He sighed and reached for another cigarette, jamming it between his lips as he fiddled with an old radio. Behind him an automatic door screeched open, and Overton spun in his chair to see the lean frame of Corporal Chad Bouma slide through. The young Marine grinned, showing every one of his crooked teeth.

“Got the generator to work,” he said, his gaunt face beaming with pride.

“Excellent work, Bouma. It only took you two hours,” Overton replied sarcastically.

They had been separated from the rest of his team for over twenty-four hours, losing contact minutes after the three of them entered the facility two hundred feet underground and the blast doors had sealed them in. What was meant to be a quick recon mission to retrieve a fifty-year-old disc had turned into a boring slumber party with two of his most inexperienced men.

A chirp from the radio startled Overton, and he returned his attention to the hunk of metal in front of him. He fumbled with a cord, slipping the head into the jack and the bud into his left ear. With the flip of a switch, the radio blared to life. The sound of voices was eerie, especially after being in the dark for so long. But that wasn’t the only odd thing. Overton hadn’t heard anyone use an analog radio for years, which meant whatever had happened outside had knocked out more than just the internet—it had knocked out modern communications. The thought sent a shudder down his spine.

He exhaled the fear in a cloud of smoke and watched Finley and Bouma anxiously crowd around him. The outline of a monitor covered in cobwebs behind them caught his eye. He studied the plastic box it was connected to and concluded it was an ancient computer, the same kind he had learned to type on as a kid.

“See if you can get that thing working, Bouma. Maybe you can patch it through using a hardened line,” he said pointing with one of his muscular arms.

Bouma blinked several times and strolled over to the computer, tilting his head to examine the oversized, archaic box.

Overton popped in the other earbud and compressed his eyebrows, straining to listen. The first few channels yielded more foggy voices and the crackle of static, but as he scanned through them one voice stood out, almost crystal clear. And judging by the jargon, the man sounded military.

“What’s the word, sir?” Finley asked.

“Stand by, Finley. I’m still trying to make sense of things.”

“Recorded at 0500. The Russians reported the sky started changing colors before contact was lost with Moscow . . .”

“Are you hearing anything about the West Coast?” Finley asked.

Overton shook his head and held up his right hand, balling it into a fist. The action prompted Finley to scoot back to his own chair. He knew exactly how much Overton would tolerate before he brought the hammer down.

“Finley, get me a cup of that piss-cold coffee,” Overton snarled between transmissions.