Chapter 6 — "Denial Event"
March 24–26, 2025 — 158 days before Day One
A Shared Thread through back channels:
A screenshot.
Four words circled in red.
WILDFIRE / POST-MORTEM ACTIVITY.
It appears.
It spreads.
It vanishes.
The denial lasts longer than the truth ever does.
Grace — CDC Secure Wing (02:17 a.m.)Grace saw the leak thirty seconds after it hit.
Not because she was watching social media—but because the secure internal channel froze.
That never happened.
Monitors stuttered. A warning ping rolled across the lab. Access briefly throttled, then restored.
Candace was already moving.
"Don't open anything," she said sharply. "Hands off keyboards."
Grace's phone buzzed anyway.
A screenshot.
Black background. White text. Internal formatting she recognized instantly.
WILDFIRE — POST-MORTEM ACTIVITY CONFIRMED IN MULTIPLE STATES
DO NOT RELEASE — CONTAINMENT LANGUAGE ATTACHED
Grace's breath caught.
"This wasn't scraped," she said. "This was exported."
Edwin Jenner stepped into the room like a man who hadn't slept since the word Wildfire existed.
"How far?" he asked.
Candace checked a second screen. "Twitter mirrors. Reddit. Discord servers. TikTok reposts."
Grace looked up at Edwin. "Someone wanted this seen."
Edwin's jaw tightened. "Or someone wanted to justify what comes next."
Grace felt the truth land in her bones.
"This leak wasn't a mistake," she said. "It was a pressure release."
Edwin didn't deny it.
Instead, he said the sentence Grace would never forget:
"Prepare the denial statement."
Edwin — CDC Press Office (Dawn)Edwin stood behind glass and microphones and watched the words erase reality.
"There is no evidence of sustained transmission," the spokesperson said smoothly. "Reports circulating online are either misinterpreted internal drafts or deliberate misinformation."
Edwin felt sick.
He'd spent his life believing science was a shield.
Now it was being used as cover.
Behind him, a second screen showed hospital feeds lighting up—lockdown drills triggered nationwide.
Except they weren't drills anymore.
They were rehearsals without an audience.
Maddie — ER, Sumterville Regional (09:42 a.m.)The announcement came over the intercom mid-shift.
"Lockdown drill in effect. Please remain calm."
Maddie's hands froze around a syringe.
Drill.
She looked around the ER.
Security guards moved into place. Doors sealed. Phones restricted.
This wasn't a drill.
A code blue was called three minutes later.
The patient was already gone when Maddie reached the room.
Flatline. Time of death called.
Then—
The man's fingers twitched.
A nurse laughed nervously. "Post-mortem reflex."
Then the man sat up.
Not fast.
Not violent.
Just… wrong.
Eyes unfocused. Jaw slack. A wet sound in his throat like breath trying to remember itself.
Someone screamed.
Maddie backed into the wall as security rushed in—not with defibrillators, but with batons.
The man fell.
Didn't get up again.
No one spoke for a long time.
Then the head nurse whispered, "Nobody says a word."
Maddie walked into the bathroom and threw up.
Hal — Faculty Lounge (Late Morning)The screenshot made it to teachers' phones before administration could stop it.
Hal watched the room shift.
Some laughed it off.
Some whispered.
One teacher cried quietly into her coffee.
And then Sandy walked in and shut the door.
"This is a lockdown drill day," Sandy said. "And I don't want panic."
A hand shot up. "Is it real?"
Sandy's eyes swept the room.
"Yes," she said.
The room went silent.
"And," Sandy continued, "panic won't help the kids. So you will follow protocol, and you will not speculate."
Hal caught her eye.
She gave him the smallest shake of her head.
Not yet.
Eli — Music Room (After School)Eli saw the screenshot and didn't react.
That scared him more than panic would've.
He called the inner circle instead.
No group texts. No phones.
In person.
"Lock everything," Eli said quietly. "No posting. No warning parents."
Marcus swallowed. "They already know."
"They know something," Eli said. "Not everything."
Gavin ran a hand through his hair. "People are going to freak."
"Yes," Eli said. "Eventually."
Maddie sat down hard. "I saw it move."
Silence.
Hal closed his eyes.
Eli nodded once. "That's why we don't spread this. Because once it's real to them, they'll demand answers we don't have."
Ridge leaned forward. "So what do we do?"
Eli looked at the list in his head.
"We tighten," he said. "We protect kids. We prepare exits. We keep our heads."
Sandy spoke last. "They'll send eyes now."
Eli nodded. "I know."
That was when his phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
STOP DIGGING OR YOU'LL GET PEOPLE KILLED.
Eli didn't show anyone.
He deleted it.
Then wrote the number down from memory.
Rick — King County, Georgia (Evening)Rick watched the denial live.
He felt the lie before he understood it.
Same cadence. Same phrasing. Same tone he'd heard in another life.
"No evidence of sustained transmission."
His chest tightened.
He remembered faces.
A farm.
A prison.
A man who held the line.
The name surfaced like a ghost:
Eli Miller.
Rick didn't know how he knew it.
He only knew it mattered.
That night, Rick sent a message from a burner phone he didn't remember buying.
You don't know me.
But I think we've stood on the same ground.
If you're still holding the line—don't do it alone.
He hesitated.
Then added:
—Rick.
Madison & Travis — Los Angeles (Night)Madison didn't watch the news.
She watched behavior.
Costco lines doubled.
Pharmacies ran dry of anxiety meds.
Parents whispered instead of joked.
She filled carts. Not hoarding. Strategic.
Water. Protein. First aid.
Travis prepped quietly too.
He called Liza.
"Pack a bag," he said. "For Chris."
Liza scoffed. "You're overreacting."
"Please," Travis said. "Just trust me."
She hesitated. "Why?"
Travis swallowed. "Because I didn't last time."
Later that night, Travis's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
You remember what happens when you hesitate.
This time, choose faster.
Travis stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Madison watched his face change.
"Who was that?" she asked.
Travis shook his head. "Nobody."
They both knew that was a lie.
Deacon — Highway Outside RenoDeacon heard the leak on a diner TV.
Watched it get dismissed thirty seconds later.
He laughed once. Bitter.
"Bullshit," he muttered.
He pulled over and checked his cargo manifest.
Same prefix.
WF-.
He thought about Merle. About Daryl. About the kid counting bottle caps.
About who he was helping.
For the first time, Deacon didn't start the engine right away.
Joel — Texas BorderJoel shut the radio off halfway through the denial.
Tommy sat across from him at the table.
"They're lying," Tommy said.
Joel nodded. "Yeah."
Tommy leaned forward. "So what do we do?"
Joel thought of Sarah—felt the shape of her absence like an old bruise.
"We get ready," Joel said. "Quietly."
Daryl — Backlot CampfireMerle waved his phone. "Government says it's fake."
Daryl stared into the fire.
The kid—Evan—sat close, leaning against his side.
"Is it fake?" Evan asked.
Daryl didn't answer right away.
"No," he said finally. "But they don't wanna say what it is yet."
Evan nodded like that made sense.
Merle snorted. "World's full of liars."
Daryl tightened his arm around the kid.
He'd lived through enough lies already.
The screenshot disappeared.
The denial stayed.
Hospitals locked their doors.
Schools drilled harder.
Governments spoke softer.
And in Sumterville, Eli Miller stood in his garage staring at a phone that hadn't buzzed again.
Because the message wasn't a warning.
It was a test.
And somewhere—miles away—a sheriff named Rick Grimes had just reached back across a lifetime and found him.