Fifty-four hours remaining.
The numbers on Peter's watch glared back at him, relentless. He exhaled slowly, the weight of time pressing against his ribs. Fifty-four hours until they could speak to the real world again if it was still there.
Around him, the others rested, sprawled across the damp earth in weary silence. The hike had been brutal, but the tracking was holding. Good signs, at least. Peter's gaze flicked over the men grime-streaked, exhausted, but alive. A strange kind of family, forged in the wrong world.
"I couldn't have asked for better people to be stuck here with," he said, the words rough but true.
From the ground, an Aussie drawl echoed, his boonie hat tipped low over his face. "Save the speech for after we survive, mate."
Piotr grunted in agreement, sharpening a stick with his knife. "He's right. But if we're going to be stranded in some godforsaken fantasy hellhole, at least it's with people who know how to stay alive." A dry smirk. "Imagine a civvie here."
Miguel barked a laugh. "Or politicians."
The camp erupted in tired snorts, the kind of laughter that bordered on delirium. Peter checked his watch again. The numbers hadn't changed. He stood, brushing dirt from his knees.
"Alright, pack it up. We move now." His voice cut through the fading mirth. "No telling when the sun comes back and we're wasting the dark."
The group was ready in seconds, four men and the dog, though she never complained.
They moved in silence, following the animal's lead and the trail of crushed underbrush they'd been tracking. Another hour passed before the trees thinned, revealing what at first seemed like a clearing. But as one of them crested the low rise, the truth became clear: the earth flattened into a hard-packed path, stretching miles in either direction.
A road.
Or something like it.
Something out here was smart enough to build roads.
A sharp whistle cut through the stillness. Peter turned to see one of his men pointing into the distance a flicker of light, faint but unmistakable. Fire. And it was moving toward them.
No words were needed. The team slid back down the slope, melting into the shadows, watching as the glow crept closer.
Their first glimpse of intelligent life in this place, and it was… human.
A man rode atop a crude wooden carriage, torchlight carving shadows across his face. Medium build, bald, with a beard thick enough to make a gold rush prospector stare. A sword hung at his hip no guns, no tech, just cold steel. Guards flanked the cart, spears in hand, their clothes rough-spun and weathered.
But it was the sound that twisted Peter's gut.
Chains.
Two thick links trailed behind the carriage, dragging figures who stumbled, barely upright. When a young girl collapsed, one of the rear guards yanked them up and flung them forward like discarded cargo.
Peter's blood turned to fire.
Evil wasn't unique to any world. This was the kind of filth he'd sworn to burn out of existence.
He glanced at Noah, youngest of them, even if he was operator. The kid's jaw was locked, his fingers white-knuckled around his rifle. Moonlight barely touched them, but Peter didn't need light to know what burned behind Noah's eyes.
Killing these men wouldn't take long.
He gripped Noah's shoulder, voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "Don't. It hurts. But we need to see where they're going."
A beat, heavy as a vow.
"We will save them. I promise."
They slipped into the shadows, close enough to watch, far enough to remain unseen.
A pack of wolves prowled along the road's edges, two on each side, ghosts in the gloom. Maja's nose stayed fixed on their original trail, but now the scent led straight to where this grim caravan was headed.
Peter didn't need to see his team's faces to know what was carved into them.
Rage. Resolve. Reckoning.
Hell would be paid in full.
The radio crackled to life, a hushed exchange between hunters who no longer recognized the world they stood in.
"Peter…" The voice was low, stripped of hesitation. "We're not on Earth anymore. No rules of engagement. No Geneva Convention. No guarantee of rescue or earthly consequences."
A beat of silence.
"Hold up. We don't know who these prisoners are. Could be criminals. Could be political dissidents. Or worse, what if they're infected with something? We step in now, we risk exposing ourselves to a world we don't understand."
"we don't know the risks. Here's the play: We follow to their destination. If it's a slave pit or execution site, we hit hard, fast, quiet. Free the prisoners, get answers. If it's a legitimate penal convoy, unlikely, given they're hiding in the woods, we reassess."
"Agreed"
"yup"
"zgadzam sie"
A slow half-hour of silent pursuit ended at a gated enclosure. Two bored guards waved the carriage through, its cargo of broken souls disappearing into the compound. The team moved like shadows along the perimeter - twelve feet of solid timber standing between them and the truth.
Peter went first, muscles straining as he scaled the wall in complete silence. One by one they followed, the last man lifting Maja over before joining them. Five seconds. Five soft impacts in the dirt. The forest held its breath around them.
Torchlight revealed the nightmare.
A crude amphitheater sprawled before them, benches filled with masked figures. At the center stood a podium - and beside it, the child from the chains. The pieces clicked together with horrible clarity. This was no prison camp. No quarantine zone.
"Flashes ready?" Peter's whisper carried the weight of a death sentence.
Four affirmative clicks answered.
"Circle positions. Signal and strike." His fingers found the zip ties at his belt.
****
Cold gnawed at her bones - a different pain from the hunger hollowing her stomach. The chains had stopped hurting days ago. Now they just were, like the ground beneath her feet or the stench of unwashed bodies around her.
Step.
Behind her, Mother shuffled forward. That was the only good thing left. They were still together.
Step.
Her foot caught. The rock won. Face in the dirt, she lay motionless. No tears came - she'd spilled them all yesterday, the day before, every day since they'd been taken. Rough hands yanked her upright. No words. Just another shove forward.
Step.
She didn't protest anymore. Protesting required hope.
Step. Step. Step.
The rhythm of survival. Left foot. Right foot. Breathe. Repeat.
Wooden walls rose around her. She barely noticed.
The relief of sitting lasted only moments.
Cold metal beneath her. Musty tarp overhead. Mother's warmth beside her - the last comfort in this nightmare. She pressed closer, breathing in the familiar scent of home that still clung to her mother's ragged clothes.
Then the bootsteps came.
"IRIS FIGHT THEM DONT LET THEM"
Rough hands tore them apart as she listened to her mother She fought like a wild thing - kicking, screaming, biting air. The backhand came fast, splitting her lip. A fist to the eye socket stole her vision in flashes of white pain.
When the world cleared, she stood alone on the wooden platform. Rope burned her wrists. Dozens of masked faces watched, hungry and faceless as wolves.
The realization hit harder than any blow:
This is where I die without saying goodbye.
Somewhere beyond these torches, Dad still breathed. Somewhere beyond this horror, the sun still rose on fields she'd never see again.
The last fragile hope slipped through her fingers like smoke.
Clink. Click. Click.
The strange metallic sounds barely registered before small cylinders arced through the air, bouncing between the masked figures. A half-second of confused murmurs
Then the world exploded.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Blinding white flashes burned through her clenched eyelids. The concussions punched her chest, each one stealing breath. Screams tore through the night raw, panicked, inhuman. Somewhere, chanting rose in jagged arcs, cut short by
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
A sound like wet rope striking meat.
She curled tighter, face buried in her knees. Strange words barked through the smoke harsh, guttural commands in no language she knew. Bodies thudded to earth. Metal clashed. Something warm and wet sprayed across her arm.
Then silence.
Boots crunched toward her. She stopped breathing when they halted inches away.
Slowly so slowly she lifted her head.
Black fabric. Strange straps. The scent of something artificial, sweat
and blood.
And the barrel of a weapon still smoking in the moonlight.
Most of the masked figures were on their knees now, bound and hooded like cattle. The girl lifted her gaze further up the black fabric, past strange straps and weapons, to the face of the man standing before her.
He had a wild, curling mustache and eyes that crinkled at the corners. When he knelt, it wasn't with the rough hands of her captors, but with a slow, deliberate care. His smile wasn't sharp. It was
soft.
And like the first flicker of flame in a frozen night, warmth seeped back into her chest.
"Are you here to save us?" she whispered.
The man tilted his head, as if straining to understand. Then, in that same strange, rough language, he murmured:
"L tond deanfnne?"
His eyes dropped to the ropes on her wrists. In one smooth motion, he drew a knife.
The blade glinted in the firelight.
And for the first time in days weeks she wasn't afraid of it.
The mustached man never got to finish his sentence.
"IRIS!"
A blur of ragged fabric and desperate arms yanked the girl into a crushing embrace. Mother and daughter collapsed together, their shuddering sobs filling the night—not from sorrow, but from the overwhelming flood of relief.
*****
He allowed himself a small smile. No translation was needed for this language.
The moment of warmth faded as he turned back to his work. His team moved through the chaos, securing zip-tied captives with clinical efficiency. His jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed to put bullets in these monsters where they knelt.
"Sir, we found a map."
The rolled parchment in his teammate's hands might as well have been solid gold. But first unfinished business.
"Photograph it. Have the survivors point us toward their homes." He clicked his radio off and moved toward the gate.
Two guards came sprinting down the dirt path, shouting panicked gibberish.
"NHESMR! NHESMR!"
The pistol appeared in his hand like magic.
Crack.
First man went down screaming, clutching his shattered knee.
Second man charged, sword raised—
Crack.
A crimson flower bloomed between his eyes as he collapsed mid-step.
The wounded guard whimpered, one hand creeping toward a hidden dagger. Peter saw. Peter knew.
He raised his pistol again.
Crack.
Justice, in this godforsaken world, looked like smoking brass in the dirt.
When he returned to the clearing, the air was thick with unease. The women and children huddled together, their wary eyes flickering between his team and their fallen captors. He raised his hands slowly, a universal gesture of peace before unfolding the map.
Pointing to the parchment, then to them, he waited.
The mother the same one who had fought to reach her daughter stepped forward first. Her voice was quiet but steady as she spoke in that unfamiliar tongue, her finger tracing the worn lines of the map before settling on a large town.
Home.
As dawn's first light crept over the horizon, they moved. The carriage that had once carried prisoners now bore the weakest among them—children, the injured, the exhausted. The chains that had bound them were repurposed, now dragging the masked captives behind in grim justice.
Noah lounged atop the carriage, his sniper rifle resting across his knees, gaze sharp as it swept the road ahead. The rest of the team flanked the wagon, a protective cordon against any threats.
And then Maja.
The dog's wet nose nudged the little girl's hand. A tentative touch. A pause. Then, fingers buried in soft fur, the girl smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.
The sun rose.
*****
The AC-130's engines whined down as General Peterson stepped onto the tarmac, the scorching sun forcing him to raise a hand to shield his eyes. His men had already fanned out, securing the area with practiced efficiency. Behind him, the massive aircraft loomed like a shadow, its presence a silent testament to the urgency of his return.
A sleek black limousine rolled to a stop just yards away, its tinted windows reflecting the harsh daylight. Several armed men emerged first, scanning the perimeter before a figure in a tailored black suit stepped out. The man's dark hair was neatly combed, his expression unreadable until he spoke.
"General," he said, a dry amusement in his voice. "You could've given us more than 'There's a dead monster in Texas, and someone used an old code word.' A little context next time, maybe?"
Peterson clasped the President's outstretched hand, gripping it firmly. "Surely I didn't take up too much of your time, sir."
The President chuckled, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. You said a national emergency, so I cleared my schedule. These days, that phrase gets thrown around so much, we might as well call it a national inconvenience."
Without another word, they climbed into the waiting limo, his men getting in cars behind and ahead. The coordinates were already locked in.
The limo navigated the clogged arteries of the city, weaving through honking gridlock and impatient commuters, before finally escaping into the quiet embrace of suburbia. Tree-lined streets replaced skyscrapers; joggers and dog walkers dotted the sidewalks under the soft morning light. It was the kind of neighborhood where nothing worse than a missed trash day ever seemed to happen.
The house they stopped at was unassuming, well-kept lawn, a bike leaning against the porch. Background checks had confirmed it was clean. No traps, no hidden agendas. Just a normal home with normal people.
When the all-clear came, the President stepped out, straightened his suit, and knocked.
The door swung open to reveal a kid maybe, twelve tousle-haired and wide-eyed. For a split second, confusion flickered across his face. Then recognition hit.
The President barely had time to inhale before the door slammed shut in his face.
Behind him, General Peterson let out a quiet snort.
"Your future voter," he remarked.
"Funny," the President deadpanned.
From behind the door came a muffled shout:
"DAD! THE PRESIDENT'S AT THE DOOR!"
A weary sigh, then footsteps. "Matio, I know you're 'sick' today, but this is pushing it. There's no way the Presid—"
The man stopped mid-sentence as he finally turned toward the entryway. His eyes locked onto the unmistakable figure standing on his porch. His mouth hung open.
"Holy shit."
"DAD! LANGUAGE!" the boy hissed from behind him.
The man blinked, then straightened like a soldier snapping to attention. "Uh—hello, sir?"
"Your son called. Mind if we borrow him for a second?"
The man stammered, his face still locked in disbelief. "I—uh—yeah. Yes, sir."
The group of fourteen moved through the dense forest, the boy leading the way with the confidence of someone who'd played in these woods his whole life. The President wiped the sweat from his brow, accepting a water bottle from one of his men with a grateful nod.
Peterson glanced back at him, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face.
"You alright, sir?"
The President opened his mouth
"Fuc—"
—then caught himself glancing at the kid.
"—Fine, Peterson. Move."
As they crested the hill, his security detail surged forward, forming a protective wall. And there it was.
A Minotaur.
Not a statue. Not a prop. A real hulking beast, sprawled in the dirt.
"Peterson," the President breathed. "You weren't lying." He swallowed hard. "Is it dead?"
The kid answered before Peterson could. "Yeah. When we found it, its head was already gone. Smelled like gunpowder too."
He kicked a pebble, nodding toward the carcass.
"Then the radio started talking."
One of the soldiers crouched beside the body, examining the wounds. "Bullet holes, sir," he called. "And it looks like someone set off a grenade in its mouth"
"When do I get my two hundred and fifty pounds?"