They didn’t sprint to the gas station. That would’ve been stupid.They moved in bursts.
John set the pace—short rush, stop, listen. Short rush, stop, scan. Aaron followed half a step behind, breathing through his mouth to stay quiet, boots crunching on broken gravel that felt far louder than it should have.
The sun was merciless. Heat shimmered off the pavement like the world itself was melting. Aaron wiped sweat from his eyes.
“So,” he muttered under his breath, “just to recap. We left the safety of a house with food… to break into a gas station… in the middle of what might be World War Three.”
John didn’t look back.
“Correct.”
“Fantastic plan.”
“You’re welcome.”
They crossed the last stretch low and fast, cutting along the side wall of the building. The old brick was cracked, stained with years of neglect and now streaked with soot. Someone had tried to force entry through the front earlier—glass littered the ground like ice.
John crouched at the corner and held up a fist. Aaron froze. Both men leaned slightly, rifles raised, tracking angles the way muscle memory demanded. John cleared high left. Aaron covered low right.
The front glass door was shattered inward. No movement. No voices. No obvious bodies. Aaron swallowed. His hands trembled—not much, but enough. Enough that he noticed. John noticed too. He reached across and pressed Aaron’s barrel down slightly.
“Breathe,” John whispered.
Aaron nodded once. They edged forward. John stepped through the broken doorway first, weapon up, sweeping left to right in controlled arcs. Aaron followed awkwardly through the frame, boot catching briefly on twisted metal. That’s when the voice exploded from the back of the store.
“GET OUT OR I’LL SHOOT YOU!”
The words cracked through the building like a rifle shot. Aaron jerked hard, spinning, muzzle swinging wildly across shelves of chips and empty refrigerators.
“Stand down!” Aaron shouted back, voice edged with panic. “Drop it!”
“No! You drop it!” the unseen voice roared.
John didn’t move. He didn’t raise his weapon higher. He didn’t lower it either. He just listened. There was something in the tone. Not military. Not organized. Familiar. The voice came again, angrier, closer to breaking.
“Last chance!”
John’s eyes widened slightly. He lowered his rifle slowly.
“I know that voice,” he muttered.
Aaron shot him a look like he’d lost his mind.
“This is not the time for nostalgia, John.”
John took a breath.
“Charles?” he called out cautiously.
Silence.
“How do you know my name?” the voice answered, but the rage had cracked. Fear seeped through now.
Relief flooded John’s face.
“It’s me. John.”
There was a long, heavy pause.
“John?” The word sounded disbelieving. Fragile. “Is that really you?”
John slung his rifle behind him. Aaron stared at him.
“You trust this guy?” Aaron whispered.
“Yeah,” John replied simply. “I do.”
After another second, Aaron lowered his weapon too—but slower. A figure stepped out from behind the manager’s office doorway. Charles looked like he’d been dragged through three days of hell and then left in the sun. Sweat-soaked shirt. Grease stains. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes.
He held a pistol in a two-handed grip that shook almost as badly as Aaron’s had. Then recognition landed. Charles’ shoulders collapsed.
“John.”
They crossed the distance and embraced hard. John winced.
“What?” Charles demanded.
“I love you, brother,” John said, pulling back slightly, “but you smell like fear and beef jerky.”
Charles barked a short laugh.
“You’d smell worse if you’d been sweating through three sets of clothes while running from people trying to kill you.”
Aaron relaxed for the first time since entering.
“Water’s out everywhere,” he added dryly. “We’re all fermenting.”
Charles looked at Aaron.
“And this is?”
“Aaron,” he replied, extending a hand. “The slightly more attractive brother.”
“Debatable,” John said.
Charles shook Aaron’s hand firmly.
“I like him,” Charles said.
“Don’t encourage him,” John replied.
The humour faded naturally. John’s expression sharpened.
“How long you been here?”
Charles rubbed the back of his neck.
“Three days. Maybe four. Time’s… weird.”
“You were here when it started?”
Charles nodded once. John stepped toward the makeshift bedding in the office corner—trash bags, flattened cardboard, snack wrappers everywhere.
“You alone?”
“So far.”
John studied him carefully.
“What have you seen?”
Charles leaned against the counter, exhaling slowly.
“Convoys. Not ours. Organized. Efficient.” He swallowed. “I heard them talking outside the first night. Russian. Clear as day.”
Aaron stiffened.
“They mentioned something called a ‘Predator mission.’ And ‘Agents of Chaos.’ Said certain people were contacted beforehand. Offered a chance to switch sides.”
“Traitors,” Aaron muttered.
Charles nodded.
“They were laughing about it.”
Silence settled heavily between the three men.
“Family?” Charles asked quietly.
John answered immediately.
“Taken. We think.”
Aaron turned away slightly, jaw tight. Charles closed his eyes.
“For what it’s worth,” he said slowly, “I hope mine are dead.”
Aaron snapped his head toward him. Charles’ voice cracked.
“Quick. Clean. Not … whatever this is.”
No one argued. John stepped forward and gently pushed down the forty-ounce bottle Charles had picked up again.
“I need you clear,” John said calmly.
Charles let go of it.
“What’s the point?” Charles asked. “The world’s gone.”
John’s eyes hardened.
“No. It’s occupied.”
That hung in the air. John continued, voice steady but intense.
“They moved fast. Took infrastructure. Took leadership. They’re holding people somewhere. That means organization. Camps. Supply lines.”
Aaron watched him closely now.
“We don’t rush,” John went on. “We gather information. We survive. And when we find a weak point—”
“We hit it,” Aaron finished.
Charles studied both of them.
“You’re serious.”
John met his eyes.
“I don’t plan on living in a world where I don’t at least try to get my family back.”
A slow grin pulled at Charles’ face through exhaustion.
“You had me at ‘dangerous and stupid.’”
Aaron sighed.
“This is how people die.”
John looked at him.
“Probably.”
Aaron nodded once.
“Alright, then.”
The three of them stood there in the wrecked gas station, sweat-soaked, under-slept, under-armed. But no longer alone. And that changed everything.
The heat inside the gas station had turned feral. It wasn’t just hot. It was oppressive — thick, unmoving air that clung to the lungs and refused to leave. The refrigeration units were dead. The windows trapped sunlight like a greenhouse. The building radiated stored heat from the pavement outside. Aaron wiped sweat from his eyes for the fifth time in as many minutes.
“I’ve stood in engine bays in August,” he muttered. “Engines running. This is worse.”
Charles leaned against a shelf of canned beans.
“Feels like we’re being slow-roasted. I’m medium-rare already.”
John moved toward the broken doorway for airflow that didn’t exist.
“How’d you survive in here?” he asked without turning.
Charles shrugged.
“Hydrated. Drunk. Alternated.”
Aaron gave him a sideways look.
“That a survival manual or a cry for help?”
“Little column A, little column B.”
John glanced back at them.
“Water?”
“Plenty,” Charles said. “Food too. Whoever’s running this invasion doesn’t seem interested in Doritos.”
“They’re interested in control,” John replied.
Silence settled again — heavy, deliberate. John wiped his face with the hem of his shirt.
“We don’t move sloppy. Heat makes people stupid.”
Aaron nodded. Charles pointed at him.
“That’s already a problem for you, isn’t it?”
Aaron stared at him flatly.
“Careful. You smell like expired beef sticks.”
That earned a tired grin. John exhaled.
“Charles. You’re coming with us.”
It wasn’t a question. Charles didn’t hesitate.
“I’m not dying in a gas station eating powdered donuts. So yes.”
“Good,” John said. “We need the extra set of hands.”
He paused.
“And we need to load the cop car.”
Charles blinked.
“The what?”
Aaron smirked.
“This is where it gets fun.”
John grabbed two duffel bags and began stuffing bottled water and nonperishables inside.
“Short version,” John said, moving efficiently. “Cop tried to kill me. Aaron shot him. We borrowed his car.”
Charles stared.
“You stole a police cruiser.”
“We prefer the term repurposed,” Aaron corrected.
“And you’re driving around in it?”
“For now,” John said. “Won’t last.”
Charles ran a hand down his face.
“Alright. One — where are we going? Two — that’s the worst stealth vehicle imaginable. And three — I’m bringing what beer I have left.”
John didn’t even look up.
“New Roads. National Guard armory. I know people there. We need information. And you can bring beer if it fits.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Aaron does.”
Aaron shot him a look.
“Don’t volunteer me.”
“You already volunteered yourself years ago,” John replied dryly.
Charles paused mid-pack.
“New Roads?” he said slowly. “That’s not exactly around the corner.”
“No,” John agreed. “It’s far enough.”
“Far enough from what?”
“From Baton Rouge. From immediate sweeps. From whatever command structure they’ve set up.”
Charles studied him.
“You’re gambling.”
“Yes.”
“On what?”
“People I trust.”
That landed.
Charles looked toward the shattered storefront, toward the road beyond it. Fear flickered across his face — real and visible. He inhaled sharply once.
“I never went back,” he said quietly.
Aaron stopped packing.
“What?”
“My house,” Charles said. “When it started … I ran. Gunfire. Trucks. I told myself it was tactical.” His jaw tightened. “Told myself I’d regroup. Get armed. Then go.”
He swallowed.
“I never went.”
The air inside the store felt even hotter.
“I don’t know if they were taken,” Charles continued, voice rough. “Or killed. I don’t know anything. I just ran.”
No one rushed to comfort him. John stepped forward and put a firm hand on his shoulder.
“You survived,” John said evenly. “That’s not cowardice. That’s step one.”
Charles let out a shaky breath.“I’d rather die than live without them.”
The words hung there. John nodded once.
“Then we move.”
Aaron checked his watch instinctively — a useless habit.
“They’re going to notice that cruiser eventually,” he said. “Day or night.”
John grabbed two full bags.
“Then we don’t waste time.”
They moved toward the exit. Outside, the sun felt like a hammer.John held up a hand. They crouched just outside the broken glass. John scanned right. Aaron scanned left. Charles stared forward, listening hard. No engines. No voices. No rotor wash.
“On three,” John said quietly. “Stay tight.”
They lined up behind him.
“One.”
A breath.
“Two.”
Charles muttered, “If I die, I’m haunting both of you.”
“Noted,” Aaron replied.
“Three.”
They ran. It wasn’t cinematic. It was desperate and fast and ugly. Boots slapped pavement. Bags thumped against legs. Heat clawed at their lungs. The cruiser sat half-hidden behind a building across the lot. Aaron hit the trunk release as they reached it. They threw the supplies in without finesse. John slammed it shut. Doors opened and closed in quick succession.
Aaron started the engine. The air conditioning roared to life. All three men closed their eyes for half a second as the cold air hit their skin. Charles leaned back in the rear seat like he’d discovered religion.
“I would fight for this air conditioner,” he murmured.
Aaron pulled them out slowly, scanning the mirrors.
“Don’t get attached.”
They merged carefully toward the interstate. Denham Springs slid past them in scorched silence. John watched storefronts he’d known for years roll by. He didn’t look long. He couldn’t.Charles broke the silence.
“Predator mission,” he said. “Agents of Chaos. That mean anything to you, soldier?”
John shook his head.
“No.”
“You’re military. You’re supposed to know acronyms.”
“They don’t tell us everything,” John replied. “Usually nothing.”
Aaron kept his eyes on the road.
“So the grand plan is … what?”
“Armory,” John said. “Information. Weapons. Allies. We build small. Quiet.”
Charles leaned forward between the seats.
“Small like … us?”
“Yes.”
“That’s comforting.”
Aaron snorted.
“We’re a three-man army in a stolen cop car.”
“Repurposed,” John corrected.
Charles grinned darkly.
“Well. If I’m going out, at least it’s not from heatstroke in a gas station.”
Aaron glanced at him in the mirror.
“You really ready for this?”
Charles’ humour faded just enough.
“No,” he said honestly. “But I’m more ready than I was ten minutes ago.”
John nodded.
“We don’t charge in loud,” he said. “We gather. We listen. We survive long enough to matter.”
Aaron sighed.
“I love you, but this sounds aggressively suicidal.”
“Probably is,” John admitted.
A beat. Aaron adjusted his grip on the wheel.
“But if I’m dying,” he said, “I’d rather be shooting traitors next to you.”
Charles raised a hand.
“Same.”
John allowed himself the smallest smile.
“Then first step — more people.”
“And guns,” Charles added.
“And support,” Aaron said.
“And water that isn’t ninety degrees,” Charles muttered.
They drove in tense silence toward O’Neal Lane. Behind them, Denham Springs shrank. Ahead of them, uncertainty widened.Three men. One stolen cruiser. And an idea that was either the beginning of a resistance—
—or the start of their obituary.