The South PacificBoard

A deep thrumming fills the air. It's the fleet of military-grade helicopters, coming to airlift New Haudenosaunee Confederacy to a better place. An adviser presses something into your hand. A cellphone. “It's them,” he whispers. “The pilots. Thank God.” His face is streaked with tears. He's lost a lot tonight. You all have.

“We're ready,” you say. “Take us away.”

”Roger that,” says the phone. There's a burst of static. No. Not static. Coughing. “We're... coming in.”

The choppers approach. You know what's going to happen before it does. The lead helicopter veers off path, at first by only a little, then in a wild, heedless arc. It collides with the chopper alongside and its blades tear the other aircraft apart. The rest you don't see; you're too busy getting your people to safety. When the noise is over, and the heat, you pick yourselves up. Everywhere is smoke. Fire. And, of course, them. The infected. Gathering, drawn by the noise.

“Where are they?” says your adviser. “Where are the choppers? They're coming! They said they were coming!”

You put your hand on his shoulder. “Not today,” you say. “Not today.”