MTLNOVEL Chapter 23 - In Safe Hands
Lang had never been a brave man, but desperation could push anyone past their limits. Grace's supply of insulin had finally run dry after days of careful rationing, and without it, she was fading fast. She had tried to convince him to stay, begged him not to risk the trip into the city. Her voice was weak but firm: "Lang, it's too dangerous. If something happens to you, I'll be gone anyway." But he couldn't accept that. He couldn't just sit by and watch the woman he loved slip away.
So he went. He drove their old sedan down the cracked backroads toward the city, hands tight on the wheel, every turn of the engine echoing through the empty streets. In his hurry, he didn't realize that the noise of the car had drawn a handful of walkers behind him, trailing slowly but steadily as he pulled up outside a small pharmacy.
Inside, the shelves were half-empty, ransacked by looters, but luck—or fate—was on his side. Behind the counter refrigerator, he found them: a few vials of insulin, cold packs long since useless but the medicine still intact. Relief crashed over him like a wave. He shoved them into a bag, already picturing Grace's tired smile when he returned.
Then came the sound—dull thuds and guttural moans from the glass doors. The walkers had found him. His heart lurched. Thinking fast, Lang shoved a metal shelf hard against the doors, the crash echoing through the pharmacy. The dead pressed against the barrier, hands clawing at the glass. He ducked behind the counter, clutching the bag of medicine to his chest, heart hammering, praying the walkers would lose interest and shuffle away.
Minutes dragged on. The pounding grew softer… then stopped. Lang held his breath. Maybe they had left. Maybe—
A voice broke the silence. Low, steady, commanding. "If someone's in there, it's safe now. Open the door."
Lang froze. He hadn't expected anyone—let alone other survivors . Fear rooted him to the spot. His only thought was of Grace, waiting for him back at the cabin. He wanted to stay hidden, to wait them out, to bolt for the car the moment he could.
But the decision was stolen from him. The door creaked, metal groaned, and with a sharp shove the shelf scraped aside. The glass doors swung open. Lang scrambled to his feet, eyes wide, heart in his throat.
Four figures stood in the doorway—armed, disciplined. Soldiers. Real soldiers. He hadn't seen any since the bombing, since the world ended.
"Don't shoot!" Lang blurted, his voice raw with panic. He raised his hands, bag clutched tight in his grip. "I—I just need insulin. My wife… she has Type 1 diabetes. Please, I have to bring this back to her. She won't survive without it."
One of the soldiers, calm but firm, lowered his weapon slightly. "We've got doctors at our base. If you and your wife come with us, she'll be safe. You both will."
Lang shook his head, clutching the bag tighter. "I can't. She's waiting for me. If I don't get this back now…" His voice cracked, but he pressed on. "I'm grateful for the offer, truly. But I have to go."
They didn't stop him. He backed away from them, heart racing, and hurried out into the street, fumbling into his car and driving off, the soldiers' eyes still on him as he disappeared down the ruined street.
When he returned to the cabin, Grace was slumped on the couch, her skin pale and clammy, lips dry. Lang's heart nearly broke at the sight. He rushed to her side, gently lifting her arm. His hands trembled as he drew up the insulin into a syringe, then injected it, praying he wasn't too late. She winced faintly at the needle, then gave him the smallest of nods. Her breathing steadied, if only a little.
Lang sat with her as the color slowly began to return to her cheeks. She reached for his hand, and he told her everything—the walkers, the pharmacy, and most of all, the soldiers. How they had offered safety, doctors, a base with walls and people.
For a long time, they argued. Grace said it was too dangerous, that leaving the cabin was risking everything. Lang said staying meant she would die, sooner or later. His voice broke when he admitted he didn't think he could watch that happen.
In the end, Grace fell silent, tears in her eyes. Finally, she whispered, "Then we'll go. We'll find them. We'll find that base."
Lang squeezed her hand, a flicker of hope igniting in his chest. For the first time since the world had fallen apart, he dared to believe they might have a chance.
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Back at the resort, Andrew's convoy rolled in through the main gates just as the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grounds. The rumble of engines carried over the quiet, and as they passed into the safety of the resort's perimeter, Andrew caught sight of Nikolai standing near the club building. From the looks of it, their run had gone just as well. A smile tugged at Andrew's face.
After parking the Humvee, Andrew guided the rest of the convoy toward the golf course, where the heavy machinery was being staged in a wide, empty clearing. Engines were cut, doors slammed.
Andrew left the vehicle line and headed toward Nikolai and Major Griggs, who were already walking his way. Nikolai's booming laugh hit him first, rolling across the lot like cannon fire.
"Ha! Andrew, my friend!" Nikolai bellowed, throwing his arms wide. His grin was broad, but his eyes went straight to the transport truck and the fuel tanker. "You return with steel and gasoline! Hah, beautiful." He let out another hearty laugh, shaking his head.
Andrew nodded, still catching his breath from the long day. "Yeah. The number of walkers in that area was higher than we expected, but we managed to find a way around. Still—we'll need another run. That load isn't everything we need."
Nikolai clapped him on the shoulder . "Then we'll get it. The men who worked construction told me something important—they'll need proper tools. Without them, they can't service the heavy machines, let alone maintain them if they break down."
Major Griggs cleared his throat, stepping in with his usual precision. "Before we even think about building the wall, we'll need to draft plans—blueprints. Something solid. If we don't design it right, the dead will climb it, or worse, bring it down."
Nikolai waved a hand dismissively, though his grin remained. "Blueprints, walls, bricks, bah. We will build fortress so strong that even Stalin would approve. But yes—first we drink, then we plan."
Andrew gave a faint smile at Nikolai's theatrics before nodding firmly. "Agreed. Until we're ready to build, our focus should be on clearing the trees. The wood will be useful, and we'll need the space open for when construction begins."
"We have what we need to start working on it," Nikolai said, nodding toward the machinery they had brought. His grin widened as he pointed at the feller buncher. "That beast cuts trees faster than hungry man cuts bread. With this, we clear ground in no time—maybe even have firewood for winter, da?"
Andrew laughed. "You're right, Nikolai. But we'll start the work tomorrow. For now, everyone's earned a rest."
He turned to Major Griggs. "Anything happen while we were gone?"
Major Griggs shook his head. "No, everything stayed quiet. I did send a few Rangers out in a JLTV to scout the surrounding area." After glancing at his watch, he added, "They should be back any minute now."
Almost on cue, the groan of heavy tires reached them. The main gates creaked open, and the JLTV rolled inside—dust rising from its wheels—followed closely by a civilian car that immediately drew everyone's attention.
The JLTV rumbled to a stop in the parking lot, its engine cutting off with a sharp hiss. Dust swirled in the air as the armored vehicle settled. The Rangers inside moved with practiced efficiency: doors swung open, boots hit the pavement, and regrouped near the vehicle.
Andrew, Major Griggs, and Nikolai crossed the lot, the faint crunch of gravel underfoot breaking the silence. The Rangers didn't move to greet them but remained in position, waiting as soldiers would for their commanding officer.
Major Griggs stepped forward, voice steady and clipped. "Report."
One of the Rangers spoke . "Major. We scouted the area out to five miles from the resort's perimeter. No large concentrations of walkers—mostly scattered , nothing our patrols can't handle. On our way back, we encountered this civilian vehicle about half a mile out. Two individuals inside. They claimed they'd been told the resort was taking people in." He glanced toward the car before looking back to Griggs. "We escorted them here, sir."
Griggs' eyes narrowed slightly, flicking toward the civilian car . "Is that so," he muttered, more statement than question.
The car doors opened slowly. A man climbed out first, shoulders stiff, worry visible on his face but determined. He moved around to help a woman out of the passenger side—her steps unsteady, her skin still drawn and sickly despite the attempt at composure.
Andrew stopped in his tracks. Recognition hit him immediately. Lang. The desperate man from the pharmacy. And the woman at his side must be his wife—the one he had spoken about, still looking fragile even after receiving insulin.
Andrew turned to Griggs and Nikolai. "I know him," he said. "We ran into him at the pharmacy in Decatur. He's the one who needed insulin for his wife."
Andrew then proceeded to approach the two. Lang looked up as he neared, his hand still resting protectively on his wife's shoulder.
"So," Andrew began, his voice calm but edged with meaning, "you've changed your mind."
Lang gave a nervous chuckle, scratching at the back of his neck. "Yeah… Grace and I talked it over. We decided it was best to come. Finding you wasn't exactly easy—it was damn near impossible, actually. At the pharmacy, I should've asked where your base was, but… I was in such a hurry to get back to her. Guess we just got lucky running into your men."
Andrew's sternness eased, and he gave a small nod. "What matters is you made it here safely." His gaze lingered on Grace for a moment, taking in her unsteady posture.
Lang cleared his throat, his voice quieter now. "The doctors you mentioned… do you think they could take a look at her?"
Andrew nodded. "They'll see her. But understand this—while you're here, it won't just be resting and waiting. Everyone contributes. That's the only way this works."
Lang nodded quickly, as though expecting the condition. "Of course. We're not looking for a free ride. Grace and I—we're both architects. Used to design the look and structure of buildings, inside and out. She might not be able to do much physically right now, but I'll help however I can."
Major Griggs stepped forward, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Architects, you say? That could be useful. We'll need proper planning if we want this wall to stand the test of time. You can help us design it."
Nikolai gave a short grunt, his mouth curling into something between a smirk and a frown. "Da. Strong wall is better than strong words. Maybe this time, architects build something that does not fall down, eh?" His tone was half-joking, half-serious, but his eyes stayed sharp on Lang.
Andrew gave a single nod, then turned from Griggs and Nikolai back to Lang and Grace. "He's right. We're planning to build a wall around the resort. Your experience can be valuable when that work begins, and we'll reach out to you then. But for now, let's get your wife to the medics."
Lang's face softened with relief. "Thank you… truly." He held Grace a little tighter, his gratitude clear in his expression.
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Morning crept slowly over the CDC compound, the rising sun washing the building's shattered windows in pale light. Captain Price and Soap emerged from their makeshift bunks, both men stiff and heavy-eyed from the long night. They'd taken the early watch, one of the first to pull guard duty, and now the weight of fatigue clung to them.
As they moved toward the exit, Price slowed, his sharp eyes catching movement beyond the reinforced glass doors. He tugged his boonie hat lower and muttered, "Bloody hell…"
Parked just outside the perimeter was a battered city bus. Its paint was scorched along one side, windows cracked, tires caked with mud from frantic roads. Huddled near it were few civilians—faces pale, gaunt, and hollow-eyed. Close to them stood three police officers and four armored figures in black tactical gear, their SWAT insignia still visible despite the grime and blood. They looked ragged, weapons held more out of habit than discipline.
Soap leaned closer to the glass, his trademark smirk fading into a frown. "Jesus, Price… they look like they've been chewed up and spat back out. Lot o' poor bastards made it through hell to end up on our doorstep."
Price grunted, jaw tightening around the cigar stub in his teeth. Without another word, the two pushed through the doors, boots crunching on gravel as they crossed the lot. Ghost was already nearby, his skull mask turned toward the new arrivals, arms crossed over his chest in that quiet, looming way of his.
Price's voice was low and gravelly when he reached him. "When'd they roll in, Ghost?"
Ghost shifted slightly, his tone calm but edged with fatigue. "'Bout an hour ago. Slipped through the chaos and managed to survive the bombing. Said they heard gunfire—figured it meant someone was still alive in here. Didn't have anywhere else to go."
Soap gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Aye, can't blame 'em. Only thing worse than walkin' dead on your heels is not knowin' where the hell you're runnin'."
Price took a long breath, watching the civilians , parents clutching their children while the officers tried to look like protectors instead of broken men. He muttered more to himself than anyone, "Let's hope we can give 'em something worth holdin' onto."