Chapter 3: New Rise Enemy
The town of Rivemountain was a bastion of quiet industry. Nestled between towering peaks and a winding river, its residents lived a rhythm dictated by honest labor. Civilians filled the streets with the mundane peace of routine: market stalls smelled of fresh bread, children played outside the school gates, and teenagers like Matt, Scott, Sam, and Emily finished their classes, heading toward the local convenience shop—a casual pilgrimage they undertook nearly every afternoon.
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It was a normal day. A day built on peace.
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That peace shattered into screaming fragments.
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They were halfway down Main Street, laughing about a teacher’s misplaced toupee, when the air grew thick and acrid. A sight that defied the serenity of Rivemountain materialized on the horizon: a massive, churning plume of sooty black smoke, rising like a malevolent storm cloud and moving swiftly toward them.
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Confusion gripped the populace first. Was it a wildfire? A factory accident? A bad joke?
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The answer arrived not in words, but in the thunderous crack of automatic gunfire.
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The first volley was indiscriminate and terrifyingly precise. Pedestrians dropped instantly, their workday bags scattering. The quiet streets erupted into a bloody massacre.
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“Run! Get down!” Scott yelled, shoving Emily forward.
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They sprinted, the sound of tearing metal and relentless shooting tearing at their heels. A storefront behind them exploded in a flash of heat and glass, the shockwave nearly stumbling Matt. Still, they pushed on, legs burning, trying to outpace the horror.
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It didn't matter how far they ran. The sound of the terror closed in, growing louder, heavier. Scott glanced skyward and saw it—a military or police helicopter, cutting through the smoke, surely coming to help. He waved frantically, a desperate beacon of hope.
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The hope lasted only a second. A burst of heavy ordnance ripped into the fuselage. The helicopter spun violently, shedding parts and flame, before smashing into the side of a tall apartment building, the blast throwing debris and smoke across the entire block.
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Sam, who had been instinctively using his phone to record the initial chaos—a desperate instinct to document the impossible—was hit by the percussive impact of the explosion. The film cut out as he was slammed to the cobblestones, the phone flying from his grip.
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He scrabbled on the ground, trying to rise, but a heavy piece of rubble from the collapsed building had pinned his leg fast. He was stuck.
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“Sam!” Matt screamed, ignoring the shrapnel raining down. He ran toward his friend, pulling at the concrete slab.
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Before Matt could dislodge it, another wave of gunfire sprayed the alley. Matt’s body jerked backward as multiple shots struck him in the chest and side. He dropped, a dark crimson stain blooming rapidly across his clothes, bleeding out onto the ruined street.
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Scott watched in frozen horror. Two of his best friends were down, one trapped and one bleeding to death. He didn't know whether to fight or flee.
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Then, he saw salvation arrive.
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A line of blue uniform jackets appeared through the smoke: police officers, charging toward the source of the gunfire. They engaged the unseen enemy immediately.
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One officer, a woman with a sharp, determined face, broke off from the skirmish and ran straight for Matt. She expertly ripped open a medic kit, applying pressure and field dressings to staunch the worst of the bleeding. “We need to move him!” she ordered. She quickly secured Matt onto a collapsible stretcher.
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“You two!” the officer pointed at Scott and Emily. “Take him to the Mark Shop, corner of Elm and Fifth. It’s secured. Go!”
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Scott and Emily acted on pure adrenaline, lifting Matt between them and stumbling away from the immediate battle zone.
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The police officers were fighting with the grim desperation of men protecting their home. They were holding the line. Matt, conscious but fading, tried weakly to free himself from the stretcher, panicked by the surrounding gunfight.
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Suddenly, the relentless percussion of the attackers’ small arms fire ceased. An unnerving silence fell over the street.
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The officers exchanged confused, tense glances. The smoke was too thick to see the enemy.
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Then, a sound cut through the silence—a high-pitched, rapidly escalating whine, like a massive engine powering up.
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Sam, still pinned under the rubble, his attention hyper-focused, recognized the mechanical demon.
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“Get down!” Sam screamed, his voice raw. “It’s a minigun! Get down!”
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It was far too late.
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The air tore open with the sound of a thousand whips cracking simultaneously. A monstrous funnel of fire erupted from the smoke, spitting depleted uranium rounds. The minigun ripped through the thin shield of the officers' vehicles and bodies alike. Uniforms dissolved into red mist. Bones cracked and shattered. They were annihilated where they stood.
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Two bodies—the police officers—slumped forward. They fell directly onto Matt’s stretcher, their dead weight pinning him completely underneath the stretcher frame. Matt was trapped, surrounded by the slaughter, unable to move or even scream.
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From the swirling grey emerged the figures of the terrorists—cold, masked, and moving with lethal professionalism. One of them shouldered a grenade launcher, its large barrel swinging to face the direction Scott and Emily had taken.
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BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
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The impact of the high-explosive rounds bracketed the street ahead of Scott and Emily. They ran faster than they thought possible, Matt’s dead weight now feeling insignificant compared to the threat chasing them. Buildings around them bucked and shattered, yet somehow, they navigated the gauntlet of destruction.
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Finally, they saw the large, familiar façade of the Mark Shop. It appeared untouched—a small island of safety in the urban sea of annihilation.
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They approached cautiously, their hands slick with Matt’s blood. Scott hammered on the reinforced metal door.
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A moment later, the door slid open just enough for a watchful officer to peer out. Seeing the bleeding boy and the two frantic teenagers, the officer pulled them inside instantly.
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The interior of the Mark Shop was crowded, packed with terrified civilians who had managed to escape the initial bloodshed. It was a makeshift refugee center.
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Immediately, two civilian doctors rushed over to take Matt. “Wounds look bad. Get him on a table!”
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As the doctors hauled Matt away, Scott turned back toward the large, metal door. He could still hear the distant, sickening rhythm of the minigun fire. His chest heaved with residual terror and overwhelming guilt. He had carried Matt, but he had left Sam—stuck, helpless, swallowed by the smoke and the massacre. Scott had made the choice to save the living, and the horror of leaving his best friend behind settled like a stone in his stomach.
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Flashback
Before Robert’s death, the situation had been calm. He was sitting in a sterile, low-lit office, coordinating with his assets, preparing for a high-level briefing.
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The quiet click of the electronic lock behind him made him stand up sharply, turning toward the door. He scanned the hallway through the small pane of reinforced glass. It was empty. He breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to his work.
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That was when he saw Ripper.
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Ripper stood silently in the center of the room, having bypassed the door entirely. His presence was cold, efficient, and immediate.
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“Ripper, what are you doing here?” Roberts demanded, trying to sound authoritative despite the sudden spike of fear. “The meet with your boss is scheduled for tomorrow.”
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“The Division is here. You have been compromised, Roberts,” Ripper stated, his voice a flat monotone.
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“What? How? That doesn’t matter. You have to get me out of here now!” Roberts pleaded, already gathering sensitive files.
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“You do not understand your situation,” Ripper said, taking a slow step forward. “I am not here to help you. I am here to kill you.”
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Roberts stumbled back, his face draining of color. “What? Kill me? You can’t! Your boss needs me! I have viable information assets I have worked on for years! Your boss needs them!”
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Ripper tilted his head, a gesture of cold contemplation. “The thing is, my boss has convinced most of your assets to work with me directly now. Do you understand? My boss is a businessperson. He invested in you so you could give him actionable, global intelligence. But now, he has realized you are wasting his time.”
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“Wait, just give me more time! I can fix this!” Roberts stammered, raising his hands defensively.
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Ripper closed the distance in a blur. His custom blade flashed out, striking with surgical speed. It plunged deep into Roberts’ throat. Ripper pushed the dying man’s body to the ground without ceremony.
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Ripper walked to Roberts’ laptop, pulling a connection cable from his pouch. He started the download sequence on the encrypted server. Once the green bar completed, Ripper didn't bother wiping the device—he crushed the screen and the hard drive beneath the heel of his boot, grinding the technology into useless plastic shards.
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“This is Ripper reporting in,” he spoke into a comms unit. “The mission is complete. I have secured all necessary intelligence. Ready for the next directive.”
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Roberts was dead. His assets were absorbed. The new enemy had risen, and their operation just began 142Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLUlA2BJclv
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and then Add to home screen.