The silence after the fall was brief—like someone had forced a roaring noise to stop mid-breath.Alan crawled out from the torn shell of the dropship, blood dripping from his elbow, sand filling his sleeves. The first thing he did was look up. There was no fire, only a thick layer of gray mist pressing down from the heavens.
Metal shards were scattered across the ground. The stench of fuel spread in the cold air, the temperature dropping with every breath. He raised his wrist—not to look for direction, nor to think of why this had happened—only one thought remained clear in his mind: stay alive.
He rummaged under the wreckage and pulled out a tactical pack. One strap was broken. He gritted his teeth and tied a knot.Inside the pack were a pouch of salt, a bone needle, a crowbar, two dry biscuits, a fuse cord, and a small cloth bag. From that bag glowed a dim red light—the Fireseed, the one hope of survival.
The rule was simple: keep the Fireseed close to your heart, and you live; let it burn in open air, and the monsters will come.Alan pushed the Fireseed against his chest, wrapped the strap twice around, and pulled it tight. The heat pressed through his skin, and his heartbeat grew faster.
Only two corpses remained. Neither had a water flask.Alan crouched beside one, unthreaded its boot lace, and cut a piece of relatively clean sleeve fabric. He didn't take their salt packs—salt tainted by blood invited things that should not come.
Circling the wreck, he checked that no fuel was leaking, then dragged a few metal sheets beneath a rock outcrop to form a makeshift windbreak.He never lifted his head. Night was falling, and the wind had begun to cut like a blade.
The wind blew from the east, dragging the sand into slow waves. Alan chose a stone about knee-high, crouched on the leeward side, poured a line of salt in a curved arc, leaving a palm-wide gap as a doorway.Salt wasn't a wall—but it could hold back the Fire-breath.
With a bone needle, he pricked the soil three times where the salt line met, sewing the grains into the earth, making the edge firm.He stuck the crowbar into the sand behind the gap, a crude door-bar, then sat down with his back against the wall of rock.
The first gust came, sweeping fog across the plain like a beast's pounce, devouring half his sight in an instant.Alan took out the Fireseed and let it burn a finger's height high—just enough to see his hands—then quickly covered it again.The heat surged upward; he pressed his palm down, forcing it still. Again and again he calmed it, until the Fireseed's pulse matched his own heartbeat.
He laid his knife across his knees. He didn't clean the blade—only touched the flat of it, the cold metal steadying his fingers.He needed water soon, but not tonight. If he couldn't drink, then he simply wouldn't. Survive first. Everything else could wait.
From the sand came a faint scraping sound, somewhere to his right front. It stopped near the salt line.Alan didn't look up. He slowed his breathing.
Then came a low sniff—like air bursting through a wet nostril. Not human.The Shadowbeasts were drawn to warmth, and they remembered the scent of blood.
Alan's hand moved slowly to his chest. The Fireseed flickered once under his ribs.He tapped it twice, as if soothing a child, whispering, "Quiet."
The scraping crawled along the salt, stopped right at the opening.Alan gripped the knife, lifted his elbow—just enough for one thrust. He waited.
Something pushed its muzzle through the gap, breath thick with rot.Alan closed his eyes, counted to two, and kicked a piece of metal lying outside.
The clang shattered the air. The Shadowbeast lunged toward the sound.Alan flung a pinch of salt into the mist; it struck the moist air with a hiss.The creature recoiled, slammed against the wreckage, then turned back.
Alan thickened the inner salt line with his bleeding fingertips. He didn't wipe the blood. It was safer inside than out.The thing didn't leave—it circled again, and again, scraping the sand.His arm went numb; he switched hands, knife still raised.
Time meant nothing on the wasteland. Only the wind shifted.When it finally turned northeast, the fog thinned like a curtain drawn aside.Alan whispered, "Go."
The noise faded. Only the wind remained."The first night survived," he said softly—to himself, to the world, to the fire.
He dimmed the Fireseed to a faint glow, steady against his chest.He broke a biscuit in half. It was as hard as stone. He didn't chew, only held it in his mouth until it softened, then swallowed.
He knew the heat would steal moisture from his body, drying his throat even more.But he needed sugar—to keep his mind clear.
Outside, the wind changed pitch, softer but colder.Alan sat still, his back to the wall, one hand pressed to the Fireseed.The warmth was life, and danger, both in one heartbeat.
The night stretched endless before him.He kept counting breaths, eyes open, waiting for dawn—or whatever would come first.