Date: 4:00 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Airborne, En Route to Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado

  The C-17 hummed at thirty thousand feet, a steady drone that couldn’t drown the echoes of Fairchild’s collapse. Sarah sat strapped in, Kessler’s knife sheathed in her belt, its ichor-stained blade a grim trophy. The cabin was a muted storm—soldiers checking weapons, civilians whispering, a medic stitching a gash on a teenage boy’s arm. The air smelled of sweat and jet fuel, tinged with the faint rot of hybrid blood still drying on her hands.

  Kessler leaned back beside her, eyes half-closed, pistol resting on her thigh. “You’re a hell of a fighter for a scribbler,” she said, voice rough but warm. “Saved our asses back there.”

  “Dumb luck,” Sarah muttered, staring at her hands. Ramirez’s gurgle, Hayes’ stillness—they weighed heavier than the knife. “Doesn’t feel like winning.”

  “Surviving’s winning,” Kessler countered. “Rest don’t get a vote.”

  Sarah nodded, though it didn’t ease the knot in her chest. The psychic hum buzzed, faint now, a thread tying her to Jake—four-eyed, lost, calling her back. She rubbed her temples, pushing him out. “How far’s Cheyenne?”

  “Two hours, give or take,” Kessler said, glancing at a soldier’s watch. “NORAD’s deep—mountain’ll hold if anything does. Fairchild was a sieve.”

  A shudder ran through the plane, subtle but sharp. Sarah tensed, gripping her harness. “That normal?”

  Kessler frowned, sitting up. “No.” She flagged a soldier—a wiry airman with a headset, scurrying past. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “ Turbulence,” he said, not stopping. “Weather’s crap—bio-ships messing with the jet stream. Pilot’s on it.”

  The cabin lights flickered, a murmur rippling through the hold. Sarah peered out a porthole—clouds churned below, gray and restless, but the sky above was clear, stars piercing the dark. No bio-ships, no gargoyles. Yet the hum pulsed, a heartbeat she couldn’t shake.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Weather, my ass,” Kessler muttered, hand tightening on her pistol. “Feels off.”

  Another jolt, harder, rocking the plane. A kid screamed, the medic cursing as his needle slipped. The intercom crackled—“This is Captain Torres. Minor turbulence—stay seated, belts on. We’re stable, ETA 0600.” His tone was calm, but Sarah caught the edge, a crack in the facade.

  She unstrapped, ignoring Kessler’s glare, and leaned toward the porthole again. Something glinted—a flicker in the clouds, too fast for lightning. “You see that?” she asked.

  Kessler joined her, squinting. “Yeah. Not weather.” She banged on the hull, calling, “Airman! Get up front—check the cockpit!”

  The wiry kid hesitated, then nodded, jogging forward. The plane steadied, but the hum grew—sharp, insistent. Sarah’s head throbbed, Jake’s voice whispering—“You can’t hide…” She clenched her jaw, fighting it, when a scream cut through the cabin—not a kid, not a civilian.

  The airman stumbled back, blood spraying from his throat, a hybrid pilot behind him—four eyes glowing, claws dripping. The cockpit door hung open, Torres slumped over the controls, neck torn. Panic erupted—soldiers unbuckling, civilians shrieking, Kessler firing as the hybrid lunged.

  Sarah dove, knife out, slashing its leg—it screeched, staggering, giving Kessler a clear shot to its head. It dropped, ichor pooling, but the plane tilted, nose dipping fast. Alarms blared—“Altitude warning! Pull up!”—the co-pilot’s seat empty, another hybrid corpse sprawled there.

  “Cockpit!” Kessler yelled, shoving Sarah forward. They ran, dodging flailing limbs, the plane spiraling. Sarah climbed over the dead pilot, blood slicking her hands, staring at the controls—levers, screens, chaos. “I can’t fly this!”

  “Stabilize it!” Kessler barked, dragging Torres out, taking his seat. “Yoke—pull back, slow!”

  Sarah grabbed the yoke, yanking—too hard, the plane lurching up, then down. Kessler cursed, flipping switches, her hands a blur. “Throttle—left panel, ease it!” Sarah fumbled, sliding it back, the engines whining softer. The spiral slowed, the horizon leveling, but lights flashed—fuel low, hydraulics failing.

  Soldiers piled in, one—a tech, Jenkins—shouting, “I’ve got it!” He shoved past, taking the co-pilot’s seat, hands flying over the controls. “Shot to hell—hydraulics are toast, but I can glide her. Cheyenne’s close—emergency landing.”

  Sarah stepped back, panting, Kessler beside her. The psychic hum laughed, Jake’s voice—“Nowhere left…”—fading as Jenkins fought the plane. The cabin quieted, fear thick, the ground rushing up through the windshield—mountains, dark and jagged.

  “Brace!” Jenkins yelled, as the C-17 screamed toward earth.