February 24, 2028 - Dusk
Alex and Morgan escape the chaos of the city, but home isn't the refuge Alex imagined.
Alex yawned, jaw cracking as his eyelids fought to stay open. One hand rested loose on the wheel while the other fished a nicotine pouch from his pocket. He tucked it under his lip, tongue pressing against the grainy pack, and glanced at the SUV's dash clock. 6:40 p.m.
Morgan sprawled across the backseat, stretched out over all three cushions like he owned them, his helmet rolling back and forth on the floor with every bump. Alex's own helmet lay in the passenger footwell. His hair, grown long from a regulation fade, was plastered flat with sweat. Morgan's buzzcut still looked sharp, but that only made him look younger.
He's still a kid. Younger than me, even. Fresh out of basic. He should've had greasy food, dumb jokes with family, maybe girls who liked the uniform. Instead, the world chewed through all of that before he even got a taste.
"Wake up, bro. We're almost there." Morgan jerked upright like he'd been tasered, blinking hard. Alex didn't soften. "It's in your best interest to convince your family to come with me. It's just your mom and sister, right?"
"Yeah." Morgan rubbed at his eyes, still dazed. "But they won't listen." "Call them. Be straight. You're the man of the house now. Act like it." The call dragged. Morgan's voice cracked, his mom cutting him off, his sister chiming in once before vanishing. Finally Alex snapped his fingers and held out his hand.
"Ma'am, Specialist Alex Knight, New York Army National Guard. I'll answer your questions." Her voice was sharp, almost shrill. "What the hell is this? My son just told me he's moving in with some stranger! Are you insane?!"
Alex's knuckles whitened around the wheel. "Ma'am, I'm the reason your son's alive. In case you haven't noticed, people are tearing each other apart in the streets." "You're a soldier, right? Why aren't you at your base protecting people? Did you convince him to desert?"
Alex rolled his eyes. "Lady, hasn't he told you anything? Haven't you seen the news? The Belt Parkway? Our unit was there. Most of our friends were eaten alive before they turned on each other. If it wasn't for me, your son would've been one of them."
"What are you talking about?" Her voice wavered. "The media said it was a riot. A deadly riot. Nothing more. Nothing about zombies." It went in circles, Morgan's mom's voice kept climbing, Alex's patience was slipping. Finally he shoved the phone back into Morgan's hands. "Sorry," he muttered. Morgan frowned. "For what?" "For what you deal with at home."
But the word clung; riot. That was some BS. His unit had been briefed before activation, they knew this wasn't civil unrest. Hospitals had been locked down. Entire ERs swarmed with men in tactical kit. Even his dad had seen raw coverage, right after the fact.
It clicked. "Yo. Morgan. Look up the Belt Parkway." Morgan scrolled furiously, eyes bulging. "What the hell… 'Riot at the Parkway, Soldiers Open Fire on Civilians'? They were calling it an outbreak this morning. Now it's this?!"
"Search zombies," Alex ordered. Morgan's jaw tightened as he read. "Nothing. Just hoax pieces. Bath salts. COVID relapse. All bullshit." Alex sighed, "it's a cover-up." Morgan swallowed. "Why?"
"Could be to keep panic down. That's the excuse in the movies. Makes sense if they think they can contain it." Alex's tone sharpened. "But maybe it's worse. Remember what Arguenta's girl said? Guys in black kit, looked like SWAT? Could've been CDC, but it sounded like Homeland or FBI backing them. If the feds are in this deep, that doesn't rule out a terrorist angle either."
Morgan didn't answer. His hands shook faintly as he scrolled. "One thing's certain," Alex said. "The government knew before we did."
They turned into Morgan's street. Cookie-cutter houses lined the block, every porch light blinking on against the dusk. The street looked too normal. Like the world hadn't ended an hour south of here.
Morgan climbed out, gear clinking. In blood-soaked multicam, he looked like a ghost that didn't belong here. His boots grated against gravel too clean. His mom appeared in the doorway, arms crossed like a judge ready to pass sentence. His sister lingered behind her, curious but nervous.
Alex leaned across the seat. "It'll take time, but you'll have to wake them up. The world's ending, brother. Remember finance class at boot? Saving for a rainy day doesn't mean money anymore."
He hesitated, then added, "Get go-bags. Fill every container with water, hell, fill the tub. If you absolutely need supplies, call me tomorrow and we'll get some in Guilderland. And don't let the neighbors know. If they remember later, you'll regret it."
Morgan nodded stiffly. "Thanks, Knight. For everything. Once Mom stops being such a Karen… you'll still take us in?"
"Of course," Alex said without pause. "We're brothers now." But inside, he wasn't sure he meant it. He wanted his friends alive, sure. But family came first.
Morgan had training. He could be trusted, or steered. Either was useful. His mom and sister were baggage, but maybe worth the cost. Survival wasn't just about fighters. Numbers and skills were important, but loyalty was rare.
Alex drove off toward Guilderland with the thought clinging like smoke. His father and John would pull their weight. The others… maybe not. Thinking of his family as deadweight made him sick, but the thought of them ever needing to sell their dignity to survive filled him with rage.
A curse slipped from his mouth. No way in hell. That wasn't why he enlisted. Once, he'd believed in patriotism. By the time he signed, it was mostly for benefits. But even then, he thought he was protecting something: family, even a way of life. The Army had drilled in the notion that without security, nothing else was possible.
And yet, what had that security bought? Spoiled kids whining about systems that carried them. Middle-aged wage slaves wasting paychecks on junk, tossing half-eaten burgers into the trash. He'd tried to steer his siblings better: John into welding, Carol into responsibility. But at the end of the day, they weren't his to raise.
Pulling into his driveway, Alex parked the SUV outside. The two-car garage was already crammed with his father's sedan and his stepmother's crossover. He thought briefly about hiding the unfamiliar vehicle, but shrugged. Most neighbors hardly knew the Knights anyway.
The HOA had hounded him before. Complaints about trash cans, short-term rentals or roommates. He'd ignored it all. Orders kept him safe. But one neighbor's stare last week still lingered, judging. It's like he was saying Alex didn't belong.
Fishing in his assault pack for keys, Alex hesitated. His family might not recognize the man on the doorstep: sweat-stained uniform, streaks of dried blood, full kit. But better they saw it now than later.
Before he could turn the lock, the door opened. His dad stood there in pajama pants and a white tee, Alex's favorite rifle held at his side.
"Dad… Anything happen?" Alex asked, nodding at the weapon. His father smirked. "I should be asking you, Mr. 'Take out the guns and stay inside.'" Relief slipped into Alex's grin. "Finally, Dad, you look like a real American."
"Yeah, and it only took the end of the world." They laughed, the tension breaking like glass. For the first time in days, Alex felt lighter. "The kids upstairs?" he asked.
"They've been up there since dinner. I was gonna check on them, but you showed first. Want me to heat something up?" Smiling, Alex replied, "Sure, Dad. Thanks."
He loved his father, though he'd always feared the man coddled him. Boot camp had burned that softness out. His stepmother was the opposite. Her tough love had kept him sharp. Too sharp sometimes, but it kept him from getting complacent.
Down in the basement, shelves of food and water calmed him. He slid his M4 into the gun locker beside the shotgun but kept his M17 under his pillow. He counted ammo: a dozen mags of 5.56, M855A1. These were military loads, meant for armor. He'd stash them for the day when men, preferably armored, came knocking.
He stripped out of his uniform, blood stiff in the fabric, and tossed it in the laundry. The hot shower hit him like the first wash after a field op.
Later, in breathable PT clothes and slippers, he hauled in the SUV's load: ammo cans, jerry cans, MREs stacked neatly in the basement. He should've moved his car inside the garage, he hadn't out of fatigue and excused it as too dark for neighbors to really see or care.
Every trip down the stairs, he pictured the Parkway. Bodies spilling, friends screaming. And he carried boxes like nothing had changed.
On his last trip, he carried the M240 itself. His parents froze when they saw it. They'd never seen a machine gun up close. "A little souvenir," Alex said with a thin smile. "The unit won't be needing it anymore." Their silence said enough. Reality had finally sunk in.
After stew and halfhearted small talk, Alex climbed to the second floor to check on his siblings. Nick sat hunched over his iPad, screen glowing. John's bed was empty. Carol's room, too. Her window gaped open, curtains fluttering in the breeze. A simple note lay on the desk.
To mom, dad, or Alex. Me and Carol are going to Justin's. Back before midnight. Don't worry.
For a second, he thought it was a prank. But the open window and the empty beds told the truth. They were gone. They'd slipped out onto the garage roof and dropped from there. A flaw in Alex's prep: second-floor windows unsecured.
"Fuck," Alex muttered. Justin Guzman. Of course. John's buddy and Carol's ex. A certifiable asshole. Alex remembered catching him once, drunk in the Knights' garage, daring John to light a can of WD-40 on fire. Another time he'd skipped class, leaving Carol to cover for him. A liar, a screw-up, and the last guy Alex wanted near his family.
Storming downstairs, Alex shoved the note into his dad's hand. No words. He changed into sweats and a hoodie, laced sneakers tight. Plate carrier and M4 stayed behind. But his M17, spare mags, EDC knife, and pepper spray went on.
"I'm going after them," he said at the garage door. "I'll need my rifle back. Take one of the others if anything happens." His father raised a hand. "Alex, it's just a party. Don't go full soldier on a bunch of high school kids."
"Don't worry. The rifle stays in the car." Alex smirked. "Haven't lost it yet." His father's look said it all: this boy will be the death of me.
Alex started the SUV. Rifle by his feet. Heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with combat. He was a soldier, but tonight he was just a brother chasing his family into the dark.