Earth

  The street opened into a wide plaza, and what waited there froze Alessandro and all the people that were around him where they stood.

  Dozens of figures, maybe a hundred, moved among the corpses scattered across the stones. The bodies had been torn apart, bones split and marrow sucked dry, flesh left to rot in the heat. The creatures that fed on them were similar to the ones they had fought before. These were bulkier, more muscular, their reddish-orange skin stretched tight over their long frames. Each one hunched forward as if their spines were warped, their long arms dragging against the ground. Dirty claws scraped upon the cobblestones.

  Their faces were narrow and almost human in outline, but stretched too long, the jaws overfull with jagged teeth that clicked and ground when they lifted their heads. Worst were the eyes—black sclera swallowing all the whites, a yellow-orange pupil burning at the center like an ember. When one of them turned toward the group, that glow fixed Alessandro in place, primal terror tightening in his chest.

  The plaza teemed with them. Some crouched low over corpses, feeding with wet, tearing noises. Others loomed restlessly near the gash of energy at the center of the square. A Rift burned there, molten and furious, spilling reddish light across the stones. Its surface rippled like a curtain of liquid metal, its edges hissing sparks that scorched the ground.

  From within, more of the creatures crawled forth, skin glistening as if newly forged in fire. These were larger than the feeders, their muscles more defined, their movements sharper. The air thrummed with their low, guttural chittering, a chorus that vibrated in Alessandro’s bones.

  For a breathless moment, the militia said nothing. Then one of the monsters straightened, lips slick with blood, and let out a rasping shriek that tore through the plaza. Dozens of heads whipped toward them, ember-pupiled eyes locking as one.

  “Holy fuck…” someone muttered, voice shaking.

  “Guns to the front! Melee to the sides! Now!” Rinaldi barked, the old man’s tone cracking like a whip. His voice carried across the fighters, and those without guns broke off, rushing toward the flanks to ready themselves.

  The line steadied. Dozens of men and women raised rifles, pistols, hunting carbines. Policemen, hunters, weapon enthusiasts and untrained folks alike shouldered their weapons together, a ragtag wall of resistance.

  The first shots rang out—sharp cracks, booming into the plaza—then rolled into a storm. Lead tore into the nearest beasts, black ichor spraying as the creatures dropped one after another. In the first few seconds alone, dozens of the monsters fell thrashing to the ground.

  But these things knew no fear. Their shrieks split the air as they surged forward, long limbs carrying them in leaping bounds. They slammed against the lines, throwing themselves against the people of Brenta.

  Then steel and wood answered. The melee fighters came alive—clubs swinging, pitchforks stabbing, knives flashing, lead pipes crunching bone. Every kind of weapon the town had scrounged, found its mark. Screams and snarls blended into one storm of sound.

  A man reloading his rifle never saw the beast that lunged at him—its teeth sank into his face, tearing through flesh and bone in a gush of blood. The woman beside him screamed, driving a knife into the monster’s side again and again until it collapsed. She took the rifle from the ground with shaking hands, but before she could fire, three more creatures swarmed her, clawing, biting, dragging her down under a writhing pile.

  Scenes like that played out everywhere. Chaos reigned, yet still the townsfolk fought on. For every man or woman who fell, many more monsters joined the heap. The air stank of blood, ichor, and cordite, and the plaza became a killing ground where Brenta’s people, desperate and furious, thinned the enemy despite the ferocity of the beasts.

  Alessandro worked methodically, keeping low behind a crumbling fountain at the edge of the plaza. Each shot from his rifle rang out with precision. He fired, aimed, fired again, the Garand’s familiar “ping” marking every empty clip. When a monster closed too quickly, lunging with claws extended, he swung the rifle like a club, the stock smashing into its face with a sickening crunch. The creature toppled, stunned, and he finished it with a bullet in the chest. He walked backward to keep distance from the press of bodies, never allowing himself to be surrounded.

  From his position, he could see the center of the fighting: a writhing mass of corpses, monsters and humans tangled together in a chaotic, bloody grind. The melee fighters—some brave, some desperate—slashed and hammered in that core, yet many paid with their lives. He gritted his teeth, covering the flanks, watching for any creature that tried to break free or flank the fighters in the chaos.

  One after another, Alessandro’s shots found the beasts. He moved, fired, and retreated again, always mindful of the fighting around him, ensuring none could slip past to reach the unaware gunmen beside him. He ducked, unsheathed a knife, and swung it when one lunged too close, then fired at the next in line. A cacophony of snarls, screams, and gunfire filled the plaza, but he didn’t let it distract him. Each life he saved, each monster that fell, was a small victory against the relentless tide.

  As the fight wore on, the frenzied mass in the center began to thin. The monsters, though still numerous, had lost their initial momentum. Bodies on the ground, the surviving creatures slowed, exhausted from their own exertion. Those emerging now from the Rift were few, and nothing like the swarm that had poured into the plaza at first. Alessandro noted the change: the waves of attack had dwindled, and the new monsters were isolated, easily singled out and eliminated.

  He covered other fighters, shouting warnings, calling targets, letting others reload and reposition safely. One by one, the stragglers were cut down. The plaza, once a seething pit of living horror, now resembled a battlefield after a storm—bloodied and grotesque, but increasingly under control.

  Alessandro’s breaths came hard, his arms ached from swinging the rifle and pumping bullets into the monsters. Yet he felt a grim satisfaction. In the center of the plaza remained the rift, but around, the people of Brenta were winning. The monsters that dared to come from the Rift now fell swiftly, no longer overwhelming them.

  He paused for a heartbeat, scanning the scene. Stragglers here, another creeping from the Rift there—quick shots, quick swings, and they were gone.

  The last of the monsters collapsed, and the din of clawed feet and guttural snarls gave way to the ragged breathing of the living. Alessandro lowered his rifle, stepping carefully over broken cobblestones and pools of dark, sticky blood. Around him, the plaza was a scene of devastation: broken windows, shattered tables and chairs, and the scattered, lifeless forms of townspeople and creatures alike.

  Rinaldi’s voice cut through the haze. “Tend to the wounded! You and you, make sure that these monsters on the ground stay down, you and you three are on guard duty, if another one comes out from that thing, shoot them!”

  The townsfolk obeyed, still shaking, faces pale, hands trembling. Their eyes darted over the carnage, each person silently counting losses, noting who lived, who didn’t. Blood ran in rivulets down broken stone, mixing with dust and the gore of the monsters.

  Alessandro moved to the center, past the core of the meatgrinder. The bodies were grotesque, twisted, and layered in unnatural angles. He stumbled over a man whose arm had been ripped away, the stump raw and bleeding. The man groaned weakly, eyes rolling, murmuring a plea that barely registered in the chaos of pain. Nearby, a woman sobbed over her husband, his chest pierced by the claws of a monster laying dead nearby, one hand clutched to her own as if trying to keep the soul tethered to what remained of his body.

  He looked around searching for what could be saved. “It’s over… for now,” he said, voice rough. But he couldn’t find comfort in his own words. Around them, other cries pierced the smoke-filled air—children wailing for parents, men screaming at the loss of comrades, women sobbing as they tried to staunch wounds with scraps of cloth or hands pressed to torn flesh.

  A young hunter clutched his arm, blood streaming from the wound where a monster had torn past his forearm, leaving fingers mangled and dangling. He moaned through gritted teeth as Rinaldi pressed a bandage over the worst of it. “Stay still, or you’ll bleed out before help can reach you,” the old man barked, voice sharp but steady.

  Alessandro’s eyes swept the edges of the plaza. A pair of teenagers crouched behind a fallen market stall, rocking back and forth as they tried to clean dried blood from each other’s clothes. A man sobbed silently over the body of his wife, her legs twisted unnaturally beneath her, face contorted in the final moments of terror. Someone had dragged another’s friend into a corner, wrapping a coat around the wound, only to realize half of her fingers had been chewed off. The girl’s eyes were wide, tears streaking her filthy face.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The sound of cries, gasps, and occasional vomiting filled the air. Some tried to carry bodies to safer areas, while others huddled with loved ones, unable to move from shock or exhaustion. Alessandro felt his stomach churn, a mix of rage and despair curling in his chest. This was a victory, yes, but at a cost he hadn’t anticipated: the living had survived, but the price was inscribed in every mutilated limb, every shuddering breath, every tear-streaked face around him.

  Rinaldi stomped toward the center, his rifle slung across his back, scanning over the living and the dead alike. “To all able people!” he shouted. His voice was hoarse, but it carried authority. “Bring the wounded to the side near the pharmacy! Get in and take all you can. Those still armed—check your ammo, reload, and watch the streets leading here, four-men teams!. We hold the plaza, but we can’t let complacency kill any more of us.”

  Alessandro knelt beside a man he recognized from the sweep, face bloodied and eyes wide, trembling. The man’s arm hung unnaturally, torn past the elbow. “Hold on,” Alessandro murmured, gripping the shoulder. He tore a strip from the man’s shirt and used it as a tourniquet, pulling hard, trying to slow the bleeding. But he knew—it might not be enough. The man groaned, his grip tightening weakly around Alessandro’s arm before slackening.

  Nearby, a woman cradled a friend whose throat had been ripped open. Her sobs were raw, piercing, as she pressed her hands to the wound, unable to stop the steady trickle of life ebbing from her. Others screamed at the sight, vomiting, crying, some freezing entirely as if staring into the abyss itself.

  Alessandro glanced at the rift in the center of the plaza, its reddish-orange shimmer throbbing, angry and restless. The area immediately around it was not the smooth cobblestone of the plaza, but a reddish, rocky terrain. Even now, small ripples appeared along its edges, hints of the horrors it could still spit forth. He knew they had won the fight for the moment, but the rift remained, a terrible, pulsing promise of more death if they weren’t ready.

  He scanned the plaza systematically. Some survivors tried to pull friends from the bodies, others dragged corpses into safer corners, muttering prayers or cursing the creatures. The stench was overwhelming: blood, mud, decay, and the sickly sweet smell of the monsters. In one corner, a man clutched his son who had lost half his face to a claw, his body convulsing in shock. Another man wailed over his wife, the arm he’d wrapped around her now sticky with blood that was not his own.

  Alessandro swallowed hard, chest tight. He had fought for hours, going street to street, shooting and stabbing, taken lives and saved lives, and yet the weight of the human suffering threatened to crush him more than the monsters ever could. He turned to Rinaldi, whose eyes were scanning every corner with the practiced sharpness of a lifetime spent fighting.

  “We need a perimeter,” Rinaldi barked. “Medic station, if anyone can, and a shift for people to watch the plaza. No one goes in or out without cover. We hold here and we organize, now.”

  Alessandro nodded, surveying the area for volunteers. People limped forward, some barely able to stand, others trembling but willing. They dragged bodies out, shifted debris, and began erecting makeshift barricades, tossing everything they could find to slow any future assault from the rift. The wounded were tended to as best as possible, some bandaged, others pressed against each other for warmth and comfort.

  The young hunter he’d helped moments before now sat against a wall, his bandaged arm pressed tight, whimpering softly. He wasn’t the only one. Several others moaned or cried openly, some calling for loved ones they could not find. Alessandro’s chest tightened at each sound—the reminder of how fragile survival was, how easily it could be stolen away.

  Even as they worked, some still screamed. A man discovered the body of his partner missing fingers, legs mangled, and collapsed beside it, clutching the ruined form as though he could hold her spirit in place. Everywhere Alessandro looked, there was grief, horror, and fatigue carved into the people of Brenta.

  He clenched his fists and drew a shaky breath, feeling the weight of command pressing down. The fight was not over—not truly—but at least the immediate threat was contained. He had to focus, had to maintain clarity so that the living could survive, so that this rift did not become an open wound tearing the town apart.

  Rinaldi moved to his side, voice low. “We’ve thinned the numbers, but that portal… it’s still open. That’s the real threat. We need eyes, men on the perimeter, and someone to watch it constantly. Keep the survivors safe, or we’ll lose more to it.”

  Alessandro nodded, his gaze fixed on the shimmering orange-red rift at the plaza’s heart. He felt exhaustion clawing at his muscles, but he refused to let it slow him. Behind him, people were organizing, bandaging, barricading, forming defensive positions. He spotted the young hunter again, now trying to help another survivor, and felt a flicker of hope. Despite the carnage, the town was still alive.

  He took a step forward, rifle ready, scanning the rift. The light shimmered angrily, reflecting off the blood-soaked cobblestones, and Alessandro felt the same cold knot in his stomach he had felt when he first stepped into the chaos. This was a battlefield, yes, but it was also a warning. More monsters could come, and the rift pulsed with a life of its own, teasing the boundary between this world and whatever lay beyond.

  Alessandro’s eyes met Rinaldi’s. “I need to go back,” he said firmly. “I need to be sure my family is fine, now that most of the monsters were dealt with, it should be safer, after making sure that they are safe and protected, I’ll be back.” He promised.

  The old man nodded, shoulders sagging slightly, eyes scanning the edges of the plaza. “Then I’ll make sure they get through the night,” he said, voice gravelly but steady. “Those who survive this, we’ll need every one of them tomorrow.”

  Alessandro exhaled, letting the rifle rest on his shoulder for a brief moment. Around him, survivors moved with grim determination, tending to the wounded, reinforcing positions, and keeping watch. The plaza, though a nightmare of blood and death, had become a fragile bastion—a line drawn in the sand against the encroaching darkness.

  For the first time in hours, Alessandro allowed himself to hope, if a ragtag group of people managed to take back control from the monsters, the government or at least the army would be on their way to stabilize the situation, with tanks and modern weapons, they would make short work of threats like the one they faced today, they only had to resist for a bit longer. “All those deaths…” Alessandro tried not to think about the hell that was the battle for the plaza anymore, now he needed to go back to his family, he trusted Laura to keep the twins safe, but he left them for too long, now that night approached he felt restless and afraid.

  I’m coming, wait for me just a little longer.

  The afternoon dragged into evening with the steady rhythm of gunfire and falling monsters. Laura had lost count of how many times she had leaned out the window with the twins, aiming at the creatures that lumbered or darted from the fields. The pile of spent casings on the floor grew higher by the hour. By late afternoon, however, the flow of monsters slowed, as if the Rift itself were pausing to breathe.

  During the lull the twins were still riding the high of their earlier kills. Every time one of them landed a clean shot, they would yell or laugh, pointing out the twitch of a dying beast.

  “Did you see that? Right in the eye!” Victor crowed, slapping the windowsill with his palm.

  “In the eye, my ass. You grazed it,” Albert shot back, leaning the rifle against the wall for a moment. “It was already stumbling when you hit it.”

  “Stumbling because I hit it, you mean.”

  “Boys.” Laura’s voice cut through their bickering, though without much force. Her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, where the fields were now scattered with corpses of the warped things. The longer silence stretched, the sharper her unease grew. She rubbed her thumb over her wedding ring, her chest tightening. Where are you, Alessandro?

  Still, the twins’ voices carried on, a shield against the creeping quiet. When another monster creeped out of the street corner, Albert took the shot.

  He pumped his little fist, grinning wide. “That one! Did you see that, Vic? Right in the eye. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.”

  Victor squinted through the window slit. “Yeah, but the one I hit before went through the mouth and out the back. Cleaner. Yours just looked messy.”

  Albert huffed, leaning his elbow on the windowsill. “Messy means strong. He didn’t even have time to scream.”

  Victor smirked. “He couldn’t scream ’cause you missed his throat.”

  Laura, sitting back against the wall with her weapon across her lap, exhaled sharply. “Both of you, keep your eyes out there. Less arguing, more watching.”

  Albert half-turned, still grinning. “We are watching, Mom. Just… talking while we do it.”

  Victor nodded in agreement, his tone a little defensive. “If we don’t talk, it gets boring. And if it gets boring, you get sleepy. Sleepy means dead.”

  Laura opened her mouth, then closed it again, realizing he had a point. “Fine. But don’t get too loud.”

  Albert ducked to peer through the scope again. The evening shadows had stretched long across the street, swallowing most of the bodies they had piled in the garden. He whispered, almost conspiratorial. “Bet I killed more than you today.”

  Victor shot him a glare. “No way. I counted. Eleven. You only got, like, nine.”

  “That’s ’cause mom was stealing mine!” Albert shot back. “I had that one crawling up the wall, and she popped it before I could.”

  “That’s not stealing. That’s saving you ’cause you were too slow.”

  Laura sighed, rubbing her forehead. God, they sound just like Raime when he gets competitive. “It’s not a game,” she said softly, her voice carrying a weight the twins pretended not to notice.

  But they did notice. Both boys went quiet for a beat, the memory of their father’s absence pressing into the silence. Then Albert cleared his throat, forcing cheer back into his voice. “When Dad comes back, we’ll tell him who won. He can judge.”

  Victor nodded, though his smile was a little forced. “Yeah. He’s fair. He’ll know I won.”

  “Or me,” Albert said quickly.

  Laura looked out the window instead of answering. The street below was a battlefield of their making: reddish-orange corpses scattered like broken dolls, limbs bent at wrong angles, black sclera eyes staring blankly at the sky. Flies were already beginning to gather. The air stank of iron and rot.

  Still, as the night deepened, nothing stirred. The last hour had brought only silence.

  Victor whispered after a long pause, “It’s weird. Like they’re scared to come now.”

  Albert wrinkled his nose. “Monsters don’t get scared.”

  “Maybe they do,” Victor argued. “If I saw my friends getting shot all day, I’d stay away too.”

  Albert tilted his head. “You don’t even like half your friends.”

  “That’s different,” Victor said quickly. “They’re not monsters.”

  Laura shook her head, hiding the small smile tugging at her mouth despite her worry. “You two…” she muttered.

  The lull pressed heavier the longer it went on. Albert leaned the rifle against the wall, sitting cross-legged near the window. Victor traced circles in the dust on the floor with his finger, muttering, “Bet tomorrow’s gonna be worse.”

  Albert, restless, nudged him with his shoulder. “Bet not. Bet we got most of them already.”

  “Bet you’re wrong.”

  “Bet you’re dumb.”

  “Bet you’re dumber.”

  Laura snapped, sharper this time. “Enough. Quiet.”

  Both boys straightened instantly, trading guilty looks. Then Albert whispered, softer, “Sorry.”

  Victor nodded, lowering his voice too. “Sorry, Mom.”

  The silence returned, heavier now, broken only by the occasional drip of water somewhere in the house and the faint creak of the cooling wood beams.

  Laura’s thoughts circled back, as they had all evening, to Alessandro. Where are you? Why haven’t you come back? Her chest tightened. The twins needed her calm, but her hands kept straying to her wedding ring, thumb rubbing the metal raw.

  The boys tried to fill the quiet again, but their voices had lost some of their earlier spark.

  Nothing yet, Laura thought. Her husband still wasn’t back. The silence gnawed at her more than the monsters’ cries ever had. At least when they attacked, she knew where the danger was. Now the night stretched wide and hollow, full of unseen threats.

  The twins kept their banter alive, arguing over who had made the longest shot, who had wasted fewer bullets, who had the steadier aim. Their words washed over Laura like a fragile blanket, a rhythm to hold onto. She caught herself thinking of Alessandro again—his calm and deep voice, his steady presence, that had always reassured her. She imagined him in the middle of chaos, still alive, still fighting. He had to be.

  The minutes ticked on. The outside darkening, even as the moon climbed higher.

  And in the shadows near the side wall, something moved.

  A creature smaller than the others they had fought, its limbs long and crooked. Unlike the roaring, clawing beasts from earlier, this one slithered with quiet precision, its eyes glinting faintly in the dark. It pressed itself low to the ground, slipping past the corpses without a sound. None of them noticed.

  Albert and Victor laughed under their breath, trading verbal jabs like sparring partners. Laura’s gaze drifted once more toward the horizon, searching for the familiar silhouette of her husband where none could be found.

  Behind them, on the window at the corner of the living room, a shadow was creeping forward.