Hamptonville, North Carolina - Old U.S. 421
August 9, 2030 | 10:34 PM EDT
The outside was a storm of dread. Sounds of people screaming, gunshots, and the distant roars of the creatures. Bryan sat beside Jane, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, fast asleep from sheer exhaustion. His hand gently caressed her hair, his mind racing with thoughts of how to get his family to a safer place.
Natalie, who was sound asleep on her mother's arm, had puffy eyes from all the crying. Her small hands were holding tightly around Jane's right arm.
Bryan is still remembering the horrors he saw. The creature spitting flames, like a flying flamethrower—but alive and breathing. People instantly reduced to ash upon contact with the flame. Manuel, his friend, eaten right in front of his eyes.
He closed his eyes, trying to forget what happened. Then turned his gaze toward the window. Slowly, he stood and stepped closer, careful not to wake them.
Outside, people ran, stumbling and screaming. His eyes followed them, then lifted, looking at the sky, hoping he wouldn't see another silhouette overhead.
But the clouds still flashed. Dull bursts of orange pulsed under the night sky, still painting the sky with the distant chaos of an unseen battle.
He looked back at Jane, still wincing with pain despite being asleep. The thought of stepping outside to find supplies twisted in his gut—he couldn't stand the idea of leaving them, not even for a moment.
But he had to make a choice.
He walked closer to her and slowly kneeled, gently waking her up.
"Jane," he whispered, trying not to wake Natalie.
Jane's eyes slowly opened. The first thing she saw was Bryan kneeling in front of her, his face drawn with worry.
She sat upright, careful not to wake Natalie. A small wince escaped her lips, her hand instinctively moving to her injured foot. The pain hadn't faded.
"What is it?" she asked, her voice laced with both curiosity and caution.
Bryan looked into her eyes, momentarily lost in them—soft, comforting, and beautiful. A small smile tugged at his lips despite the weight on his shoulders. He'd already made his decision, but it didn't sit right.
He glanced at her foot, then back at her. "I need to go out," he said softly, as if attempting to reassure himself it was the right decision. "We need something to ease the pain and keep it from getting worse."
Jane's face tensed. "No," she whispered quickly, shaking her head. "Bryan, you could get killed out there."
He didn't respond right away.
She reached for his arm, her grip weak but firm. "I'll be okay. Just... don't go out there."
But Bryan didn't move. That torn look on his face said everything—he didn't want to leave, but the fear of doing nothing was worse.
She saw it, too. Her hand dropped from his arm, resting back against the blanket. Her eyes welled up again.
"I know you won't stop," she murmured. "You've always been that way."
Bryan leaned in and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "I'll come back," he said, though his voice carried doubt. His hand lingered against her cheek, thumb brushing her skin. "I promise."
She stared at him, breathing shakily. Then, after a long pause, she gave the faintest nod, eyes never leaving his.
She didn't say a word as he pulled away, but her eyes followed him with every step. Bryan stood slowly, the weight in his chest heavier than ever. He turned and walked toward the door, each step careful, like even the floorboards understood the silence between them. His hand rested on the chair holding the door, his back still to her.
"Bryan," Jane called softly. He looked over his shoulder.
Her eyes, glassy and tired, held everything she couldn't bring herself to say—fear, love, hope. She gave a small, fragile nod, her lips pressed tight to keep from trembling.
Bryan gave her one last look, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll be back."
He opened the door and stepped into the danger.
Outside, the world was no different than when they first stepped into the house—still burning, still broken. Screams echoed through the smoke-choked streets. Gunshots cracked from somewhere distant, the sky rumbling with thunder that wasn't from the clouds. Bryan moved fast, blending with the panicked crowd, his heart thudding.
He reached the field, pushing through the tall grass, feet trampling over broken glass and scorched earth. The metal guardrail came into view, the same one they had climbed earlier. He vaulted over it, landing hard on the other side—back on Route 421.
The road was just as chaotic. Cars left behind, some still burning, others filled with broken glass and blood. People screamed. The air was heavy with smoke and fear.
Then he saw it.
That spot.
His eyes locked onto the stretch of road just ahead. His pace slowed slightly. He remembered the man who had been there, stumbling down the center of the highway, cradling a woman's torn body. Blood had painted the pavement. The man's screams still echoed in Bryan's head.
Now, that spot was empty.
Bryan looked for only a moment, then kept running.
He followed the road, retracing their path. Then he saw it—his truck. Still resting in the ditch where it had crashed.
Sliding down the embankment, he rushed toward the pickup. He stepped onto the truck bed. The surface was covered in debris.
He dropped to his knees and dug through it all.
There—half-buried under the mess—the gray duffel.
He yanked it free, ash puffing into the air as he brushed it off. The zipper was hot, but it slid open cleanly.
Everything was still there.
Bryan exhaled, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly. His fingers gripped the strap, pulled it over his shoulder, and stood.
Then he saw it—just a few meters away in the center of the road.
Dark, scattered dried droplets of blood stained the cracked pavement.
His chest tightened.
Rivas.
He could still hear his voice, cracking jokes even as the world fell apart around them. He'd been there in the thick of it, helping people, pulling others from the wreckage. Bryan had run beside him, trusted him, even if they hadn't known each other long.
Bryan closed his eyes as he swallowed hard. A quiet breath escaped through his nose. "I'm sorry, man," he whispered under his breath. Then he turned.
No time to waste. He got off the truck and sprinted back the way he came.
All of a sudden, distant echoes of gunfire rolled through the air—then the ground seemed to tremble. It was getting closer—fast.
Bryan's head snapped to the right.
An Invictus, low on the horizon, weaving through smoke. Behind it—a monster. One of them again. Its wings beat like thunder, its jaws glowing.
Flames erupted from its mouth, the stream catching the tail rotor. The helicopter lurched mid-air, spun wildly.
Bryan's breath caught.
The gunship spiraled down, coming straight at him.
He ran. Boots pounding the pavement, heart crashing in his chest. The howl of wind behind him grew louder, closer. Then he jumped.
CRASH!
The Invictus slammed into the highway like a meteor, metal shrieking, debris exploding across the road. It scraped violently, skidding across the asphalt before tipping into the ditch—its motion stopped by a tree.
Bryan hit the ground hard, pain jolting up his arms as he braced. Dust and heat washed over him.
Above, the creature soared past. Wings slicing the air as two more helicopters are in pursuit, shooting at it.
Bryan turned his head toward the wreck. Flames flickered from the twisted hull. His breath was wavering. There was no time.
He pushed off the ground, picked up speed again, and ran.
Bryan reached the guardrail, vaulted over it in a single motion, and didn't stop. He kept running, and then the house came into view. His eyes darted to the front door.
It was open.
His heart dropped.
"Shit—" he whispered, and his legs exploded forward.
He tore across the field, feet pounding dry dirt, grass whipping his legs. The wind burned against his face, but he didn't blink. Natalie's cries reached his ears, and the sound made something in him snap.
He dropped the duffel without a second thought.
His hand reached behind his back.
Fingers curled around the grip.
The pistol came free, raised steadily between his hands as he sprinted. His steps slowed just before he reached the porch. He moved to the side, back pressed to the wall beside the doorframe, breath controlled but heavy.
He peeked.
Inside, Jane sat on the floor against the wall, curled protectively around Natalie—her arms wrapped tightly around their daughter, shielding her with her own body. Natalie's face was buried in Jane's chest, wailing. Jane was crying too—tears streaking down her cheeks, her mouth trembling as she tried to whisper calm into her daughter's ear.
In front of them stood a man.
Disheveled. Dirty. A kitchen knife gripped in shaking hands, pointed forward. His back was facing the doorframe. The knife twitched slightly in his grip, aimed at Jane and Natalie, who sat trembling just feet away.
Bryan stepped into the doorway, gun drawn and low. His voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos. "Put it down!"
The man jerked his head toward him.
And Bryan realizes.
He knew that face. Dirty, smeared with tears—and his shirt, streaked with blood. Unmistakably the same man from the road.
The man's voice cracked. "I know you."
Bryan didn't say a word—just took a step forward, eyes never leaving the knife.
"You left us…" The man's voice was broken. He stumbled a step toward Jane, but not in threat—like he was lost, not even sure where he was standing. "You left her to die."
Bryan's grip didn't change. His voice lowered, steady but heavy. "I'm sorry. My wife… she was injured. I had to get her out."
"I begged," the man sobbed, pointing the blade at the floor like it weighed a thousand pounds. "I BEGGED YOU! And you looked at me! You looked me in the eyes—and you LEFT US!"
"I'm sorry, but I had no choice," Bryan said, voice tight.
The man's chest heaved.
"I was trying to get my family somewhere safe," Bryan said. "I don't know what else I could've done—but I am sorry. I am."
The man looked down at the knife in his hand. His grip loosened, then tightened again. "She died. In my arms. And I stayed—I stayed with her…"
Bryan took another step. "I know."
The man stood trembling, shoulders rising and falling with ragged breaths. The kitchen knife in his hand shook violently.
"I could only imagine the pain you're feeling right now," Bryan added, his voice low, genuine. "Losing someone close to you… feeling helpless. I know what it's like."
For a moment, the man stilled—just one breath longer, shoulders locked, as if he heard him.
Then, without a word, the man moved—suddenly, violently.
Bryan flinched, gun tightening in his hands, his finger nearly squeezing the trigger.
The man drove the knife—fast and with all his strength—upward into his own throat, angling toward his skull.
The crunch of steel meeting bone tore through the room like a gunshot. He staggered, choking, rattling coughs escaping his mouth as blood spilled down his neck, dripping thickly onto the floor.
Jane screamed and clutched Natalie tightly, turning her daughter's head deeper into her chest.
Bryan's eyes widened in stunned disbelief, gun slowly lowered, frozen in place as the man's body wobbled, knees buckling, then collapsed to the floor.
For a moment, the world froze.
Then Bryan ran straight toward them and dropped to his knees.
Jane let out a sob of relief and clung to him, arms trembling. Bryan wrapped himself around them both, pulling them close until he could feel their every breath, every shiver.
"I'm here," he whispered, voice cracking as emotion finally broke through. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He kissed Natalie on the forehead, then Jane, his lips shaking against her skin.
Behind them, the man's body lay twisted in a darkening pool of blood.
Colorado Springs, Colorado - Cheyenne Mountain Complex
August 9, 2030 | 9:02 PM MDT
President Reynolds stepped out of the battle staff meeting room, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, then dragging his hand down over his eyes. The fluorescent lights in the hallway felt too bright. The weight of the last six hours pressed into his spine like concrete.
Two Secret Service agents immediately flanked him as he moved briskly down the corridor, their footsteps echoing behind him.
Then a voice cut through the tension, not sharp, but firm and respectful.
"Mr. President!"
Reynolds turned his head. An officer approached, clutching a tablet to his chest. He fell into step beside the president without slowing the pace.
"We have the last confirmed location on Bryan and Jane Voss," the officer began, his voice low but urgent. "Hamptonville, North Carolina, along Highway 421. They were tracked approximately one hour ago."
Reynolds' pace slowed slightly. His eyes narrowed. "And?"
"We've already deployed a unit. Civilian rescues in the area are being prioritized. But the airspace is… still unsafe. We can't extract them yet."
The president stopped for half a second, jaw tight. His eyes flicked forward again, and he continued walking.
"I want that report on my desk first thing in the morning. And I want updates every hour until they're out of there. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
They reached a secured door. A digital lock flashed green, and the Secret Service agents halted outside as Reynolds turned to the officer.
"You're dismissed."
The officer gave a crisp nod and stepped back. The door hissed open.
Inside, soft lighting bathed the room in a gentle glow. Emily was seated on the couch, arms loosely folded, her eyes lifting the second he entered. She stood before he even said a word.
Their embrace was instant, just arms wrapping tightly around each other. His hand found the back of her head, fingers in her hair, and her face pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Emily pulled back just enough to see his face. "How did it go?"
Reynolds cupped her cheek with one hand, nodding slowly. "They found them. Their last location is confirmed. I've got a team on the ground already looking for them."
She studied his eyes. "But they're not out yet."
He hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. "Not yet. They're working on it. It's just… not safe to move in yet. But we're close."
Emily exhaled through her nose, her shoulders rising and falling. "Thank God."
"The kids?" he asked gently.
"Asleep," she said with a tired smile. "Alex took the longest. He said he was hungry—kept asking if the agents would be bringing snacks."
That pulled a small laugh from Reynolds, the kind that never fully reached his eyes but tried to. "They would've found something."
They stood there a moment longer in silence. The weight of the day, of the world outside that room, faded just a little.
Then they kissed—slow, quiet, with the kind of tenderness that only came from years of knowing exactly how fragile life could be.
The kiss broke, but their foreheads rested together.
For now, they had each other. And hope that Bryan and Jane are still alive.
Hamptonville, North Carolina – Old U.S. 421
August 10, 2030 | 8:00 AM EDT
The morning sun cut through the broken blinds in quiet slants, painting long shadows across the floor. Bryan sat alone on the couch in the living room, still and alert, eyes fixed on the front door. He wasn't tired. Not even close. His body was accustomed to these nights without sleep, the calm that followed chaos, waiting for something worse.
Jane and Natalie were asleep in the bedroom, the door cracked open just enough for him to hear their breathing. He had cleaned Jane's wound the best he could—wrapped it tight and elevated her leg.
The house was silent now. Too silent.
Outside, the world had finally calmed down. No more screams. No more roars. Just the low thrum of helicopters cutting the air now and then. The kind of silence that didn't bring peace, just a heavy waiting.
Bryan leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands interlocked.
From his pocket, he pulled out the GoTenna Pro X2, holding the small black device in both palms. A compact mesh transmitter. Light, durable. It had been quietly sending signal bursts every hour since last night, hoping someone would pick it up.
A sharp gust swept outside. Then, the unmistakable hum of rotor blades. Louder this time. Closer.
Bryan didn't move at first. He'd heard dozens pass by all night. But this one wasn't moving past. It was slowing down.
Then the sound shifted—low and steady.
It was landing.
His eyes sharpened. He stood quickly and crossed the room to the front window. The curtains swayed as he peeled them open.
A Black Hawk.
It was touching down right on an empty field on the opposite side of the road—its landing skids kicking up dirt and dust. The side door opened, soldiers already stepping out, weapons shouldered but lowered. And walking in front of them, steady despite the wind, was a man in a black suit and slacks.
Bryan's hand tightened on the curtain. He looked over his shoulder toward the bedroom—toward Jane and Natalie. Then he turned back and stepped toward the front door.
The wind blasted him as soon as he opened it. His boots crunched the dirt with each step until he was face-to-face with the man.
The suited man extended a hand, shouting slightly over the helicopter blades.
"Devon Keller. Federal Crisis Response Liaison." His tone was formal, but not cold. His eyes flicked briefly to Bryan's stance, picking up more than he let on.
"I've been sent under direct order from the President to retrieve you and your family," he said. "We're here to take you to a secure military base immediately. We're getting you out—now."
Bryan turned back without a word and jogged into the house.
He grabbed the GoTenna from his pocket—held it in his hand for a moment, like silently thanking it. He entered the house, then grabbed the duffel on the couch and slid it over his back. He moved swiftly down the hall.
The bedroom was quiet. Jane stirred awake at the sound of the rotor wash outside. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
Outside, the helicopter waited.
The wind howled, the rotor blades slicing through the air in a heavy, relentless rhythm.
Bryan stepped out into the morning light, Jane cradled carefully in his arms, her head resting weakly against his chest. Natalie clung tightly to his shirt.
Devon Keller stood near the landing zone, suit flapping in the wind, his hand raised in a firm signal as soldiers cleared a path to the chopper. The rotors thundered above them, kicking up dust and ash from the torn-up earth.
Bryan didn't look back. He moved straight to the Black Hawk. His boots pounded against the dirt, steady and unshaken. A soldier reached out to assist, but Bryan climbed in on his own, unwavering.
Inside, he gently laid Jane down on the bench, keeping her upright against him. Natalie slid beside her mother but stayed close, still gripping Bryan's sleeve. He wrapped an arm around them both.
Keller and the soldiers followed quickly, ducking into the cabin, the doors slamming shut. A nod from the crew chief. A hand signal. Thumb up.
The pilot responded. The engines surged.
The Black Hawk lifted off the ground, wind tearing across the landing zone as the skids broke contact with the grass of Hamptonville.
Bryan held his family close as the helicopter began its ascent.
Through a window, the world sprawled below them.
U.S. 421 stretched beneath them like a wound torn open. Wrecked vehicles lined the road, their scorched frames twisted into familiar shapes of ruin. The trees stood like blackened skeletons.
Bryan's eyes lingered on the road, taking it all in again. The scars hadn't faded. If anything, they looked deeper now from above.
And then—there it was.
The creature.
Down below, its massive form lay sprawled across a field, blackened, unmoving. Smoke curled off its scaled body, wings shredded and limp. Its claws were buried in the earth, as if it had tried to fight death itself and lost.
Keller leaned forward slightly, looking out the window alongside Bryan.
Bryan's eyes stayed locked on the devastation below. He could still hear the screams. Still see the flames bursting from its mouth. Still felt the heat on his back as he ran for his life.
The helicopter climbed higher.
In the distance—miles away but clear against the horizon—a city came into view.
It was veiled in smoke, rising in dark, lazy plumes that drifted upward like mourning banners. Skyscrapers pierced the haze, some dark, others glowing faintly through the smog. Fires still burned in scattered clusters.
Bryan's grip tightened around Jane's shoulders. She stirred weakly against him but didn't wake. Natalie nestled deeper into his side.
No one spoke.
The rumble of the rotors filled the silence, like the heartbeat of something still fighting to survive.
And Bryan sat there—arms around the only two people that mattered—watching the broken world slide slowly beneath them.
He didn't know what came next.
But for the first time in hours… they weren't alone anymore.