Ash blanketed the sky like a funeral veil as James and Isabella ran, breath ragged, hearts thundering. In Isabella's trembling arms lay Callum
unconscious, fragile, his lips slightly parted and ash-dusted teeth peeking through. His tiny fingers curled limply, dirt and dried blood marring his torn sleeves. Behind them, James risked a glance. His heart stilled.
The atomic bomb breached the clouds descending like a vengeful god.
Ahead, salvation loomed: Kanya Airport.
A relic of the old world.
Its facade was boxy and austere, frozen in time mid-20th century concrete, pale and unwelcoming. Rows of rectangular windows stretched skyward like glass scars.
The cream-colored structure reflected function, not beauty. Guards and civilians stood near the wide, utilitarian doors, some barking orders, others frozen in fear.
James murmured as they neared, his voice low and urgent.
"He's breathing steadier. Slower… but better."
Isabella's grip on Callum didn't loosen. Her voice was tight.
"How can you tell? He's cold, James. His hands are like ice."
James gave a shallow nod. "I know cold hands. This isn't death. He's in shock. The kid's tough."
Isabella knelt, brushing ash from Callum's brow. Her voice softened, almost breaking.
"He shouldn't have to be."
She studied his face pale, bruised, angelic.
"He can't be older than ten."
"Nine, maybe," James muttered.
Then without another word, they ran. Toward the mouth of the airport. Toward hope or whatever was left of it.
Inside, ruins greeted them. The once-busy terminal was now a mausoleum of broken glass, scorched luggage, and ghostly echoes.
The central walkway, a tilted, cracked ramp that might once have held escalators, led to an upper level decayed, flickering with dim emergency lights.
Isabella stopped short. Her voice trembled.
"Mon Dieu… it's worse inside than it was out."
James, rifle lowered, eyes sweeping the carnage, muttered,
"This place was supposed to be our salvation. Doesn't feel like it. It feels like a tomb."
"We need a clean spot somewhere he can rest," Isabella urged.
James pointed. "The bridge. That's our shot."
"There's only one."
"One's all we need… if we're fast."
The ground trembled faintly behind them a silent reminder of the approaching end. A distant light grew brighter.
They reached the boarding bridge which was connected to the flight door its steel frame groaning under gusts of wind. Ahead, chaos. Survivors scrambled, shoved, and cried out. Security forces shouted over the madness. Someone slipped and disappeared beneath the crush of bodies.
"We'll never make it through that," Isabella cried.
"If we hesitate, we die," James barked. "Stay close to me."
He looked to Callum, who lay limp in Isabella's arms his small face half-covered in bruises, one eye darkened.
"That boy deserves to see another sky."
Then, a voice thundered through loudspeakers. Robotic. Cold.
> "CITIZENS, PLEASE LISTEN. THIS IS A RECORDED ANNOUNCEMENT.
ONLY THREE MINUTES REMAIN BEFORE THE NUCLEAR STRIKE.
THIS IS FLIGHT 98T4 THE FINAL EVACUATION CRAFT.
NO ADDITIONAL FLIGHTS WILL FOLLOW.
THERE ARE FOUR GHOST HUNTERS ON BOARD FOR YOUR PROTECTION.
PROCEED TO BOARD IMMEDIATELY. THANK YOU."
A storm of bodies surged forward.
Inside the cockpit, the pilot checked his wristwatch, then activated the intercom.
> "FLIGHT 98T4 WILL COMMENCE CLOSURE IN ONE MINUTE.
PLEASE MAINTAIN ORDER. DO NOT BLOCK THE DOORS. THANK YOU."
He pushed the button. The aircraft doors began to close with hydraulic force. But too late, he noticed someone had become lodged between them.
"Agh! Let me in!" the man screamed, his body crushed between metal jaws.
One of the ghost hunters a man clad in black tactical gear, eyes hard like granite stood unfazed.
"I'm sorry. We can't. It's against the rules."
"Rules?!" the man shrieked as the bones in his torso cracked. "The whole damn city's about to vanish!"
The ghost hunter's tone was unflinching.
"In ghost hunting, there are rules. We follow them. Always."
Across the tarmac, Isabella's sobs pierced the chaos. Her tears dropped into Callum's open mouth, one by one.
"To save you… I have to do this," she whispered.
James froze. "What? What are you talking about?"
"We might not make it," she said, her voice hollow. "But he can."
James grabbed her arm. "Isabella he's not our child!"
But she had already made up her mind.
She kissed Callum's forehead, whispered something only he would hear in his dreams… then hurled him forward with all the strength she had left.
Callum's body struck the man caught in the doors, sending him reeling in front. The boy landed atop him, just as the doors slammed shut sealing with a hiss. The man's final scream echoed as bones gave way.
Inside, silence. Then… gasps.
Callum stirred. His eyes blinked open, dazed, blood dripping from his brow. Survivors stared.
His torn clothes. At his wounds. At the miracle.
> "CONGRATULATIONS TO THE PASSENGERS OF FLIGHT 98T4," the speaker boomed.
"YOU ARE SAFE. PLEASE DO NOT PANIC.
WE EXTEND OUR SYMPATHIES TO THOSE WHO DIED IN THE RUSH
AND TO THOSE WHO WILL DIE IN THE NEXT TWO MINUTES AND FORTY SECONDS.
ALL FACILITIES ONBOARD ARE FUNCTIONAL TOILETS, MEALS, COMFORT.
WE THANK OUR GHOST HUNTERS FOR YOUR PROTECTION.
YOUR PILOT. THANK YOU."
Callum turned slowly… searching for the faces he knew.
But Isabella and James were gone.