Chapter 1: And Down The Staircase He Goes

  A dim fluorescent light flickers in the eerie hallway, faintly illuminating the years of decay. Walls sit coated in chipped, sickly eggshell white. The sullen corridor is lonely and dank with a stale musk of neglect. Holding a haunting reminder for the shattered souls trapped in this domestic prison of hope–forgotten to the lulls of everyday life.

  Then, the silent melancholy is shaken in an abrupt wood-shattering thud. The door to Room 407 smashes open. Jack Hornsburry has no time to register the impact before his body hits the hallway floor. With a pained gasp, his lungs deflate, forcefully emptying the last of his tired, aged, fleshy chest-bags.

  Towering above, Mister Chechovski, the building's landlord—6'4 and 300 pounds of beef and fury—with breath stinking heavily of stale coffee and exhaustion. His voice echoes through the hollow passage, galloping like a raging bull, each gravelly word bellowing like a warning.

  "I don't care about your position, Hornsbury. No rent, no housing. Period. You were supposed to be gone yesterday. Now you are. Do not come back, or I'll have the cops put holes in you. Out. Now."

  Jack wetly chuckled–mucous drooling from every string struggling to hold his charred voice box together. With each wheezing breath, his trench coat twisted awkwardly beneath him. The weight of his ancient blocky camera pressed into his chest. A relic of an older life, a better life.

  With slow, graceless pats, Jack dusts the crusty hallway matter off his sleeves–as if the gesture could restore a fraction of dignity. Releasing a loose jolt, his head snapped back, a lazy grin swimming across his face. Jack was about to unleash the most clever comeback he could ever possibly come up with.

  "Whatever you say… fat… man." Jack boasted, chuckling between each word, followed by a vulgar, vomitous hiccup. The tequila was loving his stomach.

  Chechovski remained, his blocky stature highlighted by the one window in Jack's apartment—a holy light begging for Jack's redemption.

  Chechovski lowered his head, letting a lingering silence breathe in the air instead of blowing up like usual. A moment of compassion whispered through his amalgamated expression—anger, regret, pity. Yet, despite his moment of softness. He remained unmoved. With a hardened glare, it was clear his heart had found no capacity for further kindness.

  Understanding his predicament, Jack released a sharp, resigned exhale and turned away, journeying to the long, empty hallway ahead.

  After spiraling down the near-endless staircase, Jack stumbled into the open, empty world ahead of himself. With one enormous leap, his long, clumsy legs slammed against the cold, bare, concrete jungle below.

  The impact loosened his grip on the tequila he'd been cradling the whole time–like his long-lost newborn. With that, his last vestige of liquid courage tumbled through the damp air, then clattered onto the evening pavement.

  With a desperate crawl, Jack slowly lowered himself onto all fours, reaching for the sweet mercy of Mijenta Blanco.

  The metallic box struggled against his chest, rhythmically digging into his skin. But he didn't care. He didn't feel it. He just saw what he needed. And crawled. Finally, a desperate reach, Jack catches it just as it rolls right against the gutter's edge. He celebrates, taking one long swig while fixing himself upright.

  Dragging his feet forward, a coherent thought bleeds through his intoxication. "Heh… figures. Knew that asshole wasn't… wasn't nice…" His words slurred into the chaos of the New York streets. Perhaps it wasn't so coherent. His words remain unheard, blending into the deafening screams of a city that doesn't care.

  Eventually, twilight beams down upon his rustic soul. The City calms to its rest. With the primal melody of corporate hustling and beggars loitering dying down, the streets finally find a frigid peace.

  Whether it was some form of divine intervention or his blood alcohol levels poisoning him, Jack noticed a beautiful light gleaming down into a cornered alleyway. The spotlight surrounded a stray border collie. Its eyes bulged, and a single rib protruded awkwardly through its patchy fur. Curled up, shaking in arrhythmic spasms, the dog barely notices Jack's wide-eyed, lagging stare.

  In contemplation, Jack swayed his feet, playing with the loose hairs dangling from his unshaven jaw. Maybe... I should help it. Maybe take it someplace warm. Get food. Maybe—Na. He tightened his grip on his facial hair. He wouldn't help the dog any more than he could help himself.

  Just look at me. Look at how I lost my kids. Just… forgot them after the game. A normal Sunday. A normal fuck-up. I went to get one stupid fucking drink—just one, just a minute away... FUCK

  With a deep, slow breath, a smirk forces itself onto Jack's face. Maybe I can take a photo and post it on a pole somewhere. With that, he lifts his Dison camera, snaps a picture, and walks on.

  The farther he marched, the harder it was to walk. Each step. A stumble. Jack's mind lulled from side to side. The City blurs around him. A kaleidoscope of his own making. Consequences, be damned. He drinks more and more. The more he drank, the more perfect the world looked. Every shadow at its ideal placement. The black point, exposure, and focal length are at their perfect values. Every shattered window has a story to tell. A story he could write—No... not those thoughts......

  No job. No house. No wife. No kids. I lost them all. Lost it in court, lost it in life. The final judgment? Jack Hornsburry: Unfit.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Jack shook his head to make it stop... it wouldn't. But then his savior came.

  "-Channel News, with your host Angela Kristenson. We'll be right back after this."

  Instantly, recognizing the raspy, almost witchlike intonation. Jack brought himself to a complete stop. Beside him, an old pawnshop sat hidden in the depths of the kitchen.

  Staring back, his scarce reflection scowled deeply. The dust-streaked glass distorted and blurred his human shape. Behind it, an old TV flickered, its cheap luminescent glow bleeding out onto Jack's frail figure, advertisements flashing by. The only thing on Jack's mind now was the blonde anchor with her thick, poorly applied makeup. And her rigid, horribly rehearsed, camera-ready, stilted smile.

  "What ifff I don't want you back, huh?!" Incoherent, slobbery, forced. "All you do is talk, talk, talk! And look pretty, OOOOH I'm soo perrrrtie... No real news! No real smarts! Just a sirrramic face reading words you didn't even write! Those are my words! MINE! mine...."

  Across the street, a couple guarded each other in a big hug before scurrying away to their perceived safety. Under a veiled assumption of said safety, Jack was the most dangerous thing they'd encounter. They weren't the only ones Jack was bothering...

  "It's idiots like you—fake, useless, empty—that ruined everything! You sit there with your bullshit scripted headlines while the front-line reporters—actual journalists—drown to keep you so fUcKinG pretty!" His hands tightened into fists, his body trembling. Jack was struggling with the weight of his own words.

  "I had a job! A life! A wife! Kids! And now—because... Because of you, Angela. Because of you..."

  His voice cracked on the last word, his anger running too hot to contain yet too hollow to feel real. His body swayed, exhaustion creeping beneath the alcohol. Powerless and out of breath, Jack tried to bring out more insults. His anger was seemingly endless. But before he could regurgitate another word—a voice rasped from behind him. Quiet and rough, not with intention, but struggle. "Ay! Shut up! I'm trying to sleep here!"

  Jack paused and shamefully turned himself to face the homeless man half-buried under a filthy blanket. With a face worn and hollow, the man slowly mustered the effort to conjure an expression of frustration. On the man's shoulder was a crudely sewn military patch. He was a part of the war...

  The man mustered the energy to raise his voice as Jack meandered off in thought. "You don't have it the worst, you know…"

  Jack's jaw clenched. almost letting his drunken fury get the best of him. Instead, he let out a cold jab. "Fuck off. I'm not getting paid to listen to you anymore." He didn't have time for this...

  The man sighed, clutching his blanket tighter before dragging himself away, not angry—just disappointed.

  Jack didn't watch him leave. His eyes had already drifted back to the TV screen, where the television flashed with empty adverts, waiting for its next broadcast.

  Jack's fingers twitched at his sides. His lips parted slightly as if to call the man back—but the moment had already passed. He let out a breath, staring down at his lonely shadow.

  "Maybe that was a bit too harsh…" His mind finally sobering. He couldn't have that. Slowly pulling out a separate flask of gin, Jack drew another swig, letting the burn settle before resetting to the cruel Television screen. The news was back. Angela was back. But... something was off.

  Her demeanor had shifted—the usual polished, controlled expression replaced with something tighter, more fragile... "We now return with shocking and urgent news." Her voice wavered. “Earlier this morning, a man in Central Park was seen waving a knife and ranting about his mother. What was initially considered a homeless man in distress… turned into something much worse."

  Jack's eyes narrowed as the broadcast cut to CCTV footage. A young man in his early twenties, disheveled and wide-eyed, stood in the middle of a park pathway, knife flashing in the sun. He waved it wildly at passersby, screaming, "Save the mother! Save the mother!" repeatedly.

  Jack barely registered it. His brain wasn't processing things right—not yet. He tilted the flask back, savoring the last drops. This is all that matters...

  The footage continued.

  Two officers converged, weapons drawn, barking orders. The man staggered toward them, still screaming. Just as they moved to subdue him—A woman tackled one of the cops from behind. The officer's gun went off. BANG—but the woman didn't go down. Instead, she clawed at his face, fingers digging into flesh like an animal. Blurred footage covered the stained gore seeping into her dress.

  The second cop jolted his aim with the intent to kill, but before he could fire—the knife-wielding man lunged. The blade sank deep into his gut. Then—a moment of peace...

  The officers stopped struggling. They stood, wounds gaping but expressionless. They were somewhere else... Then, without hesitation, they turned their guns on the fleeing crowd and started shooting.

  Jack let out another cough, the acid reflux burning against the internal legions scarred from years of consumption. Confusion and clarity slowly settle in.

  The video spiraled into hell—gunfire, screams, people stampeding over each other to escape.

  The knife-wielding man now moved in perfect unison with the officers, all three firing, stabbing, and attacking civilians at random.

  The last frame of the footage freezes on a figure standing in the wreckage. Black tears leak from their empty, unblinking eyes. The screen cut back to the studio.

  Angela Kristenson's hands are folded tightly, knuckles white with tension.

  "At this time, we strongly advise everyone to stay indoors while the active investigation continues. Not much is known, but please—remain in the safety of your homes."

  Jack let out a dry, bitter chuckle, tipping his head back as he exhaled a cloud of sour gin breath. "That would be nice…"

  Angela kept talking, but Jack had already tuned out. Something in the air had shifted. Something dangerous. A feeling he'd never encountered. Not on the front lines. Not in Croatia, not in the Middle East. His gut could tell—not instinct, not logic. Just a raw, unshakable wrongness. Then—the first reverberation. A distant shockwave crackled across the sky. A rippling sensation flowed irregularly through the air. Then, a tear, a violation of space and time. The pawn shop lights flickered. Jack's rib cage rattled. Turning his gaze upward, his vision slowly cleared. A sobering sight welcomed him... I must be really drunk…

  Before him, three goliaths of mass emerged from purple effervescent cracks in the blue, their movement slow and silent, sliding through the atmosphere like ice. Few echoing animalistic cries emanate poetically in raw, perfect patterns. It was serene.

  Jack let his eyes rest; the low, slow vibrations were calming and tranquil. This irregular peace, however, was instantly interrupted, as the roar of Lockheed Martin fighter jets shock Jack back to reality—realization, invasion, war.