After evacuating as many civilians as they could, Ricardo's group pressed deeper into the silent streets, moving as a tight unit. The city felt haunted, every shadow a potential threat, every echo a warning. The tension was palpable, each soldier gripping their weapon a little tighter, eyes darting from window to alleyway.
Suddenly, from a narrow alley, a crowd emerged—at least thirty people, their faces set with cold determination. They wore strange vests, bulky and unfamiliar, and their eyes were hard, unflinching. They carried no visible weapons, but their presence radiated danger. Ricardo's team leader raised a fist, signaling everyone to halt. The soldiers froze, forming a defensive line across the street.
The leader stepped forward, voice steady but commanding. "Stop! Surrender peacefully. There's no need for violence. Lay down and cooperate, and no one will get hurt." His words echoed in the empty street, but the protesters did not flinch. They stood their ground, silent and unmoving.
Ricardo, positioned at the rear of the formation, watched the scene unfold from a distance. A chill crept down his spine—a sense of dread he couldn't shake. Something was wrong. The air felt heavy, charged with a darkness he couldn't explain. He scanned the alleyways behind him, uneasy, and caught a glimpse of movement—a shadow slipping between buildings, too quick to identify.
He took a cautious step back, eyes straining to see through the gloom. He turned to alert his leader, but before he could speak, the world erupted in chaos.
A chain of explosions ripped through the street, one after another, a deafening roar that shattered the night. The shockwave hurled Ricardo backward, slamming him into the ground with bone-jarring force. For a moment, everything was a blur—ringing ears, burning lungs, the taste of dust and blood in his mouth.
Ricardo struggled to move, his body numb and heavy. He rolled onto his side, blinking through tears and smoke, and saw the devastation that had been unleashed. Houses were reduced to smoldering ruins, flames licking at the night sky. The street was littered with debris—and with bodies.
He saw legs, torn and twisted, lying just inches from his face. A hand, severed at the wrist, still clutching a rifle. The torso of a comrade, unrecognizable, sprawled across the pavement. Blood pooled in the cracks of the street, mixing with ash and shattered glass. The air was thick with the stench of burning flesh and the metallic tang of fear.
Ricardo's breath came in ragged gasps, panic clawing at his chest. He tried to scream, but only a hoarse whisper escaped his lips. His mind reeled, refusing to accept what his eyes saw. His entire unit—friends, mentors, brothers-in-arms—gone in an instant, their lives snuffed out by a single, merciless act.
He lay there, paralyzed by shock, unable to move or think. The world narrowed to a tunnel of horror, the edges of his vision blurring as he fought to stay conscious. He could hear distant sirens, growing louder, a wailing chorus that seemed to mourn the dead.
Moments later, more GN trucks arrived, their lights flashing, sirens screaming into the night. Soldiers poured out, weapons drawn, scanning the carnage for survivors or threats. They found Ricardo sprawled on the ground, his uniform torn and bloodied, eyes wide with terror.
"Medic! Over here!" someone shouted.
Hands reached for him, gentle but firm, lifting him from the rubble. Ricardo barely registered their words, his mind trapped in the nightmare of what he had witnessed. He stared blankly at the faces around him, unable to speak, unable to process the enormity of his loss.
A medic knelt beside him, checking for injuries, murmuring words of comfort. "You're safe now. You're going to be okay. Stay with me, soldier." But Ricardo could only tremble, his body wracked with silent sobs.
As the night wore on, the GN secured the area, tending to the wounded and gathering the dead. The scale of the attack became clear—a coordinated ambush, executed with ruthless precision. The strange vests worn by the protesters had concealed explosives, turning them into living bombs.
Ricardo was taken to a field hospital, his body battered but alive. His mind, however, remained trapped in the ruins, haunted by the faces of his fallen comrades. The shock would linger, a wound deeper than any physical injury.
In the darkness of that California night, Ricardo Ortiz Rios became a survivor. But survival came at a cost—a burden he would carry for the rest of his life.