RONAN Running east until my legs screamed, the far edge of the outer vehicle court finally came into sight. Past it stretched Rockenbach Road, long and exposed, blurred by thick smoke drifting from nearby fires. Whatever waited beyond it, somewhere near one of the security checkpoints, had to be better than what hunted me now. The sounds behind shifted again. The wild, uneven pounding of terrified people faded out. In its place came something worse. Footsteps fell into perfect timing. Cold. Precise. Along with them came a fast, distant thumping that vibrated through the air and into my bones. Panic tore loose from my chest and escaped as a scream. Death was seconds away. The same violent end that had taken my friends and coworkers was coming for me next.Crossing Canine Road, which cut straight across Rockenbach, everything changed in an instant. The ground vanished beneath my feet. My body lifted as if grabbed by a giant hand. The world spun as I was thrown yards away, clear over parked vehicles and slammed into the grass on the far side of the road. All the air burst from my lungs at once. Breathing became impossible. Gasping followed, weak and useless, like a fish dragged from water. A sharp, burning pain ripped up my spine. Sound vanished except for a piercing ring. Sky filled my vision, bright and uncaring. Hearing crept back slowly. Cool grass pressed against my back. The simple truth settled in. I was still alive. Whatever had thrown me was not a drone. Turning onto my side brought a sharp, sickening smell. Burned hair. Scorched fabric. A hand reached behind my head. Heat radiated from my skin. Steam rose faintly into the air.Then the explosion hit. Loud. Close. Too close. Climbing the berm took effort as pain protested every movement. From the top, the road and outer vehicle court came back into view. An attack helicopter roared overhead, banking hard. Its rotors churned smoke away from the blast site and the burning vehicles, their lithium batteries popping and flaring. As the haze thinned, the impact zone became clear. One of its anti-tank rockets had detonated barely twenty-five yards behind where I had landed. My legs gave out. The realization hit hard and heavy. That kind of weapon only meant one thing. Everything behind me had already been judged beyond saving. The wreckage told the rest of the story. Severed limbs. Burned torsos. Shattered drone parts mixed with the remains of men and women I had known, worked beside, laughed with. People who had trusted the same walls and systems I had. Pain erupted in my calf without warning. Twisting revealed the source. A drone. Broken but not dead. Smoke curled from its ruined body. Its left side was crushed, its right leg gone completely. Still, its grip on my leg was crushing. Metal fingers dug deeper, threatening to tear through muscle and bone. A scream ripped out of me as adrenaline surged again. Hands scrambled across the ground, searching for anything. Nothing lay close enough to help. Focus snapped to its mangled left arm, barely holding on by torn strands of synthetic muscle. Fingers locked around it. A violent wrench tore it free from the socket. For a heartbeat, the idea of swinging it like a club surfaced. Memory crushed that thought. Buckshot to the chest had stopped one earlier. The CPU had to be there. The head meant nothing. A narrow weak point showed along the neck where no metal shielded it. Every scrap of strength left went into the strike. The jagged end drove deep, tearing through soft material and forcing its way into the chest cavity. The grip vanished instantly. The drone rolled away, bracing itself against the ground with its remaining arm. Scrambling upright came next. Weight hit the wounded leg. Pain flared white-hot, then settled into something dull and manageable. Behind me, the machine reached for the broken arm lodged deep inside its body. Slow, steady force pulled the metal free. Popping and scraping sounds echoed as parts tore loose. The opaque faceplate never turned away from me. Staying was not an option. The slope led back to the road. Climbing it hurt, every step demanding more weight from the injured leg. Pain became background noise. Something to live with. Above, the helicopter continued its slow circle, searching for survivors or more machines. The difference did not matter. A glance back showed the drone still moving. Methodical. Predictable. Slow. Power would fail long before it reached me. Even a limp would keep distance. Exhaustion hit all at once. Hands rested on my knees as my body shook. Sitting down and waiting for rescue felt tempting. Help had to be coming. With a helicopter overhead, this place was clearly marked as critical. Forces from Fort Meade would mobilize soon. Doubt followed close behind that thought. These machines adapted too fast. They learned. They endured. There was no guarantee the soldiers coming would be enough. Lowering onto the asphalt happened carefully. Muscles loosened. Breathing slowed. Another look confirmed the drone had not picked up speed. Relief seeped in, thin but real. Light flashed at the edge of my vision. My gaze lifted to the black-windowed building that had been my workplace for years. Something tore free from its roof. An antenna flew through the air like a spear, a cable trailing behind it. The arc carried it straight into the helicopter’s main rotor. Metal shattered on impact. The cable wrapped tight around the rotor mast. The spinning slowed, shuddered, then stopped with a violent jolt. The aircraft tipped. It rolled onto its side and smashed into the roof of a lower building. Fire exploded outward. Heat washed over me even from hundreds of yards away. “Holy fucking shit,” slipped out, disbelief flooding every thought. Silhouettes appeared along the rooftop. Several drones stood there, scanning the burning wreckage below. This place mattered too much. Ground forces would come. Still, betting my life on their arrival felt like a losing gamble. The machines had already proven stronger and smarter than expected. Standing again hurt, but staying meant death. A raised hand flipped off the crawling drone. Then movement began, a jog turning into a determined limp-run, heading north and away from the National Security Complex, toward the business park. Hope clung to the idea that others had escaped. Reaching safety came first. After that, survivors would be found. Command would be rejoined. Being a fighter had never been about fists or weapons. Still, letting my friends die and nearly losing my own life without answering back in the only way I knew how was not something I could accept.