Blake snapped awake, his heart hammering in his chest like a runaway piston. He squinted into the darkness, his thoughts sluggish, tangled in the lingering haze of sleep. Twice in one night now, yanked from unconsciousness, and it was grinding on his nerves.

  Groaning, he forced himself upright, every muscle in his body groaning back in protest. The ground beneath him was unyielding, sharp edges and rough patches pressing into his skin. Not his bed. Not even close. His gut twisted as he scanned his surroundings. Where the hell had he ended up?

  Around him, towering piles of twisted metal clawed at the night sky, their jagged edges silhouetted like the skeletal remains of some long-dead city. The air reeked of rust and rot, layered with something else—something faintly acrid and utterly foreign. The junkyard stretched endlessly in every direction, a labyrinth of corroded steel and shattered machinery, cold and unwelcoming.

  The stars overhead were strangers, their arrangements alien to the patterns Blake had memorized as a kid. A ghostly nebula sprawled across the sky, its swirls of violet and indigo breathtaking against the void, a cruelly beautiful foil to the ruin around him. Not one familiar constellation broke the vast, unfamiliar black.

  "Well, damn, Dorothy, this definitely isn’t Kansas," Blake muttered under his breath, his voice rough in the stillness.

  He ran his hands over himself, a quick inventory. No cuts, no bruises, no broken bones. Somehow, he'd made it through in one piece—a minor miracle. His fingers brushed the knife strapped securely to his thigh, the worn hilt a comforting constant. The weight of his sidearm in its holster pressed against his ribs, solid and steady. Not much, but enough to remind him he wasn’t entirely at the mercy of this place.

  Grimacing as his stiff, aging muscles grumbled in protest, Blake forced himself upright. Standing around wasn’t going to cut it. He had to get his bearings, figure out where the hell he was—and how he’d ended up here in the first place.

  Gravel grated beneath his boots as Blake advanced, every step deliberate, every movement measured. His gaze darted from one heap of mangled steel to the next, the jagged mountains looming like rusted sentinels. Their long, jagged shadows clawed at the ground ahead, an ominous reminder of how little light he had to work with. The itch at the back of his neck wouldn’t let up, a warning he’d learned to heed long ago. Someone was out there, watching. Had to be.

  The sight-lines here were a problem, and Blake knew it. Anything within sight was already too close for his pistol to be a practical option.

  A sharp clang split the air behind him. Instinct overruled thought—his hand was on the knife before his mind registered the sound, his body pivoting into a defensive crouch. Just a slab of rusted steel surrendering to gravity, crashing to the ground with a dull, hollow thud. Blake let out a slow breath, but his muscles stayed coiled, ready.

  "Pull it together, Connover," he muttered under his breath.

  The mountain of rusted debris loomed before him like some tetanus-infested art installation from hell. Shit, there was enough jagged metal there to give a whole hospital's worth of patients lockjaw. Blake eyed the jagged wreckage until he spotted what might work as a climbing route, though "might" was doing some heavy lifting there.

  The rusted metal groaned ominously as he tested his weight on the first hold. Real confidence-inspiring. But up was the only direction left, so Blake picked his way upward with deliberate care, testing each foothold like someone who'd already paid tuition at the School of Hard Falls and wasn't eager for a refresher course.

  His joints protested with an impressive symphony of pops and creaks that nearly drowned out the groaning metal. Blake wasn't getting any younger, but then, fieldwork had never been advertised with a gold watch and pension package.

  The climb left Blake's lungs burning like he'd just chain-smoked a pack of cigarettes laced with cayenne. He granted himself a three-count to get his wind back. When that turned out to be a laughably optimistic timeline, he bargained for another three. Once his chest stopped trying to explode, he hauled himself vertical on legs that felt about as stable as wet spaghetti.

  That's when he saw it, and his insides went to ice.

  This wasn't your garden variety junkyard. The wasteland sprawled out like Hell's own sandbox, an endless sea of corroded metal stretching toward every point of the compass. Skeletal towers of scrap metal jutted up from the rust-stained earth like the bones of dead giants, their shadows stretching between them like dark wounds in the landscape. The horizon was nothing but more of the same - a metallic graveyard that seemed to go on forever.

  "Fuckin hell," he breathed.

  Blake's eyes swept across the jagged horizon, searching desperately for any sign of civilization - a building, a road, hell, even a tin shack would do. But the ocean of twisted metal stretched endlessly in every direction, a maze of rust and wreckage that promised only more of the same. No comfort. No escape.

  Blake worked his way back down with careful, measured movements. The rusted metal creaked and shifted under his weight, threatening to give way with each step. He slipped his boots into increasingly sketchy footholds until he dropped the last few feet to solid ground.

  He pulled out his knife and carved a deep X into the ground near the nearest scrap pile. No sense walking in circles in this mess. The stars above offered no help - their patterns meant nothing to him. Might as well pick a direction and stick to it.

  "East it is," he muttered, marking the direction relative to his X. "Or whatever passes for east in this place."

  He set off through the narrow paths between towering heaps of wreckage, keeping the strange purple nebula to his right.

  Moving deeper into the debris field, an unease crept through his bones. Something about this place felt fundamentally wrong, like the crawling sensation just before a firefight. His instincts screamed danger, though he couldn't pin down why.

  The glint of metal caught Blake's eye - too regular, too pristine among the chaos. Clean lines and machined surfaces reflected the purple nebula's light with an almost defiant precision. He approached with measured steps, his wariness was habitual—second nature.

  This wasn't random wreckage. A vessel lay before him, or what remained of one. The hull had been breached with devastating force, leaving edges that looked like they'd been ripped apart by some impossible hand. When Blake touched the surface, the material felt unnatural beneath his fingers - smooth in places, but fundamentally wrong. The alienness of it sent a chill down his spine.

  "This is some real Flight of the Navigator stuff," he muttered, utterly fascinated by the clearly alien wreckage.

  But movement caught his eye. Something deep in the shadows.

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  Blake went still. Studied the darkness. Not a rat: too large. No. Closer to the size of a pit bull. It moved with intent. Like a hunter.

  Blake's knife came free with a soft metallic hiss.

  "Come on then, you bastard," Blake growled, his voice low and dangerous, sharp as the blade in his hand. His muscles coiled, ready to spring in any direction. "Let's dance."

  Blake watched as something emerged from the darkness, and his mind struggled to process what his eyes were seeing.

  The creature that stalked out of the darkness hit every nerve in Blake's hindbrain like a hammer to a gong. His fingers clenched white-knuckled around the knife's grip as his brain tried to categorize the impossible thing before him.

  Wolf-shaped, but wrong. So very wrong. Hairless flesh stretched tight over a frame too big for its skin, interrupted by crude metal parts that looked bolted straight into muscle and bone. Steam hissed from vents along its spine. Its eyes glowed an unnatural electric blue behind what looked like welded-on aviation gear.

  The beast's jaw hung too long, lined with rows of metal-laced teeth that would give a shark nightmares. Hydraulic mechanisms flexed along its legs with each step, ending in titanium claws that clicked against the metal ground. Where flesh met machine, black fluid oozed from poorly-sealed seams.

  "Jesus," Blake breathed, his throat tight. This wasn't some stray dog. This was what happened when someone tried to build a better predator and didn't care how many laws of nature they had to break to do it.

  Running wasn't happening though—the thing had positioned itself perfectly to intercept any escape attempt, and those hydraulic legs would run him down in seconds. When it cocked its head at that bone-breaking angle, studying him with those soulless blue spotlights, Blake knew with cold certainty that he was being evaluated as its next meal.

  His mind howled against what his eyes were seeing, but instinct and hard-learned lessons seized control of Blake's muscles. Steel flashed pale in the night as he struck first, vicious and desperate. Quick as the thing was, Blake had the advantage of initiative. His blade punched deep with a meaty squelch that would've turned a weaker man's stomach.

  The thing's shriek pierced the night. Its claws slashed through the space where Blake had been a heartbeat before. He slipped to the side, muscle memory from a hundred street fights taking over. Had to keep it simple. Had to not think about what kind of monster he was really trading steel with. Just another knife fight. He could handle a knife fight.

  The fucked up dog was fast, though. Claws raked fire across Blake's forearm, and hot blood soaked his sleeve. He ignored it. Getting cut was part of the job. The monster might've been fast, but it fought like any other predator - all instinct, no brains. He could work with that. Had to.

  Blake faked left, counting on the beast to fall for it. The instant it lunged, he veered hard to the right. A blur of muscle, steel, and fur tore past, charging straight for an attack that didn’t exist. Perfect. He saw his shot and took it. The blade slid in smooth, right where neck met shoulder.

  The blade snagged—tendon, bone, or maybe some kind of freakish fiber-optics. Blake didn’t care what. The creature wrenched away, its claws tearing at the wound in a frantic, mindless fury. Blake didn’t think twice; he released the knife without a second’s hesitation. He backpedaled, boots scraping against gravel, and yanked the Sig from his holster. Good, reliable Austrian engineering. The kind you could stake your life on.

  Three shots. Three hits. Center mass. Textbook.

  The creature dropped. Its eyes went dark.

  Blake loomed over the fallen thing, breath ragged, and wrenched his knife free from its lifeless husk. The blade came away slick with something thick and oily, more machine fluid than blood.

  "Thanks for the warm welcome," he muttered between gulps of air, dragging the edge across the creature’s thigh to clean it off.

  His arm burned. A steady trickle of heat traced its way down to his fingertips—four slashes, clean and deep. He pressed against the wounds with calloused fingers, testing the damage. No arterial spray. No gushing red flags. Not a death sentence, but definitely not good. Infection would be the real killer if he didn’t patch it up soon.

  Blake yanked off his shirt with sharp, practiced efficiency, tearing it into makeshift bandages. He used his teeth to knot them tight, each pull eliciting a fresh sting from the wounds. The field dressing wasn’t pretty, but it’d hold. Water would’ve helped. Boiled water even more so. But wishing for luxuries was a fool’s game, and Blake wasn’t in the habit of gambling on miracles. He worked with what he had.

  His eyes swept over the rusting carcass of the ship, weighing his options. Staying out in the open was a surefire way to get himself killed—especially after the racket he’d just made. That gunfire was a dinner bell for anything lurking nearby. Whatever else prowled this graveyard of steel would be closing in soon. The ship might’ve been a torn-up wreck, but even a battered shell could provide cover. Maybe, if he was lucky, even a place to make a stand.

  Through clenched teeth, Blake dragged the corpse back the way it had come, far enough to keep the scavengers busy elsewhere. Satisfied, he returned to the wreck and clambered up through the jagged tear in the hull, testing each precarious handhold before committing his weight. Inside, the ship’s innards stretched out like a metallic graveyard—twisted bulkheads, shattered panels, and circuitry frozen in grotesque crystalline formations. He carved out a makeshift position near the aft, shoving aside just enough debris to give himself room to breathe. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it sure beat bleeding out in plain view.

  Picking his way through the labyrinth of wreckage, he moved toward the breach, eyes scanning for anything useful. A warped sheet of hull plating caught his attention—perfect. With a grunt, he heaved it free, the metal screaming in protest as it scraped against the deck. His arms burned with the effort, but he managed to wedge it across the opening.

  Blake stepped back, breathing hard, and gave his work a critical once-over. The patch job wouldn’t win any engineering awards, but it’d hold off the elements—and anything with too many teeth—for now.

  Blake slumped against the aft bulkhead, sliding down until he hit the deck with a thud. The adrenaline that had kept him moving drained away, leaving behind a crushing fatigue that settled deep in his bones. His arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the jagged wound a constant, fiery reminder of the bastard who’d come too close to finishing him off.

  His thoughts, sluggish and scattered, began to circle around the basics. Food. Water. Without them, he was screwed. The wreckage stretched endlessly around him, a sprawling metallic tomb, and there was no telling how long he’d be stuck here. Dehydration would get him long before hunger did, and that clock was already ticking.

  The idea of going back out there, picking through the jagged ruins for anything remotely edible or drinkable, twisted his stomach into knots. But comfort didn’t factor into survival—not here, not ever. And if there was one thing Blake Connover knew better than most, it was how to keep breathing when the odds weren’t in his favor.

  He let his eyes drift shut, forcing his thoughts to settle, to stop spinning in useless circles. Sleep was survival—rest meant strength, and he’d need every scrap of it for tomorrow’s hunt through the jagged wreckage. But as the darkness pressed in, the memory of the anomaly clawed its way back to the surface: that otherworldly glow, the unstoppable pull that had seized him, the black, yawning void that had swallowed him whole. The science of it was beyond him—hell, it was probably beyond anyone—but the result was plain enough. He’d been torn out of his world and dumped into this endless metallic graveyard.

  Still, this wasn’t uncharted territory for him. The setting might be alien, but the scenario was all too familiar—another op gone belly-up, no evac, stuck deep in hostile terrain. He’d built a career on this kind of chaos, on threading the needle between disaster and survival. It was the kind of life that left scars, inside and out, but it had paid off. He’d finally clawed his way out, settled down near the river. Shit, he had bought a sourdough starter. And just when he thought he was free, the universe—sadistic bastard that it was—yanked him right back into the grinder.

  He let out a breath, slow and deliberate, and reached for something warmer, something to steady the gnawing anxiety coiling in his gut. His mom’s kitchen came to him first, the scent of fresh bread filling the air, her hands dusted with flour as she hummed some old tune he could never remember the words to. Or the way his dad’s laugh had boomed through Tiger Stadium when Blake, just a kid, had spilled nacho cheese all over his jersey. It was the little things, the stupid, simple things, that felt like anchors now.

  He let the memories wash over him and did what any good veteran would do—closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. His breathing steadied, and consciousness faded in under five minutes.

  Old habits, like old soldiers, died hard.