Escape to the Greenbrier

5 Hours to Thunderbolt

The last of the triage efforts blurred into memory as the rotors pounded overhead.

Tom Keys shouted through the wind: “We need to move—now!”

David grasped Cynthia’s hand as they ran, boots crunching glass and gravel. Manny followed close behind, clutching a satchel stuffed with hard drives, notes, and a single sealed envelope labeled “Return to Sender.”

They boarded the helicopter—one of the few remaining executive-class aircraft not claimed or grounded after the bombardment. The door slammed shut behind them. Elena and Dr. Grady were already strapped in. Tom keyed his mic and gave the go-ahead.

The helicopter lifted into the torn sky.

David glanced back toward the Gaylord Convention Center, now a husk of scorched steel and broken glass. The Potomac shimmered with an oily sheen. Washington was burning.

“God help the ones still out there,” Cynthia whispered, her voice nearly drowned out by the engine’s growl.

“They never had a chance,” Manny muttered. “Nobody warned them. I should have warned them last year.”

“You tried,” David said. “They wouldn’t listen. And this year—we did warn them. The whole world saw that broadcast before the satellites died.”

Manny stared down through the window, jaw tight. Fires dotted the countryside like candles at a wake. “It wasn’t enough.”

The helicopter banked southwest, cutting across Maryland’s shadowed terrain. They climbed above the haze, but not above the damage. Cities flickered below—some entirely dark, others pulsing red with flame and ruin. The familiar geometry of roads and rivers was broken, scattered by meteorite clusters that carved great gashes through the land.

Cynthia pressed her hand to the glass. “They never even knew what hit them.”

“Most thought the worst was over,” David said. “But this was just the prelude.”

For ninety minutes, the aircraft carried them through a sky scorched by electricity. Occasionally, the pilot called out fire zones or instructed brief course corrections to avoid downdrafts from burning terrain.

In the final stretch, as dawn neared, a strange light gathered on the horizon—not the gold of sunrise, but a sullen red. The rogue planet was rising.

David saw it first—a massive orb pushing upward like an impossible moon. Twice the size, tinged with a pulsing glow, trailed by streamers of dust and electric flame.

Manny’s voice dropped low. “She’s nearly in alignment. That’s when the discharge begins.”

Cynthia inhaled sharply. “Then we’re out of time.”

The pilot shouted back, “Approaching the Greenbrier! We’ve got crowds—multiple ground groups around the access perimeter. Hang on.”

Below them, desperate masses swarmed the forest clearings outside White Sulphur Springs. Civilians—dozens, maybe hundreds—had descended on the resort, hoping the rumors of an underground shelter were true.

Soldiers in fatigues held the line at the main entrance. A ring of armored vehicles and perimeter lighting cast harsh shadows against the Appalachian hills.

As they descended, warning flares erupted across the field to hold back the crowd. The helicopter dipped suddenly, swerving to avoid a projectile—likely a rock or brick.

“Hold on!” the pilot shouted again.

David leaned over to Cynthia. “We’re not the only ones who heard the legends.”

“They’re not legends,” Manny said. “They’re memories. The Earth remembers.”

The skids hit the tarmac hard. Before the rotors had stopped spinning, security agents swept them out, waving them toward two diverging doors. Tom Keys motioned urgently.

“This way,” he said to Elena and Grady. “Executive COG protocol.”

David hesitated.

Tom caught his eye. “Your team’s shelter is on Level Four. You’ll be isolated—but alive. Go.”

They exchanged a brief nod, then David turned toward the alternate path, ushering Cynthia and Manny with him.

As they descended the final staircase into the subterranean corridor, Cynthia’s voice broke the silence.

“What if the power fails?”

“It won’t,” David said. “They rebuilt this place for exactly this.”

Manny looked up toward the reinforced ceiling. A tremor passed through the walls.

“It’s beginning,” he said. “We’re beneath the anvil. The sky’s about to strike.”

They passed through the final set of security doors. The lights flickered once, then steadied. The hiss of hydraulics sealed the bulkhead behind them.

Above them, the air screamed. The earth braced.

They were inside. Safe. For now.