[This is a side story taking place simultaneously with the main story. It does not affect or resolve the fates of the main characters in Volume 3.]
***
[Major Rattanakorn – Army Base, Outskirts – 10:25 a.m.]
The base hums with static, radios crackling like dying breaths in the oppressive heat. Dust is clinging to my boots, the fine grit of Bangkok's crumbling edges grinding under my foot with every step I take. Screens flicker in the command tent, casting ghostly blue light on the faces of my team grainy feeds from the school, walls crumbling under the weight of chaos, shadows moving in unnatural jerks.
Undead monsters.
Zombies.
Hundreds of them.
The outbreak which is worse than we thought, it's spreading like wildfire through the city's veins. My fingers grip the radio, voice steady despite the weight pressing on my chest, heavy as the humid air outside.
"Alpha Team, report,"
I bark, as I lean over the map table littered with pins and red lines marking containment zones that have already fallen.
Static hisses back, mocking.
Then a shaky, breathless voice like the soldier's running from his own shadow.
"Major, school's overrun. Evac's in progress. We've got kids climbing the ladder, but the horde's closing in fast."
As I stare at the screens, I see the horde clawing at the gates with relentless hunger, their decayed fingers are scraping metal. Teenagers, probably no older than my nephew back home, if he's still alive. The thought flickers, unbidden, but I shove it down.
Orders are orders, and sentiment will get you killed.
The base is a fortress of tents and barbed wire, miles from the heart of the city, but the infection feels like it's breathing down our necks. Trucks rumbling in the distance, soldiers are loading ammo, their faces etched with the same exhaustion which I feel in my bones.
[10:30 a.m.]
The tent is stifling, maps and monitors crowding the space like a noose tightening. A corporal bursts in, his uniform caked in dust, handing me a report with trembling hands. This are scrawled numbers, casualty estimates, lists of the missing. Too many. Names I don't even know, but faces I've seen in briefings.
The school is a death trap, a nest of those things, rotting flesh animated by whatever hellish force turned them.
My hand hovers over the radio, the metal cool against my palm. The command tent is my domain, but it feels like a cage, the canvas walls flapping in the wind like mocking laughter.
"Bravo Team, prepare the payload,"
I say, my voice cold, cutting through the static like a blade. Bomb the school. High command's call, not mine. Contain the spread. No exceptions. The corporal shifts, his eyes wide, too young for this. "Sir, there's kids—"
"Orders," I snap, cutting him off before the doubt can spread. My stomach twists, a knot of acid, but I don't flinch. Flinching can get people killed. I've lost good men to hesitation, to that moment when humanity creeps in.
[10:35 a.m.]
The monitors show a helicopter lifting off, a rope ladder dangling like a lifeline tossed into hell. Kids or should I call them Survivor, their faces streaked with dirt and tears, their bodies hauling against gravity and fear.
One girl shoves another out mid-climb. The second falls, twisting in the air like a broken bird, hitting the ground hard with a thud I can almost hear. No movement. Just a still form in the dirt.
"Report!"
I shout into the radio, leaning forward, my chair creaking.
"Sir," a pilot crackles back, his voice tinny over the rotors, "one kid pushed another kid. She claimed that the other kid was infected. We are sorry we couldn't stop it."
If she's one of them, it's better this way, quick and clean. But the image sticks her body, still in the dirt, limbs splayed at odd angles. Another kid lost. I push it down, deep where the guilt festers, alongside the faces of soldiers I've sent to die. But I've got to focus.
"Get the rest out,"
I order, my tone unyielding. The helicopter tilts, rising, leaving the school behind like a bad memory. The base outside is a hive, soldiers are loading crates, medics are patching wounds, everyone moving with the mechanical efficiency of people who know stopping means death. I envy their numbness.
[10:40 a.m.]
The screens flicker again and this time it's smoke, flames licking the main gate like hungry tongues. The horde presses closer, their bodies piling against the barriers, relentless.
"Bravo, status,"
I say, voice tight, my fingers drumming the table. I pace, my boots grinding dust into the canvas floor, the tent feeling smaller, walls closing in. The school's a lost cause and we've known it for hours. We've lost three teams already, torn apart by those things, their screams still echoing in my nightmares. High command ordered to bomb it, to wipe it clean. With No survivors, no spread. No containment at all costs.
I think of the kids, kids who are running through those halls, hiding in classrooms, fighting with whatever they could find. I don't know their names. I don't want to. Knowing makes it real, and it makes the orders heavier.
The corporal hovers, report clutched like a talisman. Outside, a truck revs, soldiers shouting, the base alive with purpose. But in here, it's just me and the screens, the horde clawing, the ladder swaying.
"Confirm coordinates,"
I say, hand steady on the radio. My heart's pounding like a drum, a rhythm of doubt I can't afford.
I set the radio down, hands shaking now that no one's watching. Kids were in there, teenagers with futures, now ash. Maybe some got out, some slipped the net, some ran into the wild. Or maybe not.
I don't know what's worse anymore the ones we saved, haunted by what they saw, the ones we left, buried in rubble or ourselves.
[10:55 a.m.]
I step outside, the air is heavy with ash that's starting to fall like gray snow. This base is alive with soldiers moving in a daze, trucks are roaring to life, drones are buzzing overhead like vultures. But still it feels empty, hollow, the victory is tasting like dust.
The school's gone, wiped from the earth, a crater where lives once happened. High command will surely call it a success, a win in the war against the dead. But I call it bare, ugly, necessary survival. I light a cigarette as I think about The girl in the dirt, the kids in the chopper, the ones we couldn't save, they all swirl in my head, a whirlwind of faces and regrets. My radio crackles, waiting for the next order, the next fire to put out.
But for now, it's quiet.
Too quiet.
The fight's not over.
It never is.