February 29, 2028 - Albany, NY
Alex's friends have been making moves, but what's preventing his rendezvous?
Alex thumbed through a PDF on his phone. It covered lists about when people die in the first week: leaving at the wrong hour, following the wrong crowd. The house was quiet in that small way it got after morning exercise. He was halfway through a section called Don't Join Mobs when Arguenta lit the screen.
He answered fast. "Yo. You missed three check-ins. Everything good?"
"Knight… bro the city's been hell," Arguenta said. A seat creaked. "I'm driving now. Got my family. My girl too—no one else left."
"You set for Jersey?" Alex asked.
"De Leon called. Said you're good with it, but you're 'handling business' first. What business?"
Alex paused. Arguenta had trusted his calls since the armory; he deserved the truth. "Could be stupid. Definitely emotional," Alex said. "My little brother's got a girl here. My sibs have friends. If some of these families can stand on their feet, I don't want to leave them stranded. The ones we grew up with are basically family."
A short laugh came through the line and broke in the middle. "Didn't think you'd be the sentimental one. Makes sense if you can swing it. I didn't get that luxury."
Guilt pricked, but Alex pushed it down. Getting Arguenta home had been a fight. Getting out again had to be worse. "Keep rolling. We'll link up after you're settled."
They hung up. The PDF stared back. Mobs create their own casualties. He closed it.
The yelling started a few hours later. Ragged and mean. Too many voices at once.
"The hell's going on outside?" Alex asked.
He pulled back the curtains. Across the street and a house down, a crowd, twenty, maybe more, packed the sidewalk and lawn. A few had long guns. Most had nothing visible at least. The loud neighbor who'd threatened Alex before stood near the middle in a duck-hunter jacket, shotgun slung.
"That's Samantha," John said, voice tight.
She stood at the edge, hands up, trying to peel people backward. She shouldn't even be here, she lived about half a mile away. When she spotted Alex, she shook her head and pointed at the house. Kid from the party, she mouthed.
That was why she'd come. She knew someone inside.
"I'll go alone," Alex said. "You watch from upstairs. First we figure out what this is."
"And bring Sam back?" John asked.
"If she'll come."
"Dad," Alex called toward the kitchen, "be ready. If this turns bad, pull everyone up the stairs."
Their father appeared in the doorway and nodded.
Alex handed John his favorite rifle: the one with the LPVO and angled grip. "Head to the front bedroom and crack the curtain. Stay back from the glass, call out what you see."
For himself, Alex was cautious. Slick plate carrier under a black parka, no pouches to bulge. He slung his rifle short and set the strap tight. The M17 sat under the jacket at his hip.
He checked the mirror. The parka hid the plate edges unless he reached too high. The tan cargos and boots still screamed military. The rifle didn't help.
He hugged John, squeezed his father's shoulder, pulled the steel bar off the front-door brace, and stepped into the cold.
He didn't rush, he needed John in place. The crowd didn't notice him at first, too busy yelling at a door.
"Send him out!"
"That kid's gonna get us all killed!"
"Open up or we open it!"
The two-story with the brown door took the noise like a person takes punches. A chain rattled. A bolt thumped. Inside, a man shouted, "Leave us alone!" A younger voice answered with a sound that wasn't human. It ran along Alex's spine like ice.
He reached the edge of the group where Samantha stood. "Samantha," he called.
She turned, relief and warning fighting on her face. "Alex. Don't come closer," she said. "It's Hargreeve's kid. From the party. He spiked a fever this morning. Somebody started talking, and now this."
"Who's stirring the pot?"
Her eyes flicked toward the duck-jacket neighbor and a thinner guy to his right—spindle neck, cap too clean. That one raised his chin at Alex with a little smirk.
"Devon," Samantha said under her breath. "John's best friend."
Of course. Devon had a gift for being confident in the wrong direction. He cupped his hands and shouted toward the porch. "We saw him at the party! He was bit. Your kid's sick. You're putting us at risk!"
He wasn't wrong about the party; it sounded like people had gotten bit. But most got away, probably. Fear does its own math.
"Who saw a bite?" Alex called, palms open. "Who checked it? Anyone here take a temp?"
"Shut up, soldier boy," the loud neighbor snapped. "We're handling it before it spreads."
Devon pointed at Alex. "This guy's been walking around with guns all week. He thinks he runs the block. You gonna listen to Captain America while our kids get eaten?"
Murmurs soured. A woman near the porch cried. The inside lights were off. Smart, or scared?
Alex slid two steps right so a street tree put wood between him and the loudest muzzles. "Nobody push the door," he said. "If it opens, you don't want to be stacked right there."
"How about you go play soldier somewhere else?" the neighbor said. "Cops aren't coming. We protect our own."
"Then be smart about it," Alex said. "Back up. Give them space. If the door gives, you fall away, not into it."
He didn't mention angles or anything that would make eyes glaze. Just space and away.
"Listen to him?" Devon barked. "He's got a machine gun slung. You want that on our street?"
Alex didn't look at his rifle. The strap pulled warm across his shoulder. Samantha put a hand on his sleeve. "Let me try," she whispered. Then louder, to the crowd: "Please. We know this family. Mr. Hargreeve is not the enemy. We don't even know if their kid—"
Something crashed inside. A woman screamed. Then silence came down hard.
"Oh God," Samantha said.
"Back up," Alex told Samantha. "Two houses. Stay behind me and go slow."
She nodded and moved. The crowd didn't follow her. All eyes were glued to the door.
"Mr. Hargreeve!" Devon shouted. "Open up or we will!"
"Bad idea," Alex said. "I'm not your boss. I'm just telling you how people get hurt."
"People already got hurt," the duck-jacket neighbor said, raising his shotgun halfway. "Heard it just now."
The chain shrieked. Wood cracked. The frame burst out like it had been hit by a truck.
Someone had come through headfirst: a teenager, bleeding at the mouth, collar soaked dark. He bounced and kept coming relentlessly. The chain snapped.
"Don't—" Alex started, but the first man at the threshold grabbed the kid like he could wrestle a virus. Teeth met his forearm. The sound was wet and final. The man howled. Blood painted the porch.
The crowd panicked, Devon yanked a short little carbine from under his jacket—cheap and loud-looking—and pointed it with his mouth open. He didn't fire. He shook.
"Down!" Alex barked, pushing Samantha behind the tree. He let the rifle settle into his shoulder without thinking.
Another figure hit the doorway—an adult, maybe the mother, hair wild, eyes empty. Then another behind her. The hallway was a dark throat full of movement.
Alex took the shot he had: two into the second figure's chest. She dropped like a cut rope. The third spilled over her.
"Back!" he yelled at the crowd, but they were already tripping into each other and into the street. Some stumbled toward him.
The duck-jacket neighbor swung the shotgun—across the porch, then toward Alex like panic had decided Alex was the bigger threat. Alex snapped his sights to the barrel, felt the bad angle, knew he was a half second late—
A crack split the air. The shotgun jumped and smashed against the door trim, chips flying. The neighbor flinched and let it go, swearing, more surprised than hurt.
Across the street, a window shade shivered. John had put a round into wood and metal by the muzzle—close enough to shock it off line without drilling the man. Good kid. Good restraint.
"Hold," Alex muttered upward, then, louder for the crowd, "MOVE BACK! Street side!"
Devon finally squeezed off three nervous pops at something crawling off the porch roof, dirt jumping. One round hit. It twitched and kept dragging. He froze, then looked at Alex like a student who'd just failed a test.
"Head," Alex snapped. Devon aimed higher, hands shaking, and shot again. The crawler stopped.
"Now help her up," Alex said, chin-flicking to a woman stumbling at the curb. He didn't wait to see if Devon listened.
Another infected body pushed through the doorway. The bitten man on the porch slid down the steps and into the yard, eyes open, mouth working. Alex put a round into his pelvis to drop the hips and followed with one to the head when it showed. He gagged and kept it down.
"Sam—go!" he said, pushing her back another few steps. She caught her footing and started pulling sleeves, yelling, "Back! Street! Now!" People listened, at least the ones who could still hear. She'd come to break this up; she was doing it.
The duck-jacket neighbor gave Alex a look like physics had betrayed him. He lunged for the dropped shotgun, grabbed a chunk, and swung. Alex stepped in and drove the butt of his rifle into the man's sternum. The air left him. He stumbled into the grass.
"Right side!" John shouted from the window.
Alex pivoted. The neighbor had a snub revolver in his off hand now, muzzle at Alex's ribs from ten feet. The man's eyes were blown wide.
CRACK.
Brick a foot from the man's wrist spat dust and chips. He yelped and jerked; the revolver thudded to the walk. He clutched his hand like he'd been stung.
"Drop it!" John called, flat and dangerous. "Stay down."
For a heartbeat, everything held: the crowd, the open door, the dark hallway breathing more bodies. Devon, pale and shaking, hovered behind Samantha like a shadow that wanted to be useful. He'd sold out the truth because fear made bad math; Alex could almost forgive that. Almost.
Inside the house, something heavy dragged. Then quiet.
Alex didn't trust it.
"Back it up," he said, eyes on the doorway. "Now."