Gravel crunched under Amo's ruined shoes, a low, reluctant groan from the earth itself as he pushed his squealing cart uphill. Step by step, the chaos of the parking lot sank behind him, and the Gulf spread wide ahead—blue, flat, too calm.
Up here the stink of rot thinned, giving way to brine. Jimmy's voice faded into nonsense behind him.
At the crest, Amo stopped. The cart wheezed to silence.
The sea burned in sunlight. A few white boats sat pinned to the horizon, motionless. The sky—wrongly clean. No clouds. No contrails. Just the pitiless sun.
Then the voice came again.
Not broken static this time. Clear. Cold. Merciless.
"Global Joint Emergency Command, to the government of the United States of North America and remaining military forces—"
It wasn't sound but intrusion, slicing straight into thought. Arguments died mid-shout below. Even Jimmy looked up, dumb, though the voice wasn't from above.
"Your existence constitutes an unacceptable threat to civilization. Under final authority of the Extinction Red Line Accord, the following directive is issued."
Amo didn't move. His hood shadowed his face. Only his wrist twitched—the crude band flashing faintly, like dying nerves.
"Failure to surrender unconditionally within thirty minutes will result in strategic cleansing strikes. Initial targets: New York. Washington. Boston. Atlanta…"
Each name was a death sentence for millions.
"…and the entire state of Florida."
"Countdown commencing: 29 minutes 59 seconds… 58… 57…"
Then—silence.
A silence so heavy it smothered wind and waves. The scavengers below stood frozen, faces twisted in incomprehension and the first taste of terror. Jimmy's cookies spilled into the gravel.
Florida, erased.
Amo exhaled, slow and sour. Looked at his filthy hand, then the band on his wrist.
"Tch." A tiny click of disgust.
Interrupting a man's bottle hunt. Damn them.
His finger found a hidden contact, pressed.
No light. No thunder. Just a faint pop inside the band, like a fuse gone.
The tiny LCD coughed a last line of gibberish—
ERR 0xFFFFFFF: Presence_Erase_Fault (Admin_Override)
—then died for good.
And almost instantly—
The National Military Command Center, buried under the Pentagon, froze. Countdown clocks screamed scarlet across every screen. Officers white-faced. Technicians hammering keys in panic.
Then—blue.
Every screen, every feed, every line of code—seized, drowned in a blinding azure. Fingers froze. Gasps filled the bunker.
Each display bore the same message, stark as a tombstone:
[0xFFFFFFFF] Critical Fault: Existence Erasure Protocol - INITIATION FAILED (Higher-priority directive cannot be overridden)
[Core process cannot be terminated. Suggestion: contact your system administrator (if you can still find Them).]
…
Back on the Florida slope—
Amo shook his hand like he'd swatted a fly. Picked up the plastic bottle, emptied the warm dregs, crushed it, tossed it in the cart.
And walked downhill. Slow. As if nothing had happened. As if the end of the world wasn't his business. Just a scavenger, done for the day.
The cart rattled over glass.
The stink and the heat lingered.
But everything had changed.
Minutes later, deep in his pocket, his ancient flip phone buzzed, rattling off-key. The shattered screen glowed with a number no system should allow—encrypted, unstoppable, priority beyond Earth itself.
Amo stopped, flipped it open, held it to his ear.
A voice spilled out, ragged with fear, bunker echo trailing every word:
"In the name of the United States of America… sir, who are you?"
Amo squinted at the wreckage of Florida in the sun. He smacked his lips, tasted rot, and sighed into the receiver.
"Back in the day? Some folks called me the 'Calamity of War.'"
A beat. His eyes flicked to the aluminum caps in his cart. His tone shifted, practical.
"Now? …Tell me—do you buy bottle caps? Aluminum ones. Five cents each?"