The windshield flickered with movement. Shapes pressed against it, wings thundering so fast the glass rippled. Another proboscis slammed against the pane. The hairline fracture widened, zigzagging toward the corner like lightning.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Cab integrity compromised. Estimated survivability if breach occurs: thirty-six seconds.

  “Yeah, no pressure,” Ethan hissed, ramming the throttle with his knee while keeping one hand on the controls and the other on the turret.

  The hauler surged forward, tires spinning before finding purchase. Gravel sprayed, pinging against the undercarriage.

  The haze thickened until it felt alive, spores clumping against the glass in sheets that glowed faintly blue-green. Each impact left a smear that pulsed like a heartbeat, turning the windshield into a membrane instead of a window; It was long past the point of usefulness. To make matters worse, the air itself sparked, the swarm’s wings raising static until his hair bristled.

  He swung Fang’s barrel across the roof and held the trigger. A line of glowing rounds stitched the fog, shredding three Sporesquitos mid-flight. Their carcasses thudded wetly against the bed, legs twitching before sliding off into the haze.

  But for every one that fell, two more flapped in from the haze. The swarm tightened, shifting patterns like it had learned his rhythm, matched his speed. One slammed against the cab with a hollow thud; another smeared its stinger across Fang’s optics, leaving a streak of glowing blue blood that blurred the reticle. Shapes swirled beyond, weaving in arcs too fast to track.

  Another stinger punched straight into the cargo bed, hissing as spores ate into the metal. A glowing vein spread from the puncture, pulsing like infection through the hauler’s frame.

  CelestOS: Observation. Cargo integrity reduced by seventeen percent. Statistical models suggest the hauler is now 63% more likely to be a liability than an asset.

  “Shut up and give me a fix!”

  He didn't have time for jokes. He likely had minutes if not seconds of glass integrity before the windshield shattered. Five, maybe six axe swings before his arms failed. The numbers stacked against him like a scoreboard no one wanted to read. He shoved the thought down, but it clung like the spores in his throat: one man fighting on three fronts, with no margin left.

  CelestOS: Suggestion. Kill them faster.

  Ethan growled, sweat dripping into his collar, vision tunneling. He jerked the wheel to throw the hauler into a skid. The swarm reeled with it, wings buzzing in disarray. He used the opening, turret blazing as Fang chewed through the closest cluster. Six shapes exploded into a mist of ichor, raining down across the hood in globs that smeared phosphorescent streaks on the glass.

  The cab stank even through the filters, a sharp reek that coated his throat. Ethan gagged, spat into the cabin of the hauler, and forced himself to breathe shallowly.

  The hauler slammed through a ridge and nearly pitched sideways. Ethan wrestled it straight, muscles burning. The crates rattled behind him like dice in a cup, Fang screeching as it tried to stabilize its aim.

  More shadows loomed ahead, blotting out the phosphorescent haze with sheer numbers. The buzzing rose into a chorus that drilled into his skull, vibrating his molars. The swarm wasn't thinning; it was converging.

  “Fine,” he snarled, forcing the throttle forward. “Let’s see if you can swallow steel.”

  The hauler roared, plowing straight into the cloud. The swarm thickened until the cab felt like the center of a hornet’s nest. The drumming rose past sound, past vibration, until the hauler itself began to sing with it. The frame shuddered in rhythm with the wings, each rivet and joint rattling in perfect sync. It wasn't just an attack; it was an invasion, the machine’s steel skeleton turned into another instrument in their chorus. Even the steering column buzzed under his grip, as if the swarm had crawled inside and hollowed the hauler into a hive.

  It was like being buried alive, only by wings instead of earth. They pressed against the cab from every side, hammering like shovelfuls of dirt. Every impact drove him deeper into a coffin of buzzing bodies. The windshield did more than shiver with cracks; it became a lid, rattling as if it might slam shut for good.

  He imagined opening his mouth to scream and drawing nothing but stingers down his throat. Proboscises stabbing, needles filling his lungs until he drowned in the storm itself. Drowned in wings. Drowned in chitin. Drowned in the endless vibration of a billion beating membranes that turned air into quicksand. His hands tightened on the yoke, desperate to keep the hauler moving because stillness meant burial. Stop now, and they would pile over him, fill the cab, and pack him down until he was gone, just another husk in the dirt.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Fang’s turret screamed, muzzle glowing orange, barrel shuddering from the heat. Ethan barely kept his grip on the joystick while fighting the wheel with his free hand.

  The sound changed. A heavier thud landed directly above him, followed by a sickening screech as claws dug for purchase. The roof bowed inward, metal groaning under the weight. Ethan’s eyes snapped up just as the emergency hatch bulged. A spindly leg punched straight through, spraying a stream of spores that hissed in the cabin’s recycled air.

  “Shit!” He dropped the joystick, one hand still clamped on the wheel as the other yanked the axe.

  The hatch burst inward. A Sporesquito jammed its head through, wings thrumming so violently the whole cab vibrated. Its proboscis snapped out like a spear, narrowly missing his head as he twisted aside. The stinger pierced the seat instead, fabric hissing as spores puffed in pale clouds.

  Ethan roared, swung the axe two-handed, and buried the blade into the creature’s neck joint. Chitin cracked with a sound like splintering wood. The Sporesquito shrieked, high and glassy, and thrashed harder, wings battering the cabin so violently the controls shook in his hands.

  He yanked the axe free and swung again, hacking through half its thorax. Spores burst in a cloud that painted the dash a sickly blue-green. The beast spasmed, stinger gouging a trench across the console before it slumped, twitching, halfway inside the cab.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Foreign biological matter detected in operator compartment. Health risk: extreme.

  “No kidding!” Ethan heaved, kicking the carcass with both boots until it tumbled back out the hatch. The body bounced off the roof and vanished into the haze.

  But he had no reprieve. Another slammed the side window, proboscis stabbing until glass spider-webbed in three directions. A third latched onto the grille, wings throwing sparks as it tried to drive its stinger through the intake. Fang fired wildly, bolts tracing erratic arcs through the mist, but the barrel’s glow dimmed, its cooling cycle forced on.

  Ethan’s chest heaved, sweat running down his back. He hacked at the dashboard with the axe until a chunk of the dead Sporesquito dislodged, clearing the controls. One hand on the yoke, one on the axe, he shouted into the comm: “Cel! I can’t hold them off and drive at the same time!”

  CelestOS: Encouragement. Studies show multitasking is possible with proper time management. Would you like to enable productivity mode?

  “Not the time!” Ethan slammed the throttle open. The hauler lurched forward, engine screaming.

  The sudden burst of speed ripped one of the attackers from the windshield, its claws screeching down the glass before it flew into Fang’s line of fire and disintegrated in a bolt of light. But three more filled the gap, wings shimmering, stingers snapping against the cab like spears.

  Ethan raised the axe again. His arms ached, his chest burned, but there was no choice. If the hauler stalled now, the swarm would drown him alive in spores.

  He bared his teeth. “Come on, then!”

  The next Sporesquito smashed through in a blur of wings and claws, stinger lancing for his chest. Ethan twisted sideways, the point gouging through the seat instead of his ribs. He roared and swung the axe, the blade crunching into the creature’s thorax. Blue-green ichor sprayed across the cabin, sizzling where it touched exposed wiring. The monster screeched, but instead of retreating, it thrashed forward, wings hammering the walls like a storm trapped in a box.

  The hauler swerved, tires spitting gravel as Ethan wrestled the yoke with one hand and ripped the axe free with the other. His pulse pounded so hard it blurred the edges of his vision. He swung again, overhand, and split the insect’s head in two. The body spasmed, collapsing half across his lap before he kicked it out the hatch with a grunt.

  There was no time to breathe. Dozens more battered the cab from every angle. The windshield shivered under the constant assault, cracks spreading like frost. Claws scraped down the steel, leaving trails that glowed faintly with spore dust. The drumming of wings was so loud it drowned out the engine.

  CelestOS: Alert. Cabin integrity at thirty percent. Hull failure imminent.

  “Then hold it together!” Ethan spat, throttling the hauler harder. The engine coughed, nearly choking on the intake, but roared anyway. The vehicle barreled through the fog like a blind bull, suspension groaning, frame shuddering.

  Fang’s barrel came back online, whining with pent-up heat. Ethan seized the manual stick and swept the reticle across the front arc. The turret erupted, bolts of light tearing open the haze. Sporesquitos shredded midair, wings disintegrating, bodies bursting in showers of ichor. He held the trigger until the recoil blurred his arms, until smoke curled from the barrel and Fang screeched in protest.

  Still, the swarm pressed in. One latched onto the hood, driving its stinger through the grille. The intake whined, choking, until Ethan yanked the turret sideways and blasted it point-blank. The explosion painted the cab in glowing blood, engine hiccupping as if gagging on the corpse.

  Another creature lunged for the open hatch. Ethan dropped the turret controls, met it with the axe, and split its proboscis clean off. The severed stinger clattered against the pedals, jamming under the brake. He kicked it loose and stomped the throttle, vision swimming with sweat and spores.

  CelestOS: Encouragement. Only eighty-seven percent of threats remain. Excellent progress!

  “Shut up!” Ethan swung the axe again, hacking blindly at the next shape that forced itself inside. The blade rang against carapace. The swarm shrieked, a wall of sound that vibrated his bones. For a moment, he thought the cab would collapse around him.

  All at once, the noise thinned. The haze outside brightened. The swarm broke apart, scattering into the cloud. Shapes receded into the phosphorescence, wings carrying them higher, farther, until the sound became a distant buzz.

  Ethan sagged against the seat, chest heaving. His arms trembled, the axe slick with ichor and the console smeared in glowing spore paste. Fang’s lens flickered back to life, a dim ember above the hauler bed.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Improvised combat maneuvers logged. Please note: manual override voids standard warranty coverage. Would you like to file a safety complaint?

  Ethan barked a hoarse laugh that was half delirium, half relief. He shoved the throttle forward one last time. The haze ahead thinned, and through it, shapes loomed: trees.