Alex Knight had been home for a week when things started to shift.
He thought he'd come back restless. Deployments usually left soldiers itching to be anywhere but home, chasing distractions to fill the sudden quiet. His hadn't been much of a deployment at all. Qatar was more waiting than war: long shifts guarding empty gates, endless training cycles, and enough downtime for soldiers to get sick of the gym and each other. They called it a "vacation deployment."
But for him, it was a year gone; a year of sweating in desert heat, running drills that went nowhere, and watching the calendar creep forward. His friends joked the only enemy they fought was boredom.
Now, back in Albany, NY, Alex felt like his life was squared away. Thanks to his deployment and prior mission back home, his bank app hadn't flashed red in years, except for the credit card payments he set to autopay before leaving for Qatar. Now his index funds ticked upward whether he looked at them or not. If he wanted, he could walk into a dealership tomorrow and drive out with keys in hand; the bank would smile, and the credit unions would compete to hand him the lowest rate. At nineteen, he was sitting in a spot most infantry guys never dreamed of.
With money saved, and the next mission application submitted, the week passed in routine. He spent mornings pumping weights, late nights on his favorite mil-sim or other first-person shooters, and long afternoons at the range turning stacks of 5.56x45 NATO and .223 Remington into neat piles of brass.
Usually, he practiced with cheap .223, 55-grain loads, but he always kept bulk green-tip 62-grain 5.56 sealed away. His rifle's Wylde chamber could run both, and he liked having options. The ammo cans stacked in his basement stood in neat rows, each one labeled in marker. His gear rested where it belonged. Order and numbers stayed constant even when everything else shifted.
It felt earned. He wasn't rich, not yet a millionaire; but he was comfortable, owned his own home near his childhood one, and for now, that was enough.
February 26, 2028. Two days before Day Zero.
Day Zero. That was the name survivors would give it later. The day everything snapped. The day services stopped working, when neighbors turned into strangers, and the government couldn't hold back the tide. Alex didn't know that term yet, but he could feel things sliding in that direction.
His phone lit up with shaky vertical videos. People fighting in supermarkets. Shopping carts crashing into displays. Four lanes of traffic jammed solid, drivers climbing out to scream at each other. Somewhere in the chaos, a clip of a man biting another man's face. The comments called it fake, called it drugs.
Alex's platoon group chat had already passed clips like that around. Junior NCOs spammed zombie emojis. A few Specialists sent memes with captions like "Florida Man strikes again." Nobody believed it, but nobody ignored it either.
Alex could tell things would be getting stupid, and just like with his investment strategy, he wanted some risk control. That morning, he stocked up. Canned meat, pasta, rice, bottled water. At the gun shop, he replaced what he'd shot off at the range. A few boxes of .223 for practice, bulk 5.56 for storage.
Back home, he carried everything to the basement. The ammo cans clicked as he stacked them in rows, labels lined forward like they were waiting for inspection. Government issued OCD. A gift from almost 3 years in the Guard.
That night, he called his father. "Dad, I think you should hit Shoprite early tomorrow," Alex said. "Get the basics before people really panic." His father chuckled. "People are always panic-buying, Alex. It's the same circus every time." "Yeah, it's probably nothing…" Alex said, standing in his neatly stocked basement. "Still. Don't wait. Best case you got your shopping done early, and maybe save some money before toilet paper becomes a luxury."
His father sighed but agreed. Alex knew his stepmother would load the cart with cereal, beans, and whatever else she thought essential. He hung up, telling himself he'd done the one thing that mattered that day.
February 27, 2028. One day before Day Zero.
The next afternoon, his phone buzzed nonstop. SSG Ray: [Stand by for activation. Not fucking around.]
A moment later, another ping: [NYPD and State Police are exempt.]
The unit group chat lit up instantly. Privates asked if it was a drill. Specialists tossed around guesses, and a Sergeant reminded everyone that a quarter of the unit wouldn't even show - NYPD was just as short on bodies as the Guard. One Specialist, ten years in but too out of shape to make Sergeant, posted a zombie meme because nervous soldiers never missed a chance to joke.
Alex didn't reply. He walked into his basement instead. His gear practically staged itself. He folded uniforms into his rucksack, and rolled tan t-shirts tight. The routine was second nature now, like muscle memory. Plate carrier ready, though he'd left the issued plates out. He had his own belt setup, pouches he'd bought himself because he trusted them more than CIF's hand-me-downs. His ruck was half-full, and a smaller assault pack rested beside it with hygiene items, protein bars, and a couple of energy drinks.
He paused by his gun vault. Inside sat the spare rifle mods he'd picked up for his issued M4: an ACOG and a foregrip. For a moment, he thought about pulling them out. They always felt better than the red-dot optic the Army handed out. But this wasn't a deployment or a qual range, and he didn't want to look like some tacticool SF bro in a chill mechanized unit. Someone would roast him before first formation. With a shake of his head, he shut the vault door and left them where they were. He had bigger things to worry about anyway.
At 1640, the first packing list hit the chat: full field load. Tent, e-tool, sleeping system. Soldiers groaned, already picturing the weight. Twenty minutes later, another message pinged through: drop the tent, e-tool, and sleeping system. The tone flipped instantly. Gifs and memes flooded in, guys pretending to bury e-tools or hump rucks through the desert. Nobody liked field gear, it usually entailed a lack of roofs, hot chow, and showers.
At 1900, the message dropped: report to Fort Hamilton. The drive to Brooklyn was long enough for second thoughts but not long enough to matter.
Their infantry company had only been relocated to Hamilton a few months back. Just one infantry company slotted into an installation that mostly housed MPs and support. That made them one of the few combat arms units close enough to mobilize first inside the city.
At the tolls, he called his father again. "You go?" "Went," his father said. "It was crowded, but we got enough. Your stepmother bought three kinds of beans." "Beans are beans," Alex said. "Try telling her that," his father laughed. "We'll be fine. Be careful."
Fort Hamilton's reserve center looked like every armory: brick walls, flat roof, no imagination. Inside, the air carried that familiar government-clean smell. Lemon-scented floor wax mixed with the metallic tang of lockers and keys. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't warm either. It felt like order without care.
Cots filled the drill floor. Soldiers sprawled across them, boots off, heads resting on rucks. Some whispered. Others laughed quietly. The same rhythm as every standby.
"Yo, Knight." Arguenta grinned from a cot halfway down, waving him over. Alex dropped his ruck beside him. "What's good?" The two fell into the same old debates. Arguenta swore by the reliability of an AK, Alex shot back about the accuracy of an AR. Between that, they called out who'd put on weight since Qatar. Then Arguenta pulled out his phone, flipping it around to show stock charts like he was teaching a class. "I'm telling you bro, tech's gonna pop this quarter," he said, eyes lit up. Alex just shook his head. "Yeah, well, index funds don't have to pop, they just work." Arguenta groaned. "You're boring." "Yeah, and steady," Alex said. Same argument as always.
Just past midnight, the Company Commander and First Sergeant came in. Boots echoed across the floor. "Stand by to stand by," CPT Lee said. His posture was calm, but his eyes darted over the rows of cots. He didn't look like a man with answers. "We'll brief in the morning. Sleep while you can."
For a moment, nobody moved. A Private coughed. Someone muttered "classic, hurry up and wait." Alex lay back, staring up at the metal beams overhead. He listened to the scuff of boots, the low hum of the vending machines at the far wall. His body obeyed the routine before his mind caught up, eyes shutting. Years of field ops had trained him to sleep on command, even when it felt wrong.
Three hours later, a kick to his cot snapped him awake. "Wake up. Brief in thirty." The armory shifted instantly. Poncho liners and travel pillows were packed away. Ruck straps were tightened. Voices rose and fell in quick chatter. Some soldiers took out Monster cans saved for the occasion, packs of Zyns for others. Many had both.
"Mass formation," 1SG Filmore barked. They formed up, not parade ground perfect, but close enough. CPT Lee kept it short. "We're supporting NYPD. Civil unrest. Looting deterrence. You are a uniform first."
Then came the order that changed everything. "Mount weapons."
Soldiers moved around the motor pool, running quick PMCS before driving the Humvees inside. The clatter of metal filled the drill floor as M240s locked into their pintle mounts, gunners exposed from the chest up. M2 .50 cals clicked into CROWS systems, remote controlled from inside. Relief for some, nerves for others.
Alex signed for his M17 pistol (standard for gunners and officers), then his M4 carbine with its M68 red-dot optic and PEQ-15 laser, clearing both weapons as he did so. "Clean before anything else," SSG Ray ordered. It wasn't about carbon. It was about nerves. Soldiers who usually skimmed their checks now inspected every spring like they were watchmakers. Alex pulled the bolt of his M4, and lazily ran a ripcord through his clean barrel, but dabbed CLP oil in the right spots. Boot camp and years of ranges had drilled this lesson in: a gun will run wet and dirty, but it can't run dry.
"We're getting live rounds," a Platoon Sergeant called out, sounding surprised as he looked up from his phone; likely getting guidance from some group chat only for leaders. The room went quiet. Ammo cans cracked open. Magazines filled. Every soldier felt the shift in the air.