The White House was quiet, save for the faint hum of activity in the distance. Johnston walked down the hall, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors. The weight of the morning pressed on him, but he forced himself to focus. Whatever was happening, he needed to be ready.
The Situation Room was a stark contrast to the serene halls. Screens lined the walls, displaying maps, news feeds, and data streams. Advisors and military personnel were already gathered, their faces tense as they murmured to one another. Johnston took his seat at the head of the table, his eyes scanning the room.
"What's the situation?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.
Daniel stepped forward, holding a tablet. "We've received reports from multiple cities—New York, Chicago, Los Angeles. People are… acting erratically. Violent outbreaks, mass hysteria. Hospitals are overwhelmed."
Johnston frowned. "Erratically how?"
Daniel hesitated, exchanging a glance with General Hayes, who stood stiffly by the door. "It's hard to describe, sir. They're not just rioting. They're… attacking each other. Biting, clawing. It's like they've lost all sense of reason."
A chill ran down Johnston's spine. He thought of his dream, of the hollow-eyed figures overrunning the streets. "What's causing it?"
"We don't know yet," Daniel admitted. "The CDC is investigating, but they're just as baffled as we are. It's spreading fast, though. Faster than anything we've seen before."
Johnston leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. "What's being done?"
General Hayes stepped forward. "We've deployed National Guard units to the affected areas, but it's chaos out there. Communication lines are down in some places, and the local authorities are struggling to maintain order."
Johnston nodded, his jaw tightening. "We need to get ahead of this. I want a task force assembled—CDC, FEMA, Homeland Security. Everyone. And I want answers. Now."
The room erupted into action, advisors scrambling to carry out his orders. Johnston stayed seated, his eyes fixed on the screens. The news feeds showed scenes of chaos—crowds running through the streets, buildings on fire, bodies lying motionless on the ground. It was like something out of a nightmare.
But this was real.
Later that afternoon, Johnston found himself back in the residence, his mind still reeling from the briefing. Eleanor was waiting for him, her face pale but composed.
"How bad is it?" she asked quietly.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Bad. Worse than we thought. It's spreading faster than we can contain it."
Eleanor nodded, her expression grim. "What are you going to do?"
"What I have to," he said simply. "But I need you to be ready. If this gets worse… if it reaches us…"
She reached for his hand, her grip firm. "We'll get through this. Together."
Johnston looked at her, his heart aching. He wanted to believe her, but the weight of what was coming felt insurmountable. Still, he forced a smile. "Together."
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Johnston stood on the balcony, staring out at the city. The lights of Washington, D.C., twinkled in the distance, a stark contrast to the darkness creeping in. He could feel it—the calm before the storm.
Eleanor joined him, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. "What are you thinking about?"
He didn't answer right away, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "Everything. Nothing. I just… I can't shake this feeling that we're on the edge of something. Something big."
She leaned against him, her warmth a small comfort. "We'll face it. Whatever it is, we'll face it together."
Johnston nodded, but the unease in his chest didn't fade. He knew what was coming, even if he couldn't put it into words. The world was changing, and there was no going back.