The first shockwave hit, and the screaming began.
Zara and Lulu were swept into the current, hooves skidding on wet marble as they were carried through the shattered lobby. Flashing emergency lights painted the chaos in strobes of red, making the falling glass from the ceiling glitter like deadly confetti. A deafening electronic siren wailed overhead, competing with the cacophony of shrieks, sobs, and—somehow—multiple people still trying to film TikToks.
Through the fractured skylights and gaps in the resort's shattered glass ceilings, streaks of fire arced across the sky—missiles on their final trajectory toward the city. But then—light.
Flashes of white and silver ripped through the air as interceptor missiles streaked upward, trailing smoke. Two missiles detonated in brilliant blossoms above the horizon, painting the clouds in blinding sparks. Another streak, sleek and determined, spiraled too late, missing its target.
Planes swooped in, dark silhouettes cutting across the blood-orange smoke. Their engines screamed over the wailing sirens, a mechanical howl competing with the frantic shrieks and crying influencers below. Zara's fur bristled as she watched the aerial ballet: flares bursting midair, missiles exploding in cascades of fire.
"Fuuuu—" the eland influencer gasped, her voice breaking as her body jolted in uneven pulses, her movements no longer entirely under her control. The last settings on her overly expensive, gold-toned "wellness device" clearly hadn't been turned off.
The impala photographer beneath her didn't stop, snapping photos like this was still part of the shoot.
"YES! HOLD THAT— THAT FACE! PERFECT—DON'T LOSE IT!"
Zara nearly tripped over another impala sprawled across the slick tiles near the drained jacuzzi. She wasn't running—just stuck there, limbs twitching erratically like her body had forgotten how to cooperate.
"THE REMOTE! HAS ANYONE SEEN THE ROSE-GOLD REMOTE?!" she cried, voice sharp enough to cut through the distant sirens.
Whatever device she'd been using for the shoot was still very much... active.
Her back arched suddenly, a startled sound escaping her as she scrambled helplessly, clearly trying—and failing—to regain control.
Nearby, her phone—still somehow upright against a fallen glass—kept recording everything, capturing the chaos in unfiltered, accidental detail.
"MY SUBSCRIBERS ARE GOING TO THINK I'M HAVING A SEIZURE!" she wailed, as if this were the real tragedy unfolding. "THIS IS TERRIBLE FOR BRAND CONSISTENCY!"
"OUT OF MY WAY! I HAVE A PLATINUM MEMBERSHIP!" bellowed a water buffalo in a monogrammed robe, bulldozing through a group of weeping springbok interns without a second glance. One of them went down hard, her clipboard scattering across the floor as she wailed, "MY RESUME WAS ON THAT!"
The lobby was no longer a palace of pristine luxury—it had become a war zone of opulence undone. Shattered glass glittered across the slick marble floors, mingling with splintered gold-plated vases and overturned crystal goblets. Velvet lounge chairs lay on their sides, cushions ripped and scattered, and designer handbags, silk scarves, and abandoned suitcases tumbled across the floor, forming chaotic obstacles.
Scattered papers—reservation folders, menus, and glossy brochures—fluttered in the air or lay drenched in spilled champagne.
They barreled past the marble-topped concierge desk, where a harassed duiker receptionist tried in vain to keep a stack of reservation folders from toppling. The wall behind her—lined with gilded mirrors and abstract gold sculptures—fractured the panic into dizzying, kaleidoscopic reflections. A British sheep man, his wool perfectly coiffed beneath a tall top hat, clutched a crystal flute of champagne and screamed, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU RUINED MY LIMITED EDITION GLASS! THIS IS ABSOLUTE ANARCHY!" His monocle slipped down his nose as he staggered over scattered velvet ropes.
Near the valet stand, a young yak heir, his horns tipped in 24k gold, was having a full-blown meltdown.
"I DON'T CARE IF THE DRIVEWAY IS COLLAPSING!" he shrieked at a terrified valet.
"I AM NOT LEAVING MY KOENIGSEGG! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE RESALE VALUE IS?!"
Zara didn't scream. She stared, doe-eyed, at the column of black smoke now rising over the marina skyline.
"Lulu," she whispered. "The Burj Al Arab... it's... on fire."
Lulu, clutching her silk wrap, gasped.
"But... that's where the Michelin-starred brunch is! We had reservations for tomorrow!"
A trio of teenage gazelles—clearly on some kind of "luxe family vacay"—were having their own crisis by the complimentary water station.
"I can't believe this is happening!" one sobbed, clutching her phone in horror.
"My tan lines are going to be ruined for Saint-Tropez! Mom, can we sue?!"
The dining room was utter chaos. Long tables, once pristinely set with fine china, crystal goblets, and silver cutlery, were now overturned, their contents scattered across the marble floor. Plates of lobster thermidor, truffle risotto, and delicate pastries spun through the air, smashing into chairs or splattering across carpets, toppled chairs and tables.
Amid the panic, a fashion influencer grysbok lunged toward the bar, grabbing a bottle of aged wine with a triumphant squeal, clearly planning to salvage content even as chaos reigned. But a luxury sports car outside plowed into the floor-to-ceiling glass, shattering it with a deafening crash. The vehicle tore through the lobby, sending shards of glass, debris, and overturned furniture flying, before catching fire as fuel ignited. In moments, the car erupted in a blazing explosion, the heat and debris ripping through the dining room. The grysbok influencer was struck directly, reduced in a horrifying instant to a puddle of gore, splattering nearby diners.
Screams tore through the room. A fat pig food influencer, mid-bite of truffle pasta, was drenched in the grisly mess, flailing and shrieking, "OH MY GOSH IT'S ON ME! AAAAAA!" The metallic tang of blood mingled with the rich aromas of spilled wine, lobster thermidor, and broken desserts as terrified guests scrambled across the marble floor, knocking over chairs, tables, and plates in desperate, panicked attempts to escape the inferno.
Their meltdown was interrupted by "Sultan Chad"—a roided-out Dorcas gazelle influencer notorious for his shirtless MMA drills in designer dishdashas. He was currently doing muscle-ups on a collapsing cabana frame, his three personal cameramen circling him like paparazzi at the damn apocalypse.
"DUBAI IS LIT, FAM!" he roared, veins bulging as another explosion rattled the resort.
"SMASH THAT MERCH LINK BEFORE WE DIE! LIMITED EDITION 'WARZONE GRIND' TANK TOPS DROPPING IN TWENTY!"
Outside, the metallic shriek of interceptor missiles tearing through the night sky was answered by the deep, concussive THUD of impacts. The ground shook. The lights flickered.
And yet—
A teenage ibex girl nearby burst into fresh tears, her phone clutched in shaking hooves.
"MY STORY JUST DISAPPEARED!" she wailed.
"THE WI-FI CUT OUT BEFORE IT POSTED! THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!"
A frantic okapi in a neon bikini sprinted past them, her long neck whipping back and forth as she sobbed.
"Oh no no no no, this wasn't worth the golden shower! The engagement wasn't worth the golden shower!"
And then, finally, they reached the bunker entrance—a reinforced steel door marked VIP SHELTER. A harassed duiker concierge fumbled with the heavy security latch, her small horns bobbing as she wrestled the mechanism open.
With a grinding metallic CLUNK, the steel door swung inward.
For half a second she tried to hold her ground, raising a hoof.
"Please—one at a time—!"
She never finished the sentence.
The crowd surged.
A wall of panicked wealth shoved past her, silk robes, designer sunglasses, and glittering jewelry flashing in the emergency lights as hooves thundered over the concrete threshold.
Someone knocked her sideways into the doorframe.
"MOVE!"
"DIAMOND MEMBERS FIRST!"
"DON'T TOUCH MY BAG!"
The duiker concierge staggered aside, crushed against the wall as the stampede poured into the bunker behind her.
The heavy steel doors of the bunker slammed shut behind them with a metallic groan, sending a shudder through the concrete walls. Zara pressed her palms to her chest, lungs heaving. Her fur was damp with ash and sweat, and her eyes darted to her phone, compulsively checking for engagement metrics as if counting likes could somehow make the world safer. "Okay... okay... people are watching... this is... actually insane," she muttered, voice tight but measured, a thin veil over the surge of adrenaline.
Lulu clutched her silk wrap, trembling but forcing herself to look around. Her usually poised muzzle was streaked with soot and dust, and her eyes, though wide, darted sharply to the others. "Wait... what's happening? Does anyone actually know what's going on?" Her voice was low but firm, trying to cut through the fog of panic. She leaned against the wall, pressing her ears forward, catching fragments of frantic whispers around the bunker.
"It's... it's the Chimericans, right?" one terrified gazelle murmured.
"No... it's Zagrostan," another muttered, voice cracking.
Lulu's tail flicked nervously as she processed the murmurs. Logic sharpened over panic—she scanned the bunker for signs of structural damage, exits, and emergency systems. "Listen," she said, voice steadier now, "we need to figure out what's happening outside before we do anything. Who's confirming these reports? Who knows which part of the city is hit?"
She gestured to the others, her tone a mix of command and desperate clarity. "Check the news feeds. Signal, any phones working?