Young men, armed, aggressive, confident in the chaos. They spread out immediately, shouting, firing into the air, claiming the store as theirs. One of them grabbed a woman by the arm and dragged her toward the registers, screaming that everything belonged to them now.
Officer Díaz stepped forward.
She did not shout.
She drew her pistol and fired.
Two of the gang members fell before anyone understood what had happened. The sound of the shots echoed through the store, sharp and final.
Eric reacted instantly.
Years in special forces had not left him. When another gang member charged toward Díaz, Eric threw himself at him, slamming him into a shelf. They crashed to the ground. Eric disarmed him with practiced efficiency and seized the weapon—a sawed-off shotgun.
He did not hesitate.
He fired.
Three, maybe four of the gang members went down before the rest panicked. They fled, screaming, abandoning weapons, abandoning control. The store erupted into chaos again, but this time people moved with purpose.
They grabbed supplies.
Water. As much as they could carry. Bottles of liquor—not for drinking, but for disinfection once medicine ran out. Dry food. Beans. Spaghetti. Rice. Anything that could survive weeks.
Tomás was not so lucky.
During the shooting, he had been hit. A bullet tore into his leg. He collapsed near the pharmacy section, bleeding heavily.
Nico screamed for help.
Eric was already there.
He spoke to Nico in Spanish, calm and direct. He had learned the language during missions in Latin America—Central America, Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador. He knew what to do.
They made a tourniquet using fabric and pressure. Stopped the bleeding as best they could. Tomás groaned but stayed conscious.
They moved fast.
Before leaving, they forced their way into the pharmacy. Antibiotics. Painkillers. Bandages. Anything they could reach. The shelves were already half empty, but every item mattered now.
Outside, the night burned.
They loaded what they could into their arms. Police vehicles arrived, sirens cutting through the noise. Díaz helped carry Tomás into one of them. He would need treatment, even if hospitals were overwhelmed.
Around them, the city continued to tear itself apart.
Fires spread unchecked. Gunshots echoed farther away now. Groups moved through the streets like predators. The sky remained red, heavy, watching.
This was no longer survival.
This was adaptation.
And those who failed to adapt would not see another sunrise.
THE SECOND TRUMPET
The trumpet sounded again.
Not once.
Not briefly.
It tore across the sky for long minutes, heavy and absolute, and the effect was immediate.
Movement stopped.
Across the world, people froze where they stood. Cars stalled in the middle of streets. Drivers released the pedals without realizing it. Pedestrians stopped mid-step, bottles of water slipping from their hands, backpacks hanging half-open.
From the poorest alley to the highest penthouse, from crowded highways to empty deserts, every human being stood still, staring upward with the same instinctive certainty.
Something was coming.
Something worse.
Maria Diaz slowed the jeep to a stop without being told to.
Eric felt it before he saw it, the silence pressing against his ears, thick and suffocating.
The Priest crossed himself once, then stopped halfway through the motion, unsure if it still meant anything.
Nico held his injured cousin steady, his hands slick with sweat.
Around them, other cars stopped as well.
Doors opened.
People stepped out.
Everyone looked at the sky.
The trumpet faded.
For one brief, unbearable moment, nothing happened.
Then the clouds changed.
Red bled into the gray, spreading slowly, staining the sky as if the atmosphere itself had been wounded.
The light shifted, no longer natural, deeper, heavier, as if something vast existed behind the clouds and was pressing forward.
Shapes appeared.
At first blurred. Indistinct.
One. Two. Then dozens. Then hundreds.
Figures descended slowly, their silhouettes sharpening with every second. Each one bore two massive wings, folded close to their bodies as they fell. They were enormous. The smallest towered over buildings. Others eclipsed entire intersections, their shadows swallowing streets and rooftops alike.
Screams erupted.
People ran in every direction. Some fired weapons upward in desperation. Bullets vanished against armor that reflected light like polished stone. Others dropped to their knees, hands raised, voices breaking in prayer, apology, bargaining.
The first Creator landed in the street.
The impact crushed parked cars beneath its weight, metal collapsing like paper. Asphalt cracked. Shockwaves rippled outward.
Its armor was sleek, contoured, elegant. Not crude. Not heavy. Segmented plates flowed together as if grown rather than forged, hugging its massive form. The surface shimmered faintly, alive with subtle internal light. A severe helm crowned its head, angular and sharp, framing a face carved with inhuman precision.
Its expression was still.
Perfect.
Cold.
For a moment, it only observed.
Then it smiled.
The transformation was immediate and wrong. The mouth opened wider than any human jaw should allow. Teeth revealed themselves slowly, deliberately. The smile was playful. Curious. Hungry.
It reached down and lifted a man from the street with one hand. The man screamed, kicking uselessly in the air, his voice shredding itself against the chaos. The Creator tilted its head, studying him like an object of interest, then released him without care, already turning toward another cluster of fleeing bodies.
All around the city, others landed.
On rooftops. On plazas. On highways.
Each impact shattered concrete and steel. Some knelt to peer into overturned vehicles. Others lifted cars entirely, shaking them, discarding them when they found nothing alive inside. They crouched, leaned close, sniffed, watched.
They moved with amusement. With curiosity.
This was not battle.
It was harvesting.
Maria shouted for everyone to get back into the jeep.
They barely had time.
As she accelerated, another Creator descended directly in front of them, wielding a massive weapon shaped like a hammer, its surface glowing faintly with contained energy. The strike came without warning.
Metal screamed.
The jeep flipped violently, rolling across the pavement before slamming onto its side.
Nico's cousin was thrown free.
His scream was short.
The Creator stepped toward him, towering, its shadow swallowing everything beneath it. It crouched, lifting him effortlessly, examining his frantic movements with fascination. That same smile returned, wider now, eager.
Nico screamed his name.
Eric grabbed him, dragging him back as Maria fired blindly through the shattered windshield. The bullets sparked uselessly against the armor.
They ran.
They crashed through the broken window of a nearby store, glass exploding inward as they tumbled inside with others already hiding there. People sobbed. Someone vomited. Another whispered prayers that no longer sounded convincing.
Outside, the ground shook with every step.
Creators bent low to peer through storefronts, their massive faces filling shattered windows, eyes scanning the darkness within. Some fogged the glass with their breath. Others simply reached in, tearing metal frames away as if peeling fruit.
Cars were lifted. Shelters were ripped open. Streets became traps.
From inside the store, Eric watched one of them pass the window. Its armor was streaked with ash and soot, glowing faintly red beneath the surface. One massive hand dragged along the pavement, carving deep grooves into the stone.
Above them, more descended.
This was only the beginning.
The Creators did not hurry.
They did not shout commands.
They did not need to.
They were not angry.
They were entertained.
And as the sky burned red and the world screamed beneath them, one truth became clear to those still alive:
The trumpet had not been a warning.
It had been permission.
Episode 16 – THE HUNT BEGINS
Eric, Maria, and the Priest crashed through the shattered display window, glass exploding inward as they tumbled among strangers already huddled inside. The impact sent shards skittering across the floor, some embedding in clothing, others slicing through the air like invisible knives. Shelves had been overturned, forming crude barricades, their edges jagged and splintered. Refrigerators and freezers blocked the entrance, their metal doors dented and scratched, as if something heavy had rammed into them from the outside. The air was thick with the stench of spilled alcohol, blood, burned plastic, and the sour tang of human fear—a cocktail that made every breath feel heavy and dangerous.
Outside, the city was no longer a city.
It was a hunting ground.
Screams echoed down the streets—some sharp and desperate, others drawn out until they faded into silence. Heavy impacts followed, rhythmic and deliberate, like something enormous walking without hurry. The ground trembled with each step, a deep vibration that traveled up through the soles of their shoes, making their bones hum.
The Creators were not chasing.
They were selecting.
People ran past the storefront, trampling each other in blind panic. Some fell and never got up. Others crawled, hands scraping concrete, begging anyone—anyone—to help.
No one did.
Survival had narrowed human vision to a single point: escape.
The air filled with the sound of frantic footsteps, of fabric tearing, of voices rising and falling in a chorus of terror. The city, once a place of order and routine, had become a maze of shadows and echoes, every corner hiding a new horror.
A group surged toward the subway entrance across the street, pushing down the stairs in a living avalanche. Underground meant smaller spaces. Lower ceilings. Less room for wings. The stairs groaned under the weight, metal rails bending, tiles cracking as people shoved and slipped, their cries bouncing off the walls, multiplying in the darkness.
Maria grabbed Eric's arm.
"We go out the back," she said. "Now."
They shoved through a rear door into an alley already filling with bodies—people fleeing the same idea, the same hope. The alley reeked of garbage and urine, the walls slick with moisture and grime. The Priest stumbled, but Eric caught him, his grip firm and urgent.
Behind them, laughter rolled through the street.
Not human laughter.
It was deep, layered, echoing—multiple tones overlapping, amused and curious. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, as if the air itself were mocking them.
A Creator crouched at the intersection, lowering its massive head to peer into cars. Its shadow stretched across the asphalt, swallowing everything in its path. It lifted one vehicle with one hand, shook it once, then discarded it when nothing moved inside. The car landed with a crash that sent shockwaves through the pavement.
Another walked slowly through the street, armor glowing faintly beneath soot and ash, dragging its fingers across walls, peeling brick and concrete apart as if testing the material. Each movement was slow, deliberate, almost playful, as if destruction were a game.
Police officers appeared near a barricade ahead—four of them, faces pale but determined. They raised weapons: pistols, shotguns, one carrying an M4 rifle. Someone shouted an order. Tear gas launched with a hollow thump, white smoke billowing into the street, its acrid scent stinging eyes and throats.
For a moment—just a moment—hope flickered.
The gas wrapped around a Creator's legs.
The thing paused.
Then it laughed.
A sound like stone grinding against stone.
It stepped forward through the gas, unbothered, lifted the officer with the shotgun off the ground with one hand, and slammed him into the pavement hard enough that the sound carried over the screams. The others opened fire. Muzzle flashes lit the street, brief bursts of light that illuminated the chaos for split seconds.
The bullets did nothing.
The Creator swung its arm once.
Two officers disappeared.
The others ran.
Eric didn't look back.
They reached a warehouse at the edge of the block—corrugated metal doors bent inward, lights flickering inside like dying stars. People poured through the opening, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. Someone screamed that it was locked. Someone else forced it, metal groaning in protest.
Inside, crates had been stacked into makeshift cover, their edges sharp and uneven. Forklifts stood abandoned, their engines silent, their forks pointing toward the ceiling like forgotten weapons. Emergency lights cast everything in a sick yellow glow, shadows stretching and twisting across the floor.
They didn't stop.
They kept running—through the warehouse, out another door, down concrete steps leading underground.
The subway.
The air changed immediately—cooler, damp, heavy with the smell of rust and oil. People were already flooding down the stairs, pushing, slipping, falling. Eric heard ribs crack. Heard someone begging not to be left behind. The walls pressed in, the ceiling low, the air thick with sweat and panic. Every breath felt like swallowing darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a man in a torn suit—tie loosened, shirt stained with sweat and blood. He had a thick mustache, thinning hair slicked back in panic. Behind him, two young women—his daughters, both grown, one in ripped jeans and a hoodie, the other wearing a short jacket and sneakers, hair dyed a pale blue. Their faces were streaked with tears, their eyes wide with fear.
The man turned when he saw Eric and grabbed his arm.
"Thank you," he said, voice shaking. "Thank you for helping us. We—"
The shadow fell over them.
Silence hit like pressure, a sudden stillness that made every heartbeat echo in their ears.
A hand descended from above—massive, armored, fingers closing around the man's torso with terrifying precision. He didn't even have time to scream before he was lifted upward, feet kicking uselessly as he was carried back toward the street.
"PAPA!" one of the daughters screamed.
Both of them ran after him.
Maria shouted for them to stop.
They didn't hear her.
They tore up the stairs, chasing the impossible, calling his name, their voices breaking as they reached the street.
Eric reached the steps just in time to see it.
Another Creator landed.
This one larger.
Its wings folded tight against its back as it crouched, watching them with interest. One daughter tripped. The other tried to pull her up.
Too late.
The Creator reached out.
One woman in each hand.
Lifted.