Chapter Three: The Taking

You can prepare for the worst—but not for the taking.

Journal of Elias Wren

Entry 14 – October 3, 2036
Late

She knows something’s coming.
I can feel it in the way she watches the wind.
In how she touches the children’s hair like she’s memorizing them.

Rowan picked up a signal tonight—stronger than anything we’ve caught before. Not city chatter. Not noise. Something cleaner. Closer.

We didn’t tell the little ones. Let them roast apples and sing songs and sleep like tomorrow isn’t hunting us.

Myra says we should hold onto tonight.
She says we live in presence, not fear.
She says things I wish I believed more easily.

I’ve got a pack buried beneath the north fence line. Tools. Ammo. The key to the unfinished hatch. If I’m wrong, it’ll rust.

If I’m right, it won’t be enough.

She laid her head on my chest tonight like she always does.
I didn’t want to sleep. Just hold her a little longer.

God, I don’t know if You’re real.
But if You are,
Please keep her safe.

Chapter Three: The Taking

It started with silence.

Not the comforting quiet of prairie mornings or the hush between a breeze and a birdcall—but a sterile, unnatural stillness. Even the animals sensed it. The goats were pressed against the fence, eyes wide. The rooster, usually crowing by now, stood frozen on the coop roof, neck stiff.

Myra stirred before the others. Something had touched her spirit—not a sound, but a shift.

She slipped from the bed and moved to the window. The sky was a pale wash of lavender and grey. Still early. Too early. Her eyes scanned the horizon. The garden, the tree line, the—

A flicker.

Her breath caught.

Barely visible between the rows of dried corn, something moved. Smooth. Too smooth. A shape—like a shadow, but wrong.