Seventy-Two Hours

Sometimes a crawler dragging a sack of young beneath its ribs. Sometimes a titan whose footfalls shook dust from ceiling tiles. Sometimes a night stalker visible only where rain failed to touch it. Whatever its shape, it was never stupid. The meteor organism did not resurrect corpses. It revised life. It studied resistance and answered with design. In the fight around the collapse of police, hospitals, and every emergency promise, Eli paid in flesh first. Claws opened him. Acid smoked across his shoulder. A command pulse tried to fold his knees. He tasted blood and copper and the sweet electrical scent of a core. Around him, people fought because his refusal had become contagious.