Jack didn't wait for the door to open.
The second the third knock hit, he bolted from his room, grabbed his boots, and leapt through the back door barefoot, clutching them in one hand. The night air hit his face like ice, and his lungs filled with cold as he ran full speed across the yard.
Straight into the cornfield.
The tall stalks swallowed him whole.
Leaves slapped against his skin. Dirt cut into his feet. The ground was rough, uneven, but he didn't stop. His heart beat like thunder in his chest. Something deep inside screamed at him:
> Don't go back. Don't slow down. Just run.
Behind him, he heard it. The door crashing open. Boots stomping on wood. Voices yelling.
They were in the house.
He kept running.
The cornfield seemed endless. Like it was folding in around him. He didn't know where he was going — just away. The stalks rustled wildly as he shoved through them, panting, heart hammering.
Then—
Bang!
Jack felt it before he heard it.
A sharp, hot pain tore through his side, just under his ribs. It felt like fire and ice at the same time. His body twisted mid-step and he crashed into the dirt.
His face hit the ground. He groaned, clutching his side. Wetness spread across his shirt. Blood.
> I got shot.
The stalks around him trembled.
Voices.
Men.
They were getting closer.
Jack tried to crawl, but every movement sent a jolt of agony up his spine. He gasped, dragging himself a few feet forward, the leaves above him swaying like ghosts.
> Keep moving. Keep moving. You can't die here.
But his limbs were too heavy. His blood too warm. His breath too shallow.
Another light swept the rows — flashlights now. He barely had time to look before someone grabbed him by the ankle and yanked him back through the dirt.
He screamed — but the sound came out weak, ragged.
A boot slammed into his back.
"Got him!"
More boots followed. Three men surrounded him, all in black, faces covered, rifles ready. One crouched beside him and held something up to Jack's neck.
> A needle?
Before he could even ask, it was jammed into his skin.
Burning.
Then—darkness.
---
Jack didn't dream.
Just silence.
---
He woke up in a truck. Shackled. Cold. Bleeding.
The floor beneath him was metal, and the walls were covered in dull gray plating. Across from him, other people sat in silence — some bruised, some crying, some staring at nothing.
None of them looked older than 20.
A speaker crackled overhead.
> "Subject 37 retrieved. Arrival estimated in two hours."
Jack's side throbbed. His shirt was still soaked in blood, now dried and stiff. The wound had been wrapped, but sloppily.
He sat back, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling of the truck.
Everything was gone.
The cornfield.
The farm.
His freedom.
His life.
And somewhere, deep in his gut, something began to twist and squirm — like something had awakened the moment that bullet tore through him.
Something he didn't understand yet.
Something hungry.