MTLNOVEL Chapter 27 - Echoes of Law and Order
Andrew took the cold, worn key from the African-American officer's hand. "Marvin Branagh," the man said introducing himself with a weary nod, his voice hoarse but steady.
Fitting the key into the lock, Andrew twisted until the mechanism gave with a loud clack. The cell door refused to budge at first, blocked by the weight of the walker corpses pressed against it. With a grunt, Andrew grabed one body and began dragging it away , with Rook and Ozone joining in, dragging the limp, bloodied bodies aside one by one. The sound of boots scraping on concrete and the wet slide of dead flesh filled the cellblock until the way was finally clear.
With the way cleared the door swung open . Andrew's eyes scanned the survivors quickly, his gaze sharp searching for possible bite wounds. He found only exhaustion, hollow cheeks, and trembling hands. "No bites," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Straightening, Andrew addressed them firmly but not unkindly. "Alright. You're coming with us." Then he turned to Ozone and Rook "We're regrouping with Sergeant Foley and his team, they secured the armory."
...
Leaving the holding cells, Andrew led the group back the way they had come, boots echoing against the concrete floor.
The three officers and two civilians trailed behind, their steps faltering the moment they passed the first fallen body. The female officer covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes fixed on the twisted remains of a fellow officer slumped against the wall. Her breathing hitched, and Ozone quietly urged her forward with a hand on her shoulder.
Marvin Branagh's face tightened into a mask of controlled grief. The younger male officer whispered something under his breath—half prayer, half apology—as they stepped over a corpse in riot gear .
The civilians didn't fare much better. The older of the two , a men shook his head constantly, mumbling, "God help us," as if the words alone could keep the images from burning into his mind. The younger one stared at the bloodstains smeared across the lobby floor and whispered, almost to herself , "Could've been me."
Then, cutting through the silence, came a low, guttural noise. Andrew spun slightly. The survivors were clutching their stomachs.
"We… we need a restroom," Branagh rasped, his face tight with discomfort. The others nodded quickly, almost embarrassed. Their ordeal in the cells was plain on their faces—days without proper food or water had left them weak, their bodies rebelling now that adrenaline was fading.
Andrew gave a slow nod, his voice steady but firm. "We'll make sure it's clear first. Not taking any chances."
He raised his shield and motioned the others to stay back before moving toward the nearest restroom. The sign above the door read Men. With his hatchet gripped tight in his right hand, Andrew pushed the door open with the shield, the hinges creaking in protest.
The bathroom smelled stale. Shadows stretched across the tiled floor from the faint daylight seeping in through a narrow window. Stalls lined the wall, their doors either hanging open or cracked just enough to cast dark slivers of shadow.
Andrew rapped the edge of his hatchet hard against the restroom door. Clack. Clack. The sound echoed sharply in the confined space. It wasn't loud enough to draw anything from outside, but plenty to stir movement if something lurked within.
For several tense seconds, nothing happened. No shuffle, no groan, no clawing against the doors. The stalls remained still.
"Clear," Andrew muttered, exhaling through his nose. But before they could relax, a muffled groan rolled in from across the hall—the Women's restroom. The sound was followed by the dull rattle of hinges and a violent slam of something heavy striking against a stall door.
Andrew tightened his grip on the shield and stepped back into the hallway, positioning himself directly in front of the women's bathroom door. "Stack up."
Rook moved to the side, hatchet poised, his eyes locked on the frame. Ozone slid into position just behind Andrew, his camp axe ready to swing. The three exchanged a glance—no words needed.
Rook grabbed the handle and yanked the door wide.
The stench hit them first, sour and rancid. Inside, three figures stirred in the dim light—two women and one man, all of them smeared in dried blood, flesh peeling from their faces and arms. Their clothes—one in business attire, another in what looked like jogging clothes—were torn and soaked through. One staggered free of a stall and immediately lunged, crashing into Andrew's shield with a wet thud.
Andrew planted his boots and shoved back, holding the rotting weight at bay. Rook pivoted and brought his hatchet down in a clean arc, burying it in the walker's skull. The body slumped sideways, sliding off Andrew's shield.
"Two left!" Ozone said, already stepping in.
The other pair stumbled forward, striking the shield with dull impacts, their teeth snapping inches from Andrew's face. He gritted his teeth, straining against the press, buying the others an opening. Rook struck first, splitting the skull of the second walker. Ozone followed with a vicious chop, his axe crunching deep into the last one's temple. Both collapsed in wet heaps.
Andrew exhaled, lowering the shield only once the bathroom fell silent again.
"Lights?" Rook muttered, fumbling for the switch by the door. He flicked it once, twice—nothing but dead clicks.
"Power's out," Ozone said, shaking his head. "Bombing must've cooked the grid. Don't expect it to come back."
Andrew gave the women's bathroom one last glance, grimacing at the mangled corpses crumpled in the narrow space. "This one's no good." He gestured across the hall. "Men's room will have to do."
The group moved back inside the men's restroom. The precinct wasn't huge—four stalls lined the far wall, more than enough space under the circumstances. Not that it mattered much anymore.
With the restroom secured and the five survivors finally able to tend to their needs, Andrew gave them a last warning to stay put before leading Ozone and Rook back toward the lobby. Their boots echoed faintly in the empty corridors, with the faint smell of blood and rot lingering in the air .
Back in the lobby Sergeant Foley and his men were already waiting, gathered near the shattered reception desk. Ramirez had his shield resting against the counter, Dunn stood guard by the front doors, eyes constantly flicking to the street beyond.
Foley turned as Andrew's group stepped in. "Something happened ?"
Andrew shook his head " the survivors we found needed to use the restroom, after being stuck in a cell for days" after a moment he continued "Men's bathroom is clear. Women's wasn't—three walkers inside, we dealt with them." Andrew set his shield against the desk for a moment, stretching the strain from his arm. "The survivors are using the men's stalls for now. They'll be safe for the moment."
Foley gave a curt nod. "Good. That means ground floor's ours." He swept his gaze across the group, his tone steady but carrying weight. "That leaves us two places unchecked—the second floor and the underground level."
He then added . " On the way back we checked a briefing room and a locker room . Found them clear—no walkers, just abandoned chairs, desks, and lockers. The locker room even had a small fridge; some of the food went bad, but some is still good for consumption . Might help the people you found."
Andrew gave a quick nod. " You are right. I doubt they had anything to eat while stuck in that cell for so long. " Locking in the direction of stairwell leading to the second floor Andrew continued "Now we focus on clearing the rest of the building."
Rook glanced toward the stairwell that led up. "Second floor's a choke point if anything's hiding up there. We'll want shields up front."
Ramirez patted the edge of his shield. "Already ahead of you."
Ozone, wiping his camp axe clean, grunted. "And the garage'll be worse. Cramped spaces, tight sightlines, and if there's a crowd down there, we'll risk getting boxed in."
Andrew considered it for a moment, then spoke. "Then we don't split. Dunn and Ozone—you stay here, keep watch on the survivors. Everyone else, we sweep upstairs first. Once that's clear, we regroup and figure out how to handle the garage."
Dunn raised a brow but nodded, slinging his rifle back into place. "Babysitting duty, huh?"
"Call it keeping the only survivors we found alive," Foley said flatly. "You've got the important job."
That shut Dunn up, though his smirk showed he didn't mind the arrangement.
Andrew retrieved his shield and looked toward the stairwell. "Alright then. Let's move. Second floor won't clear itself."
...
With Ozone and Dunn staying behind to watch over the survivors, the rest of the squad made their way toward the stairwell leading up to the second floor. Andrew and Ramirez took point, shields raised, each man holding his melee weapon ready in the other hand. Their boots echoed softly against the concrete steps as they climbed.
At the top, Andrew paused, peering over his shield before stepping into the hallway. Daylight filtered faintly through windows along one wall, striping floor with pale light. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with doors, each one holding the stillness of work abandoned in a hurry.
The first door on their left , leaded into the Detectives' Offices, inside were several desks, each cluttered with folders, coffee-stained paperwork, and corkboards filled with half-finished case notes. A jacket hung limply over one chair, a pair of reading glasses still resting on an open file.
Farther down was the Communications center, its glass panel spider-webbed with cracks.
Across the hall stood the Archive Room. Its heavy fireproof door was ajar.
At the far end of the corridor loomed the Captain's Office, its wooden door closed tight, blinds half-drawn over the narrow glass window smeared with blood . Just outside it, three figures drifted aimlessly—walkers. Their uniforms were torn, badges dulled with grime, faces slack and pale. Once they had been officers, men and women who worked these very halls.
Andrew raised his shield slightly, signaling for the squad to hold. "Three ahead," he whispered, his voice low but steady. "We deal with them quiet and clean."
Receiving affirmative nods, Andrew stepped into the hallway with Ramirez at his side, shields raised. Foley and Rook followed closely behind, moving as a single, cautious unit.
They advanced slowly, checking each detective's office along the way for immediate threats. Desks were strewn with case files, coffee mugs overturned, and chairs left haphazardly as if their occupants had fled in haste. No walkers appeared, and the offices were eerily silent.
Eventually, the three walkers noticed them, they raised their arms, clawing and shuffling toward the Rangers. Andrew and Ramirez positioned their shields to block the first blows while Foley and Rook moved in, efficiently taking down the walkers with precise strikes.
With the immediate danger neutralized, Andrew led the group to the communications center. The room was dark and quiet, the group needing to turn their flashlights on . Inside they found consoles and radios , papers and call logs scattered across the desks. Receivers dangled over the desk . Foley examined the equipment, running a hand across the switches. "No physical damage," he commented. "Everything could still work—just needs power."
Andrew nodded. "We'll retrieve it and get it back to the resort. But for now, let's keep moving."
Next, they checked the archive room. Lighting the room with the flashlights ,inside they found filing cabinets and shelves that were stuffed with case records, many drawers left open, papers spilling onto the floor as if someone had searched frantically for something important. A faint mildew smell hung in the stale air, but the room was thankfully empty of walkers.
Finally, they reached the Captain's office. The door was locked, and a quick look through the small window revealed little beyond a smear of dark blood. With a determined glance at Ramirez, Andrew gave his shield to Foley and got in position to force the door open, eventually breaking the lock with several swift kicks .
Inside,a large mahogany desk dominated the room, cluttered with pens, papers, and a half-filled coffee cup. A precinct flag hung on the wall behind the desk, the frame slightly askew. Sunlight streamed through the unobstructed window . At the desk slumped the Captain, his head slanted unnaturally, a bullet wound marring the side of his head. His pistol lay on the floor, untouched.
Andrew crouched slightly, scanning the room. "Looks like he wanted to go out his own way," he muttered, voice low.
Foley grimaced. " Good thing it was quick."
Rook added, "Check the desk—anything useful?"
Andrew noticed a small safe hidden beneath the desk . Checking it, aside from some documents he found a satellite phone inside. "Found this. No immediat use for it , but we'll keep it safe," he said, slipping it into a vest pocket.
Satisfied with their sweep, the team backed out into the hallway and made their way toward the stairwell. Before returning to the ground floor, they looped back to check the detective offices more thoroughly, ensuring no corner was left unchecked and confirming that the second floor was now fully secure.
Back in the lobby, Andrew, Foley, Ramirez, and Rook found the five survivors seated on the benches, quietly eating whatever food they had managed to find in the fridge from the locker room. Ozone and Dunn stood near the reception desk, keeping a watchful eye over the survivors and the occasional distant groan echoing through the building.
Andrew approached the two, his tone calm but authoritative. "The second floor is secure. No walkers left, and we also found some useful equipment—a satellite phone and communication equipment ."
"Good to hear."Ozone spoke.
" Now , only the underground level is left" Ramirez said.
" Exactly, so let's go, let's finish this " Rook added.
Foley nodded .
With that, the team turned toward the 'personal only' stairwell located behind a door just past the reception area .
Andrew led the way, shield at the ready, and flashlight lighting their way down ensuring the path was safe before the others followed.
Reaching the bottom of the stairwell, the group emerged into a narrow corridor. The air was colder here, heavy with the faint stench of mildew and old oil. Bare concrete walls stretched along both sides, and a web of pipes and wiring ran across the low ceiling, dripping condensation in slow, steady drops. Their footsteps echoed dully, each sound magnified by the confined space.
Ramirez flicked on his flashlight as well, the narrow beam cutting through the gloom and throwing long, uneven shadows down the corridor. The others instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons, shields held a little higher , as they moved forward.
As they turned the corner, the beam caught movement—two figures lurching slowly toward them. Pale faces, slack jaws, uniforms hanging in tatters. The sudden sight made all four men stagger back a step. Andrew and Ramirez instinctively braced, shields up, as the walkers noticed them and slammed into them with guttural groans. The impact rattled through their arms, Ramirez nearly dropping his flashlight as the beam danced wildly across the walls.
"Hold them!" Andrew barked, his boots grinding against the concrete as he leaned into the push.
Foley and Rook moved in quickly, weapons swinging in sharp arcs. The sound of steel biting bone cracked the silence as each walker went down, skulls split under precise strikes. With a final shudder, the bodies crumpled at their feet.
Foley exhaled heavily, yanking his hatchet free with a wet crack. "Close one."
"Keep tight," Andrew muttered, giving his shield a shove to push one corpse aside. "That won't be the last."
They advanced again, slower now, checking each shadow. The corridor soon split into two doors.
The first, on the right, was marked with stenciled letters: MOTOR POOL. Andrew eased the handle down and cracked the door open just enough to peek inside. The garage was cloaked in half-darkness, faint daylight leaking in through the raised rolling bay door. The light barely revealed the silhouettes of several figures shuffling aimlessly between the stalled cars. Their movements were slow, but the low, guttural sounds left no doubt. Walkers.
Andrew shut the door quietly, his expression hard. "We'll deal with them later. Too many unknowns."
They moved on to the next door, further down the corridor. This one was heavier, reinforced, its surface scratched and scarred. EVIDENCE STORAGE was stenciled across a small metal plate at eye level. A narrow, wire-reinforced glass window was set into the upper half, though it was too smudged and dirty to see more than faint outlines inside. The lock itself wasn't a standard office latch—it was an electronic keypad and locking bolt,
, the kind meant to keep civilians and officers alike from tampering with sensitive material.
Andrew checked the door then glanced back at the others. " It's locked . Let's keep moving."
But before they could take more than a step, knocking was heard from inside the room.