Chapter 135: Manhattan Crisis - Part 2
The plaza outside Ambrose Restaurants was now thick with tension. The red sky boiled with lightning. A moment of silence passed between the leaders as they absorbed the message that had just burned itself into their minds.
Then-
"FUCKING CHAOS INSURGENTS!"
The sudden outburst came from PENTAGRAM Leader, slamming his fist against the marble railing. His scream shattered the frozen silence, igniting a wave of reaction across the crowd.
Some gasped.
Others cursed.
The summit had turned into a battlefield—and everyone knew it.
Léonard turned his head toward Graves.
"Read my memory," he said quietly, eyes sharp as blades. "I give you permission."
Graves nodded without hesitation. He closed his eyes. For a brief moment, there was nothing. Then, a jolt, his eyes shot open.
"Fucking insurgents," he muttered under his breath, fury simmering in his voice.
"Contact HQ," Léonard ordered.
Graves pulled out his device, fingers tapping commands in quick succession. A moment later, his face darkened.
"No contact with headquarters," he said grimly. "Only link we have is with our units deployed in Backdoor SoHo. Global relay is dead."
Before anyone could reply, a voice cut through the chaos.
"Wait!"
It was a man in a sleek black coat, bearing the insignia of a Japanese anomalous organization. His voice was sharp, anxious.
"I know this SCP. I've read it in the wiki before."
Everyone turned toward him.
He spoke quickly. "It's similar to the Undervegas collapse. The pattern is the same. The veil between dimensions is breaking, Hell is bleeding into our world. There will be a mass emergence of demons… and worse."
The air went cold. Every leader present froze.
"That's not all," the Japanese leader added. "According to the original story, based on 9/11 terrorist attack, the biggest threat is not the demons-"
He hesitated.
"-It's the birth of a destructive god."
The silence shattered into shouts of disbelief.
"A GOD?!"
"Impossible!"
"You're insane!"
Léonard stepped forward. The commotion silenced as his presence pressed down on the crowd like a stormfront.
He faced the Japanese leader directly, eyes locked onto his.
"Tell me," he asked. "Is this god dangerous?"
The man hesitated, looked around. Then he leaned forward and whispered a single name into Léonard's ear.
Everything stopped.
Léonard's pupils contracted. His jaw tightened.
That name-
He clenched his fists, trembling with fury. Then shouted:
"We cannot let that god be born. If we do, it's over, for all of us."
He accessed the System.
[ Management]
Site-28: Under Alert.
Pi-1 "City Slickers": Ready to deploy.
Upsilon-23 "Art Critics": Ready to deploy.
He pulled up the deployment map. His fingers moved with decisive speed.
"Mobilize," he growled.
[MTF Pi-1 "City Slickers" – Full combat deployment]
[MTF Nu-7 "Hammer Down" – Full combat deployment]
[MTF Beta-777 "Hecate's Spear" – Full combat deployment]
[MTF Tau-5 "Samsara" – Full combat deployment]
[MU-0 "Maxwell's Demons" – Full combat deployment]
[MTF Omega-7 "Pandora's Box" – Full combat deployment]
[Omega-45 "Street Samurai" – Full combat deployment]
[Xi-13 "Sequeres Nos" – Full combat deployment]
Then came the report from Site-28. Chaos. Widespread destruction. Hostile sightings. Civilian casualties. Still no contact with Overwatch Command.
Léonard ground his teeth.
He rerouted Upsilon-23 "Art Critics" to lead civilian evacuation.
[Order issued: Alpha-1 "Red Right Hand" and Omega-1 "Law's Left Hand" to regroup with all OoTA agents and remaining Resh-1 team stationed at Savoy Park Apartments.]
Then-
"Boss."
Graves leaned in, his voice low and tense.
"Second team just reported: We've got a mass of unknown combatants advancing fast. Modern weaponry. Some sarkics spotted with them. They're heading straight toward us."
Léonard didn't blink.
His voice was cold steel.
"Kill them all."
---
North of the central plaza in Backdoor SoHo, where twisted murals bled color and alleyways shimmered with impossible angles, twenty Resh-1 operators knelt atop the rooftops of warped buildings. Under the red storm skies and shifting architecture of the extradimensional district, they moved like specters, unseen, unheard, unfelt.
Their leader, Alexei, codenamed Bravo-1, adjusted the side of his headset. Graves' voice came cold and clear:
"Order from Crown. Kill them all. Block their advance."
Alexei narrowed his eyes behind his mask.
"Copy," he muttered, then whispered into the encrypted channel, "Listen up. Crown just gave us the greenlight. All hostiles. No quarter. We hold the line here."
One by one, purple targeting runes lit up in the corners of their visors as their augmented reality HUDs highlighted movement below.
A heavily armed column of twenty-five hostiles approached, a mix of modern urban fighters, guerrilla armor, and several tall, twisted figures cloaked in flesh-threaded robes. Sarkics.
"Sarkics confirmed," Bravo-1 said calmly.
Then, louder into comms: "Engage. Shadows only."
The rooftop exploded into silent motion.
Resh-1 launched into the air like wraiths, bounding rooftop to rooftop, covering thirty meters in a blink. No footstep echoed. No breath escaped. The only sound was the crack of suppressed rifles unleashing death.
The first barrage was brutal. Hollow-point bullets laced with thaumaturgy runes pierced through flesh and armor alike. Explosive-tipped rounds detonated mid-flight, ripping the heads off two insurgents. Standard rounds followed right after, neat, fast, efficient.
Then came the grenades.
Two shimmering spheres flew down into the formation. A brief pulse of distortion, then half the street tore itself inside out. Blood sprayed in every direction. Limbs fell like fruit from a broken tree.
The Sarkics howled, raising sigils and claws, but it was too late.
From above, Bravo-4 leapt down and landed on a Sarkic priest, breaking his spine with a twist of the knee. A second later, he shoved his rifle under the robed figure's jaw and fired twice. The head was gone.
"Clear left flank," came Bravo-6's voice.
"Two on me," said Bravo-3. "Mid column. Dropping now."
More bodies hit the street. Not a single Resh-1 operator was touched.
It was a massacre.
In under forty seconds, the first wave was down to five wounded, screaming, crawling through gore.
Alexei dropped from a balcony and landed just behind one of them. He placed a boot on the man's spine and fired once through the back of his skull.
Then he looked up.
"Finish them."
Resh-1 obeyed without hesitation. Gunfire roared again, clean and surgical, until nothing remained but blood and ash.
As the last echo of gunfire faded, the bodies of the enemy's vanguard lay strewn across the crimson-stained streets below, riddled with holes and torn apart by concussive grenades. Not a single Resh-1 operator had taken a hit. From above, like shadows cast by death itself, they watched in silence.
Then, more shapes arrived, ten more figures landing softly on a rooftop nearby. It was the first half of the 1st group. They moved like ghosts, tactical gear barely shifting, weapons ready.
The leader of the incoming squad approached and gave a sharp salute.
"Sir," said Alpha-2.
Alexei returned the salute with a nod. His voice was calm but absolute.
"Alright, listen up." His words were clipped and surgical. "We split into three teams. First group, you take the left flank. My team" He pointed to the operators behind him. "we take the center. Bravo-11, you lead your half of Group 2 and sweep the right."
He looked each leader in the eyes.
"We move in parallel. We push. We cleanse. Capture officers if you can. If not… terminate them. Don't play the hero."
Alpha-2 and Bravo-11 nodded.
Alexei's voice dropped one last order:
"Action."
Without another word, the 30 Resh-1 operators separated, jumping to different rooftops with silent, fluid precision. Alexei's squad landed on a slope just above a courtyard filled with over fifty armed insurgents and half a dozen Sarkics.
The Chaos forces were setting up heavy emplacements and ritual circles glowing red. They had no idea they were already surrounded.
Alexei raised his hand.
3… 2… 1.
FIRE!!!
The team opened fire.
The first row of insurgents dropped instantly, their chests exploding under precise triple-tap bursts of mixed ammo, standard, enchanted, and micro-explosive. Screams erupted, but they were quickly silenced by disciplined bursts.
One Sarkic acolyte tried to complete a summoning. Bravo-3 launched a glyph-dampening grenade. The ritual imploded, the acolyte swallowed in a surge of collapsing energy.
Another enemy with a rocket launcher raised it. Bravo-6 put a high-velocity round through his skull before he could pull the trigger.
Alexei didn't speak. He didn't need to.
They advanced as one, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, raining death on every angle. The street below turned into a warzone lit with tracer rounds and streaks of thaumaturgic recoil fire from the enemy. None of it touched them.
A Sarkic beast rose from the alley, all muscle and fused bone, howling like broken metal.
Alexei pulled a modified grenade from his belt. "Catch," he muttered.
The beast barely had time to roar before it was vaporized in blue flame.
They moved forward again.
The first wave was gone.
The street was silent.
Only the smoke remained.
The rooftops shuddered under the thunder of boots as Alexei's team landed like silent meteors along the rusted metal awnings and art-covered facades of the Northern Strip. Below them, the chaos swelled: over two hundred enemy soldiers, some in mismatched tactical gear, others in civilian clothes wielding rifles moved in formation through the winding alleyways of Backdoor SoHo's northern market sector.
A normal military unit would've called for reinforcements. Resh-1 didn't.
Alexei crouched at the edge of a rooftop, peering down through the dark-purple haze. Eyes behind his mask glinted with razor clarity.
He lifted two fingers.
Split and surround.
His team obeyed instantly.
Bravo-5 and Bravo-8 leapt across to a lower roof on the right flank. Bravo-3 and Bravo-7 vanished to the left. Alexei stayed with Bravo-2 and Bravo-6 at center. They moved like water. No wasted motion. No sound.
Below, the enemy organized into squads of ten. Several had light vehicles. Makeshift barricades blocked intersections. A group of Sarkic fanatics were daubing blood symbols onto a van.
They still had no idea they were being watched.
Alexei activated comms. One phrase.
"Begin."
The first explosion shattered the calm.
A canister launched from the rooftops cracked mid-air, exploding into a burst of electrified silver mist. A full enemy squad convulsed as the mist tore into nerves and metal, their screams muffled by the next hail of bullets.
Bravo-3's team opened fire from the left. Controlled bursts, armor-piercing, explosive, and arcane rounds all mixed in a symphony of slaughter. Every trigger pull dropped a target.
The chaos rippled instantly.
"CONTACT! ON THE ROOFS!"
They aimed up, too late.
Bravo-8 was already dropping grenades from a third-story window into their rear line. Each explosion sent bodies flying, fire and shrapnel igniting ammo belts and cooking off fuel tanks.
At the center, Alexei stood tall.
"Push."
They jumped down.
The fall was twenty feet. Didn't matter. Boots landed hard, knees flexed. Bravo-6 swept with a flamethrower laced with napalm, clearing a full vehicle column in one sweep. Screams turned into gurgles as blackened shapes collapsed in piles.
Bravo-2 carved precise paths through retreating gunmen. No missed shots. Every bullet landed between eyes or under jaws.
A heavy machine gun opened fire from behind a van. Bravo-7 leapt from a balcony, slammed a breaching axe through the barrel mid-burst, then shoved a breaching charge inside the van and dove away.
Boom.
Half the block was engulfed.
The remaining insurgents panicked. Some tried to rally.
One commander screamed, "THEY'RE JUST TEN MEN, PUSH UP!"
He got a bullet through the throat. The rest hesitated.
Bravo-3 appeared behind them, muttering to himself "and these ten men are beating your ass, asshole."
He dropped two smoke bombs. Inside the cover, screams erupted, muffled gunfire, bones snapping, skulls crushed with butts of rifles. When the smoke cleared, thirty corpses were neatly stacked against a wall.
Alexei walked past them, unfazed. Blood mist clung to his black tactical coat.
He raised his rifle, switched ammo type.
Explosive rounds.
The remaining enemy began to fall back, but it was too late.
Bravo-5 launched a drone overhead, tagging retreating units. Alexei's visor lit up with HUD targets. One by one, he picked them off. Heads burst. Legs vaporized. Hearts imploded.
Bravo-6 to Bravo-1:
"All squads accounted. Over 200 enemies down. Zero wounded."
Alexei clicked his comms.
"Good. Regroup. Ammo check. Move east."
Behind them, the Northern Strip burned.
And Resh-1 disappeared into the shadows again.
---
During this time, back in New York, red lights pulsed across the concrete walls of Site-28, hidden beneath a seemingly mundane apartment complex just south of SoHo. The wail of alarms echoed through every hallway. Steel doors sealed themselves shut, armored shutters dropped over critical infrastructure, and emergency klaxons screamed through the thick, reinforced corridors.
Personnel flooded the internal walkways. Scientists and analysts sprinted toward reinforced shelters, escorted by armed security. Engineers rushed to preserve on-site Scranton Reality Anchor's. Combat-ready guards barked orders, establishing defensive chokepoints near armories, data cores, and the entrance to the command bunker.
Inside the Operations Room, Site Director Meredith Caldwell stood in the center of a command dais, a hand clenched tight around the edge of the central console. Her black hair was pulled tight in a low bun, her expression carved from iron.
She growled, voice sharp as steel.
"Report. Status on the dimensional incursion?"
A technician seated at the main console replied without turning:
"Very bad, ma'am. The dimensional anomaly is expanding, approximately one hundred meters per hour, in every direction. The initial burst from the force field destabilized most of the underground power conduits across Lower Manhattan. Large sections of the grid are down."
Another tech added, tapping frantically at a set of data windows:
"Worse than that, Director, scans show massive emissions of high-density Akiva Radiation-like energy. Purity is off the charts. It's disrupting all short and long-wave communication. We've lost contact with Overwatch Command and every other Foundation installation."
Director Caldwell's expression darkened.
"Last received order?"
"Deploy MTF Pi-1 'City Slickers' to the epicenter. MTF Upsilon-23 'Art Critics' to assist with civilian evacuation."
Her jaw tensed.
"Inventory check," she said, already knowing the answer would displease her. "What do we have in terms of hallowed assets, holy water reserves, sanctified ammunition, blessed silver, anything?"
A young logistician looked up from his screen, face pale.
"According to current inventory levels… we have enough consecrated equipment to sustain six hours of sustained combat. After that, we'll be dry."
Crack.
Her fist slammed into the steel partition beside the main terminal. A deep dent caved into the wall. Nobody spoke.
Breathing hard through her nose, she exhaled slowly.
"Get me comms with the MTF team leads."
The comms tech flipped through encrypted channels, finally establishing a crackling connection. A voice answered:
"Slickers-1 to Site-28 Command, reading you."
Another voice chimed in right after:
"Critics-1 here. Loud and clear, ma'am."
Caldwell straightened, regaining full composure.
"Both of your task forces are to fully rearm. High-priority loadout: blessed ammunition, holy water grenades, and thaumaturgy countermeasures. City Slickers, you're going in first, visual confirmation of the anomaly site and primary threat assessment."
"Copy," said Slickers-1.
"Art Critics, you'll coordinate with my on-site tactical squad and security personnel. I want a full evac corridor secured around Site-28. Liaise with local NYPD units and any GOC personnel embedded near us. We need civilians clear from SoHo to the Lower East Side. Avoid confrontation unless provoked. Full evacuation priority."
There was no hesitation.
"Understood."
"Yes ma'am."
Caldwell turned toward the wide city map as it updated in real time, a red bloom spreading from midtown like blood from a wound. Her hands curled behind her back, and her voice dropped.
"God help this city."
---
Site-28 MTF Wing, SoHo
The armory buzzed with tension. Fluorescent lights flickered above rows of lockers and weapons racks as both Mobile Task Forces, MTF Pi-1 "City Slickers" and MTF Upsilon-23 "Art Critics", finished gearing up. Kevlar, rune-stitched body armor, helmet HUDs, enchanted visors. Holy water capsules clicked into launchers. Silver-infused ammunition was loaded with care. No one wasted a breath.
Slickers-1 shoved a clip into his carbine and turned to Critics-1 with a smirk.
"You better not fucking die out there. You still owe me a hundred bucks."
Critics-1 snorted, slinging a sidearm over his shoulder.
"Talk for yourself. We're in the back lines. Honestly, wouldn't mind watching a demon bite your damn ass off."
The two laughed. No fear. Just old friends on another nightmare job.
They tapped fists in a quick, unspoken gesture.
Then Slickers-1 turned to his team.
"Alright, Pi-1, move out!"
The heavy vault door hissed open. A hidden passageway snaked into darkness. They advanced in silence, boots thudding down the tight corridor lined with old utility pipes and glowing sigils. At the end, a small maintenance hatch gave way into the underground levels of the Spring Street Station.
The metal door opened with a low groan. The squad stepped into a damp service room under the platform. One by one, the Slickers ascended the stairwell, weapons raised.
They emerged into the open, right at the station entrance, and were instantly greeted by the startled faces of over twenty NYPD officers. The cops had established a checkpoint near the turnstiles, barricading the subway entrance. They jumped to alert status the moment Pi-1's soldiers came into view, guns at the ready.
Slickers-1's eyes narrowed. Several of the "NYPD" were holding weapons way too advanced, sleek compact rail rifles, aura-dampening visors, even a sigil-burned suppressor on one barrel.
"Global Occult Coalition?" he asked.
That was enough.
The "officers" raised their weapons. Pi-1's operators did the same, forming a semicircle, weapons up, safeties off.
It was about to go bad.
Slickers-1 stepped forward slowly, arms raised, voice calm but firm.
"Hold your fire. SCP Foundation operators. We're here under direct emergency orders."
There was a tense pause. You could cut the air with a blade.
Then the GOC team leader, tall, armored, a silver stripe across his helmet, lowered his weapon and signaled the others to do the same.
"…Understood."
The SCP operators followed suit, weapons lowered, fingers off triggers.
For a moment, silence.
Then the GOC officer nodded.
"We're holding this junction. A thousand civilians two blocks east. You here to assist?"
Slickers-1 replied, dead serious.
"Yeah. But first, we need to finish our mission."
The GOC officer adjusted the grip on his weapon, eyeing the HUD screen embedded in his forearm gauntlet.
"You guys getting radio interference too?"
Slickers-1 gave a short nod, the grim look in his eyes matching the one reflected in the GOC leader's visor.
"Yeah. Everything past a few blocks is fried. Full blackout, no uplink to command, no satellite, no drone support. It's like the whole city's under a damn dome."
The two leaders stood in silence for a beat, the tension of war and uncertainty hanging in the air.
Finally, the GOC officer broke it.
"…Well. Good luck out there. If you come across any civvies, send them to SoHo. We're establishing a fallback zone, evacuation corridor, and triage point."
Slickers-1 gave a crisp nod.
"Understood. And good luck to you too. Try not to die."
He gave a two-finger salute, and then turned back toward his team.
"Pi-1, form up. We move."
The squad moved with quiet precision, boots hitting cracked pavement as they exited the subway entrance and emerged into the chaos of 6th Avenue, also known as Avenue of the Americas.
The street was pure bedlam.
Cars honked in every direction, some crashed into lampposts or buildings, others simply abandoned. Columns of civilians flooded the sidewalks, many screaming, most with only the clothes on their backs. Children cried. Parents shouted names over the din. Sirens wailed distantly, ambulances, police, fire, all overlapping like a funeral choir.
A column of NYPD officers, half in riot gear, desperately tried to maintain barricades near 23rd Street. Their megaphones barked commands that no one obeyed.
"Move south! Stay calm! Do not go north!"
But no one listened. The fear had turned into chaos.
As Pi-1 advanced up the street, civilians stumbled out of alleyways, some bloodied, others dragging the injured. They looked at the MTF operators, dressed like Special Forces, with raw desperation, some begging, others frozen in place.
Slickers-1 gave sharp orders.
"Keep moving. Do not break formation. We're not medics."
They moved in a diamond formation, rifles up, scanning every rooftop, window, and shadowed alley.
The Empire State Building loomed in the distance, now shrouded in red lightning and dense clouds that pulsed with unnatural color. Its upper floors were swallowed in mist that twisted unnaturally, alive, somehow.
Slickers-1 keyed into local comms.
"All units, we are advancing northbound along 6th Ave. Encountering heavy civilian congestion. No hostiles yet."
But his gut told him that wouldn't last.
Pi-1 advanced with precision through the chaos of 6th Avenue, weaving between wrecked cars, panicked civilians, and debris strewn across the asphalt like war trophies. The air stank of smoke, exhaust, and burnt ozone. Every shadow seemed to twitch. Every corner held the promise of violence.
Suddenly/
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
A violent chorus of gunfire erupted just ahead. Slickers-1 raised a clenched fist, signaling a halt. The team instantly dropped into defensive posture, rifles raised, visors scanning.
Ahead, a makeshift barricade of crashed NYPD cruisers stretched across the street. Behind it, a squad of uniformed officers were unleashing everything they had, shotguns, ARs, even pistols, toward a massive tide of red-fleshed, clawed demons charging straight at them. The inhuman things screeched and howled like a thousand damned souls set loose.
Slickers-1 grit his teeth.
"We're not here to play heroes. No time. Cut right now."
Without hesitation, the squad peeled off into the nearest side street, leaving the hellish battle behind them.
They moved fast, clearing corners, checking rooftops, pressing forward.
Soon, the concrete skyline gave way to open space.
Washington Square Park.
The park had been hastily transformed into a relief zone.
Dozens of white medical tents had been erected between trees and statues. Paramedics and firefighters sprinted between gurneys, blood bags, and burn victims. Refugees huddled beneath blankets, many crying, others just staring blankly.
Pi-1 pushed through the crowds, drawing looks of awe and fear. Their black tactical armor, custom rifles, and advanced equipment did not go unnoticed.
Near the arch, they were stopped by an NYPD ESS-5 ERU team, helmets gleaming with riot visors and shield units.
Their commander approached cautiously.
"I'm Captain Jonathan Miller, ESS-5. Emergency Service Unit."
He paused, eyeing Slickers-1's uniform. "Who the hell are you?"
Slickers-1 gave a brisk nod and lied.
"We're from the 3rd Special Forces Group, mobilized for this Special situation."
Miller's eyes widened.
"Green Berets? Jesus. You boys got here fast."
"We're moving toward the Empire State Building. We need eyes on that red thing, whatever the hell it is."
Slickers-1's voice was calm. Deadly. Focused.
"Anything useful you can give us?"
Captain Miller exhaled and shook his head.
"Yeah… yeah. Whole area's crawling with monsters. Real freakshow shit, tearing people apart. We've got pockets of survivors trapped around 33rd. Rescue attempts failed. Whatever that thing is… it's spreading."
He looked around, then stepped closer.
"There's an old emergency tunnel network under 8th Street, goes all the way toward Midtown. Was part of a post-9/11 evacuation system. You might be able to pop out just two blocks from the tower. Avoids most surface chaos."
Slickers-1 nodded.
"You just saved lives, Captain. Thank you."
He turned to his squad.
"We are moving to 8th Street. Let's vanish underground."
And just like that, the unit slipped past the triage tents and burning ambulances, silent predators on the hunt, disappearing into the ruined city once again.
---
The tunnels beneath New York trembled with distant echoes, shouting, gunfire, collapsing stone.
Jenkins led the group of terrified civilians with quiet authority, flashlight in one hand, shotgun in the other. Behind him, Ramirez kept sweeping the rear, eyes locked on the shadows, finger near the trigger. Their boots splashed in the murky runoff of the subway as the ragged column of survivors trudged forward.
They finally reached the edge of the Union Square station.
Dim emergency lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows on the platform where dozens of civilians huddled together in fearful silence. Armed NYPD officers, their uniforms dirty and worn, held defensive positions at both ends of the platform, eyes haunted and weapons drawn.
The silence broke with the sudden clatter of approaching footsteps echoing from the tunnel.
"Contact!" one of the officers shouted, aiming his flashlight and rifle down the line.
The beam blinded Jenkins.
"Don't shoot!" Jenkins snapped, shielding his eyes. "Sergeant Jenkins, 13th Precinct!"
The officer lowered his weapon in relief.
"Sir! Sorry! We're on edge down here."
Jenkins gave a tired nod.
"We've got more civilians. Get them up on the platform."
The station came alive as officers and refugees rushed forward to help the new arrivals. Children were lifted up. Old women were helped by the arm. Some collapsed in exhaustion as soon as they reached safety.
Ramirez reached Jenkins' side, sweat glistening on his brow.
"Clear back there," he said.
"Let's go," Jenkins replied.
Together, they climbed the stairs from the platform into the street-level Union Square Park.
And they walked straight into hell.
The sky was red, like bleeding velvet. Smoke poured between buildings. A barricade of NYPD cruisers, garbage trucks, and armored vans had closed off every street except the south. Beyond it, the sound of automatic gunfire and roaring monstrosities shook the air.
They saw it: more than a hundred officers, Strategic Response Group sharpshooters, and Emergency Service Unit commandos, all forming the thin blue line holding back an onslaught of inhuman creatures—twisted humanoid figures with pink fog glued to their faces, charging on all fours, howling like beasts.
An NYPD mobile command unit was stationed at the corner of the square. Radios squawked with overlapping chatter. Medics screamed orders. Wounded were dragged behind trucks as ammo belts flew through the air.
At the center of the chaos, a police captain barked commands to a dozen units.
Jenkins and Ramirez rushed over.
"Sir!"
The captain turned, covered in sweat and dust.
"Munitions?" he asked, eyes sharp.
Jenkins quickly answered, "Five pistol mags, four shotgun shells."
Ramirez echoed, "Same."
The captain exhaled heavily, grabbing a clipboard.
"Resupply at the ERU truck near the barricade. We've got evac buses en route. When they arrive, I want both of you back on the civilians. You'll be escorting them out along University Pl."
He jabbed a finger toward the northern corner of the barricade.
"Hold that intersection. If it breaks, we lose this whole damn zone."
"Understood, sir!" they both shouted.
Without another word, they sprinted.
They grabbed ammo from the back of a battered ERU van, then took off toward the left flank of the barricade, toward Broadway, toward the monsters, toward the line between salvation and annihilation.
The air in Union Square vibrated with chaos.
Thunder rolled above like the breath of a titan. Red lightning crackled across the sky, spider-webbing between skyscrapers. The smell of ozone, cordite, and burning flesh clogged the air. Somewhere in the distance, a building exploded into flames, but here, at the northern barricade on Broadway, the real battle raged.
A deafening roar echoed through the avenue, and they came.
A tide of abominations surged from the smoke, dozens, then hundreds, crawling over wrecked cars and shattered pavement. Their movements were spasmodic, animalistic, twitching like marionettes on tangled strings. Their heads were still covered in that unnatural pink mist, glued like leeches to their skulls. Some dragged the mutilated corpses of the dead behind them, others crawled over their fallen in a mindless frenzy.
At the front of the barricade, Jenkins and Ramirez stood shoulder to shoulder with NYPD officers, ERU troopers, and SRG snipers, their backs against a line of cop cars and upturned sanitation trucks.
"HOLD THE LINE!" a lieutenant shouted, his voice cutting through the madness like a blade.
"DO NOT LET THEM THROUGH!"
The monsters charged.
Muzzle flashes lit up the darkened streets like a fireworks show in hell. The first wave of creatures was cut down in seconds, rifles cracked, shotguns roared, and tear gas grenades exploded between their ranks, but they kept coming.
Jenkins emptied his first mag into a twisted thing with arms like scythes. He swapped in a second without blinking, his jaw clenched, boots planted in blood-soaked concrete.
To his left, Ramirez fired his Remington, each blast tearing holes the size of melons into the oncoming wave.
"Back to hell, assholes!" he shouted.
A squad of ERU sharpshooters on an adjacent rooftop picked off the faster targets before they could leap. Their aim was precise, headshots only, blowing apart mist-covered skulls with surgical efficiency. One officer dropped to a knee to reload, and a demon nearly reached him, before a sniper above blew its head into misty chunks.
Still, they advanced.
A second wave of horrors crashed into the first line, monsters with longer limbs, barbed tongues, and bone plates for armor.
The ESU team deployed barricade shields and heavy riot guns. As the creatures surged, a barrage of beanbag rounds, non-lethal explosives, and incendiary flares met them in a storm of light and fire.
An SRG unit deployed portable claymore mines, planting them just behind police cruisers. When the demons closed in-
BOOM.
The front half of the street vanished in a spray of blood and shattered asphalt.
"RELOAD! PUSH BACK!" an officer screamed.
"DO NOT LET THEM GET CLOSE!"
A group of creatures darted into a side alley to flank, but Jenkins saw it.
"RIGHT FLANK! COVER THAT ALLEY!"
He and two SRG officers turned, weapons raised. The moment the creatures emerged, they were greeted by a wall of lead. Jenkins fired his last two shells and swapped to his sidearm.
Three headshots. Three kills.
Smoke hung heavy. Screams echoed from all directions, but the line held.
More demons tried to push up Broadway. A NYPD heavy machine gun, mounted on the roof of an armored van, opened fire. The .50 caliber rounds tore through five, six, seven monsters at a time, scattering them like rag dolls.
Suddenly, a lull.
The wave paused. The horde hesitated at the far end of the street, as if confused. Dozens of corpses now littered the battlefield, steaming and twitching in pools of their own black blood.
Then slowly,they began to retreat.
It wasn't organized. It was like a sudden switch had been flipped. The creatures peeled away into the alleys and the smoke, vanishing one by one into the crimson gloom.
Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of leaking gas lines and the moans of the wounded.
Jenkins lowered his pistol, his arms trembling. Ramirez leaned on the hood of a wrecked cruiser, catching his breath.
"We… we held it," Ramirez muttered.
The captain raised his radio, voice grim.
"Sector Broadway secure. Line intact. Prep the buses. Begin evacuation."
And with that, for the first time in what felt like hours, the defenders of Union Square had a moment to breathe.
But deep down, they all knew:
This was only the beginning.
Jenkins wiped sweat and soot from his forehead, still crouched behind the mangled shell of a patrol SUV. The battle had calmed, only a few scattered demons twitched on the pavement, and the evacuation buses had begun rolling in from the south.
Then something shifted.
Movement.
High. Fast.
Jenkins' eyes locked onto a shadow darting across a rooftop two blocks down, silhouetted by flashes of red lightning.
His stomach dropped.
His voice shattered the momentary peace.
"RPG!!!"
Time slowed.
He dove sideways behind a wrecked sanitation truck just as a streak of fire arced across the darkened sky. Officers screamed, some dropped, some froze, but the rocket found its target.
BOOM.
The front barricade erupted in a fireball. Debris and bodies flew backward in a storm of flame and steel. A cruiser exploded like a bomb, hurling its hood across the street where it crushed two officers trying to crawl to cover.
The square descended into chaos once more.
"CONTACT! CONTACT! NORTHWEST ROOFTOPS!" someone shouted, but then came the second blow.
From the northern end of Broadway, a new wave surged forward, twice the size of the last. Demons, more twisted than before, ran on all fours, some with glowing spines, others wreathed in red fog.
And among them, humans.
Jenkins' eyes widened as muzzle flashes sparked from between the creatures. Commandos in black, faces hidden behind helmets, fired with lethal precision, dropping NYPD officers with surgical shots. The attackers moved like trained professionals, tight formations, covering angles, working with the monsters like they were coordinating.
"WE'RE BEING FLANKED, THEY'VE GOT RIFLES!!! SNIPERS TOO!"
"AMBUSH!!" Ramirez yelled, dragging a wounded ESU trooper behind cover, his gear covered in blood.
The line broke.
The second RPG slammed into the command truck, the entire command post ignited, flipping into the air like a toy. Officers screamed, burning, their radios shorting out in bursts of static and panic.
Jenkins fired wildly into the shadows, hitting one of the black-clad gunmen square in the chest. The man collapsed, but another took his place instantly, unloading a burst at a nearby officer, cutting him down in mid-sprint.
The square turned into a slaughterhouse.
"FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" the captain roared into a half-working radio before being hit in the shoulder, spinning to the ground. Jenkins scrambled toward him, dragging him behind an ambulance.
Ramirez sprinted through the flying bullets, helping up a pair of SRG troopers and shoving them toward the metro entrance.
"GET TO THE STATION! MOVE YOUR ASS!"
A police bus trying to reverse exploded in flames as a grenade launched from above struck it square in the engine. Screams filled the air, drowning out even the gunfire.
The officers still able to move began a chaotic retreat, covering one another as best they could, dragging civilians and wounded with them. Jenkins threw a smoke grenade, obscuring the southern retreat as the last survivors sprinted for the subway stairs.
Behind them, the roar of demons and the crack of suppressed rifles tore through the fog.
"GO! GO! GO!" Ramirez shouted, covering the stairwell as Jenkins and the captain disappeared below.
He was the last to descend, hearing the shrill, monstrous howl of something massive stepping into the square above.
The steel security gate slammed shut behind them.
Jenkins collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, his heart pounding, his hands slick with blood that wasn't his.
He looked around.
Civilians sobbed in corners. Officers lay wounded, crying out for medics. The ERU sergeant they had met earlier was dead, his body riddled with shrapnel. Only two dozen officers had made it out of the square.
Jenkins turned to Ramirez, face pale.
"That wasn't just demons…"
Ramirez nodded, jaw clenched.
"No. That was coordinated. Someone's helping them."
And above them, Union Square burned.
The echoing voice of the lieutenant snapped through the choking tension like a whip.
"Alright! We're not dying down here, everyone moves! We're heading south through the tunnels. I want six officers up front, six on rear guard! Move, move, move!"
Officers immediately sprang into action, guiding civilians down off the platform onto the tracks, helping the elderly and the wounded lower themselves onto the gravel-covered floor. The emergency lanterns along the wall flickered erratically, bathing the station in a pulsing, pale orange glow.
Then came the sound.
A low, guttural rumble, too loud to be a train, too wet to be human rolled from the darkness of the northern tunnel. It grew louder, deeper, closer.
Everyone froze.
Then, a roar.
A monstrous, earth-shaking cry that rattled the rails and echoed down the entire length of the subway system. It was not human.
Faces turned white. Civilians whimpered and screamed.
"GO! GO! GO!" the lieutenant shouted, waving his arm toward the tunnel south. "They're coming! Get those civilians moving NOW!"
The refugees surged into motion, tripping and stumbling in their panic as they rushed into the southern darkness. Officers barked orders, dragging stragglers into motion.
Jenkins and Ramirez exchanged a glance, their grips tightening on their weapons.
"We hold this line!" Jenkins barked, stepping down onto the tracks alongside Ramirez and three other officers. They spread into formation, aiming their rifles into the pitch-black tunnel.
Behind them, the last of the civilians disappeared into the shadows of the southbound tunnel.
The lights flickered again.
Then they saw them.
Hundreds of figures came sprinting from the north. Not running… charging. Shadows with limbs too long, heads obscured by swirling clouds of pink mist that pulsed like living parasites.
Smoke-faced demons.
"OPEN FIRE!!" Jenkins roared.
Gunfire erupted, deafening in the narrow tunnel. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness as the first wave of inhuman creatures sprinted into view.
The bullets hit hard, tearing into the front ranks. Heads exploded in clouds of mist, limbs were severed by shotgun blasts. Bodies dropped by the dozens, twitching and bleeding.
But they kept coming.
The tunnel roared with the screeches and growls of the things. They ran along the walls, the ceiling, impossibly fast, their glowing eyes seething with rage and hunger.
"RELOADING!" one officer shouted, stepping back as the others covered him.
"Pull back! Five meters! Maintain fire!" Jenkins yelled, backing away one step at a time, his shotgun pumping with precision. Ramirez dropped another with a clean double-tap to the chest and face, the pink cloud vanishing like smoke.
Blood and ichor soaked the gravel.
But the tide was endless.
"Flashbang out!" Ramirez shouted, hurling a grenade down the tunnel. The explosion lit up the tunnel in a white-hot bloom, disorienting the creatures and giving the officers a brief moment to breathe.
They retreated another ten meters.
Gunfire echoed like thunder in a canyon.
"They're not stopping!" one of the officers shouted, voice panicked.
Jenkins grimaced, breathing hard, sweat running down his face. "Just buy time! That's all we need!"
A demon lunged from the ceiling, he shot it mid-air, its chest exploding into black chunks.
Behind them, in the southern tunnel, the faint cries of civilians faded further into the distance.
"Almost there, keep going!" Jenkins yelled.
The group continued their retreat step by step, unloading magazines, tossing flashbangs, keeping just ahead of the horde, buying every second they could.
Every shot counted.
Every step mattered.
They were almost there.
Jenkins and Ramirez started to run backward, their flashlights bouncing wildly in the dark tunnel, illuminating the panicked civilians sprinting ahead. The rumble behind them grew louder, the monstrous screeches, the slap of inhuman feet against the rails, the metal shuddering from the weight of the swarm.
"KEEP MOVING! DON'T STOP!" Jenkins shouted, his voice hoarse.
The two officers were the last line between the unknown horror and the dozens of terrified men, women, and children in front of them.
Then-
Figures appeared in the distance, charging through the smoke that crawled like a living thing along the tunnel floor.
Ramirez raised his flashlight. His breath caught.
"Oh shit!"
The demons burst into view.
They sprinted like animals, heads completely engulfed in pink clouds of fog. Their mouths opened unnaturally wide, teeth jagged like broken glass. They let out inhuman howls as they clawed across the rails, pushing off the tunnel walls to gain speed.
"FIRE!" Jenkins roared.
They both opened fire. The tight tunnel echoed with deafening shots.
BLAM BLAM BLAM—
The first row of creatures collapsed as bullets tore through them, their heads bursting into smoke.
But the swarm didn't stop. It only got faster.
Jenkins dropped an empty mag, slammed another into his Glock. Ramirez stood beside him, shooting, shouting, trying to slow the charge.
"WE GOTTA FALL BACK!"
Jenkins nodded. "GO!"
They ran, firing over their shoulders, the tunnel flashing with every shot. But the creatures were gaining.
A scream.
Jenkins turned, one of the civilians had tripped on a rail.
"HELP HIM!" Ramirez shouted.
Jenkins sprinted back, grabbed the man's arm and pulled him to his feet. Just in time.
The demon's claw slammed into the ground where the man had just been.
"GO, GO, GO!" Jenkins pushed him forward.
Another officer from earlier appeared at the bend, covering their retreat, rifle flashing. The swarm slowed slightly, then surged again.
The officers were nearly out of ammo. Jenkins fired his last round and drew his baton. Ramirez did the same.
"WE'RE OUT!"
They turned.
The demons were on them.
Jenkins swung hard, his baton connecting with a crunch. Ramirez smashed another across the chest, but it kept coming, unfazed. Another one lunged and bit into Jenkins' shoulder.
"ARGH!"
He fell, grunting, kicking, fighting. He used the broken baton to shove the thing off, blood soaking through his shirt.
Ramirez screamed. Jenkins looked up just in time to see him taken down by three creatures, their claws digging into him as he screamed and thrashed. Jenkins tried to crawl to him-
Then they were on Jenkins.
One demon bit into his baton, and with a horrible crack, snapped it in two. The pink smoke swirled around Jenkins' face, choking him, suffocating
"GRAAAAH!"
Suddenly-
BANG.
The demon's head exploded, spraying mist and blood. The body collapsed onto Jenkins.
He coughed, stunned.
More gunfire, sharp, precise bursts echoing through the tunnel.
Shapes moved through the mist, black armor, glowing red visors.
"MOVE, MOVE! Secure the officer!"
Hands grabbed Jenkins, pulled him up. A soldier slung him over his shoulder. Jenkins blinked, he saw Ramirez, unmoving, left behind on the rails. Dead.
"R-Ramirez…" he murmured.
No answer.
"Tunnel secured," a voice said in a comm. "Civilian group located. Request medevac for wounded. One survivor recovered, NYPD."
Jenkins, bleeding and half-conscious, whispered:
"Who… are you?"
A red visor turned toward him.
"US Army Special Forces," the operator replied. "You're safe now."
Darkness took him.
Slickers-1 stood just outside the tunnel's mouth, eyes locked on the darkness beyond. Behind him, the line of rescued civilians huddled together in silence, some sobbing, others praying, while members of Pi-1 spread out to secure the area.
He pressed two fingers to the side of his helmet.
"Command, this is Pi-1, do you copy?" Static. Again. "Command, this is Pi-1, requesting extraction route for civilian package. Over."
More static. No signal.
"Shit."
Suddenly, a sound echoed from the tunnel.
Slickers-1's blood ran cold.
Screams. Hundreds of them. High-pitched, inhuman, layered on top of each other like the wails of dying animals-
No, not animals. Demons.
He activated the night vision system on his visor, the lens adjusting with a soft mechanical click.
And there they were.
Dozens, no. Hundreds of figures, sprinting through the tunnel. Pink fog covered their heads like a living mask, writhing and twitching. Their bodies twisted with unnatural motion, charging on all fours, their claws scraping sparks off the tunnel walls.
"CONTACT! MULTIPLE HOSTILES INCOMING!" he barked. "Seal the tunnel!"
Two operators were already on the move, pulling demolition charges from their packs and sprinting to the tunnel support columns.
"Buy them time! Full auto!"
Pi-1 responded instantly.
A roar of gunfire echoed down the tunnel-
BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!
Tracer rounds streaked through the darkness, punching holes into the first wave of demons. Explosive rounds detonated on impact, tearing limbs apart. Holy rounds sizzled in the air, burning through the pink smoke.
But the demons didn't stop. They just kept coming.
"They're not even slowing down!" one operator shouted.
"Hold the line!" Slickers-1 growled. "Ten more seconds!"
The two demolitions specialists dropped the last of the charges, slapped the arming switches, and sprinted back.
"CLEAR!"
Slickers-1 raised a fist. "Everyone fall back, NOW!"
They dove away from the tunnel just as he pressed the detonator.
A second later-
BOOOOOM!
The tunnel erupted. Concrete and steel exploded outward. The air was filled with dust, smoke, and debris as the ceiling collapsed in a thunderous wave, burying the oncoming horde under several tons of rubble.
Silence.
Then, only the low groan of settling debris.
Slickers-1 stood slowly, brushing dust off his tactical armor. He turned and scanned the civilians, shaken but alive.
He let out a long, tired breath.
"Tunnel to the north is sealed," he said into the comms. "Route's dead. We move south."
"Copy that," one of the operators replied. "What now?"
Slickers-1 looked down the tunnel toward their new route, eyes narrowing.
"We finish the mission," he said. "Empire State's waiting."