Date: 5:45 AM, April 1, 2025

  Location: Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  The C-17 hit the ground like a sledgehammer, metal screeching as it skidded across the runway. Sarah braced against the cockpit wall, her teeth rattling, Kessler gripping the co-pilot’s seat beside her. Jenkins wrestled the yoke, cursing under his breath as sparks flew outside, the plane’s belly grinding concrete. The cabin rocked, screams echoing from the hold, then—silence, abrupt and heavy, as it shuddered to a stop.

  Sarah exhaled, shaky, her hands still clenched from the controls. “We alive?”

  “Barely,” Jenkins rasped, slumping back, sweat beading on his brow. “Glided her in—runway’s short, but Cheyenne’s got us.” He tapped the cracked windshield—beyond, the mountain loomed, its steel blast doors glinting under dawn’s gray light.

  Kessler unstrapped, standing with a groan. “Good work, kid. Let’s move—don’t trust this wreck to stay quiet.” She kicked the hybrid pilot’s corpse aside, ichor staining her boot, and nodded at Sarah. “You too.”

  Sarah stumbled out, legs wobbly, following Kessler into the hold. The survivors—fifty, maybe—unbuckled, dazed but moving, soldiers herding civilians toward the ramp. The air stank of burnt rubber and blood, the psychic hum a faint drone now, Jake’s whisper gone—for once. She gripped the knife at her belt, its weight grounding her.

  Outside, Cheyenne Mountain Complex buzzed with grim purpose. Humvees rolled up, soldiers in hazmat gear waving them out, rifles trained on the sky. A bio-ship hovered miles west, tendrils probing the horizon, but the mountain’s anti-air batteries held it at bay—tracers arcing, a fragile shield. Dawn painted the peaks red, a stark contrast to the chaos below.

  A captain—Vasquez, broad-shouldered, scars crisscrossing his face—met them at the ramp. “Fairchild evac?” he barked, eyeing Kessler’s bloodied uniform.

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  “Yeah,” she replied, saluting weakly. “Sergeant Kessler, National Guard. This is Thompson—civilian, JBLM witness. Plane’s shot—hybrids hit the cockpit.”

  Vasquez nodded, grim. “Heard. NORAD’s tracking—West Coast’s a graveyard, East’s buckling. You’re the last from Washington.” He waved them toward a tunnel entrance, blast doors grinding open. “Inside—decon, debrief. Move.”

  They shuffled in, the tunnel’s fluorescent lights harsh after the dark. Hazmat teams sprayed them down—cold, chemical mist stinging Sarah’s cuts—then waved them through. The complex swallowed them, a maze of concrete and steel, air thick with recycled tension. Soldiers lined the halls, some bandaged, others staring blankly, the weight of a world unraveling in their eyes.

  Vasquez led them to a command room—screens wall-to-wall, maps glowing red with bio-ship clusters: Seattle, LA, Chicago falling, New York teetering. A general—Harrington, silver-haired, voice like gravel—turned from a console. “Kessler, Thompson. Sit. What’s JBLM?”

  Sarah spoke, voice hoarse but steady. “Overrun—hybrids inside, bio-ships dropped heavies. Carnifex, Hive Tyrant. Colonel Rodriguez held ‘em off—didn’t make it. Fairchild fell too—cult’s everywhere.”

  Harrington’s jaw tightened. “Matches intel. Genestealer cults—years deep, turning our own. Tyranids hit hard—vanguard’s here, main fleet’s coming. Cheyenne’s our line—NORAD’s rallying what’s left.”

  “What’s left?” Kessler asked, leaning forward.

  “Scraps,” he said, tapping the map. “Europe’s dark, Asia’s patchy. We’ve got bunkers, planes, nukes if it comes to it. But they’re eating us—biomass, fuel for more.” He pointed west. “That ship’s probing—tyrant’s with it, your friend from the road.”

  Sarah’s gut clenched. “It followed us?”

  “Likely,” Vasquez cut in. “Psychic link—cult’s got eyes in you, maybe. Seen it before.”

  Jake. The hum twitched, a flicker—she shoved it down. “My brother’s with them. Keeps… talking to me.”

  Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “Useful, if we can use it. Rest now—bunks down the hall. We’ll need you sharp. Evac’s done—now we fight.”

  They stood, dismissed, but Sarah lingered, staring at the map—red swallowing blue, a tide of death. Kessler touched her arm. “Sleep, Thompson. Can’t save him if you’re dead.”

  She nodded, following to the bunks—rows of steel, a dozen survivors already out cold. She collapsed onto one, knife beside her, the hum a dull ache. Jake’s face hovered as her eyes closed—not four-eyed now, just him, scared, young. “I’m coming,” she whispered, slipping into uneasy rest.

  Outside, the mountain held, but the bio-ship waited, patient, hungry.