Date: 3:00 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Highway to Fairchild AFB, Western Washington

  The truck lurched as the Hive Tyrant slammed into its side, a thunderous crash that dented the armored hull and threw Sarah against her seatbelt. Glass shattered in the windshield’s corner, rain spraying in, and Kessler wrestled the wheel, tires squealing on wet pavement. The psychic hum exploded into a scream, a white-hot spike in Sarah’s skull—Jake’s four-eyed face flickered, pleading, then gone.

  “Hold it together!” Kessler roared, swerving as the Tyrant’s blade-arm swiped, sparking off the roof. The truck tilted, two wheels lifting, then slammed back down, rocking the cabin. Hayes fired through the hatch, bullets ricocheting off the beast’s chitin, useless against its bulk.

  Sarah gripped the empty flare gun, heart hammering. “Can’t outrun it!” she yelled, voice cracking over the chaos.

  “Don’t need to!” Kessler snapped. “Five miles—Fairchild’s got turrets, air cover—if we make it!” She floored the gas, the engine howling as the truck surged, shoving past a wrecked sedan. The Tyrant kept pace, its wings buzzing, a blur of muscle and hate.

  Gaunts leapt from the trees, slamming onto the hood—three, then five—claws raking metal. Hayes swung his rifle, blasting one off, its ichor splattering the windshield. Sarah unbuckled, grabbing a crowbar from the floor—better than nothing—and smashed it through a side window, cracking a gaunt’s skull. It fell, tumbling under the wheels with a wet crunch.

  “Good hit!” Hayes shouted, reloading. “Keep ‘em off!”

  The Tyrant roared, lunging again, its claw punching through the rear door. Metal tore like paper, wind howling in as it yanked, nearly ripping the hinges free. Kessler cursed, veering hard—the beast stumbled, dragged briefly, but regained footing, its psychic scream buckling Sarah’s knees.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  “Shit—it’s in my head!” she gasped, dropping the crowbar, clutching her temples. Jake’s voice whispered—“Join us, Sarah. The Star Children—” She screamed, slamming her fist against the seat, fighting it back.

  Hayes grabbed her shoulder. “Focus! Real—here—now!” He shoved his pistol into her hands. “Shoot, damn it!”

  She nodded, shaky, aiming through the torn rear. The Tyrant loomed, eyes glowing, blade-arm raised. She fired—crack-crack-crack—bullets sparking off its face, doing nothing but pissing it off. It roared, slamming both claws down, rocking the truck onto its side.

  The world spun, glass shattering, bodies tumbling. Sarah hit the wall, air punched from her lungs. The truck skidded, grinding sparks, then stopped, half-tilted in a ditch. Silence fell, broken by the Tyrant’s thudding steps and the gaunts’ chittering.

  Kessler groaned, pinned under the dash, blood trickling from her scalp. “Move… get out…” Hayes unstrapped, staggering up, rifle ready—but the rear door was gone, the Tyrant’s shadow filling the gap.

  Sarah scrambled back, pistol trembling. “We’re dead—”

  “Not yet!” Hayes fired, a burst into the Tyrant’s maw. It flinched, ichor dripping, then swiped—Hayes dove, but the claw caught his leg, hurling him against the hull with a sickening crack. He slumped, still.

  The Tyrant leaned in, psychic weight crushing her—Jake’s voice again, “Surrender—” She screamed, firing the pistol dry, bullets pinging off its armor. It reared back, ready to end her.

  Then—lights, blinding, from the north. A roar—not alien, mechanical—tanks, two of them, rolling down the highway, cannons blazing. Shells slammed the Tyrant, blasting chunks of chitin, forcing it back. Helicopters thumped overhead, searchlights pinning the beast as rockets streaked, exploding in gouts of flame.

  “Fairchild!” Kessler rasped, shoving free of the dash. “They saw us!”

  Sarah dropped the pistol, crawling to Hayes—he breathed, barely, leg mangled. The Tyrant screeched, retreating under the barrage, gaunts scattering. The tanks rolled closer, soldiers spilling out, shouting, “Survivors! Move!”

  Hands grabbed Sarah, pulling her from the wreck. She stumbled into the rain, Kessler limping beside her, Hayes dragged by medics. The helicopters circled, driving the Tyrant into the trees, its roar fading but not gone.

  A soldier—a lieutenant—gripped her arm. “You’re safe. Fairchild’s half a mile—let’s go.”

  Safe. The word felt hollow, the psychic hum still buzzing, Jake’s ghost in her mind. She nodded, numb, as they loaded her into a jeep. The Tyrant was alive. Rodriguez was gone. And this wasn’t over.