The Initial[]
It started quietly. The muted sounds of sirens echoed through the humid Miami air, their wails sporadic, confused. Then came the distant screams—shrieks of absolute terror carried on the night breeze from the streets below. The Pluggers, perched high above in their fortified penthouse, listened intently to the police scanner. Officers shouting over one another, dispatchers frantically relaying calls of unknown disturbances, 10-31s (crime in progress), and an alarming number of 10-52s (medical emergencies). A riot? No, something far worse.
The local news broadcasts had not yet caught on, but social media was a wildfire of leaked footage. Instagram Live, Twitter posts, TikTok clips—all showing what mainstream media had yet to confirm. Bodies convulsing in the streets, violent individuals attacking civilians, people foaming at the mouth, biting others with unrelenting aggression. Videos showed police officers attempting to subdue assailants, only to be overwhelmed in seconds. A full-blown urban meltdown was unfolding in real time.
The Government & Military Response[]
the U.S. government moved fast. The Florida National Guard was mobilized by the governor within hours. By nightfall, the CDC was already on the ground in Miami, gathering samples, assessing patient zero, and issuing emergency quarantines. Local hospitals—Jackson Memorial, Mount Sinai, and Kendall Regional—were immediately overrun. ERs became war zones; doctors and nurses, overwhelmed, abandoned standard triage protocols. By midnight, Miami-Dade police set up barricades along major intersections: Brickell Avenue, Biscayne Boulevard, and Flagler Street.
The federal government declared a state of emergency within 12 hours. Miami International Airport (MIA) was shut down—no flights in or out. The Port of Miami was locked down by the U.S. Coast Guard to prevent potential infected individuals from escaping by sea. Martial law was quietly prepared, though not officially declared yet. The economy reacted violently—the Dow Jones plummeted, cryptocurrency crashed, oil prices spiked as panic-buying began.
The Pluggers' Decision: Action, Not Panic[]
Inside their penthouse safehouse, the Pluggers sat in grim silence. Nickolas Apex, Jack, Pedro, John, Archer, James, Juan, Maverick, Cody, and Velasquez—former military, ex-police, survivalists, and streetwise fighters—knew hesitation meant death. They shut off the police scanner, knowing it would only be more of the same: reports of gunfire, units being ambushed, and screams—always the screams.
The mission was set: find and eliminate Driddy. He was responsible for this catastrophe, and they had no illusions that the authorities would bring him to justice in time. They armed themselves to the teeth—M4 carbines, Glock 19s, Remington 870 shotguns, body armor, and tactical gear. Ammo was rationed, supplies packed.
The target’s base of operations was a penthouse in Midtown Miami, overlooking Biscayne Bay. Armed men protected him, likely hired mercenaries—private security groups that operated in legal gray zones. A full frontal assault would be suicide. Instead, they moved methodically, using silenced weapons and coordinated takedowns.
Gunfire erupted. Suppressed bursts of 5.56mm rounds tore through the night air. Bodies dropped one by one—silent deaths in the dark. Driddy’s guards fought back, but the Pluggers were superior in tactics and firepower. Within 15 minutes, the penthouse was cleared.
Nickolas Apex found Driddy cornered, a man now stripped of power, desperate, and terrified. The fight was brutal—no flashy martial arts, no dramatic choreography. Just two men locked in a vicious, primal struggle. Fists cracked against bone, breath ragged, blood smearing across the floor. Driddy fought dirty—eye gouging, biting, anything to survive. But Nick was better, faster, and relentless. A final, crushing blow shattered Driddy’s nose and knocked him to the ground.
The Pluggers dragged him to the window. Below, the streets of Miami were in anarchy. The infected—screaming, wailing, gnawing on the dying—roamed without restraint.
"Feed him to them," Nick ordered.
Driddy screamed, cursed, begged for his life. He kicked, flailed, fought against their grip. "You can't do this! You need me! I CAN FIX THIS!"
They didn’t listen. They threw him down. His body hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. He howled in agony, bones shattered, unable to crawl away. Then the infected swarmed.
The sounds were indescribable. Flesh tearing, bones cracking, blood gurgling from his throat as he shrieked. His screams echoed for minutes until they were abruptly cut off by the gurgling of his last breath.
Escape from Miami[]
With Driddy dead, the mission wasn’t over. Miami was lost. The military was preparing mass containment efforts—possibly even airstrikes. They needed to escape before the city became a kill zone.
They raided Driddy’s armory—ammo, medical supplies, rations, body armor. Then, they moved to secure transportation. A black Chevy Suburban—large enough for the whole team, fast enough to outrun threats. But before they could leave, they had to fuel up.
At a nearby Chevron station off I-95, they encountered resistance. Not just the infected, but desperate survivors. A firefight broke out—short, brutal. The Pluggers took the fuel, hotwired the Suburban, and hit the highway.
- I-95 North was a disaster—completely gridlocked.
- The Dolphin Expressway (836) was impassable.
- They took the Florida Turnpike instead, using backroads where possible.
As they sped north, Miami burned behind them. The distant sound of fighter jets overhead signaled what was coming next—a full military crackdown.
Conclusion[]
The Pluggers didn’t celebrate. There was no victory. Driddy was dead, but the world was far from saved. The virus had already spread beyond Miami. The U.S. government would soon declare nationwide martial law.
What came next was uncertain, but one thing was clear:
Survival was the only mission now.