Published at 16th of December 2025 8:23 am

Chapter 783: The Walls of the Future

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The wind at the northern edge of Delaware was vicious, knife-cold, metallic, full of the smell of cut earth and diesel.

Roosevelt sat in the back of the armored staff car, propped up on trembling arms, watching as construction crews swarmed across the frozen landscape like ants building a citadel for a dying queen.

Searchlights cut through the snow. Steel scaffolding groaned. Tracks clattered as convoys pushed through mud that had turned to ice. The "enclave," they still refused to call it that officially, was growing, day by day, into something massive enough to swallow entire counties.

Rows of prefabricated bunkers. Mass housing blocks. Fuel depots under construction. Reinforced silos meant for grain, then quietly reclassified for "strategic material storage." Rail lines redirected. High-tension grids rising like skeletal spires.

An entire parallel America being welded together in secret.

Roosevelt drew a shuddering breath. His lungs felt heavier than the frostbitten air.

"This isn’t fast enough," he rasped.

Behind him stood the only men he still trusted, General Lansing, Treasury Secretary Horter, and his closest aide, Markham. Three men who had not tried to betray him. Or at least, not yet.

"Sir," Lansing said carefully, "we’ve accelerated production twice already. The workforce is at maximum capacity. We’re pulling crews and materials from five states."

Roosevelt’s jaw tightened.

"Not fast enough," he repeated, as if the words themselves were a command spell that could bend reality.

Horter cleared his throat, glancing across the valley where cranes loomed like frozen mechanical storks.

"The budget for this quarter..."

"Damn the budget," Roosevelt snapped, voice ragged. "Print whatever we must. Strip the treasury if we have to. There won’t be a dollar left worth saving if we lose this timeline."

His breath came short. He pressed a hand to his chest; the other seized the railing hard enough to whiten the knuckles.

Markham shot Lansing a fearful look. Lansing gave the slightest shake of his head. Do nothing, don’t react, don’t panic the President.

Roosevelt’s face twisted with something like pain... or fear.

"Look at it," he whispered. "Look at what’s left of our future. Steel and concrete. Walls and shelters. This is all we have. The rest of the country will burn, but this, this must survive."

Snow blew sideways, stinging every exposed bit of skin. Yet Roosevelt did not shiver. His stillness was worse than trembling.

"This will be America," he murmured. "The real America. The seed. The flame."

He swallowed, his breath catching in the back of his throat. "The Germans won’t take this from us... not this."

Lansing stepped forward, boots crunching against the newly laid gravel.

"Mr. President... the people working here, they know something is happening. They don’t know what, but they can feel it. Morale is... strained."

Roosevelt slowly turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, the whites turning yellow with sickness he refused to acknowledge.

"Then they’ll work faster," he said.

Horter tried again, voice gentler.

"Sir... even if the enclave becomes operational in time, we must consider the rest of the country. The shortages are becoming impossible to hide. Governors are growing desperate."

"Let them," Roosevelt said. "Let them scream. Let them starve if they must."

His tone was ice. "Better they starve than secede."

Markham stepped close, lowering his voice.

"Sir... if unrest breaks out again—"

"It will," Roosevelt interrupted. "And when it does, the Army will crush it again. Harder. Faster. This time we will not hesitate."

His fingers twitched. He pulled a small vial from his coat, heart medication, and Markham instinctively moved as if to assist.

Roosevelt waved him off with an almost feral growl.

"I can manage."

But his hand shook so violently that the pills nearly spilled. Lansing pretended not to notice out of pity, or fear.

Roosevelt swallowed them dry and exhaled shakily.

Below, the roar of machinery continued. Workers hammered steel into place, unaware of the magnitude of the storm building overhead, not in the snow, but in politics, in the war, in the very bones of the republic.

Markham finally spoke again.

"There are rumors in Congress, sir."

"Of course there are," Roosevelt said. "They whisper like frightened schoolchildren in the dark."

"Rumors that you’re... building a partition."

Roosevelt’s jaw flexed. A shadow crossed his face, and for a moment the man looked twenty years older.

"I am not building a partition," he said. "I am building an ark."

The others exchanged uneasy glances. Lansing cleared his throat.

"And when the rest of the country realizes this... ark will not fit all of them?"

Roosevelt’s reply was hollow.

"Then they will drown."

A gust of icy wind hit him then, and he began coughing violently. When he straightened his back again, there was blood at the corner of his mouth. Horter stared, horrified.

"Sir... you need medical attention."

Roosevelt wiped it away with the back of his glove like brushing mud from a boot.

"No," he whispered. "I need this finished."

He stared down at the valley, at the scaffolds, the walls, the lights burning through the snowstorm. His voice trembled, not with sickness, but with urgency bordering on mania.

"I will not die before this is built. I will not leave this country to its fate. If the Union must collapse... then this enclave will be its heir."

His breath fogged the air like smoke from a dying engine.

"Everything depends on this. Everything."

Behind him, Lansing quietly slipped his hands behind his back to hide the tremor in them.

Because for the first time, he understood the truth:

Roosevelt wasn’t afraid of Germany.

He was afraid of time.

And he was losing that war faster than any battlefield in Europe or the Pacific.

---

Far across the Atlantic, beneath the calm glow of a Tyrolean dawn, Bruno von Zehntner stood in his study with a cigarette between his fingers.

Outside, the Alps were serene, untouched by the chaos devouring weaker nations.

Inside, his palace buzzed with quiet activity.

An intelligence officer stood before him, pale with nerves. The folder in his hands was thick with photographs, diagrams, and decrypted transmissions.

Bruno flicked ash into the tray and finally spoke.

"Report."

The officer swallowed.

"Sir... American construction in the Northeastern Corridor has accelerated beyond previous estimates. They’ve begun full-scale fortification. Bunkers. Fuel reserves. Rail consolidation. Hard infrastructure."

Bruno raised a brow.

"A fortress?"

"A... sanctuary, sir. They call it ’Continuity District Number One’ in internal documents. Our analysts believe Roosevelt is preparing for the collapse of the wider Union."

Bruno took the folder, and opened it. He studied the photographs one by one in long and silent contemplation.

Huge reinforced bunkers. Military-style grain silos disguised as "agricultural storage." Rail junctions welded into new patterns. New housing blocks built in isolated valleys.

His lips curled upward, amused, not surprised.

"So," he murmured, "the fat old fox has finally admitted his house is burning."

The officer hesitated.

"There’s more, sir. His health is failing rapidly. Our doctors estimate he has less than a year."

"Hmm."

Bruno exhaled a thin stream of smoke. "A dying man building a future he will never see. How poetic."

He turned a page.

"Ah," Bruno said softly, "and here we are. The labor shifts. The steel shortages. The fuel rationing. Production collapse in the Midwest."

He tapped the photo of one of the bunkers with his finger.

"This is not a sanctuary," he said. "It is a mausoleum."

The officer blinked.

"A... mausoleum, sir?"

Bruno closed the folder gently.

"Roosevelt is building a tomb for the idea of America. A shell where a dying nation can crawl into the dark and pretend it still breathes."

He set the folder aside.

"It will not save them."

The officer stood stiff, unsure if he should speak further.

Bruno flicked his cigarette into the tray and leaned back in his leather chair, the firelight reflecting off his eyes.

"Do they know?" Bruno asked. "The governors? The senators? The people?"

"Our analysts believe most suspect something is wrong. But Roosevelt controls the networks. The narrative will hold a little longer."

Bruno smirked.

"Not long enough."

He rose from his chair.

Walked to the window.

The Alps stretched out before him, eternal, unmoved by human folly.

"You see," he said quietly, "Roosevelt thinks he is buying time. But time is the one thing neither of us possesses."

A beat.

"He is dying. And America is dying with him."

The officer’s voice trembled.

"What shall we do, sir?"

Bruno turned, eyes sharp as blades.

"Nothing."

The officer stared.

"Nothing, sir?"

"Let them build," Bruno said. "Let them pour their strength into that enclave. Let them strip their armies, their factories, their states."

He walked past the officer and extinguished the last ember of his cigarette.

"And when the edifice is complete, when the nation lies exhausted and hollowed out, when Roosevelt finally collapses and the Union fractures..."

He allowed himself a small, cold smile.

"...then the walls of his enclave will become the walls of his tomb."

He picked up the intelligence folder again.

"Inform the General Staff. We stay the course. No interference."

The officer saluted, visibly shaken.

Bruno dismissed him with a flick of his hand. He stood alone again, the cold Alpine light spilling across the floor.

His voice was almost a whisper.

"A dying empire... building a bunker to hide from the inevitable."

He shook his head.

"How American."

Then he added, quieter still...

"They think they’re preparing for the collapse."

A pause.

"They don’t realize it already happened."

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