February 28, 2028. Day Zero.
Now midnight, the convoy brief was short. Speed limits. Spacing. Don't cut off traffic. Don't play cowboy. The map traced their route out of Fort Hamilton, across the Verrazzano, and onto the Belt Parkway, pushing deeper into Brooklyn. Soldiers traded wary looks. A few whispered about the clips they'd seen in chats. Nobody said the word "zombies," but it hung in the air anyway.
"Mission is support to law enforcement," CPT Lee said. "Presence, deterrence. Rules of engagement are self-defense only." SFC Morales, the NCOIC of the convoy, barked the order to move, his voice carrying across the motor pool. Beside him, SSG Ray, the same admin NCO who had summoned them to the unit, shot the platoons a look that said the time for joking was over. "Mount up." Lee gave the orders, Morales ran the convoy, and Ray, usually behind a desk, was here to keep the platoons in line.
The sky was still dark when Alex climbed into his Humvee. Arguenta slid behind the wheel, calm on the surface but with his jaw set tight. SGT Guevara rode up front with the hand mic clipped to his vest, already fiddling with the radio like he needed a refresher. PFC Morgan, still green, squeezed into the rifleman's seat in back, gear rattling around him. He looked young, maybe seventeen. Same age he'd been when he signed his papers.
Both Guevara and Morgan were new additions to the unit. One a new leader, the other a new soldier. Both had joined a hollowed-out armory stripped of people and gear. Mostly because the bulk of the unit was overseas, partly because of the move to Hamilton.
The CROWS system glowed in the dark, the mounted M2 .50 cal waiting overhead. Engines rumbled in unison as the convoy rolled out of Fort Hamilton, headlights cutting through the gray quiet of Brooklyn before dawn. For Alex, it was surreal. Infantry rolling out from a post that usually only housed MPs and support, now heading into the heart of the city like they were deploying into a warzone on their own streets.
Alex checked his phone one last time. A photo from his father filled the screen: the pantry back in Albany, shelves stacked with beans and cereal boxes. His father had texted, [Plenty of beans, we're good.] Alex smiled faintly, slid the phone into his plate carrier, and tightened the straps. Then he faced forward.
The highway swallowed them.
The convoy of ten Humvees crawled along the Belt Parkway, engines grumbling against the still night air. New York's skyline glowed faintly in the distance, but here the road was jammed solid. Brake lights stretched for miles, a frozen river of red. Civilians leaned out of their cars, horns blaring uselessly. Some shouted at one another like noise could clear the gridlock. Others just sat in the glow of their dashboards, trapped in the mess.
Alex sat third from the lead truck, eyes flicking between the street outside and the CROWS feed, a grainy black-and-white display mounted near the driver's seat, linked to the .50 cal above. His fingers tapped against the joystick. This wasn't boredom anymore. It was dread stretched thin.
"Delta 6, this is Delta 2-3," SFC Morales called from the second Humvee. "Traffic's locked solid. Requesting guidance, over." Static filled the pause, then CPT Lee's voice came back. Calm on the surface, but Alex could hear the strain under it. "Hold position. NYPD is aware. This is temporary. Out."
Alex didn't buy it. Civilians were climbing out of their cars now, pacing, arguing, waving their arms at the Humvees. One man shouted obscenities at another driver for cutting him off, only to be boxed in right in front of him. A few cars down, a woman raised her phone, the glow of the screen cold on her face as she streamed the gridlock like capturing it might hold back what was coming.
Fifteen minutes dragged by. The convoy crawled forward a dozen car lengths at most. Discipline started to fray. Specialists and PFCs muscled Humvees into gaps, trying to push ahead. The line stretched thin, broken into uneven pairs and singles scattered down the jam. command either didn't notice or didn't care, and the split came too late to fix.
That was when the first scream tore across the night. It wasn't frustration. It wasn't anger. It was sharp, raw, and carried over the roofs of cars.
"Man, this is bad juju," Morgan muttered from the back, his voice cracking despite the effort to sound casual. "Relax," Arguenta said, eyes locked forward, hands steady on the wheel. "Worst case, we sit here a few hours." His tone carried confidence, but his clenched jaw gave him away.
"Delta 6, 2-3!" Morales's voice crackled again, this time frantic. "Civilians are—Jesus—they're biting people! They're fucking biting!" "Say again, 2-3," CPT Lee demanded, sharper now.
The reply was lost under wild bursts of gunfire. Not disciplined. Not controlled. Just fear hammering full auto into the night. Then Morales again, high and ragged: "Delta 6, they're not stopping, they're—" A wash of static cut him off.
Alex's eyes shot to the CROWS feed. The camera caught movement between cars. Figures sprinting, stumbling, falling under others who swarmed them. Teeth flashed in the headlight glow. Blood sprayed. Chaos spread backward through the jam like fire racing a dry field.
The exposed gunner on 2-3's truck screamed as a figure lunged up the hatch. Teeth tore into his neck. Blood streaked across the pintle mount. The gunner clawed for his sidearm, jammed it into the attacker's temple, and fired twice. Bone fragments scattered. The body slumped, but the damage was done. The gunner sagged inside the turret. For a moment he went limp. Then his body jerked, then spasmed, before he lunged sideways at his own rifleman and truck commander.
"2-3, this is Delta 6. Say again last transmission. Delta 2-3, this is Delta 6."
Only static answered back.
That was the spark. Half the convoy's trucks had exposed gunners, each one a target. Figures scrambled up turrets, dragging soldiers down in flashes of teeth and blood. Those sealed behind CROWS tried to fire, but civilians and zombies tangled too close. Every burst risked hitting both. Gunfire and screams rolled down the Parkway like thunder.
"Delta 6, we need guidance now!" SSG Ray barked. Lee's voice came back, too calm, too slow. "Rules of engagement remain self-defense only. Do not fire indiscriminately. Maintain discipline."
Alex's jaw tightened. Useless orders. Cover-your-ass bullshit. Then something slammed into their truck. A figure hit the door with a thud, smearing blood across the paint. Another clambered onto the hood. Blood-slick hands hammered the windshield, leaving red handprints on the glass.
"Christ almighty!" Guevara shouted, fumbling the hand mic. "Delta 1-7 under attack! Requesting immediate—" He never finished. Inside Alex's Humvee, the steel shell shook under pounding fists. Through the glass he glimpsed bodies climbing over cars, dragging soldiers into the swarm. Every second, fewer machine guns barked.
Then Guevara broke. "Fuck it! I'm not dying here!" He yanked the handle. The armored door swung open, catching on its strap, gaping wide. Figures surged toward the gap.
"The fuck?! Close it!" Arguenta shouted toward Morgan, voice strained, his M4 already shouldered. Alex only needed one look to see that Morgan wasn't fully there. He shoved the CROWS controls aside, lunged across the passenger seat, and heaved at the door. It weighed like a safe. Every inch he dragged it, more hands clawed closer.
One slipped through. It lunged, teeth bared, and sank them deep into his forearm before he could rip back. Pain seared white-hot up his arm. He snarled, rage more than fear. "Fucking cover me!" he barked.
Arguenta's M4 cracked, muzzle flash strobing the inside of the Humvee. The zombie dropped, skull burst open, but Alex staggered back, blood soaking his multicam sleeve. The bite was deep. He didn't need a medic to know what it meant. He had seen it already. The turret gunner. The civilians dragged down and coming back. Bites were death.
Alex slammed the door until the lock clanged shut. For a second, silence fell inside. Morgan's ragged breaths filled the cab, and the smell of ammonia spread sharp and acrid. Arguenta cursed under his breath. Guevara's shouts faded somewhere outside.
The radio was chaos. Screams. Broken orders. NCOs trying to reestablish control. Lee's voice cut through, still hesitant, still too late. "All Delta elements, maintain discipline. Self-defense only, I say again, self-defense only."
"Self-defense?" This time it was SSG Ray, now the ranking NCO, shouting across the net. "They're eating us alive! Sir, we need to move. Smash through anything in our way." Another sergeant cut in. "We got guys stranded at the front of the convoy. Me and my team are ready to go."
The net filled with chatter, arguments on how to proceed. Most of the older leaders were gone, promoted out, retired, or ahead with the advance team. The rest were young and untested. None of them had ever expected the night to turn out this way.
Alex's phone buzzed in his carrier. Reflex pulled it out. A missed call and a text from his father. [There was someone banging on our door. We called the police and stayed quiet, but he left. Is it true about the attacks? People say they're biting]
For a moment, the fight outside blurred. He saw the photo again. Beans stacked in the pantry. His siblings' faces somewhere just out of frame. He wasn't just a soldier. He was a son. A brother.
But here, bleeding on the Belt Parkway, with the convoy collapsing around him, he couldn't protect them. Not from here. Not tonight. If things had been different… maybe.
He shoved the phone back into his vest and grabbed the handle. "Knight! What the hell are you doing?!" Arguenta's eyes went wide. "Drawing them off," Alex said flatly. His voice was steel, though his chest hammered. "Keep the truck sealed. Stay safe."
By now, almost everyone who had not locked themselves inside a vehicle, or fled in the first chaos, was turned. Alex stepped out of the Humvee with his M4. The door slammed behind him. The horde rushed him as he ran off the highway and deeper into the concrete jungle of Brooklyn, drawn by motion, by blood.
Alex flicked the selector to auto and fired in bursts, brass clattering against the pavement. Skulls cracked under accurate fire. One mag gone. He let it drop, slammed another home, bolt snapping forward. The rifle ran smooth. Reload. Fire. Reload. Fire.
For a while, it worked. He cut them down in rows, body moving like a machine. But there were too many. They poured from stalled cars, shadows under overpasses, the wreckage of the convoy itself. One grabbed his shoulder. He smashed the buttstock into its jaw and fired point-blank. Another clamped his leg, teeth tearing into flesh. Pain seared, but he fought on. Cold. Mechanical. A soldier to the end.
Hands tore his rifle away. Teeth sank into muscle. He screamed once, fury more than fear. Then teeth ripped at his throat, the feel of his rifle slipping, and everything went red. His last thought wasn't of the Guard. Not of orders shouted into a broken radio. It was of Albany. His father's voice. His siblings. The beans stacked high in the pantry.
Never again.
Alex woke in his bed, gasping. Albany. The alarm clock read: February 21, 2028. A week before Day Zero.