The forest was louder at night.
Cicadas buzzed. Leaves whispered. The dim glow of Devon's old Nokia phone lit the tent for a moment before he tossed it aside. Tango was midway through telling a joke he'd repeated three times because Tim couldn't stop laughing.
Richard, lying awake in the other tent, stared at the fabric ceiling. Something felt wrong. A pressure in the air. A shift he couldn't name. The same instinct that had kept him sharp his whole life—the thing that made people ask, "Why Omega?"—was gnawing at his spine.
He sat up.
A sound cut through the quiet.
Not an animal.
Not human.
Something between a growl and a choking gasp—like a throat that forgot how to breathe.
Richard unzipped the tent halfway and froze.
Something was standing at the tree line.
A twisted, sinewy shape—eight feet tall, skin stretched like wet paper over vibrating muscle. Its jaw unhinged and then snapped shut so fast the crack echoed across the camp. Its fingers dragged trenches into the dirt. And its eyes—black, reflective, hungry—locked directly onto the boys' tents.
A lower Plagued.
Richard whispered, "Devon… wake up. Now."
But it was too late.
The creature lunged.
The tents exploded like tissue paper as the Plagued tore through them. Tim screamed—cut short as a claw slammed into his chest, launching him across the clearing. Tango swung a flashlight at its head, which did absolutely nothing. The monster backhanded him so hard he spun and hit a tree trunk, crumpling to the ground.
"TANGO!" Devon shouted, scrambling toward him.
"DEVON, GET BACK!" Richard barked, voice sharp and commanding.
The creature turned toward Devon, hissing, saliva hissing as it hit the dirt.
Richard moved.
Not panicked.
Not shocked.
Just fast.
He tackled Devon out of the path of the monster's swipe, rolling to his feet before Devon even hit the ground.
Tim groaned on the forest floor, blood dripping from his nose. Tango lay coughing, ribs already bruising dark. The Plagued stalked forward, testing the ground with its claws, head twitching like it was tracking multiple heartbeats at once.
Richard stepped between it and his group—no hesitation.
Early 2000s air smelled like pine, campfire smoke, and now… blood.
"Come on," Richard muttered. "Pick someone who hits back."
The creature lunged.
Richard dove sideways, grabbed a broken branch the size of a bat, and slammed it across the monster's jaw. The wood shattered, but the hit made it reel for half a second—just enough time.
"DEVON! GET THEM UP! NOW!"
Devon dragged Tim while panting, "Richard—we gotta run!"
"Go! I'll handle this!"
The Plagued screeched, its jaw splitting wider than humanly possible. Richard grabbed one of the tent poles, steel and hollow, but still better than nothing. The creature rushed him again.
He didn't retreat.
He stepped into the swing—like someone who's been in fights before most kids learn algebra—and jammed the metal pole straight into the creature's throat.
The monster gurgled, thrashing.
Richard twisted the pole, using his weight, driving it deeper until the creature's body convulsed. Blackened blood sprayed across his shirt. The Plagued clawed at the air, choking, twitching—
Then dropped.
Silence.
Richard staggered back, chest heaving, adrenaline burning hot through his limbs. He wiped the blood from his eyes and turned.
Devon stared at him in shock.
Tango clutched his ribs.
Tim sat against a rock, dazed.
"You… you killed it," Tim breathed.
Richard didn't answer. He was listening for more.
And he heard it.
A distant howl.
Two of them.
Three.
The lower Plagued wasn't alone.
Richard's jaw tightened.
"Get up," he said, voice cold and steady. "We're leaving. Now."
The night wasn't done with them.
Not even close.