A low, thunderous sound reverberated through the walls of Blake's bedroom, yanking him from the depths of sleep. His eyes snapped open, the cheap alarm clock on his nightstand glaring 03:27 in red digits.
The sound had a grinding weight to it. The rumble of one-one-three APC treads on pavement - a sound that belonged in Fallujah, not haunting Blake in the sleepy heart of Michigan. Car alarms pierced the early morning stillness, followed by the panicked yelps of dogs. The hairs on Blake's neck bristled. Wrong. Everything about this was wrong.
His legs swung over the bed, feet striking the floor with purpose. Through the window, wavering air distorted the night, rippling like desert heat - a mirage where solid darkness should hang.
The babble of neighbors' voices escalated outside, confusion and fear tumbling through open windows. Like Kandahar all over again, not Bay City's usual quiet. Window after window showed only darkness as Blake moved between them, the source of the commotion staying hidden.
His practiced hands found clothes, knife, and flashlight in the dark. The familiar weight of the shoulder holster settled against him like armor as he shrugged into his old leather jacket. One deep breath to center himself, then Blake stepped out to meet whatever hell had broken loose.
A noise drew his attention left. Mrs. Henderson stood in the hall, ancient fingers white-knuckled on her pink robe. The fear in her eyes added a decade to her already considerable years.
"What in heaven's name is happening?" The words quavered out of her.
Blake gave her the professional smile, the one he'd perfected in worse places than this. The one that lied about everything being okay.
"Stay inside, ma'am. Lock up. I'll handle it."
She retreated, the deadbolt's snap following her. Smart. Blake took the stairs at double-time, his mind churning through possible scenarios, finding no answers. Center Street's shops loomed lifeless across the way, their windows strobing red and white from the endless car alarms.
A small crowd had formed outside, maybe a dozen people total. They clustered together like sheep that had caught wolf-scent on the wind, all eyes fixed on the same point in the darkness.
The glow caught his attention immediately - their collective gaze led straight to Memorial Park. The space should have been shadow-dark at this hour, but instead it blazed with an unnatural ultraviolet radiance that inverted reality like a photo negative.
His boots hammered the pavement in a practiced rhythm as he ran, each impact precise and controlled. His breathing stayed measured despite the pace. Age might have been creeping up on him, but decades of this work had burned running into his DNA, made it as automatic as his own pulse.
The thing sharpened before him as he closed the distance, floating above the river's surface like an insult to the natural order. A piece of the night sky cut free and left to drift - a writhing black disk of ineffible
He slowed as he neared the riverbank, caution weaving through his curiosity. People stood transfixed by the riverside, gazing up at the phenomenon like they were waiting to see if prizes were going to drop out of it.
"What do you make of that?" A voice cut through his focus.
A man stepped up beside him—mid-thirties with hair sticking up at odd angles like he'd rolled straight out of bed and into his clothes. His attention locked onto the hovering enigma.
"Can't say I know," Blake replied. His fingers twitched against his leg as he swept his gaze across the riverbank. Amateur mistake, letting someone sneak up like that.
"Looks like someone's science project got away from them," the man said, a forced chuckle falling flat in the heavy air that pressed down on the gathered crowd.
Blake's polite smile didn't reach his eyes. "Hell of a science project."
The crowd's murmurs grew louder as they shared theories and fears. Someone mentioned aliens; another speculated about government experiments gone awry.
A young woman elbowed her way to Blake's side. "This is insane," she said breathlessly. "You ever seen anything like this?"
"No." Blake kept his answer short. He was more interested in figuring out what was happening than engaging in idle chat.
He reached for his phone and switched on the camera, trying to capture an image of the anomaly. The camera struggled to focus on something that seemed to simultaneously absorb and emit light.
The young woman peered over his shoulder at the screen of his phone. " Do you think it'll show up in pictures?"
"Let's find out." He snapped a few shots before pocketing his phone again.
The ground trembled again. Different this time. Deeper. Like a bass note from miles below the surface, thrumming up through Blake's boots. The crowd staggered slightly but remained fixated on the dark object.
A strange energy tingled through the air, a sensation that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. The atmosphere felt charged, as if the world itself held its breath. The anomaly pulsed like a living thing, and then a barely audible humming began to layer over the clamor of alarms and voices—a low, persistent thrum that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Blake looked around; nobody else seemed inclined to move closer to investigate—nor did they flee back to their homes' supposed safety. They were caught in limbo between fear and fascination. For that matter, so was he. He did not have an SOP for something like this.
The air crackled. Sharp. Like ice breaking. Like bones snapping. The sound built until Blake's eardrums threatened to burst.
The thing in the sky convulsed. No warning. One second stable, the next explosive. The tear in reality bloated outward, faster than thought, gorging itself on fear. A woman's scream cut through the chaos. Blake didn't think. Training kicked in. He planted his feet, shoved her clear, made himself a barrier between her and whatever the hell this was.
Raw force snatched him up like a puppet. No time to curse. No time to think. Just up and away, dragged toward the impossible tear in the sky.
More screams. Other victims caught in the same trap. Training said fight. Training said resist. Both useless. Like boxing a hurricane. Like arm-wrestling gravity itself.
The woman was still down where he'd pushed her. Safe, at least for now. Her face twisted in what had to be a scream. No way to hear it. Not above the wind. Not above the grinding, tearing sound that filled the world. Sound so loud it crowded out thought itself.
Blake felt cold to his soul. Not the kind of cold you could fight with a jacket or a fire. The kind that ate through flesh and bone and mind. His vision tunneled, narrowing to a pinprick of light. Like being pulled through a straw across the width of the universe.
Then nothing. Sweet nothing. Absolute silence.
Perfect dark.
Peace.
Blake jolted awake, his heart pounding against his ribs like a jackhammer. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. This was the second time tonight he'd been ripped from sleep, and it was starting to wear thin.
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He pushed himself up to a sitting position, wincing as his muscles protested. The ground beneath him was hard and uneven, digging into his back. Definitely not his bed. So where the hell was he?
Metal heaps loomed around Blake, jagged silhouettes stretching toward the sky like the ruins of a dead civilization. Rust and decay filled his nostrils, mingling with another scent—something alien and indefinable. The junkyard sprawled in all directions, a maze of twisted steel and broken machinery.
The stars above bore no resemblance to the patterns he'd studied since childhood. An ethereal nebula painted the night sky in swirls of purple and blue, its beauty a stark contrast to the desolation below. Not a single familiar constellation marked the endless expanse of darkness.
"Well shit, Dorothy, we're sure as hell not in Kansas anymore," he muttered to himself.
Blake's hand swept over his body: no cuts, bruises, or broken bones - a miracle. The familiar hilt of his knife pressed against his fingers, still strapped tight to his thigh. His sidearm rested in its holster, a reassuring weight. At least he wasn't completely defenseless.
He climbed to his feet, ignoring the protests of his stiff and aging muscles. Standing still wasn't an option. He needed to get his bearings, figure out where he was, and how the hell he'd gotten here.
The gravel crunched under his boots as Blake moved with the careful precision drilled into him through decades of ops. His eyes swept back and forth, taking in the mountains of twisted metal that rose like ancient monuments around him. Their shadows stretched across his path like grasping fingers. The weak light wasn't doing him any favors, and the hair on his neck wouldn't stop prickling. Someone had eyes on him - had to. These towering piles of scrap made any clean shot impossible. His pistol might as well be a paperweight at this range.
A metallic clang rang out behind him. His hand found the knife before his brain caught up, and his body spun into a defensive stance. Just a sheet of corroded steel gave up its perch, hitting the ground with a hollow bang. He exhaled slowly, keeping his muscles ready.
"Get it together, Connover," he growled to himself.
His gaze tracked across the jagged landscape until he spotted what looked like a viable climb - a heap of scrap metal that formed rough steps toward the sky. The rusted structure protested under his weight as he tested each potential hold before trusting it.
He worked his way up carefully, finding solid spots for his boots while avoiding any loose pieces. Every step sent fresh complaints through his knees, reminding him just how long he'd been doing this kind of work.
When he finally pulled himself onto the summit, he needed a moment to get his wind back. Then he saw it, and his gut tightened.
This wasn't just some isolated dump. The wasteland of scrap metal stretched endlessly in every direction, an ocean of rust and wreckage. Nothing but twisted spires and dark shapes all the way to the horizon.
"Fuckin hell," he breathed. "This whole damn planet is one giant scrap heap."
Blake shielded his eyes from the glare, scanning the horizon for any hint of habitation or a way off this rock. The endless sea of scrap metal stretched unbroken to every horizon, offering no comfort.
Moving deeper into the debris field, an unease crept through his bones. Something about this place felt fundamentally wrong, like the crawling sensation just before a firefight. His instincts screamed danger, though he couldn't pin down why.
When he came around a towering wall of wreckage, a metallic glint caught his attention. Clean machined surfaces reflected the alien light filtering through the hazy sky. His fingers found the grip of his blade as he approached with the careful movements of someone who'd learned the hard way about rushing in.
The wreck had once been a spacecraft, though now it was just another carcass in this mechanical graveyard. Its hull had been ripped apart, leaving a gaping wound in the metal skin. Blake couldn't place the strange alloys or the ship's exotic configuration as he traced the unfamiliar contours with his fingertips.
"This is some real Flight of the Navigator stuff," he muttered, utterly fascinated by the clearly alien wreckage.
Movement caught his eye. Deep in the shadows. Blake went still. Studied the darkness. Not a rat - too large. Not human - too small. But it moved with intent. Like a hunter.
The knife came free with a soft metallic hiss. Blake had killed before. Would do it again if needed. Right here. Right now.
"Come on then, you bastard." His voice was low. Dangerous. His body coiled, ready. "Let's dance."
Blake watched as something emerged from the darkness, and his mind struggled to process what his eyes were seeing. The thing stood barely chest-high, but its frame was dense with unnatural muscle, like someone had compressed a defensive tackle into a child-sized package. Diseased-looking veins pushed against sickly pale skin, and what looked like mechanical infections oozed from open wounds across its body. Where flesh met metal, the seams were crude and angry. Its eyes glowed an actinic blue behind what might have once been aviation gear, now grotesquely fused into its deformed skull. The creature's hands ended in razor-sharp talons that looked purpose-built for tearing through armor plating. When it opened its maw, exposing multiple rows of serrated teeth, its breath came out in unnatural clouds of vapor, accompanied by a sound that was equal parts machine whine and animal aggression.
Blake's rational mind screamed, trying to comprehend the sight before him, but years of training took control.
Blake moved. His knife caught sunlight as he struck first, fast and hard. The thing was quick, but Blake had started moving first. The blade bit deep into mutant flesh with a wet sound.
The creature screamed. Came at him with those claws. Blake slipped the attack like a boxer. Treated it like any other back-alley knife fight. Had to. The alternative was freezing up, thinking too much about what he was actually facing. He could do a simple knife fight.
Pain flared across his forearm. Claws had tagged him. Blood ran warm down his sleeve. Didn't matter. He'd been cut before. Would be cut again. The thing was fast but predictable. Like any predator.
Blake showed left. Went right. Buried steel in the creature's throat. Clean hit. The knife stayed stuck as the thing staggered back, clawing at its neck. Blake let it go. Created distance. Drew his P226.
Three shots. Three hits. Center mass. Textbook.
The creature dropped. Its eyes went dark.
Blake stood over it, chest heaving, and pulled his knife from the thing's throat. It dripped with viscous, oily blood.
"Nice to meet you too," he panted, wiping his blade clean on the creature's thigh.
Blood ran hot down his bicep. Four parallel slashes, deep enough to need stitches. Blake probed the wounds with practiced fingers. Not arterial. Not fatal. But they needed attention soon, before bacteria turned a clean injury septic.
He stripped the shirt with quick, economical movements, made bandages, and used his teeth to tie them tight. The field dressing was ugly but functional. Water would help, but boiled water would be better. But hope was for amateurs. Blake worked with what he had.
He studied the derelict hulk, weighing his choices. Standing exposed in the junkyard was asking for trouble, particularly after the gunfire had broadcast his location to anything with ears. Whatever else stalked these grounds would come sniffing. The ship might be shot to hell, but its battered shell could still offer cover, maybe even a defensible position.
Through gritted teeth, Blake hauled the body back the way it had come, far enough to keep scavengers occupied elsewhere. Returning to the wreck, he pulled himself up through the jagged gash in the hull, testing each handhold before trusting his weight. Inside was a graveyard of machinery - warped bulkheads and crystallized circuitry scattered like broken bones. He carved out a defensive position near the aft section, shoving aside enough wreckage to make room for his frame. Not exactly a luxury suite, but it beat bleeding out in the open.
Blake picked his way back toward the breach through the twisted metal, searching for salvage. A bent sheet of hull plating caught his eye - just what he needed. The metal shrieked against the deck as he hauled it into position, muscles burning as he wedged it across the opening.
He took a step back to assess. The jury-rigged barrier wouldn't win any beauty contests, but it would keep the dust storms and local wildlife at bay.
His work done, Blake staggered to the aft bulkhead and let gravity pull him down. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving bone-deep weariness in its wake. Each pulse sent fresh waves of pain radiating from his wounded arm, a souvenir from the bastard who'd tried to kill him.
The exhaustion made his thoughts drift to basic survival needs. Without food and water, his chances were shit. No telling how long he'd be trapped in this industrial graveyard, but dehydration would kill him long before starvation.
He'd need to go back out there, picking through the wreckage for anything resembling sustenance. His gut clenched at the thought, but survival rarely cared about comfort. And if there was one thing Blake knew how to do, it was survive.
He let his eyes fall shut, willing his mind to quiet. Sleep would help him conserve what little strength he had left for tomorrow's scavenging. But as the darkness closed in, memories of the anomaly flooded back - that ethereal glow, the relentless force that had grabbed him, the absolute void that swallowed him whole. The physics of it still escaped him, how that impossible phenomenon had ripped him from his world and dumped him in this mechanical graveyard.
The physics may have been strange, but the situation was textbook - another op gone sideways, no extraction plan, deep in unfriendly space. Blake had built his reputation on jobs like this, made his living dancing on that razor's edge between success and catastrophe. The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd finally managed to get out, was ready to take some cushy corporate security post pushing paper and watching monitors. But the universe, that cruel bastard, had other ideas. Here he was, yanked from retirement and thrown right back into the meat grinder.
He let out a dry laugh, then did what any veteran would do - closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. His breathing steadied, and consciousness faded in under five minutes.
Old habits died hard.