The air in the briefing room always smelled the same: recycled air and the smell of stale coffee. The kind of smell that clung to you long after you left.
I sat at the long steel table with my team members, my hands crossed, my posture straight. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their light too bright for my eyes.
Around me, the rest of the team shifted in their seats, their boots scraping against the floor. No one spoke much before a briefing — not unless they had to.
The big screen at the front of the room glowed with the emblem of our organization: the G.E.R.T., or the Global Emergency Response Taskforce. The bold white letters of G.E.R.T. over a black globe with a blood-red outline.
At first glance, it looked like the kind of logo that made civilians, or anyone who stumbled upon it, think we were just another disaster relief group, but every one of us here knew better. We didn't clean up after earthquakes or hurricanes. We cleaned up after… 'them'.
Before I could think more, a familiar voice came. Our Commanding Officer.
"Attention,"
Commander Carter entered the room with the same presence he always carried. His stare was the kind that could pin a man to the wall without raising a hand. He didn't carry a folder. He didn't need one. Everything he said lived in his head, branded there by years of this job.
"All right, listen up." His voice cut through the silence and the low hum of the air conditioning unit.
The emblem on the screen shifted, replaced by grainy surveillance photos. A row of images, each worse than the last.
The first was a man slumped in an alley, shirt torn open, skin blistered and cracked like old paint. His arms bent at impossible angles, but he sat upright, eyes open, staring directly into the camera.
"Fucking hell... what am I seeing?" I couldn't help but blurt it out. I'd seen it multiple times, but I couldn't get used to it.
The second was a woman on a hospital bed, restrained, her face turned toward the lens. Blood leaked from her nose and her ears, but her lips moved, caught mid-syllable. The still frame made it look like she was whispering to whoever took the picture.
The third… I didn't want to look at the third. A family photo from someone's living room. Three bodies crumpled on the floor, their mouths stretched wide, wider than humanly possible. In the corner of the shot, I could see a child blurred mid-motion, running toward the wall. Except his feet weren't touching the ground.
I forced my eyes to stay on the screen. I'd seen worse. We all had. But the pit in my stomach tightened anyway.
"These were taken in the last seventy-two hours," Carter said, voice steady, measured. "All within a twenty-mile radius of Ashford. Population: four thousand, give or take. It's rural and quiet. Which is why this hasn't hit the public eye yet."
He clicked the remote. The next slide showed a map, with red circles expanding outward from the center.
"We're looking at twelve confirmed cases and eight fatalities, and the four currently unaccounted for." Carter's jaw tightened at that. He hated loose ends. "Locals think it's some kind of aggressive flu. Hospital staff in the area are blaming the contaminated water supply. But we know better."
No one spoke, and he didn't pause for questions.
"Symptoms present the same way as in previous cases," Carter continued. "Initial stage: fever, disorientation, and violent tremors. The second stage: dislocation of joints, muscular rupture—the body tries to tear itself apart from the inside. Then the neurological distortions begin. The subject loses coherent speech and begins exhibiting abnormal behavior, such as aggression and resistance to pain. Supernatural activity has also been observed in eight of the twelve cases."
He clicked again. Footage rolled this time—shaky body cam. A responder—not one of ours—backed down a hallway, his breathing hard. Ahead, a figure stumbled into view. A man, pale and soaked in sweat, dragged one leg behind him. His head jerked unnaturally, neck muscles spasming, but when his mouth opened, the sound that came out wasn't human. It wasn't even close.
I can only describe it as a chorus of voices; layered together, it was deep and guttural, echoing in a language no one in the room recognized. The sound even made my skin crawl. Even though the sound was coming through the speakers, even knowing it wasn't in the room, my body wanted to recoil.
The footage cut before the responder was overtaken.
"Possession-like states are increasing lately," Carter said flatly. "We've had reports of levitation, unnatural vocalizations, and subjects exerting force far beyond human capacity."
I could hear someone in the back mutter a curse under their breath.
"This is not a viral infection," Carter continued, raising his voice just enough to slice through the tension. "Not in the way the G.E.R.T. understands it. Whatever we're facing, it doesn't spread by any normal means. Contact, proximity—we still don't know. Which is why containment is our priority. Quarantine the town. Isolate suspected cases. And recover survivors if possible."
His eyes swept the room.
"And if recovery isn't possible…" He didn't need to finish. Everyone in the room knew what "not possible" meant.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to look at anyone else.
Carter set the remote down and folded his arms. "Your orders are simple. Tonight, you deploy to Ashford under the cover of a National Guard 'training exercise.' The locals will think it's just a routine exercise like in the past. You'll set up a perimeter, sweep for the hosts, and contain the spread. The Medical Division will accompany you for live study. The Intelligence Division wants some samples. You bring them in alive if you can. But if they show stage two or higher symptoms, you don't hesitate. Understood?"
The word "alive" hung in the air like a curse. We all knew what it meant. Capture one of those things breathing, dragging, writhing — and hope the straps held long enough for the research team to cut it open.
"Yes, sir," the room answered, voices rough but steady.
"Good." Carter leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. "You've all read the files. You've all seen what happens when we hesitate. We're already behind schedule, make no mistake—if this breaks containment, it won't stop at Ashford. It won't stop at the county. And if... if a containment breach event happens, you have the authorization to activate order 42: 'terminate' all living things in the area, civilian or not, and burn the place down to the ground. We can't let the public know about this..." He trailed off, but the look in his eyes said enough.
The world wasn't ready for this. Hell, we weren't ready.
Carter straightened. "Gear up. The vehicle will be ready in thirty mikes. Dismissed."
Chairs scraped back, boots thudded, and murmurs filled the room as the team rose. Some moved with purpose, already thinking through loadouts and weapon checks. Others lingered, silent, staring at the screen a moment longer.
I stood slowly, flexing my hands to shake off the tension. The faces on the screen wouldn't leave me. Not the child hovering inches above the ground, not the woman whispering words that weren't hers. I swallowed hard.
Another mission. Another chance to pretend we understood what we were fighting. And another night fighting in the dark.
We filed out of the briefing room in silence, our boots hitting concrete corridors with a satisfying tapping sound. The halls of the G.E.R.T. facility always felt more like a bunker than an office—bare steel walls, cameras in every corner, doors sealed with retinal locks. Everything about it felt secretive.
I walked with the others toward the armory, my stomach tight but my hands steady. Missions like this were routine on paper, but everyone knew "routine" didn't exist in our line of work.
The armory was alive when we entered. Racks of weapons shone under the harsh lights, crates stacked like walls along the edges. The air carried the smell of gun oil and disinfectant. Techs moved between stations with clipboards and scanners, checking and double-checking equipment.
"Line up, one at a time!" Sergeant Rourke's bark echoed through the chamber. He was our quartermaster—tall, grizzled, with a scar across his cheek that looked like someone had tried to carve him open. "Check your gear, no excuses. You step out that door missing so much as a spare mag, and you won't live long enough to regret it."
I stepped forward, keeping my face blank. It was standard procedure.
While I waited my turn, I glanced around at the others.
Hernandez was closest to me—stocky, all muscle, always wearing a grin even when there was nothing funny. He was humming under his breath. Most guys hated that about him, but I didn't mind—if he was just humming.
Across the room, Collins adjusted the straps on his chest rig with sharp, precise tugs. The youngest on the team, in his early twenties, but already carried himself like he had something to prove. Too rigid, too sharp around the edges. Guys like him either burned bright and fast or didn't burn at all.
Near the weapons rack stood Yin, tall and lean, running a hand along the grip of a suppressed SMG like he was greeting an old friend. He had a habit of smiling at the worst possible times—not cocky, just detached, as if he knew something the rest of us didn't.
Then there was Reyes. Medic. Small, wiry, her kit already strapped tight, syringes and trauma gear at her side. She looked calm, but I'd seen her hands shake when the bodies started moving in ways they weren't supposed to. She was good at her job, better than good, but she hated the supernatural cases. We all did.
And, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, was Mason — our heavy. Built like a wall, he looked more like a bear than a man, honestly. He didn't talk much, but when he did, everyone listened. Rumor had it he'd done time in a different kind of unit before G.E.R.T. recruited him — black ops, the kind that never made it into the record books.
These were the people I trusted with my life. Not friends, not really — we didn't get that luxury. But trust went deeper than friendship in this line of work.
"Next!" Rourke barked.
I stepped forward.
The tech scanned my ID, the screen flashing green. One by one, they handed me my kit: Kevlar vest with reinforced plates, helmet with integrated comms, standard-issue sidearm, full mags, and my rifle, matte-black, cleaned and polished until it gleamed. Each piece clicked into place, same as they always had.
I slid the rifle's sling over my shoulder, fingers brushing the cool metal. Always felt lighter before the mission. Always felt heavier after.
As I checked my loadout, Hernandez sidled up beside me, his grin never faltering. "What do you think this one's gonna be? More puking, less floating, or the other way around?"
"Shut it, Hernandez," Collins muttered from across the bench. He was loading mags, each round clicking into place with too much force. "This isn't a damn joke."
"Everything's a joke," Hernandez replied, slapping a fresh mag into his rifle and spinning it once in his hand before setting it down. "Just depends on who's laughing."
Yin chuckled, shaking his head. "He's not wrong."
Collins shot them both a glare but didn't say more.
I ignored the bickering and focused on the last piece of my kit: the mask. Standard respirator, black, with twin filters at the sides. We all wore them, but it wasn't about air safety. No one really knew what they were supposed to protect us from. Still, the mask gave civilians something to latch onto — a reason not to see our faces when we dragged their neighbors out in the middle of the night.
Reyes was across the room, carefully arranging her med pack. She caught me looking and raised a brow.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said. "Just making sure you've got enough for all of us."
She smirked faintly. "I always do. The question is whether you'll give me the time to use it."
Before I could respond, Mason's voice rumbled low from his corner. "Focus up."
That was all he said, but it was enough to quiet the room.
We finished gearing up in silence, each of us retreating into our own rituals. Some checked their weapons three times. Some whispered to themselves. I just tightened every strap and tested every buckle until the gear felt like part of me.
When we were ready, we moved toward the vehicle bay. The massive doors groaned open, letting in the night air. Rows of black transports waited, engines humming, red lights glowing in the dark like eyes.
As I climbed into the armored truck, rifle across my lap, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Helmeted, masked, anonymous. Not a man anymore—just another faceless piece of the Taskforce.
We weren't soldiers, not exactly. Not cops, not exactly. We were something in between. Something made for the shadows.
We rolled out before midnight, the facility doors sealing behind us with a dull thud like a coffin lid. The convoy moved in the shadow—black transports, APCs, a medical van with G.E.R.T. stenciled in small white letters along its sides. We were five vehicles. No lights except for the convoy beacons; no sirens. Everything about it said we were not to be noticed.
I rode in the second truck with Hernandez and Collins, helmet off for a minute so I could breathe air that hadn't passed through a filter. The cab smelled like gun oil, coffee, and sweat. Outside, the world slid by—fields and fences, a strip of highway lit by the occasional sodium lamp. The radio was set to a low channel; most of what came through was static and the distant sound of the engine. Sometimes, if you listened too hard, you thought you could pick up a whisper in the static. I told myself it was only the radio.
"Checklist," Rourke's voice crackled over the comms. Calm. The quartermaster's voice did what it was supposed to: pried anxiety open and closed it into useful compartments.
"Comms?" Rourke asked.
"Primary verified. Secondary hot," Collins answered, fingers never stopping the chore of checking magazines.
"Weapons?" Rourke asked again.
"Hot," Hernandez said, flashing a grin I didn't feel. He had a way of smiling at the wrong times, as if he meant to distract from the dread.
"Medical?" I said, meaning Reyes. She tapped the med box beside her and gave a curt nod. Even inside our protection, everyone checked each other's gear the way you check a sleeping baby: hands gentle, worried.
"Armor intact. Masks set," Yin reported from the back, his voice low as he cinched his helmet straps.
"Good. Remember orders," Rourke said. "This is a G.E.R.T.-led operation under cover. The National Guard will be staged as primary on arrival. Stay tight. Rules of engagement are strict. Secure the area, investigate, secure any evidence, destroy involvement evidence if directed by HQ. You heard me."
Destroy evidence that points to our involvement. The phrase sat heavy in my mouth. It was one thing to secure a scene; it was something else to wipe it. If the public ever got a look at what we were facing, there'd be no containing the panic. That, apparently, was non-negotiable.
We moved through the night. The convoy's lead vehicle carried the commander's staff and the mapped plan: perimeter established at grid points, entry zones, two-tier cordons, medical triage points. The route to Ashford was a two-hour run down roads that climbed and dipped through dark farmland, the kind of place with more deer than people.
We saw the first sign at mile marker thirty-three: a sheriff's cruiser blocking the slip road, blue lights off but headlights on, painting the road in a hard, clinical white. He stepped out before we had fully slowed.
The lead APC eased to a stop. I could see the sheriff's silhouette through the haze, fedora tipped back, hands on his hips the way small-town men arrange themselves when they want to look like they're in charge. He walked up like any local cop, curiosity in each step.
"Evening," he called, his voice carrying surprisingly well on the cold air.
"National Guard detachment convoy," came the reply from the PA powered on the lead vehicle. "Training exercise. Please stand clear." The official cover gave him a beat—municipal exercises were a common sight this time of night; towns did them to make funding reports look better. The sheriff nodded, but his eyes flicked to our plates, to the small white script on the med van. I felt my own reflection in the dark window, faceless and anonymous, and suddenly I wanted a face to show him. Identification. Proof.
He edged closer to our truck. "You folks from the state?" he asked. Up close, he didn't look like a cop in the movies. He looked like everyone else in these parts—callused hands, a face mapped by wind and sun. Suspicion sat under his questions.
Rourke climbed down and met him half a step from the convoy. He kept his voice low but friendly, the way veterans learned to disarm curiosity without sounding afraid.
"Sheriff, confidential training detail. We've got command authorization through the state emergency office. It's routine." Rourke's tone said nothing, but his eyes were cold. He kept his hand near his holster, just enough to remind without threatening.
The sheriff grunted. "We got neighbors who say they heard odd noises out by Ashford. People got anxious. Saw your rigs on the scanner and figured…" His voice trailed off, then hardened. "You sure you boys don't need anything? We've got deputies on call."
"We appreciate it." Rourke paused and looked at us—us, packed up like loaded instruments. "We're handling it. If anything changes, we'll coordinate through your office." He said it smoothly. We all knew how fragile that cover was. If the sheriff pushed, if he insisted on seeing the 'thing' manifests, the whole cover could fray.
The sheriff watched us for a moment longer, then tipped his hat. "Don't get yourselves in trouble." He meant it as advice. What he didn't know was that we were already in the middle of something we couldn't simply walk out of.
We rolled on. The sheriff waved us off, and when his cruiser receded into the dark, every breath in the vehicle felt thin and loud.
The drive tightened everybody. Heads bowed over equipment checks, eyes scanning the dark for movement that wasn't there. Command traffic came in sparse pulses.
"Recon Alpha reports secured periphery. No civilians within the cordon. Bio team en route," came the commander's calm voice over the net. The cadence made the plan sound like an inevitable machine.
"Remember," Mason said as our van hummed along the two-lane, his voice a low rumble beside where I sat. "We tape, take, and burn. If HQ says destroy involvement evidence, make sure you do it clean. No traces. No pictures left in hands." He said it like a mantra, not like an order—like something that had saved them before.
The darkness softened into the first hints of dawn when we turned off the highway and followed a ribbon of road into a hollow. The town of Ashford unfolded like a diorama: a cluster of houses, a main street with a shuttered diner, a church spire rising in the cold blue sky. There were no lights on; someone careful had removed them. A silence lay over it like a sheet.
Ahead, just before the town limit, National Guard trucks idled in a line. Their command vehicle sat in the middle like an island. We stopped short and waited for the signal.
a voice came, smooth on the frequency. "This is command. Standard insertion. Two-man teams on the initial sweep. Medical teams to triage point Bravo. Recon teams move slow and methodical. Remember protocol: secure the area, investigate, secure any evidence. If HQ authorizes, destroy involvement evidence. Keep civilians clear. Minimize exposure. Use unmarked transport for casualty movement. If you encounter resistance, priority is containment and extraction—not engagement for elimination. Understood?"
A chorus of tense acknowledgments answered him. My throat felt dry.
Collins, beside me, clicked his comm on. "Alpha team, you're on point. Hernandez, you're with me. Reyes, you take medcover with Yin on the rear. Mason, you, Fin, and I will be the reaction force." His voice tightened, bringing flesh to the dry words.
I slid my gas mask on, the world muffling instantly into the soft sound of my breath and distant engines. We moved with slow precision as the convoy formed a perimeter. Rourke directed us off the road through an orchard that smelled of crushed leaves.
We hit the first house without fanfare. Collins and I stacked on the front door, gloved hands on the frame, boots set—one, two, three, breach. We used the battering ram on the second swing, and the door splintered inward.
Inside was what you expect and what you never expect at all. It was ordinary. A couch with a blanket, a television turned off, a coffee table with a stack of bills. The silence of a life stopped. Then the smell hit—metallic, sweet, like old pennies left in a jar. Blood. The couch cushions had dark stains seeping into the fabric. A child's toy sat abandoned in a corner.
"Clear!" Collins called. The radio chirped a confirmation as we swept through the living room and into the back hallway.
We found the origin in the kitchen.
At first, I thought we'd lucked out. She didn't look like the 'thing', not yet. Just a woman in her forties maybe—slumped against the cabinets. The overhead light flickered, catching the shine of sweat clinging to her face. Her knuckles were bone-white around a rosary, the beads digging so deep into her palm they left bloody half-moon dents.
She looked up when we entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed, wet with tears. Her lips trembled like she wanted to speak but didn't trust her own voice. Finally, she whispered, "Please… help me."
Reyes stepped forward first, dropping low with that calm medic's tone she'd used a hundred times before. "It's okay. We're here now. Just stay with me, alright? You're safe."
For a second, the woman seemed to soften. Her chest rose in a long, shaky breath. She nodded once. But then she didn't stop nodding. Her head twitched again and again, a rapid, jerky motion like a puppet on tangled strings. Her breath quickened, rasping, hitching, until it sounded less like breathing and more like something gnawing at the inside of her chest.
That was when I saw her mouth. It was the way her gums were splitting, fissures opening along the flesh as though something beneath was forcing its way out. Thin rivulets of blood traced the gaps between her teeth.
Her eyes locked on mine, pupils tightening into pinpricks. She mouthed "help" again, but the sound that came out was wrong—chopped, distorted, like a recording skipping on repeat. Help-help-help-help—each echo faster than the last, her jaw jittering out of sync with the sound.
Reyes reached for her shoulder.
But the woman exploded forward. Her spine bent wrong, snapping her up from the floor like she'd been yanked on a wire. Nails blackened, curling back as she slashed out. Reyes yanked away just in time—her sleeve tore open, cloth flapping, but skin stayed intact. The sound of those nails ripping fabric was like claws on metal.
We surged in, training overriding hesitation. Two men on her arms, me on her legs. She thrashed with a strength that had no business being in her frame, tendons standing out like steel cables under her skin. Her neck bulged with veins as her throat worked out sounds that weren't words anymore—low, guttural growls layered under a shrill, warbling scream that rattled the cabinets.
I smelled it then. Not blood, not sweat. Something acrid. Like rotting meat boiled in bleach.
Her lips tore wider as she fought, the corners of her mouth splitting into wet red cracks. Teeth ground against each other, snapping down so hard one shattered with a sharp crack. She didn't even flinch. Just kept writhing, froth bubbling at her lips.
We slammed her onto the gurney. Straps cinched tight, reinforced leather biting into her wrists and ankles. But even bound, she bucked hard enough to lift the frame an inch off the floor. One of her nails bent backward and snapped off completely, embedding in Reyes's torn sleeve. The medic froze, staring at it like it might still crawl up her arm.
Her eyes rolled back, showing too much white. Her chest heaved, and with every breath her ribs popped faintly, like the cartilage was starting to come apart under pressure. Her voice came again—two tones at once, one deep and wet, the other high and pleading.
"Stage two," I muttered, throat dry.
The captain's voice came flat and steady: "Terminate."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
For a moment, no one moved. She thrashed under the straps, body contorting, jerking against the leather until the seams creaked. Blood streamed from her gums, dripping down her chin, soaking her blouse. She locked eyes with me suddenly, still in the storm of spasms—and for half a second, she looked almost human again. Terrified. Begging.
Then her jaw popped wider, unhinged an inch too far, and the sound came again. That horrible, doubled voice.
I raised my sidearm.
She hissed air between her teeth, lips curving into a broken grin. Her bloodied tongue pressed against her cheek, bulging it grotesquely, like something was pushing to get out.
I squeezed the trigger.
The shot rang in the air, deafening. Her body jolted, stiffened, then collapsed against the straps, limp as a marionette with its strings cut. The two voices cut off mid-cry, leaving nothing but silence and the dripping faucet.
We stood there breathing hard, sweat running under the body armor, watching as blood pooled beneath the gurney. The smell clung to everything—iron, bile, rot.
Reyes wiped her sleeve with a rag, but her hand still trembled. "That," she said softly, her voice hoarse, but before she could say more, a voice came over the transmission.
"Entry team, be advised, we hear something upstairs," said one of the operators using the acoustic equipment outside.
We hit the stairs two at a time. At the far end, a child's door stood half-closed, stickers peeling from the frame like old scabs.
I shoved it the rest of the way open.
He was on the bed, knees hugged to his chest, back against the headboard. Maybe eight or nine years old, his frame was too small. One sneaker dangled by the laces. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead. Every breath came shallow, like he was trying not to wake something.
When he saw us, he didn't scream. He just watched, head tilted.
"Hey, buddy," Reyes said, dropping down on one knee. Her voice was soft and steady. "You okay? What's your name?"
"Tommy," he whispered. The word came out thin but clear. He blinked slowly. "Mom said to hide."
The rosary was still clutched in his small fist—beads pressed white into his palm. He flinched at the muffled sound downstairs.
His left hand trembled—just a little—fingers clenching and uncurling. There was no levitation, no gaping jaw, none. His speech was intact. He followed questions. He answered coherently.
Reyes checked him just to make sure—pulse, pupils, respirations, all of it. "Slight fever, elevated pulse," she said. "Pupils reactive. Just nervous. Not Stage Two."
Collins hovered in the doorway, the decision heavy on his face. "If he flips in transit—"
"He's a kid," Mason snapped, low but grounding. "We don't execute a child on a rumor of what might happen."
Reyes looked at me; there was no question in her eyes, only the work she had to do. "We transport," she said. "We tag and monitor. If he escalates, we do what's necessary. But for now we're good, and we have what we want."
Yin, who'd been logging everything downstairs, pushed the small portable kit into the doorway. "Video, timestamp, two witnesses. Bio box wiped and sealed. Ready for transport."
We improvised a harness—soft, non-threatening; nothing that would make the child too uncomfortable. Reyes wrapped a foil blanket around Tommy's shoulders like a promise.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
He nodded. His legs wobbled but held. Collins reached and steadied him by the shoulders, hands gentle in a way I'd learned to respect. We slipped a wrist monitor on, took baseline vitals, took swabs for chain of custody—everything sterile, everything recorded, because even mercy needs paperwork.
Before we left the room, Tommy surprised us. He reached for the rosary tucked under his chin and thumbed a bead until his knuckles went white. His lips moved soundlessly for a second, then he breathed, "Will you take my mom?"
The question punched a hole in the plan. There was no answer that didn't leave you hollow. Reyes stepped forward, voice tight. "We're taking you to the hospital first. We'll bring you back later, okay?" Reyes said with a smile.
He searched her face like any kid would search for a promise. Then, small and fierce, he said, "Okay."
We carried him down. He was light.
At the kitchen doorway, we stopped. The place where his mother had been lay now with the body covered in a white sheet of cloth with the unsealed body bag over it. Yin was filming the scene right now for evidence.
Tommy peered over my shoulder, and I watched his face as he looked at the body bag. His bottom lip trembled. He swallowed hard and looked away.
Reyes held his hand the whole walk out to the van, fingers curled around his small, hot palm. He kept his head turned toward her like he might memorize the warmth.
We eased him into the medvan. Reyes sat beside him, an arm around his shoulders, thumb rubbing slow circles into the back of his hand. "You can sleep if you want," she said. "We'll wake you when we get there."
He leaned his head on her shoulder and closed his eyes. For the first stretch of road, the fever held him like a small animal. He murmured in his sleep—names, snatches of song—and every time the van hit a bump, he flinched and Reyes's hand tightened.
Collins keyed the radio. "Command. One juvenile host secured, early stage, transport to Bravo secured. Recommend live transfer to Bio. No public exposure."
Carter's voice came crisp across the net. "Copy. Keep him isolated. No external imagery beyond chain of custody. Proceed to Bravo. Burn Miller property at 0600. Sanitation crew en route."
We set up Bravo by the old schoolhouse. Reyes and the med tech started marking casualties and preparing samples. They bagged swabs and placed them in the cold box labeled biosecure. Yin filmed the process for chain of custody, a practiced motion that felt like sacrament in this strange church.
As the first pale light of morning eased across Ashford, Hale's voice came across the net. "Good work. Maintain the cordon. Keep civilians protected. If we get any public exposure, spin it to 'contaminated wells' and let the Guard handle the press. We do not let photographs leak."
Later, when we were back in the van and rolling toward perimeter Alpha, Collins leaned over and whispered, "You ever think the tapes lie to us more than the patients do?"
I didn't answer. I had my hands on my rifle and my eyes on the window. We had secured the area, begun to investigate, and collected what evidence we could. The job's final instruction: destroy any evidence.
For now, the town slept, and we were the only things awake in the quiet. The rest of the world wouldn't hear about it until it had to. We drove on, toward where things would stop being training and start becoming something else.