Chapter Six – The First Eclipse
The heat broke first.
It didn't fade gently, like sunset on Earth. It dropped — snapped — as if some unseen hand had stolen the fire from the sky.
One moment, Fry felt the sting of sweat rolling into her eyes.
The next, gooseflesh rose along her arms.
The smallest sun was gone, eaten whole by a slow-moving disc of blackness.
The other two still hung above them — but even those burned weaker now, their light dulled to an anemic gold. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, twisting over the rocks like black water.
"Is this… normal here?" Paris asked, voice brittle.
"No," Imam answered, his three young charges huddled behind him. His gaze was fixed on the heavens; on the precise and unnatural clockwork of shadow creeping faster than the mind could comfortably follow.
Shazza shivered. "Feels wrong."
Riddick lifted his chin, inhaling like a man savoring a storm.
"Oh, it's wrong," he said. His voice carried that lazy satisfaction of someone whose suspicions had just been confirmed.
Johns shot him a glare. "And what exactly is 'wrong' supposed to mean?"
Riddick tilted his head toward the ground — toward the hole. The cairn over Zeke's body seemed smaller now, almost fragile.
"You're about to meet the locals."
The second sun began to dim.
It wasn't a clean shadow this time — light fractured into trembling beams, as though something huge and winged passed between it and the planet. The darkness moved in ripples, sweeping the canyon walls.
Then came the sound.
Not a roar. Not a screech.
A low, reverberating clicking from deep underground, as though dozens — maybe hundreds — of hard, serrated limbs were testing the air for weakness.
The cairn shifted. Just a little.
"Get back!" Fry shouted, grabbing Paris by the arm and pulling him away.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Riddick take a step forward instead, chains clinking against each other. The dying light caught his grin.
"They can smell the change," he murmured. "Haven't fed proper in years."
The last sun bled into darkness.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still.
No wind. No light. Just the slow echo of their own breaths.
Then the ground split open.
Chapter Seven – The First Hunt
It started like a shiver underfoot.
Not loud — not violent — but enough to make the stones grind softly against each other, like teeth in a restless dream.
Then something punched through the earth.
A hooked limb — jointed and wickedly curved, glistening in the last shreds of light — snapped into the open air and withdrew just as fast. Another followed. Then three more. Then dozens.
The ground gave way.
The cairn collapsed in on itself as though Zeke's grave had been swallowed.
What came out was wrong.
Bone-white plating that caught the last gasp of daylight. Skin — or something like it — so thin you could see the black fluid pulsing underneath. The creatures moved with a jagged quickness, heads twitching in sharp angles like broken machinery.
No eyes. Not one.
Yet somehow, Fry could feel them looking at her.
"Run!" Johns barked, drawing his shotgun — but before he could fire, the thing closest to him flared a set of bladed fins along its spine and leapt sideways into the shadows.
The others scattered, sprinting over the ridge toward the settlement. Paris tripped on the first step and Imam yanked him upright with one brutal pull. The children wailed, their cries swallowed almost instantly by the new, heavier darkness.
Shazza grabbed Fry's wrist.
They ran together, boots hammering the dust.
Behind them, the clicking grew — not slower, but layered, multiplied, a sick chorus of hunger closing in.
One of the things skittered along the canyon wall — vertical, impossible, its talons gouging trails of sparks from the rock. It moved so fast it was a blur until it landed directly in their path.
It didn't roar.
It unfolded. The head split open into serrated halves, the mouth yawning wide enough to swallow an arm whole. Black saliva hissed where it hit the ground.
Fry froze.
It was Riddick who moved first.
The chains rattled once as he stepped between her and the creature. He tilted his head like a man studying an old enemy.
"Not your time," he whispered — and when the thing lunged, he dropped low, twisting under its strike with inhuman speed. The blade of its arm grazed the air where his head had been, and he slammed his cuffed fists into the joint of its leg.
The creature screamed.
Not sound — but a vibration that shook the ribs.
Then it bolted into the shadows again.
Fry didn't wait to see where it went. She grabbed Riddick's arm — not to save him, but because she knew she wouldn't make it to the door without him — and they both ran.
The group burst into the settlement and slammed the metal hatch shut behind them.
Silence.
Outside, something scraped along the wall. Then another. Then… dozens.
The first hunt had begun.
Chapter Eight – The Dark Hours
The metal hatch thudded shut, and for a heartbeat, all they could hear was their own breathing. Fast. Uneven. The sound of people trying to pretend they weren't afraid.
Then came the first impact.
Something slammed into the hatch hard enough to rattle the hinges. A low, vibrating scrape followed, like claws dragging lazily over the steel. Then another. Then more, moving in slow circles around the building.
Paris whimpered.
"Sweet God, they're hunting us."
Riddick said nothing. He was standing near the edge of the room, just close enough to the faint window slit to see the outside. His head tilted, nostrils flaring as though he could smell the danger.
Fry swallowed and forced herself forward.
"What are they?" she asked him.
Riddick's eyes — that strange pale reflection — shifted to her.
"Predators. Apex. Move like they own the dark… because they do."
"And you can see them?" Imam asked, his voice taut but steady.
"See more than you can," Riddick replied. "But not enough. Not yet. You want to survive the night? We find light, we keep light. Because they're not afraid of you — they're afraid of the burn."
Outside, something screamed.
Not a human scream — higher, sharper, like glass snapping in slow motion. The sound rippled across the walls, and the children clamped their hands over their ears.
Shazza was pacing, glancing at the dwindling glow of the lantern.
"We're running low on juice. Couple hours, maybe. Then nothing."
"Then we're dead," Johns said flatly.
Fry's jaw tightened. "Not if we get to the skiff and launch. We've got power cells there."
"Across open ground?" Johns' laugh was humorless. "In the dark? Sure, captain. You lead."
Riddick pushed off from the wall. His chains clinked as he walked, slow and deliberate, toward the lantern's circle of light.
"They see you move — they come for you. You stay still — they come for you slower. Either way, you're meat. But…"
He crouched, dragging one finger through the dust on the floor, sketching a crude map of the settlement.
"Here… here… and here — old solar lamps. They'll be dead by now, but if we can juice them, maybe we carve a path to the skiff."
Imam's brow furrowed. "You'd go out there?"
Riddick's smile was sharp.
"I'd hunt out there."
A fresh impact hit the wall, hard enough to dent the metal. Dust rained from the ceiling. The creatures were no longer circling — they were testing. Measuring.
Fry met Riddick's eyes, and for the first time since the crash, she wasn't sure whether he was their savior or just another predator in the room.
The lantern sputtered.
The shadows got deeper.
The dark hours had truly begun.
Chapter Nine – The Light Run
The lantern flickered again. Each time it dimmed, their faces became more like masks—drawn, hollow-eyed, waiting for the dark to claim them.
Riddick was crouched near the door, checking the clamps on the glowsticks Fry had found in a dusty supply locker. They were weak—greenish halos at best—but better than nothing.
"Glowsticks? That's your big plan?" Johns asked, tone dripping with sarcasm.
Riddick didn't even glance at him.
"Light's light. Doesn't matter how pretty it looks."
Fry knelt beside him, clutching the salvaged power cell like it was the last beating heart in the world.
"Three stops," she said. "We get each solar lamp up, charge it just enough to keep burning until the next point."
"And in between?" Shazza asked.
"In between," Riddick said, "you run. And you don't look back."
A screech tore through the night—long, piercing, too close. The walls rattled. Somewhere above, claws scraped against the roof.
"Move," Fry ordered, her voice cracking only once.
Riddick shoved the hatch open. The night outside was alive—air thick with a low, chittering chorus, shadows twisting and snapping just outside the range of their meager glow.
"Out!"
They burst into the open. The first steps were a chaos of shouts, pounding boots, and the brittle crack of dry soil underfoot. The green glowsticks swung wildly, throwing arcs of color across their path.
Something moved in the dark. Fast. Too fast.
A blur to Fry's left—wings slicing the air. She heard the sound of teeth snapping just beyond the light.
Riddick grabbed her arm, yanking her forward.
"Keep moving, Captain."
They reached the first solar lamp—its metal frame rusted, panels dusty. Shazza dropped to her knees, jamming the power cell's cables into the ancient port. Sparks popped, and the lamp's bulb flared weakly before settling into a dim yellow pulse.
"Go!" Riddick barked.
They ran again, the light behind them shrinking, the black pressing in tighter. Shapes darted along the edge of vision—sleek, skeletal forms with wings like knives.
One lunged. Fry heard the rush of air before she saw it—then Riddick was there, swinging a jagged length of pipe. The blow connected with a sound like wet wood splintering. The creature shrieked, a shiver of sound that rattled her spine, and fell back into the dark.
By the second lamp, they were panting, shaking. Johns kept glancing upward as if the sky itself might come alive.
"This is insane—"
Something slammed into him from the side, sending him sprawling. Claws raked across his back, sparks flying as they scraped the glowstick he clutched.
Fry lunged, grabbing Johns under the arm. "Get up! GET UP!"
Riddick stepped in front of them, body low, weapon raised.
"Move when I say. Not before."
The lamp flared to life behind him. The creatures scattered, vanishing into the edges of the glow.
They made the final run with no breath left to scream, every step a war against the dark that wanted to swallow them whole. The skiff loomed ahead—a shadow within shadows—but it was there.
When they finally slammed the hatch shut behind them, they didn't speak.
They just listened—to the pounding in their own chests, and the sound of claws, still scraping, somewhere outside.
Chapter Ten – The Skiff Isn't Enough
For a long while, no one moved. The skiff's narrow hold was lit only by the trembling green glow of two battered sticks wedged into the floor grates. The air was heavy, hot, stinking of sweat and fear.
Fry was the first to break the silence.
"How much fuel?"
Shazza checked the readout on the battered console. Her frown deepened.
"Enough for a jump… maybe. But the power grid—"
"It's dead," Riddick finished for her, voice flat. He was leaning against the far wall, hands resting on his knees like a predator waiting for the moment to strike. "Without the main power cells, this bird doesn't leave the nest."
Johns swore under his breath.
"You're telling me we just ran through hell for nothing?"
"No," Fry snapped. She was pacing now, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if she could press the frustration back into her skull. "We just didn't run far enough. There's a third power cell, stored in the old crawler near the ridge."
Johns barked a laugh, humorless.
"You mean back out there? In the dark? No thanks."
"Then we die here," Fry said simply.
The chittering outside was growing again, a restless tide. Something thumped against the skiff's hull, making the metal ring like a drum.
Shazza's voice was low, tight.
"How far to the ridge?"
"Half a klick," Fry said. "Maybe less if we cut across the ravine."
"That's their hunting ground," Riddick added. His tone was more observation than warning, but the weight of it made the room colder.
For a moment, no one spoke. The hull groaned. Another thump echoed overhead.
Riddick finally straightened, rolling his shoulders.
"I'll take the front. You keep your lights moving and your mouths shut. You hesitate, you're meat. Simple."
Johns stepped forward, jaw tight.
"Not without me."
"Fine," Riddick said with a faint smirk. "You can be bait."
They gathered what light they had—three glowsticks, the flickering hand-lamp, and a battered flare Fry had been saving for a last stand. When the hatch opened, the darkness outside seemed almost solid, like a wall waiting to close around them.
The first steps into it were always the hardest. Fry's breath came fast, her eyes straining to catch movement beyond the green haze. Every sound was too close—clicking claws on stone, leathery wings brushing the air above.
Halfway to the ravine, the chittering stopped.
Riddick halted, raising a hand. The group froze, barely daring to breathe.
The silence was worse than the noise.
Then, from the black ahead, came a slow, dragging scrape—metal against stone. Fry's skin prickled. Something was waiting.
Riddick's head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring like he could smell it. His grin was small and unsettling.
"Keep up."
They moved again. The ridge was just ahead when the first shape dropped from above—sleek, glistening, folding in on itself before launching forward with a burst of speed. Johns swore and fired the hand-lamp beam into its face, the creature veering away with a scream.
Another came. Then another.
By the time they reached the crawler, the night was alive again, and the only thing between them and the swarm was the thin halo of their dying light.