Clear Water, Hidden Danger

Chapter 24 – Siege at the Clinic Gate

Gunfire shattered the quiet before we even reached the gate. Bullets slammed into concrete and tore through the fender of the lead truck. Dust rose like smoke in the sunlight.

“Contact!” Neal shouted. “Cover left! Semi only!”

Burks and Hawk dropped behind the flatbed, rifles up. Cruz dragged the med crate down and crouched low, shielding it with her body. I slid behind the wheel arch and peered toward the clinic’s barricade — a wall of sandbags and twisted rebar, manned by uniformed soldiers. They weren’t raiders. They were trained.

Neal’s breath hitched. “These are Air Force. That’s Stafford insignia.”

Another burst of fire cracked the air. Then a voice roared from inside the compound — commanding, unmistakable.

“Sergeant Neal?! Is that you?! Hold your fire! Everyone HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

The echo cut through the chaos like a siren. Neal froze mid-aim. “Prince?” she whispered.

“Affirmative!” The voice again, desperate but clear. “Cease fire! That’s friendly!”

The gunfire died in ripples. Silence fell heavy, broken only by the hiss of cooling barrels.

A figure appeared on the sandbag line — Specialist Nicholas Prince, grime-covered, waving both hands. Behind him, Corporal Jaxon Boro shouldered his rifle, scanning the treeline. Two medics followed — Sarah Bell and Jonas Lee — along with three civilians I recognized instantly. Eddie Morales, Kevin Holt, Lisa Han.

They looked like ghosts that had learned to walk again.

The gate creaked open just far enough for Neal to step through. Prince met her halfway, armor scuffed, face streaked with exhaustion. “Ma’am,” he said, saluting out of habit more than discipline. “We didn’t make it far. We fell back here after the first wave hit.”

Before Neal could answer, a new voice carried across the yard. Deep, sharp, used to being obeyed.

“That’s close enough.”

A tall man in a sand-colored combat uniform stepped from the shadow of the main building, his sidearm low but ready. The gold oak leaves on his chest-plate gleamed faintly. Major Jeremy Jackson, U.S. Air Force.

Flanking him came four officers — Captain Shava Bilew-Jackson, Captain Deacon, Captain Baker, and Captain Feddeler — each in battered fatigues, rifles slung, eyes hard. Behind them, a dozen enlisted men and Airmen covered firing positions along the inner barricade. The whole yard smelled like gunpowder, bleach, and despair.

Neal snapped to parade rest instinctively. “Major Jackson, sir.”

He studied her face for a long beat before nodding once. “Sergeant Neal. Thought your FEMA detachment was lost with the eastern convoy.”

“Most of them were, sir. We pulled back to the Clear Water Plant. Holding there with civilians and remaining guard elements.”

Jackson’s gaze shifted to me. “And you are?”

“Johnson. Security officer at Clear Water. Acting site commander since the pulses started.”

He looked unimpressed. “A civilian in charge of a government treatment facility.”

“Someone had to keep the water running,” I said.

A faint grin tugged at his mouth, humorless. “Fair.”

Captain Shava Bilew-Jackson stepped forward, stethoscope still looped around her neck, fatigue carving lines into her face. “You came from Clear Water? Then you’re sitting on one of our control junctions.”

“Control of what?” I asked.

Her husband answered. “Project ECHO.”

The name hung there, sterile and dangerous.

Cruz frowned. “We found references to that on a case in your records room.”

Jackson nodded slowly. “You weren’t supposed to. Project ECHO was a biocontrol experiment run out of Stafford. Neural-motor synchronization. Combat applications. They used nanochemical carriers dispersed through municipal water systems for testing. The Clear Water Plant was our filtration benchmark.”

Burks cursed under his breath. “You’re saying you poisoned the water?”

“Not intentionally,” Captain Deacon cut in. “The compounds were inert until the pulse events. We were calibrating frequency emitters to stimulate regenerative nerve response. Someone hijacked the system frequency.”

Cruz frowned. “Then why haven’t there been any pulses for almost forty hours? It’s gone quiet.”

Captain Deacon exchanged a look with Shava before answering.
“They don’t need it anymore.”

Jackson’s expression darkened. “The transmitters were designed to trigger motor synchronization in exposed subjects. The pulses kept their neural networks aligned — kept them dependent on the signal.”

Shava picked up where he stopped. “But adaptation happened faster than we calculated. The Zerkers are now sustaining their own oscillations. They’ve learned the frequency. They don’t need the pulse to wake anymore — they’re always on.”

Cruz stared at her. “So the silence—”

“—means the system doesn’t have to call them,” Jackson said. “They’ve already answered.”

The air went still. Even the humming in the floor seemed to pull back, listening.

Prince broke the silence. “Sir, we’ve got to tell them about the south wells.”

Jackson exhaled. “Show them.”

Captain Baker unfolded a map on a crate. A red line linked Stafford AFB, NorthStar Clinic, and Clear Water. Connecting them below were the South Well Access Tunnels — marked in thick ink.

My stomach went cold. I’d driven past that well every shift. No wonder there wasn’t an RFID tag on it like the others. It was harboring secrets.

“These conduits run under the Platte River,” Baker explained. “They carry both water and signal bandwidth. Stafford was supposed to shut them down after the first anomaly. They didn’t.”

I pointed at the marker labeled Well House #27. “That’s on our south field.”

Jackson’s gaze sharpened. “Then you’re sitting on ECHO’s core transmitter.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“Meaning,” Shava said, “whatever started this — whatever’s still sending those pulses — is right beneath your plant.”

The words landed like weight. Hawk looked away, muttering something about burying dynamite next to the fuse box.

Neal crossed her arms. “So what now? You’re running low on fuel, power, and men. We’ve got water, perimeter, and manpower but no link to Stafford. We need each other.”

Jackson nodded, the officer mask slipping for a moment into something weary but pragmatic. “Agreed. We’ll establish a comm link. Two days, we can re-route power through the grid relays. You keep the water flowing, we’ll keep the wounded alive.”

Captain Feddeler added, “We can send a convoy next week. Ammunition, medical. Trade for diesel.”

I extended my hand. “Then it’s a deal.”

Jackson clasped it firmly. “Welcome to the war, Mr. Johnson.”

We spent the next hour reinforcing the gate and checking the wounded. The surviving enlisted men worked in silence, precise, worn to the bone. Cruz and Shava Bilew-Jackson moved from cot to cot, trading notes like surgeons in a collapsing hospital. Prince and Boro helped Hawk reset trip mines along the north fence. The three civilians sat under the awning, eating ration bars and staring at the dirt.

When we finally pulled out, the clinic looked less like a bunker and more like a foothold.

Jackson handed me a sealed data drive. “Everything you need to understand what we started. Don’t open it until you’re ready to stop sleeping.”

I slipped it into my vest. “You’ll get comms from us within forty-eight hours. You’ll know when we’re on channel.”

He gave a curt nod. “Good hunting.”

The gate closed behind us with a deep metallic clang. For a moment the world was quiet again — too quiet.

Cruz climbed into the passenger seat, staring at the data drive. “So it’s all been us. Not nature. Not infection.”

I started the engine. “Yeah,” I said. “Looks like mankind did what it does best.”

As we rolled back toward the Clear Water Plant, the hum under the road returned — deeper this time, pulsing like a heartbeat buried in steel. And for the first time, I didn’t wonder what it was.

I wondered who was still listening.