Hamptonville, North Carolina - Route 421
August 9, 2030 | 9:47 PM EDT
CRASH!
The Blackhawk slammed into the highway just behind Bryan's car, shoving it forward like a toy. The force launched it off the road, skidding into the ditch below. Glass shattered. Metal groaned. A tree finally stopped the motion with a sickening crunch.
Rivas stopped mid-sprint, frozen.
Bryan didn't think—he launched himself down the ditch, his boots skidding through loose gravel and torn earth. "JANE?!" he shouted, panic tearing at his throat.
The car door was crushed inward, warped like a crushed can. Smoke and dust curled from the crumpled metal.
Bryan grabbed the handle and yanked—nothing. He pulled harder, but it didn't budge.
He stepped back and threw his shoulder into it. Once. Again. The steel shrieked and finally swung open.
Inside, Jane sat slumped forward, blood trickling from a gash on her forehead, her arms wrapped tightly around Natalie, shielding her. Natalie was shrieking—raw, high-pitched, terrified—her tiny fists tangled in her mother's shirt, face red and soaked with tears.
Bryan's heart nearly stopped. "Jane—!"
He leaned halfway into the car, and his hands were shaking. "Are you okay?!"
Jane blinked slowly, her eyes glassy. "I—I think so… I don't know…" Her voice trembled, barely audible over Natalie's cries.
Bryan gently reached out, brushing Jane's hair back, his fingers trembling. "Hey, stay with me, alright? You're okay. You're both okay."
Natalie screamed louder as he touched her, clutching tighter to Jane. Her whole body was trembling. Bryan's throat tightened.
"It's okay, sweetpea," he whispered, voice cracking as he fought back the surge of panic, "We're going home, okay? Daddy's here."
He noticed Jane's foot was pinned awkwardly beneath the crumpled frame of the passenger seat. She winced, trying to move it, but it was caught tight. Bryan scanned the car's interior, eyes darting for anything to pry the seat up or push it back.
Nothing useful.
He looked back, hoping to call for help, and saw him.
Rivas. He hadn't moved.
He stood in the middle of the road, motionless. Staring at the unrecognizable wreckage where his car had been. His arms hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching like they were trying to remember how to hold them again.
His family.
They'd thought they were safe. Just minutes ago, they were smiling and laughing. Now all that's left of them is ash.
Rivas's mouth hung open. His chest rose in shallow, ragged breaths—his body forgetting how to breathe properly. A tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn't blink. The world around him—shouting, screaming, burning—had gone silent.
Bryan's heart sank. He finally understood why Rivas hadn't moved.
He pulled himself out of the car and stepped toward his friend.
"Manuel!" he shouted, trying to get his attention.
Then the devil landed.
Its wings carved through the smoke like scythes, each beat scattering ash and debris across the ruined highway. When it descended, it touched down not like a beast, but a spawn straight out of hell itself. Its talons punched into the blackened asphalt, while firelight rippled across its hide like the glow of a forge.
Wings folded like curtains closing on a stage soaked in blood. It stood tall with primal menace, on the ruins of Rivas's family.
Bryan's eyes widened. His body moved before his mind caught up.
He turned and sprinted back to the car—back to Jane and Natalie—throwing himself between them.
Rivas raised his head, barely. His face was hollow. His eyes were distant.
The beast looked down.
Their eyes met, but Rivas didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't hear. Or… didn't want to.
The creature's chest swelled, inhaling deeply and slowly. Its jaws opened. Wider. And wider.
The firelight caught every daggered tooth, each one slick with saliva. Deep in its throat, something pulsed—red, wet, and hungry.
Rivas closed his eyes—a final act of surrender, or maybe… mercy.
In one smooth, monstrous motion… It swallowed him whole.
Bryan's eyes were wide in shock.
Jane stared—frozen, one hand pressed to her mouth. Tears streamed down her face, eyes wide in horror, locked on the place where Rivas had been.
BOOM!
An explosion hit the creature from behind.
It roared, the sound ripping through the air. The creature twisted its massive head around, eyes blazing, nostrils flaring—rage simmering just beneath its armored hide.
Three AH-72 Invictuses surged into view, blades chopping in unison. Their 30mm chain guns roared to life, shell after shell hammering into the creature's hide.
The creature flinched as the rounds bounced off its scales like rain on an umbrella.
The ground quaked with each step the creature made, as it unfolded its wings—enormous, leathery structures that shimmered with a deep obsidian sheen, veins pulsating with a dim crimson glow.
The sheer force of its wingbeats stirred a storm of dust and ash, tearing leaves from nearby trees as the creature rose into the air. Returning to its domain.
As the creature vanished from view, Bryan saw his chance.
He turned to Jane. Her face was twisted in pain as she tried to move, her foot bruised and swollen.
Bryan crouched low between the front seats. "Okay… okay, I see it." He reached out to her shoulder, his voice steady but strained. "Baby, I need you to let go of Nat for a second, alright? I've got her. I promise."
Jane's brow was slick with sweat, lips were trembling. Tears streamed down her cheeks after the horrors she'd just seen, and she gave the smallest of nods, loosening her hold.
He gently pried Natalie from her arms, whispering, "It's okay, sweetpea. Daddy's got you now."
Natalie whimpered into his chest, fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.
"Just stay right here for me, sweetpea," Bryan said, setting her down beside the door for a moment, brushing the hair from her face. He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Daddy's right here. Okay?"
He turned back, ducking lower into the car. He braced himself, grabbed the edge of the mangled seat, and pushed hard. His arms strained, jaw clenched, muscles flexing as the metal groaned slightly but still held firm.
"Come on…" he growled, repositioning and pushing again.
Still nothing.
He paused, eyes narrowing as he checked the space more carefully—metal bent inward in layers, twisted deep into the floorboard. It wasn't going to move by hand.
Bryan backed out fast, boots crunching broken glass as he bolted toward the truck bed—the wide rear cargo behind the car, half-collapsed in the crash, its contents tossed everywhere.
He climbed onto the bumper and reached over the edge, frantically tearing through the mess. A dented toolbox. Tangled tow straps. The gray duffel. His hands shoved past it, then stopped. A thick metal rod. Long, solid.
He grabbed it and rushed back, diving halfway into the car once more. He wedged the bar under the edge of the seat, breath ragged as he forced all his weight into it. The frame groaned again, resisting.
"Come on…" he hissed, every muscle in his arms screaming.
The metal shrieked—and then, finally, gave. The seat shifted, just enough.
He dropped the bar, leaned in, and wrapped his hands around Jane's ankle. "Alright, this is going to hurt. I'm sorry."
Jane nodded shakily, biting her lip, eyes wet with pain.
Carefully, Bryan pulled. Inch by inch. Jane gasped, whimpered, her hand clutching the side of the door—but then, suddenly, it was free.
Bryan let out a breath. "You're out," he said, brushing her hair back. "You're okay. You did it."
Tears streamed down her cheeks—relief, not just pain.
He scooped her up, cradling her against his back as she winced but held on. Then he turned and reached for Natalie's hand.
"Alright, sweetpea…" Bryan said, voice low and calm. "Hold my hand tight now, okay? Don't let go."
Natalie nodded through tears and clutched his fingers with all her strength.
And together—Jane on his back, Natalie at his side—they ran. Through wreckage. Through fire. Through screams. Through hell.
High above, three Invictuses carved a wide defensive triangle in the smoke-choked air. Designated Panther flight from the 130th Aviation Regiment, operated on a closed JTAC relay, coordinating through encrypted ground nodes and airborne relays. Each bird had been rerouted from inland QRF patrols, now racing the clock to stop the threat from reaching a major civilian population.
"Panther One, dragging the target west," the flight lead called out, voice calm but sharp. "Keep it away from the grid."
"Panther Two climbing, moving to intercept on your six," came the reply. "Thermals spiking—target's reacquiring."
"Panther Three low on the tree line. Monitoring flanks. Hydra pods armed, eyes on egress."
Suddenly, the creature burst through the haze—its massive form twisting violently through the air. Fire built in its throat as it dove. A blast of flame shot out—fast, concentrated.
"Panther One, break left, break left!" Panther Two barked.
"Breaking left!" Panther One's bird rolled hard, the flame missed their tail by a breath, slamming into the forest below. An inferno erupted instantly, trees going up like torches. The sudden heat bloom spiked every thermal scope.
"Negative contact," Panther One confirmed, voice tight.
"Secondary fire spreading. Slope's lit," Panther Three called out. "Downdraft's unstable—watch for thermal shear."
"Turning south," Panther One announced, voice clipped. "Pulling him into open ground. We get one shot at this."
"Panther Two has offset. Lining up a vector."
The beast surged after Panther One, wings coiled inward, jaws wide. Smoke and embers trailed its path. A guttural snarl cracked over open comms—someone hadn't keyed off.
"Panther One, confirm escape route," Ops requested over relay.
"No escape. Still dragging. Nearing Ridgeline Alpha."
Panther One's co-pilot punched in targeting data, flagging terrain ahead. The creature followed, banking tight, claws grazing treetops. It lunged—missed by feet.
"Jesus—it nearly got us," Panther One growled. "Someone take the shot!"
"Panther Three lasing," came the calm reply. "Upper torso. JAGMs armed—dual-mode lock."
"Hold until box. Four and Five—what's your ETA?"
"Panther Four and Five inbound, one mike out, another voice cut in. "North vector. Weapons ready."
The dragon flared again—another fire blast. Wide. Sloppy. It missed Panther Two by mere feet, torching the ridge below.
"Panther Two—firing. Rifle."
An AGM-179 JAGM streaked from the pylon, its exhaust curling through the haze. The missile locked on tight, guided by semi-active laser and millimeter-wave radar, tracking the creature through smoke and turbulence with unflinching precision. It arced low, then slammed into the beast's shoulder in a burst of fire and shredded scale.
"Target hit."
"Panther Three—Rifle."
Another JAGM screamed upward. It struck low, just behind the forelimbs. The beast convulsed midair, rolling hard.
"Panther Four and Five entering zone," came the report. "Target marked."
Panther Four painted the wing root. Panther Five followed it in.
"Rifle."
The third JAGM tore through the canopy and slammed into the joint, metal and flesh rupturing. The wing snapped back like a torn sail. The beast screamed, spiraling out of control, crashing into the trees.
"Target is down—thrashing but grounded," Panther Five said. "Southwest ridge."
Panther One keyed up. "All callsigns—"
Below, the beast stirred—its battered frame rising from the wreckage like something reborn in fire. Smoke curled off its scorched scales, but it wasn't done. Not yet.
Its chest pulsed—veins glowing bright, magma-red beneath the obsidian hide. The glow surged, snaking up its throat as its jaws opened wide.
Panther One gave the order without pause. "Saturate."
Missiles and rockets leapt from their pylons in a synchronized volley. Trails of smoke and fire crisscrossed the air as JAGMs locked on, their dual-mode seekers tracking heat and laser marks with unrelenting precision. Alongside them, salvos of Hydra 70 rockets sprayed wide, hammering the kill zone in overlapping arcs.
The beast was mid-breath—fire swelling in its throat—when the barrage struck.
JAGMs slammed into its chest and shoulders, each hit precise and punishing, peppering its massive body and the forest floor in a chaotic storm of fragmentation and fire.
The combined assault shattered its momentum. Muscles spasmed, wings faltered.
Then, one missile punched straight into its open mouth.
Then the explosion tore through from the inside out—scales, blood, and flame erupting skyward in a violent burst. The shockwave flattened the treetops, and the creature's dying scream was drowned by the sound of destruction.
Panther One's HUD flickered from the heat bloom. Smoke curled from the impact zone. Scorched trees burned, blood spattered across the trunks. Limbs lay strewn in pieces—a wing draped over a tree, a twisted jaw still smoldering. The creature was finally dead.
"Target is down," he said, quietly now. "Repeat—target neutralized."
Still, no celebration. Because every pilot knew—this was just one of the many.
And somewhere amid that chaos, Bryan ran east. His legs burned, lungs screamed, but he didn't stop—not while his family was still in danger.
Jane's weight pressed against his back, arms locked tight around his shoulders, breath shallow against his neck. In his left hand, Natalie gripped his fingers with all the strength her small hand could offer, stumbling at times, but refusing to let go.
Behind them, the highway was dying.
Over the horizon, more of them emerged—towering shapes cutting across the darkened sky. One of the creatures was locked in a violent clash with three helicopters. Even from a distance, the scene was terrifying. One of the helicopters broke away in time, but another took the full blast of flame, spiraling out of control before crashing to the ground in a fiery crash.
Then he saw the flashes, far higher up in the clouds. Too many. Orange bursts bloomed like flak. Telling an unseen war up above.
"Almost there, sweetpea. Almost there," Bryan said gently, glancing down at Natalie as he tightened his grip on her hand.
They weaved through wrecked cars piled on the roadside. Fires licked metal. Scattered people still fled in every direction.
A man stumbled down the center of the road, cradling a woman's mangled body in his arms—her lower half gone, torn away in a mess of blood. "Please! Help me!" he screamed, voice ragged with despair. "PLEASE!"
Bryan turned his head, just for a second—the man's tear-streaked face locking eyes with his—but he pressed on.
"Don't look," Bryan said sharply, pulling Natalie's head into his abdomen as they moved past. "Just keep going, sweetpea. Just keep going."
Behind him, Jane turned her face away, one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
He glanced to his left and saw the old Highway 421.
Bryan turned sharply toward the guardrail. "Come on, Baby—this way!" he called, urgency in his voice.
He rushed to the guardrail, lifting Natalie gently by the waist and helping her swing over to the other side. "You got it, sweetpea," he encouraged, steadying her as she landed on the grassy slope beyond.
With barely a pause, he shifted his weight and climbed over himself, careful and fast, while Jane was holding onto him tightly.
Bryan landed on the other side and immediately took Natalie's hand. "Go, go!" he said, guiding them across the grass embankment.
They ran together, feet pounding through the grass until it flattened into the cracked pavement of the old highway.
The old road was worse.
More people ran, some dragging bags, others empty-handed. A man shoved a TV into the back of a car. A teenage boy sprinted by with a crowbar. House windows were shattered. One place burned freely—no one even tried to stop it.
They passed a school. Cars crumpled into each other like forgotten toys. Blood smeared the pavement.
"Daddy," Natalie whimpered, stumbling beside him, "I'm tired…"
He looked down. Her face was pale, sweat matting her bangs to her forehead.
A small brick house appeared ahead. One story. Overgrown bushes pressed against its walls, nearly swallowing the steps leading to the front door. No shutters—just a single rectangular window and a plain white door with a faded wreath still hanging on it.
"This way."
They rushed to it. Bryan climbed the short concrete steps, dodging the thick foliage, and pounded his fist hard on the door. "Hello!? Anyone in there? Please—we need help!"
Silence.
Again, louder. "Please! My wife is injured—she needs help!"
Nothing.
Bryan muttered a curse under his breath and knelt, gently sliding Jane from his back. Natalie sat beside her mother, face pale, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
He rose again.
Two hard steps back—then he lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. The old wood cracked under the force. Hinges groaned—then the door finally burst inward.
He stepped inside fast. Faint light spilled across a small living room. To the right, a narrow kitchen. No movement. No sound.
Bryan turned to Natalie, his voice firm but low. "Stay here with Mommy. Don't move."
She nodded, clutching Jane's arm like a lifeline.
Bryan swept the house.
First, the living room. A fallen coat rack in the corner.
He moved down first room—bedroom. Drawers yanked open.
He eased into the bathroom next. His eyes immediately went to the mirror cabinet above the sink—it was open. Stripped bare.
Just an empty toothbrush holder and a near-empty bottle of hand soap tipped over in the sink.
"Shit…" he muttered under his breath.
He had checked every room, every corner. Empty, abandoned in a hurry—drawers left half-open, a light still turned on in the living room. But safe.
He returned.
Jane hadn't moved. Bryan gently carried her into his arms.
"Hang in there, baby," he whispered to her, voice low but steady—more a promise than a plea.
He stepped inside and crossed to the couch. It gave slightly beneath Jane's weight as he eased her down slowly, carefully, like she might break if he moved too fast.
"Ah—Bryan…" She winced in pain.
"I've got you," he said, brushing the damp hair from her cheek. "Just breathe."
Natalie climbed up beside her mother, glassy-eyed. She curled up beside Jane, one small hand resting on her mother's arm. Within moments, she was out cold, her little body finally surrendering to exhaustion.
Bryan jammed a chair under the doorknob—enough to prevent something from opening it.
He dropped to one knee beside Jane and examined her foot—swollen, hot, and discolored, with a deep bruise forming around the ankle and a patch of torn skin scraped raw along the side. She was barely conscious but still biting back the pain.
"Hold on," he muttered, rising again.
The kitchen was a mess. Cabinet doors hung slightly ajar, most of them already picked through. A drawer held only a roll of duct tape, a fork, and a towel. Another one—empty, save for a crumpled bit of aluminum foil. Nothing useful.
Then he saw it.
A photo frame leaned against the wall above the counter. A man and a woman, young and smiling, arms around each other on a sunlit porch. Bryan froze.
The man's face. He recognized it—the one from the road. The one who had a lifeless body of woman in his arms, crying out for help.
This was their home.
He stared for a moment, jaw tight. Then turned the frame facedown.
He moved quickly to the bedroom. The sheets on the bed were still there. He grabbed one and tore a long strip free with a sharp yank, folding it quickly into something close to a wrap.
Then the bathroom. Grabbing the near-empty bottle of hand soap. That and some running water in the tap—it would have to do.
He soaked a towel in warm water, added a few drops of soap, and carried it back to the living room.
Jane stirred again, her voice a breath. "Bryan… it hurts…"
"I know. I'm here."
He dropped to one knee beside her. Took the soapy cloth and gently began cleaning the wound. Jane flinched, a soft gasp escaping her lips, but she didn't pull away. She just clenched the cushion, trying to stay still.
"Almost done," he whispered.
When the area was clean, he took the torn bed sheet and wrapped it firmly around the injury. It wasn't precise, but it was tight enough to give support.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Bryan rose and opened the fridge. It still hummed quietly, the interior dim and mostly bare. A near-empty bottle of ketchup lay on its side. A single egg sat in a cracked carton. A cloudy ice tray rested on the top shelf, half-melted from inconsistent power.
He grabbed the tray and dumped what little ice remained into a clean towel he'd set aside, folding it tightly into a makeshift cold pack.
He came back, knelt again, and pressed the cold bundle gently to her ankle.
Jane exhaled—barely a whisper. "Thank you…"
Her hand found his. Weak, but warm.
He nodded, silent. His other hand stayed on the ice, steady and focused.
Despite the brief relief, he could already feel the cold fading through the cloth. It wasn't enough. The swelling would return, the bruising would spread—and without real medical supplies, it was only a matter of time before infection or worse set in.
Outside, the world still burned. Another explosion echoed in the distance, followed by the thudding rotors of a helicopter overhead. The war hadn't ended.
But inside, for one small moment, in a stranger's home, Bryan did what he always had to:
Hold everything together.