Cole wrote the first word in the notebook.
Hollow.
He paused, tapping the pen against the page, and then added another.
Roads.
He stared at the two words for a moment, feeling strangely satisfied. He snapped the notebook shut, slipped it back into his cargo pocket, and pushed open the Civic's door.
Cold air rushed in.
"Great," he muttered. "Now I gotta walk."
He got out, grabbed everything he figured he'd need for the long, miserable trek back home. His "survival kit," if you could even call it that:
a multitool
the waterproof notepad
his assault bag, about the size of a school backpack
a gallon-sized water jug
Impact gloves
his dark shades
a spare summer uniform stuffed tight
and the plate carrier he'd snagged from the armory before everything went to hell
His Combat helmet on his head
He also had a handful of useless junk he probably didn't need, but took anyway because that was the kind of person he was.
He slung the assault bag over one shoulder, tightened the carrier straps, and looked out over the endless chasm tearing through Montana.
A walk.
Across this world.
He exhaled through his mask.
"Yeah… this is gonna suck."
But he stepped forward anyway.
Because for once, he actually had somewhere he wanted to go.
Cole reached the chasm after a couple hours of walking. His water jug was getting light, his stomach was growling, and the cold air bit at his face through the balaclava. It was early summer. It should've been warm. But standing in front of an otherworldly nightmare tended to change things, he guessed.
The air wasn't just cold—it was dense, heavy, like breathing through wet cloth.
He stood about a hundred yards from the first crack.
Slowly, he walked closer.
And closer.
Until the toes of his boots reached the edge.
The ground simply ended.
A clean vertical cut in the earth, like the planet had been sliced with a giant scalpel. Far below, he couldn't see a bottom—just a bluish distortion pulsing like a heartbeat.
He stared into it.
How the fuck is nothing happening to me?
He could feel the distortion in his bones, in the air, in the way sound seemed to muffle and vibrate at the same time. But none of it touched him. He didn't bend, didn't warp, didn't feel any pressure pulling at him like the armory did.
He should've questioned it.
He should've cared.
But he didn't have time for that.
Cole took a step back, bent his knees, muttered, "Fuck it," and jumped.
He landed on a floating slab of highway about ten feet out—a chunk of asphalt suspended over the chasm like it forgot gravity existed. He hit the surface hard, boots skidding, arms out to steady himself.
The slab shifted.
Just a little.
Cole froze.
"…don't move," he whispered to himself.
The slab creaked… tilted an inch…
Then settled.
Cole exhaled through his mask.
"Okay. Okay. Not dead yet."
But ahead of him were dozens of floating platforms.
Some spinning slowly.
Some drifting in spirals.
Some vibrating like they were alive.
He'd have to cross them all.
And Cole wasn't sure if he was terrified, impressed, or just too tired to feel either.
One wrong jump and he'd fall into… whatever the hell was down there.
He checked his footing, muttered a quiet, "Here we go," and hopped to the next slab.
It shifted violently the second he landed.
A jolt shot through the platform, sending it into a slow spin.
Cole crouched low, arms out, trying to balance.
"Don't you fucking do this to me right now," he whispered through clenched teeth.
The slab rotated halfway, then three-quarters—Cole's stomach dropped—before it suddenly stopped at exactly ninety degrees. Perfect. Impossibly perfect.
Cole blinked.
"Yeah. Sure. Why not," he muttered.
He jumped again.
This time he landed on a long strip of cracked asphalt that stretched out like a broken bridge. It dipped under his weight—hard—like it intended to throw him off. But the moment his boots hit, the entire slab stabilized, flattening beneath him.
Almost like it was adjusting for him.
He didn't think about that.
He didn't want to.
He jogged across it, breath echoing inside the balaclava, assault bag bouncing against his back. Another gap yawned ahead—big one, maybe fifteen feet across. Below it, bluish distortion pulsed upward like heat waves from hell.
Cole backed up three steps, ran forward, and leapt.
His boots hit the next platform just as one of the orbiting chunks slammed into its side. The impact sent rocks and debris flying, the entire slab shuddering like a struck tuning fork.
Cole dropped to one knee, gripping the asphalt.
"Yeah… that's great… that's real fucking great," he breathed.
He stood, eyes scanning the floating mess ahead. Some pieces were too far. Some too unstable. Some rotated too fast for him to land on.
But there—
a narrow spine of connected slabs, drifting close enough to form a jagged, warped path.
Cole took it.
He hopped across one, then another, then another—each one bending or creaking or shifting under his weight, but none throwing him off. A few tilted dangerously, but stopped just shy of dumping him into the abyss. One slab cracked when he stepped onto it—an entire fissure running across the middle—but it held until he jumped clear.
It was as if the world bent for him but refused to break him.
After a dozen jumps, scrambles, and desperate sprints, he landed on a massive chunk of highway—half a mile long and drifting slowly across the chasm like a lazy ghost ship.
Cole stood on the edge, breathing hard, hands on his hips.
He was across.
He looked back at the floating maze behind him, slabs twisting, drifting, rotating.
"…Holy shit," he muttered. "I actually crossed that."
He turned forward.
The broken world stretched out in front of him—warped mountains, cracked plains, glowing distortions rippling across the landscape.
Cole fixed the straps of his Helmet, adjusted his assault bag, and started walking.
Hollow Roads had just begun.