Chapter 1:

The world wasn't ready. Clocks all over the globe captured the time—some, all the way down to the millisecond. Yet no one knew to prepare for that final hour before everything turned into chaos. - TA

- - -

In Malborough, Massachusetts, a rusty, bell-style clock struck its clacker against its bells, ringing angrily into the dawn. It shook on the precipice of a dusty mahogany nightstand, risking more cracks on its already fractured safety glass with each wobble. Until eventually, it fell—although not for the first time.

The clock had a history with the cold, wooden floor, and its various dents and loose bolts proved its tenacity. Yet, before it could test its mettle for what might have been its last time—a hand shot out from underneath rumpled bedsheets and caught it. Then, a finger pressed a button; and the clock went silent, sitting peacefully where it belonged.

...For now.

"Ugh..."

A man groaned while rising from his bed, revealing a lanky frame and a pallid face. He stretched his arms, cracked his back and neck, and then relaxed. However, he quickly took on the weighty expression of someone who knew they were about to deal with a very long day. Fortunately, there was comfort in knowing that tomorrow was his scheduled day off. But soon, even that small comfort was gone when his phone rang, and he answered the first work call of the day.

"...Rowan Atlas, speaking." He said as he picked up his phone.

"Hey man, it's Jimmy. We need you down by Sheridan ASAP." A raspy voice responded. "Check your app for the exact location… Careful though. It looks like a trucker hit something weird."

Rowan's eyebrows rose. "What do you mean, 'something weird?'"

"I don't know, man. But bring your back brace. You'll be working as a team on this one. Whatever it is, loading it up ain't about to be a one-man job. Supposedly, the thing's bigger than that bear Old Man Morrison shot last year, and it stopped a semi dead in its tracks."

Rowan frowned. "Jesus. That big? What did they hit, an elephant? Give me a few minutes. I'll be right there."

"Alright, but hurry. It's a shit show; even the cops are there."

Rowan hung up and hurried towards his shower; the cold water helped clear his mind, but he still felt the dense fog of exhaustion over his thoughts. Still, he dried off, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and dressed. There was a cup of lukewarm coffee on the table from yesterday, which he grabbed as he slung a jacket over his shoulders. The jacket said: "Roadkill Cleaning Crew (RCC)" on the back, and it was stained horribly. Nonetheless, Rowan would wear it with some modicum of pride; after all, the roads weren't going to clean themselves.

- - -

Here's the thing about roadkill: no one talks about roadkill unless they see it. However, people don't often realize that animals jump in front of vehicles far more frequently than corpses on a road might indicate. Yet, so few cases ever get noticed because states, governments, and private contractors hire individuals to go and clean them up. Of course, it's a gnarly job and not for the weak of stomach—but hey, it pays well. And to Rowan, that's all that mattered.

As he drove in his 1984 Toyota SR5, listening to old blues on the radio, he suddenly spotted something dashing onto the road out of his peripheral vision. He slammed the brakes, stopping mere inches before he hit what he thought was a deer. Yet, as it looked back at him, he wasn't quite so sure.

The beast might have had two, or three antlers, an extremely long tail, and a short, flat snout. Rowan could've sworn it had an oddly colored sheen to its hide as well as a weird marking on its forehead too—but before he could get a better look at it, it ran off at a frankly ludicrous speed and all Rowan could do was stare with his mouth agape at its afterimage.

"What the hell?"

The moment's shock made him sit there, just startled for a while, until eventually, he glanced at the coffee in his cup and tossed it out his window. Silently, he promised to stop drinking old brew. He also decided to schedule a doctor's visit to address his lack of sleep—just in case it was starting to make him hallucinate. However, before then, all he could do was shake his head and keep his foot on the gas pedal.

- - -

Ten minutes later, Rowan was at the site of the roadkill incident near Sheridan. A mob of curious onlookers was being kept back by police officers with yellow tape that had cordoned off the area. Their barrier began at the back of a yellow semi-truck—which Rowan was sure was the one involved in the accident. Meanwhile, some paramedics talked to a man wearing a plaid shirt and a blue hat. The man was nursing a few bruises on his arms—probably from an airbag collision— and looked visibly upset.

He must've been the driver.

This is weird, though. Rowan thought.

The crowds were so dense and distracted that barely anyone turned to look his way even after he honked. People parked cars in the middle of the road. However, a policewoman he knew recognized him when she saw his truck and immediately blew her whistle. People started clearing the road. Of course, it took a while for Rowan to have enough room to pull his vehicle past the cordoned area, but by then, he noticed the rest of the road was clear. Too clear. There was plenty of room to let other vehicles go around, but for some reason, they weren't allowed to.

"Hey, Cherry." He said as he rolled down his window next to the policewoman. "Haven't seen you in a while. How's it going? And what's with—" He waved his hands around,"—what's with all this?"

Cherry was middle-aged, short, and stout. Rowan had run into her more than once due to his job often intersecting with police work. Still, despite the gritty details of his career, she was a consummate professional and pleasant to be around. He knew her as a brave and tough woman. However, Rowan noticed a disturbed look in her gaze while she responded to his questions.

"Could be better, but I'm afraid you've got your work cut out for you." She grew quiet for a moment, looking towards the front of the semi-truck, where a pool of purple liquid was creeping into view. She sighed and shook her head. "Listen, I don't know what the hell that thing is, but do me a favor and keep it out of sight. It's…" She paused, searching for the right word. "Well, something isn't right about it, and we don't want folks to get spooked or whack-jobs to come down here because of what they see on the news later. So, for now, cover it up—if you can. We'll worry about anything else when we get to it."

Rowan furrowed his brows but ultimately nodded and was on his way, slowly driving his truck closer to where the roadkill was. Cherry's shoulders seemed to loosen as if freed from an invisible weight as he left.

Getting to the front of the semi only took a few seconds, but Rowan felt an increasing sense of unease. It had started with the weird deer he'd nearly hit a little while ago; however, it worsened as though some part of him knew that something was about to change, and that terrified him.

The wheels of his Toyota rolled over the purple liquid on the road, and at first, he thought it was some leaking coolant from the semi. But then, it smelled too strongly of iron, and he'd never mistake that scent—the scent of blood. Still, he kept moving, eventually seeing the smashed hood of the semi-truck covered in the stuff.

His heart began to beat wilder in his chest. A morbid curiosity overcame him, and soon he saw exactly what the truck had hit, but it put him at a loss for words.

The roadkill's head looked serpentine, yet it was eyeless and had two golden horns. Its body was roughly the shape of a man's, except for a long tail. Also, where a man had nails on his hands, it had stubby, sharp claws. Yet, more notably, instead of feet, it had hooves the same color as its horns. It looked like nothing Rowan had ever seen—and yet, what startled him most wasn't the strangeness of its biology.

...No, what startled him most was the fact that the creature wore clothes.