A half-finished hut with a dodgy-ass roof, a stone tool that could barely be called an axe, and the full unrelenting force of nature bearing down on me.
So yeah. Just another Tuesday.
The air was thick, pressing down on me from all sides.
The sky was turning ugly—fast. The wind had picked up, kicking dust into my face. The distant scent of rain clung to me.
Hours.
Maybe less.
That was all the time I had before this storm came down on me like the wrath of God.
I looked up.
Overhead, the black clouds churned, twisting into like a plug had been pulled in the sky, an infinite vortex of darkness.
The whole sky looked like a beast waiting to swallow me whole.
My breath caught.
The universe, in her infinite wisdom, had decided I wasn’t allowed to have nice things.
I needed a plan. Now.
I scanned my surroundings, brain firing on all cylinders, desperate for anything—anything that could keep me from getting flattened into a greasy stain on the dirt.
Nothing.
My mind was just pure, useless static.
I could feel my heartbeat—not just in my chest, but in my fingers, my throat, behind my eyes.
Like a war drum, steady and deafening, drowning out all thought.
Fight or flight?
Ha. More like flight or flight.
I had nowhere to go, no safety net, no backup plan.
No rescue team to come find my dumb ass if I got swept away.
It was me vs. nature.
And nature didn’t give a single fuck.
I clenched my fists, tried to slow my breathing. Tried to think.
But my hands were trembling. My legs felt like they weren’t mine.
I was seconds away from freezing up completely.
No.
Move.
I shook my head, slapped my cheeks hard enough to sting, and popped another focus leaf.
The shaking started almost immediately, nervous energy racing through my veins like overclocked caffeine.
My fingers twitched. My breath came sharp and fast.
But my mind? Laser sharp.
Finally, some breathing room.
Think, brain. Think.
What the hell were my options?
Finishing the hut? Not a shot in hell. It was barely a structure, just a pile of sticks with commitment issues.
Finding a cave? If one existed, I would’ve already found it.
No natural cover, no high ground. Nothing but open land begging to get flattened.
Resources?
- Mud? Too soft.
- Sticks? Too flimsy.
- Rocks? Not enough.
- Logs? No time.
- Rope? Not unless I planned to tie myself to a tree.
None of it screamed “stormproof shelter.”
None of it screamed a thing except “you’re fucked.”
Wait… What if…
I sprinted to my pile of random bullshit, grabbed as many sturdy branches as I could carry, and hauled them back to my half-assed hut.
Hands moving on autopilot, I tied everything together in a frantic mess of rope and desperation.
It was ugly.
It was weak.
It was something.
Right?
…Right?
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
I barely had time to finish that lie to myself before I felt it.
A single, ice-cold drop of rain.
Dead. Centre. On my skull.
I froze.
A live wire sent shocks down my spine, settling somewhere in my gut.
I shivered, a chill taking hold—not from the rain, but from the realization.
Time was up.
I looked up.
The sky was churning faster, the clouds thick as oil. A second drop of rain hit my cheek.
Then another.
And another.
No. No, no, no.
I could feel it. The storm was breathing down my neck.
There was no way in hell I was trusting my life to this rickety pile of twigs and wishful thinking.
This was karmic retribution.
I’d been having too easy a time.
Everything had been going suspiciously well.
And now?
Just like middle management at the quarterly meeting, the universe decided it was time to cut costs.
I had minutes. Maybe seconds.
Think.
Options.
Okay. I had an axe.
Could I use it?
I’d already used it to dig holes for the poles…
Could I use it to dig a hole for myself?
What if I buried myself under a pile of grass, sticks, and rocks?
It was dumb.
It was desperate.
I had no other choice.
This was it. The only plan I had.
No backup.
No second options.
So I got to work. Immediately.
The axe bit into the dirt, sending chunks of wet soil flying.
Each swing ripped open the ground, throwing dust and rocks into my face.
Sweat dripped into my eyes.
My arms screamed from the effort.
But I didn’t stop.
Each handful of dirt I scooped out was another few inches between me and whatever the hell was coming.
I was running out of time.
I could hear the rain now.
Not just droplets—great sheets of water coming down like millions of tiny bullets raining from the heavens.
Dig.
Harder.
Faster.
Everything hurt. My back arched, my arms screamed in pain, and my lungs burned from the short, ragged gasps of air.
I wasn’t just digging a hole.
I was digging a grave.
And if I didn’t finish in time, that’s exactly what it would become.
I scrambled out of my future grave, breath ragged, fingers numb from clawing at the dirt.
Not deep enough. Not fast enough.
My arms burned. My back screamed.
No time.
I sprinted to my pile of random crap, scanning desperately for anything useful.
My eyes locked onto a flat, jagged edged rock. Something good for scraping.
Grabbed it. Bolted back.
Worked better than the axe.
Way better.
Dirt and pebbles flew in wild arcs, my hands shoving and scraping, widening the hole by inches.
Progress. Finally.
Then—the lightning came.
A flash so bright it seared the inside of my eyelids.
I flinched. Froze.
Started counting.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Mississippi. Five Mississippi.
Then—BOOM.
The sky ripped open. The sound wasn’t just noise—it was force. A hammer strike against my chest.
I stumbled. Nearly fell into the hole.
A mile away.
Assuming that trick still worked.
I didn’t have time to wonder if ‘one mile per five seconds’ was an actual law of physics of just childhood folklore.
All that mattered was the next flash could be closer.
And the one after that?
On top of me.
Move faster.
I dug. And dug. And dug.
My fingers bled.
My shoulders screamed.
My lungs burned.
The rock was slipper with sweat and dirt, cutting into my palm.
I switched hands. Didn’t help.
Not deep enough. Keep going.
If I wasn’t actively having a nervous breakdown, I might’ve been proud of this hole.
Every guy loves digging holes, right?
But this wasn’t the beach.
This wasn’t fun.
This was a race against time, and I was losing.
The wind picked up, slicing through the gaps in my shit-tier walls.
It shrieked, high and thin. Unnatural.
Like a whispering voice just out of earshot.
Like something was coming.
And then, I felt it.
A feeling that had nothing to do with logic or reason.
A premonition.
This was it.
I was going to die.
Again.
I didn’t stop digging.
I couldn’t.
Not yet. Not yet.
Shoveled dirt like a madman.
Threw aside rocks, fingers raw and shaking.
The hole was barely big enough. Not deep enough. But it would have to do.
I bolted to my pile of sticks, and rocks, and grass.
The wind howled, flinging debris into my face, biting against my skin.
I grabbed everything I could carry, stuffed it into my net, and nearly tripped as I spun back toward my box.
Heart slamming.
Lungs screaming.
No time.
Then—lightning.
A world-ending flash.
For a split second, everything was white.
And then—BOOM.
Not thunder. Not sound. A physical force.
It slammed into me like a tsunami.
The ground shook, the air itself vibrated, my bones felt like they’d crack apart.
The world lurched.
The dirt beneath me trembled.
Somewhere in the distance, a tree split clean down the middle.
The smell of burning ozone filled my nose.
I dove into the hole, drug my net of debris over me, and made myself as small as possible. My face was pressed into the dirt.
Another flash.
Another explosion.
The ground groaned, deep and unnatural, like something ancient was waking up beneath the earth.
This was it.
I knew I was going to die.
Another flash.
Another boom.
The pressure was deafening.
My skull felt like it was about to cave in.
Then—something popped inside of me.
Not a bone.
Not a muscle.
Something else.
Like a leaf caught in the storm, I shook.
The sound of thunder ringing in my ears.
And then—
The thunderclap was black.
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