Kyle Dugger ♂

Sergeant Kyle Dugger adjusted his rifle strap, the air thick with smoke and sweat around City Hall. The once-proud structure had become a desperate safe zone, swarmed by citizens seeking refuge after the CME. Controlled explosions set by firefighters to halt the encroaching wildfires had driven hundreds into the city’s core, a last resort to keep the flames at bay. Tents and makeshift shelters clogged the plaza, voices rising in a chaotic din as tempers flared and supplies ran thin. Kyle wasn’t officially in charge, but the others deferred to him. His calm under pressure and experience in Afghanistan made him a natural leader. Still, the situation was growing dire. Water was rationed, food supplies dwindled, and every hour brought new arrivals hoping for safety that didn’t exist. As Kyle patrolled the edge of the camp, his eyes caught a solitary pigeon cutting through the haze, its flight unusually direct. He stopped, narrowing his gaze. A trained pigeon? Here? Kyle’s pulse quickened. Communication had been wiped out—no radios, no phones, no satellites. If someone still had a homing pigeon, it could mean a line of contact beyond the chaos. He decided to follow it, weaving through abandoned cars and scattered debris, his boots crunching on shattered glass. The pigeon led him toward the artist district, where converted warehouses stood in eerie silence, their vibrant murals now streaked with soot. It perched briefly on a rusting fire escape before vanishing over a rooftop. Kyle climbed cautiously, the creak of metal loud in the quiet. On the rooftop, planters and laundry lines mingled with a makeshift loft of salvaged wood and plastic sheeting. By a coop, a woman in paint-splattered overalls tossed seeds to the pigeons. She glanced over her shoulder at Kyle’s approach, her hazel eyes narrowing—not with fear, but irritation.