Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 34 – Scouting the Route

Morning at Station 4 didn’t begin with alarms or sirens.
It began the way it had since the world turned upside down.

The bay doors were shut tight — reinforced steel, cross-locked, never opened unless absolutely necessary. Two industrial fans pushed stale summer air around in slow, hot circles. The probie wiped the engine down for no reason other than nerves. Two veterans sat with a half-played deck of cards. Someone burned oatmeal in the microwave again. The Captain sat behind his office glass reading incident notes he’d already memorized.

Same routine.
Same rhythm.
Same quiet pretending to be peace.

Then the radio cracked.

“0701. Convoy rolling. Heading southeast from La Platte.”

Nobody jumped — firefighters don’t jump — but every head lifted.

The Probie froze mid-wipe.
One of the card players paused.
The guy near the lockers lowered his coffee slightly.

Not panic.
Not fear.
Awareness.

Because every man in that station knew Clear Water — the last fortress in the county.
Power.
Heat.
Running water.
Medicine.
Security.

Everything the Battalion didn’t have.

They’d been listening to Clear Water’s unsecured radio for weeks.
Not to raid —
to survive.

The next update came fast:

“0701. Turning right toward La Platte.”

One card player whistled.
“Moving early today.”

Another transmission hit:

“0702. Right turn onto La Platte. Speed steady one-five.”

The station shifted slightly.
Alert.
Focused.

Then:

“0712. Left turn onto South thirty-sixth.”

That one made a few men trade looks.

South 36th wasn’t a side street — it was an artery.
A purpose-driven route.

The Captain stepped out of his office.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t have to.

The next update tightened the air even more.

“0716. Right turn onto Blackhawk. No clusters. Zerkers trailing at consistent distance.”

Trailing?

Freaks didn’t trail.

The firefighter near the lockers drifted toward the bay, stopping short of the steel doors.

Then the line that changed everything:

“0718. Left onto South twenty-fifth. Passing Station Four now.”

The entire room moved toward the bay.
Not frantic —
instinctively.
Like they knew something was coming and they needed to witness it.

A low vibration rolled through the concrete floor.

Slow.
Heavy.
Controlled.

“Crack the side window,” the Captain said. “Half an inch.”

They did — just enough to see without risking anything slipping in.

The first CWP truck appeared on 25th moments later.
Then the second.

Rolling steady at fifteen miles an hour.
Organized.
Focused.

But what followed froze the entire bay.

Dozens of Freaks.

Not sprinting.
Not screaming.
Not wandering.

Walking.

In loose formation.
Keeping pace.
Aligned behind the convoy like a disciplined escort.

One firefighter whispered, “Jesus…”

Another backed into the engine bay wall.
“What the hell are we looking at?”

The card player dropped his deck on the floor.

The Captain leaned closer to the small window gap, jaw tightening.

Freaks didn’t march.
Freaks didn’t pace.
Freaks didn’t hold formation.

And yet — here they were.

Every man in that room understood the truth instantly:

They weren’t chasing the convoy.

They were following it.

The next transmission floated through:

“0718. Left onto Towne Centre. Final stretch to NLC.”

The probie exhaled hard.
“Are they… protecting them?”

Nobody answered.

The convoy rolled past Station 4.
The Freaks followed with perfect, silent discipline, like a controlled column.

When the last one passed, the Captain slid the window shut.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Final.

He looked at his men.

“We all saw that.”

Nobody argued.

Then one firefighter admitted what they had all considered in whispers on late nights:

“We thought we could press them someday,” he said quietly. “Shake them down. Make them share the good stuff. We figured they were soft behind those fences.”
He exhaled, the truth landing heavier than the words.
“But after seeing that…? That’s poking a hive when you’re covered in honey.”

The Captain nodded once.

“That plan dies today.”

Another man asked, “So… we drop everything?”

“No,” the Captain said. “We change it.”

He tapped the window with one knuckle.

“What walked down 25th wasn’t a threat to Clear Water — it was a threat from Clear Water.”

Silence settled thick.

Another firefighter muttered, “We align. Not challenge.”

“Exactly,” the Captain said.

Because the Iron Battalion understood now:

You don’t test — or take from — the group the monsters willingly follow.

You make peace with them.

Or you pray they never walk toward your door.