East Coast Protection Directive

Into The Abyss

De: Wendell Sweet

Narrado por: Virtual Voice

The world, as Alex Chen knew it, had fractured beyond repair. The year was a ghost, a relic of a time when governments held sway and infrastructure meant more than shattered concrete and rusted rebar. America was no longer a nation, but a patchwork quilt of territories, each a desperate scramble for survival. In this mosaic of decay, the East Coast Police Department, or ECPD, stood as a thin, fraying shield. Their jurisdiction, a meager few hundred miles of crumbling asphalt and scattered, desperate outposts, felt less like a territory and more like a last stand.

Alex leaned his forehead against the cool, reinforced glass of his patrol vehicle, the shudder of the engine a familiar thrum against his weary bones. Outside, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers clawed at a perpetually bruised sky. Wind, a constant, mournful presence, whistled through the hollowed-out husks of buildings, a haunting symphony of what once was. This was the new reality, the constant, grinding battle against entropy, against the forces that thrived in the vacuum of law and order. It was a fight he waged every day, a quiet war against the encroaching darkness.


The silence within the vehicle was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the crackle of the comms unit, the distant rumble of unseen machinery, or the sharp, sudden crack of a firearm. But for now, there was only the hum of the engine and the sigh of the wind, a deceptive calm before the inevitable storm. Alex traced a crack in the windshield with his finger, a spiderweb of imperfection mirroring the state of the world outside. Each shard seemed to reflect a different fragment of the past, a memory of bustling streets, of clean air, of a future that had been promised but never delivered. He closed his eyes, the image of the city before the Collapse a painful, vivid contrast to the desolation that now stretched before him. It was a constant battle not just against external threats, but against the memories that threatened to drown him, against the ghosts of a world that refused to stay buried.


His patrol vehicle, a beast of burden more than a mere transport, was a testament to their struggle. It was a hulking ECPD truck, its original chassis augmented with layers of welded scrap metal, bolted-on plates of salvaged armor, and a jury-rigged weapon system that jutted menacingly from the roof. Scars of past skirmishes crisscrossed its surface, each dent and gouge a story of a fight won, or perhaps, a lesson learned at a terrible cost. The faded ECPD emblem, plastered crudely onto the side, was no longer a symbol of authority, but a beacon for those who preyed on the weak, a target for the desperate and the predatory. They were a dwindling force in a world that had forgotten the meaning of law, and every mile driven was a gamble, every encounter a potential death sentence.


The silence was broken by a sharp burst of static, followed by a voice, strained and urgent. "Command to all units. We have a 10-57. Repeat, 10-57. Officer Ramos is… compromised. Likely apprehended by the Red Vipers. Repeat, Maya Ramos apprehended."