The dawn wind cut through the campsite with a cold, biting sharpness, making the flames of the fire crackle unevenly. Ethan Cole was awake long before the sun rose. His bones still ached as if each step of the past nights had been carved into muscle and memory. It wasn't sleep that kept him alert—it was instinct. The instinct of a man who had commanded soldiers in situations where a single distracted breath meant dying.
Ghost stood watch as usual, his cracked mask dimly lit by the fading embers, eyes scanning through narrow slits. Gaz and Price counted their ammunition quietly, as if even their words needed to be conserved.
Rick approached Ethan with an improvised map and two cans of food. There was exhaustion in the man's face, but also purpose—the kind born from carrying the safety of others on your back.
"T-Dog's getting worse," Rick said, straight to the point. "High fever, shallow breathing. If we don't get antibiotics and painkillers, he could go downhill fast."
Ethan studied the map, eyes narrowing. He knew how to follow orders, but he also knew how to calculate risk. Counting deaths because of hesitation was a lesson learned early—and painfully.
"I'll take my team," Ethan said. "We leave in ten minutes. Clean entry, clean exit."
Shane stiffened before the sentence even finished. Leadership seemed carved into his muscles like bone—it hurt him to give it up. Rick noticed and inhaled deeply before speaking again, calmly:
"You take point on this. Here at the camp, last resort is on us. But we need those meds."
Tension hung in the air like a razor. Glenn immediately volunteered, his optimism refusing to die. Daryl agreed to accompany him, calm but ready, a safeguard against Glenn's impulsiveness.
Jacqui, Morales, and a few others offered to help carry any supplies they found.
Ethan's squad moved with precision. Rick, Shane, Glenn, Ethan, Ghost, Gaz, and Price formed the convoy moving toward the city.
Atlanta in the early morning looked skeletal—deserted cars, shattered storefronts, and streets covered in mud, dried blood, and fragments of lives violently interrupted. Ethan monitored everything: metal clinks, echoing steps, shadows that didn't match the light.
When they reached the building that supposedly housed a small community health center—one that ambulances had used before everything collapsed—they found its side entrance torn open. Forced doors, empty boxes, signs of struggle. Footprints on the floor, some deep, some abruptly ending.
Ethan signaled silently.
Ghost moved to secure the back windows with a small charge. Echo swept the corridor. Gaz handled the rear. The team entered like shadows—smooth, quiet, lethal.
Inside, the air still smelled faintly of disinfectant and old fear. Drawers spilled open, needles scattered, a collapsed stretcher on the floor. Shelf labels still showed what had once been there—antibiotics, analgesics, bandages.
But the shelves themselves were stripped bare.
"Someone's been here already," Rick muttered. "Either they took everything… or burned it."
Ethan clenched his jaw. Empty boxes lay everywhere. Outside, tire tracks indicated hurried transport.
Ghost picked up a small metal plate, half-burned but recognizable—a fragment of their military base insignia.
"This could be from our unit," he whispered. "Or someone following us."
Ethan's heartbeat sharpened. If the base's soldiers came through here, then maybe Soap, Price, or the others had been near. A thin clue, but a clue nonetheless.
As they began to exit, faint, dragging footsteps echoed from a side hall. Walkers, trapped. One lunged through a shattered doorway; Echo shot it down cleanly.
Then came another sound—metallic, deliberate.
Something, or someone, was watching them.
Ethan didn't speak. He simply motioned for the group to retreat slowly, professionally. Ghost left faint smoke markers. Echo cleared corners. Gaz and Price protected the rear.
Outside, between wrecked SUVs, Glenn found a black leather jacket with a charred military symbol.
Ghost froze when he saw it.
"That's from our base," he whispered. "It's theirs."
Ethan held the jacket like it was a map. His men had passed through here—or someone wearing their insignias. Memories of his missing teammates flashed behind his cold blue eyes.
Soap. The others. Someone had survived. Or someone had died here.
The road back to camp felt longer.
When they returned, T-Dog was worse. Dale administered what little they'd found—makeshift painkillers, compresses. Rick reassured Lori and Carol. Andrea stood silent, watching Ethan closely.
Shane approached. Irritated. Borderline hostile.
"You brought a soldier's signal back here," Shane snapped. "You know what that means? You just painted a target on this camp."
Ethan looked at him with an unshakeable steadiness.
"I brought it because it might belong to my men. If they're dangerous, I'll stop them. If they're alive, I'll save them. I don't make empty promises, Shane. I make action."
Shane almost swung.
Rick intervened. "We're not turning on each other. Not today. If there are other military survivors, this changes things. But right now, we don't know enough."
Dale added, quiet but firm:
"Trust is what we build when nothing else is left. Watch you don't trade it for pride."
Night fell.
Ethan found Glenn sitting by a small lantern, drawing routes and trying to solve problems bigger than him.
"You think your men are out there?" Glenn asked softly, looking at the jacket.
Ethan exhaled.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I don't abandon my team without trying. That's rule one. Rule two? Protect the people who are still alive around me. That's tomorrow's mission."
Glenn smiled faintly. A warm, fragile trust.
Ethan felt something shift inside him.
Those weren't just survivors anymore.
They were starting to feel… like something more.
In the darkness beyond the camp, footsteps scraped across gravel. Not human. Not fully dead. The forest whispered danger. The world was changing—and so were the rules.
And the jacket lying on Ethan's lap was no longer just cloth.
It was a warning.
A clue.
And a promise.
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