《Apocalypse: The Inversion Protocol》 Chapter 1: Late Shift
Kael didn¡¯t answer. He held the knife tighter, watching the darkness swallow the street. Chapter 2 : Barricade
Chapter 3: The Broadcast The kitchen was dim, the gray light of early morning seeping through the blinds in thin, dusty stripes. Kael sat cross-legged on the linoleum floor, the skillet resting against his knee, its handle cool under his fingers. A plate of cold meatloaf balanced in his lap; the edges congealed with fat that glistened faintly in the gloom. He scooped a chunk with his fork, chewed slowly, the taste bland but grounding; leftover from Wednesday, when Marla had overcooked it and grumbled about the oven. That felt like a lifetime ago. Marla stirred on the couch in the living room, just visible through the doorway. Her breathing had steadied, the flashlight beside her switched off to save the batteries; two AAs, already half-drained from last night. She¡¯d pulled the Afghan up to her chin, a faded green thing she¡¯d knitted years back, its stitches loose and uneven. The house was quiet, save for the faint drip of the kitchen faucet, a steady plink-plink against the steel sink. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with dampness that clung to the walls. Kael wiped his fork on his jeans, the denim stiff from yesterday¡¯s sweat, and reached for his delivery bag slumped by the fridge. The canvas was frayed, stained with coffee from a spill last month, but he unzipped it and dug inside; past a crumpled receipt, a half-empty pack of gum, until his fingers brushed the scratched plastic of his portable radio. It was a cheap thing, bought for long shifts when the van¡¯s stereo cut out, its antenna bent from being shoved in too many gloveboxes. He pulled it out, set it on the floor, and fished two fresh AAs from the kitchen drawer, clicking them into place with a soft snap. The dial rasped as he turned it, static hissing through the tiny speaker. He twisted slowly, ear cocked, until a voice broke through; male, clipped and tired, edged with a faint crackle. ¡°This is the Australian Emergency Service. Rift events have been reported nationwide. Stay indoors. Do not approach rifts or hostile entities. Armed forces are responding. Updates to follow.¡± It looped, mechanical and unbroken, each repetition sinking into the stillness. Kael adjusted the antenna, a thin whine fading as the signal steadied. Marla¡¯s head lifted from the couch, the Afghan slipping to her shoulders. She rubbed her eyes, squinting toward the kitchen. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep, but she swung her legs down and shuffled over, barefoot on the cold floor. She sank into a chair at the table, elbows on the chipped wood, and leaned closer as the message repeated. ¡°Radio,¡± Kael said, tapping it with his knuckle. ¡°It¡¯s from the bag. I figured we¡¯d hear something eventually.¡± He pushed the plate toward her, the last chunk of meatloaf sliding slightly. She nodded, took the fork and speared it, chewing as the static flared again. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. The voice shifted, a new loop cutting in mid-sentence. ¡°¡ªDefense Force units are engaging entities in Sydney, Melbourne, and Brisbane. Police and emergency services are establishing safe zones. Rural areas, remain indoors until further notice. Do not touch unidentified objects dropped by entities. Updates will be hourly.¡± The words hung there, sharp and final, before the static swallowed them and the first loop resumed. Marla swallowed, set the fork down with a soft clink. ¡°Unidentified objects,¡± she muttered, her brow creasing. ¡°That thing in the yard?¡± Kael¡¯s eyes flicked to the glass door still blocked by the fridge. Through the crack in the blinds, he could see it; the orange core, glowing faintly in the wet grass, pulsing. It hadn¡¯t moved since last night, since that hulking thing had staggered off and left it behind. His stomach tightened, a faint itch crawling up his arm, like the air itself was tugging at him. ¡°Yeah,¡± he said, voice low. ¡°Maybe.¡± She frowned, rubbing her knuckles against the table. ¡°They¡¯re saying don¡¯t touch it. Sounds like they¡¯ve seen what happens.¡± Her tone was practical, edged with the same wariness she¡¯d used when he¡¯d brought home a stray cat years back; check it for fleas first, Kael. He nodded, but his gaze lingered on the core, the itch growing sharper, then fading as he looked away. A rumble rolled through the air; not thunder, but something heavier, distant, like a truck convoy or a far-off blast. It vibrated the floor faintly, rattling the empty water bottle on the counter. Marla tensed, her fingers curling, but it faded as quick as it came. ¡°That¡¯s them, you think?¡± she asked. ¡°The army?¡± ¡°Could be,¡± Kael said, shifting to kneel by the window. He parted the blinds with two fingers, peering out. The street was still; wet asphalt, a tipped-over bin spilling trash across the neighbor¡¯s lawn. Then movement: a small shape, no bigger than a cat, limped from the bushes two houses down. Its skin was slick, black, one leg dragging, torn open like it¡¯d caught a bullet or a blade. It stumbled, collapsed into the grass and didn¡¯t move again. No glow, no core; just a corpse. ¡°Something¡¯s fighting them,¡± he said, letting the blinds snap shut. ¡°That one¡¯s done.¡± Marla grunted, pushing the plate back to him. ¡°Good. It means someone¡¯s out there with guns.¡± She stood, joints creaking, and grabbed a notepad from the counter; a grocery list still scrawled on it, milk and eggs crossed out. She flipped to a blank page, scribbled board windows with a stubby pencil. ¡°We should keep moving. Water¡¯s next; Let¡¯s fill up some pots while the tap¡¯s still running.¡± Kael nodded, splitting the last meatloaf scrap with his fork. He took a bite, handed her the rest, and set the radio¡¯s volume low, its static a steady hum beneath the drip of the faucet. The broadcast looped again¡ª ¡°stay indoors, avoid objects¡±¡ªand he chewed slowly, the taste fading as his eyes drifted back to the glass door. The core pulsed once, brighter, then dimmed, and he forced his gaze away, the itch settling into a dull ache in his bones. Chapter 4: The Patrol The kitchen smelled of tuna and rust, the faint tang of opened cans mingling with the damp air seeping through the walls. Kael stood at the counter, a half-empty water bottle in one hand, the other wiping fish oil from his fingers onto his jeans. The fridge still blocked the glass door, its white bulk scratched from last night¡¯s shove, a smear of mud drying on the handle. Through the blinds, the yard was still; wet grass, the orange core pulsing faintly where it lay, untouched. Mid-morning light filtered in, a dull gray that made the room feel smaller, tighter. Marla was in the living room, crouched by the coffee table, stacking cans from the pantry with quiet focus. Six of tuna, three of baked beans, a dented tin of corn; her hands moved slow, deliberate, sorting them into neat rows like she was laying out a game of solitaire. The Afghan lay crumpled on the couch, the radio beside it humming low, its static a soft undertone to the broadcast¡¯s loop: ¡°Stay indoors. Do not approach rifts or hostile entities.¡± Kael had turned it down after the third repeat, the words already etched into his skull. He took a sip from the bottle, the water tepid and metallic, then set it down as a low rumble broke the stillness; not the distant thunder of last night, but something closer, mechanical. Engines. He stepped to the front window, parting the blinds with a careful finger. The street stretched out, slick with last night¡¯s rain, a tipped bin still spilling trash across the neighbor¡¯s lawn. Then they came into view: two police SUVs, matte gray, rolling slow, lights off. A third vehicle trailed; a military jeep, dark green, its tires chewing the asphalt, a long-barreled rifle mounted on top. Kael held his breath. The SUVs stopped three houses down, doors cracking open. Two officers stepped out, vests bulky over their uniforms, shotguns gripped tight; barrels stained with streaks of black, wet-looking, like they¡¯d been used and not cleaned. The jeep¡¯s driver leaned out, megaphone in hand, his voice sharp through the quiet: ¡°Stay inside. Report rifts to emergency channels when restored.¡± It wasn¡¯t a plea; more a command, clipped and tired, like he¡¯d said it a dozen times already. Marla straightened, abandoning the cans, and joined Kael at the window, her shoulder brushing his. ¡°Cops?¡± she whispered, peering through the gap he¡¯d made. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°And army,¡± he said, nodding at the jeep. The gunner swiveled the rifle, scanning the yards, his face shadowed under a helmet. Then a flicker of movement; across the street, a rift shimmered in the driveway of number twelve, a faint hum rising from it. Something skittered out, small and black, legs twitching fast; cat-sized darting toward the patrol, maybe forty miles an hour. One officer raised his shotgun, the crack loud enough to rattle the glass. The thing jerked, tumbled, a spray of dark ichor splattering the pavement. Two shots; 600 psi each, Kael figured, remembering the hunting shows Dad used to watch; and it was down, limbs splayed, a faint green glow pulsing beside it. A core, smaller than the orange one, dimmer, but there all the same. The gunner glanced at it, hesitated, then waved the convoy on. The SUVs rolled forward, the jeep following, their engines fading around the corner. Kael let the blinds snap shut; the green core¡¯s faint glow still seared into his vision. ¡°They took it down,¡± he said, turning to Marla, his voice low but steady. ¡°Didn¡¯t even flinch; two shots and it¡¯s done.¡± She nodded, her lips a thin line. ¡°I saw the blood on those guns. They¡¯ve been busy.¡± She stepped back to the table, picking up a can of beans, rolling it in her hands. ¡°That glow though, is it the same as the one out?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Kael said, his voice low. He crossed to the counter, leaning against it, the water bottle sweating under his palm. ¡°Smaller, maybe. And it¡¯s green instead of orange.¡± His fingers twitched, that itch flaring again; not just from the orange core now, but something deeper. He shook it off, grabbed the bottle, and took another sip, the taste bitter on his tongue. Marla set the can down, hard enough to dent the edge. ¡°The broadcast said don¡¯t touch them. I¡¯m guessing they¡¯ve seen why.¡± She moved to the sink, turned the tap which is still running, a thin stream splashing into a pot she¡¯d pulled from the cupboard. ¡°We¡¯ve got water for now. Let¡¯s fill what we can; buckets, jugs, whatever¡¯s clean.¡± Kael nodded, setting the bottle aside. He opened a cabinet, pulled out a chipped ceramic jug; Marla¡¯s old lemonade pitcher, faded flowers painted on the side, and slid it under the tap. The water gurgled in, slow and steady, as a single gunshot echoed from somewhere down the block; sharp, distant and then it¡¯s gone. He froze, listening, but the quiet settled back, broken only by the hum of the rift across the street, louder now, a low buzz that prickled his skin. Marla kept filling the pot, her back to him, but her shoulders tensed. ¡°They¡¯re out there fighting,¡± she said, almost to herself. ¡°Good for them. Doesn¡¯t mean they¡¯re coming here anytime soon.¡± She turned off the tap, the pot sloshing as she set it on the counter, and grabbed another. ¡°We¡¯re on our own until then.¡± Kael finished filling the jug, the weight tugging at his arms; maybe twenty pounds, nothing his 150-pound limit couldn¡¯t handle. He set it beside the pot, glancing at the glass door again. The orange core pulsed once, a silent dare, and he felt that itch crawl up his spine, sharper now, like it knew he¡¯d seen the green one too. He turned away, joining Marla at the table, and picked up a can of tuna, the metal cool against his palm. The radio droned on, static and warnings, as the hum outside grew just loud enough to notice.