Joe looked at the phone before he quickly answered.

“Hey, Joe!” he heard his dad say.

“Dad,” he whispered. “Help!” He spoke slightly louder but still hushed.

“Joe? What’s going on?” his dad asked quickly.

“There’s tanks rolling in our street. Mom and I are trying to make a quick escape, but we’re scared they’ll shoot us down if they see us!”

“Son, hide. Do not try to leave. Hide immediately,” his father rushed out his words.

“But what if we get stuck here?” Joe asked, skeptical of the idea.

“None of that matters right now, Joe. Protect yourself right now and sort out the rest as it happens.”

Joe waved to his mother who was ducking down behind their car. She slowly made her way to him, careful not to attract the attention of the soldiers.

“Mom, dad says we should just hide.”

“Is your father on the phone now?” she asked.

She reached out her hand, silently asking for the phone. When it was in her grasp she spooke quietly, “I have no idea what to do here. Hide? Is that really the best option?”

Joe could no longer hear what his father was saying, but he assumed he was giving more advice because his mother just nodded her head.

“Okay, okay. Here he is,” she whispered.

She passed the phone back to Joe and pointed to the door. “Let’s go inside and hide in my bedroom.”

Joe accepted this decision and followed his mother back into their home. He kept his father on the line as they crouched through the house. Joe considered standing when they weren’t passing a window, but decided it was best to stay low throughout.

They climbed the stairs cringing when the fifth rickety step creaked. Anxiety licked itself up Joe’s spine, raising all his hairs on end. The horror of being caught kept his heart thrumming at an unhealthy rate.

Finally, they ascended the last step. Joe stayed close to his mother as they crawled to her room. Once inside, she locked the door, falling against it and exhaled.

Joe collapsed on the floor, exhausted from the stress inhabiting his body.

“Joe? Lauren?” a muffled voice spoke from his phone.

Joe dragged his hand closer to his ear. “We’re okay. Just hiding now,” the teen whispered to his father.

“Okay, okay. Mute me, but I’ll stay on the line so it’s quiet. Stay safe, Joe.” his father worriedly said.

“Okay. Thanks, dad,” Joe responded.

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Joe and his mother eventually found the strength to move. They crawled into the closest and sat against the wall. Both horrified and worried.

They stayed silent, only the sound of mechanical whirling and bites of the tank’s treads against the pavement could be heard.

That was terrifying enough, but when the screams and gunfire began, that was the moment Joe and his mother understood the true meaning of terror.

The tank shot bullets like fireworks, crackling through the air with an untamed fervor. They ate through everything in their wake, both biological and inanimate.

Joe’s mother cradled him in her arms. Regardless of how much he liked to be perceived as a tough guy at school, in that moment he willingly wept against his mother’s shoulder. He drew blood from his lip attempting to keep the wails at bay.

The building shook under the attack, the ground rumbled beneath them as the tanks spread throughout the street, firing at anything and everything.

Joe stayed in his mother’s embrace, flinching with each new sound. He begged for it all to end, he wished it was a nightmare. He hoped that if he pinched himself hard enough, he’d wake up in math class, listening to Mr. Riley droll on about geometry.

Those wordless prayers weren’t answered by a higher power that day as Joe was forced to sit and wait out the atrocious onslaught of bullets.

Shattering glass nearby caused Joe to let out a high-pitched scream.

His mother instantly muffled his wail with her hand. With her palm across his jaw, she looked him dead in the eye, horror swimming in her dilated pupils.

He knew he had made a severe mistake, with just that look, he knew.

The initial sound of breaking glass was close, but the next came from right outside the closet door. The tank was firing upon their house.

Joe’s mother shoved him to the floor and sprawled her body across him. She kept her hand over his mouth as they waited out the storm of bullets.

Tiny holes formed in the closet door, letting in the outside light like a constellation of stars. Had it been any other circumstance, it might have been beautiful.

Joe’s wide eyes watched the wood splinter, fracturing into tiny shards all around him. His face was wet with a combination of tears and sweat from his mother’s hand.

When the closet door had more holes than solid wood, the tank shifted its attention.

It had moved on, finally.

Joe sucked in air as he pulled his mom’s hand from his face. He gasped for the necessary oxygen, barely able to contain himself from screaming in terror once more.

His mother, however, didn’t move.

Joe, still focused on himself, couldn’t feel any pain and his limbs seemed to be intact. His ears rang and his head throbbed, but he felt okay. He felt alive, at the very least.

With a deep breath he relaxed onto the floor, he could breathe again. While catching his breath, he noticed something wet starting to warm his side. He reached down to his abdomen and touched his right ribs. It was covered in a sticky ooze. He pulled his hand back to inspect it further. In the now illuminated closet, he could see his hand was glistening red.

In a panic, Joe sat upright and patted down his side. Again, he didn’t feel any pain.

Realization sunk in as Joe slowly turned to look down at his mother, who had rolled off of him when he sat up.

Her eyes were closed in a way that made her look peaceful. If not for her blood-stained clothing, Joe would have assumed she’d fallen asleep or passed out. As it were, however, the teenager knew something was very wrong.

He bent down to shake her awake. She did not respond. He shook harder, but still received no response.

Letting all rationality and logic soar away from him, he began screaming, “Mom! Mom!”

Still, the woman on the floor didn’t move nor show any signs of life.

He cried her name, continuing to shake her when a sudden crash sounded in the bedroom. Startled, Joe looked up to see the door to his mother’s bedroom rived in half.

Before him stood a soldier wearing all red.

Joe pulled his mother into his arms, shielding her from whatever was about to happen. He was too shocked and distraught to speak or cry. He simply stared at the demon in front of him.

“Lieutenant Casey, any signs of life?” Joe heard a staticky voice relay.

The soldier reached for a small Walkie-Talkie and responded. “Yes.”

“The orders are clear, take care of it,” the voice responded.

The red-clothed monster lifted his hand and pointed a gun directly at Joe. Joe nuzzled his face into his mother’s neck, taking a deep breath. The last thing he thought about was the comforting scent of his mother’s hair.

Bang.