The network came back in pieces.
Not all at once, not cleanly. Just fragments snapping into place like teeth finding purchase in old scars.
Evan felt it before he heard it—a change in pressure behind the eyes, the faint return of depth where there had been only static. The bracelet on his wrist warmed and stayed warm, no vibration this time, no courtesy ping. Someone else had flipped a switch somewhere uphill and far enough away to matter.
Calibration traffic bled through the dead air.
—NODE ONLINE—SECONDARY CAL—HOLD STILL—
—FIRST WAVE HANDSHAKE FAILED—ROUTING AROUND—
—USE IT WHILE IT HOLDS—
No names. No callsigns. Just a failed transmission.
He crouched behind a concrete Jersey barrier at the edge of Point State Park, snow piled against its base in uneven drifts. The rivers met below him, the Allegheny and Monongahela feeding the Ohio like veins stitched together badly. Ice hugged the shoreline but the current stayed black and fast in the center, carrying debris downstream without pause or ceremony.
Fort Pitt Bridge loomed to his left, its deck a dark line against the sky. The tunnel entrance yawned beneath it, a concrete throat that swallowed sound and light. Vehicles had died there weeks ago—fuel starvation, collisions, people abandoning cars where momentum ran out. The wreckage had turned the tunnel approach into a choke point no one controlled for long.
That was why the node mattered.
Someone—other agents, first wave ghosts or second wave survivors like him—had brought part of the SHD network back online using a fixed location. Old infrastructure. Hardened. Elevated enough to punch signal through the hills. He didn't need the overlay to guess where.
The Fort Pitt Tunnel control building sat just uphill from the entrance, squat and ugly, poured concrete with narrow windows meant to survive blasts and decades of neglect. It had power once. It might again.
The bracelet confirmed it with a soft tone. Location node established. Calibration ongoing. Limited routing available.
Time-limited.
He adjusted his rifle and leaned out just enough to scan the park. Snow-covered lawns hid old paths and newer trenches where people had dug shallow fighting positions and abandoned them when the river wind cut too deep. Flyers flapped against a signpost near the fountain ruins—rules, warnings, sermons, overlapping until none of them meant anything.
Movement near the tunnel mouth. Four figures, silhouettes against the darker interior, picking through cars. Not civilians. Too deliberate. Too spread out.
Iron Guard, maybe. Or Strays pushing downhill for salvage before someone else claimed it.
Evan didn't wait for certainty.
He shifted position, bracing the rifle against the barrier, breath steady. Distance wasn't ideal, but elevation favored him. He tracked the rear figure first, the one watching the bridge instead of the wreckage.
One shot. Clean. The man folded without sound, disappearing behind a sedan.
The others reacted late. Shouting. Scrambling for cover that didn't exist. Evan adjusted and fired again, then again, shots measured and final. He didn't rush. He didn't shout warnings. He didn't ask questions he couldn't afford the answers to.
The last one dropped his weapon and raised his hands, knees sinking into snow gone grey with road grime.
Evan stopped shooting.
He held position, muzzle steady, waiting. Seconds stretched. No movement from the tunnel. No answering fire from the bridge.
"Don't move," Evan said, voice low, carrying just enough. He didn't step forward yet. Surrender was a condition, not a guarantee.
The man nodded hard, hands shaking, breath fogging thick. "I—I'm done. I'm done."
Evan advanced slowly, angle cautious, eyes never leaving the tunnel mouth. He kicked the dropped weapon away and gestured with the rifle.
"Sit. Face the river."
The man obeyed.
Evan bound his hands with a strip of cable pulled from his pack, tight enough to hold, not tight enough to kill circulation. He didn't lecture. Didn't threaten. When it was done, he stepped back and reoriented uphill.
The node wouldn't wait.
Radio chatter sharpened as he climbed toward the control building, the network finding its feet.
—CALIBRATION DRIFT—HOLD POSITION IF YOU CAN— Static chewed at the edges. —MULTIPLE AGENTS ONLINE—NOT ALL VERIFIED—
First wave remnants, maybe. Or second wave like him, scattered, anonymous, too tired for introductions.
The climb burned. Snow hid ice on the service road, forcing him to take it slow, using the guardrail when it existed and the hillside when it didn't. Below, the tunnel approach stayed quiet. The surrendered man didn't move. That was good enough.
The control building door was ajar, lock smashed, frame splintered. Evan cleared the entry without ceremony, rifle leading, senses tight. Inside, the air smelled of old oil and cold concrete. Consoles lined the walls, dark except for one panel glowing weakly, powered by a jury-rigged generator humming in protest.
Two figures stood over it.
Both wore the orange ring.
They froze when Evan entered, weapons half-raised, then eased when the bracelet tones matched.
"SHD Calibration?" one asked, voice rough, older.
Evan nodded once.
"Good," the other said. Younger. "We're bleeding signal. This place wasn't meant to run cold."
The panel flickered as if to prove the point.
Outside, wind slammed into the building, rattling the narrow windows. Pittsburgh pressing back, as always.
Evan took position by the doorway, covering the approach without being asked. Below them, the rivers kept moving. The bridge creaked in the cold. Somewhere in the tunnel, metal settled and echoed like a distant gunshot.
The network held.
For now.