6 More reviews and 20 more Power Stone donors are needed before the bonus chapter.
Get those stones going boys and tomboys, we need to get those numbers up!
If you want to discuss the story or just meme about join my discord server:
*****
I didn't run like a man. I ran like a car. Trees blurred into streaks of green and black. I vaulted over fallen logs, smashed through underbrush, moving faster than any human in history, heading straight toward the rising column of smoke.
It was almost laughable, really. The sheer convenience of it all gnawed at the back of my mind as I tore through the woods. I had stood on this exact soil yesterday night, playing God with rabbits and chickens, hearing nothing but the wind and my own ambition. I had planned to come back tomorrow, fully prepped, specifically to hunt down the Leech Queen and the train. But tonight? Tonight was supposed to be a filler episode. A quick XP grind and some detective work for B.O.W's. And yet, here was the main plot, crashing down right in front of me as if waiting for my arrival. If I didn't know better, I'd say the world wasn't just spinning on its own axis anymore—it was spinning around me.
---
Location: Airspace above Arklay Mountains / Sector 4.
Time: 10:15 PM (Sunday).
POV: Third Person (Rebecca Chambers / Bravo Team).
The night was supposed to be a routine reconnaissance mission. A "Wild Dog" sweep.
But in the Arklay Mountains, nothing was routine.
The rotor blades of the S.T.A.R.S. helicopter screamed—a high-pitched mechanical shriek that tore through the cabin silence, drowning out the static of the radio. The chopper lurched violently to the left, throwing the elite officers against their harnesses.
"What the hell is going on?" Captain Enrico Marini shouted, grabbing the overhead bar, his voice straining against the sudden G-force.
"We lost the tail rotor! Main engine is surging!" Kevin Dooley, the pilot, roared back. His hands flew across the instrument panel, flipping switches that refused to respond. "I have no control! We're going down!"
In the back, Rebecca Chambers felt her stomach drop into her boots. She gripped her medical bag with white-knuckled intensity. This was her first mission. She was eighteen years old, a prodigy with a degree in chemistry, but no amount of university training prepared you for falling out of the sky in a tin can.
"Hold on tight!" Kevin yelled, wrestling the stick with both hands, his veins bulging. "I'm going to make an emergency soft crash landing! Brace for impact!"
The world outside the window became a blur of spinning black trees and moonlight. The helicopter clipped the top of an ancient pine, the sound of metal shearing through wood deafening inside the cabin.
CRASH.
The chopper spun, snapping branches like matchsticks. It slammed into the forest floor, skidding through the mud and underbrush, tearing a furrow in the earth before coming to a violent, shuddering halt.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by the hissing of the overheated engine and the groans of the metal hull settling.
"Sound off!" Enrico commanded, his voice shaking but authoritative.
"I'm good," Richard Aiken coughed, unbuckling his harness.
"Still in one piece," Forest Speyer grunted, checking his grenade launcher.
"Clear," Kenneth J. Sullivan added, kicking the side door open.
Rebecca let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. She checked her limbs. Nothing broken.
"Well done, Kevin," Enrico patted the pilot's shoulder, a look of genuine relief on his face. "You threaded the needle."
Enrico kicked the warped door open, and the Bravo Team spilled out into the night.
The forest was suffocating. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of ozone from the engine. It was pitch black—a darkness so absolute it felt physical. Rebecca fumbled for her tactical flashlight, clicking it on. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating towering pines that seemed to loom over them like prison bars.
"Situation report," Enrico barked.
"Engine is smoked, Captain," Kevin called out from the cockpit, flipping shut down switches. "Navigation is dead. Radio is static. I think the alternator fried the comms array."
"Great," Forest muttered. "We're grounded and blind."
"Okay, listen up," Enrico ordered, switching into command mode. "We stick to the mission. We search the area separately but maintain visual or auditory range. If you see anything—anything at all—you pop a flare or fire a warning shot. Do not go too far."
"I'll stay with the bird," Kevin volunteered, pulling his sidearm. "I'll try to fix the wiring and radio for backup."
"Agreed," Enrico nodded. "Bravo Team, move out."
The team dispersed into the tree line.
Rebecca adjusted her gloves. She felt small out here. The heavy S.T.A.R.S. vest felt like it weighed a ton. She pulled her standard-issue Samurai Edge from its holster, checking the chamber.
Click-clack.
"Stay sharp, Rebecca," she whispered to herself.
She moved away from the crash site, her flashlight sweeping the wet ground. The forest was dead silent. No crickets. No owls. Just the wet squelch of her boots on the moss.
She walked for five minutes, the isolation creeping in.
Then, her light hit something metallic.
"Captain!" Rebecca called out. "I found something!"
She moved closer. It wasn't a civilian car. It was a heavy-duty military transport truck, overturned on its side. The words MILITARY POLICE were stenciled on the door, scratched and dented.
Enrico and Edward Dewey emerged from the brush, joining her.
"What is this doing out here?" Edward asked, raising his rifle.
Rebecca shined her light into the cab. The windshield was shattered from the inside out.
"Oh god," she gasped.
There were bodies. Two Military Police officers. One was thrown clear of the wreckage, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. The other was still strapped in the driver's seat.
But they hadn't died from the crash.
Their faces were... gone. Eaten. Not by animals, but by something precise. Their skin was pale, drained of blood, and covered in a thick, translucent slime that glistened in the flashlight beam.
"Savage," Enrico muttered, checking the pulse of the driver. "Dead for hours. Look at these wounds. Torn apart."
Rebecca stepped around the vehicle, fighting the urge to vomit. She saw a clipboard lying in the mud, protected by a plastic cover.
She picked it up.
"Captain, look at this," she said, handing the document to Enrico. "Prisoner transfer orders."
Enrico shone his light on the paper. The rain began to fall, tapping lightly against the laminate.
[ PRISONER: Billy Coen ]
[ RANK: Second Lieutenant, U.S. Marine Corps (Former) ]
[ CRIME: First Degree Murder - 23 Counts ]
[ SENTENCE: Death by Execution ]
"Billy Coen," Enrico read the name with disgust. "Ex-Marine. Killed twenty-three people. They were transporting him to the Regulat base for execution."
"To think this guy actually killed the military police officers and escaped," Edward spat, looking at the mutilated bodies. "He's a monster."
Rebecca looked at the empty cage in the back of the truck. The bars were bent.
"He's loose," she whispered. "Out here. With us."
Enrico crumpled the paper. "Change of plans. Look at his face and remember it. Forget the wild dogs. We have a fugitive. Everyone, spread out! We must catch Billy Coen. If he resists, shoot to kill. Report the situation immediately if you make contact."
"Yes, sir!"
The team fanned out again, this time with a new purpose. They weren't hunting animals anymore; they were hunting a serial killer.
Rebecca moved deeper into the woods, alone.
The rain began to fall again, turning the dirt into mud. It soaked her hair, plastering it to her forehead. The temperature dropped, chilling her to the bone.
She gripped her pistol with two hands. Every shadow looked like a man waiting to strike. Every rustle of leaves sounded like a murderer stalking her.
'Why did I join S.T.A.R.S.? she thought bitterly. I could be in a lab right now, titrating solutions. Instead, I'm playing hide and seek with a psychopath in a thunderstorm.'
She crested a small ridge.
Through the downpour, she saw a light.
It wasn't a flashlight. It was warm, yellow, steady.
She squinted, wiping the rain from her eyes.
"What in the world...?"
Sitting in the middle of the forest, on tracks that shouldn't have been active, was a train.
It was surreal. A beautiful, vintage steam locomotive, polished to a shine, looking like it had driven straight out of the 1920s and parked itself in the Arklay wilderness. The windows glowed with inviting light.
"Why is there a train here?" Rebecca whispered, confusion warring with caution.
She checked her radio. Static.
She looked back. The rest of Bravo Team was gone, swallowed by the darkness and the rain.
She looked at the train. It was shelter. It might have a radio. Or maybe Billy Coen was hiding inside Even if nothing else, it would help shield her from the rain.
Rebecca took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She walked down the embankment, her boots sliding on the wet gravel of the tracks.
She approached the rear car. The door was slightly ajar.
She raised her Samurai Edge, holding it steady despite her trembling hands.
"S.T.A.R.S.!" she announced, her voice cracking slightly before she found her strength. "This is the police! Is anyone there?"
Silence answered her. Only the sound of the rain drumming on the metal roof.
She stepped inside.
The air in the train car smelled expensive—mahogany and perfume. But underneath that, there was another smell. Something copper. Something wet.
The smell of blood.
Rebecca Chambers stepped fully into the light of the passenger car, the heavy sliding door clicking shut behind her, muting the torrential rain outside to a dull roar.
The atmosphere inside was heavy, suffocating. It smelled of expensive mahogany, stale perfume, and something else—something metallic and sharp.
Copper, Rebecca's medic brain supplied unhelpfully. Arterial spray. Old blood.
There was only the static hiss of the intercom radio in the carriage, buzzing like an angry insect. Five people lay slumped on the velvet train seats, their bodies twisted in unnatural angles, motionless.
"S.T.A.R.S.?" she called out again, her voice trembling slightly, betraying the eighteen-year old girl beneath the tactical vest. "Police! Is anyone hurt?"
Silence.
Then, a rustle of fabric. Movement in the third row.
A man was sitting there. He was wearing a grey business suit, stained dark at the collar. He was slumped forward, chin to chest.
"Sir?" Rebecca lowered her weapon slightly, her instincts shifting from 'officer' to 'healer.' She took a step forward. "Sir, I'm an officer with S.T.A.R.S. Are you injured? Do you need assistance?"
Rebecca walked closer, her boots squeaking softly on the blood-slicked carpet. She reached out a gloved hand to touch his shoulder.
The man groaned.
It wasn't a cry for help. It was a wet, gurgling sound, like air bubbling through fluid in a punctured lung.
He slowly turned his head.
Rebecca froze. The breath trapped in her throat turned to ice.
The person in the seat was dead. Biologically, clinically, undeniably dead.
Half of the man's face was missing. The skin was grey, peeling away from the skull like wet paper. His jaw hung slack, the mouth smeared with fresh, crimson blood that dripped onto his tie. But it was the eyes that broke her reality. They were bulging, clouded with a milky, cataract-white haze that stared at nothing and everything.
"Uhh... uhhh..."
At that moment, the corpse in the chair didn't slump over. It stood up.
It roared—a guttural, hungry sound—and stretched out its hands, stumbling toward her with jerky, spasmodic movements.
This shocked Rebecca to her core. Her mind, trained in chemistry and biology, screamed a rejection. Dead tissues do not contract. Synapses do not fire after cessation of heart function. This is impossible.
Then the woman next to him stood up. Her neck was broken, head lolling to the side.
Then the passenger across the aisle rose, missing an arm.
They all looked dead. And they were all moving.
"Freeze!" Rebecca shouted, bringing her Samurai Edge up. Her voice cracked, high and terrified. "Stay back! I said stay back!"