Approaching the former club building, now unmistakably a command post, Price and his team noticed the changes immediately. Metal bars had been welded across the windows, dull gray steel cutting through the building's once decorative trim. Sandbags were stacked waist-high around key points of the exterior, covering low walls, doorways, and corners—ready to absorb incoming fire if things ever turned uglier than walkers. Two National Guard soldiers flanked the main door, rifles clipped to their vests, helmets low over watchful eyes.
One of the guards gave them a nod as they approached. "Major Griggs has been informed of your arrival. He and Sergeant Mercer are waiting for you inside, in the command room."
Price returned the nod, his tone calm but steady. "Much obliged, soldier. Let's not keep the Major waiting."
Soap let out a low whistle, glancing over the bars and sandbags as they passed. "Hell of a makeover. Few days ago, this place looked like it was ready for a cocktail party. Now it looks like Helmand in the summer."
"Practical makeover," Gaz said dryly, his eyes sweeping over the perimeter. "At least now it might actually keep people alive."
Ghost, walking just behind them, tilted his head toward the sandbags. "Would've been easier with HESCO barriers. But I suppose you work with what you've got."
Inside, the difference was even starker. The lobby, once decorated with muted carpeting and polished wood, smelled now of oil and cleaning solvent, the unmistakable tang of rifles freshly stripped and reassembled , along the smell of sweat. A dozen men and women working in confined space, focused and tired but purposeful.
Price and his team moved down the main hallway. On their left, one open door revealed racks of rifles, shotguns, and carbines—some military-issued, others clearly repurposed from the precinct's armory. A corporal with a clipboard was writing down the serial numbers, methodically noting each weapon before sliding it into place. Another door down the hall stood open as well, revealing stacks of ammo crates, grenades, and tactical gear. A pair of soldiers crouched by a pallet, breaking open a crate to count it's content's, while another checked over flashbangs one by one before noting the count.
"Efficient lot," Price murmured, his voice carrying quiet approval.
Further along, soldiers knelt by the wall, threading cables and securing wiring. The lines stretched from the doors ahead—the command room—across the hallway ceiling, neatly taped down in some spots and hanging loose in others. The rescued personnel from Fort Benning—logistics experts, by the looks of them—were hard at work, clipboards and headsets in hand.
At the end of the hall, they reached the large double doors. A soldier working on the wiring stepped aside to let them pass. Price opened the door, and the four of them stepped into what had once been a conference room.
The transformation was complete. The polished table at the center was barely visible under the weight of several maps—detailed layouts of the resort grounds, hand-drawn sketches of patrol routes, marked grids of Atlanta and surrounding Georgia highways, along nearby county's.
Along the left wall, communication equipment salvaged from the precinct had been set up, its tangle of wires running like veins into power boxes. Three operators were already at work, hunched over headsets and notepads, occasionally exchanging clipped updates.
Against another wall stood whiteboards crowded with notes ,patrol schedules, supply tallies, fuel usage scrawled in quick but legible handwriting. A chalkboard off to the side showed a rough timetable of construction goals.
At the back the far end of the room, sandbags reinforced the large windows, blocking part of the daylight but leaving enough to highlight the command center's hum of activity.
At the large table, Major Griggs and Andrew leaned over the maps , with several marked routes and hastily drawn notes. Their discussion cut short when they noticed Price and his team having entered the room. Both men straightened, acknowledging their arrival.
Price came to a stop opposite the table, eyeing the maps and the radio equipment along the wall. He let out a low grunt, tugging at his vest strap.
"Bloody hell, looks like you lot turned a golf club into Sandhurst. What's the sitrep, Major?"
Soap gave a short whistle as his eyes roamed the room. "Aye, not bad. Bit different from when we rolled in first time."
Ghost, arms folded, studied the stacked ammo crates visible through an open doorway. His tone was dry as ever. "Better décor. Less distraction, more firepower."
Gaz smirked. "Wouldn't mind seeing this sort of renovation back home."
Andrew spoke up, gesturing to one of the maps. "Most of that's thanks to the precinct run. We cleared and secured the building. Picked up weapons, ammo, equipment, and more than a dozen surviving officers along with two civilians. We brought everything here."
Griggs nodded, picking up where Andrew left off. "Now we've got enough kit to last us for a while. We're working on securing the perimeter—clearing trees and brush so we've got line of sight. Originally, the plan was a concrete wall, but materials won't cut it. So we're looking at shipping containers instead."
Price leaned over the map, studying the rough perimeter sketched out around the resort. "Containers, huh? Stackable, and you can weld plates if needed. Not bloody elegant, but it'll hold."
Soap grinned. "Like building blocks for grown-ups."
Ghost glanced at him sidelongbut didn't say anything .
Griggs chuckled, then tapped a note scribbled near the edge of the map. "We were just discussing sourcing. Rail yards, ports, truck depots—somewhere there's a decent cache of containers. Won't be easy, but it's doable. Meanwhile, materials we already have are being redirected to a covered motor pool—keep vehicles out of the weather and give us a place to maintain them properly."
Price straightened, his expression hardening. "Good. You'll need it. But there's something else you all need to hear—CDC's running on fumes. Power's gone, they're on emergency generators now. I told the scientists the truth: whatever this thing is, everyone carries it. You die, you turn. Didn't sit well, but it lit a fire under them. They're working harder than ever."
Gaz shook his head. "Christ. And those generators won't last forever."
Price's voice was sharp, but measured. "No. And it's not worth pumping fuel into a dead end when we've got better use for it. Once the tanks run dry, the failsafe kicks in and the place'll go up in flames."
Andrew exhaled slowly. "What about the people still there?"
Price met his eyes. "Civilians and officers that made it in are safe for now. But it's only a matter of time before they'll have to be moved here. And that's if the walkers don't force the issue sooner. Horde's still bottled up in the city, but it's slipping through. Sooner or later, the dam breaks."
Silence settled over the table, broken only by the scratch of a pen as one of the radio operators updated a log. Ghost finally spoke, his voice even. "So, either we brace for the flood… or make damn sure we're ready when it comes."
His comment receiving several nods in response.
Then after a moment Gaz leaned forward, resting a hand on the table.
"On our way back, we saw movement. Civvies. Five of 'em, hit a pharmacy. Drew walkers like moths to a flame, but they got out. Headed deeper into the city."
He glanced at the map of Atlanta spread out beneath his hand, eyes narrowing.
"Point is, CDC ain't the only game left. People are still fighting to survive in there. Families, groups… who knows how many. And if they're scrounging pharmacies, they're running out of time same as everyone else."
He looked at Price, his voice steady but edged with concern.
"If we're thinking about supply runs, about containers or fuel… we've got to factor in survivors too. Atlanta's not empty. Not yet."
As the others debated, Andrew started thinking. He remembered that there are police officers holed up with patients in a hospital that hadn't been bombed. And then there were the men who called themselves the Vatos, a group who had taken it upon themselves to protect the elderly. That was, if his memory was right. For all he knew, there could be other groups, outside the scope of what he already knew.
Either way, they'd need patrols to check the hospital and the area where the Vatos should be located . But that would have to wait. First, they had to deal with the massive horde still pressing toward the CDC.
That's when it struck him. An idea with which they would hit two birds with one stone. It was already decided that CDC couldn't be mentained, and that it could become more of a liability, but now it could become their weapon.
The room buzzed with ideas: Gaz suggested luring the walkers back into downtown; Major Griggs proposed creating firing lanes, narrowing the horde through a chokepoint where they could be picked off one by one. Each plan had merit, but each also carried high risks and wasted ammunition they couldn't afford.
Andrew finally cut in.
"Listen," he began, his voice firm, drawing every eye to him. "We need to evacuate the CDC. Strip it of everything useful—supplies, equipment, anything we can carry back to the resort. Once it's cleared out, we use the building itself against the horde. Lure them inside, lock them in, and then… blow the whole damn place sky-high. That way, we take out the walkers and save our ammo for when it really matters."
The room fell silent. Even the comms specialists had stopped tapping at their equipment, glancing up to gauge the reaction of their commanding officer.
Captain Price pondered the idea , dragging thoughtfully on his cigar. "Not a bad play," he said finally, his gruff voice cutting through the stillness. "But how do you figure we lure an entire horde inside without losing half the men doing it?"
Andrew nodded. He'd expected that question. "Small team," he explained. "Minimal numbers on the ground. The rest will already be relocated from CDC to the resort. We'll have reinforcements staged close enough to move in if things go sideways. Inside the building, the team draws them in . But we plan every step of the escape route beforehand. No improvising once the dead are on us."
Major Griggs crossed his arms, studying him. "Problem is, the CDC's got security protocols. When the failsafe kicks in, that whole building goes into lockdown. If we're inside when that happens, there's no walking out."
Price gave a slow nod, agreeing. "And if that happens, son, you'll be going down with the walkers. Don't much like that ending."
Andrew met their gazes evenly. "Then we find a workaround. Talk to the scientists still there. They know the systems better than anyone. If there's a way to bypass or delay the lockdown, they'll know it. We only need the doors open long enough to get out once the horde's inside."
Griggs exhaled, shaking his head with the ghost of a grin. "Crazy as hell, but it just might work. Beats wasting every bullet we've got."
Price gave a short chuckle, though his eyes were still sharp, calculating. "You've got guts, mate. I'll give you that. Alright. Let's see if the eggheads can keep the doors open long enough for us to leg it. If they can, then we've got ourselves a bloody plan."
Andrew gave a firm nod. "Alright, we've got a working plan for the horde. Now we need to shift focus to the resort's defenses. First order of business is to decide from were should we procure the shipping containers for the walls."
The group leaned in over the map of Georgia . Ghost, silent until now, tapped a gloved finger against a section south from the city. "Oakland City Rail Yard. Terminal line. If anywhere's gonna have a stockpile of shipping containers, it's there."
Andrew followed Ghost's finger, eyes tracing the terrain. That's when he noticed it—the outline of the prison marked not far from the yard. His mind jumped ahead in the timeline he remembered. Rick's group would eventually end up there . And the rail yard… Terminus. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. They weren't cannibals yet—not this early—but the potential danger gnawed at him.
He exhaled sharply, then spoke. "Ghost is right. Rail yard's the best bet. But we don't roll in blind. No convoy until we know what we're walking into. We send a recon team first. Get eyes on the containers, check for hostiles, dead or alive. Then we move in."
There were nods all around the table. Even Price gave a grunt of approval. The decision was made.
The meeting moved on to secondary concerns—supplys, manpower rotations, fuel reserves. It was then that Major Griggs cleared his throat, drawing every eye to him. His voice carried the weight of command, steady and deliberate.
"For the past few days," Griggs began, "I've heard some chatter. A controversy, you might say. Some folks question why a sergeant is sitting at this table, making calls alongside me a Major and a Captain." He said looking in Price direction, he let the words hang in the air before continuing. "But I've seen the decisions you've made, Mercer. You've kept civilians alive. You've given soldiers a reason to follow you. And when it came time to stand your ground, you didn't flinch. That kind of leadership is needed in those times."
Griggs reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a rank insignia of a U.S. Army Lieutenant.
He stepped forward, standing squarely before Andrew. The room fell silent. "By the authority vested in me as a Major of the United States Army Rangers, I hereby promote you from sergeant to Lieutenant. Effective immediately. You'll assume the responsibilities and privileges of that rank, and you'll continue to exercise command over this installation alongside myself and Captain Price."
Griggs placed the insignia to Andrew's chest, one hand pressing firmly against his shoulder. "Don't make me regret this, Lieutenant."
A ripple of respect moved through the room. Ghost gave a small nod.Gaz and Soap grinned. Price, who rarely showed much in the way of sentiment, muttered, "Well earned."