Two Weeks after the asteroid narrowly missed Earth, spreading a thick, gray cloud of mysterious ash across the sky, life in my Bel Air mansion had settled into a new kind of normal. After being cooped up in the mansion for ever. I knew it wasn’t smart to venture out yet. But the fires were mostly under control, and the unrest had died down. A gray, mysterious ash from the asteroid had finally settled out of the air. Scientists confirmed it wasn’t radioactive or some unknown poison. The particle size was large enough that a medical mask—plenty of which were stocked in the panic room—offered decent protection.

  Still, I knew it was a risk. I was willing to take it.

  I geared up for a light jog from my Bel Air mansion to Will Rogers Beach, about ten miles away. Cargo pants, a level IIIA body armor vest, my Sig Sauer P220 in a shoulder holster hidden under a light windbreaker. I packed enough water for a few days and tossed in one MRE—overkill for a trip that I expected to last only a few hours roundtrip.

  One look in the mirror told me I looked like someone you shouldn’t mess with.

  My planned route took me through Rivas Canyon Park for most of the way. I told myself I could always turn back if things felt off. As I jogged and ran light across the terrain, the miles flew by. Physical activity always helped clear my mind.

  But the ash still bothered me. Everything I’d read online was more concerning than what the government or media claimed. The story—that the asteroid had somehow settled into a stable orbit around Earth after spewing tons of ash over the Pacific—seemed absurd. Some people online said the odds of that happening naturally were like throwing a basketball from New York and sinking it in a hoop in LA. Perfect shot.

  Theories of alien bio-weapons or extinction engines made more sense.

  As my mind spun with conspiracy theories and fragments of half-believed science, I reached Chalon Road—the only stretch of my route that touched a major thoroughfare. There was barely any traffic, but I stayed alert. Head on a swivel. No incidents. I crossed Pacific Coast Highway against a red light; the road was empty at this hour.

  Then I saw the ocean.

  Just like the reports had warned, it was tinted gray. The sea foam was thicker than usual, and the air reeked—a sharp hint of dead fish beneath the salt. My mask filtered out most of it, but the scent lingered. I walked the shoreline, southeast toward Marina del Rey. It’d take another couple of hours at a slow pace. I planned to pass under the Santa Monica Pier, avoiding unnecessary human contact. That was the point of this recon trip: to see firsthand if what the media said matched the growing chaos online.

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  If it looked bad, I’d turn back. But I needed to know.

  The deeper I walked, the worse the smell got. That’s when I saw something in the surf—gray and unmoving. I wouldn’t normally approach something like that, but I needed intel. Firsthand evidence. I pulled off my backpack and swapped out my mask for a full-face respirator—chemical filters, better seal. I slipped on thick dish gloves I'd grabbed from under the sink. Then I moved in.

  It looked like a man, covered in sea foam, dressed like a fisherman. I’d heard rumors—people exposed to high concentrations of ash sometimes collapsed. Some woke up. Some didn’t.

  I saw no weapons, no sign of threat. Still, I approached with caution, mentally rehearsing exactly how to touch him and how I’d react if he lunged. My Sig stayed holstered—for now. If I ended up shooting an unarmed man, I wasn’t ready to explain that in court.

  I reached for his carotid artery—faint pulse. Alive.

  With the tide creeping in, I grabbed the suspenders of his waders and began dragging him up the beach.

  That’s when he struck.

  His hand shot up and grabbed at my face. I dropped him and jerked back hard, falling into the sand. He twisted in mid-air like something inhuman, landing on his knees before launching at me. His mouth opened—his eyes were cataract-white, and his teeth looked metallic, like a rapper’s grill.

  I kicked hard, boot connecting square with his face. He crumpled sideways, giving me space to roll and kneel. My Sig was already out, pointed at his motionless body.

  He didn’t move.

  But I wasn’t fooled. Tunnel vision kills—one threat blinds you to the next.

  Then I saw it: movement in my periphery. Fast. Silent. Something gray sprinting at me from behind.

  I dropped into a Weaver stance and fired. No hesitation.

  The first round struck it in the mouth—one of its oversized, shark-like teeth vanished. I emptied six more rounds into its head as it charged. Despite direct hits, it didn’t stop. At about 10 feet, it finally dropped like a puppet with cut strings, sliding in the sand just short of me.

  What the hell was that?

  No time to think. Behind me, the fisherman was moving again—knees bent, ready to pounce. I spun and fired twice. One shot missed. The other hit his collarbone, knocking out his arm. As he lunged clumsily, I stepped aside and cracked him in the temple with the butt of my pistol.

  He stumbled past me.

  I considered finishing him. He was injured, unarmed—but dangerous. And I only had three rounds left.

  Instead, I ran. Full sprint up the beach. Twenty yards before I stopped for a 360 sweep.

  He was still coming. On his knees, one arm limp, dragging himself toward me.

  I didn’t hesitate this time.

  Two clean shots to the forehead dropped him for good.

  Silently shouting “RELOADING!” in my head—old Army habits die hard—I ejected the spent mag and slammed a fresh one into the Sig. The slide snapped forward with a familiar, comforting clack.