The B-1 strike had shattered the northern second wave.

But it had not destroyed it.

Far from it.

Across northern Pampanga, fires burned in every direction.

Collapsed buildings smoldered.

Rice fields had become blackened wastelands.

Highways were littered with craters and wrecked vehicles.

The destruction stretched for kilometers.

And through the smoke—

The infected were still moving.

Thousands of them.

Perhaps tens of thousands.

The survivors of the bombardment staggered through the ruins.

Many were burning.

Many were missing limbs.

Some crawled.

Others limped.

But all of them had the same destination.

South.

Toward Basa Air Base.

Toward humanity.

Inside Bone One, Colonel Jason Reeves watched the thermal display.

The surviving infected looked scattered.

Broken.

Disorganized.

Then they began moving again.

Slowly.

Like streams of water finding new paths.

The weapons officer frowned.

"They’re reforming."

The co-pilot cursed.

"How?"

Nobody answered.

Because nobody knew.

The surviving infected began clustering again.

Small groups merged.

Then larger groups.

Within minutes, scattered pockets of survivors were becoming formations once more.

Smaller than before.

But still dangerous.

The colonel exhaled.

"They just don’t stop."

He keyed the radio.

"Basa Command, this is Bone One."

"Go ahead."

"Recommend immediate exploitation."

The operations officer answered instantly.

"Clarify."

Reeves looked at the screen.

"They’re disorganized right now. This is the best time to hit them."

Silence.

Then—

"Approved."

The colonel nodded.

"Copy."

He switched channels.

"Bone flight. Second attack run. Target surviving concentrations."

The replies came immediately.

"Bone Two copies."

"Bone Three copies."

"Bone Four copies."

The bombers turned.

Far below, the battlefield continued burning.

The surviving infected had no idea what was coming.

The bomb bay doors opened again.

More bombs fell.

Far fewer than before.

But still enough.

The first impacts struck a concentration attempting to move through an abandoned subdivision.

BOOM.

The entire street disappeared beneath fire.

Several houses collapsed.

A water tower shattered.

Bodies flew through the air.

Another bomb landed inside a commercial district.

The explosion consumed an entire intersection.

The survivors vanished.

Another concentration was hit while crossing a dried riverbed.

The blast transformed the riverbank into a crater.

Hundreds died instantly.

The second strike did not erase the battlefield.

It refined it.

Cleaned it.

Finished off survivors.

Reduced concentrations before they could regroup.

Inside the command center, analysts watched the updated drone feeds.

The northern front was finally shrinking.

Actually shrinking.

One operator blinked.

Then checked his calculations again.

Then looked up.

"Sir."

Adrian looked toward him.

"What is it?"

The operator sounded almost surprised.

"We’re reducing the numbers."

Silence.

Another analyst immediately checked.

Then another.

Then another.

Finally the operations officer nodded.

"It’s true."

Ryan looked up.

"Really?"

The officer pointed at the map.

The red mass had begun receding.

Not everywhere.

But enough.

Entire sectors were disappearing.

The B-1 strikes had bought them something they desperately needed.

Time.

Then another operator suddenly shouted.

"Contact!"

Everyone turned.

The southern feed appeared.

The room became quiet.

Because the southern front had reached the outer defensive lines.

Near Guagua, Pampanga, an entire brigade-sized defense force had established positions along an elevated section of highway.

Floodlights illuminated the darkness.

Vehicles formed barriers.

Machine gun nests covered the approaches.

Mortar positions stood ready.

Everything looked prepared.

Then the infected arrived.

Thousands.

Then more.

The first ranks emerged from the darkness.

Running.

Not walking.

Running.

"CONTACT FRONT!"

The highway erupted.

M240s opened fire.

BRRRRRRT.

M2 Brownings joined.

BRRRRRRT.

Tracer rounds streaked through the darkness.

The front ranks collapsed.

The survivors kept running.

Mortars launched.

THUMP.

THUMP.

THUMP.

The rounds landed among the infected.

BOOM.

BOOM.

BOOM.

Entire sections disappeared.

Still they came.

Inside a fighting position, Private First Class Miguel Herrera fired controlled bursts.

Three rounds.

Reload.

Three rounds.

Reload.

The rifle was already hot.

The infected were only one hundred meters away.

A runner leaped over a corpse pile.

Miguel shot it.

Another appeared.

He shot again.

Then three more appeared.

The machine gun beside him opened fire.

Bodies dropped.

The survivors climbed over them.

Always climbing.

Always advancing.

The squad leader looked toward the rear.

Then grabbed the radio.

"Where’s air support?!"

As if answering the question—

A roar echoed overhead.

The soldiers looked up.

Dark silhouettes crossed the moonlit sky.

F-16s.

Four of them.

The lead pilot checked his targeting display.

The southern horde filled the screen.

Thousands.

Packed together.

Perfect.

He keyed his radio.

"Viper Lead, in hot."

The fighter rolled.

The nose pointed downward.

The targeting pod stabilized.

Weapon release.

Two GBU-38s separated.

The aircraft climbed.

Seconds later—

BOOOOOOM.

Twin explosions ripped through the center of the southern horde.

A massive fireball climbed into the sky.

The blast wave flattened hundreds of infected.

Bodies flew.

Road signs toppled.

Vehicles overturned.

The soldiers on the highway actually cheered.

Then the second pair of fighters attacked.

Rockets.

WHOOSH.

WHOOSH.

WHOOSH.

Hydras slammed into the horde.

The explosions walked across the front.

The road disappeared beneath smoke and fire.

The pressure eased.

Slightly.

Only slightly.

Because more infected emerged.

Thousands more.

The pilot stared.

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

The horde continued.

Like a river.

Endless.

Then another sound appeared.

Different.

Slower.

Heavier.

The pilot looked toward his radar.

Then smiled.

"About time."

Far offshore, the destroyers had rearmed.

And now—

They were firing again.

The vertical launch cells opened.

Flames erupted.

WHOOSH.

WHOOSH.

WHOOSH.

Cruise missiles climbed into the night sky.

Not one.

Not two.

Dozens.

Their engines ignited.

The missiles rolled east.

Toward Pampanga. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Toward the battlefield.

Minutes later—

The first Tomahawk appeared.

Flying low.

Very low.

Its engine whined across the darkness.

Several soldiers actually saw it.

A bright flame racing above the fields.

Then it descended.

BOOOOOOOOM.

The southern horde disappeared beneath the explosion.

The fireball rose nearly a hundred meters.

Then another missile struck.

Then another.

Then another.

The cruise missiles walked across the battlefield.

One concentration after another.

One explosion after another.

Entire sections of the horde ceased existing.

The ground shook continuously.

Windows shattered.

The night itself seemed to burn.

Private Miguel looked toward the horizon.

The explosions just kept coming.

One after another.

Then another.

Then another.

He lowered his rifle slightly.

"...We’re really using everything."

His squad leader nodded.

"Everything."

Army.

Air Force.

Navy.

Every branch.

Every aircraft.

Every ship.

Every weapon.

Everything humanity still possessed was being thrown into this battle.

Because if Basa fell—

Everything they had built for over a year would die with it.

Far above Pampanga, the bombers turned for home.

The fighters remained.

The helicopters remained.

The AC-130 still circled.

The tanks still fired.

The machine guns still roared.

And the infected—

The infected still came.

But now—

For the first time since the night began—

The massive fronts were no longer advancing.

The northern front had stalled.

The southern front had slowed.

The endless ocean of infected had finally met a wall of fire powerful enough to stop it.

At least temporarily.

Inside the command center, one analyst looked at the newest numbers.

Then his eyes widened.

"Sir."

Adrian looked toward him.

"What?"

The man swallowed.

The room became quiet.

Because his expression looked wrong.

Very wrong.

He slowly pointed toward another recon feed.

A new drone.

Farther north.

Beyond Tarlac.

Beyond the current battle.

The image appeared.

Everyone stared.

Nobody spoke.

Because there—

Far beyond the burning province—

Another mass of thermal signatures was moving south.

The camera zoomed out.

Then zoomed out again.

And again.

The horde still didn’t fit on the screen.

Ryan slowly set his coffee down.

"No."

Nobody answered.

Because the drone feed looked familiar.

Too familiar.

Another wave.

Another army.

Possibly larger than the first.

And it was still coming.