Washington, D.C., 8:00 AM, South Lawn of the White House
Three Black Hawk helicopters roared as they landed on the lawn, the rotor wash bending the surrounding blades of grass. Rick Matthews was the first to jump out, his combat boots slamming heavily onto the damp ground.
Not far away, the President stood at the steps of the White House, surrounded by a group of anxious officials and fully armed Secret Service agents. Several workers in protective suits were hurriedly transporting some kind of equipment across the lawn.
Rick strode forward quickly, with the Secretary of State close behind him, face pale.
"Mr. President," Rick said in a deep voice, "we have an emergency."
The President looked up, his gaze grave. He was clutching a document in his hand, the edges of the paper crumpled from his grip.
"How bad is it?" he asked.
Rick took a deep breath.
"Worse than we expected."
"Just tell me," the President's voice was lower than usual.
Rick looked him straight in the eye. "Most major cities are nearly overrun. New York, Chicago, Los Angeles... the quarantine zones are collapsing."
A burst of harsh static suddenly erupted from the Secret Service agents' earpieces. In the distance, a medevac helicopter swayed unsteadily past the Washington Monument, trailing ominous black smoke from its tail.
The President's fingers absently rubbed the edge of the telegram. "How much time do we have left?"
Rick glanced toward the southern sky, where the clouds had taken on a sickly orange-red hue.
"I'm afraid even less than what the brief predicted, sir."
Washington, D.C., 8:15 AM, White House Situation Room
The President's fingers lightly tapped the tabletop, his eyes fixed on the red warning text at the end of the briefing. "This report said we had at least a year to prepare," he said, looking up, voice low and restrained. "It's only been three weeks."
Rick pushed a tactical tablet to the center of the conference table and pulled up a satellite feed. "The original projection was based on first-generation infecteds, sir." The screen showed swarms of staggering figures on the streets of New York. "But the mutations that appeared three days ago have changed the entire equation."
Secretary of State Williams removed his glasses and wiped them with a silk handkerchief. The sixty-year-old veteran diplomat remained composed as ever. "What exactly has changed?" His voice was as calm as if discussing a trade agreement.
"Three key differences," Rick zoomed in on a twisted figure in the footage. "Their movement speed is up by 40%, they can use simple tools, and most troubling of all..." He switched to a lab screen. "They've developed resistance to existing suppressants."
The roar of helicopters taking off and landing could be heard outside. The President rose and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the Marines rushing across the South Lawn. "So, what's the situation now?"
"The Philadelphia quarantine wall fell six hours ago." Rick brought up a real-time map, the entire East Coast had turned a deep red. "The mutants are spreading south along I-95. At this rate—"
"Forty-eight hours," Secretary Williams interjected, his newly donned glasses reflecting the cold glow of the screen. "They'll reach Washington in forty-eight hours, at most." His fingers unconsciously rubbed the pocket watch in his hand—a diplomatic gift from the Reagan era.
As the President turned, morning light caught the flag pin on his chest. "Initiate the 'Fortress' protocol," he said to the Chief of Staff at the door. "But keep the federal broadcast channel running. I want the public to know the White House is still operating."
Rick noticed that Secretary Williams let out a quiet sigh of relief. The old fox was never most afraid of the virus—he feared the collapse of order.
Inside the Situation Room, the red glow of the digital map illuminated every tense face. Technicians spoke in hushed voices, while the comms system buzzed with fragmented reports from across the country.
Secretary William Howard gently tapped the table and turned his gaze to President Jonathan Kessler.
"Jonathan," Williams said softly, only audible to the three of them, "we can't delay the evacuation any longer. If the mutants really arrive within 48 hours, we must ensure the continuity of core government functions."
President Kessler was silent for a moment, his fingers absently rubbing the edge of the table. "Evacuation means abandoning Washington, abandoning the White House. You know what that'll do to public morale."
Williams shook his head slightly, his gaze behind the glasses calm and piercing. "Morale only matters if there are still people alive to hear the broadcasts. If the federal emergency broadcast system goes down, panic will spread faster than the virus."
Rick stood nearby, his eyes scanning the busy personnel in the Situation Room—officers issuing quiet orders, aides rapidly organizing files, technicians working to stabilize flickering communication screens. No one looked at them, but everyone was tense, awaiting the final decision.
The President took a deep breath and looked at Rick. "Colonel Matthews, if we activate the 'Fortress' protocol now, how long can our command system hold?"
Rick thought for a moment. "If we abandon surface defense and rely solely on the underground command center—seventy-two hours at most. But that's assuming the mutants don't evolve again."
Williams gently adjusted his glasses. "Seventy-two hours is enough to complete the chain of succession and ensure secure transfer of key cabinet members to Mount Weather."
The President's gaze shifted between the digital map and Williams. In the distance, a Navy officer was urgently reporting the latest from Baltimore, his voice barely hiding a tremble.
"Alert the Vice President to prepare for departure," Kessler finally said, his voice low and resolute. "But I'm staying until the last possible moment."
Williams seemed about to say something, but ultimately just nodded. Rick noticed the seasoned politician quietly exhale, finally letting go of the pocket watch he'd been gripping tightly.
The lights in the Situation Room flickered briefly. One of the screens momentarily turned to static. No one spoke, but the tension in the air thickened even further.
Washington, D.C., 8:35 AM, White House Situation Room
President Kessler's gaze suddenly locked onto a data point on Rick's tactical tablet—the final report from the Pentagon's AI Tactical Forecast System. His finger froze midair, a sharp glint flashing through his eyes.
"Wait," his voice rang out, suddenly clear and commanding. "William, we've overlooked our most important weapon."
The Secretary of State frowned. "This isn't the time to bring up the nuclear option, Jonathan."
"Not nukes," the President strode toward the main console, signaling a technician to pull up the system. "Sentinel."
The situation room fell silent for a second. Rick saw several officers exchange glances. A black interface flashed on the screen, centered around the rotating Pentagon emblem—the login screen for the Department of Defense's highest-level AI combat system.
Williams's fingers drummed unconsciously on the table. "The last briefing said 'Sentinel' went offline after the EMP attack."
"It only went into sleep mode." The President keyed in his biometric code, and the screen turned red. "Amendment 14 of the National Defense AI Act—when the nation enters a survival crisis, the President has the authority to activate the Final Protocol."
Rick noticed a shift in the Secretary of State's expression. The usually composed elder statesman now showed a rare trace of hesitation. "Are you sure about this? The last time AI made a decision on its own, Chicago's power grid—"
"The Chicago grid shutdown saved two hundred thousand lives," the President said with iron conviction. "What we need now is faster-than-human computational power to predict mutation patterns."
The main screen suddenly flared with harsh blue light. A mechanized female voice spoke: "Identity confirmed. Jonathan Kessler, 46th President of the United States. Please enter final authorization code."
The President pulled a metal card from the inner pocket of his suit. As the card was inserted into the terminal, all the lights in the situation room shifted to an eerie blue. The wall-mounted electronic map refreshed, and hundreds of new data streams began analyzing mutant movement patterns.
"Sentinel system activated," the AI announced with unnerving calm. "Biological threat level: Omega. Recommend immediate execution of Reaper Protocol."
Williams stood up sharply. "What protocol? Why hasn't the Security Council heard about this?"
The President didn't answer immediately. He stared at the rapidly generating strategic outputs on the screen, and for the first time, a nearly ruthless curve crept onto his lips. "Because it was a contingency plan General Robert and I secretly approved last year—AI-controlled targeted gene weapons, designed to affect only specific DNA sequences."
Rick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. On the map, dozens of blue lights began moving toward red zones—automated combat units not yet activated by the military.
"Forty-eight hours?" the President turned to the AI interface. "Recalculate the containment timeline."
"Estimated containment completion: eleven hours and forty-two minutes," the AI responded. The room went dead silent. "Warning: Execution success rate 87.4%. Estimated collateral civilian casualties: 23,000 to 45,000."
Williams's cane struck the floor with a thud. "This is madness! We can't let machines decide—"
"We let machines decide a long time ago, William," the President cut him off, eyes still locked on the surging data stream. "From stock market algorithms to drone strikes. The question now is simple—" He turned to Rick and the Secretary, a near-fanatical glint in his eye:
"Ten hours of controlled casualties—or the entire East Coast a hellscape in three days?"
The air in the situation room felt frozen. From a distant monitor, live footage showed a group of mutants on a Philadelphia street using fire ladders to build some sort of structure. Their coordinated movements were chillingly synchronized.
The AI's voice returned: "Awaiting final confirmation. Mr. President, do you authorize execution of the Reaper Protocol?"
Washington, D.C., 8:47 AM, White House Situation Room
The heavy blast door slid open, and a rush of footsteps shattered the room's tense silence. Secretary of Defense Madeline Crawford was the first to enter, followed by National Security Advisor Mark Remington and Secretary of Energy Samuel Qiu. Rain still clung to their suit jackets, clear signs of a rushed arrival from separate secure vehicles.
"Mr. President," Crawford marched to the central conference table, her short hair tousled from running. "The Pentagon just confirmed—the mutants have breached Baltimore's secondary defensive line." She slid an encrypted tablet toward the President. "They're learning to bypass our automated weapons systems."
Remington's eyes were immediately drawn to the flashing AI interface on the main screen. "My God," he muttered. "You activated Sentinel?"
Secretary Qiu headed straight for the tech console, fingers flying over the keyboard as he pulled up the East Coast power grid overlay. "If we're initiating any large-scale protocols," his voice carried a thick Boston accent, "we need to secure the nuclear plants first."
Secretary of State Williams quickly rose and positioned himself like a buffer between the cabinet members and the President. "Everyone, let's assess the situation calmly." His steady voice brought a momentary lull to the unrest. "The President is considering a solution that could still turn the tide."
Rick stepped back against the wall, observing the power dynamics at play. The technicians were still hard at work, but their eyes occasionally darted toward the heated center of the room. A young female officer nervously adjusted her earpiece, trying to filter out the intensifying reports of gunfire in the background.
Crawford suddenly jabbed a finger at a flashing red dot on the map. "These mutant clusters are moving toward nuclear material storage facilities. That's no coincidence." Her nail nearly pierced the screen. "They're being drawn to something—maybe radiation, maybe electrical pulses."
President Kessler turned to the AI interface. "Sentinel, analyze correlation between mutant behavior and energy infrastructure."
The AI's response came instantly. "Confidence level: 92.3%. Mutant groups exhibit electrotactic behavior. Recommend prioritizing isolation of the following facilities..." Twelve nuclear plants and major substations were immediately marked on the screen.
Remington interjected suddenly. "That explains everything! Before the Philadelphia quarantine wall fell, surveillance showed the mutants all turning toward the substation." He turned to the Energy Secretary. "Sam, can you shut those facilities down remotely?"
Beads of sweat formed on Qiu's forehead. "Yes, but it requires direct presidential authorization. A full blackout would cut life-support systems in a third of East Coast hospitals."
The room fell into brief silence. Rick noticed Williams once again reaching for his pocket watch—a telltale habit when weighing monumental decisions.
The President's eyes swept across each cabinet member's face. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are faced with a brutal choice." His voice was low but resolute. "Hesitation gives the mutants more time to evolve. Decisive action brings unavoidable collateral damage."
The blast door opened once more. The White House Chief of Staff burst in with two breathless communications officers. "Mr. President, the Governor of New York is on the secure channel. They've lost control of the Manhattan quarantine zone!"
The AI's voice suddenly rose in volume. "Alert: New mutant signal detected. Genetic mutation rate increased by 400%. Estimated critical threshold in three hours, seventeen minutes."
All eyes turned to the President. The electronic wall clock read 08:51, but it felt like a century had passed. Outside, the sky had turned an unnatural shade of orange-red, as if all of Washington were burning.
Washington D.C., 8:53 a.m., White House Situation Room
President Kessler took a deep breath, bracing both hands on the holographic projection table, his gaze piercing as he stared at the AI interface hovering in midair.
"Sentinel," his voice was low and resolute, "I need the optimal solution."
Blue light patterns rippled across the AI like waves. A mechanical female voice responded calmly: "Recalculating variables..."
Everyone in the Situation Room held their breath. Secretary of Defense Crawford unconsciously tightened her grip on the edge of her tablet; Secretary of State Williams removed his glasses and wiped them gently with his suit sleeve; Rick noticed that Secretary of Energy Qiu Shijie was silently mouthing rapid calculations.
After three seconds of silence, the main screen split into a dozen data windows, each rapidly refreshing with complex streams of information.
"Optimal solution as follows," the AI's voice suddenly became three-dimensional, as if it were coming from every corner of the Situation Room simultaneously. "Priority One: immediately sever all major power grid nodes along the East Coast to create an artificial blackout barrier. The mutants' electrotropism will reduce their operational efficiency by 63.8%."
The Energy Secretary snapped his head up. "That would plunge the entire East Coast into darkness! Hospitals, transportation, communications—"
"Priority Two," the AI continued, undeterred, "activate the 'Iron Curtain Protocol.' Deploy microwave suppression fields along the Baltimore–Richmond line. This will temporarily delay the mutants' southward advance by approximately 47 minutes."
Defense Secretary Crawford immediately turned to her deputy. "Contact the 82nd Airborne. I want them ready for deployment in ten minutes."
The President's gaze remained fixed on the AI interface. "Casualty estimate?"
"Immediate action: civilian casualties projected between 28,000 and 35,000." The AI's blue light patterns turned dark red. "Delay in decision exceeding 17 minutes will increase projected casualties to over 120,000."
National Security Advisor Remington suddenly slammed his fist on the table. "This is the devil's choice!"
"No, Mark," the President slowly straightened up, a flicker of something almost cruelly resolute in his eyes. "It's the only choice." He turned to the Secretary of State. "William, inform Congressional leadership." Then to the Secretary of Defense, "Madeleine, prepare to execute 'Iron Curtain.'"
At that moment, the AI's voice grew urgent. "Warning: abnormal data stream detected. Mutant clusters are forming a new social structure. Confidence level: 89.2% — they are establishing organized attack routes."
On the main screen, the previously scattered red dots suddenly aligned into geometric formations, forming clear arrow-like shapes pointing straight at Washington.
The President's pupils contracted slightly. "Sentinel, reassess the time window."
"Critical threshold moved up to two hours and six minutes from now." For the first time, the AI's tone wavered. "Recommend immediate execution of Final Defense Protocol. Repeat: immediate execution."
The Situation Room fell into a deathly silence, broken only by the hum of machinery and the faint, distant thump of helicopter rotors.
Everyone turned toward the President, awaiting the command that would alter the fate of millions.
Outside, a bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating half of the President's face. His finger hovered three centimeters above the authorization button, trembling slightly.
Washington D.C., 9:07 a.m., White House Situation Room
President Kessler's finger lifted from the control panel, and the lights in the Situation Room returned to normal brightness. On the main screen, the words "REAPER PROTOCOL INITIATED" flashed in a calm blue glow.
"Microwave suppression fields now cover major East Coast cities," the AI reported, its voice back to steady. "Mutant activity down 37%, movement speed reduced to 65% of normal human pace."
Defense Secretary Crawford let out a breath. "At least now they can't outrun my grandmother." She tried to joke to ease the tension, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Secretary of State Williams walked to the panoramic window, gazing out at the still-intact skyline of Washington D.C. "How severe was the power grid disruption?"
Energy Secretary Qiu Shijie quickly scanned the data. "Major hospitals and military facilities have switched to backup power, but... parts of New York and Philadelphia are in chaos. Reports of looting are increasing."
The President rubbed his temples. "Notify the National Guard—priority protection for medical facilities and shelters." He turned to the AI interface. "Sentinel, reassess mutant threat level."
The AI's light patterns fluctuated. "Threat level downgraded from Omega to Gamma. Key finding: mutants are sensitive to ultraviolet light. Activity decreases by 42% under direct sunlight."
National Security Advisor Remington slapped the table. "That's why they're mainly active at night! We can use that weakness!"
A real-time surveillance feed suddenly popped up on the screen—on the outskirts of Baltimore, a group of mutants exposed to the morning sun were visibly sluggish, staggering like drunkards.
"Strategic adjustment recommended," the AI continued. "Concentrate resources to establish a sunlight defense zone. Combined with the existing microwave fields, projections indicate the mutants can be contained within current infected areas."
The President's gaze swept across everyone in the room. "That means abandoning some overrun zones—but we can save the rest of the country. Let's vote."
Secretary of State Williams was the first to raise his hand. "Compared to the unrealistic goal of full reclamation, this is the more responsible choice."
The Secretary of Defense nodded. "The military can establish a new defensive line within 48 hours."
Just then, the communications officer shouted, "Mr. President! The Governor of New York reports: mutants in Manhattan are retreating! They... they seem afraid of sunlight!"
On the main screen, the map began to refresh. The red infection zones had stopped spreading—and in some fringe areas, they were even retreating.
The President took a deep breath and turned to the AI. "Sentinel, execute Plan B. Focused defense. Protect uninfected zones."
"Command confirmed," the AI responded. "Reallocating resources. Predictive models indicate: if current measures are maintained, the outbreak will be controllable within 14 days."
The atmosphere in the Situation Room visibly relaxed. Rick noticed even the Energy Secretary, who had been tense the whole time, unclenched his fists.
Outside, sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling across the South Lawn of the White House. The helicopter carrying the Vice President had taken off, carving a hopeful arc across the blue sky.
The President gently patted the Secretary of State on the shoulder. "Tell the press—we've found a turning point." His voice was still weary, but carried a renewed firmness. "But don't let them get too optimistic—the war's not over yet."
Williams nodded, straightening his tie. "At least now, we've got a fighting chance."
In the corner of the Situation Room, a young female officer finally removed her headset and spoke softly into her communicator. "Mom? Yeah... I think I'll be home for dinner tonight."