Grabbing the phone, he snatched up a backpack and packed whatever seemed essential—food, bottled water, a lightweight tarp, flashlight, small hatchet. His hands were shaking, but he worked quickly, moving like someone who had done this a dozen times before. He hadn't. But instinct—or maybe panic—was guiding him now.
A few more steps back into the aisles. He tore open a plastic pack of bread and stuffed two loaves into the side pocket. Then, canned beans. Easy to carry, easy to eat. He winced at the clang of metal as they hit the bottom of the bag. Too loud. Too risky. But there was no time to care.
He paused—just for a second—at the medicine shelf. Painkillers. A small bottle of antiseptic. Bandages. He shoved them in.
The lights in the Super mart flickered again, and a groan echoed from somewhere outside the building. He could hear distant screams now. Glass breaking. Something scraping along the road.
He swallowed.
Go.
Chuka zipped the bag shut, slung it over his shoulder, and sprinted down the dim aisle. His boots thudded against the tiled floor, echoing louder than he wanted.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He already knew what was behind him—he'd just killed one of them minutes ago.
He burst through the back door and into the choking air outside.
The world was red. Not metaphorically—literally.The sky was bleeding. A deep crimson haze hung over the shattered city skyline, where buildings stood like broken teeth. Smoke coiled into the heavens,Ash drifted like snowfall. Sirens wailed in the distance, barely audible over the thunder of helicopters and the chaotic screams filling Street. and the air stank of scorched metal, blood, and something far worse.
Monsters — things born of nightmare and mutation — surged from from everywhere.Humans were mutating as well,one moment, the were humans... the next second?, they've mutated Their flesh bubbled like it was boiling from the inside, twisted claws dragging behind them, eyes glowing like coals. Some still wore the shredded rags of civilian clothes. Some still screamed like people.
A deafening roar cracked through the sky — a fleet of military grade UH-60 Black Hawk, and AH-64 Apache streaked overhead scattering into the chaotic city. A Black hawk lowering itself just a few feet away, its rotors chopping the air with a whup-whump-whump rhythm that sent dust spiraling from the ground as the soldiers began rappelling from it, boots slamming against the dusty godforsaken soil followed by gunfire."
The Apache hovered above the city ruins, rotors screaming, dust spiraling beneath it.Its targeting system locked on — monsters everywhere, swarming the streets like ants.
BRRTT-BRRTT-BRRTT!The 30mm chain gun spat fire, shredding bodies, blasting open twisted limbs and screeching mouths.Hellfire missiles followed — two streaks of smoke, then BOOM! BOOM! — a hand full of the wretches below disappeared in flame.
But even the sky wasn't safe.
From the clouds, three winged beasts so ugly, that even the gods shy away from looking at dove at a very fast speed, with one coming from a blind spot, shrieking like rusted metal.The gunner shouted, spun the cannon upward, lit the sky with bullets — but one creature dodged, slashed past, clawed the tail.
"Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! We've got flyers—!"
The Apache spun, trailing smoke, still firing even as it dropped toward the fire-lit streets.
A soldier shouted through a radio... Then a screeching mass of limbs and jaws leapt onto the helicopter, dragging it out of the sky. It spiraled, burning, smashing into a parking garage. The explosion lit up the block like daylight for a second — then plunged it back into hell.
All around, gunfire cracked, echoing between buildings like firecrackers. Civilians screamed and ran, clutching children or bleeding from shrapnel wounds. One woman was pulled under a car by a hunched, spider-like creature with a human face, and her scream was cut short with a wet crunch.
A minibus was flipped on its side. Flames licked the windows of a hair salon. Someone ran past him covered in blood, not even noticing him.
Chuka stood frozen on the Super mart steps for a heartbeat. This was real.
A man similar in age to him sprinted past him, his shirt soaked in blood, eyes wild like a trapped animal. He didn't even glance at Chuka. Just kept running, arms pumping, a bandage flapping from one hand like a white flag too late to matter.
Then came the scream.
low-pitched. Wet. Gurgling.
Not the man.
Something else.
It leapt over the flipped minibus—a shape with too many limbs like some sort of octopus, arms jerking at odd angles, flesh like peeled yam, glistening and split with blue cracks. It slammed into the runner's back, and both of them hit the ground hard.
Chuka staggered back toward the wall of the Super mart,pulling out his hatchet heart punching in his ribs.
The thing was on top of the man now, its head twitching like a broken marionette, fingers—no, suckers, sharp suckers—digging into the man's back, ripping fabric, skin, muscle. Blood sprayed in arcs. The man's screams turned to choking gurgle.
Then silence.
Chuka's grip tightened on the hatchet he held like it was his life line.
It turned its head sharply, unnaturally. No eyes. Just a dented skull, fused with bone and bits of what looked like traffic signs and hair. It smelled like burnt sugar and hot metal. Its chest was heaving.
And it saw him.
Ash Walk. Now.
He activated it without thinking, pulling on the threads of ash energy inside him.
His body vanished into a gray mist.
He held his breath as the Wretch scuttled toward him, limbs clicking against the pavement like sharpened crutches. It paused. Sniffed the air.
Thirty seconds.
Chuka didn't move. He stayed pressed to the wall, the mist hiding him in the open.
The Wretch twitched. Then it screamed—an electric noise that shattered the windows around them—and dashed forward down the street, chasing another noise, another victim.
His time ran out. The ash faded.
He reappeared in the open.
Alive. Shaking. But alive.
He saw that the soldiers were finishing of the monsters with their oppressive firepower, safe guarding citizens.
They were close. A block away.
"If I can just reach them…"
Then he moved toward the soldiers where he felt was safer
Wretches. Crawling on all fours. Climbing down from the rooftop. One was dragging a police baton tangled in its spine like a trophy. The other's jaw hung by one ligament wearing a child's school backpack on, soaked with blood flesh matter.
They saw him instantly.
No time.
He pulled the hatchet from his backpack and ran.
They gave chase. Fast. One on the ground. One leaping across the hoods of abandoned cars attacked him.
He ducked, then ran, hurdled over a shredded car, then slipped on broken glass and crashed into the tar.
Before he could get up, one of them lunged.
He swung the hatchet up blindly—
Crack!
The blade buried into the Wretch's arm. It shrieked, blood and ash splattering. He yanked the weapon free, scrambled back, and barely rolled as the second one landed beside him, claws slashing the space where his neck had been.
He kicked its leg—felt something snap—and stood up fast.
The first Wretch lunged again, but he was ready this time.
He sidestepped, raised the hatchet high, and brought it down hard into its neck, but surprisingly it dodged, still he managed to cut it on the shoulder.
Thunk.
It didn't die right away. It screeched in his face, claws raking his shirt, but he didn't stop. Again—Thunk!—again—Crunch!—until the creature slumped and stopped moving.
He turned to the second one. Blood in his eyes. Breathing like a furnace.
This one hissed, backing away slightly.
Too late.
He threw the hatchet like an instinct, spinning.
It struck the thing's knee.
It fell.
And Chuka was on it.
This time, he didn't stop.
Not until both bodies were still.
He collapsed to his knees, panting, blood dripping from his hands, his elbows, the corner of his mouth. Not his blood. Not all of it, at least.
He wiped the sweat and blood from his eyes and looked around.
Then—gunfire again. Louder now. Closer.
They're still here!
He limped around the corner of a collapsed shopfront, one hand clutching his side where a shallow cut still burned. His other hand gripped the blood-slick handle of the hatchet. Smoke and ash choked the air, but above it—voices. Sharp, commanding. The distant crack of rifles. then forced himself to run. Around the bend. Past a burning car.
And then—he saw them.
Soldiers in black armor, rifles raised, barking orders as they cleared a bus terminal
He stepped into what was once a bus terminal, now transformed.
At least thirty soldiers, fully armed, moved like clockwork under the blood-red sky. Some were patrolling the perimeter, others stacking sandbags and overturning market tables to form a makeshift barricade. Their black combat uniforms were stained—not just with dirt, but dark streaks of blood splashed from earlier clashes. The sour smell of gunpowder clung to them like smoke, mixing with the tang of sweat and something fouler—burnt meat. Steam still rose from the muzzle of one rifle. Another soldier wiped grime from his visor with a trembling gloved hand. Their rifles glinted under the crimson light, their uniforms streaked with dried blood and dust, sleeves rolled up, sweat darkening the fabric. A few had minor injuries—bandaged arms, limping gaits—but they kept working.
Behind them, civilians huddled—some crouched behind market stalls, others clutching bags of food or blankets. Mothers shielded their children's eyes. A wounded man was being patched up by a soldier with bloodied gloves. A small cooking fire smoked quietly in a corner.
A heavy-duty truck was parked near a shattered pharmacy wall. Soldiers were offloading supplies—water drums, crates, something covered with a tarp. One soldier stood atop a pickup truck, scanning the horizon with binoculars.
The whole place felt like a field outpost in the middle of the apocalypse. Not a safe zone. A last stand.
For a second, Chuka didn't breathe.
They looked like ghosts of war—bloodied, tired, but still standing.
One turned and spotted him immediately and aimed— others followed suit. Multiple rifles twitched in his direction.
"Hold fire! CIVILIAN!"
the barrel dropped slightly.
Chuka stumbled into the open, hands half-raised. His ash-smeared face, streaked with sweat and blood, barely looked human.
A soldier jogged to him. "You alone?"
Chuka nodded, gasping. "I—I tried to reach you before—then they came—those things—"
Two others came forward. One held his rifle in a low ready position. The other, a woman with a scar above her eyebrow, gestured for him to lower his hands.
"You hurt?"
The woman's voice cut through the chaos like a soft bell in the fog.
"Are you okay?" she asked, gently.
Chuka turned to her.
That simple question — "Are you okay?" — broke something open.
Not the cloak, not the archive, not even the wound on his ribs. Something deeper. Something he had locked away since the supermarket, since the red moon, since her eyes turned black.
No one had asked him that. Not once.
Not even himself.
His lips trembled. The silence stretched between them like glass.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
And then—his knees gave.
Just like that.
The tension that had gripped his spine like iron for the past hour finally let go, and his whole body crumpled, as if his bones remembered they weren't built for war.
The weight of everything — the blood, the ash, the fight, the guilt — dragged him down.
His vision blurred.
The woman reached for him, calling out, but her voice already sounded like it was underwater.
You are safe now, a part of him whispered.
You don't have to fight anymore. Not for a while.
His last thought before darkness took him was a memory of home — not even a big one, just a small moment: Daisy laughing with his sister, gossiping something about him sunlight through windows.
Then nothing.
Just silence.
"Get him inside. Shelter's almost full. Damn Wretches are circling again."
They helped her carry him across a low barricade made of tires and rusted metal doors.