The morning sun was already climbing high over Atlanta when Mason pulled into the workshop lot, the familiar clang of tools and hum of engines filling the air. Sarge was leaning against the garage door, a mug of coffee in hand and a grin tugging at his scruffy face.
"Mornin', kid," he called out as Mason climbed from his truck. "Got a job for you. It's something a bit different."
Mason wiped his hands on his jeans, brow raised. "Different how?"
Sarge took a long sip of coffee before answering. "Buddy of mine, James Turner he owns a farm a few hours out near Kingston. His tractor's playing up, generator isn't work so on and so forth. I'd go myself, but he needs someone for a few days, maybe three tops. You up for it?"
Mason grinned. "Farm work, huh? Sounds Good."
"Ha! You'll be knee-deep in grease and dirt before noon," Sarge said with a laugh. "But James will take good care of you. He's a solid man."
"Alright, I'll do it," Mason said without hesitation. "Could use the change of scenery anyway."
Sarge clapped him on the shoulder. "That's my boy. Head out tomorrow morning, I'll let him know you're coming."
The next day, Mason loaded up his old truck with a few essentials, his toolbox, some spare parts, a duffel bag of clothes, and a picture of the kids from the orphanage taped inside his sun visor and his pistol. He left before dawn, watching the city fade away in his rear-view mirror as the highway opened into rolling farmland and endless sky.
By the time he reached James's property, the sun had risen fully, spilling gold light over the fields. A weathered barn stood tall at the edge of a gravel path, and James, a broad man in his fifties with a friendly smile was already waiting by the fence.
"You must be Mason!" he called out, extending a hand. "Sarge said you're the best he's got."
Mason chuckled, shaking his hand. "He might've exaggerated a little."
"Good. I don't like cocky mechanics," James replied with a grin. "Come on, I'll show you the patient."
The "patient" turned out to be a battered red tractor that coughed like an old smoker every time it tried to start. Mason got right to work, and by midday, he was elbow-deep in its engine, humming softly to himself as the scent of oil and fresh hay filled the air.
The first two days went by fast. Mason fixed the tractor, tuned the generator, and helped James move a stubborn old pickup that hadn't started in years. In the evenings, they'd sit on the porch with cold drinks, watching the sunset and listening to the crickets.
It was peaceful.
~~
On the third morning, Mason woke early to the faint sound of static. James's radio, usually tuned to the local news, was hissing quietly in the kitchen. He gave it a few taps, frowning.
"Everything alright?" Mason asked as he walked in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Station's been cutting in and out since last night," James said, fiddling with the dial. "Can't get anything clear."
After a moment, a shaky voice came through:
"—outbreak continues to spread through several urban centers—citizens advised to remain indoors—CDC has issued a—"
Then static again.
James turned to Mason, brow furrowed. "What the hell's that about?"
Mason shrugged, though a chill ran down his spine. "Could be anything. Probably some panic over the flu." But by that afternoon, things didn't feel like "just the flu."
James's wife, Claire, had tried to call her sister in the city, but the line was dead. Mason checked his phone, no signal. On the horizon, a thin line of smoke rose where the main highway ran, and later, he could hear faint pops echoing through the distance like fireworks. By evening, the news had gone completely silent.
Mason stood on the porch, Cheshire at his feet. The dog's ears were up, her body tense as she stared toward the tree line.
"Something's wrong," James said quietly behind him. He was holding a rifle now, his voice heavy with the kind of worry that comes from experience.
Mason nodded slowly. "I'll head back to Atlanta tomorrow morning. Check on everyone at the orphanage."
"Son…" James hesitated. "I don't think you'll get that far. The roads are blocked; sheriff said the interstate's jammed from here to the city. Nobody's moving."
Mason clenched his jaw, staring into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, Cheshire growled low and steady. The night felt heavier than it should have, like the whole world was holding its breath.
Mason didn't sleep much that night. His mind being far to occupied on his family to fully rest, only Cheshire's presence helped his nerves enough to get a few hours.
James met him by the truck, jaw set. "You sure you wanna drive into that mess, son?"
"I have to," Mason said, checking the fuel gauge. "They'll be worried sick. I just need to make sure everyone's okay."
James hesitated, then handed him a small jerry can and a box of ammo. "Keep your wits about you. Radio said things are gettin' bad out there."
"Thanks," Mason said, slinging his bag into the passenger seat. "I'll check in when I can."
He gave a quick whistle, and Cheshire bounded over, tail flicking nervously. The dog jumped into the cab, head low but alert. Mason gave the farm one last glance, then drove off down the long dirt road.
For the first hour, the world felt eerily calm, quiet fields, blue skies, and the low hum of the engine. But as Mason got closer to the main highway, that calm started to break apart.
Cars filled the lanes, bumper to bumper, horns blaring, engines rumbling. People leaned out of windows, shouting. Some were arguing, others crying. A few cars tried to push through the shoulder, grinding metal as they scraped past. The air was thick with exhaust, heat, and panic.
"What the hell…" Mason muttered, slowing his truck to a crawl.
He rolled down the window, catching bits of panicked conversation.
"—the city's shut down—"
"—military's blocking the bridges—"
"—my sister's still inside!"
Mason's gut twisted. He reached for his phone, quickly tapping Miss Anne's number. It rang once, then cut straight to dead silence. No signal. He tried again. Still nothing.
"Damn it!" He slammed the steering wheel, heart pounding.
Cheshire whined softly, pawing at the dashboard. Mason took a steadying breath, reaching under the seat. His fingers brushed the edge of an old handheld walkie-talkie; one Sarge had given him "just in case."
He switched it on, static filling the cab. "Sarge? Sarge You there?"
For a moment, only static answered. Then..
"Mason?" The voice came through rough and shaky. "That you, kid?"
Relief hit him like a wave. "Yeah, it's me! I'm out near Kingston, trying to get back to the city, but the roads are packed. What the hell's goin' on?"
There was a pause, a crackle, then Sarge's voice dropped lower, tighter. "Listen, son, you stay out of the city. You hear me? Military's moved in. They're tryin' to lock it down."
"Lock it down? Why? What's happenin'?"
A longer pause. Mason could hear shouting in the background, something crashing. Then Sarge said quietly, "People are turning on each other, Mason. Not just fightin' eating each other."
Mason froze, eyes wide. "What? That's-"
"I don't know what the hell it is," Sarge cut in. "But whatever's happenin', you stay away from the city. Find high ground, wait it out. You under—"
The walkie crackled violently, then went dead.
"Sarge?!" Mason twisted the knob, tapping the side of the device. "Sarge, come in!"
Nothing. Only static.
He sat there for a moment, the roar of panicked traffic echoing around him, the weight of the silence pressing down. Then he glanced at Cheshire, who stared up at him, ears perked and eyes alert.
Mason tightened his grip on the radio. "Hang tight, girl," he muttered, staring toward the hazy skyline in the distance. "We're gettin' back home. No matter what."
He shifted his eyes to his mirror there was no one behind him. He put the truck in reverse, but before he could pull away to had head toward some back roads he heard something. A deep hum rolls in from above, growing louder until it fills the air. Mason looks up its already dark, but he can spot the unmistakable sight of fighter jets flying overhead. "What the-"
He slips out of his Truck and climbs on top. Jets still in his sight but so is Atlanta city.
"God…" he whispered, his knees almost giving out as the jets flew lower in a pattern Mason recognises from his lessons with his father. "They can't"
A second later, the first bomb hit. A blinding flash. Then a delayed roar that shook the air.
The shockwave could hardly be felt, only sending a few leaves swirling past him. Another explosion followed, then another. Glass towers crumbled like sand, plumes of fire reaching toward the sky. He stumbled a step back almost falling from the roof of his truck.
Cheshire barked, ears pinned, trembling as the ground rumbled beneath them.
Mason's heart pounded. No, no, no… His mind raced through faces, Miss Anne, the kids, the orphanage. His mind was spiralling down a dark hole; they can't be gone... he falls to his ass and tumbles off the roof and onto the back of his truck. He couldn't even find it in himself to feel pain.
Then he jolts up, "Okay Mason take a breath" slow, steady and deep breathes is all Mason could hear until he mentally returned to the world. A world that crashes into his senses.
Cry's, shouts, honking. People running to cars or to each other. Panic is all he can see and hear. It halts him as he's reacting the exact same as everyone else.
His heart calms his breathe steady. "Pull it together Mason, you're the son of Frank Woods. Prove it" Mason stands, hops off the back of the truck and gets back behind the wheel. He reverses the truck before spinning the truck a full 180 and driving off.
'The orphanage is on the outskirt of the city. Whatever threat is deathly enough for the Military to bomb a city, whether it's a terrorist attack or some sort of riot, it would have to be in the centre of the city'
Mason pulls his pistol from the glove box and rests it on his lap, pats Cheshire on the head. "They'll be fine girl, they gotta be". A single bark is all he gets back.
-End