The buzz of activity at Substation Echo hadn't slowed since the Black Hawks arrived. If anything, it had only intensified. Word spread fast—three military helicopters had flown in out of nowhere, gunned down a horde of infected, and dropped off strangers who weren't part of the military chain of command.
Civilians—farmers, tradesmen, volunteers—gathered cautiously near the southern fence, eyes fixed on the Black Hawks parked in the open clearing.
"They're not ours," a camp guard told one man, adjusting the sling on his rifle.
"What do you mean they're not ours?" the man asked, squinting at the matte-black helicopters. "They've got miniguns and military gear. That's Army hardware."
"Looks like it," the soldier replied. "But they belong to our new partners."
A few of the civilians exchanged glances.
"Partners?" another civilian asked. "You mean the people Villamor went to see?"
"Yeah," the guard nodded. "Overwatch."
