Stronghold of the Iron Bleachers
Downtown Redhaven
Redhaven Municipal Stadium was built to hold sixty thousand people at once.
Now it holds forty-five.
From the outside, it looks like a fortress born of desperation—buses welded together, concrete choked with barricades, banners torn and repurposed into windbreaks. From the inside, it feels like a town that never meant to exist.
The stadium is loud during the day, even now. Voices echo off concrete. Tools ring. Children shout in the parking garage. At night, it becomes something else entirely—quiet, watchful, heavy with memory.
This place survives because it was never meant to move.
Before the Blood Plague, Redhaven Municipal Stadium was:
Home of the Redhaven professional football team
A civic landmark
A disaster-response hub designated for mass sheltering
It was overbuilt by design—reinforced foundations, redundant power systems, emergency water storage, wide access tunnels, and hardened internal corridors.
Those features saved it.
The stadium’s outer ring is sealed with:
Team buses welded nose-to-tail
Maintenance trucks packed with concrete and scrap
Crushed cars stacked and bolted as dead weight
These barriers are anchored directly into existing concrete mounts—Kenny Lewis’s design—making them resistant to impact, fire, and ramming.
There are only three controlled access points, each requiring manual clearance.
Upper concourse provides 360-degree visibility
Old camera mounts repurposed as lookout posts
Flags and wind markers signal movement and weather
Nothing approaches the stadium unseen.
The parking garage beneath the stadium is the heart of civilian life.
Concrete pillars are painted with murals and names. Former storage rooms are sealed into living spaces. Old concession freezers store food.
This is where families live.
Electricity from backup generators powers:
Lights
Small appliances
Water pumps
It smells like oil, concrete, and cooking food.
The concourse acts as:
Market
Meeting space
Training ground
Vendors trade favors more than goods. Notices are pinned to old game-day boards. The Line drills here during off-hours, their armor scraping against concrete.
This is where arguments happen.
The locker rooms are sacred ground.
Now repurposed as:
Armories
Medical bays
Gear workshops
Old lockers still bear player names. No one removes them.
This is where The Line prepares before every engagement.
The field is half green, half dirt.
Raised beds cut across yard lines. Sprinkler systems are jury-rigged into irrigation. Soil is slow to recover.
This is the future the Iron Bleachers are trying to grow.
Beacon tithes have slowed progress to a crawl.
The stands are mostly unused.
Some areas store salvaged materials. Others remain untouched—silent rows of seats staring down at the field like ghosts.
Few people go up there alone.
Backup generators remain functional
Fuel is rationed carefully
Rainwater catchment supplements supply
Sewer access sealed except for emergency routes
The stadium can function independently for weeks—months if not bled by Beacon demands.
The stadium is designed for containment, not expansion.
Funnel threats inward
Kill zones in access tunnels
Retreat routes clearly marked
Fallback positions pre-planned
Against Common Infected, it is nearly impenetrable.
Against organized military assault, it would not last long.
They know this.
Beacon scouts are a regular presence.
They:
Inspect fortifications
Count supplies
Observe morale
They do not help.
Everyone knows the Assault Unit would arrive within minutes if resistance began.
The stadium exists at The Beacon’s pleasure.
This place carries ghosts.
Every game won. Every chant. Every scream.
Now replaced by whispered plans and quiet anger.
The stadium is not just a shelter.
It is a reminder of what Redhaven used to cheer for—and what it might fight for again.
Redhaven Municipal Stadium serves as:
A major allied stronghold
A pressure point under Beacon control
A potential rebellion hub
A moral crossroads for players
It is strong.
It is patient.
It is tired of kneeling.