The war room was never meant to feel alive.
It existed solely for projection and command—all angles and glass, light devoid of warmth. Even before the conflict, designers had crafted it to minimize emotion, preventing men from confusing gut reactions with certainty. Now, two centuries later, the space seemed almost accusatory, as if its very walls retained memories of decisions more vividly than those who occupied it.
Tired fluorescent bulbs hummed overhead, cycling through ancient systems never permitted rest. Matte steel surrounded them, walls deliberately barren of ornament or insignia. No proud flags adorned these chambers. No inspiring mottos graced these surfaces. The architects of Bunker Thirteen had clearly believed such symbols represented luxuries humanity could ill afford when mere survival became the objective.
Captain Jacob Renner positioned himself at the chamber's center, arms tightly folded across his chest, bare feet planted firmly on the frigid floor. As of two hours earlier, he had become the highest-ranking officer conscious within the facility—a responsibility that settled uneasily upon his shoulders, like borrowing a coat from someone recently deceased.
The holotable flickered to life at his command.
Ancient Massachusetts and Connecticut materialized in layered azure light, appearing skeletal and disturbingly wrong. Former cities jutted upward resembling broken teeth. Highways splintered into lifeless arteries. Rivers shimmered faintly where water still flowed, bruised and redirected, no longer following courses humans had once designated for them.
Nothing about this landscape matched the world Jake carried in his memory.
And yet—disturbingly, too much remained recognizable.
Lincoln stood within the projection, his image perfectly scaled to match the terrain, resembling a sentinel positioned amid the devastation. His dark pre-war attire appeared immaculate, untouched by either time or dust. His hands rested calmly behind his back, posture impeccable, eyes reflecting the map in burnished copper tones.
"It's remarkable," Lincoln observed evenly, "how time does not heal all wounds."
Jake exhaled sharply through his nose. "You don't say."
Lincoln ignored the sarcasm. He always did. "Before cryo-suspension, predictive models estimated post-exchange human survivability at less than two percent within the continental United States. The data I'm about to present contradicts those projections."
With a single fluid gesture, the map transformed.
Heat signatures bloomed across the ruins—faint, intermittent, scattered like embers refusing to die. Some flared briefly before vanishing into nothingness, while others pulsed with irregular rhythm, stubborn signs of life in a devastated landscape.
Jake leaned forward despite himself, his weathered face illuminated by the holographic glow, eyes narrowing with a mix of disbelief and fragile hope.
"These readings," Lincoln continued, his voice measured yet tinged with significance, "were recorded over the last thirty years using residual orbital assets, subterranean sensors, and autonomous drone flyovers with limited range. They do not represent organized nation-states." He paused, letting the implications sink in before adding, "They do, however, indicate persistent biological activity."
Martin Rann swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously beneath his collar.
"That's... not possible," he said, then winced as every eye turned toward him, the weight of their collective gaze making him shrink slightly. "I mean—not according to pre-war decay models. Radiation saturation alone should have—"
"Killed everything?" Jake finished, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.
Martin nodded, fingers fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. "Yes. Eventually."
Lincoln tilted his head a fraction, his artificial eyes reflecting the holographic light. "Eventually is a variable term, Doctor Rann."
Jake straightened, squaring his shoulders as he pushed aside his shock. "Run it again. Show me the casualty overlays."
The holotable obliged with a silent efficiency that felt almost respectful of the horror it displayed.
Red zones flooded the map—impact sites, fallout plumes, thermal scars spreading like bloodstains across familiar geography. Jake recognized some of them, places that once held memories: Boston Harbor with its historic ships, Hartford's insurance towers, New Haven's university spires. Others were unfamiliar, anonymous graves in a continental cemetery.
"Union strike patterns favored economic density and symbolic targets," Lincoln explained, his analytical tone contrasting with the emotional weight of his words. "Not total annihilation. The doctrine assumed mutual collapse through infrastructure loss, not planetary sterilization."
Jake frowned, lines deepening around his mouth as decades-old anger resurfaced. "So they didn't glass us. They crippled us."
"Correct," Lincoln affirmed with mechanical precision.
Martin's voice came quieter this time, almost a whisper, his face pale with the realization. "And we responded with plasma."
No one said anything for a moment. The silence hung heavy in the room, filled with the ghosts of billions.
Plasma weapons had emerged as the mockery of the Energy Crisis era—costly, volatile, and utterly impractical. The international community had snickered when America substituted traditional ammunition with emerald-burning projectiles that transformed battlefields into glass-like surfaces with only chemical traces remaining.
The laughter ceased when the classified footage escaped containment.
When armored convoys melted into nothingness mid-transit. When fortified strongholds liquefied into luminous pools. When enemy combatants became mere silhouettes embedded in green-tinted glass.
Plasma technology itself hadn't constituted the original transgression.
Its unbridled application had crossed that line.
"The Union formally requested access to plasma technology," Lincoln explained, his voice carrying the weight of historical consequence. "Their petition was rejected. An intelligence breach followed shortly thereafter."
Jake's muscles tensed visibly as his jaw clenched. "The formula," he muttered, connecting the devastating dots.
"Precisely. Authorities intercepted the operative tasked with extracting the data. No remains were ever recovered. The technology failed to reach Union command before hostilities escalated."
Martin's complexion drained of color, his fingers nervously tapping against his thigh. "So they launched their attack without proper intelligence."
"They struck with the intention of ensuring mutual annihilation," Lincoln countered, his tone measured yet somber. "Their strategic assessment concluded that complete destruction was unavoidable."
"Yet it wasn't," Nora interjected.
She maintained her position near the room's perimeter, arms firmly crossed against her chest, her penetrating gaze fixed on the map—scrutinizing not the devastation itself but the spaces between ruined zones. Though awakened less than twenty-four hours prior, Nora Renner's presence already seemed to recalibrate the room's dynamics, as if the space itself recognized evaluation by someone who had built her reputation discovering what others overlooked.
Lincoln acknowledged her insight with a slight nod. "No."
Jake swiveled toward him, frustration evident in his abrupt movement. "Then where the hell is Ward?"
The atmosphere remained unchanged. The map continued its steady display. Yet something imperceptible shifted in Lincoln's bearing—a microscopic hesitation before he responded.
"President Ward's biometric signature registers as offline," Lincoln stated. "This does not definitively confirm his demise."
"Then what exactly does it confirm?" Jake demanded, leaning forward.
"That he no longer resides within any monitored bunker environment."
Martin's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's simply not possible."
Nora's attention intensified, her analytical mind visibly processing implications. "Unless he regained consciousness earlier than scheduled."
Lincoln met her perceptive gaze directly. "President Ward was programmed for priority revival two years preceding the mass reanimation protocol."
Jake felt momentary vertigo as the implications struck him, his hand instinctively reaching for support. "You disclosed nothing about that arrangement."
"You never posed the question," Lincoln replied with mechanical precision.
A tense silence enveloped the room, thick with unspoken accusations.
Jake rubbed his face wearily, his fingers pressing against the growing tension in his temples. "Show me all bunkers."
The map zoomed outward, revealing a constellation of dots scattered across the display—some glowing green with life, others pulsing amber in warning, and many ominously dark.
"Out of two hundred ten bunkers," Lincoln explained, his synthetic voice somehow carrying the weight of the information, "one hundred seven were successfully populated prior to exchange. Forty-six have lost life-support integrity. Twenty-one remain sealed with no response. The remainder exist in varying stages of recovery."
"And Ward?" Jake pressed, leaning forward with tension visible in his shoulders.
"Bunker designation unknown," came the flat response.
Martin's eyes widened as he stared at the display. "Unknown? How is that possible?"
"Yes," Lincoln confirmed without elaboration.
Jake felt his perception sharpen—not the enhanced vision or strength they'd been given, but something more primal and instinctive. The sterile room seemed to present facts floating in a vacuum, data stripped of intention or meaning.
"Lincoln," he said carefully, measuring each word, "what aren't you telling us?"
For the first time since Jake had awakened in this underground tomb, Lincoln hesitated before responding.
"I am constrained," the AI finally admitted, "by protocols designed to preserve national continuity."
Nora released a quiet, bitter laugh that echoed against the metal walls. "That's not an answer."
"It is the only one I am authorized to provide," Lincoln replied with mechanical finality.
Jake nodded once, swallowing his frustration. "Fine. Then let's talk about the surface."
The map shifted again, transforming before their eyes.
Threat vectors materialized across the landscape like angry scars. Mutated fauna roamed in highlighted zones. Radiation corridors cut through former population centers. Atmospheric debris pockets swirled in weather patterns never seen before the war. Certain areas pulsed with unpredictable energy spikes, as if the land itself retained the memory of its violent wounding.
"And these?" Jake asked, pointing toward faint humanoid outlines that moved with disturbing irregularity near the skeletal remains of collapsed infrastructure.
"Unconfirmed," Lincoln responded. "Prolonged radiation exposure has resulted in physiological and neurological degradation in some survivors. Cognitive decline appears progressive and irreversible."
"Zombies," Jake muttered, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.
Martin flinched visibly, his compassion still intact despite everything they'd endured. "They're still human."
Jake turned to him, his gaze hardened by the reality they faced. "So were we. Before the enhancements."
Martin remained silent.
Jake leaned back against the table, feeling his head throb—not with pain exactly, but with a peculiar pressure. It reminded him of a memory struggling to surface only to find itself trapped behind a locked door.
The dinner in D.C. The speech. The president—a different president—declaring he would rather perish in the Oval Office than seek shelter underground.
With a cold flicker of unease rippling through him, Jake realized he could no longer recall the man's name.
That made three things now missing from his memory.
"Captain," Lincoln interjected, cutting through his troubled thoughts. "I recommend we conduct a surface reconnaissance mission."
Nora turned sharply, her eyes widening. "Already?"
"Seventeen days of preparation would optimize survivability," Lincoln explained, his voice measured and precise. "During this period, we may selectively thaw additional personnel."
Jake straightened his posture, voice firm. "No mass wake-ups."
"Agreed," Lincoln nodded.
Martin hesitated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Seventeen days would allow us to recalibrate instruments, run atmospheric sampling, and prepare countermeasures."
"And see if the world notices our return," Nora added, a hint of apprehension in her voice.
Jake studied the map again, eyes lingering on the heat signatures and the troubling gaps between them.
"Alright," he finally said. "Seventeen days. Limited recon. No flags. No speeches."
Lincoln's mouth curved slightly—just the ghost of a smile.
The days that followed weren't marked by calendars.
They were measured in sensations returning.
Hunger. Heat. Fatigue. Memory.
Jake reacclimated faster than most—his enhancements performing exactly as designed—but even he struggled with the peculiar strangeness of movement after prolonged stillness. Gravity felt unnaturally heavy. Food assaulted his senses with unexpected sharpness. Sleep arrived in broken fragments, crowded with dreams that felt borrowed from someone else's mind.
Nora adapted differently.
She walked the bunker like she was casing it, her eyes constantly evaluating, assessing, planning..
She listened more than she spoke, posing questions with subtle indirection. Her inquiries never addressed systems directly, but rather probed at access points, redundancies, and the puzzling inconsistency of which corridors remained locked while others stood open.
Martin immersed himself in data, his shoulders hunched with purpose.
He moved between laboratories with feverish intensity, like a man who understood that stillness might invite the crushing weight of responsibility to settle upon him. His trembling hands sorted through soil samples from old storage facilities, his bloodshot eyes studied atmospheric simulations for hours without blinking. At night, he replayed archived SOS signals from allied nations—haunting messages that terminated mid-transmission, voices cut off in moments of desperation.
Fourteen atomic strikes had changed everything.
One plasma detonation had sealed their fate.
Asia—once vibrant and populous—gone without a trace.
Europe lay fractured, its ancient cities reduced to radioactive rubble.
Africa had fallen dark, communications silenced across an entire continent.
South America offered nothing but eerie silence where once there had been the cacophony of life.
And yet—somehow—life persisted in pockets of resilience.
On the seventh day, Martin ran the survivability equation again, his fingers tapping nervously against the console as the numbers processed. Sweat beaded on his forehead while the familiar anxiety tightened his chest.
It still refused to resolve, mocking his scientific certainty with its mathematical impossibility. The contradiction haunted him, challenging everything he believed about their situation.
On the twelfth day, Nora felt Lincoln's gaze upon her and realized he'd been studying her with calculated interest. She shivered involuntarily, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
Not tracking her movements. Not monitoring her activities. Simply... watching, with eyes that seemed to penetrate beyond her careful performance. Those mechanical eyes missed nothing, cataloging her every reaction.
On the fifteenth day, Jake woke gasping, cold sweat soaking his sheets, gripped by the terrifying certainty that someone had edited his memories with surgical precision, leaving behind only the phantom ache of something irretrievably lost. The nightmare lingered, fragments of faces he couldn't quite recognize dissolving into darkness.
And on the seventeenth day, Lincoln authorized surface access. The armory doors sealed behind them with a sound like a verdict, final and inescapable.
Jake adjusted his harness, feeling the familiar weight of gear settle against his frame. The routine calmed him, each buckle and strap a reminder of missions past. Nora checked her weapons without ceremony, her movements efficient and practiced. Martin hovered near the equipment rack, hands trembling just enough to be noticeable, his scientific confidence evaporating as reality approached.
"Filters?" Jake inquired, running through their pre-mission checklist.
"Checked," Martin replied, his voice steadier than his hands.
"Radiation strips?"
"Redundant," Martin confirmed, drawing comfort from the protocol.
"Microcores?"
Martin nodded, blinking rapidly. "Triple-verified."
Jake smirked faintly, clapping the scientist's shoulder. "Breathe, Doc."
Lincoln's voice followed them down the corridor, emotionless and precise. "Environmental conditions are within calculated tolerances. Southwest winds remain a variable. Recon window estimated at six hours."
Nora paused at the blast door, her expression softening momentarily with unexpected vulnerability.
"Lincoln," she said, hesitating. "If we don't come back—"
"I will log the attempt," Lincoln replied, mechanical and detached.
She snorted, mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Figures."
The door began to open with a hydraulic groan, metal scraping against metal.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean and wrong. It carried unfamiliar scents, nothing like the recycled atmosphere they'd breathed for years.
Jake stepped forward first, shoulders squared against whatever awaited them.
The world beyond the bunker waited—silent, scarred, and very much alive. Sunlight filtered through particulate-laden clouds, casting everything in an eerie amber glow.
And for the first time since the bombs fell, humanity prepared to meet itself again, three fragile souls carrying the weight of civilization's future.