Chapter 2 — "Homework for the End"
March 7, 2025 — 175 days before Day One
A Shared Thread between back channels: a "CDC Advisory Review" hits schools + hospitals, and the same denial phrase starts appearing everywhere: NO EVIDENCE OF SUSTAINED TRANSMISSION.
It's not dramatic. That's what makes it scary.
Eli — Sumterville, FloridaEli didn't call it prepping.
He called it being a responsible teacher in Florida.
Which was technically true, because Florida demanded you be responsible for hurricanes, shootings, power outages, and whatever else decided to show up uninvited.
But this morning, Sandy Duvall's clipboard had a newer paper.
CDC ADVISORY REVIEW — LOCAL SCHOOLS
Recommended language:No evidence of sustained transmission.
Sandy slapped it down like it offended her personally. "The district wants all staff briefed. Today."
Eli scanned the bullet points—lockdown procedures, nurse protocols, parental messaging, and an entire page of "don't use these words."
He felt his jaw tighten when he hit the phrase post-mortem motor activity and the cheery little note beneath it:
Do not speculate. Do not discuss incidents publicly.
Sandy watched his eyes. "Don't start listening to that radio again."
Eli didn't deny it. "People are talking."
"That's People. They always talk," she said. FD drill voice, but the kind you only used when you meant it. "You keep teachers calm. You keep kids calmer. If we find out it's real… we'll know."
Eli nodded like he believed the system. However he knew it'd fail. He'd seen this happen countless times before. Not just because he lived it when he was in the military, but because he lived it before in a past life. The one filled with Walkers, and people wearing the dead's faces. A life where you had to choose to kill or be killed.
"Work it out. Start preping.," Sandy said. She turned on her heel and walked towards the door.
Then, as soon as she left, he started his homework.
Not big moves. But quiet ones.
Inventory: bandage kits, spare water bottles, emergency blankets from the nurse's office… counted and logged like it was a compliance check.
Maps: printed routes and labeled them "History Field Trip Drafts."
Rendezvous points: written in the margins of sub plans nobody read.
His phone buzzed: a text from Ridge.
RIDGE:You still want to talk "farm suppliers" for that… school project?
Eli stared at it a beat too long.
Then typed:
ELI:Yeah. After practice. Need to know who has water tanks + canning supplies.
He added a second text, to Gavin:
ELI:Hey, talent show idea: backup generator for sound system? Think you could help me test one?
Cover story. Cover story. Cover story.
Because the first thing that collapsed wasn't power or food.
It was trust.
Kooper — Sumterville HighKooper Hayes had two notebooks.
One for school.
One he never let anyone see.
The second one already had headings:
Water
Fuel
Medical
Routes
Who stays calm
Who lies
He wrote today's phrase at the top of a new page, carefully, like it mattered.
NO EVIDENCE OF SUSTAINED TRANSMISSION.
He'd seen it on a screenshot his cousin sent from TikTok before it disappeared. He'd heard it from a teacher's mouth in the hallway like they'd practiced it. And now it was on Sandy's papers when she walked past the office.
Kooper wasn't scared of the phrase.
He was scared of how synchronized it was.
Through the glass of Eli Miller's classroom, Kooper saw Mr. Miller open a drawer, look inside, then close it again like he'd seen something that changed the shape of his day.
Kooper tucked his notebook under his hoodie and decided something quietly:
If Mr. Miller was planning, Kooper was planning too.
Just… better organized.
Hal — Sumterville, Florida (History Wing)Hal Navarro hated when history got smug.
History was supposed to be lessons, not threats.
But the "CDC Advisory Review" packet felt like a threat wearing office clothes.
In the staff meeting, the district rep smiled too much and spoke too carefully, like everyone in the room was one wrong question away from being labeled "difficult."
"Remember," the rep said, "we're using consistent language. There is no evidence of sustained transmission. We are simply updating emergency readiness—like we do every year."
Hal looked down at the table and caught Eli's eyes for half a second.
Eli didn't roll his eyes. Didn't scoff. Didn't perform disbelief.
He just looked… awake.
Hal didn't like that.
After the meeting, Hal pulled Eli aside by the trophy case.
"You okay?" Hal asked, casual on the surface. "You look like you're about to start building a bunker under the gym."
Eli's smile was small. "If I do, I'm naming it after you."
Hal chuckled—then lowered his voice. "Maddie's hospital got the same packet."
Eli's expression didn't change.
But Hal felt it shift, like a door clicked into place.
Maddie — Pediatric Wing, Sumterville HospitalMaddie Navarro had heard denial before.
She'd heard it during COVID. Heard it after medical errors. She heard it when administrators smiled through disasters and called them "events."
Today's version came with a printed script and a warning.
Do not discuss unusual incidents.
Use approved language only.
A supervisor handed it out with that too-bright tone. "Standardization keeps people calm."
A nurse beside Maddie muttered, "Standardization keeps lawsuits away."
Maddie tried to focus on the kids—fevers, dehydration, an ear infection, a broken wrist from a skateboard. Normal, grateful, normal.
Then, in the ER down the hall, she heard raised voices.
A code.
Then the sound of frantic footfalls.
When she passed the curtain, she caught a glimpse: a man on the gurney, chest still, eyes open wrong.
"Time of death—" someone began.
And then the man's arm jerked.
Not a twitch. Not a reflex.
A reach.
Like he wanted something.
Maddie froze long enough to feel her own heartbeat go cold.
A doctor snapped, "Restrain—!"
A nurse said, shaking, "That's not— that's not—"
Maddie backed out before anyone could see her face.
She walked to the bathroom, locked the stall, and texted Hal with hands that didn't feel like her own:
MADDIE:It's happening here too. Something's wrong. Don't say it out loud.
Then, because she couldn't keep it in her chest:
MADDIE:Tell Eli.
Grace — CDC, AtlantaThe secure wing didn't change its layout.
It changed its mood.
That morning, there were two more armed guards by the elevator. Not stormtrooper dramatic—just present enough to make sure you noticed.
Grace scanned in, got the green light, and felt watched anyway.
Candace was already at the workstation. Edwin's monitor displayed a file header Grace hadn't seen yesterday.
WILDFIRE / CONTROLLED DISTRIBUTION
Revision: 3.1
"Why is this version number higher?" Grace asked, keeping her voice steady.
Edwin didn't look up. "Because the world keeps doing things we don't like."
Grace opened the latest report and saw the language shift again—more "anomaly," less "cause," more "containment," less "treatment."
National security crept into the margins like mold.
Her phone buzzed. Eli.
She stepped into the hallway for privacy, thumb hovering over the answer.
Then she called him back instead—because she needed to hear his voice.
The dial tone lasted longer than it should.
Then… silence.
Not a hang-up. Not voicemail.
Just a clean, dead failure.
Grace tried again.
Same result.
Her pulse thudded. She checked her signal. Full bars.
She looked up and realized, with a chill so sharp it felt like a memory:
The secure wing had always controlled airflow.
Now it was controlling communication.
Candace appeared behind her. "Phone issues?"
Grace forced a shrug. "Probably the concrete."
Candace studied her for a long second, softer than her usual steel. "Don't panic," she murmured.
Grace didn't like that Candace said it like an order.
She went back inside, pulled up a cluster map, and watched new red dots appear like somebody tapping a finger on a countdown.
Rick — King County, GeorgiaRick heard it during a briefing and immediately hated it.
The phrasing was too clean. Too rehearsed.
"No evidence of sustained transmission," the deputy chief read off a printed sheet. "We'll keep an eye on it. Routine."
Routine didn't make Rick's skin crawl.
Routine didn't make his dreams feel like memories.
Shane shot him a glance like: You're doing that thousand-yard stare thing again.
Rick looked down at his notes and wrote one line he didn't show anyone.
If they're scripting language, they're controlling behavior.
He folded the paper and stuck it in his wallet like a superstition.
Then he texted Lori again, for no reason he could explain:
RICK:Love you. Keep Carl close.
Madison & Travis — Los Angeles, CaliforniaMadison knew something was wrong because the school did what schools always did when something was wrong:
They pretended it wasn't.
A staff email went out titled: "Health Advisory — Talking Points."
Travis read it twice, then once more like the third time might make it sound normal.
"It's scripted," Travis said quietly.
Madison watched students in the hallway—kids laughing too loud, kids staring at phones too hard, kids scanning adults' faces like they were searching for a reaction.
"The scripts are just for optics," she said.
Travis didn't argue. He looked almost angry, which meant he was scared.
Madison glanced at the evacuation map near the stairwell—and froze.
The routes were updated.
Not announced. Not explained.
Just… changed.
She took a picture of it and texted Alicia:
MADISON:If anything happens at school, you go out the east stairwell. Not the main.
Alicia replied with a teenager's perfect blend of irritation and trust:
ALICIA:Okay?? why are you being weird
Madison stared at the question.
Because in her dreams, she'd already been weird.
And it hadn't been enough.
Joel — Boston, MassachusettsJoel saw the same phrase stamped on a shipping manifest and felt his stomach tighten like a fist.
NO EVIDENCE OF SUSTAINED TRANSMISSION.
If it was nothing, nobody paid this much to move it quietly.
He didn't open the duffel in public. Didn't ask questions in front of the wrong people.
But later, in his truck, he unzipped it just enough to see labels with a prefix he couldn't forget:
WF-
Wildfire.
He didn't know what it meant.
He didn't like that it sounded familiar anyway.
Tommy texted him a dumb meme. Joel didn't answer.
Instead, he looked at the duffel and thought:
The world doesn't end. It narrows.
And he hated himself because he still drove to the drop.
Deacon — Oregon (Highway Pull-Off, Rainline)Deacon took the job because the money was wrong.
Too clean. Too fast. Too much.
A guy he didn't trust handed him a sealed cooler and said, "Medical. Don't open it. Just ride it."
Deacon's instincts screamed, but instincts weren't rent.
He strapped it down and headed out.
Halfway through the route, he pulled into a rain-slick gas station and found two men in the lot that didn't belong there.
One was lean, quiet, scanning the world like it owed him a fight.
The other was loud, grinning like trouble, cigarette hanging off his lip like punctuation.
Deacon parked and felt the hair rise on his arms for no reason he could name.
The quiet one glanced at him—and Deacon got hit with a flash so sharp it made him sway:
A highway. Dead cars. Screams. A man with a crossbow. Blood on hands that weren't his.
He blinked it away and walked up like nothing happened.
Merle was the loud one. Of course he was.
"Nice bike," Merle said, voice sweet as a knife. "You always ride alone, or you just got dumped?"
Deacon smirked. "You always run your mouth, or is today special?"
The quiet one—Daryl—didn't speak. He just stood slightly in front of a little boy about Carl's age.
Six, maybe seven. Blond hair dirty, jacket too big.
The kid held a toy car in one hand like it was a weapon.
Deacon's jaw tightened. "That's yours?"
Merle laughed. "Look at him. He thinks we're a daycare."
Daryl finally spoke, voice flat. "Kid's with me."
Deacon didn't know why, but the words landed like a vow.
And in Deacon's head, something old whispered:
That kid is going to change what you're willing to do.
Merle flicked ash and nodded toward Deacon's strapped cooler. "Whatcha haulin'?"
"None of your business," Deacon said.
Merle's grin widened like he'd been invited. "Everything's my business if it pays."
Daryl's eyes narrowed. Not at Deacon. At the cooler.
Like he recognized the shape of a secret.
Deacon got the sudden, awful feeling this wasn't the first time he'd stood in a parking lot with men like this, making choices that would haunt him.
He tightened the strap once more and said, "I'm leaving."
Merle called after him, cheerful. "Tell your conscience I said hey!"
Deacon rode out—and didn't look back.
But he felt Daryl's stare follow him down the road like a warning.
Eli — Late NightEli got Maddie's message through Hal.
He didn't respond with panic.
He responded with action.
He opened a fresh page in his planner—one he'd been avoiding—and wrote, very small:
Tier One — Quiet Prep
Tier Two — Inner Circle
Tier Three — Evacuate
Then he wrote the phrase again, because it was everywhere now:
No evidence of sustained transmission.
He circled it once.
Underlined it twice.
And beside it, he wrote:
If they have to repeat it, it's already a lie.
He finally called Grace.
Straight to silence.
No voicemail. Not a ring.
Just… a clean dead fail.
Eli held the phone to his ear for three seconds too long, as if patience could bully reality into working.
Then he lowered it.
Looked at Grayson asleep on the couch.
Hope humming while she cleaned up the kitchen.
Jacob laughing too loud.
Levi and Piet arguing like the world would always give them time.
Eli slipped the phone into his pocket, stood up, and went to the garage.
Homework wasn't done.
But it was getting serious.