The night smelled of metal and ash.
What was left of Andro Creek smoldered under a black-orange sky, smoke twisting up where towers had once stood. Firelight pulsed in the distance, reflected in puddles slick with oil. Jake Slade picked his way across the ruins, boots grinding on glass and bone, the only sound the rasp of his own breath beneath a torn respirator mask.
He had been moving since dusk—no plan, just motion. Keep moving, keep breathing. Stop and the quiet would eat you. He knew that lesson by heart.
A toppled sign lay half-buried in the rubble: MAYFIELD DINER. He paused, staring at the bent steel letters. His father had welded that sign twenty years ago. The thought rose, uninvited, then cracked apart like everything else around him. He kept walking.
Wind scraped across the hollow streets, carrying flecks of ash that clung to his jacket. Somewhere, something collapsed with a deep groan, sending a tremor through the ground. Jake ducked automatically, scanning the skyline out of habit. No movement—just the ruin breathing.
He had lived through storms before—chemical burns, ration wars, gang raids—but this was different. This was extermination. Whole blocks erased, air turned to soot. Whatever had hit Andro Creek had come from the sky and left nothing but ghosts.
He climbed over a slab of concrete and dropped into what had once been a market square. Half-melted stalls slumped like dying animals. The air shimmered with heat. That was when he felt it—a faint vibration underfoot, a rhythm out of sync with the wind.
He crouched, pressing a hand to the cracked pavement.
thrum – thrum – thrum.
Not the beat of machinery. A heartbeat.
Curiosity overrode caution. He followed the sound to a collapsed archway, its bricks fused into glass by fire. Beneath the rubble, something glowed—a dull, steady pulse of white light. Jake dug with bare hands until the object came free: a metal cylinder, the size of his forearm, engraved with intricate lines that shifted when he tilted it toward the light.
It was warm. Almost breathing.
The moment his skin touched it, the hum surged through him like electricity. The world spun. For a split second, he wasn't in the ruins anymore.
He saw cities of light, threads of energy connecting spires that reached the clouds. He heard a voice—not words exactly, but tone, deep and resonant, as if the planet itself were speaking. Then came the screams, the towers folding inward, the light turning to fire.
Jake gasped and dropped the cylinder. The vision vanished. The glow dimmed, pulsing slower now, patient. He stared at it, chest heaving.
"What the hell are you?" he whispered.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It listened.
A distant crack shattered the moment—a sound too deliberate to be random debris. Jake froze. Then another: the metallic snap of a boot joint, echoing from the street above. He snatched the cylinder, shoved it into his pack, and slipped behind a fallen wall.
Shapes moved through the smoke—tall, lean silhouettes, masks gleaming like shards of glass. There were at least three. Their steps were soundless except for the faint hiss of hydraulics. Not human.
Jake pressed against the wall, heartbeat hammering. He'd heard rumors from other scavengers—black-masked soldiers that didn't bleed, sent to reclaim lost tech. He hadn't believed them. Not until now.
The nearest figure stopped, head tilting with inhuman precision. A beam of red light swept across the rubble. Jake ducked, breath locked in his throat. The beam lingered, then moved on. He waited until the footsteps receded before crawling toward the alley.
The cylinder thumped softly inside his satchel—thrum, thrum, thrum—matching his pulse. When he glanced down, faint light leaked through the fabric, betraying his position. He tightened the strap, muttering a curse.
Then the world erupted in motion.
A screech—metal tearing metal—split the air. One of the masked figures dropped from a rooftop, landing ten meters away, the impact shaking dust from the walls. Jake ran.
He tore through the alley, lungs burning. The glow from the fires blurred into streaks as he vaulted debris and dodged jagged rebar. Behind him came the rhythmic thunder of pursuit—five steps to his three, steady and unstoppable.
He burst into an open courtyard littered with shattered solar panels. The reflection of his own movement flashed across the glass, disorienting him. He spun left, spotted a narrow breach in a collapsed factory wall, and dove through it.
The space beyond was a maze of machinery skeletons. Jake ducked behind a rusted press and forced himself to breathe quietly. The footsteps entered seconds later, crisp, methodical. A red scan-light sliced the dark, passing inches from his face. The hum in his satchel spiked, vibrating hard enough to sting his ribs.
He pressed a hand against it.
"Quiet," he whispered.
The glow flared—bright, defiant.
A ripple of pressure burst outward, rattling metal frames and sending the pursuer stumbling back a step. The light from its mask flickered.
Jake didn't wait to see more. He sprinted toward the far end of the factory, the artifact's vibration now a full-bodied pulse guiding his path. Twice he turned corners instinctively, just ahead of collapsing beams or falling debris. It was as if the thing knew the safest way out.
He reached a broken stairwell leading down. Without thinking, he descended into the dark, boots striking sparks from metal. The hum in his chest slowed, steadying, coaxing him onward.
At the bottom, he found a half-flooded service tunnel. Water reflected faint ripples of the artifact's light through the fabric of his pack. Jake crouched, catching his breath, the cool air sharp in his lungs.
From above came the muffled screech of metal. The pursuers were searching, methodical as machines always were. He could picture them scanning every exit, triangulating his last movement. He had maybe minutes.
He pulled the cylinder out, holding it to the weak light from his head-torch. The engravings had changed. The lines now formed a pattern—concentric circles radiating from a central point, like a map, or a heartbeat on endless repeat.
Jake traced one line with a finger. It pulsed beneath his touch, brightening, then dimming again. Almost like a response.
"Are you alive?" he asked.
A soft vibration answered—one long, one short. Yes. Maybe.
He laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. "Perfect. I'm talking to junk."
A metallic clang silenced him. The echo came from somewhere down the tunnel, closer than before. He stuffed the cylinder back into his pack and waded through knee-deep water, following the faint slope upward. Every few steps, the hum quickened, steering him left or right like a compass that understood danger.
After several turns, the tunnel split. To the right: darkness and silence. To the left: a thin shaft of reddish light leaking through cracks. The artifact pulsed once—left. Jake obeyed.
He emerged into the shell of a collapsed subway station. Trains lay gutted on the tracks, their windows melted. He climbed onto the platform and froze. Across the way, at the far tunnel mouth, one of the masked figures waited, motionless.
Its mask tilted, red eyes locking on him.
Jake's legs moved before thought. He bolted toward a stairwell that led upward, boots slapping concrete, echoes ricocheting off tiled walls. The hum behind his ribs built into a roar. Halfway up, a violent flash erupted from his pack—white light flaring through the straps.
The world jolted.
A shockwave rippled outward, hurling him the last few steps. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. When he turned, the stairwell below was choked with rubble and flame. The pursuer was gone.
Jake stared, panting, ears ringing. His pack smoked faintly, warm against his back. Whatever had just happened had saved his life—and nearly ended it.
He staggered out into the open night. Cool air hit his face. Above him, the stars were hidden by the same black smoke that had swallowed his city. Firelight flickered across the horizon like dying veins.
He sank to his knees beside a twisted railing, unbuckled the pack, and drew out the cylinder. It was dim now, pulsing slow, like it was catching its breath. He held it close, feeling the rhythm sync again with his own heartbeat.
"What are you?" he whispered.
No answer. Just the steady thrum, patient and alive.
From somewhere in the ruins behind him came another sound—distant, metallic, the echo of pursuit renewed. The hunt wasn't over.
Jake pushed himself up, tightening the straps on his pack. The hum steadied against his chest, slow and deliberate, almost reassuring.
Whatever this thing was, it wanted him moving.
He turned toward the shattered skyline and started walking.