The desert night clung to Jason Miller like a damp shirt, cold and heavy, its silence broken only by the steady crunch of gravel under his boots and the ragged breathing of the man stumbling alongside him. The auroras overhead twisted in a kaleidoscope of red and violet, casting long, warped shadows across the sand that danced with every step he took up I-15. His leather jacket creaked as he shifted the crowbar in his grip, its iron cool against his palm, a tether to something solid in a world turning liquid around him. The backpack straps bit into his shoulders, the weight of canned food and a spare shirt tugging at muscles that felt… different now—stronger, maybe, since that flicker in his head had sparked to life half an hour back. He didn’t trust it, didn’t like it, but he couldn’t deny the way his legs kept pumping, steady and sure, despite the miles he’d already hauled that day.

  Tim Grayson—flannel guy—kept pace a step behind, his boots scuffing unevenly, his breath puffing out in quick, nervous bursts that fogged briefly under the auroras’ glow. The man hadn’t stopped talking since they’d linked up, a stream of half-panicked chatter spilling from him like water from a cracked pipe. Jason let it wash over him, nodding now and then, his own thoughts churning too loud to give Tim much mind. The road stretched north, a black scar through the scrub, Vegas a dark void ahead where lights should’ve glowed. His rig was gone, eaten by that gray shimmer—nanos, he guessed, though the word felt too sci-fi for his tongue. The thought gnawed at him, sharp and persistent, a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

  “—and I’m tellin’ ya, Jason, it’s gotta be somethin’ big,” Tim was saying, his voice high and shaky, cutting through the wind’s low howl. “Auroras down here? Cars just dyin’? That stuff eatin’ metal? Ain’t no normal storm. Government, maybe—some experiment gone wrong. Or aliens. Bet it’s aliens.”

  Jason grunted, a low rumble in his chest, his eyes scanning the road ahead. “Maybe,” he said, short and gruff, the word tasting flat. He didn’t care much for theories—didn’t have the head for them. He fixed things, moved things, not puzzled them out. But Tim wasn’t wrong about one thing: this wasn’t normal. That shimmer had taken his rig, the sedan, everything made of steel or rubber it could find, leaving flesh alone like it knew the difference. And then that voice in his skull—Eon Grid Conduit Initialized—had hit him, numbers flashing like a damn video game: Strength 8 to 9, Endurance 9 to 10. His arms felt heavier now, not with fatigue but with power, and his breath came easier, deeper, despite the cold nipping at his nose. He didn’t know what it meant, didn’t want to, but it stuck with him, a burr under his skin.

  The road dipped ahead, a shallow curve where shadows pooled thicker under the auroras’ light. Jason slowed, his boots scuffing softer, the crowbar shifting in his grip. Wreckage cluttered the asphalt—a pileup, jagged and still, cars tangled like toys tossed by a kid in a tantrum. An SUV sat at the edge, nose crumpled against a guardrail, its frame sagging, metal edges soft and drooping like wax left too close to a flame. A pickup lay on its side nearby, tires melted into black puddles, windshield cracked but holding. The gray shimmer lingered at the fringes, a faint glint against the dark, picking at the wreckage slow and steady.

  “Lord almighty,” Tim whispered, stopping short, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Look at that—more o’ that stuff. It’s everywhere, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Jason said, voice low, eyes narrowing as he took it in. The air smelled sharp—metal and rubber gone sour, mixed with the desert’s dry bite. His stomach twisted, a cold sweat prickling his neck, but he shoved it down, years of hauling through storms and breakdowns steadying his nerves. He wasn’t one to gape—action over staring—but this was hard to look away from. The nanos, if that’s what they were, moved like a tide, deliberate, unstoppable, eating what they wanted and leaving the rest. He’d seen them spare Tim’s boots, his own too, and that kept his feet planted instead of running.

  A sound broke through—a faint whimper, soft and muffled, coming from the SUV. Jason’s head snapped toward it, ears straining against the wind. “You hear that?” he asked, glancing at Tim.

  Tim frowned, tilting his head. “What? The wind?”

  “No—listen.” Jason stepped closer, boots crunching louder now, the crowbar raised an inch. The whimper came again, sharper, a kid’s voice maybe, trapped in the wreck. His chest tightened—Sarah’s face flashed, her laugh echoing in his skull—and he moved without thinking, long strides eating the distance to the SUV.

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  “Hey!” Tim called, scrambling after him. “Careful, man—that stuff’s still there!”

  Jason didn’t answer, his focus narrowing to the crumpled vehicle. The driver’s side was a mess—door jammed, frame sagging—but the shimmer had pulled back, leaving the metal soft but intact for now. He peered through the cracked window, the auroras’ light spilling in, and saw movement—a kid, skinny and shaggy-haired, curled in the passenger seat, clutching a dead phone like a lifeline. His face was pale, wide eyes glinting with tears, maybe fourteen years old, tops.

  “Hey, kid,” Jason said, voice firm but not harsh, tapping the crowbar against the glass. “You okay in there?”

  The boy flinched, head jerking up, his breath hitching loud enough to hear through the crack. “I—I can’t get out,” he stammered, voice trembling but clear. “The door’s stuck—everything’s… everything’s gone.”

  “Hold on,” Jason said, already shifting to the door. He wedged the crowbar into the seam, metal groaning under his grip, and leaned in—hard. His arms flexed, stronger than they’d been an hour ago, that flicker’s promise humming in his muscles. Strength 9, it’d said, and damn if it didn’t feel real now. The door resisted, then popped with a screech, wrenching open wide enough for the kid to scramble out.

  He tumbled onto the gravel, all elbows and knees, gasping as he hit the ground. Jason stepped back, crowbar dangling, watching the boy stagger up. He was small—shaggy black hair, a faded hoodie too big for his frame, sneakers scuffed and worn. The kid clutched his arms tight, shivering under the auroras’ glow, his eyes darting from Jason to Ti to the wrecked SUV.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice cracking, swiping at his face with a sleeve. “I—I thought I was stuck for good.”

  “You hurt?” Jason asked, eyeing him close. No blood, no limp—just scared, and small wonder with the world falling apart.

  “No,” the kid said, shaking his head quick. “Just… freaked out. The bus—it was my school trip, and then it just… melted. Everyone ran, but I—I hid here.”

  Jason’s gut twisted—school trip, kids scattered, chaos taking over. “What’s your name?” he asked, softer now, though his voice stayed gruff.

  “Eli,” the kid said, swallowing hard. “Eli Tran.”

  “Jason,” he replied, nodding once. “That’s Tim. Stick with us—you ain’t stayin’ out here alone.”

  Eli nodded, fast and jerky, his eyes still wide but settling a bit. Then he flinched, a sharp gasp slipping out, his hand clapping to his temple. Jason tensed, crowbar half-raised, but Eli wasn’t hurt—just staring, like something hit him from the inside.

  “You okay?” Tim asked, stepping closer, his own voice shaky. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s… in my head,” Eli said, voice small, trembling. “Words—just showed up. ‘Eon Grid Conduit Initialized. Level 1: Agility 8 to 9, Perception 8 to 9.’ What’s that mean?”

  Jason’s breath caught, a cold jolt running down his spine. He stared at Eli, then at his own hands, that flicker flashing back—Strength 9, Endurance 10. “Same damn thing happened to me,” he said, low and rough, the words tasting strange as they left his mouth. “Back there, when that gray stuff brushed me.”

  Tim gaped, flannel sleeves flapping as he waved his arms. “What? You’re both seein’ things? Like—like a game?”

  “Dunno what it is,” Jason said, jaw tight, his free hand curling into a fist. “Felt it, though—stronger, tougher. Ain’t just in my head.”

  Eli nodded slow, his skinny frame still trembling but his eyes sharpening, like he was piecing it too. “I—I feel it. Faster, maybe. Like I could dodge better.” He glanced at the SUV, then back at Jason, a flicker of something—trust, maybe—crossing his face.

  “Great,” Tim muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Sky’s gone nuts, cars are meltin’, and now you two are—what, superheroes?”

  “Not super,” Jason said, sharp enough to cut through Tim’s nerves. “Just… changed. Don’t know why.” He didn’t like it—didn’t trust it—but denying it was pointless. His arms, his breath, Eli’s quick twitch as he stood—they weren’t the same as an hour ago.

  The shimmer lingered at the SUV’s edge, glinting faint under the auroras, but it didn’t move closer, didn’t care about them standing there. Jason’s mind churned—nanos, that voice, this Grid—but no answers stuck, just a mess of questions he couldn’t wrench apart. He was a trucker, not a scientist, and all he had was his hands, his gut, and a road north to Sarah.

  “Let’s go,” he said, nodding at Eli, then Tim. “Stick close—don’t know what’s comin’ next.”

  Eli fell in beside him, small and quiet, his sneakers scuffing soft against the gravel. Tim trailed a step back, muttering under his breath, his panic a low hum Jason tuned out.