James drove through the cracked roads and decaying remnants of what was once civilization, the skeletal remains of Orlando looming in the distance. The city had taken its fair share of bombs, but unlike some of the other ruins he had passed through, it still stood—mostly. Towers leaned at unnatural angles, their glass long shattered, their steel frames rusted and exposed. Roads had collapsed into sinkholes, some filled with water so dark and deep they looked like bottomless pits.

  But the real problem wasn’t the destruction. It was the swamp.

  Time and war had left the land to rot, rising waters creeping over streets and parking lots, drowning what remained beneath thick, tangled vegetation and miles of stagnant, black water. James pulled his car to a stop at the edge of a half-sunken overpass, the road ahead completely consumed by nature.

  He exhaled through his nose and shut off the engine.

  No way forward by car.

  Stepping out, his boots crunched against loose gravel as he scanned the area. There was movement nearby—people. A small group, maybe five or six, picking their way through the ruins. Travelers.

  Adjusting his gear, James made his way toward them. They noticed him quickly. A man with a scarred face and a shotgun slung across his back turned to meet him, the rest of the group tensing, hands hovering near weapons, eyes scanning him.

  James didn’t reach for his gun.

  "You lost, stranger?" the scarred man asked. His voice was rough, wary but not immediately hostile.

  James shook his head. "Not lost. Just heading the same way." He nodded toward the drowned city. "Figured it might be easier to have company."

  The man studied him, eyes flicking over his gear, his weapons, his stance. A woman with a hunting rifle and a machete strapped to her hip leaned in slightly.

  "You military?" she asked.

  James smirked. "A mercenary."

  Scarface grunted, crossing his arms. "We don’t take in dead weight. You keep up, pull your own weight, and don’t start shit, then fine. But if you’re looking for an easy ride—"

  James tilted his head slightly. "Do I look like someone who needs an easy ride?"

  The group exchanged glances. A moment passed.

  Scarface smirked. "Fair enough."

  The tension eased slightly, and James nodded, falling into step with them.

  They moved toward the ruins, stepping carefully over cracked pavement, half-buried in thick roots and shifting mud. The air was heavy, humid, filled with the constant hum of insects and the distant, eerie calls of something deeper in the swamp.

  James walked in silence, listening as the group talked among themselves—stories of the flooded city, rumors of things that lived beneath the water.

  He just kept walking, eyes set on the city ahead.

  There was still a long way to go.

  The group moved cautiously through the ruins, their boots sinking into the wet, unstable ground. The deeper they went, the more the city had been swallowed by nature. Waterlogged cars jutted out from the muck like half-sunken gravestones, vines wrapped around rusted streetlights, and the skeletal remains of buildings stood as crumbling reminders of the world before.

  James kept his rifle at the ready, eyes scanning the murky water that lapped at the broken pavement. The stench of decay hung thick in the humid air, mixing with the sour scent of stagnant water. Mosquitoes swarmed, their buzzing a constant irritation.

  "Keep your eyes open," Scarface muttered, leading the way with his shotgun in a low ready position. "This part of the city’s bad. Things live out here."

  James didn’t need the warning. He could feel it—the way the air felt too still, the way the trees bent unnaturally along the flooded streets, the way the distant splashes in the water weren’t just the wind. Something was watching.

  They moved in single file along a partially collapsed highway overpass, the concrete cracked and broken, half of it sloping down into the dark water below. The woman with the hunting rifle—Kayla, James had picked up her name from the others—moved just ahead of him, her boots stepping lightly to avoid loose debris.

  Then came the sound. A deep, guttural hiss.

  James snapped his rifle up just as the water erupted.

  A massive shape lunged from the murk, jaws gaping wide, rows of jagged teeth flashing in the dim light. The mutant gator was bigger than any normal alligator, its flesh bloated and covered in thick, scale-like tumors. Its eyes were a milky white, its tail whipping through the water as it surged forward.

  "Move!" Scarface barked, raising his shotgun and firing.

  The blast tore through the gator’s hide, but it barely staggered. It lunged, slamming into one of the travelers—a wiry man named Greg—before he could react. Greg barely had time to scream before the beast clamped down on his torso, dragging him off the concrete and into the depths.

  The water frothed red as bits of the man went everywhere.

  "Shit!" Kayla shouted, firing her rifle.

  James didn’t hesitate. He pivoted, steadying his HK416 and unloading two precise shots into the creature’s skull. The plasteel tipped rounds punched through, sending a spray of dark blood into the air. The gator twitched, its grip loosening on Greg’s now-limp body, before it sank into the depths.

  The group stood frozen, weapons raised, breaths ragged. The only sounds were the distant ripples of the disturbed water and the buzzing of insects.

  Scarface cursed under his breath. "We keep moving."

  No one argued.

  Greg was gone, his body disappearing beneath the surface.

  James exhaled, He had seen worse but damn Florida did not mess around.

  The rest of the trek was uneventful—if he ignored the fact that a massive snake had nearly taken his head off.

  It had happened near the edge of a collapsed bridge, where the water pooled deeper than expected. James had stepped too close to a half-submerged car when the reptile struck. It moved like a shadow, its massive coils wrapped around the husk of an old sedan, waiting for something—anything—to get close enough.

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  James had barely yanked himself back in time, the snake’s jaws snapping shut where his arm had been a fraction of a second earlier. The others had stumbled away, weapons raised, but James hadn’t wasted a bullet. Instead, he had thrown one of his combat knife into its eye, and when the thing thrashed in agony, he had moved on. There was no point in fighting something that could just as easily drag him into the deep and drown him.

  When they finally emerged from the swamp onto an old road, the land became more stable beneath his boots. The pavement was cracked and uneven, but it was a welcome change from the endless sinking mud and the constant tension of something lurking just beneath the surface.

  It was there that James spotted another group waiting for the travelers. The two groups greeted each other with wary familiarity, exchanging supplies and quiet words. James didn’t ask questions.

  Scarface gave him a nod, an acknowledgment of sorts. "You’re not so bad, merc."

  James smirked faintly. "Try not to get eaten before you make it out of here."

  Scarface chuckled, but there was truth to the words. The swamp didn't care who you were—it swallowed everyone the same way.

  With that, James turned and started walking.

  The road south was long and empty.

  Traveling alone was different it allowed him to move quicker but it was also more dangerous. The humidity didn’t help either. The further south he went, the thicker the air became, clinging to him like a second skin. Sweat rolled down his back, dampening his shirt beneath his armor, but he didn’t slow down.

  The landscape shifted as he went. The swamp still crept along the edges of the road, but the ground was still solid, the trees taller, and the signs of pre-war civilization more scattered.

  He passed through old service stations, their signs faded and leaning at odd angles. Convenience stores had long been looted, their shelves empty, but the smell of rot still clung to the interiors. A few buildings had collapsed entirely, their skeletal remains standing like gravestones for a world long gone.

  At night, he found shelter where he could. Sometimes an abandoned vehicle, sometimes the hollowed-out remains of a building. He kept his rifle close, sleeping light, always ready. The nights weren’t safe. Strange noises echoed from the wilderness, some natural, some not. Once, he woke to the sound of something large moving through the trees, its breathing heavy, its footfalls deliberate. He stayed still until the sound faded into the distance.

  Three days.

  It took three days of relentless walking and pushing forward before he finally reached the outskirts of Miami. Once a beacon of wealth and excess, now just another corpse of the old world.

  The city was visible in the distance half-drowned, broken, and burning under the relentless sun. The coast had swallowed entire districts, the ocean creeping further inland, turning neighborhoods into flooded wastelands. The skyline was jagged, a mix of crumbling skyscrapers and makeshift settlements built atop old ruins.

  James exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He still had a long way to go before reaching the Everglades. And even then, who knew how long it would take to find what he was looking for?

  He had no map, no exact coordinates—just the knowledge that MGI was hiding somewhere deep in the swamp, using the drowned ruins and endless wilderness as a shield. He needed intel and Supplies.

  And he needed it fast.

  His eyes swept over the crumbling remains of Miami. Then he saw it.

  A thin column of smoke, rising steadily against the darkening sky. Someone made a careless campfire.

  Perfect.

  James adjusted his gear and moved in.

  The fire burned atop a ruined two-story building, its roof half-collapsed, a crude setup of sandbags and scrap metal forming a makeshift outpost. Around it, figures moved—disciplined, armed, organized. Not just some ragtag gang of scavengers. These men carried themselves like professionals.

  James’ gaze flicked over their gear, noting the familiar insignia stamped onto their body armor.

  MGI’s private security.

  His lips curled into a smile—not his usual light, charming one. No, this was something else entirely. A cold, sharp grin that would strike fear into the devil himself.

  He moved in silence, watching. Studying.

  There were at least seven of them, maybe more inside the building. They weren’t patrolling much, likely feeling safe as who would be here. Complacent. That would be their first mistake and last.

  James waited.

  Patience was key.

  As the sun dipped lower, one of them finally broke away from the group, heading toward the side of the building—probably to take a piss.

  James followed.

  His movements were precise, his footfalls silent against the cracked pavement. The soldier never saw him coming.

  Before the man could react, James struck one fluid motion, wrapping an arm around his throat and cutting off his air. The struggle was brief, a few desperate thrashes, then his body went slack. James eased him down, keeping the noise to a minimum.

  He pulled out a length of cable and bound the man’s wrists, making sure the knots were tight. Then he propped him against a crumbling wall and gave him a quick slap to make sure he wasn’t dead.

  James exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

  He’d question this one soon enough.

  The rest, however…His smile returned, cold and merciless. They wouldn’t be so lucky.

  The first man never saw the knife coming. James drove the blade into his throat, twisting hard. A wet gurgle escaped his lips as blood poured over his hands. He slumped forward, hands twitching as he died in the dirt, a pool of blood forming.

  James ripped the knife free and caught the body before it hit the ground. One down.

  The second turned at the noise, eyes widening. James lunged, driving his boot into the man’s knee, snapping it like a twig earning a sickening crunch. As he fell screaming, James silenced him with a quick, brutal stab to the heart. Two down.

  The next three were by the fire, unaware that death was creeping toward them. James pulled one of the guards' pistols from its holster, leveling it against the back of the nearest skull. A muffled pop, and his head snapped forward, face-first into the flames. The scent of burning flesh filled the air before the others even registered what had happened.

  The fourth spun, reaching for his rifle, but James fired twice—one in the gut, the next between his eyes. He crumpled beside the fire, his body jerking as his nervous system failed.

  The fifth made it a step before James put a round through his throat. He stumbled, clutching at the gushing wound, gargling on his own blood as he collapsed.

  Five down.

  The gunshots had drawn attention. The remaining men scrambled, shouts echoing through the ruined building.

  James moved fast.

  A figure burst from a doorway, rifle raised. James slammed the barrel aside as the trigger pulled, sending bullets into the ceiling. He shoved his knife up beneath the man’s chin, the tip tearing through his skull and ripping off the jaw. Blood and brain matter dribbled down his arm as he yanked the blade free, letting the corpse drop.

  Six down.

  Another rushed him, swinging a combat knife. James sidestepped, catching the man’s wrist and twisting sharply. The snap of breaking bone barely registered before he flipped the knife into his own hand and slammed it into the soldier’s chest.

  Seven down.

  A shotgun blast tore through the air, barely missing his head. He ducked behind a rusted piece of machinery as the shooter pumped another round into the chamber. James yanked a flashbang from the dead guards belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it over the cover.

  A deafening blast. A scream.

  He was on him in seconds. The soldier staggered blindly, hands clutching his ears. James grabbed him by the collar and slammed him face-first into a jagged piece of rebar. The metal punched through the back of his skull, leaving him twitching like a broken marionette.

  Eight down.

  Two more charged from the far side of the rooftop. James raised his HK416 and fired in quick succession. The first took three rounds to the chest and toppled over the edge, hitting the ground below with a sickening crunch.

  The second caught a bullet in the shoulder but kept coming, screaming as he swung a machete. James stepped inside the arc, grabbed his wrist, and wrenched the blade free before burying it in his gut.

  Nine.

  The last one tried to run.

  James leveled his rifle and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet struck the back of his head, exiting in a spray of red mist. He fell face-first onto the concrete, a dark pool forming beneath him.

  Ten.

  James turned, scanning the scene. No movement. No survivors.

  Then a choked gasp.

  He looked down. The one he had stabbed in the chest was still clinging to life, barely.

  James knelt beside him, watching as he tried to speak, blood bubbling from his lips. Then Jame crushed his throat causing a spray of blood to shoot out.

  Eleven.

  James wiped his blade clean and stood.

  Now, it was time for answers.