February 23, 2028 – One day before Day Zero
Alex reunites with old friends and comrades. Can he change their fate?
Alex woke rested for the first time since his regression. Sunlight leaked around the blinds, warm on his face. For the first time since dying, he hadn't set an alarm. His watch read 0910. Damn. Haven't slept in that late in years.
Upstairs, the old house was already alive: Floorboards creaked overhead; faint voices carried throughout the house. His brothers shared one room, his sister in another. His parents had taken the master bedroom, despite their protests. He'd insisted. You're my guests. The truth was simpler: he needed solitude, a buffer between him and the world.
Months of active duty had taught him to sleep in places most people couldn't: dirt, gravel, Humvees, even cargo planes. But he was still a light sleeper. Every shift in noise or motion snapped him awake. Sleeping alone, even in a cold basement, was worth more than a king-size bed.
Halfway up the stairs, the smell hit him like a punch: bacon carried on hot grease and smoke, rich enough to make his mouth water. He stepped into the kitchen to see Carol and Nick already at the table, chewing through their breakfasts. His stepmother and John worked the stove, piling eggs and bacon onto a pan. Grease popped, voices hummed, and for a moment Alex let himself breathe it in.
"That smells amazing," he said. John smirked over his shoulder. "Don't get used to it, bro."
Alex chuckled, though a part of him tightened. They had no idea how little time was left. For one second he wanted to sink into the comfort of a normal morning, but reality pressed in. His unit wouldn't miss him if he showed up late; the first days of activation were always chaos, paperwork no one read, briefings no one remembered, and half the platoon wandering around pretending to look busy. If he strolled in that afternoon, no one would care. Maybe that was better. The less leash they had on him, the easier it would be to slip away when the time came.
By midday, his gear sat neatly on the bed: plate carrier, helmet, ruck, assault pack, and a tin of nicotine pouches. He wasn't hooked yet. Still, if the convoy turned into a meat grinder again, a buzz might help. He double-laced his new soft-soled boots, sneaker-light and far more forgiving than Army issue. For once, he felt less like an infantryman and more like some paper-pushing airman.
He made the rounds through the house, hugging each family member. A luxury he didn't have before his first death. Outside, his father was waiting. The weight of Alex's bags felt heavier than they should.
"Last time you activated, we didn't see you for two months," his dad said, voice low. "If you think you'll be back sooner… I'll trust your judgment." Alex forced a grin. Yeah, not unless I go AWOL. "Don't worry, Dad, I'll be back." He smirked. "You hippies couldn't last a day without me."
They both laughed, tension breaking for a second. Then his father pulled him into a hug. "Just be careful, son." "I will. I'll keep you updated."
As soon as the Mazda rolled out of sight, Alex pressed the gas. The car surged twenty over the limit. Cops didn't have the manpower to chase down speeding Guardsmen today, and if they did, the uniform on his back was its own shield.
"Bit late," he muttered. He should've left earlier. Too late, and leadership might think he was dragging his feet on purpose. Which, technically, he was. No way did he want to be leashed with busywork before the outbreak began.
At the base gate, an MP in full battle rattle checked his ID. M4 slung across his chest, face carved into a cold glare. Alex frowned. "Something going on?" "Yeah," the Private First Class said flatly. "Just get to your unit, Specialist." The tone wasn't the usual MP power trip. This felt different. Armed MPs at the gate before the unit even drew ammo? He didn't remember that last time.
He parked near the Reserve Center and tapped out a quick message in the platoon chat: [Made it to base.] Then, in his smaller group thread: [Locker room ASAP. Serious shit going down.]
Arguenta replied first with a shocked emoji, teasing Alex's unusually sharp wording.
Inside the locker room, Alex spun his lock. Luis Arguenta leaned against the benches. "Yo, Knight! You made it." "Good to see you, man." They clasped hands. "Where are the others?" Alex asked. "Finishing a detail, mounting the .50s. I've been hiding here." Alex laughed. "Hell yeah. Stick around. You'll wanna hear this."
Moments later, two Specialists pushed through the door: Barkley and De Leon. They dapped Alex in turn. Then a younger soldier edged inside. PFC rank, with a nametape that read: Morgan. He looked cautious, like he expected hazing.
"You've met our new guy?" Alex asked. "Knight." "Dylan Morgan," the PFC replied, shaking his hand. Alex clapped his palms together. "Relax. I didn't drag you here to stuff you in a locker. I need you all to listen. You've seen the clips, right? Looting, biting; and then we get activated out of nowhere? You don't think that's connected?"
Barkley grinned. "What, we fighting zombies now? Let's fucking go." Laughter broke the tension, except Arguenta didn't join. His face was grim. "No." Arguenta's voice cut sharper than expected. His face was pale. "He's right."
The room froze. Even Alex. "My girl's a nurse," Arguenta continued. "Yesterday the ER locked down. Feds in hazmat. Guys that looked like SWAT. They sent staff home. Something's happening."
"Exactly. Armed MPs at the gate. Our activation. And two days ago in Albany…" He let the pause hang, forcing them to lean in. In truth, he'd seen worse, but they didn't need that truth. "I shot a man. He came at me like an animal. He wasn't right. And the cops? Never showed."
The others stared at him, disbelief etched on their faces. "You think he was one of them?" Arguenta asked. "I know he was." Alex's voice was steady, colder than he intended. He swept his gaze across the group, forcing each of them to meet his eyes.
"Listen, if this goes down, the fight won't be somewhere far off. It'll be in the city, away from our families. That's where infection spreads fastest. We'll be ordered to guard strangers, to throw ourselves into chaos while our own people are left defenseless. And when it comes down to it, what are we really dying for? Them? Or the ones waiting for us at home?"
The weight of his words sank in. Nobody spoke. Then their phones buzzed at once: [Weapons draw. Time now. Standby for ammo] Alex straightened. "Just remember what I said. This isn't deployment. The enemy's closer than you think."
On the drill floor, crates cracked open. Soldiers handed magazines and ammo cans down the line. Alex grabbed extras just because he could, he already had eleven PMAGs of his own, but made sure to snag pistol mags too. The M17 felt heavy in his hands. Since he wasn't twenty-one, he couldn't legally own one. But here, the rules bent. A pistol would be invaluable when your enemy closed the distance.
His friends looked uneasy. Alex caught their eyes, gave a small nod: Told you so.
Hours dragged. He and Arguenta found a quiet corner to nap, rifles stacked beside them. The hum of voices, boots on concrete, the metallic clatter of weapons: all blurred together. For once, he let himself drift, knowing sleep might not come easy again soon.
Morgan nudged him awake. "Briefing in twenty. Sergeant Guevara told me to wake you guys." "Thanks," Alex said, shaking Arguenta awake. They shouldered assault packs and filed downstairs, their rucks already packed in Humvees.
Midnight. The company massed loosely, Platoon Sergeants corralling groups with clipped orders. Acting First Sergeant was SFC Morales, aka "Delta 2-3." Alex remembered last time, FSG Filmore hadn't even been at the convoy brief. Probably with the advance element. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered anyway.
Outside, three figures anchored the formation: CPT Lee, SFC Morales, and SSG Ray. They looked like every other soldier, only sharper than most: rifles slung across customized plate carriers, gear clearly bought with career money. Their presence steadied the line, even as tension rippled through the ranks.
Morales started with the usual convoy safety spiel. Eyes glazed and boots shifted. Then Lee stepped forward. "You've all seen the videos: looting, crime. The so-called zombies." Murmurs broke out, confusion, disbelief, fear, until Ray barked, "Shut the fuck up and listen to the CO." Silence fell.
Lee's jaw tightened. "It's real. A virus. Infected individuals become violent, aggressive. They spread it through bites and scratches. They don't use weapons, but they don't need to. Keep your gear tight. Leave no skin exposed. NYPD will brief us further on-site."
He stepped back. Morales' voice carried across the formation. "That's it, folks. Mount up!"
The night air bit cold as soldiers shuffled toward their Humvees. Rifles clattered and exhaust drifted into the dark. Alex exhaled, his gut sinking. For a fleeting moment, he'd hoped history might turn out different. But waiting until they were already en route to learn the critical details, just like last time. Déjà vu pressed down like the weight of his pack, straps biting into his shoulders. Unless he acted, the same disaster that had already killed him once was winding up to swallow them whole.