Sergeant Major Reiss slammed the handset back into its cradle. He didn't waste a moment, turning to a young radio operator who was staring at him.
"Broadcast this to every unit in the barracks, immediately!" Reiss roared. He grabbed the microphone for the base-wide broadcast. He didn't use any code names. The situation was beyond subtlety.
"Attention, all combat units! This is a Code Red mobilization, repeat, Code Red! All available personnel, report to the armory and gear up. Two hundred and fifty soldiers are required for immediate deployment to Elyria Town, South-Eastern Perimeter."
"Perimeter?" A soldier in the base asked his colleague.
"The outside edge or limit of an area of land." The other soldier replied, looking at him with a weird expression, "How did you qualify for the military?"
"Shut up and listen quietly!" He whispered.
Sergeant Major Reiss took a breath, the severity of the order making his next words heavy. "Loadout is full ordinance: standard rifles, grenades, bazookas, and specialized close-quarters blades. The Generals are calling for a battle line. Move! Move! The deadline is 005 hours!"
The message was broadcast three times, echoing through the empty halls of the base, the sound of boots and rushing metal immediately starting up in response.
Meanwhile, in that same earlier bunker, the huge public hall had converted hastily into a true refugee camp, no less than that, it was a cauldron of despair.
Fluorescent lights cast a harsh, pale glow over the hundreds of citizens huddled together on makeshift beds and blankets.
The air was thick with the scent of fear, unwashed bodies, and disinfectant. Families clung to one another, their faces etched with shock and loss.
Murmurs and hushed sobs were the only soundtrack, the silence of the rest of the town a terrifying backdrop.
A group of middle-aged men sat on the floor, their backs against a cold concrete wall, sharing a bottle of water.
"Did you see it, Greg?" one man whispered, his voice shaking. "They said thirty soldiers died in the first minutes. Thirty! What hope do we have if the military can't stop them?"
"My brother… he was working near the clock tower," another man, dark circles under his eyes, added. "He hasn't answered his phone. No one knows what's happening in the center of town now."
"The destruction is… unprecedented. My God, the bodies. I saw them. Torn apart," Greg muttered, burying his face in his hands.
Across the room, near a portable medical station, that same middle aged man, with a tall, fair skinned, short blonde hair was pacing relentlessly. He was dressed in plain clothes, having apparently been rushed away from his post.
His face was pale and drawn, his eyes constantly darting towards the entrance as if expecting to see a familiar face rush in. He was none other than Ethan's father, a police officer whose duty had been interrupted by the chaos, and whose worry now eclipsed his training.
A kind-faced older woman, Mrs. Clara, who had been sitting near him, watched him for a long moment before speaking.
"Young man, you've been walking that line for hours. You'll wear a hole in the floor," she said softly, trying to offer a small distraction. "Is it your wife you're waiting for?"
Ethan's father stopped, running a hand over his face. He turned to her, his gaze distant. "No, ma'am. My wife… she's safe with me in this very same bunker. But my son… he was at school. Tonseff Junior High."
A knot of shared dread formed in Mrs. Clara's expression. "Oh, the children. Yes, my heart breaks for all the parents. Do you know if the school was evacuated?"
"I don't. I tried to call, to get information from the precinct, but all lines are dedicated to the military command now. I saw the casualty reports, the sheer number of… losses. He's fourteen. He's smart, but he's also foolish. He'd try to be a hero, or worse, get caught up in one of his friends' schemes." The man sighed, the heavy weight of his fear crushing his composure.
Mrs. Clara gently placed a hand on his arm. "I understand, dear. I have grandchildren. Worrying won't help him, but knowing his name might. We can keep an ear out for any news. What is your son's name?"
The man looked directly at her, the fear in his eyes giving way to a fierce parental pride, even in this moment of crisis.
"His name… it's Ethan. Ethan Barbeque."
Mrs. Clara nodded slowly, committing the name to memory. "A handsome name. Let's pray, Ethan Barbeque finds his way home soon."
Major Azoff and Major Coogler, having been dismissed by General Adam, were ushered into a private waiting room in the safe house, a small, soundproofed chamber adjacent to Alden's office suite.
The room was Spartan: a small, dark wooden table, two high-backed chairs, and a worn, beige sofa.
Azoff, ever the realist, immediately went for comfort, sinking into the sofa and loosening the collar of his blood-stained uniform.
The adrenaline from the fight was gone, replaced by a hollow exhaustion. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the silence—a terrifying contrast to the screaming and roaring of an hour ago.
He noticed Coogler was not resting. Major Pierce Coogler was sitting rigidly at the wooden table, his M16 leaning against the chair, his unblinking blue eyes fixed on nothing in particular.
He held a crumpled paper cup of what was probably stale coffee, but he hadn't taken a sip.
His posture was that of a man holding himself together through sheer force of will, a stark contrast to Azoff's slumped relief.
Azoff stood up slowly and walked over to the table. He pulled the other high-backed chair around and sat next to Coogler, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
"You look like you're trying to calculate the trajectory of the moon, Coogler." Azoff said, his voice low and devoid of his usual gruffness.
"I was just counting. The ones we lost. The ones I saw were torn apart." Coogler didn't flinch, his eyes remaining fixed.
"We can't count them yet. That's a report for the General's desk. You did your job, man. You bought the town time." Azoff reached out and gently took the untouched coffee cup from Coogler's hand, setting it silently on the table.
He waited a beat, then asked the question that had been scratching at the back of his own mind—a question to pull them both back, for just a second, from the red river of the present.