The wall exploded inward in a shower of dust and brick. Hawk dove under the table just in time as the towering mutant lumbered in, dragging its knuckle-sized fists across the floor. It sniffed the air, low growls rattling its throat.
Then—it grabbed the Crowl.
The monstrous hand wrapped around the twitching thing's torso. In one fluid, savage motion, it slammed the Crowl against the wall—once, twice, three times—each hit crunching louder than the last.
Blood smeared the wall.
With a guttural snarl, the beast bit into the Crowl's gut, yanking out steaming, twitching entrails like wet rope. It threw the twitching corpse aside and fell on it, hunched over, ripping and devouring with sickening squelches.
Hawk stared in mute horror, heart hammering so loud he swore the thing would hear it.
But it didn't.
It was busy feasting.
Hawk slowly slid out from under the table, boots soaked in blood and bile. He scanned the ruined office.
The mole rats were gone—scattered like insects.
And then—he saw it.
A key, sitting on a high bookshelf half-crushed by rubble. Gritting his teeth, he tiptoed across the room, careful not to breathe too loud. He reached up, fingers trembling, and—snatch—grabbed the key and slipped it into his pocket.
He turned, stepped carefully toward the gaping hole in the wall...
Almost there…
CRUNCH.
His foot landed squarely on a jagged piece of glass.
SHHINK!
He froze.
The monster's head snapped toward him.
"…Are you fucking KIDDING ME," Hawk whispered, eyes wide with terror.
The beast stood tall, blood-soaked, its back rising with each inhale like a bellows. It let out a bone-rattling roar, beating its chest so hard the walls vibrated. It locked eyes with Hawk—and charged.
"OH SHIT—!"
Hawk bolted, sprinting through the wreckage, lungs burning, ears filled with the thunder of the monster's fists pounding the ground behind him.
He didn't look back.
He just ran.
The monster's roars grew louder—closer—its footfalls shaking the floor as Hawk burst up the stairs. He slammed open the basement door, scrambled through, and slammed it shut behind him, chest heaving.
Crash!
Something massive slammed into the other side of the door. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Hawk bolted, ducking low, diving behind a stack of metal crates near the museum's shattered main gallery. "Fuck me, man…" he whispered, blood still pounding in his ears. He peeked out as the wall near the basement door exploded—again.
The monster tore through the concrete like it was paper, stepping into the room with slow, crushing intent. Its wide nostrils flared. It sniffed. Searched.
Hawk looked at the oversized rifle sticking out of his pack.
"...I don't really need this anyway," he muttered and tossed the rifle toward the right side, the one leading back to the sewer.
CLANG-CLANG—clatter!
The beast's head whipped toward the noise and it let out a low growl, stomping toward the sound.
Hawk seized the moment. He crept from behind the crates, keeping low, and approached the control room door. He shoved the key into the lock, turned it with a heavy click, and slipped inside.
Carefully, he closed the door behind him. The boom of the monster's hunt echoed in the distance.
And then—silence.
Dim, blue-green light bathed the room. Hawk turned, and his breath caught in his throat.
The control room was massive. Cold. Alien.
Industrial walls hummed with electricity. Thick, armored cables fed into towering cylindrical coils, glowing with static pulses. The metal hissed, hot with current. The air smelled of ozone.
Rows of control panels lined the chamber—each buzzing with flickering lights and cryptic labels. Screens pulsed with data. Switches toggled themselves every few seconds, as if the place were being used remotely.
Hawk slowly stepped forward, eyes darting across the consoles. "So… this is the control room."
He ran a hand over one of the blinking panels. "Feels like a goddamn spaceship in here."
Somewhere, deep within the steel and circuits…
He felt it.
"Titan Born leader's here somewhere," Hawk muttered under his breath, pulling out the Iron Lung and loading a fresh slug.
"Time to end this."
Hawk walked through the quiet hum of the control room, boots echoing softly against the steel floor. His eyes scanned the dusty consoles, the flickering lights, and something caught his eye—an old, beaten notebook lying atop one of the panels, its pages curled and yellowed from time.
He picked it up, frowning.
"Maybe this'll tell me what the hell happened here," he muttered, flipping it open.
Page 1.
Day 1:
Ok so this is my first time writing a novel or what's it called—oh yeh—and everything going good. We have lots of food from the crates and lots of weapons in the weapons room on the left. But we need to start building because the museum isn't that big if I'm being honest. And our leader? He seems smart and nice. I trust him with my life.
Hawk raised an eyebrow.
"An optimist… great."
He flipped to the next page.
Day 3:
Three days passed and someone already left. Why? I don't know. But you have to be pretty fucking dumb to just leave like that. Like, come on. Anyway, the leader agreed to build more space—like a control room. This place doesn't have power. Also… I still don't know our leader's name. Which is weird.
Hawk muttered, "No name? That's not weird, that's a red flag."
He continued flipping through the journal. The handwriting got messier with every entry.
Day 44:
Yeh, okay, it's been a long time since I wrote in my diary. Anyway, we've been having problems. Raiders. Demanding food, water, weapons. Which is stupid. Go find your own shit. I would've told them that to their face but there were a lot of them, so… I kept my mouth shut.
Hawk frowned. "So maybe those bodies downstairs were the survivors in the museum… or that old man's group…"
He kept reading.
Day 105:
Shit, shit, shit. The raiders—fuck—they shot one of our people in the face. He was only a kid. Fuck, fuck. What the fuck is wrong with them? Have they lost their minds? We finished building the control room but… fuck, that doesn't even matter now. Luckily we killed a lot of them. But I don't think that'll be the last we see of them.
Hawk gripped the notebook tighter.
Day 106:
I locked the control room. Our leader left us. Just fucking left us to die. So I locked the control room door and now it's only me in here. I can hear the others screaming out there, dying. I feel so bad but I had to do it. It's survival. The smartest survive. But… they know I'm in here. They might come for me. I ain't leaving.
"…Goddamn…" Hawk whispered, his voice soft.
Day 118:
I had to eat my foot. I had to. They're still out there waiting. There's no food in here. Only sewer water. I might have radiation poisoning but I don't care. I can't leave with one foot. I can't eat another limb. I just… can't.
Day 130:
I ate my other foot.
I think I'm done writing this novel.
I'm done.
I'm just gonna let myself die.
Hawk slowly lowered the notebook.
In the far corner of the room, slumped against a console, was a skeletal body, half-covered in rags, both legs ending in bloody nubs of bone. The dried blood had long since turned black. The skull was tilted down, as if still ashamed.
"Jesus Christ…" Hawk whispered, backing away slightly.
He looked down at the notebook again. "This place is cursed…"
The lights flickered once. A low hum pulsed through the room.
Hawk straightened up, slipped the notebook into his pack, and slowly turned back toward the hallway.
But his thoughts were spinning.
"If this guy was trapped… then where the hell did the leader go?"