THRESHOLD

The truck roared down the broken, overgrown highway. Rain peppered the windshield, turning the view outside into a washed-out blur. Trees leaned like withered bones, and cracked concrete split beneath the tires. 
There was no clear destination—just momentum. A single vehicle cutting through the remnants of a dying world. Cole gripped the wheel tighter, his knuckles white. "TF is this vehicle, bro? We need something better.

This rust bucket won't last another stretch." The truck rattled over a pothole so deep it could've swallowed a small car. We bounced, the suspension crying out in pain. Out of nowhere, I turned to the man sitting beside me in the backseat, quiet and observing. "Hey… what's your name?" He blinked like I'd just interrupted a deep thought. "Call me whatever suits me." I frowned. "I'm really bad at naming people. Just tell me already." A small grin pulled at his lips. "Mandela. Just Mandela." "Mandela," I echoed. It fit him. Calm. Grounded. But still a mystery. From the front, Cole laughed. "Funny. We used to call him Max. Never thought to ask what his real name was. Guess the end of the world brings out the formalities." Then silence returned, creeping into the cabin like fog. It was only broken by the sound of tires crushing debris and the distant thunder that chased us from somewhere far off. "Where the hell are we even going?" Cole muttered. "We need supplies. Food. Clothes. Shelter. And a real vehicle, not this piece of crap." Mandela leaned forward, squinting through the mist. "There. Signpost." The board stood crooked in the mud, rusted and rain-soaked. But the words were still legible: 'Monarch International Airport – 12 KM' "It's something," I said. "Shelter, maybe fuel. Worth the shot." Mandela nodded. "Only lead we've got." Cole made a hard right. The tires skidded. Vrrruhhmmmm. We were quiet again. But this time it wasn't peaceful. It was thick with something else. Something crawling beneath the skin. "You guys feel that?" Mandela asked, his voice low, almost a whisper. Cole didn't turn, eyes fixed ahead. "Feel what?" "This place," Mandela said again, slower this time. "The air. It's... too still. Not a single breeze. No birds. No insects. No animals. It's unnatural." He glanced out the fogged window. "It's like nature hit the pause button. Like the whole world's... holding its breath. Waiting for something." Cole scoffed but not with his usual confidence. "Bro, just look around. The planet's cooked. Maybe this is normal now. Maybe everything's dead, and we're just... echoes moving through a corpse." I looked at Mandela. His eyes weren't scanning for threats. They were studying the silence itself. "Still feels wrong," he muttered. "Like we're being watched. Like something's waiting for us to notice it." No one replied. But the tension settled like fog inside the truck, heavy and suffocating. Cole scoffed.

"Bro, just look around. The planet's cooked. Maybe this is normal now. Maybe everyone's just... gone. Vanished. Like they never existed." "Still feels wrong," Mandela muttered. I leaned my head against the window, trying to shut it out. "Can we not spiral right now?" The silhouette of Monarch International Airport appeared through the mist. Towering glass walls, shattered. Terminals looming like empty tombs. Banners twisted in the wind. Yet somehow... the lights were still on. We parked in the outer lot. Puddles splashed under our boots as we stepped out. The silence here felt heavier. Like something was watching. "Let's move," Cole said, gripping the worn handle of a battered flashlight, the only thing resembling a weapon they had managed to salvage. The beam flickered uncertainly, cutting a pale swath through the suffocating dark. He glanced back at us, jaw clenched—not out of confidence, but out of the raw necessity to appear strong. We had nothing but fear, exhaustion, and the sheer will to keep going. Still, it was better than nothing. Inside, the scanners beeped as we passed. Security belts moved. Cameras tracked us. Yet no one manned them. It was eerie—like walking through a ghost controlled by circuits. "Food court," Mandela pointed. "Might be something edible." We followed him. Past empty shops, flickering screens showing news from months ago. I paused at the wide windows overlooking Runway 18R. The rain was heavier now. A storm brewed in the distance, lighting the sky with purple veins. Cole and Mandela gathered what they could. Dry rations. Bottled water. A half-looted vending machine gave us a few chips and bars. We sat down in silence. First real food in days. For a moment, it almost felt... normal. Cole wiped his mouth. "So what now? After we eat?" "We check the hangars," I said. "Maybe find something flyable. Get out of here." Mandela stood, tense. "Guys… look!" Out on the runway, barely visible through the storm—something massive moved. A military aircraft. Matte black. Monolithic. Cole's voice dropped. "That... is that what I think it is?" "It's the Doomsday Plane," I whispered. "If that's here… something catastrophic happened." Mandela didn't hesitate. "We have to leave. Now." We sprinted across the wet terminal. Slipping, yelling. Panic had finally caught up. "There!" Cole pointed. 

"An A350! Cabin's open!" We clambered aboard. 

The interior was pristine. Like it had never been touched. I rushed to the cockpit. Flipped on the auxiliary power. Soft green lights lit up the instruments. "Fully loaded," Cole called. "Food. Med kits. Enough to last weeks." Mandela stared. "Can you fly this?" I nodded. "CPL certified. Barely. But I can get us airborne." He slid into the co-pilot seat.
 Cole ran checks outside. 

Wrrrrr... click. Aux power: online. Engines: left, then right. Hydraulics: good. Fuel: full. Cole reboarded. We sealed the hatch.
Throttle: pushed. Brakes: released. Speed: 150… 190… 240… 290. 

Tail Down. Nose up. We lifted. The world shrank beneath us. The airport became a dot. Roads vanished. Silence returned—but not the good kind. Autopilot: engaged. Altitude: 31,000 feet. Mandela tapped the comms. 

"ATC, this is Flight M-801. Do you read?" Only static replied. 

"Try again," I said. "Still nothing." Cole sat behind us, staring out the window. "You think anyone's left?" Mandela's voice was grim. "If there is, they're not answering." We turned on the TCAS. No other aircraft. No signals. Just clouds. Outside, the earth seemed gone. Just a shadow beneath a sky that forgot light. I kept my hands steady on the controls. Trying not to think. Whatever happened down there… we'd escaped it. For now.| - "Rick Morgen, age seventeen. Son of Sofia Morgen." A sterile voice echoed through the dimly lit room. "I am Dr. Andrew. You're currently at Refugee Camp, Las Vegas." He paused. "You've been unconscious for months. And during that time… something emerged." Another pause. The sound of machines ticking. "Something happened, Rick. Something big. Something irreversible. And it changed the world forever."