Chapter 134: Global Paranormal Groups Summit - Part 5
John F. Kennedy International Airport, New York, Terminal 4.
The automatic glass doors of the terminal slid open with a hiss, letting in a fresh wave of laughter and excitement. A group of five friends stepped inside, dragging wheeled suitcases and chatting animatedly, their voices rising above the murmur of the morning crowd.
"Bro, I still can't believe we're actually going to Tahiti!" said Ethan, a tall, lean man with beach-blond hair and aviator sunglasses pushed up into his mess of curls. "Sun, sea, and zero responsibilities? This is the dream."
"I told you we should've done this two years ago," replied Maya, rolling her eyes as she adjusted the strap of her duffel bag. Her nails were painted in bright turquoise, a preview of her vacation vibe. "But nooo, someone had to save up for a gaming rig."
"That gaming rig carried me through two breakups and a lockdown," muttered Adam, pulling his hoodie up as he yawned. "Worth it."
Beside him, Zoe and Jordan shared a knowing smile. Zoe, with her DSLR camera slung around her neck, was already mentally framing her Instagram posts. Jordan, dressed in his signature black jeans and tropical shirt combo, was more focused on the duty-free liquor section ahead.
The airport was bustling, filled with travelers rushing to make flights, crying babies, security announcements echoing across the terminal. But nothing could dim the excitement in the group's faces. They were escaping. Finally.
After checking in at the airline desk, where a polite attendant handed over five boarding passes with a warm "Bon voyage," the group made their way through security. There were a few groans when Adam forgot to take out his laptop and had to go back, but eventually, they passed through without issue.
In the waiting area near Gate 47, Ethan grabbed a selfie stick and snapped a group photo.
"One for the memories!" he grinned.
They laughed, photo-bombed by a grumpy businessman in the background who had no idea he'd just become part of someone's vacation album.
Soon after, the boarding call echoed across the terminal.
"Flight 221 to Papeete, Tahiti is now boarding. Passengers in Group B, please proceed to Gate 47."
"That's us!" Zoe chirped.
The five of them gathered their belongings and made their way down the boarding tunnel. The excitement became real, tangible, a growing buzz in their chests. Maya leaned against the window for a moment, watching the massive jetliner glint beneath the morning sun.
"It's really happening," she whispered.
Ethan nudged her, "Don't cry on me now. Wait until the first coconut cocktail."
They reached the aircraft door, greeted by a smiling flight attendant, and were directed to their seats near the back.
The group slid into their spots, 39A to 39E, exchanging jokes and arguing over who would get the window.
In the end, Zoe won.
The engines outside began to hum louder. Seatbelts clicked into place.
The cabin lights dimmed.
And as the final boarding announcement played overhead, the group of friends leaned back into their seats, completely unaware that this would be their last moment of peace.
The aircraft soared above the Atlantic, gliding smoothly through the stratosphere. Seatbelt signs had flicked off. The cabin lights had dimmed to a comfortable blue hue. Trays of drinks and snacks were being distributed by the flight attendants. A warm tropical playlist murmured faintly through the speakers.
It felt… peaceful.
Ethan was already half-asleep, slouched into his seat with a neck pillow around his shoulders. Jordan was watching something on his tablet, and Zoe had just started flipping through the in-flight magazine, her fingers idly brushing her camera's lens.
That's when she noticed them.
A cluster of passengers, scattered through different aisles, but all watching the time. They weren't talking. Just staring at their watches. Tense. Perfectly still.
Zoe's smile faded. Something felt off.
Then, chaos.
A click. A snap. A scream.
Several of those quiet passengers suddenly stood up. Guns were drawn, pistols, short rifles, even a few small curved blades. One of them, a large man with a burn across half his face, raised his weapon and bellowed:
"THIS IS A HIJACKING! SHUT THE HELL UP AND HANDS ON YOUR HEADS, NOW!"
Screams erupted across the cabin.
People ducked. Some froze. Others tried to run. A flight attendant tried to hit the alarm, but one of the hijackers pistol-whipped her to the ground.
Zoe's hands flew up instinctively, her eyes wide with horror. Ethan woke in a panic. Jordan shouted something, he didn't even know what. But none of them could stop what came next.
The burned man seized Maya by the hair, yanking her violently out of her seat. She shrieked, kicking and thrashing.
"Let go of me! LET ME GO!"
He dragged her toward the front of the plane, toward the cockpit door. Panic rippled through the cabin.
At the door, he banged his fist hard.
"Pilot! You've got ten seconds to open this goddamn door or I blow her brains out!"
A tense silence.
Then, the pilot's voice, clear and defiant through the intercom.
"Go to hell, you terrorist bastard. Authorities have been alerted. You're done."
The hijacker's grip tightened.
Another man stepped up beside him, calmer, more precise. Shorter. He didn't yell. He didn't threaten. He simply raised his pistol, and without hesitation, shot Maya in the head.
Her scream stopped instantly.
Her body crumpled to the floor like a dropped marionette.
The entire cabin fell into stunned silence.
Zoe choked on her breath. Ethan let out a strangled gasp. Jordan looked ready to throw up.
"You're wasting time," the calm one said coldly, looking at his partner. "Let's finish this."
He extended his left palm toward the door, whispering something in a strange, guttural tongue that echoed like distant thunder.
Blue light shimmered to life around his hand, forming a glowing sphere of unstable energy.
BOOM.
With one devastating strike, the reinforced cockpit door was torn from its frame, blasted into the wall behind the pilot's chair. Sparks flew.
The man stepped into the cockpit without hesitation, raised his pistol, and calmly executed both the pilot and the co-pilot with two clean shots.
Blood sprayed across the controls.
He took the pilot's seat and flicked several switches. Alarms flashed red across the board, but he didn't care. He pressed the comms button and spoke, his voice low but steady:
"Spearhead-1 to Delta. The aircraft is secured. Commencing Phase Two."
A distorted voice crackled back:
"Copy. Proceed."
Without a word, Spearhead-1 seized the yoke and turned it sharply.
The aircraft tilted,first subtly, then violently.
Passengers screamed as trays flew, luggage burst from overhead compartments, and bodies slammed into seats.
The plane nosedived slightly, the ocean below now the new destination.
And the countdown to catastrophe had begun.
---
McGuire Air Force Base, New Jersey.
The base was quiet in the early dawn, the horizon painted in soft strokes of pink and orange. A gentle mist clung to the tarmac, and in the distance, the steady hum of maintenance crews echoed faintly beneath the belly of parked F-22 Raptors and F-16 Fighting Falcons.
In the pilot ready room, a few men and women in flight suits lounged in their chairs, sipping coffee, laughing quietly, reviewing flight logs and schedules. The walls were lined with lockers and flight gear; a dull TV in the corner played a weather report on mute.
Among them sat Captain Travis "Hawk" Reiner, a veteran pilot with three deployments overseas and a sharp jawline that matched his no-nonsense attitude. He was halfway through a stale protein bar, joking with Lieutenant Mackey about a simulator crash from the day before.
Then, the alarms went off.
A klaxon wailed, a shrill, screaming siren that turned every head and dropped every heart.
All color drained from Travis' face.
"Emergency scramble! Emergency scramble!" the base intercom shouted. "All rapid-response units report to command immediately. Repeat: Emergency scramble."
No one asked questions. Everyone moved.
Chairs clattered back. Mugs hit the floor. Helmets and flight suits were ripped from lockers. Within seconds, boots pounded down the corridor.
The ready room was abandoned in under twenty seconds.
In the command center, massive screens lit up with maps of the Eastern Seaboard. Radar lines blinked. Dots moved fast. Red warning signs pulsed like a heartbeat.
Travis and the other pilots barged in, breath heavy, eyes focused.
Colonel Hargrave stood by the central display. His face was pale.
"We've got a hijacked airliner. Civilian. Boeing 787. Flight ID: Pacific Skies 221. Originating JFK, supposed to be heading to Tahiti. Transponder went dark five minutes ago."
"What?" Travis muttered.
"The plane made a hard turn mid-atlantic. Then it dropped in altitude rapidly. No response from the cockpit. No contact with tower. Flight path's now inbound."
"Inbound where, sir?" another pilot asked.
"New York. It's accelerating."
The room went cold.
Every pilot froze.
For a brief second, no one said a word.
The implications were clear. They'd lived it in training. They'd seen it in documentaries. They'd grown up with the fear of it haunting every skyline.
9/11.
Again.
Travis clenched his jaw. "How fast is it moving?"
"Faster than expected," Hargrave replied grimly. "But that's not all."
He tapped a screen. The image zoomed in, satellite footage just uploaded.
Infrared signatures glowed inside the cabin.
Too many heat signatures. Too much movement.
"There is a signal interference. No clear confirmation, but intelligence suggests this isn't just a standard terror cell."
One of the techs looked up from his headset. "Sir, NORAD has just authorized intercept. Rules of engagement are active. We are to confirm hijack. Disable if necessary."
"Understood," Hargrave nodded. "Get to your birds. Move."
The scramble was a blur of steel and noise.
Travis sprinted down the tarmac, helmet in hand, heart hammering in his chest. He reached his F-22, already prepped by ground crew. The sun had barely crested the horizon, but the sky was alive with urgency.
He climbed the ladder two steps at a time and dropped into the cockpit.
The HUD lit up. The systems hummed to life.
"Raptor-2 checking in."
"Raptor-3, green across the board."
"Raptor-1, ready for takeoff."
The tower crackled:
"Raptors, you are clear for immediate departure. Runway One. Full burn. Godspeed."
Engines ignited.
The tarmac shook.
With a deafening roar, three F-22s tore down the runway, their wheels lifting off one after another like hawks in synchronized flight.
Travis pushed the throttle. The G-force slammed him into his seat.
Altitude climbing. Velocity rising.
He looked out across the clouds, his eyes cold, resolute.
"Raptor squadron en route to Pacific Skies 221. Time to intercept: 9 minutes."
And the race to prevent disaster had begun.
The roar of twin afterburners shattered the stillness of the skies as the three F-22 Raptors streaked across the Eastern Seaboard, climbing fast toward their target.
Captain Travis "Hawk" Reiner narrowed his eyes behind his visor. The tension in the airlock-tight cockpit was palpable. He could hear the quiet, clipped breathing of the other pilots over the comms, could feel the heavy weight of history clawing at the back of his mind.
"Target is still descending," came the voice of Lieutenant Mackey from Raptor-2. "Bearing 121. Speed is… increasing. Christ, they're going straight for New York."
No one said it out loud, but they were all thinking the same thing, 9/11.
A hijacked passenger jet. Heading for New York. Moving fast.
No radio contact.
No response.
"Command, this is Raptor-1. We have visuals on the 787. Preparing for intercept."
"Copy that, Raptor-1," Command replied. "Engage visual confirmation and attempt contact one last time. If hostile intent is verified, you are cleared for termination."
As the Raptors closed in, the sleek white fuselage of Pacific Skies 221 came into view, slicing through the clouds like a dagger.
"Eyes on the cockpit," muttered Travis, adjusting his helmet feed. "Zooming in now…"
And then he saw it.
The cockpit windows were drenched in red, blood smeared across the interior glass. One of the pilots, or what was left of him, was slumped against the side panel. A man in civilian clothes now sat at the controls, calm and composed, glancing up.
The hijacker looked directly at them.
Then, without hesitation, he raised his hand and extended his middle finger.
"Are you seeing this?" Reiner barked into the mic.
"Crystal clear, sir," Lieutenant Mackey answered.
"Jesus Christ…" someone muttered.
"Attempting radio contact," Reiner said, flipping a switch. "Pacific Skies 221, this is the United States Air Force. You are entering restricted airspace. Respond immediately or we will consider you a threat to national security. This is your first and final warning."
Silence.
"Still nothing," Mackey said grimly. "They're locked in. Trajectory is straight toward Manhattan."
"Copy that. Command, we have hostile confirmation. Pilot is not responding. Civilian visible at the controls. Cockpit covered in blood. Target on crash course for New York. We're initiating termination protocol."
"Permission granted, Raptor team," came the solemn voice of the controller. "Take the shot."
Travis flicked his weapon systems live. A green box locked around the Boeing's underbelly.
He squeezed the trigger.
Two AIM-120 missiles screamed through the air toward the aircraft.
And then-
Impact.
Or it should have been.
The second the missiles reached the fuselage, a sudden explosion of blue light erupted around the jet. A semi-transparent dome of glowing energy burst outward like a shockwave, and the missiles…
Vanished.
Absorbed.
"WHAT THE HELL?!" Brooks shouted.
"It didn't even scratch it!" Mackey gasped. "The whole damn jet's shielded!"
"No way that's tech. That's-"
"-Impossible," Reiner finished. "Command, this is Raptor-1. We have a situation. Target aircraft has just activated some kind of energy shield. Missiles absorbed on impact. Repeat, missiles absorbed. We are unable to engage."
There was a stunned silence on the comms. Then Command replied, voice barely composed:
"Say again, Raptor-1. Did you confirm a shield on the aircraft?"
"Confirmed visual and telemetry. Some kind of blue energy field. It nullified both rounds."
"…Copy that. Hold position. Await further instructions."
Reiner exhaled slowly, his heart hammering.
"What in God's name is this…?"
And somewhere, in the distance, the glittering skyline of New York began to loom closer and closer…
Time was running out.
Suddenly, every alarm inside the cockpits blared at once.
The command center's voice roared through the comms:
"Warning! Over one hundred anti-air missiles are inbound to your position! Unknown source! Unknown source!"
"What?!"
"Are you kidding me?!"
"Deploy flares, now!"
The squadron scattered across the sky in a frantic flurry of evasive maneuvers. Trails of chaff and countermeasures burst around them like fireworks, but the sheer volume of missiles was overwhelming. They twisted through the air, diving, banking, and climbing with everything their jets could give.
But then they saw it.
The hijacked plane, a commercial airliner, began to move.
Not falling. Dancing.
It dipped sideways in a sharp corkscrew, rolled under three missiles, pulled an impossible vertical climb, then flipped mid-air to dodge a cluster of projectiles. It moved like no aircraft of its size ever should.
"Jesus Christ…" one of the pilots whispered.
"Did that 737 just, did it just dodge all of them?!"
There was no time to process.
Then Command returned, their voice shaken:
"Missile telemetry confirmed. Repeat, confirmed. The launch source is… the United Nations Headquarters in Manhattan."
"What?!"
"That's impossible, what the hell is the UN doing with so many anti-air missiles?!"
"They're not even supposed to have surface-to-air capabilities!"
Shock echoed across every channel. But it was too late for questions.
On the horizon, the rogue aircraft leveled out, then suddenly accelerated. Its engines howled unnaturally as it surged forward, cutting through the air like a spear hurled toward the heart of Manhattan.
The city was already in view.
Still in full pursuit, the three fighter jets raced behind the hijacked aircraft as it approached the New York City skyline. The pilots' eyes scanned desperately, sweat dripping under their helmets as the jet engines screamed above the Atlantic wind.
Suddenly, launch signatures.
Bright streaks cut across the sky.
"Missiles! Multiple launches from the city!"
"Are you seeing this? Who the hell is firing?!"
"Locking on now, Jesus, that's more batteries?!"
From several rooftops across Manhattan, including those dangerously close to populated zones, multiple anti-aircraft missile systems activated. Like teeth bared from a sleeping beast, they launched synchronized salvos directly at the hijacked airliner.
The plane twisted again, contorting mid-air in a series of impossible rolls and inverted dives. It evaded with the same disturbing grace, flipping, turning, stalling, then recovering without losing speed.
The pilots could only watch in stunned silence.
"Holy shit…" one of them breathed. "Is this thing even manned?!"
After minutes of breathless pursuit and chaos, a massive barrage launched from the UN Headquarters, even more powerful than the last. The sky lit up like a warzone.
The airliner banked hard, thrown off course for the first time. Its trajectory veered south, narrowly missing the Chrysler Building.
The radio crackled.
"He's off-target. He's veering away!"
The three pilots exhaled together. A wave of relief swept the air as their grips loosened slightly.
But then…
"Wait…"
One of them leaned forward, eyes locked on the HUD.
"Oh no. Oh fuck…"
His voice rose into panic.
"OH FUCK! IT'S HEADING FOR THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING!"
---
Madison Square Park, a slice of calm in the usual rush of Manhattan life.
Two NYPD officers stood by one of the perimeter fences, sipping coffee from greasy paper cups. Officer Jenkins, a tall man in his late 30s with a thick Brooklyn accent, leaned lazily against a patrol car. His partner, Officer Ramirez, younger and more energetic, tossed peanuts into his mouth while scanning the passing crowd.
"Yo, Jenkins," Ramirez started, crunching loudly. "You catch that Yankees game last night?"
Jenkins scoffed. "Man, don't talk to me about the Yankees. Ninth inning, bases loaded, and they still can't close. What the hell is wrong with Chapman lately?"
Ramirez chuckled. "I mean, he's getting old. You ever seen a pitcher age well? At least they're better than the Knicks."
Jenkins laughed and shook his head. "That's a low bar, bro. Knicks've been cursed since '99. I think my kid could play better point guard than what we got now."
They stood in companionable silence for a moment, sipping their coffee and watching a couple joggers pass by. The early sun cast long shadows on the grass, and the distant hum of the city traffic gave the park a lazy rhythm.
Then Ramirez frowned slightly and gestured toward the street.
"Hey, you noticed something weird lately?"
Jenkins raised an eyebrow. "Weird how?"
Ramirez shrugged. "Just… the number of uniforms out lately. Like, last week I saw a full unit posted on a random rooftop in Midtown. Then yesterday, the precinct got orders to redirect traffic five blocks away from some 'maintenance operation' near SoHo and no one's allowed to ask questions."
Jenkins squinted. "Yeah… I've been wondering about that too. A few days ago, we were told to avoid the area around the UN for a full 24 hours. Said it was 'confidential diplomatic activity.' Since when do diplomats bring in armored trucks?"
Ramirez glanced up toward the skyline.
"You think it's another protest? Or maybe some Homeland Security thing?"
Jenkins shrugged, rubbing his jaw. "If it is, they're not telling us. But I got a weird feeling, man. Something's up. You feel it?"
Ramirez opened his mouth to reply
and that's when the first deep rumble rolled across the sky, distant but unnatural. The air felt suddenly heavier.
They looked up, confused, as a glint of metal shot across the skyline.
Officer Ramirez instinctively grabbed his radio, the strange thunder-like noise still echoing faintly in his ears. He turned slightly, scanning the horizon as he pressed the call button.
"Dispatch, this is Unit 34 patrol, stationed at Madison Square Park. We just heard a loud, thunder-like rumble overhead. Doesn't sound natural, definitely not weather-related. Can you confirm anything?"
The radio buzzed alive as a flurry of voices filled the channel.
"This is Unit 17 near Union Square, we heard it too."
"Unit 09 from 28 St. Same noise, like a sonic boom but… off."
"Unit 42, near Bellevue Hospital, hearing multiple thuds from the sky, can't get visual yet."
"Dispatch, this is Unit 56, visual contact! Multiple fast-moving projectiles in the air! Repeat, we have unknown missiles heading eastbound!"
Officer Jenkins was already looking up, eyes wide. "What the hell…"
Ramirez turned his head and froze.
Overhead, streaking across the morning sky like fireflies on steroids, were dozens,no , hundreds of missiles. Some were low, weaving between rooftops. Others were cutting high across the skyline, all aiming east.
Jenkins grabbed his own radio with trembling fingers. "Dispatch! This is Unit 34 again, we've got eyes on what looks like a missile swarm heading east! Hundreds of them! Repeat, hundreds of missiles in the air!"
More voices poured in.
"Unit 15, we're seeing the same! This isn't a drill!"
"Oh my God, Unit 21, missiles just flew right over us!"
"Something's wrong! This isn't supposed to happen-"
"This is Unit 3, should we begin evacuation protocol?"
Then the sharp, composed voice of the precinct commissioner cut through the chaos on the channel.
"All units, this is Commissioner Doyle."
Tension dropped across the network like a hammer.
"Confirmed. Multiple missile launches detected across the city, targeting a hostile aircraft above Manhattan airspace. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill."
"Maintain position. Keep civilian panic to a minimum. Do not engage. Maintain perimeter control and ensure safety of all noncombatants. Emergency services are being redirected. Hold your ground and await further instructions."
Ramirez slowly lowered his radio, heart pounding in his chest.
Jenkins muttered, "Jesus Christ… what the hell is going on up there?"
No one had an answer.
Above them, the sky was no longer just New York's skyline. It was a war zone.
Screams.
Gasps.
The sound of New Yorkers collectively realizing something wasn't right.
Around Officers Ramirez and Jenkins, civilians had frozen in place, staring up at the sky. Some held their hands over their mouths, others had already pulled out their phones.
"Oh my God…"
"What the hell is that?!"
"There are missiles in the sky, actual missiles!"
People began filming. A young woman in yoga pants turned her phone vertically, shouting into her stream, "Guys, I'm in Manhattan and there are missiles flying over New York! Real missiles! Look at this, this isn't normal!"
Dozens of others followed suit, holding up phones and capturing the unnatural barrage in the skies above.
That's when the panic started.
A man grabbed his daughter's hand and pulled her away from the open lawn. "Come on, sweetie! We're going home, now!"
An elderly couple huddled under a park canopy, shielding their heads as if it would do anything.
People screamed. Others just stood frozen, unable to comprehend what they were seeing.
Officer Ramirez raised his voice, stepping forward. "Everyone stay calm! Parents with children, please head back indoors or to a secure shelter!"
"Elderly citizens, if you need assistance, raise your hand, we'll help you get somewhere safe!"
Jenkins moved fast, weaving through the crowd. "Ma'am, please! That stroller can't outrun an explosion, take the alley by 24th, it leads straight to the station!"
But it was barely working.
The tension.
The fear.
The raw confusion.
And the sky continued to rumble.
More trails streaked overhead, white, orange, some glowing faint blue, each cutting through the skyline like angry brushstrokes.
Then came the silence.
For one brief second, no one spoke.
All eyes turned upward as a dark silhouette passed overhead, massive, gliding through the air with eerie grace.
Ramirez's mouth went dry. "That's a… that's a plane."
Jenkins nodded slowly. "Yeah. But it's not supposed to be there. Not like that."
A single aircraft hovered just above the Manhattan skyline, wrong in shape, wrong in movement, too fast, too smooth.
And despite the missiles still chasing it, it was winning.
The people of New York could only watch.
It happened in an instant.
One second, the massive aircraft was carving impossible trails across the sky, dodging everything the city had thrown at it.
The next, it was descending.
Not spiraling. Not malfunctioning.
It dived, with purpose, toward the Empire State Building.
Someone screamed.
Another dropped their phone in disbelief.
And then it hit.
CRASH.
The sound wasn't a simple explosion, it was a roar, a snarl of metal and stone and shockwave, followed by a blast that rattled the bones of every soul on the street. Windows shattered. Alarms blared. A fiery cloud erupted from the side of the Empire State, vomiting debris, smoke, and flame into the air like a wound torn open across the skyline.
For a heartbeat, the entire park stood frozen.
People couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't believe what they had just witnessed.
Then, one woman shrieked. A man began sprinting. A child started crying. And like a match to dry grass, panic ignited.
Civilians ran in every direction, trampling benches, pushing through playgrounds, stumbling over one another in a blind rush to escape something they couldn't even describe.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!?"
"IT HIT THE EMPIRE!"
"IS THIS ANOTHER 9/11?!"
Ramirez and Jenkins were already moving, their radios screaming with overlapping voices.
"Unit 49, we have eyes on a direct impact!"
"This is 67, explosion confirmed! The top floors are on fire!"
"I repeat, the plane has hit the Empire State Building!"
Then came the commander's voice, loud and urgent across all channels:
"All units, this is the Commissioner. We have a confirmed aerial impact on the Empire State Building. Initiate emergency protocol Bravo. I repeat, a citywide emergency is declared. Lock down priority zones, secure key infrastructures, and begin crowd control operations immediately!"
And then, sirens.
So many sirens.
Filling the streets. Echoing through the canyons of Manhattan. Competing with the chaos of the terrified public.
Ramirez and Jenkins reached their cruiser in a sprint, unlocked the rear compartment, and pulled out their Remington shotguns with shaking hands.
"Get your gear," Ramirez barked. "We need to push south, get people off the damn streets!"
Jenkins nodded, eyes wide. "Station 23's the nearest fallback. Let's start corralling toward there."
They turned and ran back into the chaos, guns ready, badges out, trying to form some line of order amidst the storm of screaming, stampeding humanity. Smoke from the Empire State bled into the clouds above, painting the city grey.
New York was burning again.
And then, without warning, the sky blackened.
Clouds, thick and pulsating with unnatural red veins, spread over Manhattan like a storm summoned by hate itself. The sunlight vanished in seconds. Shadows grew long and crimson.
Then the lightning came.
CRACK!
A torrent of over a hundred blood-red bolts slammed directly into the Empire State Building, illuminating the twisted skyline with flashes of energy.
"Holy shit!" Ramirez cried, shielding his eyes.
Jenkins didn't have time to respond, because in that very moment, a crimson shockwave erupted from the Empire State Building, expanding outward in all directions with a deep, thunderous hum.
The officers were thrown back like ragdolls as the wave tore through Madison Square. A hemisphere of glowing red energy surged forward and then halted, perfectly, just before reaching the officers' position.
They landed hard on the concrete, groaning, coughing, dazed.
"What the hell was that!?" Jenkins muttered, struggling to get up.
Inside the dome, everything looked different. hundreds of civilians lay on the ground, some twitching, others eerily still, completely covered by thick, red smoke that clung to their heads like masks.
Ramirez pulled Jenkins to his feet. "That's not smoke. It's- it's alive!"
Then, movement.
One by one, the civilians stood.
But not as people.
Each head was still shrouded in smoke, hissing, pulsating, as if something inside was feeding. The people beneath weren't walking. They were lurching. Twisting. Their hands were no longer hands. Their mouths, when visible, were smiling too wide.
Then came the screams.
The twisted ones exited the field and rushed the still-human crowd beyond.
They tore into them with brutal savagery.
Claws where fingers once were.
Snarling, gurgling, twisting bodies.
Tearing people apart.
Limbs flew. Blood sprayed. Screams echoed.
Ramirez fired first. "OPEN FIRE!"
BOOM! His shotgun sent one of the creatures flying, smoke bursting from its head like a popped balloon.
Jenkins followed, pumping round after round into the charging horrors. "What the fuck are they?!"
But for every one they dropped, three more took its place.
They were being overrun.
"Fall back! FALL BACK!" Ramirez shouted.
They turned and ran, sprinting down the subway stairs toward 23rd Street Station. Behind them, the shrieking, mutated crowd gave chase, slamming against the metal security gate just as the officers pulled it shut and locked it down.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Fists, if they could still be called that, slammed against the gate with inhuman fury. Some tried squeezing through, but their twisted forms were too large. Others screamed, a sound like metal grinding against bone.
The two officers stumbled back, panting.
And then they turned around.
At the base of the stairs stood dozens of civilians, parents clutching children, tourists still holding their phones, elderly couples frozen in fear.
All of them were staring.
Not at the creatures.
But at the two men with shotguns, as if silently asking:
What the hell is happening?
Jenkins grabbed his radio again, pressing the button hard.
"This is patrol unit 34 inside 23rd Street Station. We're under attack by some kind of… creatures. Civilians are down, we need backup now!"
Only static replied. Nothing. No dispatch. No backup. No signal.
He lowered the radio slowly, a grim look in his eyes.
"Fuck," he whispered.
Ramirez, eyes scanning the dark tunnel behind the civilians, chambered a round into his shotgun.
"What the hell are those things?"
"I don't fucking know," Jenkins muttered. "All I know is that we need to get these people out of here. Fast."
"How?" Ramirez asked.
Jenkins paused. Then pointed down the subway tunnel.
"We follow the line to Union Square. Once we get there, we climb back up and regroup at the 13th Precinct."
Ramirez nodded, looking over the terrified civilians. "Alright."
Then he turned and addressed the crowd, raising his voice.
"Listen up, everyone! We're in a dangerous zone. We're moving to a safer location. Stay close, stay quiet, and follow every instruction we give you. If you want to stay alive, you do exactly what we say!"
People nodded, shaken and scared, clutching their bags and children.
Jenkins turned to Ramirez. "I'll take points. You watch the rear. Sounds good?"
"Got it," Ramirez replied, cocking his shotgun.
Without wasting another second, the two officers led the group down the subway tunnel, flashlight beams cutting through the dark, toward the unknown.
Behind them, the metal gate shook violently, those things were still out there.
And they weren't done.
---
Back in Backdoor SoHo, inside the opulent halls of Ambrose Restaurants, Léonard sat at a long table among the other leaders of the Hope System and several representatives of the Neutral Systems. The air was relaxed. Plates of anomalously crafted delicacies steamed across the white linens, glasses clinked gently with aged wine, and laughter hummed low under the golden chandelier.
For a moment, everything was serene.
Then, the world shook.
A sudden tremor rocked the ground beneath them with a deafening CRACK, shattering glasses and toppling wine bottles. Plates slid off tables. Screams rang out. Chairs collapsed under the jolt.
In a blur of motion, eight masked operators from Resh-1 materialized around Léonard, tactical gear shimmering faintly as they formed a tight shield. Mei Lin and Graves immediately flanked him, weapons at the ready.
"Evacuate. Now," Graves barked.
They rushed him outside.
The moment Léonard stepped into the open air, he looked up and froze.
The sky was red.
Not a soft, atmospheric red, but a deep, unnatural crimson, roiling like a wound in the fabric of reality. Bolts of red lightning arced violently between clouds that pulsed like living things. The air was thick, electric, and wrong.
Around him, the other leaders of the anomalous groups staggered out of the building. Even the usually composed envoys of the Serpent Hand stood stunned. The representatives from Marshall, Carter & Dark, the Three Moons Initiative, and the Global Occult Coalition were all speechless.
And then it hit.
Not the ground, but their minds.
A cold, mechanical tone echoed through Léonard's consciousness, followed by a message that wasn't heard, it was received. Forced into the forefront of every leader's thoughts.
[Ding! Global Alert!]
[The Chaos Insurgency has initiated the SCP-2911-JP event, "The Longest Day of the United States of America."
Victory Reward: Depends on contribution.
Failure Penalty: The End of the World.]
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Raaaaah I'm so excited for this Arc that I've been waiting to write for so long, I promise you a chapter every two days maximum (I'll even try one or two chapters a day if possible) for the entire Arc.