"Order Above All"

Posted on Tue Apr 22nd, 2025 @ 6:16am by Leader Victor Rourke

854 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Steven's Point
Location: Stevens Point
Timeline: September 28th 2010

The sound of boots echoed through the abandoned municipal building like a metronome ticking toward judgment. Colonel Victor Rourke walked with purpose, his gloved hands behind his back, shoulders squared, chin lifted in permanent defiance of the decaying world outside. Dust clung to the corners of the ceiling like cobwebs, but the floors were swept clean—just as he liked it. Order. Discipline. A controlled environment, even in hell.

Two militia soldiers snapped to attention as he passed through the checkpoint. Young. Nervous. Barely old enough to shave. They didn’t speak—just nodded, rifles clenched too tightly in trembling hands. Rourke said nothing. Fear was better than loyalty. Loyalty could waver. Fear kept people in line.

He stepped into what had once been the city council chamber. Now it was a war room. Maps, scavenged from libraries and gas stations, lined the walls with marks and pins detailing patrol routes, known undead clusters, and resource caches. A chalkboard listed names of known dissenters—some crossed out, some circled in red.

In the center of the room, four of his officers stood around a table. Men he’d handpicked. Veterans, mercenaries, and a few savages with just enough brains to follow orders.

“Report,” Rourke said, voice gravelly from decades of shouting over engines, gunfire, and chaos.

Captain Milo Torres, a former Marine with a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, stepped forward. “Sector B is clear. We ran into a group of squatters near the east rail yard. Claimed they were just passing through.”

Rourke raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“They’re not passing through anymore.”

A few chuckled. Rourke didn’t. “How many?”

“Seven. Two women, four men, one kid.”

He paused. Rourke caught it. “Spit it out, Torres.”

“One of the women had a press ID. From Chicago. She said her name was Hannah.”

The name hit like a brick to the chest, but Rourke’s face didn’t change. Not a blink. Not a twitch. “And what happened to her?”

Torres looked away. “She tried to negotiate. Said she had information about military safe zones. We didn’t believe her. She—uh—she didn’t make it.”

Silence dropped like a stone in the room. Rourke walked to the edge of the table, hands still clasped behind his back. He stared down at the map, eyes fixed on the rail yard.

“Did she say the last name?”

“No, sir. Just Hannah.”

He nodded. “Then it wasn’t her.”

“Sir, she was—”

“It. Wasn’t. Her.” Rourke’s voice dropped into a cold rasp. “If she were my daughter, she wouldn’t have needed to negotiate. She’d have known better.”
Torres nodded, stiff and awkward. “Yes, sir.”

Rourke exhaled slowly, the rage simmering low in his gut. He wasn’t about to let ghosts disrupt the chain of command. If Hannah was alive, she’d know better than to approach his men like a lamb to slaughter. And if she was dead...well, the world had no place for idealists anymore.
“Move on,” he said. “What about the refinery?”

Lieutenant Kelm, a bald ex-biker with an eye patch and a hatred for authority—except Rourke’s—spoke up. “Running low on diesel. We need another tanker shipment from the northern camps. Got word raiders are hitting the I-39 again. We’ll need to escort the convoy.”

Rourke nodded. “Send Roth’s squad. Tell them to shoot first. No warnings.”

Kelm grinned. “My kind of diplomacy.”

Rourke turned toward the window and looked out at his city. Steven’s Point. What had once been a quiet Midwestern town was now a fortress. Walls constructed from overturned school buses and salvaged concrete barricades. Watchtowers. Searchlights. Roaming patrols in salvaged Humvees and pickup trucks mounted with machine guns. It was his now. He had turned chaos into structure, and fear into control.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Rourke said without turning.

A young runner, barely fifteen, stepped in. His clothes were clean. His boots polished. Rourke remembered his name—Eddie. Smart kid. Knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“Sir, one of the work crews found something. In the sewers near Sector D.”

“What kind of something?”

“They said…a message. Painted on the wall. Said, ‘The city will burn. The dead are not your army.’”

Silence.

Rourke turned slowly. “Graffiti?”

“Yes, sir. Big. Fresh. Done with red paint. Looked like blood.”

The room was quiet.

“Show it to the public,” Rourke ordered. “Let them see the cowardice of whoever wrote it. Then paint over it. Black. No slogans. No hope. Just black.”

Eddie nodded and scurried out.

Rourke looked back out the window. Somewhere out there, someone still believed rebellion was possible. That his grip could be broken. That the dead were coming for him.

Let them come.

Let them bring their slogans and dreams and torches. He had steel. He had soldiers. He had fear.

And if his own daughter was out there, waving some half-baked flag of revolution?

He’d deal with her the same way he dealt with everyone else.
With fire.

And order.

Above all.

 

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