Reinforcement

The sound of helicopters roars in the background. Aerial footage of Liamos City. The camera shakes slightly, heavy breathing slips between sentences.
“Y-yes… alright. We’re from StratCom TV… currently reporting live from above Liamos City.
As you… can see, the military has established a perimeter on the western and southern sectors of the city, using heavy-grade metal barricades.
This action—dubbed a ‘rapid response’—has succeeded in… temporarily… containing the movement of infected civilians.
The source of this… virus… remains unknown.
But it’s confirmed… the virus spreads through bite wounds.
The outbreak began two days ago, exactly at midnight, in the city center. A densely populated area—both commercial and residential.
Massive fires have also been reported… most likely caused by mass panic.
We’ll continue to monitor developments—and—and deliver the latest upda—The broadcast cuts out. The TV shuts off.

For a moment, the room falls silent, the only sound being the hum of machinery in the background.
Someone at the end of the table breaks the silence. Their voice is flat, but sharp.
“You proud of this? The city’s in ruins… all because of that ‘simple’ delivery of yours.”
“That delivery followed procedure,” replies a man in a dark shirt. “It was the aircraft that failed—not us.”
A woman in a white coat leans forward, her face tense. “That aircraft is the best in the world, equipped with advanced tech. You know that. Don’t shift the blame.”
“So we just abandon all protocols because… emergency?”
“You said we still had control.” Her voice rises. “This is not control.”
“Enough,” interrupts an older man in an IF uniform. “Our forces are already en route to the location.”
“They’re not the solution,” the woman hisses. “They’re just delaying destruction.”
“But it’s enough of a delay… for you to finish the cure.”
Silence. Everyone turns to a single person in the corner—a young scientist, still standing.
“…we still need a live sample,” he says quietly.
“Get one.” The man in uniform nods firmly. “But don’t fail again. One mistake is enough.”
Silence. Someone stands, then announces flatly:
“Meeting adjourned.”

Birdsong fills a bright day. In the middle of a cool, quiet black forest, the rhythmic sound of an axe chopping wood echoes steadily.
A young man splits logs for firewood. He is Otto Krüger, a 25-year-old professional soldier now living in peace in a holzhaus—a traditional wooden cabin in rural Germany—with his beloved wife, Gretta Emma. They’ve been married for two years.
“Schatz! Lunch time!”
A smile blooms on Otto’s lips. There’s a warm joy in his wife’s voice. He wipes sweat from his brow, wearing his favorite worn-out hemd, then steps inside.
Inside, the aroma of kartoffelsuppe—a traditional potato soup—blends with the smell of warm whole wheat bread fresh from the brick oven. On the table: two large bowls, bread, and a steaming cup of kamillentee.
“Mm... your soup’s still the best,” Otto says as he blows on his spoon. “But... is that a new flavor?”
“I added a bit of Liebstöckel, they say it helps with stubborn soldier stomachs,” Gretta teases.
“Stubborn? Who’s stubborn?” Otto laughs, dipping bread into the soup. “Just admit you’re experimenting to become a professional köchin.”
“If I open a restaurant, will you be my regular customer?”
“I’ll be your cook. And the dishwasher too.”
They laugh softly. Gretta gazes at her husband with love. There’s a warm simplicity in that moment—a small world that feels whole.
“I saw our garden’s starting to grow. Has the chamomile bloomed yet?” Otto asks.
“It has. But Peter—the neighbor’s rabbit—has taken a liking to our lettuce.”
“Ah, Peter... I need to have a serious talk with him.” Otto nods solemnly, pretending.
Gretta giggles, then sips her tea. A pause, but not an awkward one. It’s peace.
But that simple joy is cut short by a loud KRRRTT—the ringing of the house phone. In the middle of the forest, it sounds like an alarm bell.
“Hold on, love... I should get that.”
Otto rises and walks to the corner of the room. The old rotary phone rings beside the bookshelf. He picks it up, speaking quietly, but with tension.
Gretta waits, spoon still in hand, as if she already knows… something is changing.
Otto returns to the table, this time with a grim face.
“I’ve been assigned.”
“After… a whole year of peace?”
Otto nods, unable to speak.
“Hm...” Gretta offers a small smile, trying to stay strong. “When I first met you, I never imagined you’d be this soft.”
“You know I love you with all my heart.”
“And I know… I won’t worry, as long as you come home safe.”
Otto moves closer. He embraces Gretta, then kisses her forehead.
“What kind of man do you think you married?”
“The kind I’ll love forever, even against the world.”
“My prayers go with you, Schatz.”
“And mine with you, love.”

The clinking of boots echoes against metal floors, blending with the wail of training sirens down the corridors of the ship.
Otto jolts awake at the loud voice outside the barracks:
“Aufstehen! Five minutes to formation, this ain’t your grandma’s house!”
He blinks, still caught between fading dreams—Gretta’s smile, the scent of firewood, the birdsong from the little forest where he once lived in peace. Those memories slowly dissolve, replaced by the sound of turbines and hot metal.
Without much thought, Otto sits up, making his bed with the precision of military reflex. He grabs his towel and heads to the narrow, utilitarian washroom. Cold water splashes over his face, washing away the last of nostalgia.
Minutes later, he’s in the mess hall, wearing the IF’s standard casual combat attire: a gray tactical jacket, commando pants, and a navy blue identity stripe on his left sleeve.
“Morgen, Krüger,” a fellow soldier greets, raising a coffee mug.
“Morgen,” he replies shortly.
As he spoons warm protein porridge and a Brötchen, his mind drifts. There’s a quiet emptiness in his chest—not from the mission, but from the distance.
“It’s only been a day… but it feels like a month. Damn it…”
He touches a thin metal locket around his neck. Slowly, he opens it. Inside is a small photo of Gretta smiling in the white dress she wore during their last lunch at the cabin.
A faint smile appears on Otto’s face.
“I’ll come home. Wait for me.”
He closes the locket, straightens his back, and finishes breakfast.
Not long after, the ship’s internal speaker blares:
“All Bravo and Delta Unit personnel, proceed to main briefing room. Briefing starts in five minutes.”
Otto stands. No second command needed. He tightens his laces, clips his helmet to his pack, and walks toward the briefing room.

Briefing Room – IF Carrier Weltenschild
05:00

Bootsteps echo against the metal floor, accompanied by engine hums and the soft vibration of the ship’s core reactor. Otto enters the briefing room, wearing his field uniform, the last button still undone. His eyes still carry traces of last night’s dream.
Inside the steel-walled room, a few soldiers are seated casually. One of them stands and walks over, grinning.
“Look who hasn’t retired early.”
Otto turns and sees Friedrich, leaning in his signature style.
“Adler. Still breathing? Guess the world hasn’t ended yet.”
They share a brief laugh—a sound that vanishes quickly beneath the mechanical hum and harsh reality.

The automatic sliding door opens. A strategy officer steps in, face as tense as the ship’s hull bracing against a storm. He carries a large folder, and the room lights dim. A projection screen hums to life.
“Focus.” His voice is heavy and firm.
A satellite view of Liamos appears, glowing red perimeter lines. Several sectors blink—unstable.
“Eastern sector collapsed last night. Main structures are completely breached. Four civil engineering units and two security squads… lost.”
The mood in the room shifts. Friedrich’s smile vanishes. Otto lowers his head slightly, one hand clutching the small locket under his collar.
“The wall must be extended to the south and north. But…” He points to the screen. “…the northern zone is faltering. Zombie pressure is increasing significantly.”
The map shifts, highlighting Aegis District and Dockline Industrial Zone—two key areas just beyond the northern wall.
“Norwood Heights is only a kilometer from the wall. If this line breaks… we lose not just commercial zones, but thousands of civilians.”
Otto exchanges a brief look with Friedrich. No words. Only the mounting pressure of time.
“Your unit is assigned to the northern sector. Join the IF teams and civil engineers. Primary objective: defend the perimeter and secure eastern wall supply routes. Secondary: evacuate gray zones. Norwood cannot fall.”
He closes the folder.
“Transport begins in 30 minutes. Proceed to Hangar 3 for deployment. Full gear. No operational delays. Briefing dismissed.”
The lights brighten again. The sound of ventilation hisses louder than before. Otto stands slowly, tucking the locket under his uniform.
Friedrich approaches and pats him on the back lightly.
“Back on the iron bird, bro. Déjà vu, huh?”
“Let’s hope we land in one piece this time.”
They walk out, heading to Hangar 3.

Temporary Command Room – IF Carrier Weltenschild
05:10

The intercom blares non-stop. Boots pound the steel floor. Orders fly back and forth. Operators shout in coded lingo, their voices lost in the symphony of chaos. Outside the reinforced window, helicopters power up, navigation lights flashing wildly. Deployment waves are heading toward the eastern, southern, and northern sectors—layered, synchronized, and brutal.
Otto and Friedrich stand in front of a door labeled: “Kommandogruppe Liamos – Zugang nur für autorisiertes Personal.”
The sliding door opens. The air inside feels heavier, like it’s pulled by a different gravity. A broad-shouldered man stands at the end of a round table displaying strategic projections. His uniform is flawless, a double-shield emblem on his chest. His face is stern, jaw locked, eyes sharp as a bayonet’s tip.
Gruppenführer Kurt Bauer.
He doesn’t turn as he speaks. “Enter. Don’t waste my time.”
Otto clicks his heels. “Hauptgefreiter Otto Krüger, Kampfgrenadier, reporting for duty!”
Friedrich follows. “Stabsgefreiter Friedrich Adler, Kommando Spezialkräfte, Herr Gruppenführer.”
Kurt finally looks at them. His face bears the marks of war—not physical wounds, but lines carved by prolonged pressure.
“Good. You’re the core unit for Trupp 9 – Special Operation Norwood. I don’t need heroes, just operators who know when to hold… and when to sacrifice.”
He tosses a file on the table. The projector displays Norwood and Dockline’s defense lines.
“This city is on the edge of a blade. Every decision you make affects thousands of lives. One mistake… and the ruins will speak louder than your reports.”
Heavy footsteps approach from behind. Ten figures in field uniforms with special tactics insignia stand at attention. Otto glances at them—hardened faces, some scarred, others young but clearly not fresh from the academy.
Kurt points to each one quickly:
• Unteroffizier Lukas Brandt
• Gefreiter Emil Hartmann
• Obergefreiter Dieter Rausch
• Grenadier Bruno Albrecht
• Sanitäterin Ilse Neumann
• Funker Tobias Keller
• Panzerbrecher Erik Vogel
• Techniker Franz Jäger
• Pionier Otto Weiss
• Nachschuboffizier Karla Stein
“Trupp 9, you’ve been reassembled for one goal: hold Norwood for as long as possible. You will move through Hangar Three aboard a Schwertransporter to the western side of the northern wall,...”