Holy Shit...
"Holy shit..."
Forty-eight hours after the declaration of the national emergency. Soldiers arriving in Darwin for cleanup pinched their noses against the stench of burning corpses, their faces twisting in disgust. The burial sites stretched for hundreds of meters, packed tight with bodies—the grim result of a massacre that had raged for over twenty-four hours. Even with gas masks on, the troops retched helplessly before the incomprehensible carnage.
This wasn't unique to Darwin. Similar attempts had been made in other major cities to ignore the parasites' surrender and gun them down anyway, but the parasites offered no resistance, simply baring their necks. Most of those who had declared surrender were already executed, with only a handful captured as prisoners. Even in the big cities, the parasites numbered only in the low hundreds, but Darwin was the one place where they had emerged in the tens of thousands.
Picking out just three hundred to spare and killing the rest? That guy's insane... And the ones carrying it out blindly? Even more fucking nuts...
"Glad to see you're safe, Deputy Director."
"I'm more surprised you're in one piece."
It had only been two days, but as Jason shook hands with David Min, it felt like ages. Was it just the relief? Having this man in sight somehow erased any sense of personal threat, bringing an odd calm to body and mind.
"Things are mostly wrapped up here. What about the other areas?"
"All clear across the board. We've captured about five hundred parasite prisoners nationwide... and three hundred of them right here."
"Get them out of here fast. Can't sleep with those fuckers around."
"Understood. We'll house them in fully sealed facilities—no need to worry."
David Min looked haggard after just a day and a half. No time to care for his clothes, eyes sunken so deep it was hard to tell if he was among the living or the dead. He'd overseen the mass burial of nearly a hundred thousand parasites and managed a camp for over two hundred survivors—hardly surprising.
His face screamed for rest. Tsk— Jason hesitated to speak, an awkward silence stretching out.
"...You look like you've got something to ask. Another problem?"
"Ah, no. Really. Domestic issues are cleaned up. Parasites rounded up and isolated, mandatory X-rays for the whole population—so even if reinfection starts, no real danger. All that's left are the blue drug addicts. Urban ones are all dead; once we mop up the rural areas, that's it. Total casualties, including infections, should top out around seven hundred thousand."
"That's low, right?"
"Miraculously so. Considering most of the top brass were infected from the start."
Jason shot him a look that said, Thanks to who? It should've been a hopeless fight. Parasites gagging the media, seizing cabinet and parliament, shaking the military and police—no chance for humans otherwise. But normalizing black ops agents nationwide, retaking compromised offices, ambushing the cabinet for a swift emergency declaration—that victory was hard-won.
"No more domestic calls for your help anytime soon. Rest easy."
"'Anytime soon'?"
"Sleep first, then we'll talk when you wake up—"
"No. Tell me now. What the hell is it?"
"..."
Jason drew a sharp breath. He'd hoped for a casual nap first...
"We broadcast the emergency declaration on terrestrial TV, and other countries picked it up. Sparked a parasite uprising and civil war in the US. They're recruiting mercenaries now—"
"Ah, yeah. That? No sweat. Heading to bed."
Cheol-woo yawned hugely and turned away. All that tension for nothing. America burning? What did he care? As long as his adopted homeland, Australia, was safe.
He started off coolly, then paused and turned back to Jason.
"Corpse rot and blue drug in the air—can't sleep here. Know any city without the blue shit? Gonna crash there."
"Sure. I'll guide you. Ride?"
"Yeah. Crew too."
"Of course."
Cheol-woo, NewTontonMan, and trailing Mi-young piled into the black car. It revved up with a low rumble, escaping the blue-misted city. Past the burial pits holding nearly a hundred thousand corpses, through eerily empty streets devoid of life, into the barren wastes beyond.
Hoo—haa— Mi-young finally yanked off her gas mask, sticking her head out the window to gulp fresh air. A city she'd never set foot in again.
White House, United States of America.
The president clamped a hand over his mouth, staring at the map updating addict distributions in real time. Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota long breached; now addicts pushing into Wyoming. A little more time, and blue-drug winds would ravage West and East Coasts alike. Nationwide addicts already swelled to two hundred thousand.
"Mr. President. It's late, but you need to sign now."
A document slid before him. Establishing the Emergency Special Operations Command, appointing Colonel John Friedman as commander.
Emergency Special Operations Command Powers:
• Command authority over field National Guard units.
• Mobilization and command authority over field militias.
• Order authority over field police.
...et cetera.
An extraordinary measure granting all martial-law federal powers.
"Is this really the best?"
"Sir. Colonel Friedman leads a unit immune to the blue drug, outperforming all others. Delegating full authority to him is the only way to slow the spread."
"Hmmm..."
Humans exposed to blue drug who didn't mutate but grew stronger—ability users. Friedman's unit was made of them. Others wore gas masks nonstop in contaminated zones, combat effectiveness tanked; a single mask or filter breach doomed the whole unit. Yet Friedman's small team slaughtered addict hordes, evacuated civilians, even recruited on-site ability users to bolster ranks.
No soldier on North American soil had more combat experience against addicts or deeper ability-user insight. For an anti-addict command, he was the obvious pick.
But something nagged the president; pen in hand, he scratched his forehead furiously.
"He won't come to the White House? Wanna see his face."
"Yes, sir. Says he can't leave the front—keeps refusing."
"Soldierly spirit: check. Skills: check. All good. But... something's off. Perfect, incorruptible devotees give me hives. Creeps me out."
Guys like that were sharp, elite. Most ended up in Arlington anyway. Flawless soldiers revealed their true worth with the Medal of Honor—usually posthumously. A living Medal contender? Legendary Pokémon rarity, once every fifty years.
Was Friedman really that guy? Doubt crept in.
"Lemme think on it."
"Mr. President!"
"Read this first. From London?"
He set the doc aside, ripping into a letter from the desk pile.
"PM scrawled it himself. Let's see... Neutralizer for blue drug—vaccine—supply contract talks with the US... What? Vaccine? Son of a bitch!?"
His face flushed crimson mid-read. Blue drug antidote? US researchers were still clueless—how'd they whip it up already? Unless Britain's been at it longer, no explanation for the lag. Come to think of it, London rift open, yet zero addicts. How?
"Those fucking—"
Hong Kong crisis: they snagged blue drug early, researched, developed neutralizer, vaccinated nationwide pre-rift. It fit perfectly. Hid it while the world drowned in addicts, now pretending fresh completion?
Realization hit; he ground his teeth.
"Negotiations my ass. VP drafts the reply. Tell 'em to fuck off. Word for word."
"Yes, sir."
"They'll demand the moon anyway. Think we can't weather this without their shit? That appointment doc—bring it back. Need that Friedman guy after all."
"Here, sir."
Signature done, aide snatched it and bolted. President still fuming, snorting hard—
Bang— Door flew open; VP burst in.
"Mr. President! Sir!"
"What?"
"TV! Channel 1!"
"Why the panic?"
[...thus, I, Energy Minister Chuck James, have assumed duties as Acting Prime Minister.]
[The skulls of the Prime Minister and several ministers contained alien parasites. Analysis shows they devour human brains, mimicking and replacing functions—thinking and acting as humans. We discovered their plot to overthrow the nation and stopped it...]
President's jaw dropped. What the hell? Screen showed a reporter's head exploding with a crack—he flinched, scanning around.
Shock-news that'd floor anyone, yet all aides stone-faced, impassive. Only VP pale as a ghost—till his secretary slipped in, grabbed his tie, and dragged him out.
Ah— no way—
"Fake news, sir. Changing channels."
"..."
"Banning Aussie broadcasts. Leftist regimes, am I right? Pushing trash deepfakes as news."
"..."
"You agree, sir?"
"Y-yeah. Right. Sure."
We're fucked. VP's muffled screams pierced the walls; cold sweat beaded on the president's brow.