Andrew led the way back up the stairwell, boots thudding softly on the concrete steps as the group emerged once more into the lobby. Ozone and Dunn were near the reception desk, deep in conversation with Marvin Branagh and the two other officers.
Off to the side, the two civilians sat together on a bench, their posture tense, whispering in quick, clipped tones. They looked up briefly as Andrew and the others entered, relief flickering across their faces before their eyes dropped again.
Andrew's gaze swept to the main entrance. The improvised barricade of benches and overturned furniture still held firm, wedged tightly against the heavy glass doors. Beyond it, through streaks of grime and faint blood smears, the street outside seemed empty—no shambling figures, no clawing hands against the glass.
Andrewwalked to Ozone and Dunn. The two Rangers straightened at once, their eyes scanning the larger group trailing behind . The expressions on the three officers' faces shifted from guarded curiosity to faint relief when they noticed the uniforms of their colleagues among the nine newly freed officers.
"We've secured the underground level," Andrew said firmly, stopping a few paces from them. "Motor pool's clear. Generator's running. And—" he glanced back at the weary faces of the officers who had followed them upstairs—"we found nine more locked in the evidence storage room."
That announcement earned quiet murmurs from both groups. Officer Branagh smiled at the sight of his fellow precinct colleges, while the civilians simply looked on with a mixture of surprise and exhaustion.
"They're going to need food and water," Andrew added, his voice firm.
"Water isn't a problem," one officer said, stepping forward. Trying to carry himself with authority, even though fatigue lined his features. "We had some stored with us."
"Then only something to eat," Foley cut in, blunt as ever. His gaze drifted to the group of survivors, reading their faces.
Branagh hesitated, exchanging a quiet, telling glance with the two other officers and the civilians. The silence stretched until finally he exhaled, shoulders slumping a fraction. "Unfortunately, we ate what food we found unspoiled. There isn't any left."
A moment of silence settled over the group at that admission. The civilians shifted uncomfortably on the bench, the younger female officer looked down at her boots, and even Branagh's tone carried something close to shame.
It was Ramirez who broke the silence, his voice practical but not unkind. "We've got a few MREs with us. We could check if we've got enough to stretch them out—for the nine, at least."
Andrew blinked, realization dawning. He completely forgotten about the rations they packed . He gave a short nod, his tone firm again. "Good idea. Each of us should have at least two MREs packed. "
There were faint sighs of relief from the officers, though the tension of hunger still lingered.
At Andrew's word, the Rangers began sliding the straps of their packs off their shoulders. One by one, they set their gear down on the reception counter and nearby benches.
Andrew unzipped his pack first, pulling out two sealed brown pouches stamped with block letters: MRE – Meal, Ready-to-Eat. "Just like I said," he murmured, holding them up for the others to see. Foley, Ramirez, Rook, Dunn, and Ozone followed suit, each retrieving their two packs. Soon, a small stack of field rations sat neatly on the counter, the crinkle of plastic breaking the silence.
"That's twelve total," Ramirez counted quickly, nodding. "Enough to cover them without cutting into our reserves too much."
Andrew took a moment to look over the nine weary officers. Their eyes had already fixed on the stack of MREs—not with greed, but with the quiet desperation of men and women who hadn't eaten in days. He gave a small nod, then began distributing the brown pouches, placing one into each waiting pair of hands.
"Not gourmet," Foley said dryly as he handed one off to the older officer. "But it'll keep you on your feet."
The officers didn't argue. Most tore into the packs immediately, hands fumbling slightly with the tough plastic until the Rangers showed them the quick trick—rip open from the top seam. Inside, each pouch revealed its contents: a main entrée in a sealed packet—beef stew, chili with beans, spaghetti with meat sauce—alongside sides like crackers with a spread of peanut butter or cheese, a dessert like pound cake or a cookie, instant coffee, and the flameless ration heater.
Rook smirked faintly as he watched one of the younger officers sniff suspiciously at his pouch of chili. "Rule one: don't think too hard about what it smells like. Just heat it up, eat it, and hope for pound cake at the bottom."
"That or peanut butter," Dunn added with a shrug. "Best part of the whole deal. Everything else is a coin toss."
Despite the banter, the officers were already tearing into their meals, shaking the flameless heaters and tucking the entrée pouches inside to warm. A faint chemical hiss filled the air as the heaters activated, a familiar sound to the Rangers, but a novelty to the precinct officers who hadn't seen one used before.
The younger female officer gave a small, exhausted laugh as steam rose from her pouch. "After days locked in that cell, I don't care if it tastes like cardboard. This… this smells like heaven."
Another officer opened his cracker pack, then spread a thin layer of cheese on it. He looked at the Rangers, gratitude flickering in his tired eyes. "We've got no reason to complain. Not after going days with nothing but water."
After looking at the officer's enjoying the MRE's , the rangers sat down and opened their own MRE's.
For a while, the lobby filled with the quiet rustle of packaging, the soft clink of plastic spoons against foil packets, and the subdued murmurs of relief. For the first time since entering the precinct, there was no sound of walkers pressing against walls or echoing through corridors—only the steady rhythm of people eating, resting, and talking to each other .
The steady crinkle of MRE packaging and the low sound of chewing filled the lobby. For a while, no one spoke, each person lost in the relief of food after days of gnawing hunger. Then, one of the police officers—a stocky man with dark circles under his eyes—glanced up at Andrew.
"So… what happens now?" he asked, his voice hoarse but steady. "We've eaten… but where do we go from here?"
Andrew, halfway through a bite of his own ration, chewed slowly and swallowed before answering. He set the pouch down on his knee and looked around the group, making sure every set of eyes was on him.
"Next," he said, voice calm but firm, "we start gathering everything from this precinct that can be useful—gear, weapons, supplies, even vehicles. Once we've taken what we can, we'll head back to the resort."
At that word—resort—several of the officers exchanged puzzled looks. The younger female officer frowned slightly. "Resort? You mean… like a hotel?"
Before Andrew could respond, Rook gave a short chuckle and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Yeah, something like that. Big place, defensible. Is secured and locked down, and right now we're working on reinforcing the perimeter. Beats staying in the city with this mess."
The realization seemed to dawn on the officers and the two civilians all at once. Branagh glanced at his fellow officers, then back at Andrew, his voice carrying the weight of a man who'd been holding himself together for the sake of others. "You've got a safe place… and you're building it up? That's more than anyone else has managed. If you'll have us, we'll help however we can."
The others nodded, some more eagerly than others, but none hesitated.
Andrew studied their faces for a long moment, then gave a small, approving nod. "Good. With everyone pitching in, gathering what we can, we'll be finished here in no time. Then we head back together."
...
After everyone finished eating , Andrew clapped his hands lightly to draw everyone's attention.
"Alright, listen up. We've got twenty people now—enough to work in proper teams. We'll move faster if we divide the workload. Four teams, five people each."
He paced slowly as he assigned tasks, his tone steady but decisive.
"Team One: second floor. Bring down the comms gear and anything else we can use. Team Two and Team Three: ground floor, clear the armory and gather weapons, ammo, and equipment. Team Four: underground. Search the evidence storage, bring up anything useful, and check the motor pool. I want that SWAT van and any cruisers we can get running brought up front with ours."
Foley stepped up beside him. "An hour. Then we regroup here, load everything, and prepare to move out."
The teams nodded and split off, the sound of boots and gear echoing through the precinct as the work began.
...
More than thirty minutes later, five officers and one ranger returned from upstairs, hauling down armloads of equipment. The comms array, two portable radios with charging cradles, and a small antenna kit—was set down carefully on the reception desk. Alongside it, they carried three sidearms and a pair of battered boxes filled with 9mm .
"Not much left up there," one officer muttered, sweat streaking his dust-caked face. "But at least we got this."
Meanwhile, the groups on the first floor had stripped the armory nearly clean. They stacked rifles, shotguns, several flashbangs and boxes of ammunition along the benches near the lobby. From fallen officers—both inside the building and outside—they recovered additional pistols, spare magazines, and a handful of riot gear .
They also pulled other useful items:Sets of handcuffs and zip ties, three riot shields that were scattered on the ground , pepper spray canisters and batons.
Foley ran a quick count, his expression tight but satisfied. "Not bad. Enough here to outfit everyone with something."
The team at the underground levelchecked the evidence storage, now opened and lit, yielded a mix of strange and valuable items. They came back carrying several confiscated civilian firearms—mostly handguns, but also a short-barreled shotgun and an old hunting rifle.
A duffel bag filled with knives, brass knuckles, and makeshift weapons.
A locked case of narcotics, which they left behind .
A battered crowbar and bolt cutters.
Stacks of sealed folders and files—most useless now, but left piled in a corner.
In the motor pool, after retrieving they key's they checked the armored SWAT van, finding it fueled , they rolled out , its heavy frame creaking but still functional. Alongside it, they brought up a black-and-white police cruiser , its trunk packed with flares, cones, and a first aid kit.
The two vehicles rumbled up the ramp and parked alongside the Rangers' own van at the front entrance.
....
By the time everyone reconvened, the lobby was cluttered with weapons, boxes, and equipment. The teams worked together, loading the supplies and equipment into the vehicles as Foley checked each stack against his mental tally.
"Generator?" Ramirez asked, wiping his brow.
"Too big," Andrew replied. "We shut it down. Don't want it drawing more of them in once we're gone."
The steady hum in the walls died away, leaving only silence and the sound of boots and voices. The lobby felt darker without the overhead lights, but it was time.
"Alright," Andrew said, his voice firm, carrying just enough to be heard by everyone. "Load up. We're heading to the resort."
Engines turned on one by one. Slowly, the convoy of vehicles rolled out into the ruined streets, leaving the precinct behind.
...
The drive back to the resort passed in silence, the convoy rolling steadily through streets littered with debris. Not a walker stirred in their path; only the steady growl of engines filled the air. As they neared the resort, the main gate came into view. Two soldiers standing watch moved quickly, swinging it open. The vehicles slowed, then rolled inside the perimeter.
The convoy pulled up in front of the hotel, engines shutting off one by one. Andrew stepped out of the van, stretching his shoulders from the long ride. He spotted Major Griggs already striding toward them, his expression sharp but expectant.
"Sargent," Griggs greeted, his voice firm. "Report."
Andrew nodded, meeting him halfway. "We secured the precinct. Found twelve officers and two civilians alive, some were locked up a holding cell , others in the evidence storage. They're here with us. We also recovered communication equipment, weapons, ammunition, riot gear, and two vehicles—including an armored SWAT van."
Griggs's eyebrows lifted slightly, impressed. He gave a brisk nod. "That's good work. We'll store all of it in the club building with the rest of the supplies. It's our armory now, though it'll need some modifications—reinforced doors, better locking systems. If this place is going to hold, that building has to be secure."
Andrew agreed. "Makes sense. No point in hauling all this back if it ends up being taken from under our noses."
Before either of them could say more, a golf cart rolled up and stopped nearby. A man in his late forties stepped out, clipboard in hand. His clothes were dusty.
"Gentlemen," he said, giving a quick nod. "Name's George. I've been coordinating with a few of the others who have construction experience. While waiting for the supplies to arrive, we walked the grounds and measured the perimeter." He flipped through the pages on his clipboard, glancing at his notes.
"The resort covers more ground than we thought. Even with the materials we're expecting, we won't have enough to enclose more than half the property. Less, if we want it solid and not just patched together."
Griggs's jaw tightened, and Andrew let out a slow breath. Neither man spoke, the weight of the problem settling on them.
Before the silence could stretch, the distant sound of engines rumbled closer. Heads turned as a truck rolled up the main drive, piled high with building materials. Nikolai sat in the cab, beaming like a man returning from a hunt. He parked near the other stockpiles and hopped down, wiping his hands on his pants.
Nikolai walked up to them.
"Why the long faces?" he asked cheerfully, his accent carrying.
Andrew and Griggs exchanged a glance before Andrew spoke. "George here just told us—materials won't even cover half the perimeter. Not if we want something that'll last."
For a moment Nikolai said nothing, his smile fading as he looked between them. Then, rubbing his beard, he spoke up. "Shipping containers." He gestured with his hands as though stacking blocks. "Strong, heavy, already walls by themselves. Stack them two high if you can. Fill gaps with wood and steel. A fortress."
The idea hung in the air for a beat. Griggs finally nodded slowly. "It could work. It'll take time to find enough containers, but the principle makes sense. And they're built to last."
Andrew folded his arms, thinking it through. "It's a lot of work, but it's doable. Better than stretching thin walls across too much ground."
"Exactly," Nikolai said, satisfied.
Griggs turned back toward the truck Nikolai had brought. "In the meantime, these materials don't go to waste. We'll put up covered bays near the club building. Somewhere to park and protect the vehicles. Last thing we need is them breaking down from weather or neglect."
Andrew nodded in agreement. "Good call. Vehicles will be just as important as walls if we want to last out here."
With a new plan in place, the group stood in quiet consensus, each man picturing the resort slowly transforming from a retreat into a fortress.