Page 13 of Aviatrix

He’s stalking across the runway, barking orders like the uniform still gives him authority. “Get off that ship, Major! Now!”

Eli doesn’t even flinch.

The crowd around the wreck swells as more pilots join in, pressing their hands against the strange surface, looking for seams, compartments, anything.

It feels less like an inspection and more like a summoning.

A low, rhythmic thump cleaves through the air and Lark turns his head toward the sound, his whole body stiffening, jaw locking, fists curling at his sides.

A helicopter.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

General Salamander.

We’re in deep trouble now. He never shows his face here. Not unless heads are about to roll.

If he’s already en route, that means the fallout has started. Command wants answers. I'm not sure they'll find any here.

Around us, the airfield is a graveyard. Bodies lie crumpled where the first blasts hit. Some are draped in emergency blankets now, others left where they fell. Medics sprint between the wounded, strapping the most critical to gurneys, triaging in the dirt. Smoke coils up from the hangars, blackening the sky. The smell—fuel, fire, and blood—hangs heavy.

A cargo transport circles high above, then descends to drop off stretchers and supplies. Shouted orders echo through the haze.

We should’ve been in the bunker. It was built to withstand violent attacks, to serve as a refuge. Instead, we’re in the wreckage.

“We need to move,” I say lowly to Thea.

Gary limps toward us, each step tight with pain.

“You should get that looked at,” I tell him, nodding at his knee.

He shrugs. “The General’s not going to care. He’s coming for answers.” He glances skyward. “Best if we’re in the bunker before he touches down. He won’t like waiting.”

I nod, then glance at Eli.

He’s still crouched on top of the alien ship, staring at something beneath the surface. Curiosity warping into concern. Then, he looks at me.

I tip my head toward the ruins of the hangar. The bunker lies beyond it. Reinforced. Buried. Safer. At least in theory.

No one warned us. No one saw this coming.

Eli hops down and walks over.

“The General?” he asks, motioning to the black silhouette of the helicopter slicing through the smoke.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “And I’d rather take the hit underground than wait for it up here.”

He grins, too damn casual for someone who just watched a base burn.

Gary, Scooter, and Thea lead the way through the wreckage toward the bunker. Eli and I fall in behind, footsteps crunching over ash and glass.

Off to the side, Lark lingers. His arms are crossed, shirt still misbuttoned, face carved from stone. He’ll have to greet the General. Chain of command and all that.

Eli clocks him. Without hesitation, he reaches for my hand. Twines his fingers through mine.

Lark’s eyes narrow. His body goes rigid.

I don’t wince. Don’t let go.