The desert night pressed in close around Jason Miller, a vast shroud of sand and shadow stitched with the wild threads of the auroras overhead. His boots crunched against the gravel shoulder of I-15, each step a stubborn thud against the silence that had swallowed the world. The air bit at his face, cold and sharp with the tang of sage and dust, tugging at the edges of his leather jacket as he trudged north. The crowbar swung in his right hand, its iron weight a reassuring heft against his palm, while his backpack jostled against his shoulders, the straps digging into old scars from years of hauling loads heavier than this. Behind him, the rig—his rig—was a fading silhouette, its steel frame softening under that shimmering gray tide he’d seen eat the mile marker and the sedan. He didn’t look back long enough to confirm it, didn’t need to. Whatever that stuff was, it was trouble, and he wasn’t about to stand around gawking.

  The auroras churned above—reds and violets and greens twisting like a storm with no rain, casting the desert in a light that felt wrong, too alive for a place so dead. Jason’s breath puffed out in faint clouds, his chest tight from the chill and something deeper—a gnawing unease he couldn’t shake. Vegas was dark now, its glow snuffed out twenty miles ahead, and the road stretched into nothing, a black vein through the scrub he’d driven a hundred times but never walked. His mind kept circling back to Sarah—her voice on their last call, sharp with teenage sarcasm but warm underneath, asking when he’d visit. He’d mumbled something about next month, maybe, and she’d laughed it off. Now, with his phone dead and the rig gone, next month felt like a promise carved in sand.

  He’d been walking maybe ten minutes—hard to tell without a clock—when the shimmer caught his eye again. It glinted off to his left, a faint ripple against the dark, spilling from the wreckage of a semi he’d passed without much thought. The truck’s trailer had jackknifed across the road, its steel sides buckled and sagging now, tires melting into soft pools that glistened under the auroras’ glow. Jason slowed, his boots scuffing to a stop, the crowbar shifting in his grip. The gray wave moved over it—tiny specks, too small to see clear, eating at the metal with a hiss he could barely hear over the wind. The cab slumped next, glass cracking as it softened, the whole rig folding into itself like a dying beast. He squinted, jaw tightening, the sour taste of coffee lingering on his tongue from the mug he’d left behind.

  “Damn freak show,” he muttered, voice rough and low, swallowed by the desert’s vast quiet. He’d seen plenty—floods washing out bridges, storms tearing rigs off highways—but this didn’t fit anywhere in his head. It wasn’t natural, wasn’t even mechanical in a way he could wrestle with. His hands itched to do something, to swing the crowbar or pry open a fix, but there was nothing to hit, nothing to mend.

  The shimmer reached the edge of the trailer, spilling onto the asphalt, and Jason took a step back, gravel crunching underfoot. His heart thudded, steady but louder now, a drumbeat against the stillness. The gray tide rolled closer—slow, deliberate, like it had all the time in the world—and he tightened his grip, raising the crowbar half an inch before catching himself. What was he gonna do, bash it? It wasn’t a bear or a drunk swinging a bottle in a truck stop lot. Still, the weight felt good, solid, a piece of the world that hadn’t turned upside down yet.

  Then it brushed him.

  A single speck—no bigger than a grain of sand—grazed his knuckles, a fleeting sting like a spark jumping from a bad wire. He jerked his hand back, swearing under his breath, but the gray didn’t stick, didn’t spread. It rolled past, parting around his boots, flowing onward like water dodging a rock. His skin prickled, the sting fading fast, but before he could shake it off, something flickered in his vision—a shimmer, not out there, but in here, right behind his eyes.

  Words blinked into focus, stark and blue against the dark of his mind: “Eon Grid Conduit Initialized. Level 1: Strength 8 to 9, Endurance 9 to 10.”

  Jason froze, breath hitching, the crowbar dipping in his grip. His muscles tensed, a sudden rush flooding his arms, his legs—stronger, steadier, like he’d just downed a double shot of espresso and chased it with a good night’s sleep. The words hung there, sharp and impossible, then faded, leaving a faint buzz in his skull. He blinked hard, once, twice, but the desert stayed the same—sand and scrub and that cursed shimmer eating the road ahead.

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  “What the hell…” His voice came out rougher, a growl scratched from too many miles and too little talk. He flexed his hand, the ache in his knuckles gone, the crowbar lighter somehow, though it hadn’t changed. His chest rose easier, breath deeper, like the cold wasn’t biting as hard anymore. He shook his head, a sharp jerk, trying to rattle the nonsense loose. “Head’s playin’ tricks,” he muttered, but the words felt hollow, a lie he didn’t buy.

  He swung the crowbar—not at anything, just to feel it—cutting the air with a whistle he hadn’t noticed before. It moved too easy, too fast, his arm stronger than it oughta be after a twelve-hour haul. He stopped mid-swing, staring at his hand like it belonged to someone else. Years of trucking had built him solid—broad shoulders, thick arms—but this was different, a jolt he couldn’t chalk up to muscle memory or caffeine.

  The shimmer kept moving, oblivious, washing over a wrecked pickup a hundred yards up the road. Its hood crumpled, tires sagging, the metal groaning as it gave way. Jason watched, jaw tight, the auroras painting the scene in reds and greens that danced across the gray tide. His mind churned—Sarah, the rig, this… whatever it was—but no answers came, just a tangle of questions he didn’t have the tools to unravel. He was a doer, not a thinker, and standing here staring wouldn’t get him anywhere.

  “Gotta keep movin’,” he said, louder this time, like saying it made it real. He adjusted his pack, the straps biting less than they had, and started north again, boots crunching a steady rhythm. The shimmer trailed off to his left, eating at the wreckage, but it didn’t chase him, didn’t care. Whatever it’d done—whatever that spark had done—it wasn’t killing him, not yet.

  The road stretched on, dark and endless, the auroras a wild canopy overhead. His thoughts kept snagging on that flicker—Strength 8 to 9, Endurance 9 to 10—words that didn’t belong in his head, didn’t fit the life he’d lived. He’d played video games as a kid, back when arcades were a thing, dropping quarters into machines that spat out scores and levels. Sarah loved that stuff too—robots, games, tech he didn’t get—but this wasn’t a game. This was his hands, his breath, his body, changed by something he couldn’t see or fight.

  He passed the pickup, its driver long gone, the cab a slumped ruin under the gray tide. The air hummed faintly—not the wind, not the shimmer, but something deeper, like a wire strung tight beneath the world. Jason kept walking, the crowbar swinging at his side, its iron a cold anchor in his grip. His legs felt stronger now, each step surer, though the desert’s chill still nipped at his ears, his nose. He didn’t trust it—didn’t trust whatever had crawled into his skull—but he couldn’t deny it either. He was different, somehow, and that scared him more than the dark.

  A shout broke the silence—sharp, panicked, up ahead where the road curved. Jason’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing under the auroras’ glow. A figure stumbled into view—a guy in a flannel shirt, the same one from the sedan, running from the wreckage like the devil was on his heels. He tripped, sprawling onto the gravel, then scrambled up, glancing back at the gray tide rolling slow behind him.

  “Hey!” Jason called, voice cutting through the wind. “You alright?”

  The guy turned, face flushed and sweaty, eyes wide as saucers. “It—it ate my car!” he stammered, hands flailing. “Just—gone! What’s happening, man?”

  “Dunno,” Jason said, closing the distance, boots steady on the uneven ground. “Same thing took my rig. You hurt?”

  “No—no, it didn’t touch me,” the guy said, breathless, brushing dirt off his jeans. “Just the car—melted it like butter. I—I ran.”

  Jason nodded, glancing past him. The shimmer had slowed, pooling around the pickup’s remains, glinting under the auroras like a spilled secret. “Seems it don’t want us,” he said, low and gruff. “Just the metal.”

  “The hell kinda spill does that?” the guy asked, voice cracking. “Government? Aliens?”

  “Beats me,” Jason said, shifting his pack. “Ain’t stickin’ around to ask.”

  The guy stared at him, then at the road, then back at the shimmer. “Yeah—yeah, okay. I’m with you.” He fell in step, a jittery shadow at Jason’s side, his breath puffing fast and ragged.

  Jason didn’t argue—company wasn’t his thing, but the guy looked ready to bolt into the scrub and get lost. He kept walking, the crowbar a steady swing, the desert swallowing their steps. That flicker in his head stayed quiet—no more words, no more jolts—but he felt it, a buzz under his skin, stronger, tougher than he’d been an hour ago. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t want to, but it clung to him like the dust on his boots, a change he couldn’t outrun.

  The auroras roared on, a sky gone mad, and the road stretched north toward a horizon he couldn’t see.