The world dissolved into dust and the shriek of tortured metal. Just another Tuesday, Ryder thought grimly, tasting grit. Sergeant Ryder Vance fired his weapon through the cover, burnt gunpowder filling the air—a scent more familiar than home cooking these days.
Gunfire hammered a syncopated rhythm against the roar in his ears. He registered the incoming fire: third floor, left window. Somewhere to his left, Miller screamed—a wet, gurgling sound that cut through the chaos.
No, not Miller, Ryder realized with a pang. Not that he was much older himself, but the kid was barely old enough to shave.
He resolved firmly, Not on my watch.
Adrenaline surged, cold and sharp. "Covering fire!" Ryder yelled, already moving. He knew he had to suppress that position, give himself a window.
He laid down one last burst from his rifle towards the crumbling building where the shots originated, the familiar kick against his shoulder giving him a bit of comfort. His rifle was steady; it needed to do its job.
He sprinted across the exposed alley, boots skidding on loose rubble. Open ground, stupid, he berated himself. Move, move, move! Miller lay crumpled behind a shattered concrete barrier, clutching his leg, blood pooling dark and fast on the sand-colored earth. His eyes were wide with shock. Ryder assessed the wound quickly—bad hit. Femoral artery? He had to stop the bleeding.
"Hang on, buddy!" Ryder grunted, grabbing Miller's vest. The kid was a heavy bastard. Come on. "Gonna get you out!"
He started dragging him back towards their squad's position, muscles screaming. Just a few more yards, cover was right there. Miller was dead weight, groaning with each jolt. Return fire snapped past Ryder's head, chipping stone inches away. Too close. They had his angle.
Almost there, almost.
Impact. A white-hot fist punched through his side, just below his vest. Ah, hell. Air exploded from his lungs. He stumbled, his vision tunneling. He couldn't breathe. Where did that come from? Another hit, lower, shattering bone in his leg. His leg was gone; fireworks exploded behind his eyes.
He went down hard, landing half over Miller. Pain wasn't the word. It was an inferno consuming him from the inside out. This is it, then, he thought.
Through the graying haze, he saw boots approaching – friendly ones, pulling Miller the rest of the way. Good. Miller was safe. His task was done. Ryder felt his part was over.
He tried to lift his head, tried to reach for his rifle. But it was futile.
His limbs felt like lead pipes filled with broken glass. He couldn't move, couldn't even… Below him, the ground seemed to pulse, warm and strangely resonant.
The gunfire faded, replaced by a low hum that vibrated in his teeth. Weird… like a generator kicking in. His last conscious thought wasn't of home, or glory, or even regret. It was a flash of that impossible chrome, the growl of a perfectly tuned engine, the dream rig he'd enlisted to earn. He remembered all that overtime, the plans…
A 1977 WESTERN STAR 4800, the truck he planned to name Betsy... Red paint, chrome stacks… beautiful.
Then, only darkness.
♢♢♢♢
Ryder woke hacking, spitting something thick and black onto cracked stone. Ugh, what is this? Oil? It wasn't dirt or blood. It felt… wrong. The air burned like spoiled meat. It smelled like death took a dump. He blinked, staring upwards. The sky boiled, a nauseating canvas of molten gold poured into a blender of blood-red clouds and flickering, silent lightning.
"...What is this place?" His voice was a shredded whisper. Did I die? Is this… hell? It looked the part.
Gone was the scent of gunpowder and desperation. Beneath his hand, the stone felt hot, faintly pulsing, like something alive. The ground felt… alive? He wondered if he was losing his mind.
He pushed himself up, every muscle protesting. It felt like he got run over by a tank. His uniform was torn, filthy, but the searing pain, the sucking wounds are all gone. Replaced by a deep, phantom ache that echoed where the bullets hit.
Wait… the holes? They were gone. His leg felt… weirdly solid. How…? He distinctly remembered feeling the bone shatter.
He stood, staggering slightly. His boots crunched on glassy rubble. Scorched wreckage fouled the air. Definitely not the FOB.
A twisted metal structure nearby leaked steam, weeping into the bruised sky. The town—or what remained—looked like it had lost a fight with something far bigger and meaner than artillery. Storefronts gaped open, walls melted like wax or shattered into jagged teeth. Craters yawned in the pulverized street. Nuke? Chemical? He'd never seen damage like this.
Where is everyone? Miller? The squad?
Where the hell am I? Did I... Did I make it? The questions echoed in his mind.
Then, Ryder heard something something screaming. Low. Wet. Close.
Hostile? Gotta be.
Ryder's head snapped towards the sound, trainings kicking in. Threat assessment. Locate. Identify.
It was already moving. Thirty feet of coiled nightmare, leathery skin twitching with dozens of whip-like tendrils tipped with blinking red eyes. What in God's name is THAT?
It flowed like a centipede made of tar and hate. Centered on its vaguely-a-head, a vertical maw split open, revealing rows upon rows of serrated, needle-sharp teeth. It looked like something out of a bad sci-fi flick.
It pivoted, its multitude of eyes locking onto Ryder with unnerving, predatory focus. Okay, it sees me. Not friendly.
Then, it launched. A tendril lashed out. Move!
"Sh—!" Ryder threw himself sideways, muscle memory overriding confusion. He felt too slow, too stiff.
The tendril cracked where he'd been standing. Pain flared in his already aching leg as he landed awkwardly, rolling behind a pile of debris. Damn leg still hurts. Adrenaline surged again, familiar and welcome. Okay, firefight instincts. Good to have you back.
The creature slithered closer, the air buzzing with that low-frequency hum, making his fillings ache. That noise… it was coming from it.
The world narrowed to that giant, glistening maw. He scrambled for a weapon, and found nothing but a broken pipe.
Pipe versus… that? Great odds. Useless. His hand tightened anyway. He recalled dying once today. He wasn't keen on round two.
Just as the creature coiled to strike again, the sky ruptured.
Not with lightning this time, but with a immense otherworldly power. Blue-white light tore through the bruised clouds. It felt like static… everywhere.
[FOREIGN ANCHOR-BEARER DETECTED: RYDER VANCE] [BINDING ANCHOR: 1977 WESTERN STAR 4800 – DESIGNATION: BETSY] [SYSTEM SYNC: 100%] [WELCOME, RYDER.]
The words appeared in his vision, stark white against the chaos, clinical and utterly insane. Am I hallucinating? Blood loss? Wait, no wounds… So what IS this? Reality itself seemed to scream around him.
With a shriek of tearing space-time, the air above the ruined square ripped open. It looked like a zipper made of lightning.
Arcs of raw static and swirling, impossible glyphs erupted downwards. Through the breach plunged something impossibly huge—a plummeting vision of defiant red paint and gleaming chrome. It struck the ground fifty feet away with a thunderclap wrapped in furious steel, kicking up a shockwave of dust and rubble. Holy…
No... it couldn't be. It was the spitting image of the '77 Western Star 4800 he'd spent countless nights sketching, researching, dreaming about saving up for. The exact paint job, the chrome stacks, the visor... His perfect rig. Real. Impossibly, terrifyingly real. My Betsy? Here? How?
Except… not quite. Glowing symbols, complex and strange, now covered her metal frame like bright tattoos. Those weren't in the brochure.
Her headlights flashed with a strong, smart-looking blue light. Then, her driver-side door popped open with a pneumatic hiss. And she spoke, her voice booming slightly, amplified, yet somehow capturing the imagined rumble he always pictured, now laced with chrome and southern sass.
"Well, paint me red and call me salvaged, you look like you went ten rounds with a mortar, sugar."
Ryder stared, jaw slack. Did… did the truck just talk? With a drawl? "...Are you... Are you her? The truck I always..."
"The dream made steel, hotshot. Damn right I am." Her voice held confidence, a flirty challenge, like she could rebuild your engine or break your kneecaps with equal ease. Okay, Ryder conceded, he was definitely losing it. Talking truck. Makes sense. "Surprise! Looks like the System grabbed you mid-flatline, took a peek at that truck-obsessed brain of yours, and decided to manifest your ultimate ride. Added some interdimensional bells 'n' whistles, and boom. Here we are."
"System...? Flatline...? Manifested?" Ryder's head swam. Flatline… so I did die. System? What system? Manifested? Huh?
Betsy cut in, her tone sharpening. "Point is, I'm sentient, probably illegal in twelve dimensions, and apparently, I'm your Anchor now. Whatever the hell that means. We'll figure that out later." Sentient truck. Anchor. Right. Got it.
The monster, momentarily stunned by the truck's dramatic entrance, shrieked again, surging forward. Ryder flinched, phantom pain lancing through his leg. Focus! The ugly thing still wanted to eat him.
"Get in, Ryder!" Betsy commanded, her voice hardening, door swinging wider. "We got an ugly sumbitch to turn into road pizza!"
Ryder didn't need telling twice. He scrambled towards the cab, hauling himself up with his arms, wincing as his leg protested the movement. Move, you idiot! Talking truck beats giant nightmare centipede any day. The door slammed shut the instant his boot cleared the frame, sealing him inside with the smell of new vinyl, hot electronics, and something indescribably other. It smelled… new. And weird.
The cab was chaos and uncanny familiarity fused together.
It looked exactly like the interior he'd memorized from old brochures and restoration forums – the bench seat pattern, the layout of the dash – but it was pristine, untouched, and overlaid with impossible technology. His sketches… it was perfect. But, a lot more glowing?
Lights pulsed everywhere. Runed overlays flickered across gauges that should have been analog. Buttons glowed blue, yellow, and one flashed an insistent, angry red, right next to the shifter he'd only ever imagined gripping, labeled:
[ENGAGE: MONSTER CRUSH MODE]
Monster Crush Mode? Seriously? It felt like stepping into a dream he couldn't wake up from.
A dangerous, deadly dream. Ryder grinned, a raw, slightly unhinged sound. Okay, maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.
No training manual needed for this, he decided. He slammed his fist onto the red button.
The engine roared to life, not a familiar grumble he knew, but a howling warcry amplified by raw power, shaking the entire frame. That ain't no Detroit Diesel! Betsy lit up, runes flaring blindingly bright, tires spitting sparks as they bit into the cracked pavement. She launched forward like a missile wrapped in eighteen wheels of pure vengeance. Hold on!
Outside, the monster paused, tendrils twitching. Its body arched, confident in its territory. It had festered here, unchallenged, feeding on the town's shadow. Not anymore, pal.
Until now. Until her. Until the nightmarishly huge metalbox barreling towards it, snarling chrome, glowing war-sigils blazing.
The Primordial hesitated. Alien instinct screamed danger. Yeah, you better run.
Too late.
Betsy hit it head-on. Ryder felt the sickening crunch as her reinforced grille punched through its vertical maw. Splat.
Tendrils flailed wildly against the metal, then went limp. He felt the heavy bump as the wheels rolled over the remains. Speed bump. Betsy slid to a halt fifty yards later, spitting gravel, engine settling into idle.
Silence descended, thick and ringing, broken only by steam hissing from Betsy's hood and the faint, electric hum of the runes glowing on the dash.
Ryder stared through the windshield at the pulped, twitching mess staining the square, his knuckles white on a steering wheel he'd only ever held in his imagination until seconds ago. His heart hammered against his ribs. Did… did I just do that? In my dream truck?
He took a shaky breath, the phantom smell of cordite mixing with the ruin's real stink. He exhaled slowly.
"...Okay. That happened." His voice was flat with shock. "My dream truck just... murdered a nightmare centipede."
"Felt good, didn't it, sugar?" Betsy purred, the sound vibrating through the cab, somehow grounding. Yeah… yeah, it kinda did, Ryder admitted to himself. "Like stompin' a cockroach the size of a Prius. Saw how it looked at me? Pure terror."
[THREAT NEUTRALIZED: CLASS-3 PRIMORDIAL – GOREMAW]
[ECHO LAYER STREAM: ACTIVE]
[FOREIGN ANCHOR-BEARER: RYDER VANCE – REGISTERED]
[CURRENT VIEWERS: 3]
Viewer01: wtf is this channel???
Viewer02: HOLY SHIT DID HE JUST RUN IT OVER WITH A TRUCK
Viewer03: Okay, instant sub. Truck-chan delivers.
[NEW TITLE UNLOCKED: PRIMORDIAL ROADKILL SPECIALIST]
Ryder leaned back against the pristine seat, chest heaving. His hand instinctively went to where his Chewing tobacco should be in his sleeve pocket. Empty. Damn. He could really use a dip right now.
"...I need answers. And maybe something stronger than Rip-Its."
"Answers are comin', hotshot," Betsy replied, her headlights sweeping the ruined street like searchlights. "But first? Let's figure out where the hell 'here' is. Somethin' tells me the neighbors are gonna be real curious about the new rig parked in their apocalypse."