Finally, he reached Pete’s Highway. The sign leaned crooked on a bent pole, bullet holes punched through the reflective green surface. The road itself was quiet — too quiet — stretching flat beneath the heavy morning heat.
Charles looked left. A school sat a few hundred yards down.Flat-roofed. Low buildings joined in a square formation. Nothing special. The kind of place where kids once lined up for recess and parents once waited in carpool.
Now it was surrounded by black limousines. Not one. Several.His stomach tightened. Police cruisers were parked near the entrance. Two ambulances sat angled near the front doors. A few new, expensive trucks were scattered nearby — engines off, windows dark.
“What on earth…” he whispered.
He felt it. That instinct. Hide. He slipped off the road and ducked behind a small, abandoned car shop — its metal siding rusted and partially peeled back. He crouched low, heart hammering, watching. It felt like an hour.
It had only been ten minutes.
He strained his eyes, trying to see movement through tinted windows and shaded doorways. Nothing obvious. Just vehicles.Just waiting. Then he turned slightly — adjusting his position — and froze. Five feet from where he crouched lay a dead man.And a dead woman.
Charles gasped — the sound involuntary and sharp — then instantly clamped his hand over his mouth. He scanned the road, the school, the open sky. No one reacted. He looked back down slowly. The woman had been shot in the head. Clean. Close range. Her eyes were still open. The man’s face was nearly unrecognizable — beaten in, swollen, purple and red. His body showed bruises everywhere.
“Maybe he fought back,” Charles whispered to himself.
The thought both terrified and inspired him. He swallowed hard.Curiosity pulled at him. Whatever was happening at that school … it was connected. He needed to know. He gathered what little strength he had left and ran. He burst from cover, sprinting across the open road. Each step felt heavier than the last.
Halfway across, his lungs burned. His legs wobbled. His vision blurred. By the time he reached the other side, he collapsed hard onto the gravel shoulder.
“Water…” he rasped. “I need water … so bad…”
His tongue felt like sandpaper. His throat was cracked glass.How much longer before he passed out? He forced himself to crawl. He dragged his body toward the school grounds, staying low, keeping the building between him and the sun. The earth was hot beneath his palms.
He wasn’t far now. Close enough to hear faint voices. He tucked himself behind a low retaining wall, shaded, concealed. And then—darkness blinked over his vision. Just for a second.
Or longer.
His eyes snapped open. Two men were walking outside. One approached from a limousine. The other exited the school. Both wore black suits. Black ties. Black sunglasses. Men in black — but real.
Charles lay frozen, barely twenty feet away.
“Well,” the American said smoothly, extending his hand with a practiced smile, “good to see you in person.”
The other man took it. His accent was unmistakable — thick Russian.
“Yes,” he replied. “Tell me … how has the invasion suited you? And the civil war that followed? It unfolded rather efficiently.”
Charles felt his heartbeat in his ears. Invasion. Civil war. The American gave a small, controlled laugh.
“I’ll admit,” he said quietly, “watching it happen up close was … more intense than I expected.”
He adjusted his cufflinks.
“How’s the catching mission progressing?”
The Russian smiled — slow, amused.
“Some reach their destinations,” he said casually. “Some are made examples.” He shrugged. “Examples are useful. Like tasting food. If it is bad, you throw it out.”
He laughed — sharp and cold — slapping his knee.
The American’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. Disgust flickered across his face before he masked it again.
“What the heck is going on…” Charles breathed.
“Business,” the Russian continued. “The new procedure begins within days. The ‘Predator Mission’ is not quite ready, but it will be.”
The name hit Charles like a punch. Predator Mission?
“And the Chaos agents?” the American asked — casual, but careful.
“They remain,” the Russian replied. “Insurance. A foolproof plan must always have redundancy.”
He sounded proud. Overconfident. Charles tried to process it.Russia. Americans. Working together. China bombed them.Russia invaded. Americans assisting?
His mind spiraled. He barely registered the rest of the conversation. When he looked up again, the two men were walking toward a large field behind the school. At least a hundred feet away now. People stood there.
In formation.
Rows of them.
Facing the suited men.
Charles’ breath caught. “Russians. Americans. Chinese…” he muttered. “All fighting us? Why?”
He felt something inside him crack. This wasn’t chaos. This was organized. He saw his chance. If he had stayed, he’d be found.He pushed himself up and ran. Every muscle screamed. He veered left, past a storage building, then into a wooded strip beyond the school grounds.
Behind him—shouting. His heart plummeted. They saw him.Adrenaline flooded him like fire in his veins. He ran harder than his body should have allowed.
Gunshots cracked through the air. Bullets snapped past him. He nearly stumbled. He couldn’t keep this up. His body was shutting down. Then he saw it. A body. Face down. Fresh blood soaked through the back of the shirt.
Charles didn’t hesitate.
He dropped beside it, grabbing the corpse with shaking hands. The body was still loose — rigor mortis hadn’t set in.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He dragged the blood across his own clothes. Smeared it on his chest. His arms. His neck.
“Hurry up,” his mind screamed. “If they see you, you’re dead.”
More shouting. Closer. He pressed himself flat to the ground and went limp. Closed his eyes. Footsteps thundered toward him.Voices. American accents.
“I told you I got him!” a young male voice bragged.
“No, you didn’t! I shot first!”
“You’re both idiots,” a female voice snapped. “There’s no blood trail.”
A boot kicked his side. Hard. Charles forced himself not to react.
“Push him over,” the first voice ordered.
“You push him! I’m not touching a dead guy. That’s disgusting.”
“For crying out loud,” the female growled. “They give me children to work with.”
“I’m eighteen!” one of the boys snapped. “I’m not a kid!”
Hands grabbed him. One at his shoulder. One at his hip. They rolled him slightly. Blood soaked his chest convincingly. Charles took the smallest breath possible.
In.
Out.
“Wait,” the girl said suddenly. “I think he just breathed.”
Silence.
Charles’ heart pounded so violently he thought it might shake the ground.
“He’s dead,” one boy blurted. “My kill.”
“Still say I got him,” the other muttered.
“I’m telling you—” the girl started.
Footsteps began moving away.
“Don’t you even want to check?!” she shouted after them. “Are you stupid?!”
Their voices faded. Charles lay there. Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. He wanted to cry. But there was nothing left in him to cry with. Slowly, he lifted his head.
The woods were empty. He pushed himself up. His legs trembled violently. He staggered toward a row of houses lining the interstate beyond the trees. He wasn’t running anymore. He was barely walking.
His mouth was cracked. His throat felt like it was closing. He had never known pain like this. Not from hunger. Not from thirst. Not from fear. And yet he kept moving. Because stopping meant dying.