Chapter 1: Tsunami at Dawn

Midsummer in Boston. The air is so thick you can practically drink it, the kind of humid July heat that makes New Englanders sweat through their Red Sox tees before breakfast.

Over nine thousand stone soldiers in the crypt beneath Gettysburg suddenly open their eyes, ancient marble eyelids cracking in the sticky dark.

The air hangs heavy, pressing down like a wet wool blanket—the sort of summer heatwave that makes your shirt stick to your back before you even grab your morning coffee. Then, out of nowhere—

"Battle!" The word rings out, not just heard but felt, like a warning shot fired over the rooftops.

A surge of dread splits the clouds, thunder rumbling low and mean.

You could almost hear the echo rolling through the land, as if the very bones of America were rattling awake—Gettysburg ghosts stirring in the earth.

1

I jolt upright in bed, gasping for air, and snatch my phone off the nightstand: 8:30 a.m. blinks back at me in blue digits.

Sunlight slices through the blinds, striping my messy sheets like a barcode across my bed. My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it might punch a hole right through my ribs.

Was I dreaming?

That shout of "battle" made every hair on my body stand on end, like someone just pointed a gun at me in my own bedroom.

Even now, I’m still shaking.

My breath comes in ragged bursts as I try to calm down, palms clammy against the cotton of my pajama pants. I can almost feel the ghost of that voice echoing in my bones, cold and insistent.

"Ding dong," "ding dong," "ding dong ding dong."

My phone buzzes with a flurry of texts. I check—what’s this? Flood warning? Hurricane alert? It’s a hurricane-level red alert for Boston—something no one here ever expects.

My group chats are blowing up. Family, friends, even the city’s emergency alert system—it’s all red banners and warning emojis, the kind you hope you’ll never see outside a drill.

While I’m still wondering if the messages are real, the whole city erupts with blaring alarm sirens.

The sound cuts through the early morning hush, a shrill wail that drowns out birdsong and traffic alike. My heart sinks. This isn’t a test.

"Damn, it’s real!"

No time to grab anything, I dash outside. After just a few steps, I freeze—so do my neighbors who rushed out with me.

We’re all in our pajamas or half-dressed, clutching phones, staring at each other in disbelief. The air smells of dew and panic.

"What... what is this?"

"Is this a freaking tsunami?"

Everyone looks hollowed out, only able to mutter with vacant eyes.

I stare at the shadow on the horizon.

How high is this tsunami? A thousand feet? Ten thousand?

It’s like something out of a nightmare—an impossible wall of water, so massive it swallows the morning sun.