Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 12 - The Road to FEMA

The haze swallowed everything. Not fog — heavier, thicker, the kind that made distance feel dishonest. The truck’s headlights pushed maybe thirty feet before the gray swallowed them whole. The road ahead was a graveyard of stalled cars and jackknifed semis, hazard lights still blinking from days before.

We couldn’t weave through anymore. Every few hundred yards, we had to shove vehicles aside with the weight of the Ford F-350.

Shakers were everywhere.

Some stood in the street with their heads tilted toward the sky as if listening to something we couldn’t hear. Others drifted through the haze, slow and pale, mouths slack, eyes washed white. Bodies waiting for orders that never came.

We killed the headlights whenever one wandered close. A hand brushed the hood once, leaving a smear of blood and grime. Another turned its head toward us, movement slow and deliberate, then wandered off again.

“They don’t see us,” I muttered.

Mark watched the haze through the window. “They don’t need to. They feel the hum.”

By 4:50 a.m., we’d barely covered eighteen miles. Sweat slid down my back despite the open windows. The humidity clung to us, thick as breath, and beneath it came that metallic tang that always meant trouble.

The radio crackled again — the same FEMA loop, the same names.

Mark thumped the dash. “Still the same damn feed.”

Mateo stiffened. “Carmen?”

“Still there,” Mark said. “No new names.”

He stopped then, brow pulling tight. “Wait… you hear that?”

I turned the volume down. Nothing but static.

Mark leaned toward the glass. “Someone’s calling my name.”

“There’s nobody out there,” I said flatly.

He didn’t respond. Just stared into the shifting gray like it was whispering back.

The FEMA base came into view just after five. Chain-link fences sagged. Floodlights flickered on low battery. Smoke curled from a charred guard post. Bodies lay scattered across the lot.

I killed the engine and let us roll through the gate.

“We don’t know how much time we have,” I said. “Grab what we can before anything changes.”

Santiago checked corners first, moving silent as a shadow, then signaled clear. We split up.

A few Shakers wandered the camp. We put them down quickly — Santiago taking the close ones with the knife, me handling the ones too close to the truck. Mark didn’t fire a single shot. He followed us, rifle trembling, eyes darting between bodies like he expected one of them to say his name.

At one point he whispered, “Lydia…?”

Too soft for anyone but me.

Mateo hesitated with every swing — torn between helping us and falling apart.

Sound died in the haze before it could echo.

The first MCU was empty. Dead lights, stale air, rot and diesel. Noise filtered from the second.

“That’s her,” Mateo whispered.

We pounded on the door. Faint shouts answered. We popped the emergency hatch and a wave of stale heat rolled out.

About seventeen survivors crowded inside — pale, exhausted, hungry. Nine National Guardsmen. Four medics. Civilians making up the rest.

“Carmen!” Mateo’s voice cracked through the haze. “Carmen, are you there, mi amor?”

Carmen sat near the back, face drawn but alive. The moment she saw him, she gasped and practically collapsed into his arms. For one heartbeat, the world felt human again.

“Anyone injured?” I asked.

A female sergeant stepped forward, rifle low. “Two down from dehydration. One caught the last pulse without ear protection and went Berserker. Your wife said the fever hit first, then his eyes went white. The additional strike team sealed him in the other MCU.”

The word hit hard.

“Berserker?” Mark asked. “You mean a Shaker?”

Sgt. Neal shook her head. “No. He didn’t shake. He went fully violent. Carmen tried to subdue him but couldn’t. The strike team locked him inside before it spread.”

Carmen’s voice broke. “No… he’s… my Junior.”

Everything froze.

“He’s still inside?” Mateo asked, throat tightening.

She nodded weakly. “He changed. We locked him in.”

Mark checked his watch. “We should hurry. Is my wife in there?”

Silence answered him.

“Load everything,” I ordered. “Two MCUs and the truck. Take all you can carry. Move.”

The yard erupted — boots on metal, crates banging, medics stripping tents clean. Carmen gathered antibiotics and saline. A soldier cursed from the third MCU.

“Battery’s dead!”

“Which one?”

“The third. The only good one is in the sealed trailer.”

The trailer holding Junior.

“Strip it,” I said.

Neal and another guard yanked the cell, hauled it over, and slammed it into the third unit. It cost us twelve minutes we didn’t have.

While they worked, civilians loaded up, all issued fresh earplugs.

Mateo drifted toward the sealed MCU. The door was chained. Windows fogged from inside. He climbed the ladder with shaking hands.

“Mateo!” I shouted. “Get down!”

He didn’t hear a word.

He wiped the roof hatch with his sleeve. The inside was a blur of red emergency light and movement. Something shifted under the glow.

He slammed the butt of his pistol against the hatch — once, twice, three times. The fourth hit shattered it. Warm, foul air poured out.

Through the broken panel, he saw his son — trembling, twitching, head jerking in violent bursts. Eyes flickering between human and something else.

“Mi amor…” Carmen whispered below. “Please…”

Mateo’s voice shook. “He’s fighting it.”

Santiago raised his rifle, tone steady. “He’s gone, hermano.”

Mateo didn’t look away.

His hand lifted.

“I’m sorry, mijo.”

The shot echoed through the yard.

For one second, the world stopped.

Then something answered from the darkness — a scream, too many voices at once, rolling like a wave.

“Zerkers!” Neal shouted. “Load up! Move!”

The haze erupted with shapes — sprinting, jerking, some crawling low across the ground.

We dropped the half-loaded crates and ran. Doors slammed. Engines coughed alive.

The first Zerker hit the truck hard enough to rock it. Another slammed into the MCU, denting metal.

“Drive!” Santiago yelled.

I floored it.

The MCUs thundered behind us, wheels screaming against torn asphalt. Bodies hit the hood, windows, doors. One clung to the mirror until I swerved and threw it into the dark.

The haze swallowed shapes that lunged and vanished beneath the wheels.

Behind us, the screams faded, swallowed by fog.

But beneath the roar of our engines, faint and steady…

…the hum followed us home.

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ANONYMOUS FIELD LOG — ENTRY A
CLASSIFIED — PROJECT ECHO CLEARANCE REQUIRED:
Interior chatter at CWP registered a distinct behavioral inconsistency tied to one convoy member. Reports described Mark displaying heightened emotional confusion, auditory misinterpretation, and fixation on deceased individuals during Phase III Resonance engagement at the FEMA yard. These symptoms align with secondary exposure to an SCD activation prior to reaching the site. Survivor accounts confirmed rapid Phase III escalation, including a juvenile conversion and containment failure. Maintaining covert proximity to monitor Subject Zero’s group upon return.

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ANONYMOUS FIELD LOG — ENTRY B
CLASSIFIED — PROJECT ECHO CLEARANCE REQUIRED:
Field updates indicated a deteriorating psychological profile in Mark consistent with unintended SCD activation spillover. His behavior during the FEMA extraction — including hallucination, grief-driven fixation, and physical hesitation — supports prior SCD proximity effects. The convoy reported multiple Phase III Resonance contacts, a forced termination of a juvenile subject, and immediate retreat under swarm conditions. Anticipate severe emotional destabilization within survivor ranks. Monitoring for individuals within convoy to redirect to NLC remains ongoing.