The Last Quiet Morning
Billings, Montana – October 3rd, 2026 – 6:42 AM
The world hadn't ended yet.
But Leon Graves could feel it coming.
He sat in the corner booth of Rosie's Diner, a hole-in-the-wall spot off Highway 312, eating a plate of eggs and bacon that had gone cold. The smell of burnt coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the faint grease of a morning rush that had already passed. A radio played softly behind the counter, broadcasting static-laced news reports about riots in major cities—Los Angeles, New York, even as far as London and Tokyo.
"More unrest overseas," the news anchor droned. "Officials claim the violent outbreaks in Brazil and Germany are unrelated, but citizens are advised to remain vigilant…"
Leon barely listened.
He wasn't the type to worry about things he couldn't control. His focus was on his next move—where he was going, how long he'd stay. He'd been living off the grid for months, drifting from town to town. Montana had seemed like a good place to disappear—quiet roads, small populations, no one asking too many questions.
But something felt off this morning.
The usual customers—truckers, locals, ranch hands—were subdued. Conversations were hushed, eyes flicking toward television screens mounted on the walls. The news flashed images of burning streets, bloodied figures stumbling through crowds, soldiers patrolling quarantine zones.
Leon took another sip of coffee, scanning the room.
At the counter, a pair of truckers were muttering to each other.
"You hear about Livingston?" one asked.
"Yeah," the other said. "Bar fight turned ugly. Some guy went feral—bit a man's ear clean off."
"Christ. That's the third one this week. First Hardin, now Livingston."
Leon listened without reacting.
Biting? That wasn't normal.
"News says it's a drug," the first trucker continued. "MK-Something. The cops call it 'Rage Dust.' Makes people go nuts, tear each other apart."
Leon frowned slightly. He'd heard that before.
Back when he was a military investigator, cases like this popped up in classified reports. Soldiers overseas going berserk, shrugging off bullets, still moving after lethal injuries. The official explanation was always stimulant-induced psychosis.
The reality was something else entirely.
The diner door swung open, and a Montana state trooper walked in. His uniform was rumpled, stained, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He went straight to the counter and ordered black coffee.
Leon watched him from the corner of his eye. Tension in the shoulders. Hand resting near his sidearm. The man was spooked.
Something wasn't right.
Leon slid a few bills onto the table, deciding it was time to go.
He had a habit of leaving before trouble started.
Today would be no different.
He was halfway to the door when the first siren blared.
Interstate 90 – 9:47 AM
Leon's 1987 Chevy K5 Blazer rumbled down I-90, the highway stretching wide and empty beneath an overcast sky. His radio crackled with emergency broadcasts.
"…residents are advised to remain indoors…"
"…Governor Miles has issued a state of emergency across Yellowstone County…"
"…unconfirmed reports of violent attacks in Bozeman and Helena…"
Leon wasn't surprised. Riots didn't spread this fast. Diseases did.
He pulled into a gas station off Exit 443, filling up his tank. A group of locals gathered near the convenience store entrance, eyes glued to their phones. Their faces were pale, whispers growing more frantic.
"Jesus Christ," one man muttered. "Look at this."
Leon glanced at the screen. A blurry cellphone video showed a man in a hospital gown thrashing violently, restrained by four orderlies. He was convulsing, blood dripping from his mouth. Then—without warning—he lunged, tearing out a nurse's throat with his teeth.
The video cut to chaos. Screams. Blood. Security trying—and failing—to restrain the man.
The news headline read:
BREAKING: HOSPITAL ATTACK IN DENVER – IS THIS THE NEW PANDEMIC?
Leon exhaled slowly.
This wasn't just some drug. This was something worse.
A scream tore through the air.
Leon turned. Across the street, a man in a bloodstained business suit sprinted toward them, his movements erratic and jerky. His mouth hung open, teeth bared, eyes wide with something beyond fear.
A store clerk in a red vest stepped forward hesitantly.
"Sir, are you—"
The man lunged.
His teeth sank into the clerk's throat.
The kid stiffened, blood spraying across the pavement. He gurgled, collapsing to his knees.
Silence.
Then the businessman stood up straight, blood dripping from his lips. His vacant eyes flicked toward the gas station.
He started running.
Leon drew his gun.
Two shots cracked the air. Both hit center mass. The man stumbled—but didn't fall.
Leon fired again.
The third shot took him through the eye. He dropped instantly.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then—
A dozen more figures appeared at the far end of the lot. Staggering. Limping. Running. Their faces twisted, mouths open in hunger.
Leon didn't hesitate.
He jumped into the Blazer, threw it into reverse, and peeled out of the lot.
In his rearview mirror, he saw Billings falling apart.
Highway 87 – 11:15 AM
Leon took the back roads, avoiding major highways where traffic had turned to gridlock and chaos.
He passed farmhouses with doors left open, vehicles abandoned in fields. No bodies. No movement.
It was happening too fast. Faster than it should have.
His phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
Eve Voss – Missed Call (3)
Leon exhaled sharply.
Eve was calling.
They hadn't spoken in over a year—not since their last job together. She was ex-Denver PD, a damn good sniper, and one of the few people he trusted.
If she was reaching out now, it meant she knew.
The phone buzzed again. A message.
Eve: "If you're alive, head to Bozeman. Military is setting up a green zone. DO NOT go into Billings. Shit is worse than they're saying."
Leon's grip tightened around the wheel.
Bozeman was 140 miles west.
He shifted gears and gunned the engine.
He was getting the hell out of Montana.
Leon crested the hill on Highway 191, looking down at Bozeman.
The city was burning.
Black smoke curled into the sky. Helicopters hovered over Montana State University, where the military had set up barricades. Gunfire echoed through the streets.
His stomach sank.
Eve had told him to come here. But Bozeman wasn't a safe zone—it was a war zone.
Leon sighed.
He checked his SIG Sauer P226, reloaded, and hit the gas.
The road to Bozeman was paved with blood.
And he was driving straight into it.