Brayden Hawthorne woke with a jolt, his bed shaking so violently it threw him to the floor. Rubbing his bruised head, he stood up, legs unsteady. An explosion and another tremor brought him to his bedroom window. Brayden lived in a loft above the library of his mentor, James. Looking out his second-story window, he couldn't believe what he saw.

Brayden could see most of his neighborhood; nearly every house was broken or burning. The homes were left as skeletons with only their bones left. Where there were no houses, only craters and rubble remained. Even as he watched, he heard the screams as another meteor struck down the block.

The ground shook, and the scene reminded him of pictures he had seen of the air raids during world war two. But this wasn't war; it was a natural disaster no one had predicted. There had been no warning on the news, and there was no emergency alert on his phone. One minute there was peace, and a hellscape was born the next.

Running through the fallen detritus of his room, Brayden made his way down the stairs, nearly bowling James over at the bottom.

"James, what the hell is going on?"

"I don't know, but it's not good; we need to get to the basement. These meteors aren't much different from an air raid. We'll wait it out there." James stumbled as another meteor crashed down somewhere outside.

James had been a dedicated survivalist as long as Brayden had known him. Not as extreme as some, but still prepared enough for most occasions. He had built a bunker in the basement that could withstand an earthquake.

"What about anyone else outside? Shouldn't we do something to help? There is enough space in the cellar for at least a few more people." Brayden couldn't help remembering the screams from outside. He had never been a big people person, usually getting nervous and making a fool of himself. But he still knew helping people was the right thing to do.

"Damn it, your right. Let's go see if anyone nearby made it."

They stumbled for the front door, hastily putting on the shoes they left on the rack in the foyer. Throwing open the big double doors, they ran outside.

James pointed down the street and said, "I'll head south, you go north, meet back here in 15 minutes. From the looks of it, those meteors won't stop anytime soon." The sky overhead was streaked with falling meteors.

As Brayden passed through the destruction of his neighborhood, he yelled to see if anyone needed help. The meteorites were thorough, only a few houses stood, and none came out unscathed. The first few houses he ran past had been completely demolished. The meteors had turned the street into a jigsaw of broken pieces, the cars crushed by falling debris.

Brayden finally made it to his first intact house. It was leaning precariously to one side, the windows all smashed in. It looked like a meteor had struck across the street, and the concussion hit the front of the house. He ran up the front walk and didn't bother knocking, opening the door, and shouting, "Is there anyone here?"

"Yes, I need help!" Came the frantic reply.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

"Where are you?" Brayden stepped farther across the threshold and went into the living room. The blast had thrown everything back into the house. Glass littered the floor around the windows, a couch had been overturned, and a large television hung from the wall sparking.

The voice responded, "We're in the kitchen. Please help!"

As Brayden rounded the corner, the smell of blood and pickle juice assaulted his senses. A man lay on the floor, moaning from pain. It looked like he had been rummaging in the fridge when the blast hit, and it had toppled onto him. Blood was quickly soaking the fabric around a large piece of glass stuck in his thigh. Under the fridge, the other half of his body looked okay.

"Shit, don't touch the glass. If you pull it out, he'll bleed to death." James had convinced him to take an in-depth first-aid course with him a few years ago.

Brayden squatted down and started to lift the fridge off of the man. "Quickly, pull him out!"

The girl was able to get her arms under the older man and drag him out. His leg left bloody streak marks along the floor, the movement having jostled the glass still embedded in his leg. Brayden knew he had to stabilize the bleeding leg before they could move. He pulled his belt off and sinched down as tight as it would go on the man's upper thigh. The man's face was white from blood loss, and his head started rolling as he tried to keep himself awake.

"I'm gonna need your help moving him," Brayden said.

"Of course, just tell me what you need me to do." Brayden was surprised at how calm the girl was.

"Grab him under his arm, and I'll grab this side. We have a safe place just down the road." They picked him up and started walking back. The ground shook, and they nearly lost balance as another meteorite struck the adjacent street. Soon they were back at Jame's place.

James's house was stylized like a British manor house. It was two stories with five bedrooms though Brayden and James used only two. It had a library spanning two floors and a basement with two-foot thick cement walls and ceilings. The basement roof was domed to support the immense weight of the concrete but was spacious enough that it didn't feel claustrophobic. The property included an 8-foot fence all the way around and a large workshop almost more extensive than the house tucked in one corner.

Getting the man down the stairs was a nightmare. James was with another family as they made their way into the first room. It was a young Polynesian couple and their child. The man was built like a brick house, at least six and a half feet tall and over three hundred pounds. The woman was heavy set but not fat, nearly a foot shorter than her husband. They had a little girl with dark ringlets cascading down her back as she sobbed into her mother.

"James, get the first aid kit!" Brayden urged as he lay the man down on the floor. The first room was a large living room with a couple of couches and large television.

James set the first aid kit next to Brayden and pulled the woman away so he could work. Brayden used scissors from the first aid kit to cut the man's pant leg off to get a better look. The piece of glass stuck out an inch above the skin, and the wound still leaked blood despite Brayden's best efforts at the house. He found a proper tourniquet, got the blood flow to stop, and pulled the glass free to clean the damage. He wanted to be thorough so there wasn't any pickle juice or leftover pieces of glass that could lead to infection.

Once satisfied, he pulled the suturing kit out and got ready to sew the hole shut. It had looked like the glass only nicked the artery, so Brayden hoped it wouldn't continue bleeding after he took the tourniquet off. He had learned to sew wounds back together using a kit he bought online. It came with practice needles, thread, and a rubber block with faux injuries.

After finishing off the final stitch, he loosened the tourniquet and watched for any more blood. The wound stayed clean, and someone pulled him into a tight hug as he stood to dispose of the now-soiled surgical towel.

"Thank you so much. You saved his life. You saved our lives. I don't know how to thank you." An explosion above shook the shelter and made dust rain from the ceiling. Realizing how tight she was holding him, she quickly let go.

"It's okay, don't worry about it. I'm Brayden; I never got your name."

"Oh yes, sorry, I'm Emily Madison, and this is my father, John. Thank you again." She shyly tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Brayden looked at her for the first time. Emily was a few inches shorter than Brayden's five feet nine inches, with dark brown hair and big blue eyes. She wore a simple red t-shirt, skinny jeans, and a pair of denim high-tops. 

A cough made them both jump. "There's no point in going out to check for more people. It's just too dangerous. We need to hunker down here until it stops."

The next few hours were tense. Emily's father hadn't woken up through the shaking and symphony of destruction overheard. The little girl from the other family with them had quieted down and fallen asleep on the woman's lap. 

"I'm Tony Kekoa," the father said, "I just wanted to say thank you too. We just moved to the neighborhood a few months ago and don't know anyone. This is my wife Sylvia and our daughter Jenny. Do you …"

At that moment, a sharp pain ran through Brayden's head, the world spun, and he blacked out.