The First Blood

---

The door explodes inward.

Not with a bang. Not with a crash. With a sound like the world tearing open, like reality itself is splitting apart, and I feel it in my chest before I see it—the wave of pressure that slams into me and throws me against the wall.

I hit the concrete hard. My head cracks against the surface. My vision goes white, then black, then red.

When I open my eyes, everything is chaos.

Damon is already moving. He's got his gun raised, firing into the smoke and dust and debris that's pouring through the doorway. The shots are deafening in the small space—each one a hammer blow to my skull.

Cutter is shouting something. I can't hear him. My ears are ringing too loud.

Mira is screaming.

And there are men coming through the door. Men in black tactical gear. Men with guns and helmets and fucking night vision goggles like they're some kind of military strike force.

They're not military.

They're worse.

They're the Collective.

I scramble to my feet. My head is spinning. My vision is blurry. But I can see enough to know that we're outnumbered. Outgunned. Outmatched.

There are six of them. Maybe seven. I can't count. I can barely fucking stand.

Damon takes down two of them before they even get through the door. His aim is perfect—each shot a kill shot, each bullet finding its mark like it was guided by some unseen hand. But there are too many. Way too many.

One of them grabs Cutter. Wrestles him to the ground. Cutter's missing leg makes him slow, clumsy, and the Collective soldier is on him in seconds, pinning him down with a knee to his chest.

"Get off him!" I scream.

I don't think. I just move.

I grab the knife from my pocket—the one Cutter gave me, the serrated one with the rubber grip—and I lunge at the soldier on top of him.

I don't know what I'm doing. I've never stabbed anyone in my life. But I drive the blade into his shoulder and he screams, a high, piercing sound that cuts through the chaos like a knife through butter.

He rolls off Cutter. Clutching his shoulder. Blood pouring through his fingers.

He's not dead.

But he's not fighting anymore either.

I grab Cutter's arm and yank him to his feet. "Get Mira! Get her to the back room!"

He nods. Limps toward the corner where Mira is huddled, her hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut like she's trying to disappear.

I turn back to the fight.

Damon is still firing. He's killed three more. Maybe four. But he's running low on ammo. I can see it in the way he hesitates between shots. In the way his jaw tightens when he pulls the trigger and nothing happens.

He drops the empty magazine. Reaches for another one.

And that's when I see the man in the doorway.

He's not like the others. He's not wearing tactical gear. He's wearing a suit—a fucking suit—like he just stepped out of a board meeting and decided to stop by the apocalypse for a quick visit.

He's tall. Thin. Balding. He's got cold, dead eyes and a smile that doesn't reach them.

"Elara Vance," he says. "Finally. We've been looking for you for so long."

I raise my knife. It's shaking in my hand. I hate that it's shaking.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Dr. Rosen," he says. "I'm the one who's been studying your grandmother's work for the past thirty years. I've been waiting to meet you."

"Go to hell."

He laughs. Actually laughs.

"I've been there," he says. "It's lovely this time of year."

He steps forward. The soldiers part to let him through. They're all looking at me now. All of them. Like I'm some kind of zoo animal they've come to observe.

"Don't come any closer," I warn.

"Or what? You'll stab me with that little knife?" He shakes his head. "You can't hurt me, Elara. You don't even know how to use your power yet. You're like a baby with a loaded gun. Dangerous to yourself and everyone around you."

"I said stay back!"

He keeps walking.

And that's when I feel it.

That thing inside me. That hungry, clawing thing that's been waiting for this moment. It surges up like a wave, like fire, like something that's been sleeping for too long and finally woke up.

I don't control it. I just let it go.

The wave of energy hits Dr. Rosen before he can react. It lifts him off his feet and throws him against the wall. Hard. I hear bones crack. I hear him scream.

And then everything goes silent.

The soldiers freeze. They're staring at me like I've just grown wings and started breathing fire.

"Anyone else?" I ask. My voice is shaking. But I mean it. "Anyone else want to try?"

Dr. Rosen groans on the floor. Blood trickles from his nose. His arm is bent at an angle that arms aren't supposed to bend at.

"You'll pay for that," he gasps. "You'll—"

"Get the fuck out," I say. "Take your men and get the fuck out. Now."

He looks at me. Really looks. And for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that wasn't there before.

Fear.

"Get out," I repeat.

He scrambles to his feet. His arm is hanging useless at his side. He gestures to his soldiers, and they start to retreat, dragging their dead and wounded with them.

The last thing I see is Dr. Rosen's face, twisted in pain and rage, as he disappears through the shattered doorway.

And then they're gone.

I collapse to my knees.

My whole body is shaking. The adrenaline is wearing off, and all I feel is exhaustion and pain and the lingering echo of that thing inside me—that power that I still don't understand.

Damon is at my side in an instant. "Elara. Are you okay?"

"I don't know," I say. "I think so."

He looks at me. At the door. At the carnage.

"You did good," he says. "You saved us."

"I barely know what I did."

"That's what makes it so impressive," he says. "You didn't think. You just acted. That's instinct. That's what separates the ones who survive from the ones who don't."

Cutter limps over. Mira is right behind him, her face pale and her eyes wide.

"Is it over?" she asks.

"For now," Damon says. "But they'll be back. And next time, they'll bring more."

"Then we need to be ready," I say.

I climb to my feet. My body aches. My head pounds. But I'm standing.

I look around the bunker. At the damage. At the bodies of the soldiers we killed.

"We can't stay here," I say. "They know where we are now. They'll be back with more people, more weapons, more—"

"We need to go deeper," Damon says. "There are lower levels. Your grandmother built them. She said they could withstand anything."

"Then let's go," I say. "Now."

---

We descend into the lower levels of the bunker.

It's darker down here. Colder. The air is thick and heavy, like it hasn't been breathed in years. The walls are concrete, reinforced with steel. There are heavy doors at every corner, the kind that can seal off sections of the bunker in case of an attack.

"This is impressive," Cutter says. "Your grandmother was prepared."

"She had to be," I say. "She knew what was coming."

We reach the bottom level. It's a large room—bigger than the one above. There are supplies here too. Food. Water. Ammo. Medical supplies. And another computer, bigger than the one in the central chamber.

I walk up to it. The screen is dark. But there's a note taped to it, just like before.

"Elara,

If you're reading this, you've survived the first attack. I knew you would. You're stronger than you think.

There's something else you need to know. Something I couldn't tell you before.

Your mother is alive.

— H."

I stare at the note.

My mother.

Alive.

My mother who died when I was twelve. My mother who I spent my whole life mourning. My mother who was supposed to be dead.

"She's alive," I whisper.

"What?" Damon says.

"Her mother," Cutter says. "My grandmother said she was alive."

I turn to them. My face is a mess of emotions. I don't even know what I'm feeling. Confusion. Relief. Rage.

"Where is she?" I ask. "Where is my mother?"

Damon steps forward. Reads the note over my shoulder.

"There's more," he says. "Underneath."

I look at the note again.

"Your mother is alive. She's been fighting the Collective for years. She's the one who's been sending the messages. She's the one who's been watching over you.

She's the woman in black.

— H."

The woman in black.

The woman at the train station.

The woman who saved my life.

My mother.

"She was there," I say. "She was right there. I didn't even—"

I can't finish the sentence. I can't even think straight.

"She's alive," I repeat. "She's alive."

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's Damon.

"We'll find her," he says. "But first, we need to survive tonight."

I nod. I don't trust myself to speak.

"Get some rest," he says. "All of you. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

I sit down against the wall. Cutter is already lying down. Mira is curled up in the corner.

I close my eyes.

And I dream.

---

I'm back in the pharmacy.

The same pharmacy. The same broken shelves. The same blood on the floor.

I'm bleeding out. I can feel it. The warmth spreading through my body. The cold creeping in at the edges.

And I'm not alone this time.

There's a woman kneeling beside me. She's wearing all black. Her face is hidden in shadow.

"Please," I gasp. "Please help me."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm so sorry."

"Is it you?" I ask. "Are you my mother?"

She doesn't answer.

But she reaches out and takes my hand. And I can feel it—the same scar on her palm. The same one I have.

"Rest now," she says. "I'll find you. I promise."

I wake up with a gasp.

I'm back in the bunker. The lights are dim. Everyone is asleep.

But I can still feel her hand in mine.

My mother.

She's alive.

And I'm going to find her.

And nothing—not the Collective, not the veil, not the end of the world itself—is going to stop me.