Chapter One:
After the Fever
The maps were worthless now. Roads that had once connected cities like veins were either barricaded or collapsed, scarred by craters and rusting husks of abandoned vehicles. Satellite feeds, surveillance grids—all gone dark in the wake of the Fever.
What had started as a whisper of sickness turned into a roar. The Fever devoured eighty percent of the population before the Authority rose, patching itself together from the shattered bones of what governments remained. The solution was simple. Brutal. Those infected were marked—branded with an FD, like that woman from that old story—and removed like spoiled meat.
They called it quarantine.
Now, the world outside the Authority’s “clean zones” was a graveyard. Wastelands where the Branded lived and died in camps, fighting off disease, starvation, and worse—each other. In the shadows of collapsed skyscrapers, in the skeletons of forgotten towns, factions rose from the ashes.
Some fought for survival.
Some fought for power.
And a rare few, like Griffin, fought for something far more dangerous: hope.
Griffin crouched in the derelict subway tunnel, the smell of damp concrete and mildew thick in the air. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, the soft plink plink amplified by the tunnel’s hollow acoustics. The cold seeped through the threadbare fabric of his jacket, gnawing into his bones, as he watched the exchange unfold through cracked night-vision goggles, their green glow outlining the desolate platform beyond.
He shifted his rifle, its battered stock creaking softly, and scanned the hollowed station where the Collective—his Collective—was supposed to meet their contact.
But someone else had come.
She moved like smoke—fluid, silent. Tactical gear stripped to essentials, field kit slung tight across her back, every step deliberate. In one hand she carried a compact rifle, the other resting with predatory ease near a knife handle. The scarf over her mouth revealed only her eyes—sharp, calculating, unflinching.
Griffin didn’t know her. Not really. Just a face in the dark.
But she moved like she belonged here, and that was a problem.
Across the station, in the deeper shadows beyond the platform, life clung to the ruins in stubborn, desperate ways. Figures hunched over trash piles, their hands sifting through broken glass and twisted metal to collect cans, anything salvageable. These were the folk, not fighters—just ghosts of what had once been citizens, scavengers holding onto life with bleeding fingers. Further down, a man—thin as a reed, bones sharp under stretched skin—rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around his knees. From cracked, parched lips, he sang a low, wavering tune.
It was a song from a time before the Fever. A lullaby, Griffin realized, one his mother had sung to him when the world was still green and whole. The man’s voice was fragile, but it carried—a ghost of melody threading through the dust and decay, too fragile to be heard over the harsh patter of boots now echoing closer.
The grit crunched under Griffin’s boots as he stepped out from cover. The woman’s head snapped toward him, gun raised in a heartbeat—a dancer’s grace welded to a soldier’s instinct.
“Easy,” Griffin said, lowering his rifle a fraction. The stale air tasted of dust and rust, a metallic tang that stuck to the back of his throat. “You’re a little far from your playground.”
Her eyes flicked over him—no insignia, no name—just the dull outline of a man who looked like he’d seen too many wars.
“Could say the same, soldier,” she replied, voice muffled but cool, sharp-edged. “This is Collective turf.”
“Funny. Thought it was wasteland.”
“Semantics.”
Griffin’s lip twitched—almost a smile. Whoever she was, she had guts. And she wasn’t Authority, that much was clear.
The Collective team—six of Griffin’s best—hung back, weapons slack but ready. Her crew—four operatives clad in scavenged Authority armor—mirrored the tension.
Two factions, same mission: intercept Authority medical supplies bound for a clean zone.
Griffin exhaled slowly, the breath frosting briefly in the chill. “We don’t need to make this a pissing contest.”
“Then stand down.”
A muscle ticked in Griffin’s jaw. “We hit the convoy, we split the haul.”
“You can’t protect the Branded with half-measures.”
“And you can’t save them all by yourself,” he shot back.
She tilted her head, studying him. A ghost of a smile crept into her eyes—one part challenge, one part respect.
Before Griffin could press further, a low rumble echoed through the tunnel.
Engines.
The ground vibrated faintly beneath his boots. The steady hum of engines grew louder, joined by the occasional crackle of comm static from the approaching convoy. Headlights cut through the dust as armored transports crawled into view, their hulking frames flanked by Authority troops in matte-black body armor, rifles bristling.
At the head of the convoy, astride a growling black cycle, rode a man Griffin recognized immediately.
Marshal.
The Authority’s iron hand. Stoic, precise, lethal.
Griffin had fought beside him once—bunker twenty-three, last stand of the Delta Corridor—before the Authority traded freedom for order.
Marshal dismounted, boots hitting the concrete with a thud that seemed to echo longer than it should. He scanned the station like a predator tasting the air, each movement precise, controlled. His hand rested lightly on the pistol at his hip, but he didn’t draw.
Not yet.
“Got a name?” Griffin muttered toward the woman.
“No,” she said, voice dry. “But you can call me a pain in your ass.”
Griffin almost chuckled. Almost. A flicker of something—admiration, annoyance—twitched in his chest. He didn’t know whether to shoot her or buy her a drink.
“Vesper,” one of his team whispered behind him. “That’s Vesper.”
Griffin’s eyes narrowed. He’d heard the name before. Whispers. Ghost stories. The Ghost Doctor—a name whispered in the ruins, a symbol of resistance and impossible survival. If the stories were true, she’d dismantled an Authority lab with two operatives and a stolen map.
Figures.
Griffin’s hand tightened on his weapon. Beside him, Vesper’s fingers danced with the rifle’s trigger guard—restless, calculating.
Griffin knew one thing for sure: she was trouble. But she was trouble on the right side of the line—more or less.
Across the cracked concrete expanse, Marshal’s voice cut through the dust and diesel fumes.
“Step out. Now. You’re not authorized to be here.”
As Marshal’s troops spread out, the scavengers on the platform panicked. Shouts rose up. The figures who had been quietly sifting through trash bolted, scattering like startled birds, puttering in terror, unsure which way to run. An old woman pottered toward a collapsed archway, moving with the stubborn determination of the half-broken, too slow to escape the black-clad soldiers.
Without a word, Griffin moved—fast and low—motioning his team to form a barrier. Vesper barked orders to her operatives, her voice sharp and cutting through the rising chaos.
“Move! Get them to cover!”
Shots rang out—sharp cracks in the stale air. Griffin watched in horror as an Authority soldier raised his rifle and fired into the fleeing crowd. A woman crumpled, a child screaming at her side.
Another soldier yanked a man’s sleeve up, revealing the faint, telltale brand on his forearm. Without hesitation, the soldier shot him point-blank.
These weren’t soldiers. They were just folk trying to survive, but the Authority couldn’t see past the stereotype of the infected.
Griffin’s gut twisted. No one here deserved to die like cattle. Not today.
Vesper was already dragging a boy—no older than ten—behind a crumbling pillar, shielding him with her body.
“Cover them!” Griffin barked.
His team fired, controlled bursts, forcing the Authority soldiers to hesitate. Vesper’s crew returned fire, methodical and precise.
Amid the gunfire, the man who had been singing lay still, his cracked lips parted in a final, unfinished note.
Engines puttered as more transports idled nearby, the sound a low, malevolent drone in the background.
Griffin ground his teeth. This was no longer about supply runs. This was about survival—about saving whoever they could.
Griffin flexed his jaw, glancing at Vesper.
“You better have a plan,” he muttered.
“I always have a plan,” she murmured back, calm as glass.
“Good. Because he’s the one guy you can’t ghost.”
Griffin respected her motives—even if she made his life infinitely harder.
And tonight, in the hollow bones of a dead world, they’d either fight side by side—or be buried in its dust.
TO BE CONTINUED