Rural Midwest, United States.
The dogs started acting wrong three days before anything else did.
They wouldn't go into the tree line anymore. Not even for deer.
Mark Jensen noticed it first because he noticed things for a living once—patterns, silences, the way men shifted their weight before a fight. Twenty years out of the Army hadn't dulled that. It had just given it a different shape.
The dogs stood at the edge of the field at dawn, hackles raised, noses working the wind. They whined instead of barking. Refused to cross the fence line like the woods had turned solid.
Mark rested his hands on the top rail and followed their gaze.
Nothing moved.
No birds. No squirrels. The forest just… waited.
I don't like that, he thought, and the thought had weight to it.
Behind him, the farmhouse creaked awake. Coffee percolated. Boots thumped. Life continued because life always did, until it didn't.
---
Sarah Jensen stepped out onto the porch with two mugs, steam curling into the cold spring air. She scanned the field in one practiced glance, then her husband's posture in the next.
"You see it too," she said.
"Yeah."
She didn't ask what. She'd served eight years herself—combat medic, two tours. She trusted her instincts the same way she trusted her hands to stop bleeding in the dark.
They stood together in silence.
"That tree line's been thinning," Sarah said finally. "Not dying. Growing thicker. Faster."
Mark nodded. "Deer tracks doubled overnight."
"And the dogs won't cross."
"Mm."
Neither of them said the word danger. They didn't need to.
---
The boys came next.
Ethan Jensen hit the porch already moving, all lean muscle and restless energy. Seventeen, varsity wrestling and football, built like he'd been carved out of farm work and stubbornness. He paused when he saw the dogs.
"They stuck again?"
"Yeah," Mark said.
Ethan frowned. "That's new."
Behind him came Luke, two years younger but broader, slower to move, heavier in the shoulders. Baseball player. Power hitter. The kind of kid who didn't rush anything because when he did move, things tended to give way.
Luke crouched, hand on the dirt.
"It feels… wrong," he said after a moment.
Mark's eyes flicked to him. "Feels how?"
Luke shrugged, uncomfortable. "Like the air's thick. Like before a storm, but colder."
Ethan snorted. "You're just tired."
Luke didn't look convinced.
---
Emily came last, as always.
She had a book under one arm and a tablet under the other, hair still braided from sleep. Sixteen. Top of her class. Scholarship-bound. The kind of mind that asked why before how.
She stopped short when she reached the porch.
"Oh," she said quietly.
Sarah turned. "You feel it too."
Emily nodded slowly. "I thought it was just me."
She looked past the field, past the fence, into the trees.
"There's a pressure gradient," she said. "Like something's pooling."
Ethan rolled his eyes. "English, Em."
She frowned. "I don't have the words yet."
That unsettled Mark more than anything else.
---
It happened just after noon.
Luke was helping Mark repair the old fence line when the ground trembled—not enough to shake, just enough to be noticed. A vibration that passed through bone instead of soil.
The dogs went wild.
Mark straightened, hand already moving toward the rifle leaning against the post.
Then the woods exhaled.
Something small burst from the underbrush.
Green. Thin. Fast.
It tripped over the fence wire, snarling in a language that sounded like rocks scraping together. It was no taller than Luke's chest, limbs knotted and wrong, eyes wide with panic more than rage.
A goblin.
The word surfaced unbidden, dragged up from childhood stories and half-remembered myths.
Luke didn't hesitate.
He moved before fear could catch him, vaulting the fence in a single fluid motion. His hands closed around the creature's shoulder and wrist, grip perfect, leverage instinctive.
The goblin shrieked and clawed, a crude knife flashing in its grip—stone-edged, wrapped in filthy leather.
Luke twisted.
Something snapped.
The creature hit the ground hard.
For half a heartbeat, it convulsed.
Then its body **collapsed inward**, flesh drying and cracking as if years passed in seconds. Skin split into ash. Bone crumbled to powder. In less than a breath, the goblin was gone—reduced to a drifting smear of dust carried away by the breeze.
Silence slammed down.
Luke staggered back, staring at his hands.
"I—" He swallowed. "Dad. I didn't even think."
Mark didn't answer right away.
Because where the goblin had died, **things remained**.
The crude knife lay in the grass, solid and real. Beside it was a scrap-built vest of stitched leather plates—child-sized a moment ago, now subtly shifting, seams tightening and loosening as if searching for a shape to settle into.
Luke took a cautious step closer.
The vest shrunk.
Not dramatically. Just enough that it would fit him.
Mark felt a cold knot form in his gut.
"That was the right call," he said finally, voice steady by habit.
Then he scanned the treeline again.
---
Emily appeared beside them, breathless, eyes locked not on the weapons—but on the ground.
"Wait," she said. "There's more. Sometimes."
She crouched, brushing dust aside.
Most of the time, there was nothing.
But this time, something hard and faintly luminous caught the light. A small, irregular core, like cloudy amber threaded with darker veins, warm to the touch despite the cool air.
Emily's breath hitched.
"That's… rare," she said slowly. "I don't know how I know that. I just do."
Luke didn't touch it.
Mark did.
The weight felt wrong for its size.
Far back in the forest, something answered the goblin's death with a distant, answering cry.
Then another.
And another.
Mark Jensen straightened, gripping the rifle with one hand and the strange core with the other.
The world has crossed a line.
And whatever was coming next was going to leave more than dust behind.
Mark didn't bring the core inside.
He set it on the old workbench in the barn instead, a deliberate choice. Concrete floor. Open space. Distance from the house.
The moment he let go of it, the faint warmth in his palm faded—but the thing itself still pulsed, slow and steady, like a heartbeat that wasn't meant to be heard.
Sarah stood beside him, sleeves rolled up, eyes clinical.
"You feel that?" she asked.
Mark nodded. "Like it's… listening."
Luke hovered a few steps back, restless, drawn forward and held in place by instinct both at once. Ethan stood closer, jaw tight, fists clenched, as if bracing for impact.
Emily didn't move at all.
She was staring at the core like it had started speaking in a language only she could hear.
"It's loud," she said quietly.
Mark looked at her. "Loud how?"
She hesitated. "Not sound. Pressure. Like… it's tugging at me, but not hard. Like it's curious."
Luke swallowed. "It doesn't do that to me."
Emily glanced at him, then back at the core. "It's not for you."
That landed heavier than any explanation.
---
They didn't have long to think about it.
The first gunshot came from the south fence line.
Sharp. Familiar.
Then another.
Then shouting—panicked, wordless, cut short.
Mark was already moving, rifle up, body settling into old grooves. Sarah grabbed the trauma kit without being told. Ethan and Luke followed—Ethan fast and tense, Luke solid and grounded, each reacting the way they always had.
They crested the low rise overlooking the lower pasture.
Three shapes had broken through the fence.
Small. Fast. Green.
They scattered immediately, not charging straight in—probing, flanking, moving like they already knew the land.
Mark fired.
His first shot hit clean.
The goblin spun, chest rupturing—and then, just like before, it dried and collapsed into dust before it even hit the ground.
What remained was… pristine.
A short spear lay where the creature had fallen, its shaft straight, its chipped stone head suddenly smooth and sharp, bindings fresh and tight as if newly made.
Leather bracers appeared beside it, unscuffed, unstained.
Repaired, Mark realized.
No. Reset.
He didn't have time to dwell on it.
The other two goblins vaulted the fence.
Luke moved.
He didn't think about distance or speed. He crossed it. One moment he was beside Mark—the next he was there, shoulder slamming into the first goblin hard enough to lift it off its feet.
The creature shattered midair, bursting into dust that coated Luke's arms like ash.
The second goblin lunged, jagged blade flashing.
Ethan intercepted it.
Bare-handed.
He caught its wrist, muscles standing out like cables, and pulled.
The goblin came apart with a wet crack, dusting away before it even screamed.
Silence fell again.
Heavy. Pressing.
Mark lowered his rifle and frowned.
The weapon felt… wrong.
He worked the bolt.
It scraped instead of gliding.
The metal looked old.
Pitted. Brittle. The barrel had warped slightly, like it had been fired a thousand times in a few seconds.
Mark swore under his breath.
He checked Ethan's shotgun.
Same thing.
Sarah noticed too.
"Firearms are breaking down," she said. "Fast."
Emily stepped past them, kneeling where the goblins had died.
Three piles of dust.
Three sets of loot.
Every piece looked new.
And then she froze.
"There," she said. "That one."
She pointed.
Mark crouched beside her.
This time, the core was darker—almost black, veined with dull red. It throbbed heavier, slower.
The moment Luke stepped closer, his breath caught.
His hand twitched.
"That one's loud," he muttered. "Feels like… weight."
Ethan took a step too—and felt nothing.
Emily shook her head. "It's not consistent. The type doesn't match the creature."
Sarah frowned. "Meaning?"
Emily swallowed. "Whatever those cores are… they don't come from them. Not really. They're… seeded. Random. Like fallout."
Mark straightened, scanning the treeline again.
"So every kill is a roll of the dice," he said.
Emily nodded. "And some dice are worse than others."
Luke didn't take his eyes off the dark core.
It pulsed once.
Just for him.
Somewhere beyond the trees, more voices answered.
Low. Chattering. Getting closer.
Mark Jensen looked at the ruined rifle in his hands, then at the spear lying clean and perfect in the grass.
He picked up the spear.
It fit his grip like it had been waiting.
"Inside," he said. "Barricade the house."
He met his sons' eyes, one by one.
"No more guns," he added. "Not unless we have to."
Because whatever had crossed into their world…
It had already decided how the fighting would be done.
________________________________________
The power didn't flicker.
It ended.
The low, ever-present hum of the farm—freezer, pump, distant lines—cut out so cleanly that Mark felt it in his teeth. The porch light snapped off. The barn radio died mid-weather report. Inside the house, the clock on the microwave went dark and stayed that way.
Emily stared at her tablet as the screen went black. She pressed the power button once. Then again.
"Dad," she said. "It's not frozen. It's… empty."
Mark didn't answer. He was already looking past the house, toward the road, toward the poles that marched across the fields. The lines hung slack and silent, no buzz, no spark, no smell of burned insulation.
"Electronics?" Sarah asked.
"All of them," Emily said. "Phone too. There's nothing left to drain."
Luke flexed his hands. "Like the guns."
Mark nodded. Same pattern. Same answer.
He didn't wait.
Mark crossed to the equipment shed and stopped in front of the old truck—the one he'd kept running out of habit and stubbornness more than need. The '51 Ford was all steel and manual choke, no circuit boards, no sensors, no excuses.
He turned the key.
The engine coughed once, then settled into a rough, steady idle.
"Still works," Ethan said quietly.
"Because it doesn't know it's supposed to stop," Mark replied.
He grabbed the spear from earlier and slung it into the cab.
"I'm checking on Carl," he said. "Stay sharp."
Sarah met his eyes. "Bring them back if you can."
Mark nodded once and drove.
---
Carl Henley's place sat a mile down the gravel road, smaller than the Jensens', tighter, closer to the treeline. Mark knew the moment he pulled in that they hadn't been spared.
The yard was torn up. Fresh gouges in the dirt. Ash smears drifting where bodies should have been.
Carl stood on his porch, a hand axe clenched white-knuckled in one hand. Middle-aged, broad from years of work, his expression locked somewhere between fury and disbelief.
Two boys stood behind him.
Teenagers. Seventeen and fifteen, maybe.
The older one was upright, tense but unhurt. The younger sat on the step, breathing hard, his forearm wrapped in a blood-soaked towel.
"You too?" Carl called as Mark killed the engine.
"Yeah," Mark said, stepping out. "How many?"
"Three," Carl replied. "Came out of the trees like they owned the place."
Mark's eyes flicked to the ground. "Dust?"
Carl nodded. "Left gear behind. Axe fixed itself. Leather too."
Mark exhaled slowly. Same. Exactly the same.
The injured boy looked up at Mark, eyes sharp despite the blood. "Gun stopped working," he said. "Dad's shotgun jammed after one shot."
Mark felt that old, cold understanding settle in his chest. "You did good surviving."
The boy nodded, jaw set. "Didn't feel like thinking. Just… moved."
Mark glanced at Carl. "You feel anything strange after?"
Carl hesitated. "My older boy did. Said something on the ground felt… wrong. We didn't touch it."
Good instinct again.
---
They didn't stay.
Mark loaded them into the truck—Carl and both boys, tools and weapons tossed into the bed. The Ford groaned under the weight but didn't complain.
By the time they reached the Jensen farm, night was already pulling down hard. No lights anywhere. The stars were sharp and too close, like the sky had thinned.
Sarah was waiting at the door.
She took one look at the injured boy and moved.
"Sit," she ordered, already unwrapping the towel. "Let me see."
The cut was ugly. Deep slash along the forearm, muscle visible, edges ragged like something had torn instead of sliced.
Sarah frowned—not in fear, but concentration.
"That should be bleeding more," she said.
Mark stepped closer.
It wasn't bleeding much at all.
As they watched, the torn edges pulled together. Slowly. Not instantly. But unmistakably.
Emily's breath caught. "It's knitting."
The boy stared at his arm. "It feels… warm."
Sarah pressed lightly along the wound, testing. The boy flinched, then relaxed.
"No infection response," she murmured. "Inflammation's already dropping."
She looked up at Mark, eyes sharp and unsettled.
"This is accelerated healing," she said. "Not normal. Not adrenaline."
Carl swallowed. "He was like that after the fight. I thought it was shock."
Emily hugged her arms. "The energy's doing it. It's not just changing what comes through—it's changing us."
Outside, something shifted at the edge of the trees.
Not close.
Not yet.
Mark looked around his much larger home—at the gathered people, the reinforced doors, the spears leaning by the wall, the quiet hum of readiness settling in.
"Everyone stays here tonight," he said. "We don't split up again."
No one argued.
Because whatever had crossed into their world wasn't targeting individuals.
It was testing communities.
And it had just learned that humans healed faster when they survived.