"What's going on?" General Hammer demanded.
The aide responded quickly. "The camp took in some survivors from the San Francisco suburbs, and their bodies are undergoing some kind of collective mutation!"
"What? Take me to see!" Hammer said, urgency in his voice.
Gerald quickly intervened. "General Hammer, something's off about this. We should proceed with caution."
Hammer considered for a moment. "You're right. Isolate them first and have all soldiers gear up in protective suits!"
The camp immediately went on high alert. Only after donning full protective gear did Hammer and Gerald go to check on the survivors.
The survivors from the San Francisco suburbs were emaciated, looking like anorexia patients—skin and bones. They were in the isolation zone, constantly crying out that they were hungry.
One or two like this might be explainable, but dozens, even hundreds, all in the same state was highly abnormal. The camp had provided bread and water, but even after eating, the survivors remained unchanged. Some had consumed several kilograms of bread and still screamed about hunger, their stomachs showing no signs of filling.
Hammer sensed trouble. If they didn't get to the bottom of this, it could spiral into something serious. "Have the doctors examined them?" he asked.
The aide nodded. "The doctors are conducting a full examination right now."
The camp was well-equipped, with medical gear urgently transported from Los Angeles hospitals. America's national strength, though nearing the end of its peak, was still formidable enough to handle this.
Hammer and Gerald waited for the results of the full examination. Soon, a doctor reported, "General, our tests show that all the survivors' cells have mutated. Their mitochondria have multiplied several times over, drastically increasing their energy demands. This might be why…"
(Anyone know that game about mitochondria rebelling?)
The tests were beyond the scope of regular doctors, but thankfully, Hammer's team included military scientists.
Neither Hammer nor Gerald fully grasped the technical jargon. "Listen, Dr. Shawn," Hammer interrupted, "just tell me what caused this and whether it can be fixed."
Dr. Shawn, in a white lab coat, adjusted his thick black-framed glasses. "We don't yet know the cause; we'll need more research. My personal guess is radiation-induced mutation. All the survivors have one thing in common: elevated radiation levels in their bodies."
Gerald frowned. "Radiation can cause this kind of effect?"
"That's what's puzzling me," Dr. Shawn admitted. "Radiation typically causes chaotic mutations, not something this uniform. That's why I'm not certain."
Only an hour had passed since the mutations were noticed, so the lack of answers wasn't surprising. Hammer thought for a moment before issuing orders. "Treat these survivors with maximum containment protocols! Everyone who's had unprotected contact with them needs to be screened as well."
Dr. Shawn frowned. "General, that'll require significant manpower and resources."
"That's not your concern," Hammer replied firmly. "I'll handle the logistics. Your job is to figure out the cause of this mutation and find a solution, fast."
Hammer's decisiveness put Dr. Shawn at ease. "Understood. I'll start researching the issue immediately."
"Dr. Shawn, prioritize your own safety. You researchers are valuable assets to America," Hammer added.
Dr. Shawn, used to Hammer's blunt style, didn't mind being called an "asset." "Got it," he replied.
The camp was restructured to include dedicated isolation and research zones, as more survivors kept arriving. To prevent the mutation from spreading, everyone who'd had contact with the survivors was screened. Hammer and Gerald relocated their command post to avoid potential exposure.
By 6 a.m., more support arrived, including from FEA headquarters.
"Director Orin, headquarters has placed me under your command," said Point Man, Paxton Fettel's older brother. Due to his brother's actions, he'd undergone strict political scrutiny but was recently cleared.
"Point Man, I have a critical mission for you," Orin said.
"Tell me, Director."
"I need you to lead an elite team to investigate a nuclear launch signal from Armacham's experimental facility. You're familiar with the facility, right?"
Point Man's mind drifted. He was more than familiar—he was born there and lived there for six years. As a product of biotech, he aged three times faster than normal, reaching the equivalent of 18 years old in just six years. This accelerated metabolism gave him superhuman athleticism and reflexes, but it also meant he aged faster. Cloned soldiers were based on him, though heavily downgraded—faster growth, average physical ability, slightly lower intelligence. They matured in a year, were usable for about three years before genetic collapse, and were highly cost-effective. Mass-produced, their cost could rival that of firearms.
This was why Armacham and the FEA collaborated on the project—a guaranteed profit.
Snapping back, Point Man replied, "Yes, Director Orin, I know the place well."
"Good. You'll lead a squad of cloned soldiers and three Marine squads to assault Armacham's facility from the sea. I'll coordinate with Roy Black for support. Any questions?"
"What if we find survivors in the facility?" Point Man asked.
Armacham's facility was built to withstand heavy damage and was far from the nuclear blast's epicenter, so survivors were likely. However, the federal government had received no response from the facility, possibly due to EMP damage from the blast.
"Restrain them with zip ties and wait for headquarters' instructions," Orin replied.
"Understood."
"Then move out, Point Man."
As Point Man boarded a Navy vessel to launch the assault, Roy learned more details from Beckett about the situation: how Delta's three squads infiltrated Armacham's headquarters, the visions Beckett and Keegan saw, and what happened when the first squad and Iris reached the CEO's office.
"The moment the nuke went off, the floor-to-ceiling windows shattered, and the shockwave threw us back," Beckett recounted. "Then, I saw this orange world, and Alma appeared, talking to me. In a haze, I think I saw Genevieve Aristide carrying an unconscious Iris away."
"Genevieve Aristide is fine?" Roy asked, surprised. Iris, an angelic human vessel, was knocked out by the blast, yet a nearly 50-year-old woman like Genevieve was unscathed?
Beckett scratched his head. "I don't know why."
Sensing he'd get no more answers, Roy decided to help Beckett. "Beckett, do you want to go to heaven?"
Beckett's eyes widened. "Heaven's real?"
"Of course. I can grant you redemption and send you there."
"Let's do it!" Beckett said eagerly.
Roy transformed into his angelic form, activating his redemption aura. Instantly, Beckett and what remained of Keegan collapsed, their souls rising from their bodies.
But soon, their souls were drawn toward the coast, as if pulled by something. "What's happening?" Roy muttered, stepping to the edge of the shattered office wall. His True Sight caught their souls heading toward an island, where a massive orange torch seemed to stand.
Could it be…
Roy recalled the torch-like building from his earlier vision. Was it real, existing in another realm—a torch that burned souls? A chill ran through him. The San Francisco Bay Area had over seven million residents, with two to three million likely killed in the blast. If their souls were being drawn into this torch…
Whatever its purpose, the soul torch had to be destroyed, or who knew what would happen. Unable to contact Iris, Roy reached for his satellite phone to call Adrian when Gerald's military terminal buzzed.
"Your Excellency Black, this is Frank Hammer!"
"General Hammer? You're in San Francisco?" Roy asked.
"Yes, I'm in charge of the situation here. Have you found Iris?"
"Not yet, but she's likely still alive."
"Excellency, I have a new mission. Can you assist?"
Hammer outlined the mission and its location, plunging Roy into silence. The target was the very island where Roy had seen the soul torch—and where Iris might be.
After a few seconds, Hammer, thinking Roy was hesitant, sweetened the deal. "If you complete this, I'll request a Presidential Medal of Freedom for you!"
The medal, the highest civilian honor, was awarded for exceptional contributions to America's security or interests. As an FEA contractor, Roy technically wasn't eligible, and honestly, he didn't care much for it—it wasn't like it paid the bills.
"General, let's talk something practical. I don't need empty accolades," Roy said.
Hammer went quiet. He knew what Roy wanted but couldn't offer it. "Excellency, you know the federal government's strapped for cash. This year's budget is spent, next year's is already allocated, and no department's giving up their share."
"I know that. I'm not asking for cash—just some policy support."
Hammer exhaled in relief. Policy was negotiable. "What kind?"
"I own a social media platform now. I want policy backing for it. My people can work out the details with the White House."
"No problem. I, Frank Hammer, guarantee you won't be shortchanged!"
Roy trusted Hammer. The old man was gruff but kept his word. "Alright. I'll coordinate with my team, and you have the White House contact them. I'm heading to Armacham's facility now."
"Thank you, Excellency!"
Roy called Jennifer, instructing her to prepare for White House negotiations and to bring Katherine if needed. Just as he hung up, the phone rang again—Adrian.
"Roy, something's wrong! I can't reach Iris!" Adrian explained that Iris had contacted him last night, but when he arrived in the Bay Area that morning, she was unreachable.
"Adrian, I'm in downtown Bay Area. I think I know where Iris is. Where are you?"
"At the docks. What happened here? It's like the apocalypse!"
Roy glanced toward the docks, pinpointing Adrian's location. "Someone detonated a nuke in the Bay Area. This city's in ruins."
Adrian fell silent for a long moment before speaking. "My God! Humans have such terrifying weapons! Roy, we have to do something!"
"I've found something big. We'll talk when I get to you."