Date: 2:15 AM, April 1, 2025
Location: Unknown Wilderness, Western Washington
The world snapped back into focus with a jolt of pain. Sarah groaned, her chest aching where the harness had bitten in. Darkness pressed around her, broken by flickering flames and the acrid stench of burning fuel. The C-130’s cabin was a twisted ruin—seats torn loose, bodies slumped, the hull cracked open like an egg. Rain pattered through the gaps, mixing with blood on the floor.
She fumbled with her straps, hands numb, and stumbled free. “Rodriguez?” Her voice rasped, barely audible over the creaking metal and distant screeches. The bells were gone again, replaced by an eerie quiet that felt worse.
A grunt answered. Rodriguez lay a few feet away, half-buried under a crate, his face smeared with soot and blood. He shoved the debris off, wincing as he sat up. “Still here,” he muttered, clutching his shoulder. “You?”
“Barely.” She staggered over, helping him stand. His wound looked worse—ragged, seeping—but he waved her off, scanning the wreckage.
The plane had carved a scar through dense forest, trees splintered along a muddy trench. The tail was gone, sheared off, and the cockpit was a crumpled mess. No sound from Nguyen or the crew. A soldier near the ramp twitched, then stilled—neck snapped. The civilian with the kid lay motionless, glasses shattered beside him. The child was missing.
“Survivors?” Sarah asked, voice shaking.
Rodriguez limped to the hatch, peering out. “Doubt it. Impact was brutal—tail took the tyrant, but we hit hard.” He kicked a rifle free from a dead soldier’s grip, checking the mag. “Grab what you can. We’re not staying.”
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She nodded, salvaging her own rifle—dented but functional—and a half-empty mag from a corpse. Her recorder was gone, lost in the chaos. No story now, just survival. She found a flare gun under a seat, pocketing it with two flares. “Where are we?”
“West of I-5, probably. Miles from Fairchild.” He squinted into the dark. “Forest’s thick—good cover, bad odds. Those things’ll sniff us out.”
A rustle snapped her head around. Something moved in the trees—low, fast. She raised her rifle, heart pounding. “Already?”
Rodriguez aimed too, steady despite his limp. “Crash drew ‘em. Gaunts, maybe.” A screech confirmed it—high, chittering, closer. Shadows darted between trunks, eyes glinting in the firelight.
“Run or fight?” she whispered.
“Both.” He fired, a burst dropping one—a gaunt, its spindly form collapsing in a spray of ichor. Sarah shot too, hitting another’s leg; it shrieked, dragging itself forward. More came—five, ten—pouring from the dark, claws clicking on bark.
“Back!” Rodriguez shoved her toward the wreck’s rear, where the hull gaped widest. They retreated, firing, gaunts falling but closing the gap. Sarah’s mag clicked empty—she tossed the rifle, grabbing the flare gun. A gaunt lunged; she fired point-blank, the flare igniting its chest in a burst of red flame. It thrashed, lighting the pack, and she bolted after Rodriguez.
They stumbled through the breach, into mud and undergrowth. The forest swallowed them, branches clawing at her face. Behind, the wreck blazed, gaunts swarming it, their screeches fading as the fuel caught fully, a fireball lighting the night.
Rodriguez tripped, cursing, and Sarah hauled him up. “Keep moving,” she panted. “They’ll follow.”
He nodded, grim. “North—find a road, signal Fairchild. Last shot.”
They pushed on, the crash’s glow dimming behind. The rain lessened, but the air grew heavy, a psychic hum creeping back—not bells, but something deeper, hungrier. Sarah’s mind flashed—Jake, four-eyed, reaching for her. She shook it off, focusing on the dark ahead.
A roar split the silence—massive, close. Not a gaunt. The Hive Tyrant, alive, hunting.
Rodriguez froze, meeting her gaze. “Run faster.”
