Rain hammered the pavement in sheets, turning the whole place into a blurred mess of headlights, silhouettes, and half-awake soldiers moving without direction. Vehicles idled in crooked lines. People jogged between them carrying bags, rifles, and ponchos, but nobody seemed organized. Nobody was shouting orders. Nobody even noticed Cole climbing out of his Civic.
He swung his assault bag over his shoulder, grabbed his helmet and the rest of the gear he guessed he'd need, and headed toward the building. By the time he reached the door, the rain had already soaked through his uniform.
Inside, the armory felt wrong. Too quiet. Too disjointed. Soldiers brushed past him without acknowledgment, talking in scattered voices, all of them sounding half-panicked and half-exhausted.
Cole walked straight to the locker room.
The tile was wet from people tracking rain inside. Lockers slammed shut around him. Gear clattered to the floor. The air smelled like damp nylon, sweat, and cold metal.
Cole opened his locker and grabbed his cold-weather kit, more to keep the rain off than the cold. He layered up quickly and methodically, the way he always did when he actually cared.
Tan balaclava over his face.
OCP-covered helmet strapped on top.
Mechanix Impact gloves tighten over his hands.
When he looked up at the mirror on the inside of the locker door, he barely recognized himself.
Just a blank, covered face staring back.
Still.
Emotionless.
Present… but not really.
He shut the locker with a soft clang and stepped back into the hallway.
Outside, lightning flashed.
Thunder rolled.
People shouted something he couldn't make out.
The world felt like it was shifting underneath him, and nobody in this building knew what to do.
Cole adjusted his helmet and walked toward the chaos.
Someone shouted from behind a tan Humvee,
"Larson! Get over here!"
Cole recognized the voice instantly—his sergeant.
He jogged toward him through the rain, arms raised over his head like that would help. Water still poured down the back of his neck and soaked into his sleeves.
"Yes, Sergeant?" Cole asked, breath fogging inside his balaclava.
"First Sergeant wants to talk to you. He's in the offices with the rest of the command staff."
Cole frowned beneath the mask.
"What the hell does he want with me?"
Before the sergeant could answer, another soldier yelled his name from across the motor pool. He turned and sprinted off without another word.
Cole muttered something under his breath and bolted toward the building. He pushed through the armory doors, trying to shield himself from the rain. Inside, he held the door open for another sergeant rushing in, then headed down the hallway.
His tan boots squeaked against the muddy, rain-soaked tile.
The air smelled like wet gear, diesel, and panic.
Nobody looked calm.
Nobody acted like they knew what was happening.
Cole followed the dim lights toward the office wing, water dripping from his helmet, gloves, and uniform. With every step, he felt the tension rising — a sense that whatever waited behind that door wasn't going to be good.
Not even close.
Cole stepped inside, boots dripping mud and rainwater onto the carpet. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the glow of a TV in the corner. The entire command team stood clustered around it, their faces pale and frozen.
First Sergeant turned his head sharply.
"Take that damn cover off inside, Specialist."
Cole obeyed without his usual sarcastic comment. Something in the room told him this wasn't the time.
He removed his helmet and held it at his side, unsure where to stand or what to do. Nobody even acknowledged him. Every officer, sergeant, and senior NCO stared at the screen like they were watching the world die in real time.
He followed their gaze.
The news anchor's voice trembled as she read the teleprompter.
"—South American governments are reporting systemic collapse. Brazil, Chile, Argentina, Bolivia— all declaring emergencies. Much of central and southern Africa is reporting similar breakdowns."
Cole felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.
"—the anomalies, now officially termed Faults, appear to be spreading from Antarctica at unprecedented speed. There is currently no known way to contain them—"
The screen cut to aerial footage.
Skyscrapers hovering several feet above their foundations.
Roads folding like soft metal.
The ground cracking into perfect geometric shapes.
Buildings dissolving upward into the sky.
Then the broadcast switched to ground-level footage: chaos inside emergency rooms and makeshift hospitals.
Patients strapped to gurneys, convulsing violently as their bodies twisted—
not bleeding, not rotting—
but changing.
The anchor's voice cracked.
"We want to warn viewers… the following images are disturbing."
Doctors ran down hallways, shouting for restraints. A nurse pushed a wheelchair containing a woman who sat perfectly still, eyes wide open, chest rising and falling—
but her body refusing to respond.
Conscious.
Alive.
Locked in place like a statue.
Another video showed a man writhing in a hospital bed as his limbs bent at angles that shouldn't exist. His screams turned into a metallic echo as the Fault warped the air around him.
Then came the worst clip.
A makeshift triage tent filled with cots. One patient began thrashing violently, then lunged forward, teeth snapping, body moving with no coordination—like a puppet yanked by invisible strings. He collided with another patient, sending both crashing to the ground.
The anchor spoke over rising screams in the footage.
"Some individuals affected by the Faults exhibit aggressive behavior. Others… appear to lose all voluntary control while remaining fully conscious. Hospitals are overwhelmed. Authorities are urging caution around anyone exposed to a Fault—"
The footage cut out.
The room was silent.
Cole exhaled slowly through his balaclava.
This wasn't another pandemic.
This wasn't something anyone could quarantine or track.
This was reality itself fracturing.
And it was heading toward them.
Fast.
First Sergeant finally tore his eyes from the TV and turned toward Cole.
"Larson… change of plans. Tell everyone outside to get in here. Now."
"Yes, First Sergeant."
Cole didn't hesitate. He spun on his heel and ran back toward the entrance. The hallway lights flickered overhead as thunder rumbled through the motor pool.
He shoved open the door and stepped into the freezing rain again, water instantly soaking through his uniform.
Cole cupped his hands around his mouth.
"EVERYONE! Inside! Office! Now!"
No explanation.
No reasoning.
No one asked why.
Soldiers outside the Humvees and LMTVs looked at each other, then sprinted toward the building. Boots slapped against the pavement. Gear clattered. Some people dropped equipment in the mud and didn't bother picking it up.
Whatever was happening inside the armory…
Whatever those images were on the TV…
Everyone could feel it in the air.
Something was very, very wrong.
Without hesitation, they rushed toward the doors, cramming through the entrance and filling the hallway, dripping rain and fear onto the tile.
Cole stepped aside as the crowd pushed in, his gloves slick with water, his heartbeat matching the thunder outside.
For the first time tonight, he realized—The world wasn't prepared for a disaster.
Everyone shoved into the office space shoulder to shoulder. Wet uniforms dripped onto the carpet. Quiet muttering, nervous coughs, and the dull hum of the lights filled the air. Nobody knew what was happening. Nobody pretended to.
The commanding officer finally stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, eyes hollow.
"Everyone, listen!" he shouted.
The room went dead silent.
He took a breath—long, shaky, unsure—then spoke again.
"We have no orders. Not a single one. Battalion's gotten nothing from Brigade, Division, the State, or Federal."
A ripple of fear moved through the crowd, but he raised a hand to keep everyone quiet.
"So… within my authority as the commanding officer…"
He paused, eyes scanning the faces in front of him, "…you can go home. To your families. If you want."
A few soldiers inhaled sharply. Others lowered their heads.
He continued.
"We still technically have a job to do, even if we don't know what that job is anymore. But if you have a family… I'm telling you now: leave. Go home."
His voice cracked just slightly.
"Because me, myself, and the rest of the command team—we're leaving too."
The room felt like it shifted under Cole's feet.
"You'll be left with Sergeant Bern in charge," the CO said. "We need at least four people to stay behind. Secure the vehicles. Lock the armory. That's it. That's all I'm asking."
He swallowed, expression tightening.
"Because once people figure out what's going on… they'll come here. For help. Or to loot. And we need this place locked down."
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The truth had finally hit them:
This wasn't a mission.
This was abandonment.
The chain of command had broken.
And every soldier in that room was on their own.
Sergeant Bern stepped forward as the new man in charge, and I already knew how this was going to go. He was my sergeant, after all. If someone had to stay behind… he'd volunteer me first.