THEN (Day One - The Outbreak)
The military had arrived within hours.
That's what people didn't understand. The government wasn't slow. They saw it happening in real time—reports flooding in from Niraya, videos going viral, emergency calls overwhelming the system—and they moved fast.
Major Rathore had been the commanding officer. Forty-two years old. Twenty years of service. He'd seen action in Kashmir, handled riots in Gujarat, coordinated disaster relief in Kerala.
This was different.
The convoy of trucks rolled into Niraya's industrial district just after midnight on Day One. Soldiers poured out. Weapons ready. Orders clear: establish a perimeter, secure the facility, set up a safe zone for civilians.
The facility was an old manufacturing plant. Massive. High ceilings. Concrete walls. Multiple entry points that could be fortified. Generator backup. Water supply. Perfect for what they needed.
By dawn, they had the basics running. Generators humming. Lights on. Radio broadcasting on emergency frequencies: "Military safe zone established in Vaishali District. Grid coordinates 23.0225° N, 72.5714° E. Civilians proceed to waypoint for processing. Bring identification. Come unarmed."
People started arriving within hours.
Families. Individuals. Groups of survivors who'd banded together. Some injured. Some in shock. All desperate.
The soldiers processed them. Checked for bites. For infection. For weapons. Then let them inside.
In some time, they had maybe forty people sheltering in the facility.
By Night, over a hundred.
The broadcasts continued. Looping. Automated. "Safe zone established. Proceed to coordinates. Military protection available."
That's how Karan's group had heard it. That's how dozens of others had heard it.
Come to Vaishali. Safety. Supplies. Protection.
Major Rathore ran it with military precision. Guard rotations. Supply inventory. Rationing. Medical triage. Everything by the book.
It worked.
Advait had been a city planner before the world ended.
Not glamorous. Not exciting. Just meetings and zoning regulations and arguing with contractors about building codes. He had an office in the municipal building. A desk with a nameplate. A job that paid well enough but didn't mean much.
When the outbreak started, he'd been home. Watching the news. Watching Niraya tear itself apart on live television.
He'd grabbed essentials. Keys. Wallet. Phone. His laptop with all his city planning files—building layouts, infrastructure maps, power grid schematics. Stuff he'd worked on for years.
Didn't know why he grabbed it. Just did.
The streets were chaos. He'd made it six blocks before his car got stuck in traffic that wasn't moving. Abandoned it. Kept walking.
That's when he heard the broadcast.
Military safe zone. Coordinates. Protection.
He'd memorized the location immediately. Used to be the old Mehta Manufacturing plant. He knew it. Had approved the electrical upgrades two years ago. Knew the layout. The access points. The infrastructure.
He started his car.
Took him most of the day. Dodging infected. Hiding. Moving when it was clear. Stopping when it wasn't.
He wasn't the first to arrive. Wasn't the last either.
The soldiers checked him. Found the laptop. The city planning files.
"You worked for the municipality?" one of them asked.
"Yeah. Urban development."
"You know this facility?"
"I approved half the renovations. Why?"
The soldier looked at Major Rathore. Some silent communication passed between them.
"Come with me," the Major said.
They brought him to the command center. Showed him maps. Asked him questions. Where's the main power junction? How many backup generators? Water supply routes?
Advait answered everything. Pulled up files on his laptop. Showed them schematics they didn't have.
"You're useful," Major Rathore said. Not a compliment. Just a fact.
"I can be."
"Good. You work with us. Help coordinate the facility. In exchange, you get protection. Food. Water. A place to sleep."
"Deal."
He met Nisha there.
She'd arrived with a group of six. All armed. All competent. They'd fought their way across the city. Lost two people getting here. But they'd made it.
The soldiers processed them. Took their weapons. Standard procedure.
Nisha didn't like that.
"We need those," she'd said. Her voice was calm. Firm. "Out there."
"You're inside now," the soldier replied. "Civilians don't carry weapons inside the perimeter."
"We're not civilians. We're survivors."
"Same thing."
The argument had escalated. Voices raised. Other soldiers moving in. Nisha's group tensing up.
Advait had been walking past. Stopped. Watched.
Then stepped in.
"Let them keep the weapons," he said.
Everyone looked at him.
"Who are you?" the soldier asked.
"Someone who knows we'll need armed people eventually. For supply runs. For perimeter defense." Advait looked at Nisha. "You know how to use those?"
"Not rifles but I know how to use a Goddamn pistol."
"Then keep it. But you follow military command. Their rules. Their orders. Understood?"
Nisha studied him. Calculating. "Who put you in charge of negotiating?"
"Nobody. But Major Rathore listens to me because I keep this place running." He gestured around. "Power. Water. Infrastructure. That's me." He paused. "You want to keep your guns? Work with me. Help secure this facility. Make yourself useful."
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then nodded once. "Fine."
The soldier looked uncertain. "I need to clear this with the Major—"
"So clear it," Advait said. "Tell him I vouched for them. He'll agree."
The soldier left. Came back ten minutes later. "You can keep the weapons. But you're assigned to perimeter detail. Guard rotations. Supply runs when needed."
"Works for me," Nisha said.
That night, Advait found her in the cafeteria. Sat down across from her.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"I know."
"So why did you?"
"Because armed people who know how to survive are valuable." He leaned back. "And because I could tell you weren't going to back down. Would've caused problems. Problems we don't need."
She almost smiled. "Smart."
"I try."
They talked for an hour. About the outbreak. About how they'd survived. About what came next.
By the end of the conversation, Advait had learned she'd been a private security contractor before this. Bodyguard work. Corporate protection. She knew tactics. Weapons. How to assess threats.
And Nisha had learned that Advait was more than just a city planner. He was organized. Strategic. Saw the bigger picture.
"You should be running this place," she said finally.
"I'm not military."
"Neither are most of the people here." She looked around. "And the military's operating on old rules. Old thinking. That won't work forever."
"What will?"
"Someone who understands that the old world is gone. That we need new rules for what comes next." She met his eyes. "Someone like you."
Advait didn't respond. Just thought about it.
That was the beginning.
After few hours, more people arrived.
Dr. Aggarwal showed up. Told them he was a scientist. That he'd worked on the virus. That he had samples. Information.
"He's useful," Advait said. "He knows how this thing works. What it does. That's valuable intel."
Dr. Aggarwal set up in the lab. Started researching. Testing. Documenting.
More people came. A mechanic. A doctor. An engineer. A farmer. A teacher.
Advait coordinated it all. Assigned roles. Made sure everyone had a job. A purpose.
The facility grew. Organized. Functional.
But tensions were rising.
The military operated on strict hierarchy. Orders from the top down. No questions. No flexibility.
The civilians didn't like that. They'd survived the apocalypse. Fought their way here. They weren't soldiers. Weren't used to taking orders without explanation.
Arguments started. Small at first. Then bigger.
Major Rathore responded with more discipline. Stricter rules. Harsher punishments for breaking protocol.
It made things worse.
People started whispering. Complaining. Questioning whether military control was the right approach.
Advait listened. Observed. Waited.
The breaking point came.
The military had been receiving transmissions from outside Niraya. Other cities. Other states. The virus was spreading. Mumbai. Delhi. Bangalore. Reports of outbreaks everywhere.
The government was evacuating. Pulling back. Focusing resources on containable zones.
Which meant Niraya was being written off.
Major Rathore received the order: "Abandon position. Evacuate military personnel to designated fallback point. Civilians are secondary priority."
He called his soldiers together. Told them they were leaving.
"What about the people here?" one of them asked.
"They're not our responsibility anymore. Orders are orders."
"Sir, there are over a hundred civilians—"
"I'm aware. But we don't have transport for everyone. We take essentials. We leave."
The soldier didn't argue. But he didn't look happy either.
Word spread fast. Within an hour, everyone knew. The military was abandoning them.
Panic. Anger. Fear.
People gathered in the main hall. Demanding answers. Demanding the soldiers stay. Demanding protection.
Major Rathore stood on the platform. Tried to maintain order. "We have our orders. We're leaving. Anyone who wants to come can try. But we can't guarantee transport. We can't guarantee safety. You're on your own."
"You can't just leave us!" someone shouted.
"Watch me."
That's when Advait stepped forward.
He'd been standing at the back. Listening. Calculating.
Now he walked to the front. Climbed onto the platform beside the Major.
"Or," Advait said, voice carrying across the hall, "you can stay."
Everyone went quiet.
Major Rathore looked at him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard your orders. Evacuate. Fine. Take your men. Leave." Advait turned to face the crowd. "But the facility stays. The generators stay. The supplies stay. And we—" he gestured at everyone, "—we stay. We make this work without you."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"You can't run this place," the Major said. "You're not trained. You're not equipped—"
"We're alive. We're organized. We're here." Advait's voice was calm. Certain. "And we have everything we need except you telling us what to do."
The Major's jaw tightened. "This is mutiny."
"This is survival." Advait looked at him. "You're leaving anyway. So leave. But don't pretend you're taking this facility with you. It belongs to the people here now."
The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. Looking at each other. At the Major. At the crowd.
"Anyone who wants to leave with the Major can go," Advait continued. "No hard feelings. But anyone who wants to stay and build something here—something that works—I'm offering that option."
The Major stared at him. "You're making a mistake."
"Maybe. But it's my mistake to make."
For a long moment, nobody moved.
Then one of the soldiers stepped forward. Young guy. Maybe twenty-five. "I'm staying."
The Major's head snapped toward him. "Soldier—"
"With respect, sir, I didn't sign up to abandon civilians. I'm staying."
Another soldier stepped forward. Then another.
Within five minutes, half the military detachment had sided with Advait.
Major Rathore's face went red. "You're all making a mistake. This place will fall. Without military structure. Without discipline. Without—"
"We'll adapt," Advait said simply.
The Major stared at him. Then at his remaining soldiers. Then at the crowd.
"Fine. You want this place? Take it." He turned to the soldiers still with him. "We leave in one hour. Anyone who's coming, be ready."
He walked out. Twelve soldiers followed him.
Twenty-three stayed.
That night, Advait stood in what used to be the Major's office. Now it was his.
Nisha found him there. Stood in the doorway.
"You did it," she said.
"Did what?"
"Took control. Without firing a shot."
He smiled slightly. "Violence is inefficient. Persuasion works better."
She walked in. Closed the door behind her. "What now?"
"Now we organize. Properly. My way." He looked at her. "I'm going to need help. Someone I trust. Someone who knows tactics. Security."
"I'm listening."
"Work with me. Help me run this place. Keep people safe. Keep things organized." He paused. "Be my second."
She studied him. "And what do I get?"
"Safety. Purpose. A voice in how things work." He met her eyes. "And the satisfaction of building something that lasts."
She smiled. "You're ambitious."
"I'm practical. There's a difference."
"Alright." She held out her hand. "I'm in."
They shook on it.
Since then, they'd organized supply runs. Established guard rotations. Set up the lab for Dr. Aggarwal. Brought in more survivors. Built walls. Built rules. Built Sanctuary.
And somewhere along the way, working late nights, planning logistics, watching each other's backs
They'd become more than partners.
It started simple. A hand on her shoulder that lasted too long. Eyes meeting across the room. Small moments that added up.
Then one night, after a particularly difficult supply run where they'd lost someone, they'd ended up in his office. Talking. Drinking salvaged whiskey. Sitting closer than necessary.
She'd kissed him first.
He'd kissed her back.
And that was that.
They didn't advertise it. Didn't hide it either. Just was.
People knew. Nobody said anything.
In a world where everyone could die tomorrow, who cared who was sleeping with who?
What mattered was survival.
And Advait was good at that.
One day Nisha's group was out, scanning blocks of Niraya that hadn't yet been looted, checking for survivors, scavenging supplies. Every street was a maze of debris, overturned cars, shattered windows, the groan of metal and wind their only soundtrack.
They moved cautiously, rifles up, eyes scanning for infected or worse—desperate survivors.
Then they saw the small house. Boarded up, silent except for the faint sway of a metal bell outside the door. One of the boards had a crudely painted sign: "RING BELL IF ALIVE TRAPS INSIDE."
Nisha stopped. She gestured for her team to halt.
"Could be a trap," one of the men said.
"Or someone alive," Nisha said. Her voice was quiet, measured. She always assumed the worst first. Survival had taught her caution.
They approached slowly. The bell swayed slightly in the wind, a subtle signal, deliberate.
Nisha motioned for her men to cover all exits. She stepped forward and rang it once, sharply.
Silence.
Then—movement. Shadows shifted behind the boards. Hesitant steps.
Ahmed froze behind the door, gripping his gun. He hadn't expected anyone. The bell… someone had followed the instructions?
"Hello?" His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Ahmed's hand hovered over the lock.
"Step back from the door," Ahmed said. Trying to sound confident.
"I'm armed. I'm opening the door but if you try anything—"
Ahmed unlocked the door. Opened it a crack. Gun and knife ready.
Ahmed pulled the door open another inch.
And froze.
He saw a woman with pistol.
"You're coming with us," Nisha said. "Safe place. Shelter. Food. Medical care. But you follow our rules."
His brain stalled anyway. Shock locking every thought in place.
The gun slipped first. His fingers went numb, useless, and it clattered to the floor. The knife followed a heartbeat later, metal striking tile louder than it should have been.
Ahmed stepped back without meaning to.
Both hands rose slowly, palms open, empty, trembling in the light spilling through the doorway.
Ahmed hesitated. Sunlight cut through the boarded windows, illuminating the bell and the dust in the air. He looked at Nisha—controlled, unflinching—and realized he had no choice.
He stepped outside, hands still raised, clutching the vial of research—the only thing left of his work, the only link to the past.
The group guided him toward the waiting truck. Crates of supplies, weapons, and scavenged food filled the bed.
Nisha's men quickly searched through his things. Everything was taken—except what he truly needed to survive: his phone, the cans of food, the water bottles, and the weapons he had left on the floor—the gun and the knife. Everything else was tossed aside or secured in the truck's supplies.
Ahmed stepped carefully into the truck bed, keeping his remaining items close. The metal floor rattled beneath him as he settled in. The vial—the sample of the virus he had preserved—was safely tucked in his jacket.
As the truck lurched forward, the city stretched out in ruin around them.
Ahmed was being carried toward Sanctuary, toward Advait and the group that had already started building a fragile order in the chaos of Niraya.
And for the first time in weeks, he wondered if survival could mean more than just staying alive.
NOW
Advait woke at. Old habit from his city planning days. Early meetings. Long commutes.
Now there were no meetings. No commutes. Just the facility. The people. The work.
He got up. Showered. Dressed in his usual button-down and jeans. Practical. Professional.
Nisha was already gone. She had early patrol. He'd see her later.
He made his way to the cafeteria. Grabbed coffee—real coffee, from their last supply run. They were running low. Would need to prioritize that next time.
The new group would be awake soon. The eleven survivors who'd arrived yesterday.
Karan's people. Reyan's family. Samir. The others.
Good people. Useful people.
He'd meant what he said about putting them to work. They'd need training. Orientation. Assignment to teams.
But first, they needed to understand how things worked here.
He finished his coffee. Rinsed the cup. Headed toward the sleeping quarters.
Time to have that conversation.
Time to welcome them properly to Sanctuary.
And explain exactly what staying here meant.