Chapter Two
Zane sat in his grandmother’s old wooden chair just outside the screen door, one leg bent, elbow resting on the armrest like a ship captain bracing for a storm. The bottle of root beer sweated in his hand. Above him, the porch light buzzed like it was trying to die quietly.
Flynn sat on the steps below, elbows on knees, flicking a pebble back and forth between his fingers like a worry stone.
“Well,” Zane said. “That was a day, wasn’t it?”
Flynn exhaled. “Most days usually are.”
They sat in the thick hush of Appalachian night. Somewhere deep in the woods, a frog croaked half-heartedly. The air smelled of pine bark and mildew and the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
“I’m just as mad as you are,” Flynn said after a moment. “But being mad doesn’t change anything.”
Zane didn’t answer right away. He’d already buried the loss—deep and fast.
“It’s just a job,” he said, taking a swig of root beer.
Flynn knew that tone. Knew when to drop something.
“Jenna Liu asked me if you were seeing anyone.”
“She’s a junior. Seems more your type anyway.”
“Well, turns out I’m just the guy you ask about someone else,” Flynn muttered. The pebble clicked softly between his fingers.
Zane rolled his eyes. “You just need to get your head on straight with these girls.”
“Thanks,” Flynn said flatly. It was easy for Zane to say—girls noticed him. Flynn had to work just to exist in the same room.
A familiar old blue sedan turned onto the long gravel driveway. Without a word, Flynn stood and vanished into the house, likely headed to the fridge for an orange soda and a little deniability for their favorite case worker.
The car crunched to a stop, and out stepped Mrs. Redfern. Mid-fifties, heavy-set, and unmistakably no-nonsense. This wasn’t her first visit to the Harper house—not by a long shot.
“It’s always a Tuesday, Mrs. Redfern,” Zane said, still rocking gently in his chair. “You never drop by any other night.”
“Your place is on the way home from my bowling league,” she replied, flat as ever.
Zane motioned toward the screen door. “You want to come inside?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Mind if I stay out here?”
Zane shrugged. “Fine by me. If you don’t see him he isn’t here right?”
He rose from his seat and came down the steps to meet her.
“I’m almost eighteen,” he said quietly. “Why is this such a problem?”
“Oh, it’s not a problem for me,” she said, tone light, before switching to her mom-voice. “But Flynn’s still eighteen months shy of legal, and that makes people twitchy.”
“Can’t we just let it slide?”
“Zane.”
That was all she had to say. He knew what came next.
“I’ve tried to keep this under the radar since your grandpa passed,” she continued. “Lord knows the two of you are more grown-up than half the adults I deal with.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood there, quiet.
“How many jobs are you working right now, baby?”
The bags under his eyes answered before he did.
“One less than I started with this morning.”
She exhaled slowly. “The shop?”
Zane nodded, just barely.
“I knew Bob Carson was struggling. I’m surprised he found a buyer that fast.”
“Not a buyer for the shop. Just the land. They’re putting in a frozen yogurt place.”
Mrs. Redfern stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. This wasn’t standard procedure for social workers in Jasper Creek, but Mrs. Redfern had never cared much for protocol.
“I know how you felt about that place.”
Zane wasn’t the touchy-feely type, but he didn’t pull away. Not right away. Not tonight.
“I always figured one day I’d buy it back,” he said, voice low. “Make it ours again.”
He turned his head toward the trees, blinking at the dark.
She let him go gently. “I’m going to keep doing what I can to keep this case quiet, but sooner or later someone upstairs is gonna notice all these red flags.”
Zane gave a small nod.
“In the meantime,” she said, stepping off the porch, “I’ll look into our options.”
“Thanks,” he said, lifting a hand in a quiet wave.
Mrs. Redfern paused by the car door. “Tell Flynn Miss Delores said hello—and not to be a stranger–that is, if you see him around of course.” She added a knowing wink.
Then she was gone, taillights flickering into the night, her tires flinging gravel as the car disappeared down the drive.
Zane stepped back into the house to find Flynn standing in the kitchen, holding a package of cigarettes like it had personally offended him.
“These were in the fridge,” Flynn said, eyebrows pinched. “In a margarine box. Who does that?”
Zane sighed and yanked the pack out of his hand, walking it straight to the trash.
“If Grandpa had put half as much effort into the shop as he did hiding cigarettes, maybe he wouldn’t have had to sell it.”
“It’s like... how many hiding places did he have?” Flynn muttered.
“And it’s not like we didn’t know he was still smoking. The entire house reeked of old Marlboros.”
They walked back into the living room and sank into the couch—Zane with his half-finished root beer, Flynn cracking open his orange soda. Zane grabbed the remote and flicked through channels. Tuesdays were always a dead zone. Football season felt like a lifetime away. Plus the Volunteers didn’t play on Tuesdays anyways.
“So,” Flynn said, “how was Mrs. Redfern?”
“She wants to put you in foster care even more than I do,” Zane replied without looking up.
“You’d miss me too much.”
“I’d cry myself to sleep every night,” Zane deadpanned. “Maybe Jenna Liu could come over and comfort me through my grief.”
Flynn paused. He couldn’t tell if Zane was joking.
“So... you’re gonna ask her out?”
Zane turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Seriously? I’m not gonna ask her out when you’re clearly crushing on her.”
“It’s fine,” Flynn muttered. “If you want to go out with her, I don’t mind.”
Zane shook his head. “Flynn. I’m not into Jenna. She’s cool. What she does with puppies is adorable. But I don’t just chase every girl that smiles at me.”
“I’m not trying to start anything. I’m just saying—I won’t stand in your way.”
“Well, that’s very noble of you,” Zane replied with a smirk. “But if you like her, maybe actually do something about it?”
“I was going to. Then she told me she was into you. So what was I supposed to do? ‘Hey Jenna, sorry Harper #1 didn’t work out, but how about Harper #2?’”
“See? That right there—that’s why girls don’t go for you.”
“What?”
Zane turned toward him, full-on now. “This whole 'I’m second best, I’m Mr. Nice Guy, I’m option number two' routine. Dude, I get it. Living in the shadow of my obvious brilliance? Not easy.”
He grinned—just enough to soften the blow.
“But seriously, man. That stuff? Girls can smell it. Desperation. Insecurity. That’s your Achilles’ heel.”
Flynn didn’t respond. Just looked down at his soda can like it had all the answers.
Zane let the silence hang for a beat before standing up.
“I’m going for a run.”
“After a day like today?”
Zane grabbed the screen door. “Especially after a day like today.”
Flynn went back to staring blankly at the TV, flipping through channels.
He shifted slightly, realizing he wasn’t sitting all that comfortably. That’s when he felt it—something in his pocket.
Reaching into his left side, he pulled out the small yellow envelope. The one the mysterious man had slipped into the key box.
THE COUSINS INTREPID.
The name stirred something. The Intrepid Brothers had been one of the names his dad and uncles tossed around before settling on Intrepid Motors. Was this somehow connected?
Flynn hadn’t given it much thought earlier—too distracted by everything else—but now, with Zane out on his run and the night pressing in quiet, he was curious.
Zane won’t mind if I take a peek.
Some part of his imagination hoped for a miracle: a giant check to wipe out the funeral debt. A key to a new car, maybe. Something he could finally drive now that he had his license.
Instead, the envelope held two strange earbud-like devices… and a scrap of paper with an address:
1981 County Road 42
Jasper Creek, Tennessee
Flynn picked up the devices, turning them over in his hands. Not a matching pair, he realized—they were both shaped for the left ear. Odd.
And unlike normal earbuds, these weren’t plastic. They were cool to the touch—metallic, a little heavier than expected. No logo. No markings. Nothing.
Definitely weird.
He slipped one into his ear.
Nothing happened.
He grabbed his phone and checked the Bluetooth. No new devices. No pop-up windows. Nothing to pair.
Maybe they’re just not compatible. His phone was a few generations old. It wouldn’t be the first time something didn’t work with it.
He set the earbuds down and turned his attention to the address. Pulling up his maps app, he typed it in.
It pointed to a dead-end stretch of county road out in the middle of nowhere. He switched to satellite view. That was better.
All he could see was a clearing in the trees… and a single wooden shack.
Flynn stared at the screen.
This was getting stranger by the second.
The next morning, they were rumbling down the mountain road in the old truck. Wednesday was the one day Zane was usually halfway rested, since he didn’t work at the store Tuesday night.
“One of these days I should get to drive this thing,” Flynn muttered, watching the trees blur past his window.
He wasn’t a complainer by nature. But around Zane, the filters came off.
“When you get your own truck, you can drive it,” Zane replied without looking over.
“This isn’t even yours. It was Grandpa’s.”
“Yeah, and he left it to me.”
“I think he left it to us.”
Zane chuckled as he eased the wheel left through the winding road. The sky hung low and overcast, but at least it kept the heat down.
“The only reason you want the truck is so you can sneak off to that shack in the middle of nowhere.”
Flynn sat up straighter. “C’mon, man. A mysterious stranger leaves us an envelope in a key box with some address scrawled on a piece of paper, and you’re not even a little curious?”
Zane shot him a look. “The guy’s totally a predator, Flynn. You’ve gotta stop being so naive.”
“What about the earphones?”
“Predator with a weird earbud thing. I don’t know.”
Flynn rolled his eyes and slumped back in his seat. The truck hummed along, just a few ticks over the speed limit.
“I still think we should check it out.”
“And I think the last thing we need is another flaming pile of nonsense in our life right now.”
“There you go. Straight to the negative.”
Zane scoffed. “Flynn, every single unexpected event that has shown up in our lives over the past five years has been some kind of bad news. I don’t want it to be, but that’s just reality.”
“There’s realism,” Flynn said calmly, “and then there’s cynicism.”
“I’m not a cynic. I just—” Zane exhaled. “I had a really long day yesterday, and I don’t feel like chasing shadows.”
“So I’ll go check it out myself.”
Zane’s head snapped toward him. “You? You’re gonna hike out to some rickety shack in the woods alone, to investigate a mystery dropped off by a stranger? Yeah, over my dead body.”
“I can handle myself.” Flynn said.
Zane turned, eyes narrowing. “It has nothing to do with whether you can do it or not. It's just a bad idea, period. Even I wouldn’t do that.”
Flynn shot back. “It’s exactly the kind of thing you would do.”
Zane opened his mouth to argue… then hesitated.
“Yeah,” he admitted after a second. “I probably would.”
The rest of the drive to school was pretty quiet after that.
At least it was a B Day—Flynn’s favorite lineup. He had his dual credit classes in the morning, which usually gave him something solid to focus on. And today, focus was exactly what he needed.
He wasn’t a master of compartmentalization like Zane. But he tried. Tried to shove the envelope, the earbuds, the frozen-yogurt betrayal of his family’s legacy, all into some mental junk drawer he could shut for a few hours.
It worked… barely.
First period was debate, normally Flynn’s time to shine. The topic this week: the role of government in the affairs of private citizens. In Jasper Creek, even high schoolers had strong opinions on that topic. Flynn had volunteered, of course, to argue the unpopular side: that bigger government could actually do more good.
He liked the challenge. Usually.
But today, he also had the misfortune of going first. That wasn’t his strength. Flynn thrived in the back-and-forth, the counterpunch—not in setting the stage. Between the early slot and his scrambled headspace, his opening argument came out thin and uninspired.
It was hard to recover from there.
By second period—literature—he was completely adrift. His mind kept circling back to the envelope. The address. The strange old man. And what it all meant.
He didn’t even notice the teacher calling on him until his name cut through the fog.
“Mr. Harper?”
Flynn blinked. “Sorry, what was the question again?”
“The Iliad. Initial thoughts?”
Flynn straightened in his seat. He had done the reading, but his thoughts were all over the place. Still, muscle memory kicked in.
“Right. Homer. Um… I thought it was interesting that even though it’s an ancient text, it still resonates today—with its themes of vengeance and legacy.”
Even when Flynn was off his game, he could still sound like he wasn’t.
“I didn’t like it at all!” another student blurted out. “It was cool at the beginning with all the war and battle stuff, but then it just slows to a stop and it’s all talking. I want some action here!”
The teacher raised a hand to respond “Well, Mr. Porter, unlike your typical summer blockbuster, a great work of literature takes time…”
“Like who cares about the backstory? Let’s see Zeus blow someone up!”
Flynn let the back-and-forth fade into background noise.
His eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the glass, the sky was still overcast. Still gray. Like the whole world was waiting for something.
By third period government, Flynn’s brain was even further off track. So much for compartmentalizing.
Today’s topic—the idea that laws, not emotions or public sentiment, form the foundation of a functioning society—was normally what lit a spark in him. It was the kind of principle he actually believed in. One he’d argued for before. One he’d probably argue for again.
But not today.
Today, even the exciting world of legal theory and its execution couldn’t shake Flynn’s chaotic internal world.
After lunch, the momentum died completely. Just the usual afternoon lineup—standard high school classes where both the students and the teachers had mentally checked out. Time slowed to a crawl.
Zane, on the other hand, was naturally better at keeping things in their boxes—he had to be. But even he was struggling today.
This semester, he hadn’t re-enrolled in dual credit courses. Just like he’d stepped away from football. There was only so much bandwidth.
Still, he used his free period to help Roger Thompson, the new quarterback, get up to speed on the playbook. Zane might not be on the team anymore, but he was still a team player.
PE was his other refuge. Just a chance to run, to let the stress and noise of the day melt away for a while. It didn't hurt that the girls' track team usually practiced at the same time.
But much like Flynn, after lunch he found himself in a haze, half-listening, half-scribbling down missed assignments while most of the class had mentally checked out.
One more week until graduation.
Of course, the plan had been to work full time at the shop.
Oh well.
Maybe the grocery store needed help on the day shift even though that wasn’t what he had in mind for his future. And then, weirdly, his thoughts drifted to the envelope.
The Cousins Intrepid?
Who even says that?
Why not just “The Harper Boys” or “Zane and Flynn”?
He didn’t want to admit it, but yeah, the whole thing was strange. Not just the earbuds. Not just the timing. All of it.
It’s not that he didn’t love a good mystery. He really did.
But lately, mysteries didn’t lead to treasure maps or hidden secrets. They usually led to things like IRS letters saying you owed more in back taxes than you thought. Or doctors with X-rays and looks that said more than they were willing to say. Or—worst of all—some investigator showing up with news they’d finally found the wreckage of the plane crash that had changed everything.
Not that anyone ever had.
Not yet.
But Zane had learned the hard way—some doors were better left closed.
The final bell had rung, and the Cousins Intrepid—as at least one person referred to them—were back in the truck, heading down the winding road through the woods toward home.
Zane tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in rhythm to the Coltrane track playing softly through the truck’s worn-out speakers, the sax curling through the cabin like smoke.
Flynn reached toward the phone to skip the track.
Zane swatted his hand away without taking his eyes off the road. “Nope! Driver’s choice.”
“Another reason I should get to drive.”
“I don’t understand what your problem is with jazz.”
Flynn let out a dry laugh. “What are you talking about? I love jazz. I just don’t need to listen to it every day.”
“I thought all smart kids liked jazz and classical music and stuff.”
“Oh? Did you just call me smart?” Flynn asked, eyebrow raised.
“No, I just called myself smart. I’m the jazz guy.” Zane grinned, eyes still on the road.
“You are such a walking contradiction,” Flynn said, shaking his head.
“Last year during the championship, I had a Miles Davis album that carried me through the entire third quarter. I don’t know, man—just something about the rhythm. It puts me in the zone.”
“And no one ever gave you a hard time for blasting jazz while throwing passes?”
Zane glanced at him with a smirk. “Oh, they were merciless… until the touchdowns started rolling in.”
Flynn chuckled, but his eyes drifted to the window. Something felt off. This wasn’t the road home.
They weren’t heading toward the house. They were skirting the edge of town, if you could even call Jasper Creek a town.
Zane made a sudden right off the main road and pulled into the cracked asphalt lot of a long-abandoned dollar store, weeds breaking through the pavement.
Flynn looked around, brow furrowing. “Uh, is this the part where you murder me?”
Zane shot him a wicked grin. Without a word, he reached over, cranked up the Coltrane to max volume, spun the wheel all the way to the right, and slammed the gas pedal.
The rear tires shrieked. The truck lurched, fishtailed, and then began spinning—full-force donuts—kicking up a wild cyclone of dust and gravel. Zane leaned his head out the window, howling like he was on the world’s most unhinged roller coaster.
Flynn let out a startled yell and grabbed the ceiling handle with both hands, eyes wide as dinner plates. The tuna sandwich from lunch threatened to make a return appearance.
Round and round they spun, the truck coughing black exhaust that mingled with years of undisturbed dust, turning the parking lot into a swirling storm cloud.
Flynn’s stomach lurched—but once the nausea passed, something unexpected bubbled up. He started to laugh. Actually, laugh. A surprised grin spread across his face.
Zane glanced over, wild-eyed, grinning.
Flynn lifted his voice: “Woo-hoo!”
Zane shook his head—like, really, that’s the best you got?—and motioned for him to try again.
Flynn took a breath and let it out: “WOOO-HOOOO!” Louder. Real.
The two of them were now yelling in sync, lungs wide open, the world outside a blur of color and chaos, but in here—just the two of them, spinning away the weight of everything.
When Zane finally eased off the gas, the truck coasted to a stop in a haze of laughter, heat, and smoke.
Flynn leaned back, breathless and blinking. “Okay… what made you think to do that?”
Zane let out a short laugh. “I don’t know. Just one of those Wednesdays where you need to do donuts at a dollar store.”
They sat for a moment, catching their breath as the dust cloud began to settle back to earth.
Zane reached over casually and handed Flynn his phone. “Punch in the address.”
Flynn blinked. “What?”
“The murder shack in the woods. Punch it in.”
“What? You’re serious?” Flynn’s head snapped back, thrown by the sudden pivot.
“Yeah,” Zane said, voice calm but a little begrudging.
“You really want to go check this thing out? For real?”
“Yes.” He bobbed his head, rhythmic and firm.
“And you’ll let me drive?”
Zane kept bobbing his head, looking like he was about to say yes.
“Not on your life,” he said, a grin spreading.
The cloudy skies had finally parted, sunlight streaking through the treetops as the boys wound their way toward the county line on a road that had long since stopped pretending to be maintained. When Flynn first plugged in the address, his phone hesitated—like it didn’t want to admit the place even existed—before finally locking onto the location.
They were a good fifteen, maybe twenty minutes from the nearest gas station. A solid half-hour from Jasper Creek.
The gravel thinned out until it gave way to a rugged path, and then to full-on off-roading. The deep red clay of southeastern Tennessee clung to the wheels as they bounced along, pine branches scraping against the truck's sides.
Then, there it was.
Just like Flynn had seen in the satellite image: a sagging wooden shack, barely upright, as if it were holding its breath. It was weather-beaten, haggard, leaning slightly to one side, tucked into a clearing framed by tall, whispering pines.
Zane pulled the truck onto the edge of the lot and killed the engine. The sudden silence settled like fog.
They sat for a long moment, neither one reaching for their door.
Flynn stared out the windshield. No sign of life—just a squirrel darting across the dirt and a group of bright red cardinals flitting between the dark green branches overhead. Zane squinted at the shack. “Well… I’m not any smarter yet.”
“Maybe it’s a surprise party,” Flynn said, not sounding convinced even to himself.
Zane sighed like a man preparing to do something regrettable. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. “Hey! Anybody here?” he shouted, loud enough to send the cardinals scattering.
“What’d you do that for?” Flynn hissed.
“If someone’s here, better that they make the first move.”
“Oh yeah. Because an axe murderer loves the direct approach.”
“No one ever tries the direct approach with axe murderers,” Zane replied as he circled in front of the truck. “People always do the whole cower and scream thing. I think if you came at one head-on, you’d freak him out.”
He started toward the shack with a cautious gait, Flynn trailing a few paces behind.
“And besides,” Zane added over his shoulder, “what happened to your boundless optimism? I thought this was all a good idea.”
“Well, it’s hard to think happy thoughts once you're actually at the murder shack,” Flynn muttered.
Almost on cue, the sky darkened again. The clouds from earlier drifted back overhead, casting a dull gray light over the clearing.
As they approached the shack, a subtle scent filled the air—cedarwood, dry and sharp, rising from the aged boards of the structure. Flynn caught it and thought, Well, if we die here, at least it smells nice.
Zane stepped onto the creaking porch and rapped his knuckles on the door. The hollow knock echoed back, like there was nothing inside.
Flynn leaned in, tilting his head to listen.
“You hear that?” he whispered. “Like an AC condenser or something. Kind of a mechanical hum.”
“Maybe we won free central cooling for a year,” Zane quipped.
Flynn pressed his ear a little closer. There was something. A low electrical hum, maybe a faint rhythmic beeping. Not loud. But definitely not natural.
“This door opens toward us,” Zane said, studying the frame. “So…you may not want your head so close.”
“If someone is in there, they’re being extremely quiet,” Flynn added.
They paused again. Zane looked over.
“You still got the earphone things?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason. I’m just thinking they’ll be part of the puzzle at some point.”
Flynn hesitated. “Should we… go inside?”
“There’s no lock. So it’s not breaking and entering.”
“I wasn’t asking for legal counsel,” Flynn deadpanned.
Zane turned and looked around the lot. No cars. No houses. Not even a fence post in sight.
“Well… we did come all this way. What do we have to lose?”
“If this goes south, I’m really sorry for dragging you out here,” Flynn whispered.
“If this goes south, at least I’ve got a decent excuse for missing my shift tonight.” Zane smirked.
They shared a final glance.
“It’s your mysterious envelope,” Zane said, nodding toward the shack. “You do the honors.”
Flynn nodded once, stepped forward, and reached for the rusted metal handle. It was cold and a little loose. With a creak and a groan, he pulled.
The door swung open with a long squeal.
The windowless shack was nearly pitch black—hot, close, and thick with silence. Flynn was just about to step forward, maybe offer a meek “Hello? Anyone at home?” when a single light overhead flickered slowly, painfully, to life.
It startled him at first—he instinctively assumed someone had flipped a switch—but no. There was no one in the shack. Nowhere to hide. The bulb must have been motion-activated or triggered by the door.
It flickered on and off in ragged pulses, like an engine sputtering to life.
After several long seconds, the bulb steadied just enough to illuminate the room. And even then, nothing made sense.
The inside of the shack was exactly what you’d expect based on the outside: a twelve-by-twelve box with cedar plank walls and a sagging tin roof. The shack rested on uneven piers, and the aging wood floor creaked underfoot with every step. An exposed aluminum wire hung from the ceiling, feeding power—somehow—to a single hanging light bulb that looked like it had violated at least five fire codes.
But once Flynn’s eyes adjusted, and he stepped inside, the illusion of normalcy evaporated.
Zane followed him over the threshold, eyebrows raised.
In the middle of the shack, stood a white metallic platform—raised two feet off the ground and accessible by a narrow step at the front. It looked nothing like the structure around it. No wood, no rust, no nails. This had been designed, manufactured. It looked like something from a clean room in a world-class tech lab. Sleek. Purposeful.
Its shape was odd—neither round nor square. At first glance, Flynn couldn’t tell if it was a hexagon or an octagon. On closer inspection… seven sides. He was sure of it.
The top was a white metal grating, cut with surgical precision. Rising from the rear of the platform, a single curved rod supported a panel—like a built-in tablet or control station—at waist height.
A soft mechanical hum filled the room. The sound was steady but alive. The beeping Flynn had heard outside was clearly coming from this thing.
He circled the platform slowly, eyes scanning for a logo. A cable. A hint of where it came from. Was it plugged in? Powered by something underneath?
Suddenly, the room was bathed with light. A soft blue light shone upward through the grating beneath the platform, pulsing slowly—bright, then dim. Bright, then dim.
Flynn blinked. The change had apparently been triggered by Zane who was now standing on top of the platform, staring down.
“Uh… maybe that’s not a great idea,” Flynn offered, eyes narrowing.
Zane didn’t move. “Yeah… maybe not,” he echoed—though clearly, he wasn’t stepping off either.
The blue light quickly grew stronger, rhythmically throbbing from beneath Zane’s feet. Then the control panel lit up. Icons flashed. Symbols. Lines of text… but nothing he could read or even identify. The script was completely foreign—curved, elegant, totally unrecognizable.
Then the panel spoke.
A calm, friendly female voice emanated from the device. But like the writing, the language was incomprehensible.
“What did you do?” Flynn snapped, darting up onto the platform to get a better look.
“I didn’t touch a thing!” Zane shot back. “It just happened automatically!”
The humming noise deepened. The pitch climbed. Steam hissed up from beneath the grating—thin at first, then growing. A sharp electronic tone rang out, steady and rhythmic—like a countdown.
Flynn’s eyes widened. “We really need to get off this thing.”
But neither of them moved.
The voice kept speaking in the same calm, upbeat cadence. More lights blinked across the panel. The steam grew thicker, swirling around their ankles. The high-pitched whine climbed to a piercing peak.
And then—white flash.
Blinding. Absolute.
It sounded like pressure being released from the center of the earth.
Then—silence.
The light faded.
The steam cleared.
The hum died out.
And the shack was exactly as it had been five minutes earlier—dim, dusty, and devoid of life.
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