Hamptonville, North Carolina - Route 421
August 9, 2030 | 3:45 PM EDT
The highway was alive with motion, a river of vehicles surging westward. Hazard lights flashed on scattered bumpers, some cars weaving, some flying straight down the lanes, but all carried the same unspoken urgency.
Bryan gripped the steering wheel tightly, eyes flicking between his mirrors and the road.
Then—a faint tremble. Barely there, like the ground took a breath.
He frowned. "Do you feel that?"
Jane looked up from her phone, confused. "What?"
Another vibration. Stronger. Deeper.
The road beneath them began to pulse—not in rhythm, but with rising chaos. A groan echoed up through the tires, and the whole vehicle gave a sudden, lurching sway.
Bryan's eyes widened. "Shit!—hold on!"
His foot slammed the brake. The tires squealed, the car fishtailing slightly as the trembling asphalt fought back.
The steering wheel jerked in his grip as the car began to buck. The pavement groaned, splitting beneath the tires. Ahead, taillights zigzagged, some braking, some swerving.
Then the sky brightened, first like distant lightning.
Then it swelled.
A flood of white light surged through every window, growing brighter until it swallowed the outside.
"Eyes closed—both of you!" he shouted. "Natalie, baby, close your eyes!"
In the back seat, Natalie shrieked, clutching her teddy bear. "Daddy! What is that?!"
Jane twisted around instantly, crawling over the center console, throwing herself into the back seat beside their daughter. She wrapped Natalie in both arms, eyes shut tight, her breath hitching.
"It's okay, baby—it's okay, Mommy's here. Just hold on," she whispered, voice shaking as she pressed her forehead to Natalie's.
CRASH!
A deafening impact slammed into them from behind.
Their car lurched forward violently, tires dragging despite Bryan's foot still pinned to the brake. Everyone inside was thrown forward.
Bryan fought to steady the wheel, the white light still flooding the cabin. But there was nothing to see—just motion, panic, and the roar of the earth unraveling beneath their wheels.
Jane cradled Natalie tightly. "Shh, baby, it's okay… It's okay…"
The world went quiet, as if holding its breath.
The light faded. The tremor stopped.
Bryan groaned, gripping the wheel. "Everyone okay?!"
"I—I think so," Jane gasped, stunned. Her hair was matted to her face.
Bryan stared out the windshield, breathing heavily. "Jesus…"
In that moment, one thought slammed into him with gut-punch clarity—Was that it? The nukes? The very thing they'd spent every minute trying to evade.
Jane's eyes were wide, her mouth slightly open. "What… what was that?"
In her arms, Natalie trembled, face buried against Jane's chest. Slowly, she cracked one eye open—just enough to peek out. The blinding light was gone. The world had gone still.
Jane turned around and reached back for her, gently brushing hair from her daughter's face. "It's okay, baby… I think it's over." But even as she said it, her voice trembled.
Bryan scanned the horizon. There, in the distance, lay the aftermath of everything that had just happened.
Aboard Nightwatch, 40,000 feet above West Virginia
The shaking slowly subsided. Around the bridge, hands remained clenched to consoles, railings, and the backs of seats—anything to stay upright through the violent turbulence.
Reynolds steadied himself, grabbing his head as he panted, his heart pounding. "What happened…" His voice grew more urgent as the questions tumbled out. "I thought we had eighteen minutes?!"
"According to the timeline, yes, sir!" came the immediate reply from an officer.
"Did we miss any?!" Reynolds asked, referring to the earlier missile attack.
"No, sir! We shouldn't have missed any. Everything was on track."
Before he could process the implications, Reynolds turned to a Secret Service agent. "How's my family?"
The agent pressed a hand to his earpiece. A brief pause. Then a nod. "They're all safe, sir."
Reynolds exhaled, tension still gripping his frame. "Good." His relief was fleeting—there was no time to dwell. He turned back to his security team. "Now—someone tell me what the hell just happened."
The communications officer's voice broke in, cutting through the tension. "Sir! We've lost contact with NORAD, STRATCOM—every ground command is unresponsive. Civilian networks are down. There's no signal."
Reynolds' blood ran cold. "Satellites?"
The chief communications analyst's hands flew over his console. Error messages filled the screen. His voice was hollow. "Sir… every satellite is down. Military, civilian, everything."
Reynolds then turned to Carter. "Then what the hell was that?"
Still, no one had an answer.
Back on Route 421, Bryan's mind raced, trying to process what had just happened.
He turned toward the back of the car, his eyes scanning over Jane and Natalie to ensure they were safe. The road was a mess—cracked and buckled, as if something massive had just passed through, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning wreckage. Something was wrong, something bigger than any natural disaster he had ever experienced. They were in the middle of something they couldn't yet understand.
"Stay in the car," Bryan instructed, his voice steady but urgent. He needed to see the situation outside.
He opened the door, and the world outside felt like a warzone. Smoke rose from the wreckage of several vehicles, while others lay scattered in erratic patterns across the cracked road.
In the distance, Bryan's eyes caught sight of a large truck with a cargo trailer fallen over, blocking the opposite side of the road. Several cars had crashed into the trailer or were piled up around it, twisted and broken. Thick smoke billowed from that area, adding to the heavy, suffocating atmosphere. Bryan didn't have time to process the magnitude of it all.
As he walked toward the car that had crashed into theirs, a man stepped out. His face was twisted in worry, hands were shaking as he checked the damage. He glanced up at Bryan and immediately apologized.
"Sorry, man… I—I'm so sorry. I couldn't see you," the man said, his voice heavy with remorse.
Bryan took a deep breath, fighting to keep the panic at bay. "It's not your fault," he said, nodding toward the mess around them. "Are you okay?"
The man looked down at his car, where his wife and two kids were still inside, shaken but otherwise unharmed. "We're fine," he replied, looking back at the man with a look of relief.
Bryan's eyes flicked to the chaos around them. He pulled his phone from his pocket, trying to call for help, but the screen read No Signal. He tried again—911. Nothing. The call wouldn't go through.
"Nothing's working," Bryan muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "No signal."
The man shook his head. "Same here. I already tried. Phones and radios are dead."
The air felt unnaturally still now that the tremors had stopped, the only sound being the distant crackle of burning wreckage.
Bryan opened the driver's seat door. He turned to Jane, her face pale with shock as she sat frozen next to Natalie. "I'll be back," he told her, his voice steady but urgent. "Stay with Natalie."
"Be careful," Jane said, her voice trembling slightly as she looked at him. Her gaze was filled with concern.
Natalie, still clinging to Jane's side, looked up at him, her small voice tinged with worry. "Where're you going, daddy?"
Bryan gave her a reassuring smile, though the weight of the situation was clear in his eyes. "I just need to make sure everyone is alright, sweetpea. Stay with mommy, okay? I'll be right back."
He hurried to the wrecked cars, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Help! Someone help!" a woman shouted, her voice filled with panic as she stood outside a wrecked car.
Bryan ran toward the sound, his eyes scanning the wreckage, and that's when he saw her. A woman was slumped inside one of the vehicles, her head pressed against the steering wheel. Blood trickled down from a gash near her temple, staining her face. The car had crashed violently into a nearby truck, and flames were beginning to lick at the edges of the engine. The door wouldn't open.
Time was running out.
Bryan took off his jacket, folding it to protect his hand, and slammed it into the glass. The crack echoed like a gunshot, the impact shattering the window. He pulled the door open, and the heat from inside the car rushed over him.
As Bryan pulled the girl from the wreck, the man from earlier rushed over, eyes wide, breath sharp.
"I'm a doctor!" he said, voice urgent. "Let me help."
Without hesitation, the two men gently carried her from the mangled car and laid her on the pavement, far from the car. The girl's head lolled, motionless. Faces had gathered around them—some murmuring in alarm, others frozen, holding up their phones to record.
The doctor knelt swiftly, fingers finding her neck with practiced precision. "No pulse," he said sharply, already shifting into position. "Starting CPR."
Bryan moved beside him instantly. "I'll help."
The doctor tilted her head back, opened her airway, and sealed his mouth over hers—two quick breaths. He shifted and began compressions. "One, two, three…" he counted softly, reaching fifteen.
Bryan jumped in seamlessly. "Got it." He repeated the rhythm, firm and controlled, sweat already beading on his brow.
Another round. Then another. The doctor checked again—nothing. His lips tightened, jaw clenched. "Still no pulse."
They kept going, mechanical, desperate.
In the fourth round, just as hope began to crack, the doctor froze his fingers on her neck. A beat. Then another.
"I've got a pulse," he breathed, his voice trembling.
Bryan sagged back, chest heaving.
The girl stirred faintly, a gasp rattling from her throat.
Around them, the crowd rippled with relief—some clutching their chests, others wiping tears. Phones lowered. A few had stopped recording. Some never did.
"She's alive," the doctor said, voice cracking. "But we need to get her to a hospital."
Bryan turned toward Jane and Natalie. He needed to get them out of here.
The chaos churned around them, but Bryan couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.
Aboard Nightwatch, 40,000 feet above Ohio
August 9, 2030 | 4:17 PM EDT
The aircraft held steady, its systems gradually stabilizing, but the silence in the cabin grew heavier with each passing minute. President Reynolds sat unmoving, his eyes fixed on the darkened monitors in front of him. The weight of the unknown pressed hard against his chest.
Then, the radio crackled. A single voice cut through the static.
The communications officer's head snapped up, adjusting the gain knob. "Sir! We've got traffic—ground-based RF, low band. Patch is unstable, but I've got a readable signal."
Static crackled, then a strained voice broke through the distortion—faint but clear enough to catch. "...Repeat, this is Wright-Patterson TOC, broadcasting on Emergency Command Net. Communications compromised—request acknowledgment from any allied C2 asset. Over."
General Carter leaned in, eyes narrowing, and grabbed the headset. His voice came calm and deliberate, a steady presence amid the chaos. "This is Nightwatch, call sign Vulcan Actual. General Ethan Carter, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, aboard NAOC. SATCOM is degraded—we're operating dark on EMCON protocols. Request current status. Over."
There was a tense pause—just static and faint interference—then the reply came, stronger now. "Vulcan Actual, this is Wright-Patterson TOC, Colonel Hayes, solid copy. We've lost all external comms—HF intermittent, SATCOM inop. You're our first link in over thirty mikes. Perimeter intact, base at DEFCON One. Requesting SITREP. Over."
Before Carter could respond, a voice from the Nightwatch crew cut in sharply.
"Sir!" The communications officer's voice cut sharply through the low murmur of the control room. "AWACS just flagged a fast-mover—bearing two-eight-five, range two-eight-seven nautical miles, angels three-four. No IFF, no Mode 3/C. Target is inbound, high-subsonic speed, vector intersects our flight corridor."
Carter's grip tightened on the armrest, but his voice remained composed. "Confirm—hostile? Has AWACS classified the contact?"
The officer glanced at the console, then back. "Negative ID, sir. No electronic signature, no transponder squawk. Heat signature's extreme—off the charts. Flight profile does not match any friendly or known adversary platform. AWACS is holding it as 'Unknown Contact—Possibly Hostile.'"
Carter's eyes narrowed. "Sir, this is no ordinary contact."
Reynolds met his gaze, the weight of the situation sinking in. "Authorize intercept. Get the F-47s moving. Now."
The comms officer nodded sharply and keyed his mic. "Vulcan Actual to Scout Two-One and Two-Two—tasking from AWACS. Vector three-one-zero, angels three-four. Unknown contact bearing two-eight-five, range two-six-seven from your position. No IFF, squawk negative. Intercept and perform VID. Weapons hold. Acknowledge. Over."
The reply came seconds later, crisp over the static. "Scout Two-One copies. Vectoring to intercept. Contact bearing two-eight-five, angels three-four. Holding weapons, initiating VID. Wilco. Out."
The officer's fingers flew over the controls, transmitting the final order to the F-47 pilots. In a flash, Scout Two-One and Scout Two-Two from the 27th Fighter Squadron, part of Nightwatch's escort, broke formation and shot forward.
The sixth-generation stealth fighter F-47 Exorcist roared to life, afterburners flaring white-hot as they streaked across the afternoon sky. Twin plumes of heat shimmer and light trailed behind them, vanishing into the thin air as the jets tore toward the unknown contact.
Scout Two-One led the charge, closing the gap, while Scout Two-Two held position behind, scanning for any changes in the target's behavior.
Inside the cockpit of Scout Two-One, the pilot's grip tightened around the stick, breath steady, his visor flickered with data—sensor streams overlaying his field of view like ghost-script. "Scout Two-One, tally on radar at one-zero-zero nautical. Maintaining track and proceeding with VID."
There was a beat of silence before AWACS replied over the calm, omnipresent net. "Comanche copies. Contact remains unclassified. Maintain VID posture. ROE is weapons hold unless positive hostile ID. Continue approach."
The airwaves fell quiet again, save for the subtle hiss of oxygen flow and engine hum. The tension was now tactile, suspended like wire in the cockpits.
And then—The clouds broke.
The veil ahead scattered to reveal clear skies—and something impossible.
Below the F-47's fuselage, the SPECTIR system—a stealth-integrated electro-optical tracking array mounted in the fighter's chin—automatically pivoted to lock onto the target. The feed streamed live to the pilot's helmet-mounted display in ultra-high resolution, every frame stabilized, magnified, and enhanced with AI-assisted image processing.
Scout Two-One's blood ran cold. "...Holy shit," he whispered, breath catching.
From above, Scout Two-Two's voice cracked through, louder now. "Jesus—what the hell is that?"
Scout Two-One keyed his mic, tone tight, trying to stay professional. "Command, Scout Two-One. VID complete. Target visually confirmed." A pause, the air heavy. "It's biological. I say again—contact is biological. No known aircraft or drone matches. This thing is alive."
There was a long silence, broken only by static. "Scout Two-One, confirm again," came the voice of the comms officer.
Scout Two-One's response was unsteady, disbelief coating every syllable. "It's got wings, scales—no engines, no marks. Not anything I've trained for. Size matches a Hercules—maybe bigger."
The officer turned toward General Carter, who was already listening to the situation unfold with a grim determination.
The jets surged ahead, afterburners blazing. Inside the cockpits, hands trembled on throttles, eyes wide beneath visors as the impossible loomed closer, maintaining tight formation.
Then it happened.
The creature darted toward Scout Two-One at an incredible speed.
"Scout One, break right! Break right!" Scout Two-Two shouted over the comms, his voice tense with panic.
"SHIT! Breaking right!" Scout Two-One barked, yanking the stick.
A massive burst of flame erupted from the creature's mouth, streaking across the sky.
"Command, the contact just—holy shit—it just breathed fire!"
The officer's voice came through the comms, steady but with urgency. "Scout Two-One, you are weapons-free. Engage with all necessary force, over."
"Scout Two-One, copy. Engaging, over."
"Scout Two-Two, copies."
Came the reply from both Scouts, but the urgency in their voice was unmistakable, their words laced with the tension of the moment.
Scout Two-One banked right. As the lock tone peaked, he squeezed the trigger. "Fox Two!"
An AIM-9 Sidewinder dropped cleanly from the internal weapons bay. The missile's infrared seeker immediately locked onto the blazing heat signature ahead, brighter than anything else in the sky. The motor ignited, and the fins snapped into position as it curved into a tight pursuit arc, trailing a thin plume as it chased the target's thermal wake.
But the target moved suddenly and violently.
The creature twisted mid-air with terrifying precision, shedding heat like flares. The infrared lock wavered. In the next instant, the Sidewinder sailed just beneath it and exploded, the detonation illuminating the clouds—but the target remained untouched.
"Missile miss! Re-engaging," Scout Two-One said, frustration creeping into his voice.
The creature retaliated. With an ear-splitting roar, it surged forward, its maw open wide as it barreled toward Scout Two-One, flames pouring from its mouth.
"It's on me! It's on me!"
Just as the creature closed the distance, Scout Two-Two broke off to assist.
"Tally contact," Scout Two-Two called out, tone focused. His helmet's visor tracked the target. "Fox Two!" he shouted, squeezing the trigger.
A Sidewinder launched, sending it streaking after its target.
The missile screamed toward the creature, unrelenting in its pursuit. The creature tried to evade but couldn't manage its erratic movements in time.
"Splash!" Scout Two-Two shouted, the deafening explosion filling the air as the missile made contact with the creature.
But as the smoke cleared and the sky revealed the creature's silhouette, both pilots could hardly believe their eyes. The beast, though damaged, was still flying.
"Command, target hit, but contact is still airborne! I repeat, still airborne!" Scout Two-One reported as he lined up for another attack.
Carter's head snapped up, eyes narrowing. Target hit? But still airborne? That shouldn't have been possible. Not with a direct impact from a Sidewinder. A missile strike at that speed and altitude should've torn anything apart.
Before Scout Two-One could maneuver further, his sensors lit up.
"Target captured," he announced, his voice tight but focused as the radar lock resolved, the targeting reticle closing firmly around the biological mass ahead. The HUD pulsed steadily, weapons systems aligning. His thumb hovered over the trigger, ready to call out Fox Three.
In the blink of an eye, the creature reared back mid-flight—its wings flaring wide, body coiling. From its jaws erupted a sudden torrent of flame—dense, bright, and impossibly fast. Not drifting like fuel combustion, but firing forward like a living weapon.
"FUCK!" Scout Two-One began, but it was too late.
The infernal blast struck the fighter dead-on.
A searing bloom lit up the sky, engulfing the fighter's port wing in a violent plume of fire and vaporized alloy. Alarms blared. The fuselage rocked violently, control surfaces shredded mid-air as heat sensors screamed in protest.
"Scout One is hit! I repeat, Scout One is hit!" Scout Two-Two's voice cut through the comms, strained, adrenaline spiking through every syllable.
The stricken Exorcist spiraled downward, flaming wreckage peeling off its frame as it plummeted in a blazing descent.
"No chute! I say again, no chute!" Scout Two-Two reported, his voice trembling beneath the composure.
Inside the Nightwatch flight deck, the atmosphere thickened with tension. Every officer stood frozen, ears glued to the comms. They couldn't see the sky, couldn't witness the nightmare unfolding—only the voices of the pilots painted the picture. And that picture was growing darker by the second.
Gritting his teeth, Scout Two-Two throttled forward, banking to reestablish angle and range. "Lining up for lock," he muttered, flipping the master arm switch and slewing his radar cursor over the target.
The radar pulsed, its beam sharpening. A tone chirped in his helmet. Lock. "Fox Three!"
An AIM-260 JATM—an advanced, radar-guided beyond-visual-range missile—dropped cleanly from its stealth bay cradle.
The missile streaked toward the creature, closing the distance at incredible speed. The explosion was thunderous, and the impact sent the creature spiraling out of control.
A roar erupted. Deep, guttural, and primal—louder than any engine, it echoed across the sky like a warhorn from hell.
"Direct hit!" Scout Two-Two confirmed, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and satisfaction.
Scout Two-Two pushed the throttle forward, his aircraft roaring as he closed the gap once more, intent on finishing the job. The creature was still airborne, wounded, but far from neutralized. Flame scoring marked its scaled flank, but its wings still beat with force, and its movements—though slowed—remained dangerously purposeful.
Then, it turned.
The beast's massive head swiveled toward him mid-air, eyes burning with fury. Its jaw widened unnaturally far, glowing orange at the core as it inhaled, lining up for another infernal blast.
"Fuck you, bitch," Scout Two-Two snarled. "Fox Two!"
A Sidewinder dropped from the internal bay and ignited in a flare of fury, tearing through the sky with a banshee wail. Its infrared seeker locked onto the radiant heat boiling in the creature's maw—and a moment later, it struck home.
The impact detonated inside the mouth.
The warhead erupted with brutal precision, shattering bone and igniting volatile organs in a chain reaction. Fire raced down the beast's neck, its insides detonating from within. Its torso ruptured like a bursting furnace, molten blood and scorched scales exploding outward in all directions.
Scout Two-Two banked hard, the Exorcist cutting past the creature as the fireball bloomed behind him. The sky lit up like a second sun, roaring, crackling, shaking the heavens. Fragments of the beast whipped past his canopy like burning shrapnel.
He looked back—eyes wide beneath his visor, stunned at the sight of the disintegrating monstrosity plummeting in ruin, smoke and flame trailing from its remains.
"Splash! Splash!" Scout Two-Two exclaimed, his voice filled with awe and relief as the creature plummeted from the sky.