February 24, 2028 – First Hour
Brooklyn burns as the convoy falls apart. What will Alex do with his second chance?
Ten Humvees rolled out of Fort Hamilton. Things already felt different. MPs in multicam stood behind sandbags at the gate, M4s slung tight across their chests. Humvees with .50s blocked lanes, barrels trained outward. A few security contractors milled around too, black plate carriers and radios clipped on their shoulders. They waved cars through with tired hands, but with only holstered Glocks, they weren't stopping much if things went bad.
Inside Alex's truck, the lineup was set: Guevara in the TC seat, Arguenta at the remote gun's monitor while Morgan squeezed in beside him. Alex had the wheel. Last time, he'd been stuck reacting while someone else drove. He'd hardly had a chance to fire on that cramped highway with tight ROE. Not this time. Arguenta didn't argue; he could tell Alex's unease wasn't just nerves.
They merged onto the Belt Parkway, heading east. Alex kept close to Morales' Humvee up front without crowding. Traffic thickened quickly as civilian cars bunched too close, brake lights flaring. It wasn't a full jam yet, but it was building.
Alex's knuckles tightened on the wheel. He reminded himself of his plan: keep the convoy moving, and keep the senior leaders alive. If they didn't get blindsided, maybe, just maybe this wouldn't turn into the same nightmare.
The column slowed. Ten miles an hour. Five. Then it stopped. Alex's chest tightened. It's starting.
People were already abandoning cars, sprinting back against traffic. Their faces shifted when they saw the convoy: relief, desperation. Some waved both arms, screaming for help. One man, mid-forties, sprinted right to Morales' driver's window and pounded on the glass. Freiman, a Specialist Alex knew from their deployment, cracked it open.
"You gotta help us! There's some—" The man didn't finish. An EMT tackled him, teeth sinking into his neck. Freiman cursed, kicked his door open, and brought his M4 up…
From above, the split was brutal. On one side: Humvees in clean formation, engines idling. On the other: chaos boiling over. Infected swarmed stalled cars, pounding glass, dragging people out by their arms while impatiently sinking their teeth into them.
Blood streaked across windshields and asphalt. Two gunshots cracked, a third, then silence before the parkway erupted.
Radios screamed over each other. Civilians bolted between cars while gunners raked fire over the traffic, tracers arcing downrange. Soldiers shouted, trying to wrangle comms and keep formation.
Alex didn't hesitate. He yanked the mic straight off Guevara's vest. "All Delta trucks with two-forty gunners, get your men inside! Button up now!" "The fuck are you doing?" Guevara snapped, finally shaken out of his stupor.
Before Alex could answer, the acting First Sergeant's voice cut in, steady and sharp: [All Delta elements, this is 2-3. Pull your gunners inside. Hatches sealed. Do it now.] Alex looked forward just in time. The gunner in Morales' truck was still climbing down when a zombie scrambled up the hood, outside Arguenta's firing arc. It dropped straight into the turret well.
The interior lit up with muzzle flashes. A scream cut short. Silence followed.
"2-3, this is 1-7, how copy?" Guevara barked into the net. Only static came back. "2-3, say again, over?" Other trucks tried too. No answer.
Then Arguenta cursed and fired up the remote-mounted .50. The heavy gun thundered, tracers ripping across the highway. Alex saw why: the swarm had broken wide, crashing down on Morales' Humvee. Dozens piled over the hood and roof.
Humvees behind opened up, M240s hammering. The air filled with the ripping sound of heavy machine gun fire, brass raining down onto steel hoods. Tracers lit the night, red streaks cutting across headlights and brake lights. And still the swarm came.
Through his windshield, Alex caught movement. The passenger door of Morales' truck swung open. SFC Morales stepped out. Or what was left of him. Half his face was gone, teeth glinting through shredded skin. He tilted his head back at the moon like he was savoring it. Then he turned and locked eyes with Alex. The Sergeant First Class grinned, slow and deliberate, before walking past their truck like he had a purpose.
[Morales is walking! Jesus—he's out of the truck!] someone yelled over the net. Gunfire drowned out the rest. Alive wasn't the word. Morales marched straight to the command Humvee, ripped Captain Lee out by his carrier, and vanished in a spray of blood.
Something rattled Alex's own door. He glanced over, it was Specialist Freiman. Except it wasn't Freiman anymore. His gray hands worked at the handle, like some faint memory told him how Humvee doors opened.
Alex's pulse spiked. He slammed the combat lock down, cracked the window just enough, and drew his M17. One shot through the skull. The recoil snapped through his wrist. Even with ear pro, the shot left a deafening silence. His chest clenched. First time killing someone he'd trained with, deployed with. No time to think.
Guevara froze. Morgan looked ready to puke. Arguenta stayed locked in, finger tight on the joystick's trigger. Over the comms, SSG Ray shouted: [Lock your vics! Lock them—]
Alex made his call. "All surviving Delta elements, fall back to Hamilton! We can't hold here!" He slammed the Humvee into gear and yanked left. Guevara said curtly, "no NCO gave the order to retreat." "Then why don't you?" Alex replied, eyes on the road ahead. Steel crunched as the bumper shoved a sedan sideways. Headlights bounced, frame groaning under the hit.
The Humvee directly behind them peeled out to follow. Barkley and De Leon were alive, and whoever else was in there. Guevara was quiet, hands tight on his M4. Maybe he was halfway to breaking already. Last time, his panic had doomed Alex. Alex's hand brushed his pistol. Never again.
The road behind them looked like hell. Infected clambered over hoods like ants, dragging soldiers from turrets they'd left unlatched. Some moved with more than mindless hunger: jerky but deliberate. Like pieces of who they were remained.
Alex forced his eyes forward. He couldn't help them now, couldn't save everyone. If he stayed, his family was dead before he even got close to Albany. He drove like a man possessed. The Humvee shoved aside fenders, mirrors snapping off, headlights cutting across screams and glass. Finally, the noise faded behind them.
They pulled off a block from Hamilton, tucked into a dark side street. Engines died. Silence fell heavy.
Alex stepped out first. His legs shook from the adrenaline dump. Across from him, Barkley and De Leon climbed down, rifles ready. Specialist Honda dropped from the TC seat, face pale but steady. Alex remembered him from deployment. Arguenta had once told him Honda showed him the ropes when he was new.
Alex raised a hand. "You good? Anyone hurt?" Honda shook his head. "Not bit, if that's what you mean. But where the hell's everyone else? How are we the only ones out?" Alex swallowed. "Luck. Doesn't matter. What matters is what we do now."
They circled up, seven survivors under the dim streetlights. "The unit's gone," Alex said flatly. "We need to think about our families." Guevara cut in. "And when MPs show up on our doorsteps? What then?"
Alex rounded on him. "What the fuck do you want us to do!? March into the Bronx and link up with Bravo? Get eaten before we even survive day one?" The two locked eyes, tension sharp. Alex wanted him gone. Wanted him to take the hint.
He eased back, voice low but firm. "We're not deserters if we keep fighting on our own ground. NYPD's already cracking. CID's not coming after us when entire companies are getting wiped out." Guevara's jaw flexed but he said nothing. Alex stepped back. "I'm heading north. Anyone with family upstate can follow me."
The split came after a bit of planning. Alex, Arguenta, and Morgan in one Humvee. Guevara, Honda, Barkley, and De Leon in the other. Guevara's group planned to risk Hamilton for supplies, maybe grab civilian cars before scattering further. Barkley and De Leon lived in Jersey, which probably played a role in their close bond. Alex would run for Albany with Morgan, after dropping Arguenta in the city.
Before they rolled, Alex shared his address in the group chat. Meet up later, if they made it. Guevara and Honda weren't included. Guevara was an absolute no-go, but Alex just didn't know enough about Honda. He couldn't give out his address to people he didn't trust.
They sorted gear. Seven mags was the issue load, but Alex had scrounged more: seven STANAG (standard-issue aluminum mags) and eleven PMAGs tucked away, spread across his kit and pack. Six on his carrier, two on his belt, two in his pockets, the rest in his assault pack. His pistol was lighter stocked, just two spares on his belt. There were hardly enough pistols and 9mm to go around since leaders were a priority.
They gave Guevara the .50 truck and kept the M240. Ten cans of 7.62 sat stacked in back, only one half spent. A result of the M240 trucks' hatches being closed much sooner.
Their rucks were packed tight and stowed in the trunk. Already inside was a box of MREs and two jerry cans, one diesel and one water. Alex pulled another MRE box from his ruck. Arguenta shot him a look, approval mixed with suspicion, but said nothing.
Alex checked everyone's gear one more time. Then he pointed Morgan toward the TC seat. "You'll be my eyes. These things have blind spots." Morgan swallowed hard, then nodded; having a job steadied him.
Engines rumbled low. Soldiers traded one last look. Alex eased the Humvee forward, north out of Brooklyn, toward the long road home.