Andrew stepped closer to the console, eyes fixed on the flickering signal display. "Where is he transmitting from?"
The operator slid one earphone off his head, adjusting the gain and narrowing the band. A thin hiss of static washed through the speakers. "Signal isn't stable enough to pinpoint exactly," he said, voice tight with concentration. "But based on strength and clarity… he's not extremely far. But not close either. Medium range, maybe—fifteen to thirty miles out."
Price exchanged a quick look with Griggs.
Griggs straightened, the shift in his posture subtle but decisive. "Try to raise him again. Get him on the channel."
"Yes, sir."
The operator leaned in, fingers already dancing across the dials. He adjusted the tuner, opened the line, and pressed the transmit switch.
"This is Fort Ironwood actual to Lieutenant Welles. Do you copy? Over."
The room fell silent, everyone listening to the faint crackle bleeding through the speakers. The operator repeated the call, making micro-adjustments, nudging the antenna output, chasing the faint signal.
Andrew folded his arms behind his back, gaze narrowed—focused, but not tense. Price stood just behind him, expression unreadable but alert.
Another burst of static snapped across the console.
Then—
A thin, shaky voice bled through.
"…—opy… this is Lt. Welles. I… hear you… over…"
The operator's eyes snapped up, surprised but steady. "We've got him."
Price stepped closer, boots echoing on the concrete floor. "Patch him through. Put it on main."
"Yes, sir."
With a few quick movements, the operator routed the signal into the command room's speakers. The overhead systems crackled to life.
Major Griggs inhaled slowly, then spoke with the controlled calm of someone used to taking charge.
"Lieutenant Welles, this is Major Griggs. We read you. State your location and status. Over."
The room waited—every second stretching long and taut.
The operator fine-tuned the frequency, static snapping across the speakers. Then a voice cut through—strained, wind-whipped, but clear enough.
"—Ironwood Command, this is Lieutenant Welles. Do you copy?"
Andrew stepped closer. "We copy, Lieutenant. What's your position?"
A low hum of rotor blades bled into the transmission. Then Welles answered:
"We're airborne in a UH-1. Just passed over Fayetteville a few minutes ago. Currently moving north."
Griggs raised an eyebrow. "We?"
"Two of my people are aboard. Private Sean and Private Franklin."
Price nodded slightly, relieved but guarded.
Griggs leaned closer to the console. "What happened, Lieutenant? "
Silence stretched for a moment—only the thumping rotor blades filling the gap. When Welles spoke again, his voice carried the weight of someone who had watched too much fall apart too fast.
"It was secure. Fences held. Supplies were holding out. People were calm. We had a system, and the system worked."
He exhaled sharply, frustration and exhaustion bleeding together.
"Then one of the men inside got bit. We still don't know how. No breach we could see. Maybe he hid it. Maybe a stray walker got through when no one was looking."
Static crackled as the helicopter shifted in the air.
"He turned fast—faster than any of us expected. Panic spread quicker than the infection. Someone opened the gate trying to escape. Others followed. People got bit trying to run. Those bit turned on the rest. Within hours, the whole place collapsed."
Andrew felt a cold knot form in his stomach. Price's jaw tightened.
"My team did what we could," Welles continued. "But once the compound fell… there was nothing to save. We grabbed what supplies we could load in time, and took off before the whole perimeter was overrun."
Griggs took a slow breath, composure returning.
"And Fayetteville?" he asked. "Why were you flying over it?"
"Scouting," Welles replied. "Trying to find a safe route for the rest of our people on the ground. They're moving in convoy—we pulled ahead to scout the way. But everything between Macon and Atlanta is… unpredictable."
His voice dipped lower, roughened by static and fatigue.
"We need guidance. And maybe a place to land, if things get worse."
Griggs glanced at Andrew and Price—both already focused, weighing options.
"Stay with us, Lieutenant," Griggs said firmly. "You're talking to the right people now. We'll sort out next steps."
The radio hissed again, awaiting Welles's reply.
···
The radio crackled, a thin line of sound struggling through the static.
Welles exhaled, the fatigue in his voice carrying through the headset. "Copy that… standing by."
He released the transmit button and leaned back slightly, the dull thrum of the rotors filling the cramped cabin. Sean sat beside him in the co-pilot's seat, scanning the treetops below. In the jumpseat behind them, Franklin tightened the straps on his pack, listening carefully.
Sean broke the silence first. "So that's it? Fort Ironwood?" His tone was cautious—skeptical. "I've never heard of any installation by that name. Not in Georgia. Not anywhere."
Franklin leaned forward between the seats, hopeful despite the doubt in his eyes. "Maybe it's new. Or repurposed. Doesn't matter what it's called—military's still holding somewhere. That's more than we've had in weeks."
Sean scoffed lightly but not unkindly. "Or it's some civilian camp throwing around big words on an open channel."
Franklin shook his head. "Man, look around. We can't stay airborne forever. Fuel's dropping. Every town we fly over is crawling with infected. If there's even a chance these guys are legit, it's the best option we've got."
Sean didn't respond at first. He just stared out the window at the endless tree line, jaw working.
After a moment, he muttered, "Yeah… I hate to say it, but I agree."
Welles nodded, tightening his grip on the collective. "Then we take the chance. Road's not safe. Air's barely better. If they're real, we link up. If not—we figure it out."
He pressed the transmit button on his headset, leaning toward the mic.
"Fort Ironwood, this is Lieutenant Welles—copy your last. We—"
A sudden burst of motion from below cut him off.
A dark, shifting cloud of wings burst upward from the treetops—a flock of crows, startled by the helicopter's approach.
"Shit—!" Welles yanked the cyclic instinctively.
The flock scattered, but too late.
THUD–THUD–CRACK!
Several birds slammed into the windshield, smearing it with black feathers and red streaks. Two more were sucked upward, clipping the main rotor with sickening whumps that vibrated through the entire frame.
Sean braced himself against the console. "Jesus—!"
Franklin shouted from the back, "We lost rotor balance!"
The helicopter lurched violently, dropping a few feet before Welles fought it back up, muscles straining as he wrestled with the controls.
More alarms blared—RPM warnings, rotor imbalance, altitude drop.
Welles slammed his thumb on the transmit button.
"Mayday, mayday—Ironwood, this is Welles—we're hit by a flock, losing lift!"
The helicopter dipped hard to the right.
Sean grabbed the overhead handle. "We're going down!"
Franklin clung to the straps, eyes wide. "Find a clearing!"
Welles gritted his teeth, every instinct screaming. "Trying—trying—hang on! Controlled descent—controlled descent—!"
The trees rushed up beneath them.
The radio filled with static.
The helicopter kept falling.
And Welles shouted one last time.
"Mayday—mayday—mayday! We're hit losing lift. Mayday!!"
···
The radio speakers shrieked with static—then Welles's voice tore through the command room:
"Mayday—mayday—mayday! We're—hit—losing lift—may—da—"
A violent burst of interference swallowed the rest.
Then nothing.
Just dead air.
Every head in the room snapped toward the console.
"Try him again!" Griggs barked.
"Yes, sir!" the operator said, already twisting dials, adjusting frequencies. "Lieutenant Welles, this is Fort Ironwood, do you read? Respond—over."
Only static answered.
Another operator leaned in, cycling channels. "Lieutenant Welles, this is Ironwood—come in!"
Still nothing.
Griggs exhaled through his nose—controlled, but tight with anger and concern. He turned sharply toward the map table. "We move out, now."
Andrew and Price followed, boots thudding across the floor as they crowded around the paper maps. Griggs swept aside a stack of reports and jabbed a finger at the Georgia layout.
"Fayetteville," Price muttered, scanning. "There."
Andrew leaned over, eyes narrowing at the scale. "That's roughly twenty-eight miles out."
"Too far by road," Price added. "Too slow. And we don't know what's in between."
Griggs nodded grimly. "Airborne, then. Fastest option we've got."
He looked at Andrew. "You and Price will go in first. Secure the crash site. Confirm Welles and his men are alive."
Andrew gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
Griggs continued, voice steady but urgent. "Medical team will lift off right behind you in the med chopper. I will send word for them to prepare the equipment."
One of the operators called out, " Notifying the airstrip personnel , sir!"
"Good," Griggs replied. Then, louder. "Let's move!"
The command room came alive instantly with operators relaying orders.
Price was already pulling out his radio, raising it to his mouth.
"Bravo Team, this is Price," he said, voice clipped with urgency. "We've got a bird down. Grab your kits and meet me at the airstrip. We're wheels up in minutes."
A chorus of acknowledgments crackled through the radio.
Andrew turned toward the door, adrenaline settling into the cold, focused calm he always felt before deployment. Price fell in beside him.
Behind them, Griggs called out.
"Bring them home."
Andrew didn't look back.
He simply answered, "We will."
The two hurried toward the armory, boots thudding on the floor as they rushed to stock up on ammo for the mission ahead.
Reaching the armory , they requested the specific type of ammo they need. The Staff Sergeant in charge of the armory, moved with practiced efficiency, clipboard in one hand, key ring in the other. He moved quickly, unlocking the storage cages. Metal drawers clattered open, magazines slid across the counter, and every issue was counted aloud before being handed over.
Afterwards they pushed through the doors of the command building and into the open air, the distant rumble of generators and the steady thump of activity around Fort Ironwood filling the morning.
Both men moved with purpose, weapons strapped tight against their vests, boots striking the ground in quick, controlled steps.
As they walked, Andrew popped the magazine out of his MP5, eyes scanning the brass inside.
"Good thing we resupplied earlier," he muttered, sliding it back in with a firm click. The weight was reassuring.
Beside him, Price checked his own gear—running a thumb along his rifle's charging handle, tapping pouches, confirming every piece by feel. "Last thing we need is to show up at the crash site half-packed," he said under his breath.
They rounded the last set of military tents, and the airstrip came into view— in an open section of the golf course the hulking silhouette of the Chinook along the medical helicopter were visible. Its twin rotors were already spinning up, the wash kicking dust into swirling halos.
Nikolai stood near the ramp, headset on, as he made last-second checks. When he spotted Andrew and Price approaching, he gave a toothy grin.
"About time!" he called over the noise. "I was starting to think you'd make me drink cold coffee while waiting for you. Very rude."
Price snorted. "Save the complaints, Nikolai. We're here now."
"Da, da," Nikolai waved dismissively. "Hurry. She's warmed up and eager."
They waited near the ramp for the rest of the team, the rotors' thunder vibrating through the ground. A minute later, Ghost , Soap and Gaz into view—and behind them, four Rangers emerged from the same direction, geared and ready.
Soap reached them first, adjusting his vest straps. "What've we got?" he asked. "Heard the words 'bird down.' Never a good sign."
"You'll get the full brief in the air," Price replied, voice firm. "Right now we move."
Soap nodded once. Ghost and Gaz exchanged quick looks, then all three fell into line. The Rangers stepped in behind them.
Price jerked his chin toward the ramp. "Mount up."
One by one they climbed aboard, boots clanging against metal, the Chinook swallowing them into its cavernous interior as the rotors roared overhead—lifting them into the air .
···
Lieutenant Welles drifted somewhere between darkness and noise—voices, metal creaking, wind rushing through broken glass. Something tugged at his shoulder. Someone shouting his name.
"…sir—sir! Lieutenant, wake up!"
The words came warped, as if underwater.
He forced his eyes open.
The world swam. Blurred shapes, gray sky above, smoke drifting. To his right, Private Sean was leaning into the shattered cockpit, tugging at him with one hand, face smeared with dirt and fear, while with the other clutching a pistol that fired sporadic, panicked shots toward something Welles couldn't yet see.. To his left, Private Franklin was slumped sideways in his seat, one arms dangling uselessly.
"Come on—come on!" Sean barked, firing over his shoulder. "They're coming, sir! Wake up!"
Welles blinked hard. His ears rang violently, then slowly the sounds sharpened—gunshots, snarling moans. His body throbbed with dull pain.
He looked down at himself, small shards of glass embedded in his forearm; a gash along his hairline trickling warm blood down his temple; bruises already forming across his ribs where the harness had dug in during impact. Nothing fatal. Nothing that would impede him.
He groaned and unbuckled himself, muscles screaming as he dragged his body across the twisted frame of the cockpit. When he dropped out the side, he hit the dirt hard, the breath punching out of him.
"Sir!" Sean rushed to him, half-sliding down the wreckage to reach his side. He hooked an arm under Welles's shoulder, easing him up. "You with me?"
Welles coughed, spitting dust. "Franklin—what about Franklin?"
"He's alive," Sean said, checking over his shoulder, "but out cold. Not responding. I need to get him loose—"
A wet snarl cut through the air. Sean spun and fired again, putting a round clean through the skull of an infected stumbling toward them.
Welles forced himself to focus, finally taking in their situation.
The helicopter had come down in a rough clearing, skidding sideways before slamming into a line of trees. The tail boom was snapped, twisted at an ugly angle. One rotor blade was sheared off entirely, probably from the impact with the treetops. The cockpit glass was shredded, the nose section crumpled, but the fuselage had held together—barely. Smoke curled from the engine housing, but no open flames yet.
And coming through the trees… more infected, drawn by the noise.
Welles's stomach tightened.
"Sean," he said, steadying himself against the broken fuselage, "get Franklin out of there. We need to move—now. I'll cover you."
Sean didn't argue. He nodded once, placed Welles back against the metal for support, then sprinted toward the unconscious Franklin still strapped into the side seat.
Welles grabbed his handgun, fingers trembling only slightly. He drew a breath, forced his aim steady, and began firing—each shot snapping through the clearing, as infected closed in through the trees.
Behind him, Sean fought with Franklin's harness.
Ahead of him, the dead kept coming.
Private Sean finally wrenched the last buckle free. Franklin's limp body slumped forward into his arms.
"Got you—come on, buddy… stay with me," Sean muttered through clenched teeth, dragging him out of the shattered doorway. Franklin's boots scraped uselessly across the dirt, his head lolling to one side as Sean hauled him away from the wreck.
"Sean—move!" Welles barked, firing two rapid shots that dropped an infected pushing through the brush.
Sean staggered toward him, Franklin's dead weight dragging him down. Welles tried to push off the fuselage to meet them, but his legs buckled. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up from his left ankle, and he nearly went down face-first.
He caught himself on the jagged metal side of the helicopter, gasping.
Damn it—sprained. Maybe worse.
Sean reached him just in time, bracing him with his free arm. "Sir—you're hurt."
"No time," Welles rasped, forcing himself upright. "Just move."
But moving seemed less and less possible. The infected were closing in fast now, clawing their way between the trees. Their snarls grew louder, more frantic. The three men were already half-encircled, the last gap shrinking by the second.
Sean tightened his grip on Franklin, eyes wide with dread. "We're not gonna make it."
Welles lifted his handgun again, though his arm shook with the effort. He refused to say it aloud, but he knew—this looked like the end.
The infected surged forward—
—and then a deep, thunderous chopping sound rolled over the treetops.
Welles's head snapped upward.
Sean froze mid-breath.
A massive Chinook helicopter tore through the sky overhead, blades thundering like a heartbeat of salvation. Its silhouette darkened the clearing, dust kicking up as it hovered low.
The rear ramp was already lowering.
And then—crack.
One of the nearest infected's skull burst open.
Another fell. Then another.
Precise, controlled headshots rained down from above.
"Holy—!" Sean blurted, ducking as an infected lunged and immediately jerked backward, a bullet punching through its eye.
Seconds later, ropes dropped from the Chinook's belly.
Four, six then nine soldiers slid down fast, boots hitting the ground hard, weapons up before their lines even went slack. They spread outward in practiced formation, forming a protective arc around Welles, Sean, and the unconscious Franklin.
Muzzle flashes strobed the clearing as the soldiers began clearing targets with ruthless efficiency—each infected dropped with a single, perfect shot. No wasted movement. No hesitation.
The perimeter tightened. The infected fell.
Welles exhaled shakily, the fight draining out of him all at once.
Whoever these people were…
They weren't rookies.
They were professionals.
And they had just saved their lives.