragging themselves forward with broken fingers.
As one of the corpses clambered over the hood of a car and tumbled into the lot, Andrew gave a quick nod to the rooftop.
The Rangers opened fire, precise and methodical — short, controlled bursts cutting down the walkers still outside the barricade. Andrew holstered his pistol and swung up his MP5, joining his men as they cleared the few that had made it through.
In seconds, the gunfire faded. The last walker dropped, the echo of the shots rolling off into the distance.
Andrew turned back to the silent crowd — dozen of faces pale with shock.
"That," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the lot, "is what you were being protected from. Still think the soldiers are your enemy?"
No one spoke. Not a single word.
After a long silence, someone near the front finally asked, "Are there… more of them?"
Andrew reloaded calmly, locking the magazine into place with a sharp click.
"With all the shouting," he said grimly, "and now the gunfire? Yeah. You could say we just rang the dinner bell."