Sloane could still hear them — even over the crack of twigs and the crunch of dead leaves beneath their feet. The aircraft wasn’t slowing. The hum of the obsidian nope-mobile was growing louder, closer, like a predator chasing its prey.

  For lack of a better terms, they were screwed.

  They pushed deeper into the woods. Someone behind her was crying now — faint, panicked little gasps tangled with sobs. Sloane’s own lungs burned from the inside out. How long had they been running? Minutes? Hours? Time was meaningless construct when your life was on the line. They were being hunted and every single one of them knew it.

  All they could do was run. Sloane knew she couldn’t outrun the ship — but she could outrun most of the group, and that was all survival required. Morbid, but true. This was the game of staying alive, and she knew how to play it well.

  Good thing she’d only just met these people. It’s easier not to care when the bodies start dropping. Hell — she might finally join the tally herself.

  They needed to find a place to lay low. But the forest offered nothing. No caves. No nooks or crannies to fit into. Not here at least. And there wasn’t time to create a search party.

  So they ran. And ran. And ran.

  Sloane skidded to a stop, boots sliding through wet soil — nearly eating dirt. A small silver ball shot past her face, hovering ahead like it had been searching for them. Given the situation, it probably was.

  A spying orb.

  The thing hummed softly, sweeping light across the trees, across them. Everyone froze, chests heaving, too winded to speak — but somehow still standing. Sloane was mildly impressed. She didn’t think half of them would be able to keep up. Facing death would make anyone an athlete.

  Then, she heard movement. From the corner of her eye she saw Pretty Boy — her new favorite apocalypse fantasy — snatched up a fallen branch, a monster of a branch nonetheless, and swung. Hard. The orb jolted, crashed to the ground, and he kept going — smashing, breaking, screaming until nothing was left but fractured metal.

  My hero.

  Lumberjack clapped him on the back. A nod of approval. “That’s one way to do it. They know where we are now. Move!”

  The group lurched back into motion. Not running — scrambling. Sloane could see the exhaustion catching up, their bodies lagging behind one by one. Minutes. They had minutes to put distance between themselves and that incoming ship. Possible — in theory. In reality? Probably not.

  Sloane was bracing herself for the inevitable. When she spotted them slipping between the trees on the far left. Then the far right. She turned her head and there they were behind them.

  Greys. And their favorite sidekicks — the Rolling Turds. Fuck.

  A woman’s scream tore through the forest. You can see the fear in everyone’s eyes.

  “Everyone spread out! Don’t fight together, it’ll be harder for them to catch us if we make like roaches!” Lumberjack roared, swinging his ax like that alone might save them.

  Sloane wasn’t ready, not for that. She was ready to keep running, to keep dodging and avoiding these creatures. Fighting was not in her skill set, but survival was.

  As she stood there — brain spinning, lungs burning — a rolling alien burst from the brush behind her. It unraveled mid-air, claws spread wide making its dramatic entrance.

  Sloane dove sideways, dirt scraping her palms, giving it just enough room to choose a different target. Anyone, but her. It stumbled upon the woman in the black hoodie.

  What a shame.

  There was no time to react — because ten more Greys dropped from the tree line, landing with deadly precision. Guns flared to life, spitting their glowing green sparks of death.

  And then everything went to hell.

  Sloane was still on the ground absolutely frozen. Not from fear exactly, but from sheer overload. This was the worst situation she’d been in yet, and that was saying something.

  She should have stayed alone. Should have kept running. Should’ve trusted her gut instead of temporary company and a mediocre rabbit.

  Shots were fired from her company. Limbs tore with a sickening wet sound. The forest became a slaughterhouse.

  Screams bled together — some begging, some praying. Pleading with a God that, at this point, Sloane wasn’t sure existed, or if He ever had. And if He does exist how could He let this happen?

  Pretty Boy swung his colossal branch like it weighed nothing, smashing it into one of the Greys. The skull caved with a wet crack. Green blood gushed from the fracture, chunks of what might be brain matter splattering. Truth be told, she hadn’t thought he had it in him. She was beyond impressed—and might actually consider giving him a chance.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Two people drop to the ground, bodies disintegrated by the Greys’ weapons. Whatever tech they’re using, she wants no part of it. A gunshot would be mercy compared to that.

  Sloane drags herself across the mud, fingers sinking into cold earth, until she reaches one of the fallen Greys. She rips its weapon free—better than the knife strapped inside her boot. Flipping it over, she scanned the cold metal desperately, hoping something would catch her eye.

  What the fuck is this shit?

  Sigils appear on a screen like apparatus. She couldn’t find the trigger to save her life. There is no time to learn how to use this damn thing, no time to think. She tosses it aside and pushes herself to her feet, ready to survive the hard way. Until one of the Rolling Turds snatches her by the leg. It yanks her upside down, its pincers crushing bone with an enormous amount of force. Sloane screams—so loud she swears she can hear pain, taste it like metal on her tongue. Her foot is either shattered or gone entirely. Hard to tell.

  She scrambles for her other boot, fingers shaking but pushing through the pain. She rips the knife free and slashes wildly at the alien. The blade piercing through flesh. The Rolling Turd’s pincer snaps open and she plummets, slamming into the forest floor with a crack that steals her breath.

  Black blood sprays from its wound and splatters across her face leaving a rancid smell in its wake. The stench alone nearly makes her dry heave. Mix that with the agony in her leg. Her whole body starts to shake. She couldn’t be this injured. Not this soon.

  The creature shrieks from the pain she inflicted. It starts stabbing its remaining claw into the earth, each strike inches from her ribs. Sloane rolls away, dragging her ruined leg like dead weight while the ground erupts beside her.

  More aliens drop from the sky. Shots split the air, burning light flashing through the trees.

  She barely registers movement before she’s hauled upward again—by the same mangled foot. Pain detonates behind her eyes. Another screech. Then she’s airborne, flung across the chaos like a broken doll.

  She hits the ground hard. Every cell in her body is screaming. This is by far the worst she has ever been treated.

  Through blurred vision she sees the Rolling Turd thrashing—Lumberjack is on it now, swinging his ax like he had a score to settle with it.

  Sloane drags herself forward, army-crawling through mud and gore to retrieve her knife. She needs it. She needs anything.

  By the time her fingers close around the hilt, it’s done. The creature lies still, its black blood pooling thick and slick in the dirt beneath it. She meets Lumberjack’s eyes and nods, silently thanking him for saving her life. He nods back.

  But chaos still tears through the clearing. Pretty Boy was holding his own—right up until his guts painted the grass in front of him. A clean shot from a Grey.

  Darn. So much for an apocalypse boyfriend.

  One of the teens doesn’t fare any better. He’s hurled against a tree with a sound like glow sticks snapping. His spine doesn’t survive the impact. Nothing about him does.

  On the west side, two survivors break into a panicked sprint. Lumberjack is still swinging, still refusing to die, giving the Greys hell. Their chaos buys Sloane an opening. A window of stupid, desperate opportunity.

  She pockets the bloody knife and attempts to run for it. She hauls herself upright with a strangled grunt, clinging to a tree like it’s the only thing left in the world. The first steps are agony. Then adrenaline starts to kick in and her leg decides to cooperate.

  Barely.

  She catches up to the deserters, all three of them limping, bleeding from everywhere a body shouldn’t. They run with no plan, no direction—just forward, wherever their legs would take them.

  They burst into a clearing.

  Shit. Another clearing.

  They are utterly exposed, but no one stops. They can’t. Not until something makes them. And something does.

  A chrome, bullet-shaped aircraft cuts through the air with near-silent grace. The speed hits them like a wall of wind, nearly knocking the trio off their feet.

  Sloane pivots, tries to bolt back toward the tree line—only to stop dead when she sees movement. The other two body slam into her not expecting what they see next.

  Surrounded. Again. What joy.

  God, she’s tired. Bone-deep tired. She had a good run though.

  Behind her, the woman comes undone—choking sobs and snot and hopelessness. The man beside her cracks like the teenager did, spine still intact but dignity shattered.

  “Please—don’t kill us. I’ll do anything. I don’t want to die! God please if you hear me spare us!”

  Seriously? After all that? Now you decide living sounds nice? Sloane is almost ready to clock out herself.

  The aircraft lowers—not landing, just hovering with a silent stillness. A door slides open. A ramp descends unto the grass below it.

  Humanoid soldiers emerged, clad head to toe in grey exosuits. All except one—a figure in black—led the pack. Every soldier was helmeted and faceless. The one in black had to be their leader.

  The pleading starts up again—screaming, bargaining, begging for mercy like mercy ever mattered. Sloane stood still, eyes narrow, brain calculating. Her odds of survival? Twenty percent, at best. Hey, twenty is as good as a number as any. And to quote a line from a famous comedy from the 90’s, “So you’re saying there’s a chance!”

  She draws her knife gripping tightly. The other two immediately scurry behind her like toddlers hiding behind mom’s legs. What a sight to see, A grown ass man hiding behind her. How pathetic. Just the image of that made her completely disgusted with him.

  She should’ve stayed alone. Why’d she ever think being with a group was the better choice?

  She’d have a better chance if she tripped them and ran, right? That bumped her up to a what? Forty percent? Tempting. God, it’s tempting. But she doesn’t have the heart for that kind of betrayal.

  The humanoid in black clocked the knife instantly. One gloved hand lifted, fingers flicking in a sharp command. The grey-suited soldiers halted instantly thanks to what appeared to be impeccable training.

  But the one in black kept coming towards them.

  Sloane forced her stance into something resembling combat—every part of her body aching from the jarring movement. She had no idea if she was doing it right, but she damn well committed. Fake it till you make it. Or till you die trying.

  Her grip tightened around the hilt; palms slick with sweat and black alien blood. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she was doing it anyway. They could all choke on that assumption if they thought she was going down easy.

  She didn’t even know why she was still trying honestly. Maybe that was survival's favorite joke—no matter how bad it got, letting go felt harder than giving in.

  Black-suit moved ever so slowly towards them. Helmet tilted, as if it was studying her.

  Then it spoke. A man’s voice, distorted through the helmet. “If you want to live to see another day, get on the ship.”