Date: 1:50 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: McChord Field, Joint Base Lewis-McChord, Washington

  The Humvee’s headlights sliced through the rain, illuminating the battered road to McChord Field. Sarah’s knuckles whitened on the wheel, the engine’s growl a thin shield against the silence that had replaced the bells. Rodriguez slumped in the passenger seat, his hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping through his fingers. His breathing was shallow, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning the dark.

  “How bad?” she asked, voice tight.

  “Bad enough,” he grunted. “Won’t kill me yet. Keep driving.”

  The airfield emerged ahead—runways stretching into the gloom, flanked by hangars and flickering floodlights. A C-130 Hercules sat near a hangar, its cargo ramp down, soldiers and civilians scrambling aboard. Sarah’s chest tightened—hope, fragile but real. “There,” she said, pointing. “That’s our ride.”

  Rodriguez squinted, then shook his head. “Maybe. If it’s not compromised.”

  She didn’t ask what he meant. The cult’s reach—hybrids in uniforms, soldiers with four eyes—haunted her. She pulled the Humvee up to the hangar, tires squealing as she braked. A soldier waved them over, young, face smeared with soot, M16 slung low. “Colonel! You’re alive—thought the armory took you.”

  “Barely,” Rodriguez said, climbing out with a wince. “Status?”

  “Last bird out,” the soldier—his tag read Pvt. Evans—replied. “Command’s orders: evac survivors to Fairchild. Cult’s hit the base hard—half our pilots turned. We’re short-handed, but she’s fueled.” He nodded at the C-130, engines rumbling.

  Sarah stepped out, rain soaking her again. “Turned?”

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  Evans hesitated. “Hybrids, ma’am. Some woke up… wrong. Started killing. We locked ‘em down, but—” A distant screech cut him off, echoing from the north. The bio-ship’s shadow shifted, tendrils probing the clouds.

  Rodriguez grabbed Evans’ shoulder. “Get us on. Now.”

  They ran for the ramp, Sarah’s boots slipping on wet tarmac. The plane’s hold was chaos—soldiers strapped in, civilians huddled with blankets, a medic tending a screaming kid. The air stank of fear and jet fuel. A pilot—Captain Nguyen, her tag said—shouted from the cockpit, “Two minutes! We’re gone!”

  Sarah buckled in beside Rodriguez, her rifle across her knees. He tore a strip from his sleeve, tying it over his wound, grimacing. “Fairchild’s a long shot,” he muttered. “Spokane’s not safe if this is nationwide.”

  “Better than here,” she said, glancing out a porthole. The bio-ship loomed closer, its bulk blotting the sky. Smaller shapes—gargoyles, maybe—swirled around it, a storm of wings and claws.

  The ramp whined shut, engines roaring as the C-130 taxied. Sarah’s stomach lurched with the motion, her mind racing. Jake—still in Seattle, still lost to whatever the cult had done. She clenched her fists, nails biting her palms. “I’m not leaving him forever,” she whispered.

  Rodriguez heard, his jaw tightening. “One fight at a time, Thompson.”

  The plane lifted, wheels thumping off the runway. For a moment, relief washed over her—until a shadow crossed the porthole. A gargoyle slammed into the wing, claws raking metal, its shriek piercing the cabin. Another hit, then a third, rocking the plane. Civilians screamed, soldiers unbuckling to aim at the hull.

  Nguyen’s voice crackled over the intercom: “Brace! We’ve got hitchhikers—shaking ‘em off!” The C-130 banked hard, Sarah slamming into her harness. A soldier fired through a hatch, bullets punching into a gargoyle’s maw—it fell, but more clung on, tearing at the engines.

  Rodriguez unstrapped, staggering to the hatch. “Cover me!” he yelled, grabbing a flare gun from a crate. Sarah followed, rifle up, firing at a gargoyle’s glowing eyes. It screeched, tumbling away. Rodriguez aimed the flare gun out, firing—red light streaked into the swarm, igniting one mid-flight. It plummeted, flaming, but the plane shuddered, smoke trailing from the left wing.

  “Engine two’s hit!” Nguyen shouted. “Losing altitude—hold on!”

  Sarah gripped a strap, the world tilting. Below, JBLM burned, the bio-ship’s tendrils coiling toward the ground. The C-130 fought, climbing through the chaos, gargoyles peeling off one by one. But the smoke thickened, and the bells returned—faint, mocking, a whisper in the dark.

  They weren’t safe yet.