Jaxon RadioHead

BATTLE OF MACHINES

The cover photo is a picture of Lisbeth Bluu, Jaxon's mother 

MANHATTAN

A sterile white ceiling swam above Ms. Blue. The rhythmic beep of a heart monitor was the only soundtrack to the blurry world coming into focus. A wave of nausea washed over her, and a muted moan escaped her cracked lips.

FLASH BACK

The screech of tires. The sickening crunch of metal. Dustin kidnapping her son Jaxon. 

HOSPITAL ROOM - PRESENT

Ms. Bluu forced her eyes open. Everything throbbed – her head, her limbs, a dull ache in her chest. Disoriented, she tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness sent her head spinning. Slowly, she pieced things together – the car accident, the blinding impact. A terrifying realization dawned on her. Jaxon.

Terror shot through her. Where was Jaxon?

Summoning every ounce of strength, Ms. Bluu ripped off the scratchy hospital gown. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her ribs, she scrambled off the bed. Her vision blurred at the edges, but she pushed forward, fueled by panic. She grabs her phone and wallet off the desk.

The hospital was in chaos. Nurses rushed past, their faces grim, pushing gurneys carrying bloodied, groaning figures. Bandaged civilians limped through the halls, their eyes wide with fear. 

Fighting back another wave of nausea, Ms. Bluu dodged medical staff and concerned patients. Her steps were wobbly, but she refused to stop. Every corridor looked the same, the sterile white walls offering no guidance.

Finally, she stumbled upon a darkened staircase. It was her only escape route. Descending the steps, she held onto the railing for support, her head pounding in rhythm with each labored breath.

Reaching the bottom floor, she slipped out into the cool morning air. ]The once bustling streets were a graveyard of vehicles – mangled cars piled high like grotesque monuments, their charred husks a testament to the robots' merciless efficiency. The occasional sparking wire snaked across the cracked asphalt, a venomous reminder of the city's severed lifeblood. Distant sounds of sirens echoed in the empty streets, a chilling reminder of the chaos brewing beyond the hospital walls.

Ms. Bluu weaved through the smoke-choked streets, her lungs burning with each rasping breath. The sounds of war echoed all around her – explosions that rattled her bones, the relentless staccato of gunfire, and the inhuman shrieks of the machines. 

A war machine, painted a sickly green, lunged through a storefront window, its metallic arm extended like a monstrous claw. It speared an Indian woman who had been cowering inside, the woman's scream cut short with a sickening thud.

Ms. Bluu choked back a sob, the raw terror twisting her insides. 

A white war machine turned its predatory gaze towards her, its searchlight illuminating her panicked face. With a guttural roar, it lumbered after her, its metallic legs pounding the pavement.

A sudden roar from above split the air. Ms. Bluu craned her neck, momentarily distracted. A sleek black war machine streaked across the sky, its form a blur of black against the smoke-filled canvas. It swooped down, releasing a massive metal claw that attached to the white machine with a deafening clang. With a sickening screech, the white machine was lifted off the ground, flung through the air like a discarded toy before crashing into a towering building with a thunderous boom.

Ms. Bluu stumbled towards a blue car, its Asian owner slumped lifelessly over the steering wheel. A single bullet hole marred the woman's forehead. Ms. Bluu's stomach lurched, but she knew she had to move. Gently, ever so gently, she eased the woman's body onto the pavement, taking the car keys with a silent apology.

Sliding behind the wheel, Ms. Bluu fumbled for her phone. Her frantic fingers navigated the shattered screen, searching for Jaxon's location app. The signal flickered, leading her northward towards New Jersey. The city streets were a chaotic mess – buildings on fire, cars abandoned mid-flight, the occasional glimpse of war machines locked in a deadly ballet of destruction. A missile ripped through the air, detonating against a high-rise, sending a shower of debris raining down on the street below.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the wreckage of a burning building – an old white man, his face contorted with hate, a Confederate flag bandana tied around his head. He raised a rifle, sighting in on Ms. Bluu through the scope. "White Power!" he roared, his voice hoarse with fanaticism.

Ms. Bluu reacted instinctively, throwing the car into a hard right turn. The screech of tires tore through the air as she slammed the car into the side of the man, sending him flying through the air before he could fire a shot. The impact rattled the car, but Ms. Bluu didn't dare stop.

She pressed on back towards their home in New York, the city skyline fading in her rearview mirror. Jaxon's location signal on her phone kept flickering, the erratic movement sending a spike of fear through her veins. But then, abruptly, the signal cut out completely.

Ms. Bluu slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on the deserted road. Her heart pounded in her chest, a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. She stared at the lifeless screen, her vision blurring with tears. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking with despair. "No, no, no!" She slammed her fist against the phone, the frustration and fear spilling over. Then, a single flicker of light caught her eye. The signal was back, but instead of moving, it was a steady green dot.

Without hesitation, Ms. Bluu spun the car around and slammed her foot on the accelerator "Home".  Relief flooded through her, a powerful surge that threatened to overwhelm her. "Home". Without hesitation, Ms. Bluu spun the car around and slammed her foot on the accelerator.