Shiro Academy perimeter, Tilden Isle, Free Pacific States
The sunrise was beautiful, Prospero thought. It was a surprising thought, one that he paused at immediately. Since he had been assigned one of the Kandarin Federation’s handful of slots at the prestigious Shiro Academy, the dark elven cadet had grown resentful of the glaring, hateful gaze of the midday tropical sun. Eyes accustomed to the nether darkness of the underworld suffered greatly under such stress, and by day he was forced to wear thick sunglasses that only partially alleviated the stress - when he went out by day at all. But the sunrise, he had to admit, was beautiful. Greens and purples and pinks seeped gently in the eastern sky, cast by a solar disk still obscured by Tilden’s mountainous heart. The ground was still as dark as night, but the sky promised as bright a day as ever.
He turned his eyes from the sky to the earth, where they belonged. His shift at the perimeter was almost done. He had been drafted into the Academy’s defense, like everyone with the ability and training. No, he corrected himself- like everybody. Most just weren’t required to stand behind concertina wire with a gun.
“Albaniri.” There was a voice behind him. “You’re relieved.” A young man in FPSian army fatigues stood there. The soldier had obviously not been a cadet; rather, he was clearly one of the myriad security personnel who were on the Academy grounds. Perhaps he had been accompanying some VIP, or he was a survivor of the evacuation of the navy base. Perhaps he was one of the survivors of mauled units who had trickled in. Those were all too common a sight. Prospero nodded to him, and began walking back down the perimeter toward the looming sillhouettes of the Academy proper.
It was then that he saw it, out of the corner of his eye. A flicker of motion could be seen past the concertina wire, behind the earthen berms and ditches that had been only partially completed during the early outbreaks. He cleared his throat and pointed; the FPSian soldier who had replaced him merely shrugged. Prospero remembered then that not all were so gifted at night-vision. He focused more closely. Three figures walked at a brisk pace out of the blackened buildings of the dead city beyond the Academy’s grounds.
They walked upright, focused, not staggering. That was important - and it meant that time was of the essence. Prospero unclipped a small radio from his belt and, as quickly as he could draw breath, barked into it: “Command, we have three sightings in Sector 44. Probable Type One. Repeat, three sightings, Type One. Confirm.”
Ten, maybe fifteen seconds passed, and then the perimeter burst into light. No less than a dozen spotlights turned on, some based on watchtowers, some on the corrugated walls that had only begun when the initial outbreaks forced construction to a halt. They combed the area swiftly and mercilessly, finally settling on the three figures that Prospero had spotted. Sure enough, the signs were there - blood streaming across faces, ragged hands, a walk little short of a run.
As rifle fire crackled behind him, Prospero turned and walked wearily back towards the Academy. There was little time for rest and tomorrow would be another night, but he knew full well that he would go insane without something else to do.