The first child died at Gate Charlie.
Ellis didn't know her name. He never would.
She was small enough that the thermal camera barely registered her heat signature over the glare of the floodlights. She clung to her father's leg, face pressed into his thigh, shaking so hard her teeth clicked audibly through the audio feed. The father kept yelling—words slurring together, useless, frantic—one hand raised, the other locked around the girl's wrist like he could anchor her to life by grip alone.
The soldier in front of them didn't move.
Another soldier stepped up beside him, rifle lowered but ready, eyes flicking between the child and the swelling crowd behind them.
The girl coughed.
Once. Wet. Deep.
Ellis leaned forward without realizing it, palm flattening against the glass.
The cough turned into a spasm. Her body jerked, too violently for something that small. She screamed then—high and thin—and when she looked up, her mouth was red.
The father froze.
"No," he said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just one word, spoken like a plea that didn't believe in itself. "No, baby. No."
The medic reached for the child.
The father shoved him.
That was the moment.
The girl convulsed hard enough that her feet left the ground. Her jaw snapped shut, then open again, teeth clacking as her eyes rolled back. Foam bubbled at her lips, pink and frothy.
"Clear the line," someone shouted over comms.
The father dropped to his knees, dragging her with him, hands scrabbling at her face like he could wipe it away, wipe the sickness out.
"She just fell," he yelled. "She just fell, that's all—"
The girl bit him.
Not hard at first. Just a clamp of teeth into the soft skin of his neck, sudden and shocking enough that he screamed.
That scream triggered everything.
The soldier fired.
One round.
Clean.
The girl's head snapped back violently. Her body went limp instantly, weight dead in her father's arms. Blood sprayed across his chest and face, warm and slick.
For half a second, the father didn't react. He just stared at her.
Then the second soldier fired.
Ellis shut his eyes.
When he opened them again, the bodies were already being dragged away. The crowd surged, screamed, scattered. Someone fainted. Someone else tried to climb the fence and was yanked down hard by their jacket.
"Gate Charlie compromised," a voice reported, tight. "Multiple exposures. Requesting permission to escalate."
Ellis didn't answer immediately.
The clock ticked.
"Leesburg?" the voice pressed.
"Do it," Ellis said.
The word tasted like rust.
The base descended into controlled chaos.
Gate Bravo opened next, then slammed shut again as infected slipped through screening. One teenager collapsed mid-run and was trampled before anyone could reach him. A woman with a newborn was tackled by medics when her eyes went glassy, her body stiffening around the bundle in her arms. They ripped the baby free just before her jaw snapped shut.
The baby survived.
The mother didn't.
At Gate Delta, a family of five made it through screening—no bites, no visible injuries. They were handed water, blankets, ushered toward intake. The youngest boy started crying halfway across the tarmac, clutching his stomach.
The father bent to pick him up.
The boy vomited blood.
Ellis watched soldiers pull the parents back as the child seized, his body arching violently on the concrete. His spine bent wrong. His scream cut off mid-sound.
The mother tried to break free.
She got shot in the leg. Then the chest.
The father didn't make a sound when the soldier put a round through his head.
Ellis's hand curled into a fist so tight his nails cut skin.
Mike stood beside him now, unusually quiet, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
"This is going to get worse," Mike said.
Ellis nodded. "I know."
Outside, the base fought itself back into shape with blood and noise and screaming metal. Barricades went up, came down. Floodlights blew out and were replaced. Bodies piled near the gates, then were burned where they lay because there was no time to move them.
Every opening was a gamble.
Every second let in hope—or death.
Ellis moved between screens, fingers flying over controls, pulling up city grids, traffic cams, street feeds. He searched methodically, without panic, because panic wasted time.
He looked for Sharon's car.
Nothing.
He checked major arteries first. Highways. Interchanges. Bridges.
Wreckage everywhere. Fires still burning from last night. People running in packs. People not running at all.
He checked hospitals.
Power flickered on some feeds, blacked out on others.
He checked shelters. Police stations. Schools.
Nothing.
"Command's tightening restrictions," Mike said quietly. "They're not happy."
"They never are," Ellis replied.
A new voice cut in over comms, strained and young. "Sir—we've got kids at Bravo. Multiple. One turned inside the screening tent."
Ellis closed his eyes briefly. Opened them.
"Proceed," he said.
The sound that followed wasn't gunfire.
It was screaming.
High. Panicked. Children who hadn't learned yet how not to be loud.
Ellis forced himself to watch.
A boy maybe eight years old lunged at his sister, teeth tearing into her cheek. She screamed once before a soldier shot him. Blood sprayed across the inside of the tent, painting the canvas walls. The girl fell back, hands over her face, wailing.
A medic reached for her.
She bit him.
Two more shots.
The girl crumpled beside her brother.
Their mother collapsed outside the tent, clawing at the ground, howling until a soldier sedated her. When she came back, her children were gone.
Ellis stepped back from the glass.
The base held.
Barely.
"Leesburg," Command said over a secure channel, voice clipped. "Civilian intake is exceeding projections. Casualties unacceptable."
Ellis didn't raise his voice. "Then close the gates."
A pause.
"You pushed for this."
"Yes," Ellis said. "I did."
"And now—"
"And now you decide how much blood you're willing to spill to save the rest," Ellis finished. "Because people are coming whether you like it or not."
Silence.
Mike glanced at him. "They're not going to give you much longer."
Ellis nodded. "I know."
Another explosion rocked the base. Closer than before. The lights flickered, then steadied again.
Ellis pulled up another grid.
There.
A vehicle moving against traffic. A Jeep.
His breath caught.
The feed was grainy, distance warped by smoke and heat, but the silhouette was familiar. Boxy. Lifted. A jerry can strapped to the back.
"Mike," Ellis said quietly.
Mike leaned in. "That could be—"
The feed cut out.
Static replaced the image.
Ellis stared at it long after the screen refreshed to nothing.
Outside, another child screamed.
Another parent begged.
Another soldier fired.
The clock kept ticking.
Forty-eight hours.
Ellis stood in the center of it all, locked behind glass and steel and orders he couldn't break, watching the world tear itself apart at the gates he had insisted be opened.
This was the cost.
And he paid it in blood he couldn't wash off his hands.