A Flag Still Standing

Colorado Springs, Colorado - Cheyenne Mountain Complex

August 10, 2030 | 8:00 AM MDT

The doors to the battle staff room swung open.

President Reynolds stepped inside, his movements brisk but heavy with purpose. He was still buttoning his suit jacket, his eyes already scanning the room. He moved straight to the head of the long conference table and planted both hands firmly on its surface.

"Alright," Reynolds said, voice firm, composed but carrying the weight of the impossible. "What do we know so far?" He sank into his chair, placing his arms on the armrest.

John Bellamy, Secretary of Homeland Security, rose from his seat. His voice came steady, a man who'd handled hurricanes, blackouts, riots. "Mr. President," Bellamy began, "we're twelve hours into coordinated nationwide recovery efforts. We have confirmed twenty-three high-yield nuclear detonations across eleven Eastern states—each one aimed with surgical precision."

He tapped the control panel at the edge of the table. The screen lit up, displaying drone images—charred cities, craters, and deep fractures across the landscape.

Bellamy's voice came low. "Washington, D.C. is gone. The White House. The Capitol. The Pentagon. New York City, Bayonne, Newark, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Atlanta, Miami, and Charlotte—nothing left but the crater footprint."

Reynolds leaned back slightly, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His eyes locked on the screen—cities he'd once walked freely in, laughed in, debated in, sworn into office in. Now, just a name on a screen beneath a black scar.

He muttered under his breath, "Jesus Christ…"

Bellamy didn't stop. "We also lost Andrews, Langley, Meade, Norfolk, Kings Bay, Bragg, Dover, Egli, and Savannah River."

Each name landed heavier than yesterday's report. What had begun as a list of states now narrowed into the very heart of America's cities and bases, and now memories.

"…How about the earthquake?" Reynolds asked. His brow furrowed, as if bracing for another blow.

"We're still collecting full reports, but the tremors caused structural failures from coast to coast. Major highways collapsed in sections. Bridges snapped. Subways were flooded in several urban zones. There were multiple pileups on interstates, some with dozens of vehicles."

Reynolds rubbed a hand down his face, eyes narrowing as the reports piled on. "What about areas outside the direct blast zones?" he asked. "Are they stable?"

Bellamy nodded grimly, already anticipating the question. "We've rerouted what's left of our federal infrastructure west of the Appalachians. Triage corridors are active. Evacuees are moving on foot or in improvised convoys—most roads east of the Blue Ridge are impassable. Beyond the blast zones, the quake triggered widespread structural failures. Entire towns are evacuating due to collapsed buildings and roadways. Highways are jammed with stranded vehicles, and tunnels caved in. Some responders can't even reach each other."

The screen changed again.

"Initial rescue teams couldn't enter the blast centers as it was too unstable. Fires, debris fields, and collapsed high-rise zones. We've switched to airdrops: water, rations, medical kits—hoping someone below is still alive to catch them."

Reynolds finally spoke, his voice low and quiet. "Casualties?"

Bellamy didn't sugarcoat it. "Unknown. But we're preparing for catastrophic loss of life. Major cities were hit during working hours, hospitals full, and schools in session. Evacuation wasn't fast enough. We're coordinating with HHS and FEMA field medics. They're calling it a mass-casualty event, possibly hundreds of thousands. Still too unknown for a full count."

He paused a beat. "We also had another situation."

The screen changed again.

"Roughly two hours into recovery operations, multiple FEMA and Guard convoys came under attack from multiple aerial threats—same classification NORAD tracked yesterday—descended on at least eight convoys and four Guard positions."

He zoomed into one image—something massive, winged, distant, and indistinct, but leaving a crater of flame in its wake. "They hit recovery corridors, evac sites—just anything with a lot of people."

Reynolds straightened slightly, his brow furrowed. "Do we know where they came from?"

General Carter stood from his seat. "Sir," he said, voice low, "based on our compiled flight data, radar logs, and what little airborne surveillance we managed to get up… we now believe the aerial contacts entered U.S. airspace from both the north and the south."

He tapped into his console. The main display shifted—overlays of North America appeared. Two sets of overlapping vectors traced slow, wide arcs: one set sweeping in over the Canadian wilderness, the other from far below the Gulf and Caribbean.

Carter continued. "They came in multiple waves, roughly simultaneous. High-speed and high-altitude at first, then they dropped below the radar ceiling, just as they crossed the border. We were blind for most of their ingress."

Reynolds narrowed his eyes at the map. "How'd they get that close?"

Maria Sanchez, Director of National Intelligence, spoke up from the far end of the table. "The satellite blackout, sir," she replied, "Without infrared or early warning satellites, we had no long-range tracking."

Carter followed up. "Our ground-based radar's patchy, especially across the northern latitudes and oceanic approaches."

He clicked to the next slide. Green and red icons dotted various regions of the U.S. The red ones blinked. 

"We engaged where we could. Ground-based SAMs took shots in fifteen states. Several confirmed kills. But we didn't have full coverage, especially around the Midwest, Deep South, and northern border. Entire formations slipped through untouched."

Reynolds leaned in slightly. "Formations?"

He nodded. "Yes, sir. Dozens—sometimes grouped. And they're… extremely resilient. Some of them took direct missile strikes—Patriots, THAAD, even Stingers in close range."

His hand hovered over the control pad, his voice tightening. "As soon as they breached the interior… they immediately hit the cities."

The map shifted again, zooming in. Dozens of red icons now pulsed over major urban centers, Los Angeles, Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Seattle, Phoenix, Denver, Las Vegas, Minneapolis, and St. Louis. "They struck populated cities, infrastructure, even some command nodes."

He tapped again. The room dimmed as thermal footage played. Blurry figures—massive and winged—dove through city skylines like living warheads. "Rotary assets responded in force. Several Helos were dispatched to intercept at low altitudes—urban canyons, tight air corridors. But we had several birds taken out, some never even got a shot off."

The video shifted to high-altitude footage. Contrails streaked the skies over Dallas and Atlanta, multiple aircraft maneuvering in wide loops. Carter gestured. "Air Force and Air National Guard scrambled fast. We had squadrons of F-15s, F-35s, even some F-47s engaging them by BVR. We scored hits—multiple even. But some simply shrugged them off like sparks."

"By the time they got over the cities," Carter said, "it was close-range. Dogfights over civilian airspace. Several of our pilots were lost trying to keep them from diving into downtown. They gave their lives buying us seconds."

He changed slides—grainy bodycam footage from several ground units, "Ground forces encountered targets directly. National Guard and Army units trying to protect evac corridors were overrun or pinned. We have confirmed losses in more than twenty major cities." Then he looked up at the President. "Sir… in multiple locations, we're talking complete breakdowns. Units wiped out before they could even establish a perimeter."

Reynolds stared at the display, jaw clenched. "What the hell were we up against?"

Director Sanchez finally spoke, her voice measured but tense. "We're still running cross-species analysis, sir. DNA samples, captured footage, and any behavioral patterns we can find. But so far, nothing matches that we know of."

Carter tapped once more. A still frame appeared: blood trails across pavement, scattered gear, discarded rifles. "And we're seeing something else. Survivors reporting it, medics documenting it." 

"These things didn't just target cities—they fed. On civilians. On troops." his voice dragging lower, as if the words themselves weighed too much. "We've confirmed it from recovered footage and survivor debriefs. We've got responders who saw entire trucks pulled apart, bodies taken mid-run. One unit lost contact after reporting 'being hunted'."

Carter swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure. "Sir… they didn't just attack where people gathered. They ate them." He paused for a moment, letting the report settle in the room like a dropped weight. "Every major population center has reported sightings or contact. We're still collecting reports from smaller towns and rural sectors, but… whatever they are—they went straight for the cities, and made it their feeding ground."

The room's atmosphere seemed to constrict, the weight of Carter's words drawing every breath tighter. Chairs creaked slightly as officials shifted uncomfortably. A few murmurs rose—half-formed questions, stunned reactions—but they died out just as quickly, smothered by the gravity of what had been said. 

Reynolds's hands were still braced against the table, his knuckles white. But slowly, he straightened. He took a breath, then adjusted his jacket and ran a hand across his jaw.

"What's the latest on our reconnaissance efforts?" he asked, his tone tightening. "We've had birds up since last night—tell me what we've found."

Director Sanchez stood and tapped a control on the battle staff room's screen display. A series of aerial images flickered onto the main display—grainy at first, then sharpening into unsettling clarity.

"We've spent over twelve hours mapping the landmass west of us," she said, her voice steady but grim. "It's approximately 4,400 miles from the mainland." She gestured toward the images—vast landscapes of rolling plains, dense forests, and settlements clustered around winding rivers.

The next slide revealed walled cities, their architecture ancient, almost medieval. Another showed sprawling farmlands, smoke rising from thatched-roof villages. 

Sanchez exhaled, letting the images speak for themselves. "As you can see here, there are no traces of modern infrastructure. No advanced technology—nothing remotely close to what we'd expect."

Reynolds nodded grimly. "But we still don't know the full geopolitical landscape. General Cole, what's the status of restoring our orbital assets?"

General Cole adjusted his uniform, his gaze hardening as he spoke. "Unfortunately, we've lost every satellite that was in Earth's orbit before the event." He paused, regret flickering in his eyes before he continued, his tone firm. "The good news is that our launch sites are still intact, and we are already preparing new deployments. We estimate a timeline of one to two weeks before we can get the first recon satellites back in orbit."

Reynolds exhaled. "Understood. Now, do we still not have any explanation for the earthquake… or that light?"

A quiet shuffle of papers. Then Sanchez leaned forward. Her voice was calm, but there was tension beneath it, held like a taut wire. "Mr. President," she said, "we've pulled data from USGS and NOAA. The magnitude seven quake hit the entire continental U.S. nearly simultaneously. That... should be impossible. There was no fault slippage, no buildup, not even aftershocks. The epicenter readings kept shifting—first Nebraska, then Tennessee, then completely off the scale. It was like it came from under the entire continent at once."

Reynolds' eyes flicked over to her. "And the light?"

Sanchez exchanged a glance with Director Hayes before continuing. "We've had every agency comb through pre-blackout satellite data, ground-based feeds, and thermal sensors. But there's no clear source. Nothing entered the atmosphere, and nothing emerged from the ground. That light—flash, pulse, whatever it was, had no warning."

A long moment passed. Reynolds's face was unreadable, caught between command and sheer disbelief. His voice came low, deliberate.

"So... you're all telling me that something shook the entire nation, made us lose contact with our satellites and the rest of the world, lit up the sky—and we don't know what it was." He let that hang, then continued, slower this time. "And now we're in a world with continents we've never seen before, and civilizations straight from fairy tales?"

No one answered. No one could.

The room was silent. Reynolds's words landed deep on every official in the room.

He rubbed his forehead slowly, as if trying to push back the pressure building behind his eyes. "I don't need silence. I need possibilities. Theories. Hypotheses. You're all the top of every goddamn agency we have—somebody give me something to work with."

Sanchez exhaled through her nose, fingers tapping against the armrest. "Sir, best we can say is this wasn't natural. It wasn't environmental, seismic, or even cosmic. So far, what we can gather is that it was placed—possibly triggered."

Reynolds's face was taut, jaw set hard. "Then I want teams building that framework. I want a list of what it can and can't be. I want every anomaly, myth, astrophysics—hell, bring in classified files if we have to."

Nods passed around the room. Someone scribbled furiously in a binder.

Sanchez met his gaze evenly. "Understood, sir. We'll escalate all cross-agency analytic models."

Reynolds adjusted his posture slightly. "Good. Now walk me through the civilian picture—how bad is it?"

Dr. Laura Kim, Secretary of Health and Human Services, rose from her seat. Her expression drawn and voice heavy with the strain of cascading crises."We're facing a full-scale humanitarian breakdown. The displacement wave began within hours of the strikes and attacks—entire urban populations are abandoning their cities, some by foot, some in overloaded vehicles. They're heading toward anything with fewer people. Towns have seen sudden population spikes, triple their usual size. Local infrastructure wasn't built to handle this."

Reynolds leaned forward slightly. "What's the posture of state and local authorities in those areas? Are they cooperating, or overwhelmed?"

"They're overwhelmed," she answered immediately. "Some are cooperating with FEMA coordination centers, but many are operating independently. They're short on resources, personnel, and communications. Some rural counties are completely dark."

She tapped the screen. A new set of images appeared—crowds moving along highways, makeshift camps forming in open lots, civilian vehicles jammed at collapsed overpasses.

"Civil disorder is escalating," she added. "We've recorded widespread looting in major cities that weren't directly hit. In some places, police have abandoned their posts. Small towns are forming militias or barricading roads to keep evacuees out. Some are arming themselves just to guard food and water."

Reynolds's tone sharpened. "Are we seeing coordinated criminal groups exploiting the chaos, or is this just desperation?"

"Mostly desperation so far. But we've had a few reports of organized theft—gangs raiding convoys or warehouses. Not widespread yet, but it's growing."

Reynolds turned to Bellamy and Attorney General Linda Shepard. "I want the DHS and DOJ into that." 

Bellamy and Shepard nodded.

He turned back to Dr. Kim. "What are we doing to get supplies into those spike zones?"

"We're staging some convoys out of Texas and Oklahoma. But fuel's scarce, roadways are damaged, and we've had several transports attacked—either by panicked crowds or those aerial threats."

Reynolds's jaw tightened. "Then I want emergency drops of rations and med kits prioritized to the worst-hit migration corridors. If people are moving, we meet them on the road."

She continued. "Hospitals are beyond overwhelmed. East Coast medical supply chains are obliterated. Even cities untouched by the blasts are running out of critical drugs—insulin, antibiotics, trauma supplies. Triage zones are being set up in parking lots and gymnasiums, staffed by what little FEMA and National Guard personnel we could deploy."

Reynolds nodded grimly. "Understood. I want the DPA activated for medical logistics—immediately. Have any pharmaceutical stockpiles been located?"

"Some caches in the Midwest, but most were East Coast-based or dependent on foreign inputs. We're rapidly burning through what's left."

Reynolds's voice was low but firm. "Then start inventorying what we can produce domestically—anything we can synthesize. And I want options for alternative treatment protocols."

She paused a moment, steadying her voice. "We're also seeing psychological collapse. People aren't just panicking—they're breaking. There are surges in suicides, group hysteria, and even reports of doomsday cults forming around whatever those creatures were. Several field agents have noted clusters of civilians praying in streets or refusing to move, convinced the end has already come."

Reynolds closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again with a sharp breath. "Are we pushing any kind of national messaging yet?"

"Only partially," she admitted. "We've gotten a few emergency radio broadcasts out, but the reach is limited."

Reynolds leaned back for a beat, then sat forward with renewed force. "Then that ends today. I want every radio station under our control broadcasting coordinated messaging by the hour." He scanned the room. "People need to know the government is still standing. I'll address the nation soon. We'll write this tonight—I want that broadcast ready by first light tomorrow." He exhaled sharply, his fingers tapping briefly on the table as he processed the flood of reports. "We are dealing with forces that shouldn't exist," he muttered, his voice still thick with the weight of it all. He fixed his posture, shoulders squared as he continued, trying to shake off the gravity of the situation. "But we are still the United States of America. We adapt, we overcome. Until we understand our situation, our primary mission is survival and security. We will reestablish our satellite network, continue reconnaissance, and assess our strategic options."

He stood up, eyes looking at every official present. "Anything else?"

Everyone around the table exchanged glances, then shook their heads in quiet unison.

Reynolds gave a single nod. "Alright then. Let's get to work."

Aboard Black Hawk, 3,000 feet above North Carolina

August 10, 2030 | 9:30 AM EDT

The cabin was quiet, filled only with the steady thump of the helicopter blades. Everyone inside kept glancing out the windows, eyes locked on the chaos below—burning neighborhoods, shattered roads, distant plumes of smoke. It pressed down on them, heavy and unreal.

Bryan sat with Jane and Natalie in his arms, holding them close. He looked up and locked eyes with Keller across the cabin.

Keller met his gaze instantly.

"What the hell are those things?" Bryan asked, voice crackling through the headset.

Keller brought his mic closer. His voice was low, controlled. "We don't know," he said. "All we've got so far is recon data. Whatever attacked us, it came from the north and the south. Simultaneously." He hesitated, then added, "They're putting it under 'biological threat'."

Bryan scoffed, shaking his head slightly. "Damn right it is. That thing looked like a fucking dragon." He smirked faintly, trying to lift the edge of the moment. "Like straight outta Game of Thrones shit."

That got a few chuckles. Keller cracked a smile, and even some of the soldiers around them grinned, just for a second.

"How about that light? Does it have anything to do with what attacked us?" Bryan asked.

Keller stared at Bryan. "I'm afraid I can't answer that question."

The journey continued, the hum of the rotors steady as the world blurred below. Everyone aboard stared out the windows again, like they were hoping the answers were somewhere down there.

Half an hour later, they saw it.

In the distance, McGhee Tyson Airport came into view. The runway was flanked with motion—military trucks, tan tents, fuelers, and helicopters parked wingtip to wingtip. Soldiers moved with urgency, some waving in convoys, others unloading crates of supplies. Medical personnel in reflective vests darted between stretchers and triage stations.

Dozens of displaced civilians were gathered under canvas shelters at the far end of the airfield, wrapped in blankets, some seated on pallets, others lying on the concrete with IVs in their arms. It looked like a forward operating base and a refugee camp all rolled into one.

As the Black Hawk circled once, then descended, the organized chaos of the ground came into sharper focus.

Near the edge of the tarmac, a small reception party stood waiting.

One of them, marked clearly by his beret and clean uniform. The man stood tall as the Black Hawk's skids touched the runway, rotor wash kicking up dust. Two medics flanked him, one carrying a med bag, the other holding a wheelchair.

As the side door opened, the soldiers stepped out first—rifles slung, scanning the perimeter out of habit. Keller followed right behind. Then came Bryan, still carrying Jane in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded from pain and exhaustion. Just behind him, Natalie, who was clutching her teddy bear tight to her chest while holding onto Bryan's shirt.

"Sir," he said, loud enough to be heard over the wind, "Lieutenant Colonel Walker, 134th Air Refueling Wing. I've been instructed to personally receive you and ensure you're taken directly to medical."

Behind him, the two awaiting medics broke into a jog as they approached—one of them pushing the wheelchair, the other already slipping on gloves.

Bryan carefully shifted Jane in his arms and lowered her into the seat. She winced but didn't speak, biting back a groan as the soldier adjusted her injured foot onto the footrest.

Without wasting a second, Walker gestured toward the main building. "This way, please."

They all moved—the medics guiding the wheelchair, Bryan and Keller walking beside them, Natalie holding tight to her teddy bear and sticking close to her father's side. Walker led the way, boots striking the pavement with purpose as they headed toward the main building nestled between rows of mobile command units and tents.

Around them, the base moved like a living machine—vehicles revving, orders shouted, stretchers wheeled past.