Date: 2:45 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: En Route to Fairchild AFB, Western Washington

  The truck’s engine growled, a steady rumble that vibrated through Sarah’s bones as she sat wedged between two soldiers. The interior smelled of diesel and sweat, the air thick with tension despite the gunfire fading behind. Rain streaked the cracked windshield, the wipers slapping a grim rhythm. Her flare gun—empty now—lay useless in her lap, a cold reminder of Rodriguez’s last stand.

  The driver, Sergeant Kessler, kept her eyes on the rutted road, hands steady on the wheel. “You’re lucky we were scouting,” she said, voice rough. “Saw the crash flare—thought it was a signal. Didn’t expect a damn civvie running from that.”

  Sarah nodded, throat tight. “Colonel Rodriguez—he stayed back. Drew it off.”

  Kessler grunted, no sympathy, just fact. “Brave bastard. Probably dead. Those tyrants don’t play.”

  The soldier beside her—Corporal Hayes, the one who’d pulled her in—shifted, his rifle propped against his knee. “Heard JBLM went dark an hour ago. You were there?”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, voice hollow. “It fell—hybrids, ships, that thing. He got me out.”

  Hayes whistled low. “Hell of a night. Fairchild’s our last holdout west of the Cascades—maybe the state. Radio’s spotty, but word is Seattle’s gone, Portland too.”

  Gone. The word sank like lead. Jake—four-eyed, lost to the cult—flashed in her mind. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. “What’s at Fairchild?”

  “Planes, troops, walls,” Kessler cut in. “If it’s still standing, we evac east—Spokane’s got bunkers, maybe NORAD’s got a plan. If not…” She trailed off, jaw tight.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The truck jolted over a fallen branch, headlights catching glints in the trees—eyes, too many, watching. Sarah tensed, but Hayes shook his head. “Gaunts. Too small to rush us—yet. They’re scouting.”

  “For what?” she asked, though she knew.

  “The big one,” Kessler said. “That tyrant’s not done. Crash pissed it off—probably tracking us now.”

  Sarah’s stomach twisted. Rodriguez’s shots echoed in her memory, his silhouette against the dark. She’d left him, like Jake. “Can we outrun it?”

  “Maybe,” Hayes said, loading a fresh mag. “This rig’s armored—treads’ll chew through anything short of a tank-killer. But if it catches us…” He mimed a slash across his throat.

  The road widened, pavement replacing mud—a rural highway, signs shredded or toppled. Kessler pushed the speed, the truck lurching past abandoned cars, some blood-streaked, doors ajar. A pickup sat overturned, its driver’s arm dangling, claw marks raking the hood. Sarah looked away, bile rising.

  “Ten miles,” Kessler announced. “Fairchild’s got radar—if they’re alive, they’ll see us.”

  Sarah leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The sky was lighter, a gray pre-dawn, but the bio-ships’ shadows lingered, faint specks high above. The psychic hum buzzed, a dull ache now, not as sharp as the Tyrant’s scream. She rubbed her temples, fighting another flash—Jake, chanting, his voice merging with the bells.

  “You okay?” Hayes asked, frowning.

  “No,” she admitted. “It’s… in my head. My brother—he’s with them. The cult. I keep seeing him.”

  Kessler glanced back, sharp. “Psychic shit? That’s their trick—hybrids, tyrants, they mess with you. Seen it turn good soldiers into wrecks. Fight it.”

  “How?”

  “Focus on what’s real,” Hayes said. “This truck. Us. Fairchild. Rest is noise.”

  She nodded, gripping the flare gun’s empty shell. Real—Rodriguez’s blood on her hands, the crash’s heat, this rattling ride. Jake was a ghost now, a memory to claw back later—if there was a later.

  A thud hit the roof, heavy, deliberate. Kessler cursed, swerving. “Hold on!” Hayes swung his rifle up, firing through a hatch—bullets sparked off chitin, a gaunt’s screech cut short as it tumbled off. Another landed, claws scraping, then a third.

  “Scouts!” Hayes yelled, reloading. “Big one’s close!”

  Sarah’s heart raced. The hum sharpened, a blade in her skull, and the trees parted—a shadow loomed, massive, winged. The Hive Tyrant, battered but alive, its roar shaking the truck. Kessler floored it, tires screaming, but it charged, blade-arms gleaming.

  “Brace!” she shouted, as the world tilted toward doom.