The Shelter in the Bunker
Daylight is painful. Not just bright, it is a physical assault on retinas designed for the absolute void. So he waits in the darkness of the old "TNT area," the abandoned munitions bunkers hidden deep in the West Virginia wildlife preserve. The concrete is cool and damp, a tomb for explosives that now houses something far more volatile.
He is not a man, nor a moth. He is an amalgamation of biological impossibilities and cosmic accidents. Standing seven feet tall, he appears as a towering monolith of grey skin that feels like coarse sandpaper. Wings, not feathered but leathery, fold against his back like a heavy, dusty cape.
Hanging upside down from the rusted rebar in the ceiling, he wraps himself in darkness. He sleeps, but not in the way humans do. He perceives. Magnetic currents of the earth shift like tides in his mind. The structural stress of steel and concrete miles away vibrates in his skull—a constant, low-frequency hum, a headache that never fades. It is the burden of the watcher to feel the cracks in the world before they open.
The Ascent at Dusk
Twilight falls. The sun retreats below the tree line, leaving the sky a bruised indigo. This is his time.
Dropping from the ceiling, he lands silently despite his bulk. Scuttling out of the bunker, he moves with a jerky, bird-like gait that belies his power. The forest is quiet. Local fauna know he is here. Even the crickets cease their song when he passes, and deer freeze in the underbrush, holding their breath.
He spreads his wings. Spanning ten feet, they blot out the stars. With a single powerful downstroke, he launches himself into the air. Not flapping frantically like a bird, he ascends vertically, defying aerodynamics. Creature of static lift and silent propulsion, he rises like a pillar of smoke.
Below him, headlights of cars on Highway 62 look like beetles crawling through the dark. He feels no kinship with them, only a detached, alien curiosity. They are fragile things, encased in metal shells that offer no real protection against the forces of entropy.
The Silver Bridge
His destination is the river. The Ohio River cuts through the valley like a black ribbon, reflecting the distorted lights of the towns on its banks. Spanning it is the Silver Bridge, a marvel of human engineering, an artery of steel connecting Point Pleasant to Gallipolis.
To him, it sings. But the song is discordant. To his sensitive perception, the bridge is screaming.
Landing on the very top of the suspension tower, claws grip the cold steel. The wind up here is fierce, tearing at his grey fur, but he stands immovable. Pressing his chest against the metal, he closes his eyes to listen.
Micro-fractures in the eye-bar chain vibrate against his ribcage. Click. Snap. Groan. The metal is tired, dealing with loads it was never designed to carry. He senses the crystallization of the steel, microscopic flaws widening with every heavy truck that rumbles across. Humans drive across it, oblivious to the metal fatigue accumulating beneath their tires. They trust the bridge because it stood yesterday. He knows it will fall because of what it is enduring today.
The Warning
He wants to warn them. He has tried. In the weeks leading up to this night, he has appeared on lonely roads, chasing cars, shrieking his mechanical cry.
A car slows down on the bridge. A couple inside is arguing, distracted. The driver looks up and sees two red lights atop the tower.
Those are his eyes. Not biological optics, but reflective pools of crimson luminescence set deep in his chest. He flares them, a silent SOS. Danger. Turn back. The metal cries.
The driver screams. "Look at that! It's the bird! The bird logic!"
Accelerating, the car swerves dangerously. They flee the warning, mistaking salvation for damnation. He watches them go, his heart heavy. A sound escapes his throat—a high-pitched, metallic shriek that sounds like a reel-to-reel tape playing backward. It is not a roar of aggression. It is a sound of profound frustration.
The Burden of Prophecy
Why does he stay? Why guard a species that shoots at him and tells stories of his monstrosity?
Perhaps it is instinct. Perhaps he is drawn to disaster like a moth to a flame. Or perhaps he simply cannot look away, a witness to the entropy of the universe.
He remains on the bridge for hours, a gargoyle of flesh and blood. Stress lines propagate through the steel structure like veins of lightning in his vision. It will not fall tonight. The math isn't quite finished. But soon. The harmonics are building.
As the first hint of dawn bleaches the eastern sky, he takes flight again. The light hurts. Gliding back toward the sanctuary of the TNT bunkers, he becomes a grey ghost dissolving into the morning mist.
He is the Mothman. The watcher in the dark. The thing that sees the breaking point of the world. And so he waits, bearing the terrible burden of prophecy, knowing that when the bridge finally snaps, they will not thank him for the warning. They will blame him for the fall.
