Maxton Thane's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

They’d moved into the church. The roof was cracked open and the stained-glass windows shattered, but it was the only structure left in Bloom with four standing walls and a place to gather. Now it was a shelter, a clinic, a mess hall, and a holding pen for whatever hope people still had left. Maxton Thane sat on the back steps, helmet off, sweating through his undershirt in the unrelenting heat. His rifle leaned against the railing. It hadn’t left his side in two days. Flynn was inside with the civvies, doing her best to keep order. She still wore her full uniform—cleaned, pressed, every button secured like it mattered. Like any of this still mattered. Thane ran a hand down his face and looked out at the ruins. Bloom was dust and cinders. The Rean hadn’t come back, but the flies had. The smell of scorched meat still clung to the breeze, and people were starting to whisper about what came next. The Circl was still down. No messages. No orders. No updates. The evac ship was gone, and the ships that had taken the first waves of civilians hadn’t returned. No one knew what was happening outside Bloom. No one even knew if the war was still happening. Footsteps approached. He didn’t have to look. “You’re still sitting out here,” Flynn said. “You’re still pretending this place isn’t done.” She stepped into his peripheral vision, arms crossed. “We wait for orders. That’s the protocol.” “The protocol got half our squad killed.” Flynn flinched, just slightly. Thane stood up, dusting off the back of his pants. “Look around, Colonel. These people have nothing. No homes, no food, no transport, and no comms. They’re looking at us like we have a plan.” “We do have a plan. We hold position until command reestablishes contact.” He scoffed. “That’s not a plan. That’s a prayer.” She stepped closer, voice low. “And you think wandering into the Wastes is better?” He met her gaze. “I think staying here waiting to die is worse.” They stared at each other, both too tired to yell. The back door opened behind them, and a girl stepped out—maybe ten, maybe younger. She clutched a plastic canteen in both hands. “Captain Thane?” she asked softly. He turned to her. “Yeah?” “Is it true you used to live in Stonewall?” Thane hesitated, then nodded. The girl looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Do you think we’ll get to go there?” He didn’t answer. The girl's mother called and Thane watched as she retreated back inside, canteen still clutched tight. Flynn didn’t say another word. She just went back to the people—her people, now—and Thane stood there a moment longer, listening to the wind whistle through Bloom’s broken bones. He finally stepped inside the church. The makeshift shelter smelled of sweat, ash, and old wood. A few candles burned near the altar, and someone had hung bedsheets between the pews for privacy. A pair of unfamiliar voices carried from the far side of the room, low and accented. Not from around here. Thane narrowed his eyes. Two men stood by the shattered stained-glass window. One was older, cloaked in flowing earth-tone robes that looked far too clean for this place. His hair was a shock of white tied back into a neat knot, and he spoke with a rich, rolling accent that didn’t belong to Alister. “…I’m telling you, Liam, it was a Vesper Lynx 720, maybe older. No one from here would be driving that unless it had meaning.” His companion—early twenties, maybe—shifted nervously. He had sharp features and a mop of blonde hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in days. His coat was too big for him, borrowed or salvaged, and his eyes—wide, alert—kept scanning the room like he expected trouble to round the corner any second. There was something about him—too clean, too hopeful—that didn’t belong in a place like this. “Will you keep your voice down? Someone could be listening.” “What? We’re just a couple of guys talking about cars.” The older man smiled faintly, though his eyes never softened. “What’s the harm in that?” Thane cleared his throat. The younger man—Liam—straightened instantly. The elder turned, unbothered. “Captain Thane,” Liam said quickly, offering a nod. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to cause concern.” Thane folded his arms. “I don’t recognize either of you.” “We came in with the last evac wave,” Liam offered. “From the north end. Found the church yesterday morning.” The elder man gave a formal bow. “High Priest Elijah Stone. From Eldridge.” Thane raised a brow. “That’s a long way from home.” “Too long,” Elijah agreed. “But Alister is my home now.” “You looking for someone?” Elijah’s smile returned, but thinner this time. “Everyone’s looking for someone, Captain.” Thane didn’t like the way that sounded. But he didn’t have the time or energy to press. Not today. “Just stay out of trouble,” he said, turning away. “We’ve got enough of that already.” “Yes,” Elijah murmured. “I imagine you do.” In the early hours of the next morning, the first rays of light just starting to shine, Thane sat by the shattered doorway, elbows on knees, staring into the darkness. The silence was heavy, the kind that wrapped around your lungs and made it hard to breathe. Flynn was already up somewhere, probably sharpening her conviction like a blade. Then he heard it—soft at first, like wind sliding through ruins. But it wasn’t wind. A low, wet hiss. The kind of sound he’d only heard once before: pressure being released. Liquid flowing. Thane stood up slowly, eyes narrowing as he scanned the night. Somewhere close—too close—something was leaking. He grabbed his rifle, slung his Circl across his arm even though it was still dead, and stepped out into the street without a word. The further he walked, the stronger the smell got—sharp, synthetic, unmistakable. Turbo fuel. The good kind, the dangerous kind. His boots crunched over broken glass and scattered gravel as he turned a corner and froze. There it was. A Talenstar fuel hauler lay on its side, its massive tank cracked open like a crushed tin can. Steel groaned as it settled against a collapsed wall, and thick rivulets of neon-blue fuel poured from the breach, running downhill toward the lower blocks of Bloom—toward the church. Thane swallowed hard. The leaking fluid shimmered under the moonlight, beautiful and deadly, coating the cracked pavement like paint on a bomb. He took a cautious step closer. Heat radiated off the metal. One wrong move, one spark, and— No. He couldn’t let that happen. He backed away quickly, retreating behind a rusted-out vehicle and pulling a rag from his belt to cover his mouth. The fumes were already starting to burn in his chest. He needed to get back. He needed Flynn. But then something shifted behind the tanker. Thane dropped to a crouch. He heard it—shuffling. Deliberate. Not the wind. Not debris. Someone—or something—was moving. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on the rifle. If the Rean were here, and they slipped through the cracks… He glanced at the fuel again. Still pouring. Time wasn’t on his side. Thane’s pulse quickened as he peered around the rusted vehicle, eyes locking onto the source of the movement. Emerging from the shadows behind the toppled tanker were two figures—Rean, probably Kalv soldiers. Their form, charred and smoldering. Their armor was fused to their flesh, and their bodies emitted a faint, eerie glow, like embers clinging to life after a fire’s rage. The Rean moved with a slow, deliberate gait, their eyes vacant yet somehow aware. Each step they took left behind faint scorch marks on the pavement, the residual heat from their bodies igniting small wisps of smoke. The air around them shimmered, distorted by the intense heat they radiated. Thane tightened his grip on his rifle, beads of sweat forming on his brow—not solely from fear, but from the oppressive heat emanating from the Rean. He knew that engaging them here was a perilous gamble; a single stray shot or sudden movement could ignite the volatile fuel, spelling doom for everyone in the church. He weighed his options, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Retreating to the church to rally support risked losing sight of the Rean and leaving the tanker unguarded. Confronting them alone was equally treacherous. Yet, the thought of these incendiary figures advancing toward the church, toward the unsuspecting survivors, was untenable. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Thane made his decision. He would need to divert the Rean away from the tanker and the fuel spill, leading them to a location where their combustion wouldn’t spell disaster for the entire encampment. It was a dangerous gambit, but one he was willing to take. With deliberate care, he reached down, picking up a small piece of debris. He hurled it toward a nearby alleyway, the clatter echoing through the night. The Rean’s heads snapped toward the sound, their movements jerky yet purposeful. They began to shuffle in the direction of the noise, drawn away from the precarious scene. Thane waited until they were a safe distance from the fuel spill before he began to move, shadowing them from a distance, ensuring they didn’t double back. His mind raced with plans to neutralize the threat they posed without igniting a catastrophe. The night was far from over, and the line between survival and annihilation was razor-thin. Thane crept through the alley, keeping low, eyes locked on the two glowing Rean ahead. Their skin pulsed like hot coals, still smoldering from the scorcher blast—yet somehow alive. Barely. Their movements were sluggish but deliberate, dragging molten limbs along cracked pavement. He tightened his grip on the rifle. Just keep them moving away from the tanker. Keep them moving away from the— The ground shuddered beneath his boots. A low rumble rolled through the alley. “What the hell—?” He turned just in time to see one of the buildings behind him groan and buckle. Cracks split the scorched concrete. Windows blew outward in a hail of glass. Then—collapse. The building caved in with a thunderous roar, and a wall of dust and smoke exploded down the alley. Thane ducked, coughing as ash rained down over him. When it finally settled, his way back was gone—buried under a mound of debris and shattered stone. “Perfect,” he muttered. He looked ahead. The two Rean had stopped. They stood at the far end of the alley, not moving—but not shambling anymore either. One turned slightly, its eyes fixed on the fresh wreckage behind him. The other twitched its head like it was listening. For a moment, none of them moved. One of the Rean let out a slow, guttural hiss and started walking again, the other followed. Thane had no choice. He couldn’t go back. He exhaled through gritted teeth and followed the Rean into the destruction that was once Bloom. The streets beyond the alley were barely recognizable. Bloom had been bombed, burned, and left to rot, and it showed. Buildings stood at crooked angles, windows shattered, storefronts buried beneath rubble. A rusted delivery van lay flipped in the middle of the road, wheels spinning in the breeze like it had only just crashed. But there was no one left to scream. The Rean were gone now—swallowed by the maze of Bloom. He didn’t care. He wasn’t following them anymore. He just needed a way back. But even that wasn’t so simple. The further he walked, the more unstable the ground felt. Beneath the concrete, the scorcher strike had cracked the foundations. Water mains had ruptured and dried. Gas lines exposed. The whole district felt ready to fall in on itself. Thane ducked beneath a fallen streetlight and stepped into what used to be a small plaza. A dried-up fountain stood in the center, spray-painted with messages begging for rescue that never came. Around it were signs of recent movement—footprints, maybe. But no people. He adjusted the strap on his rifle. The heat was rising. The fuel tanker was still leaking, somewhere behind him, and if it ignited… He picked up the pace, rounded a corner and nearly tripped over her. She was slumped against a crumbling wall, barely visible in the shadow of a half-collapsed awning. Her clothes were all wrong for the heat—a thick hoodie with the hood pulled tight, oversized sunglasses, and a surgical mask that clung to her face with sweat. One sleeve was missing entirely, the other pinned up with a rusted clasp. What was left of her arm was wrapped in dirty gauze, the bleeding slowed but not stopped. She flinched at the sight of him. Tried to stand but failed. “Hey—” Thane moved toward her. “Back off.” Her voice was raw, dry. She didn’t look up. “Don’t come near me.” He raised both hands. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” “Good. Then go.” There was blood on the ground beneath her. Not fresh, but not old either. A trail led to where she’d collapsed, and Thane could see now—she’d crawled here. Dragged herself through the ruins to die in peace, or hide from something worse. “I’m with the military,” he said gently. “We’ve got shelter. Medicine.” She turned her head slightly, just enough for the light to catch her glasses. “Don’t care. Not going with you.” Her voice was trembling. Not just from pain. From fear. Thane hesitated. She wasn’t infected—at least not visibly. But the way she kept herself hidden, the way she refused help… there was something else going on. “I can’t leave you here,” he said. “You can. And you will.” She started coughing. Each breath was a fight. “You don’t know who I am.” He crouched a few steps away, trying not to spook her further. “No. But maybe you should tell me.” She didn’t answer. Just pulled her hood lower and turned her face to the wall. Thane edged closer, slow and steady. “Look, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you stay out here, you’re going to bleed out or get yourself killed. Let me help you.” “I told you no.” She shifted suddenly—too fast for someone in her condition. He lunged forward to stop her, but she was already scrambling to her feet, using the wall for support. Her movements were clumsy but determined. “Wait!” She took off down the alley, limping hard, using her one good arm to brace against the ruins. Thane chased after her, but the moment he rounded the corner, he stumbled. The scorchers had weakened more than just the building he’d seen earlier. The cracked pavement gave way beneath his boots, one leg plunging into a jagged hole lined with exposed piping. He hit hard, teeth clenching against the pain. By the time he pulled himself free and scrambled back to his feet, she was gone. He stood there, breathing hard, staring into the maze of crumbling streets. Nothing. Just the wind. And the heat. And the faint trail of blood already drying on the stone. She was gone. Thane stood there for a moment longer, catching his breath. His leg ached, scraped and bruised, but nothing felt broken. He pressed his hand to the wall and took one last glance down the alley. Then he moved on. The city opened up into a sun-scorched intersection where the wind carried the scent of fuel and ash. Ahead, half-buried beneath a fallen streetlight and a few sagging power lines, sat a bus—still upright, surprisingly intact. Thane jogged over, squinting through the dusty windows. The inside was a mess: torn seats, scattered debris, a cracked windshield—but nothing fatal. The tires looked serviceable. The engine… well, he’d have to check, but his gut told him it wasn’t dead. He climbed aboard and dropped into the driver’s seat. A few flicks of switches, a hesitant turn of the key—then a cough, a sputter, and a low mechanical growl. It was running. He sat there for a second, letting the vibration hum through the floorboards. A slow grin formed. This changed everything. Now they had a way out. A real way out. No more excuses. No more standing still. He leaned back in the seat, already picturing Flynn’s reaction. No more waiting for orders that weren’t coming. Thane had just started his slow return, weaving the bus through cracked streets and half-toppled signs, when a low rumble echoed from the distance. At first, he thought it was another building collapsing. But the sound sharpened—engines. Several of them. Fast. He brought the bus to a halt at the edge of an overpass and leaned forward, eyes narrowing. Below, a convoy of black assault trucks tore down the main road, tires screaming against broken pavement. Sleek, armored, and unmistakable—each vehicle bore the sharp silver Talenstar emblem stamped boldly on the side. Eight of them. Maybe more. None of them slowed. None acknowledged him. They sped past without hesitation, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. A blur of tinted windows and turret mounts. Thane watched them disappear into the city, heart thudding in his chest. He stayed still for a long moment. Then he gunned the engine, cutting corners, bouncing over curbs. His knuckles white on the wheel. When the steeple finally came into view, so did the truck—parked right out front. Different make, different build. It was a hunk of junk, honestly. The engine was off. Dust still clung to the tires. He recognized the markings. It was a freight hauler. Thane slammed the brakes, stepped out, and jogged up the cracked stairs. Inside, the church was dim. Stained glass filtered sunlight in slivers of crimson and gold. Flynn stood by the pulpit, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Across from her, two soldiers stood at parade rest—young, clean, and carrying themselves like messengers more than warriors. Thane’s boots echoed as he approached. Flynn didn’t turn. “You finally decide to come back?” she muttered. “Fuel tanker. Scorcher-damaged Rean. Collapsing buildings.” Thane’s voice was low. “It was a long morning. Did I miss anything?” Flynn nodded toward the two soldiers waiting near the altar. “Only Dalmore’s version of a rescue mission.” One of them cleared his throat. “We’ve been sent to deliver new orders.” Thane stepped beside Flynn. “Let’s hear them.” “Evacuate Bloom. Immediately. All civilians are to make for Dalmore.” Flynn frowned. “Dalmore? We're supposed to be evacuating to Stonewall.” the soldier replied. “Change in route. New intel.” Thane narrowed his eyes. “What kind of intel?” The second soldier hesitated. “Stonewall was hit. Hard. Rean breach. We don’t know if anyone survived.” Flynn went rigid. “What? How did this happen?” “No ships?” Thane asked. “No, sir. Nothing available.” “Escort?” “Negative. Our orders are to return immediately. You’re on your own.” Flynn stared at the floor, jaw tight. “We’ve got injured. No transports. No Circl. No supply lines. And you want us to march through rean territory seven hundred miles to Dalmore?” The soldier didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. Thane glanced toward the shattered windows. “You might want to get going then if you're no further help to us.” The soldiers gave a stiff, uncomfortable nod, turned, and left. Flynn didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Thane watched the church doors swing shut behind the two soldiers. Dust motes spiraled in the stained light. The air still hummed with their message, but no one moved. “They’re not coming,” Flynn said softly. “Dalmore sent a message, not a rescue.” Thane took a breath, then gestured toward the exit. “I found a bus. It runs. Needs a little coaxing, but it’s better than walking.” Flynn finally turned to face him. Her eyes scanned his face. “A bus?” “School type. Looks rough, but the engine held together. Enough room for everyone left. We load what we can, keep it light. Supplies, wounded, people who can’t move fast—we take them first.” Flynn exhaled. Her posture loosened. “Where were you?” “Few blocks west. Had to circle when a building came down. Rean were in the area—some kind of scorcher survivors. Glowing like embers. I got clear, but—” “Scorcher survivors?” Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “You serious?” “Yeah,” Thane said. “And that’s not even the worst part.” He glanced around the church, then lowered his voice. “There’s a crashed Talenstar tanker a few blocks out. Big one. Turbo-fuel. Tank’s cracked and leaking—fuel’s just pouring out. If it ignites, this whole place will go up.” Flynn’s expression hardened. “How long do we have?” she asked. Thane shrugged. “Could be minutes. Could be hours. Depends on the wind, heat… dumb luck.” That was enough. Flynn clapped her hands, her voice cutting through the hall like a whip. “Alright, listen up! Everyone who can walk, start packing. Any gear, any food, any medical. We’re moving out!” A handful of soldiers snapped into action. Civilians stirred from their makeshift shelters, wide-eyed and confused. An older woman grabbed a child’s hand. A wounded man tried to sit up. Elijah Stone emerged from the back hall, Liam Bright a few steps behind. The high priest’s flowing robes were out of place among the ash and grime, but his voice carried with unshaken calm. “What’s happening?” he asked. Flynn didn’t slow down. “Evacuation. We have a bus. It’s not safe here.” Thane approached them. “Elijah, you and Liam need to come with us. There’s a fuel tanker nearby—if it blows, no one’s walking away from this place.” Elijah’s gaze didn’t flinch. “We are grateful, Captain. Truly. But we must decline.” Thane blinked. “Decline?” “We still have work to do here,” Elijah said, glancing at Liam, who gave a small nod. “There is someone in Bloom we must find. We cannot leave until we do.” “You don’t even know if they’re alive.” “We have faith,” Elijah replied. “Faith doesn’t survive an explosion,” Thane snapped, louder than intended. “You don’t understand. This isn’t a sermon. If that tanker goes—” “Then it goes,” Elijah said, quietly. Thane looked to Liam, but the boy said nothing. “You won’t even tell us who you’re looking for,” Flynn said, walking up. “You won’t let us help, won’t take protection, won’t follow orders. What exactly do you think is going to happen if you stay here?” Elijah turned to her. “I think the will of the God is beyond any of us to predict. We must walk our path.” Flynn rolled her eyes. “Fanatics.” “We’re not fanatics,” Liam said softly. “Just careful.” Flynn opened her mouth to fire back, but Thane raised a hand. “Let it go,” he said. “They’ve made their choice.” Flynn hesitated, then nodded. “Come on,” she barked to the others. “Let’s get this place moving!” Within minutes, the church filled with motion. Supplies were gathered in bundles. Soldiers slung rifles over their shoulders. Flynn organized them with mechanical precision—every able-bodied person assigned a role, every item double-checked. Thane walked the length of the nave, passing pews full of the wounded and weary. One little girl clutched a stuffed bear. An older man coughed into a stained rag. Some people didn’t even look up. He paused beside Flynn as she strapped a pack to her back. “Still think we should’ve stayed?” he asked. Flynn sighed. “I think I don’t like options that start with ‘get on the bus or explode.’ But yeah. It’s time.” Together, they pushed open the church doors. The morning sun stabbed down from a high, merciless sky. Heat rolled off the pavement. The beat-up bus idled nearby, Dorn was smoking beside the hood. A soldier helped a limping woman up the steps. Flynn climbed aboard, shouting orders. Thane lingered at the bottom step. He looked back at the church—Elijah and Liam watching from the threshold. Neither waved. And Thane didn’t either. He climbed in, shut the door, and got in the driver seat. The bus rumbled. It wasn’t much. But it was moving. And for now, that was enough. The last wheel thudded over broken asphalt as the bus cleared the final barricade. Bloom faded behind them, shrinking in the side mirrors until it was little more than crumbling rooftops and dying smoke. The engine groaned, gears grinding as Thane pushed the bus faster. They didn’t speak—none of them. The only sounds were the wind through the cracked windows and the occasional cough or whimper from the rows of passengers behind. Flynn sat up front, one hand gripping the metal rail, the other resting on her sidearm. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, but she was thinking—Thane could tell. Probably about Elijah and Liam. About the people they’d left behind. He wasn’t thinking about them. Not anymore. He was thinking about the tanker. They crested a hill, tires screeching slightly as the suspension struggled to keep up. Thane’s hands tightened on the wheel. Then— A flash. White. Blinding. A split second of daylight that seemed to tear the world open. Then came the sound. A thunderclap so deep it punched the air from their lungs. Windows rattled. The bus shuddered. The sky lit orange in the mirrors. Bloom was no longer fading—it was blooming, fire blooming, a great orange blossom of heat and fuel and fury, rising into the sky behind them. Someone screamed. Flynn turned, staring out the rear window. Her jaw clenched. “Keep driving,” she said. Thane didn’t reply. He just shifted gears and hit the gas. The fireball rolled higher. A second boom hit them—smaller, delayed—but still enough to rattle the bolts. Smoke billowed into the clouds. A thick black tower swallowing the sun. Inside the bus, no one spoke. Even the children went quiet. Because they knew. Whatever was left of Bloom… was gone. Flynn slumped slightly, just for a moment. Just long enough for Thane to see past the uniform. Past the command. And see the weight. He didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. And behind them, Bloom burned.