PART 4: THE CRACK IN THE WORLD
Silence.
Then pain.
Jack's first breath came with a wet gasp, like surfacing from too deep underwater. He rolled onto his side, coughing hard, vision flickering between shadow and blinding red.
The sky overhead bled colors he didn't recognize. Not red like a sunset—red like fresh arterial spray. The clouds moved like something alive was under them, writhing.
He groaned, clutching his stomach.
The air smelled like ozone and hot iron.
His helmet was still strapped tight. His M4 lay within arm's reach. His plates dug into his ribs—still on. Gear intact.
His KA-BAR was sheathed at his chest, right where it belonged.
He patted himself down like a crash survivor. All four mags were there. IFAK. Hydration tube. NVGs still mounted. Boots on. Nothing missing—except Camp Lejeune. Except everything he knew.
He pushed himself upright.
Trees towered overhead—gnarled and wide, bark like cracked bone, leaves black on one side and metallic blue on the other. The soil underfoot was soft, rich, almost too dark. No pine needles. No pine smell. Just decay and copper.
"Where the hell…"
His voice felt too loud here.
He froze.
A high-pitched chittering sound echoed through the trees. Then silence. Then again—closer.
His rifle came up without thought. Safety off.
He scanned left. Right. No human sounds. No powerlines. No far-off highway rumble. Just breathing, birds he didn't recognize, and that sound.
A twig snapped hard behind him.
He spun, rifle leveled, tracking through the underbrush.
Nothing.
But he saw footprints—deep, heavy. Not boots. Not paws. Clawed. Bipedal.
Fresh.
The trees rustled again.
He shifted, low, moving sideways with trained ease. Took cover behind a warped trunk. A howl tore through the canopy—like a wolf, but lower, rattling with something wrong in its throat. It vibrated in his sternum.
Jack didn't know where he was. He didn't know how he got here.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He was not alone.