Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 58 – The Ones Who Hold the Line

The IBF moved through the 36th Street mansions like a single machine built out of tired muscle and unshakable purpose. Eighteen firefighters, eleven standouts forming the visible shape of the squad, the other seven filling the gaps without needing direction. The red numbers RJ had marked earlier on Tammy Street had become the system they all trusted. Clean houses meant hope. Condemned houses meant closure.

Captain Heath Liddick stepped onto the porch of the first mansion and scanned the interior behind him one last time. RJ’s resonance sweep had cleared this entire neighborhood minutes before they arrived; the air felt wrong in a way that said danger had passed but memory lingered. No Zerker scratching. No silhouettes. No sound at all. Just a heavy stillness like the houses had been holding their breath for three months and finally exhaled.

1st Lt. Thack, Trung pushed open the oversized front door with his pry bar, moving with the controlled steadiness of someone who’d broken into hundreds of structures before the world ended. “Entry clear,” he said quietly.

2nd Lt. Stukes, Ruth followed in, sweeping corners with a tactical fluidity that never wasted movement. “Hallway clear. Kitchen clear.”

Sgt. Wade “Junior” Stephens walked point, checking blind spots, sliding past glass cases and long-forgotten décor. “Living room clear,” he called out.

Sgt. Medeles took the stairs two at a time. “Bedroom one clear,” he said, then added, “and whoever owned this house had terrible taste. I’m judging them from beyond the grave.”

Sgt. Hough snorted. “Of course you’d haunt somebody’s comforter.”

“Damn right I would,” Medeles replied. “This bedspread died before they did.”

Sgt. Trimble — Man Mountain — ducked under a doorframe built for normal humans and stepped into the basement like he was entering a bunker. “Basement clear.”

Adame-Russell and Russell moved together through the master suite, their footsteps perfectly synced. Jasmine lifted drawers. Alexus checked for medical supplies. Calm, efficient, practiced. Their quiet teamwork filled the dead rooms with something that felt almost human again.

Schenck stood still for a moment, eyes scanning the architecture, mapping the house in his mind the way some people solved puzzles. “Attic ladder in the garage ceiling,” he said. “Secondary crawlspace access above the office.”

Before anyone could respond, Jesse “Wild Style” Wildner was already climbing the attic ladder with a flashlight in his mouth. “I got it,” he mumbled. “If something jumps at me, I’m punching it.”

Three minutes later he came back down, covered in dust and triumph. “Clear. And I hate attics.”

Liddick stepped outside and marked a bold red 1 beside the front door. First mansion clean.

The team shifted into formation again and crossed the street to Mansion Two, a stone-front giant overlooking the cul-de-sac. Two background IBF firefighters pried the side service door open while the standouts moved in.

Broken glass littered the foyer. A backpack sat abandoned near the stairs. But no bodies. No drag patterns. No signs of life or death. Just the imprint of a home evacuated too fast.

“Clear,” Stukes called.

Medeles held up a gold-plated spoon. “I swear, rich people collect the dumbest crap.”

Junior didn’t look up from checking a side room. “Put it down.”

“I’m improving my class status,” Medeles said.

“Put. It. Down.”

The red 2 went up on the siding.

They crossed to Mansion Three, a wide brick structure with a balcony overlooking the street. Trimble forced the front door open with one shove. The team moved in like water pouring into empty space.

Bathroom clear. Laundry room clear. Upstairs game room clear. One untouched nursery. One empty master closet. No bodies. No movement. Just still life frozen in place.

Liddick stepped back onto the lawn and sprayed the red 3. Three mansions cleared. A neighborhood inching back toward livable.

That was when the sound rolled across the street.

A low, heavy diesel rumble.

Not loud enough to be right on top of them.
But close enough to get every IBF head turning toward the far end of 36th Street.

Thack paused mid-step. “That’s not CWP engine noise.”

Hough leaned toward the road. “Too smooth. Too heavy.”

Medeles squinted through the trees. “Oh hell… somebody’s pulling up with horsepower.”

From the top of the hill, two dark silhouettes appeared — unmistakably military, boxy and armored — crawling slowly onto 36th like predators afraid of waking something up.

Humvees.

Not close. Not stopping for them.
Not in the driveway.
Not even heading to the mansions.

Just rolling down the street, a hundred yards out, on deliberate approach, engines low and steady.

Junior watched them pass through a gap in the trees. “Since when does anybody have Humvees?”

Medeles shook his head. “Man, if those things had existed yesterday, I would’ve asked for a ride.”

Trimble grunted. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not done here.”

Liddick didn’t take his eyes off the road — but he didn’t slow down either. “Eyes on your task,” he said. “We finish this block before we chase shadows.”

The team snapped back into motion instantly.

Whatever those Humvees meant — whoever they were coming for — it wasn’t stopping the IBF from doing their job.

They moved on to Mansion Four, red paint can rattling in Liddick’s hand, boots thudding across pavement, the distant diesel rumble fading behind them as they worked.

The IBF cleared the dead world one house at a time.