Page 29 of The Atom Between Us

I think of the flashback again—what did I use in the lab? A solvent. Something basic. I fish the Sphere fragment from my pocket, crack it against the stone, and let the dust scatter into the air. The Ghoul inhales, staggers, then reels back.

Maven has a knife, but it’s little more than a glorified can opener. They slash at the Ghoul’s arm, opening a shallow cut that leaks black fluid. The Ghoul screams, high and bright. The sound draws the others. I mash the Sphere dust into the wound, hoping the chemistry will slow the spread. It doesn’t. The Ghoul wrenches away, but now it’s angry, not cautious. It barrels into Maven, claws extended.

Maven fights like a cornered rat, going for the eyes, the throat, anything soft. I jump on the Ghoul’s back, grab a handful of hair, and jam the RadShield pendant against its neck. The blue glow flares, then sparks, and for a split second the Ghoul freezes, paralyzed by the overload.

We tumble in a heap, three bodies and a chaos of limbs. I lose track of who is who until Maven yells, “Now!” and I roll off, scraping my hands bloody on the concrete. The Ghouls regroup, three of them now, all circling the ditch with a weird, predator patience. They’re waiting for us to make the next move.

I know there’s no escape. The only option is to try the resin trick again. I crack the second vial, drench another pad, and throw it at the nearest Ghoul. It catches it, sniffs, and for a second I think it’ll work. Then the Ghoul grins, wide and broken, and stuffs the pad into its mouth.

Maven’s face goes pale. “They’re learning.”

The Ghouls charge.

I have one shot left—the last Sphere fragment, the one that burned me in the lab. I bite the pain, snap it in half, and lob the shards at the first Ghoul’s eyes. The blue light detonates, filling the ditch with a blinding, electric haze. The Ghouls screech, retreating, but the one with the pad in its mouth just stands there, grinning, eyes blazing with new intelligence.

“We’re dead,” Maven says.

I don’t argue. I curl up, arms over my head, and wait for the pain.

But it doesn’t come. Not at first.

Instead, there’s a new sound—the sharp, mechanical bark of a drone, slicing through the night. The Ghouls freeze, then scatter, vanishing into the trees like they’d never existed.

The ditch goes silent.

I look at Maven. Their face is cut, bleeding, but their eyes are alive. “You did it,” they say, voice shaking.

“No,” I say. “We survived. There’s a difference.”

In the distance, the drone keeps barking. And for the first time, I hope it’s Authority, not something worse. We crawl out of the ditch, dragging our packs and our battered bodies behind us. The trees are thinning, the lights of the settlement ahead.

Behind us, the Ghouls wait. They’re patient. They know we’ll be back.

And so do I.

We never make it to the settlement perimeter. The last hundred meters, the safe zone, is an illusion. There’s no transition. No warning. Just the sudden arrival of a new predator: the whir of a drone, low and invasive, the way the world lights up in strobing blue-white with each sweep of its search beam.

Maven flattens instinctively, pulling me down into the ditch. I barely make contact with the ground before the first bullet shreds the air above us. It’s a warning shot—close enough to shear the bark off a tree, not close enough to kill.

The Ghouls react, but not the way I expect. They freeze, then scatter, diving for cover as if they remember the taste of lead. I peek over the lip in time to see a patrol of Authority soldiers step out of the shadow, weapons drawn in a fan-shaped pattern.

At the center: Captain Kang. His uniform is cleaner than it should be, the insignia at his collar sharp as a blade. The tattoos on his arms pulse with the cadence of his heartbeat, veins standing out against the night pallor. He moves like he’s not afraid of anything—like he’s already factored every risk, every variable, and come up winning.

The Ghouls charge the patrol. The first two never make it—caught in a crossfire that stitches their torsos into lace. The third goes for Kang, and for a second, I see something I never expected: the smallest hint of a smile, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He sidesteps the Ghoul’s lunge, grabs its arm at the elbow, and uses its own momentum to throw it into the path of a waiting soldier’s knife.

The fight is over before it starts. Four Ghouls dead, the rest gone.

I think it’s over, but then the one with the resin pad in its mouth—smarter, meaner—comes back around, eyes blazing. It goes for Maven, ignoring the soldiers. Maven raises the pipe, but it’s useless. The Ghoul knocks them flat, claws outstretched.

My body moves before my brain does. I launch myself into the Ghoul’s path, arms extended. There’s a flicker—like a flashback, but real—and suddenly I’m not Diana the scavenger scientist, I’m Diana the weapon. The muscle memory is alien, surgical: I grab the Ghoul’s wrist, twist it behind its back, and drive my knee into the base of its skull. The movement is so clean, so efficient, that the Ghoul is dead before it understands what happened.

I blink, and the world catches up. Maven stares at me, eyes wide.

Kang sees it too. His gaze lingers on my posture, the way my hands settle automatically into a defensive stance. For a second, I think he’s going to say something, but he just reloads his rifle and moves on. The soldiers sweep the area, checking for survivors. None. Maven climbs to their feet, brushing dirt from their face.

“Did you see—” they start, but I cut them off.

“Later. We need to go.”