Whaddup folks,
Getting all 4 removed on Friday. 33yo. Top 2 erupted normally but got cavities on the hard to reach side for toothbrushes. Bottom two are slightly impacted and require "partial bony extraction" per the billing document I got. Put this off for years. Because of anxiety and potential combativeness I am opting for "deep sedation" which I assume means a step above twilight sedation?
In 2015 and 2018 I attempted (and failed) suicide twice via overdose, the first time using migraine meds and Vicodin and the second time using a novel dissociative called deschloroketamine. While I'm in a leagues better place these days, you don't just attempt suicide and forget about it. The 2018 attempt resulted in my breathing stopping and I became totally unresponsive. I came to in a hospital triage room that, in my initial stupor and confusion, thought was a version of limbo - and in no way am I a spiritual person. The dimensions of the triage room did not make geometric sense and there were other silent, still bodies in other beds.
When I was back towards 70% cognizance or so and recovering in hospital, it hit me what the experience in between overdosing and coming to in the hospital was. Nothingness. There's nothing for you, or me, or any of us there. You can't ascribe qualities to it because it's nothingness you are not aware off - Death in a deputized form. An experience you can only talk about because you woke up.
I have been having daily panic attacks in anticipation of treading back into that territory - lost time and nothingness you aren't aware of; coming to in an unfamiliar room with medical staff. I am resorting to writing a few things on my arm as reminders for when I wake up that this isn't the same as the suicide attempt, to not freak out. During the consult, I let my surgeon-to-be know all this and was not impressed with his reaction - granted I don't know how many people like myself he's encountered.
While there's a lot of advice, experiences, encouragement, and hesitation on this subreddit, I've never seen anyone else chime in as a suicide survivor and the unique things that sedation may represent. Just remember that maybe the IV drip and whoosh into a silent, amnesic sleep for one person here might be the trauma of someone else.
I'm keeping these damn teeth when they're done btw.

Living in a small southern town, you get used to the way things are. I grew up as a military brat, so my childhood memories are a blur of packing, unpacking, and getting settled. It had been seven years since we arrived, and nothing but the grace of God would make me move again. A few years ago, my father got orders to station at a base in the middle of the Mohave. I was only seventeen then, but after a few dozen screaming matches, I decided to strike out on my own a little early. I got a part-time job at the cafe, which was enough to rent a little run-down shack a couple of blocks from downtown. As far as I was concerned, I was living the dream—serving coffee a few hours a week and spending the rest of my time hanging out with friends, listening to music, and drinking.
That particular morning started the same as any other. I woke up around noon with a text from Mark to meet me at the cafe. Took me about two hours to get up and head over. The sun had just begun its descent as I pushed the door to the cafe open, the bell above tinkling softly. The sound bothered me a little bit, but I couldn’t tell why. It seemed to ring a little louder than I was expecting, and gave me this strange drilling sensation inside my head.
I ignored the feeling as the smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries washed over me. I saw Mark and Jamie already sat at our usual spot. Mark looked up as I approached, a grin spreading across his face. "Hey, Alex. Sarah should be here soon."
“So what's on the docket today?” I asked as I sat down, stealing a bear claw off Jamie's plate and taking a large bite before he had the chance to protest.
Mark’s excitement was almost palpable. He was always the one with the big ideas and crazy schemes, which I honestly appreciated. They got us into trouble more often than not, but it beat day drinking in the Walmart parking lot like everyone else our age.
"Alright, check this out," Mark said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "I was talking to my cousin who works for the county. He told me about this old, abandoned food processing factory just outside of town. They used to can peaches there."
I gave him a skeptical look. "That’s your idea? Old, canned peaches?"
"No, idiot," he scoffed. "They left behind a ton of nitrates and phosphates. I’ve been doing some reading, and we can use them to make fireworks. I was up all night figuring it out and putting these together." He subtly opened his backpack to reveal at least a dozen PVC pipes fitted on both ends.
"Now that's what I’m talking about," I said, grinning.
Sarah walked in, catching the tail end of our conversation. "Sorry I’m late, I had a breakout and had to stop by the pharmacy. Upped my allergy meds. I fucking hate pollen," she said as I scooted over to make room for her on the bench.
"Is there anything you aren't allergic to?" I laughed.
She rolled her eyes, ignoring my question. "So, what's the plan for today?"
Mark, Jamie and I exchanged cheeky glances. "Well," I started, "let’s just hope you’re not allergic to peaches."
We finally managed to pry the side door of the factory off, which broke free from the hinges and smashed against the floor. Stepping inside, the air was thick and rancid as we bounced the beams of our flashlights around the packaging floor.
"We should split up," Mark suggested. "Alex, you and Sarah check out the storage rooms for the chemicals. Jamie and I will find the control room and see if we can get the power back on."
All of us nodded as we went our separate ways. Sarah and I wandered down the dark hallways, kicking open doors and looking for anything that looked vaguely like chemicals. The corridors were dark and damp, with black mold snaking along the walls like veins.
The first few rooms we checked were empty, filled only with dust and the remnants of long-abandoned equipment. Each door creaked as we pushed it open, revealing more decay and desolation.
As we moved further down the hallway, the mold seemed to become more aggressive, spreading in thick, dark patches along the walls and floors. The air grew heavier, making it harder to breathe. We kicked open another door, our flashlights revealing more of the same—nothing useful.
"This place is a bust," Sarah muttered,
"Let's keep looking," I replied, though I was starting to feel the same way. "There has to be something."
We continued down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the silence. As we approached the end of the hall, something caught my eye. One door stood out, covered in black, creeping mold that seemed to pulse and writhe. Tendrils of fungus snaked out from the edges, reaching out into the hallway.
"Sarah, look at this," I said.
She turned to see what I was pointing at and her eyes widened. "That’s... different."
We approached the door cautiously as the tendrils moved and swayed.
With a deep breath, we each grabbed one side of the door and pulled. It resisted for a moment before giving way, the mold snapping and tearing as we forced it open. The smell that hit us was overpowering, a mix of rot and decay that made my eyes water.
Inside, our flashlights revealed a horrifying sight. At the back of the room sat several pallets with dozens of boxes of peaches each. But it was what grew from these boxes that will haunt my nightmares till my dying day.
The entire back wall was consumed by a towering fungal mass. Thick, fleshy stalks jutted out from the base, climbing nearly to the ceiling. The surface of the fungus glistened with a slimy, wet sheen, appearing almost like rotting flesh under our flashlight beams. Each stalk was covered in a mottled, sickly green and yellow hue, with patches of black mold that seemed to pulse in the dim light.
Interwoven within this horrific sight were bulbous growths, each one throbbing rhythmically, as if with a heartbeat of its own. They resembled obscene, overgrown tumors, ready to burst at the slightest touch. Long, sinewy tendrils extended from the main mass, creeping over the boxes and along the floor like the fingers of some malevolent creature, seeking out any life to ensnare.
The tendrils near the door twitched, slowly inching their way toward us as if aware of our presence. The air was thick with spores, glimmering in the light like tiny stars, each one a potential harbinger of decay and death.
"Oh my god," Sarah whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of our own breathing. "What is that thing?"
We stood there, frozen in shock and disgust, before I slammed the door shut.
"Let's get the hell out of here," I said.
We hurried back down the corridor, our footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. The lights in the facility flickered on, casting a blinding white light. I heard a bubbling, groaning noise emanate from behind the fungal door, sending a wave of nausea through my body.
We met back up with Mark and Jamie in the main area and quickly told them what we saw.
"Yo, that sounds sick," Jamie exclaimed. "We should blow it up. I found the chemicals in the control room and these bad boys are ready to go," he said, holding up a pipe bomb.
"Yeah," Mark agreed, his eyes alight with excitement. "We'd be doing the world a favor, getting rid of that thing."
Sarah shook her head, her face pale. "No way. I'm not doing this. That thing... It's not normal. We need to get out of here and call someone who knows what they're doing."
Jamie frowned. "Come on, Sarah. Don't be a buzzkill. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do something epic."
"Epic?" Sarah snapped. "That thing is dangerous. We don't know what we're dealing with. I'm not risking my life for some stupid joke."
Mark stepped in with a grin. "Alright, let's all calm down. If you’re scared you can just let the men handle it.”
Sarah crossed her arms. "Fine, but I'm staying here."
"Suit yourself," Jamie said, shrugging. "But we're not leaving without taking care of that thing."
"Alright, let's do this," Mark said, looking at Jamie and me. "We'll be quick. Sarah, stay here and keep an eye out.”
The hallway looked completely different in the fluorescent lighting. I could see now that each vein of fungus emanated from that single door, like a spiral portal threatening to suck us in.
"Let's make this quick," I whispered, glancing back at Jamie and Mark. "We light the bomb, throw it in, and get the hell out of here."
Jamie nodded, holding the pipe bomb tightly in his hand. "Ready when you are."
We reached the door, and the tendrils of fungus seemed even more aggressive, writhing and pulsing as if aware of our presence. The air was thick with spores.
"On three," I whispered, gripping the edge of the door. "One... two... three."
We yanked the door open, the mold snapping and tearing as it gave way. The smell of rot and decay hit us again, making my eyes water. The monstrous fungal mass loomed before us, its bulbous growths throbbing rhythmically.
Jamie lit the fuse and threw the bomb as hard as he could inside. It struck one of the orbs, which burst, shooting a fine white mist into the air.
"Run!" I shouted, slamming the door shut. We turned and sprinted down the hallway. The explosion sounded behind us, the shockwave lifting me off my feet and sending me tumbling to the ground.
Living in a small southern town, you get used to the way things are. My parents were in the army, so we moved a lot, but now I'm staying put. I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a small headache.
I ignored it and slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie. “So what's on the docket today?” I asked, stealing a doughnut off Jamie's plate.
“Going to go to an old peach factory and get some chemicals. I need to make some fireworks,” Mark replied, subtly revealing some pipe bombs in his bag.
Sarah walked in towards the tail end of our conversation and silently stood next to our table.
The three of us glanced at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Sarah,” I finally started. “Are you ok?”
“Y-yeah,” she replied. “Are YOU guys feeling ok?”
We exchanged uneasy glances. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I said. After a moment, she shook her head and sat down as we continued our plans.
That evening, we broke into the peach factory. We found this disgusting, gigantic fungal growth coming out of some boxes of peaches and we blew it up with some pipe bombs.
The next day I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a small migraine.
I ignored it and slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie. “So what's on the docket today?” I asked, stealing a maroon off Jamie's plate.
“Going to go to an old peach factory and get some chemicals. I need to make some fireworks,” Mark replied, subtly revealing some pipe bombs in his bag.
Sarah walked in towards the tail end of our conversation and silently stood next to our table.
The three of us glanced at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Sarah,” I finally started. “Are you ok?”
“Y-yeah,” she replied. “Not really. Are YOU guys feeling Ok?”
We exchanged uneasy glances. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I said. After a moment, she shook her head and sat down as we continued our plans.
That evening, we broke into the peach factory. We found this disgusting, gigantic fungal growth coming out of some boxes of peaches and we blew it up with some pipe bombs.
The next day I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a piercing migraine.
I ignored it and slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie. “So what's on the docket today?” I asked, stealing a bagel off Jamie's plate.
“Going to go to an old peach factory and get some chemicals. I need to make some fireworks,” Mark replied, subtly revealing some pipe bombs in his bag.
Sarah walked in towards the tail end of our conversation and silently stood next to our table.
The three of us glanced at each other, unsure of how to proceed. “Sarah,” I finally started. “Are you ok?”
“What's going on?” she asked, tears welling up in her eyes. “I’m scared.”
We exchanged uneasy glances. “It’s fine, Sarah. Just take a seat,” I said. After a moment, she shook her head and sat down as we continued our plans.
That evening, we broke into the peach factory. We found this disgusting, gigantic fungal growth coming out of some boxes of peaches and we blew it up with some pipe bombs.
The next day I woke up around noon and got a text from Mark to meet at the cafe. The smell of slightly stale coffee and pastries greeted me as I arrived. The bell's ring seemed off, giving me a splitting migraine.
As I slid into the seat across from Mark and Jamie, I noticed Sarah outside, fixated on a bird suspended in mid-flight. I went out to see her.
"Are you seeing this?" she asked, her voice tinged with astonishment.
"Yeah," I replied nonchalantly. "That happens all the time. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"What the hell do you mean, 'Am I feeling okay?'!" she screamed. "That bird is frozen mid-air, and you don't think anything weird is going on?"
Her yelling took me aback. I didn't understand her alarm, so I shrugged it off and joined Mark inside. As we began planning our nightly excursion to the peach factory, Sarah burst through the door, screaming, then vanished in a puff of smoke.
"That's odd," I mused, my brow furrowed in confusion before we shrugged it off and resumed our scheming.
The day after, I met Mark again at the cafe. This rhythm had become our existence: meetings by day, adventures by night at the old peach plant. That evening followed the familiar pattern; we reveled in the thrill of hurling pipe bombs into that small enclosed room.
This routine had completely engulfed our lives. Day after day at the cafe, night after night at the factory—it seemed as though this cycle was all we had ever known. Reflecting on it, I couldn't remember any other way of life.
However, one thing increasingly disturbed me—the ringing of the doorbell at the cafe's entrance. Each time I entered, the sound seemed sharper, more grating. Focusing on it brought a searing pain to my head, like a needle drilling through my skull. Yet, despite the agony, I found myself obsessing over it, the sound gnawing at the edges of my sanity.
One day, driven to the brink by this incessant ringing, I decided to confront it head-on. I stood by the door, letting the bell chime repeatedly. Each ring sliced through my mind, but I persisted, sweat beading on my forehead, teeth clenched in torment.
As the pain crescendoed, reality shattered. I woke to the blaring of a fire alarm, not the quaint doorbell I had imagined. The cafe was engulfed in chaos. The hallway was consumed by a sprawling fungal mass, its tendrils creeping along the walls.
In the dim, flickering light, I saw Jamie, or what was left of him. Half of his skull was missing, the fungus attached grotesquely to his exposed brain, pulsating with each eerie beat of his fading heart. Mark was there too, seemingly unharmed physically, but trapped in a delusion, his eyes glazed over, a smile playing on his lips as the fungus encased him.
Sarah lay collapsed by the fire alarm, her hand still on the lever. She had managed to pull it before succumbing to the spores that now clung to her body.
The tendrils that had enveloped me snapped violently, each break releasing a sickening crack that echoed through the eerie silence of the hallway. An outline of my body remained imprinted in the fungal mass, a mold from which I had desperately broken free.
Gritting my teeth against the pain and horror, I scrambled to Mark and Sarah. Mark was less entangled, lost in his fungal-induced stupor. I grabbed him under the arms, his body limp but alive, and dragged him across the floor. The fungus resisted, stretching like sinew before tearing away from him with wet, ripping sounds.
Sarah was heavier, her body weakened but still fighting. I clasped her wrists, pulling with all my strength. The fungus clung to her, tendrils winding up her arms like ivy. With a final, determined yank, the last of the tendrils snapped, freeing her. We left behind fragments of the monstrous growth clinging to her clothes.
Together, we staggered out into the night air, away from the suffocating enclosure. The cool air hit our faces, harsh yet cleansing. Behind us, the fire alarm continued to blare into the night. I fumbled with my phone, hands shaking, to dial the emergency number. The call went through, and within minutes, the sound of sirens cut through the stillness of the night, growing louder as help approached.
The next few days were a blur. I remember fading in and out of consciousness as nurses pumped antifungals directly into my IV, their faces blurring into the sterile environment. Once we were somewhat cognizant, the police wanted answers. One by one, we were interviewed, but we gave them nothing. I still don’t know what the exact penalty is for manufacturing explosives and using them to destroy a building, but I’m guessing it’s not community service. Jamie was still missing, and they hadn’t found any sign of him or his body. I tried to hide my tears as I knew he was already long gone.
After a few weeks, I was finally cleared for visitors and got to see Sarah again. She told me that after the explosion, she ran but couldn’t leave us behind. She came back, only to see us being consumed by the fungus. Try as she might, she wasn’t able to free us as she felt the oppressive spores take her under. She fought back and managed to pull the fire alarm before succumbing again. The doctors told her that her allergy medication gave her some resistance to the fungus; otherwise, she might have been a goner.
Mark was never the same. We never talked about what happened, and after trying once and him flipping out, I figured it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. That summer, he moved to upstate New York to work in his dad’s business. I haven’t seen him since. That fall, Sarah started college at Savannah State. I still call her every now and again, but it’s not like it used to be.
Despite all that happened, I’m not moving again. I’m happy here, and if it’s up to me, I’ll die in this little town. I still work at the cafe, as a manager now. On weekends, I come in and just sit at the booth we all used to share.
I still think about Jamie from time to time. I wonder if he's dead or still stuck in his delusion, picturing the four of us sitting at our table, talking, laughing, and passing the time. Sometimes, when the cafe is empty and the light is just right, I can almost see him there, his smile frozen in that moment before everything went wrong.
The cafe grows quieter each day, the hum of life fading into an eerie stillness. My skin feels different, as if the air itself whispers secrets I can't quite grasp. The itching that started as a minor annoyance has intensified, becoming a constant torment. I scratch at lesions that have begun to form on my arms and chest, red and raw, with patches of green spreading beneath the surface. I’ve started to wear long sleeves to cover my arms and a mask to hide my purpling lips.
Some nights, when closing, as I sit alone in the dim light of the cafe, the itching becomes unbearable. I claw at the lesions, feeling a dampness beneath my skin. Sometimes, when I cough, I could swear I see tiny spores hanging in the air, reminiscent of the bursting nodules growing on the stalks of the monster.
Occasionally, I hear the bell ring and the door open, but no one is there. I look outside into the empty night and see nothing. This went on for weeks, becoming more frequent. But one night, the door opened, and I saw Jamie standing there, the picture of health. I went to embrace him and noticed my lesions were gone too. It was almost as if we had never gone to the peach factory. It was suddenly morning, and the light shone through the cafe. For the first time in forever, we were happy. We talked about nothing, passing the time.
After what felt like hours, he told me it was time to go. But his mouth wasn’t moving—I felt like I could read his thoughts, and he could read mine. We stood up as I took one last look at the cafe and headed off with him, back to the peach factory.
As we walked, a strange calmness settled over me. I remember feeling that I wanted to ask if he had talked to Mark or Sarah, and wondered how they were doing. But deep down, somehow, I could feel their presence and I knew they were doing just fine. The sun was bright, the air crisp. The itching had vanished completely, replaced by an inexplicable craving for the sweetness of ripe peaches. Jamie and I shared a silent understanding, a bond deeper than any words could convey.
The factory loomed ahead, its doors wide open as if inviting us in. The familiar scent of peaches and something else—something earthy and ancient—filled the air. We stepped inside, side by side, feeling at home for the first time in ages.
The last thing I remember before the darkness took over was the feeling of the soft, warm peach flesh in my hand, and Jamie’s voice in my head saying, "Welcome home."

I’ve only worked one other retail job before this, it was at a dodgy corner store that made most of its cash from liquor sales, cigarettes and cheap imported knick-knacks for tourists. I lasted a week. But that job doesn’t even hold a candle to the circus I have to deal with here. Calling it a circus is revoltingly generous.
The Page had started and ended again. But now, filling the silence was pain.
Blinding pain and an intense, high pitch constant ringing. I couldn't remember when my eyes opened again, but I found myself laying on my side in a small and cold, slightly coagulated puddle of blood. I had been lying there, staring at the white tile that stretched for miles into the dark in one direction. The thing pretending to be my dad was nowhere to be seen, and though he didn't have the opportunity to blow my head off, the pounding migraine I now had sure felt it would finish the job. I peeled myself off the floor, and my eyes took their sweet time adjusting to the very differently lit place I found myself in. The ground was level again, and the shelves were their normally straight and stupidly tall shelves.
“Where am I?”
My voice was muffled like I was hearing my own voice through a wall. That’s not a good sign…
There was a thin trail of what I could only assume to be my blood leading back to a lone clothing rack full of ugly sweaters. I wanted to investigate, but something about having your eardrums popped like flesh-balloons really takes the curiosity out of you.
My head felt heavy, and my limbs hung from their joints like lead pipes as I tried to regain my bearings. By some random intervention of God or the devil or whatever forces at work in here that either decided to cut me a break or deliver me right to the doorstep of my untimely demise, I was standing right under the Garden and Live Goods sign.
The smell here was— the air was different. It was swampy. It was noticeably unique from the other areas I've visited. The pungent odor of decaying plant matter, wet soil, and humidity slapped me in the face like a swampy Louisiana morning. There were vines on the floor as thick as a man’s thigh, and I could have sworn they were moving and twitching slightly. Off in the distance I could see a pair of automatic sliding doors. Beyond them was a dark viridian shadow. I found myself reconsidering again if I really could live without my phone or not. I could just find a stack of clothes to sit under until my shift finished. It would be so easy. I could probably even fall asleep! How wonderful would it be if this were all just a really long, really real feeling nightmare brought on by some bad weed or old pizza…
I took a moment to follow that thought.
How weird would it be to set up a therapy appointment from a payphone? Is that a red flag? I feel like that would be kind of a red flag–
“Max! Buddy you made it! I knew you could do it!”
I turn to see Fred, armless and sprinting from out of nowhere towards me. He was wearing a sunhat and a bright blue polo with empty sleeves flopping in the wind.
“I was so worried your head had exploded already! Did you get my message from Janis?”
I slapped him so hard his head spun. Like, it literally spun. I almost spun it off his plastic neck.
“Are you fucking serious!? You left me to walk around aimlessly on my own in THIS place?! Give me my goddamn phone before I take your legs too!”
He was completely unfazed, his head continuing to spin as he spoke.
“Ok, I know you’re mad but… do you mind?”
I begrudgingly stopped his head from spinning and turned it to face me.
“I didn't know how else to get you motivated enough to come with me to Garden to use their phone. No offense, but you are kinda stubborn.”
“Fred.”
“Yes?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. I could feel the throbbing in my head pulsing in my sinuses and teeth. Part of me wondered if it was a tension headache from how irritated I was or if it could have something to do with the ear nuke I’d just received. I looked back at Fred’s stupid smiling face and took a deep…deep breath. Max, don’t dismember your only lifeline. It's not worth it. I addressed him in the way one would talk to a dog that was too dumb to understand why it wasn’t okay to pee in the house.
“If you had told me the page was going to increase in volume to the point it could kill me, I would have gladly come with you.”
“Oh, for real?”
“Yes.”
“Aww, Maxy! I didn’t think you trusted me that much already! Hug?”
“No. Your opportunity for a hug left when you STOLE MY PHONE. I need that to punch out DIPSHIT! I literally CANNOT LEAVE WITHOUT IT!”
“Well there’s no need for name calling.”
I turned and started to head towards the doors. I kicked the vines out of the way as I walked. I was fed up, fuming, tired and just wanted whatever Little Shop of Horrors nonsense I would have to deal with next to be over. I could hear Fred trailing close behind me and continuing his chatter, but it was so much harder to hear him now. *I’ll definitely have to go to the doctor for this. God, the bill is gonna suck. Guess the twenty bucks an hour is worth something, as shitty as the situation is…*
“Max?”
I think I’ll order a bunch of food when I get home, with ice cream.
“Hey Maaax?”
Ice cream in my nice, warm bed…
“Max!!”
“What?!”
“Help–”
I spun towards the plastic pain in my ass and threw my hands in the air.
“WHAT! What the hell could you possibly need help withohMY GOD–”
The stupid vines had picked up Fred and were now pulling him apart, one of his legs coming free with a POP.
“Hey! Vines off the legs, pal! You haven't even offered me dinner yet!”
“What do I do?!”
“Well, if a scenario wherein you are being man— or in this case —mannequin-handled by a co-worker in a way you don’t like should arise, you should go to HR. ThetaMart can let a little bit of murder slide, but definitely not–”
Another POP and the last of Fred’s appendages were gone.
As much as I would like to say I leaped into action to save him, hacking and slashing the vines away, and got Fred’s legs back; I did not. In fact, I couldn’t even bring myself to feel all that bad. It was only a matter of time before the page sounded again and popped my head like a meaty Gusher. I’m pretty sure after that I wouldn't really need my ears anymore.
“I don’t have time for this.”
The vines lifted Fred higher into the air, him never stopping to take a breath as he began to beg and plead which was… surprising.
“Max! Max buddy, you gonna help me out?!”
“No, I’m going to answer the phone.”
Fred made a sound similar to a plastic clothing tag being taken off a shirt. I couldn't tell you how I know but it was the mannequin equivalent to a whine.
“Come on, man!”
“I’ll come back for you if I remember, though.”
“… Not cool dude, not cool.”
Just when I thought the plant for whatever reason had no interest in me, I felt a vine very quickly slink up my pant leg and climb much higher than I appreciated. Fred was right, this plant was a little too touchy.
I could only let out a squeak before it quickly yanked my leg out from underneath me. I fell forward, the full weight of my body falling on my chest. I could see something passing back and forth behind the doors which implied that one— it was big— and two— it was waiting for us. The vines, as though they noticed the shape when I did, began dragging us both toward the door. My face made hard contact with the tile and undoubtedly gave me a hell of a shiner on my cheek. I dug my nails into the ridges in the floor but to no avail, it only took about 10 seconds for us to clear the almost football field length between us and the doors to Garden & Live Goods.
The smell of swamp hit me with about the same force as the vines slingshotting me and Fred’s torso down the soil aisle. The air was hot and wet, water dripped from the shelves, and there was a noticeable fog that had settled on the floor. The place was a jungle, and if I hadn’t been tossed around or deafened I probably would’ve thought his place was pretty cool. Would’ve being the key word. Fred’s eyeballs began to dart around in their sockets, his head moving from left to right on the axis of his neck.
“Oh man, oh no—”
I laid on the floor for a minute just staring at the cascading vines for just a bit longer before they started pulling me to pieces too.
Fred was notably not as impressed. He wiggled and wobbled, trying to turn over on his side.
“This was not a good plan! Bad plan! We gotta get outta here—“
“Why are you scared? If that pager goes off again, I’m toast! Extra freakin’ crispy!”
“I’m not supposed to be here! I owe the garden manager big time!”
“Owe them what?”
If Fred had nails… or a mouth… or hands for that matter, he would’ve been biting them.
“I lost a game of Uno to them and still haven’t paid what I owe!”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
For the second time in less than 5 minutes, I peeled myself off the floor and took one last moment to admire the plants around me. They were so strange and bright. I had never seen plants like these. I wonder if anyone would notice if I took one of the small ones home.
“Max! Max, hold up!“
“Oh, before I forget…” I walk over to Fred, reached into his legless pants pocket and grabbed my phone. To my dismay, the idiot had cracked my screen. That made it all the easier to leave him there, armless, legless and yelling. Serves him right.
“Max! Max wait it’s not safe!! Maaax!!!”
Fred’s voice faded as I walked up and down the aisles trying to get some inclination on where in the department I was, but this place like the rest of the store, was absolutely gargantuan. The dense foliage consisted of trees as thick as Greek pillars, shrubbery with leaves as large as tables, and hypnotically-colored flowers, some of which spray you in the face. I made that mistake trying to pick a purple one that smelled like Listerine mouthwash. I coughed and hacked trying to clear my eyes. Whatever was in that flower juice left the world in… a beautiful pink hue.
A carpet of soft moss blanketed over most of the floor where only every few yards was the tile underneath visible. The stench of plant gunk gave way to a sweet smell that put me at ease.
It smells like roses…
It felt as though this place was welcoming me to sit. To sleep… to stay.
No, I have to answer that damn phone. I gotta stay focused. I can’t keep wasting time and walking around aimlessly. Maybe leaving Fred behind wasn't the best idea–
I managed to find a shelf-like structure buried beneath vines, moss, and branches. I took a deep breath and began scaling it as quickly as I could manage. I had to see where exactly I was and pray wherever or whatever the manager was, it didn’t spot me piddling around up here.
I peeked over the top feeling brave, then I climbed all the way up. I sat atop the shelf, getting a full view. It was breathtaking. The entire department was a lush rainforest. Overhead, above the canopy, actual clouds formed. I couldn't help but speak aloud a quiet “Woah.”
Maybe this is why Janis likes loitering on top of shelves. I can’t imagine Home and Decor looks as amazing as this, though.
As I began to be lulled once more by my surroundings, I saw a head peek at me from the shelf on the other side of the aisle from me— a head with thick, auburn spirals and some of the greenest eyes I had ever seen. It seemed they saw me before I saw them, and they were locked on me. They appeared apprehensive of my presence.
“Uh…hi,” I said with a wave.
The top half of the head was thankfully attached to a girl. She pulled herself up to the top of the adjacent shelf. She was pretty, really pretty. She wore a long dark green skirt and from what I could tell, a well-loved Led Zeppelin t-shirt peeking out from over the top lip of her white and green stained apron with a pair of combat boots. She eyed me inquisitively and said… something. I could only gesture to my ears and respond: “I can’t hear you, sorry.” She wrinkled her nose then began digging in her apron pocket and producing a notebook and pen. She scribbled something then proceeded to crumple up the paper into a small ball and throw it across the gap between us. She had a throwing arm to rival Fred’s, and the little ball landed in my lap. I carefully unfolded the slightly damp paper to read the message in flowery handwriting: “are you Max?”
My chest tightened with anxiety. Tell the pretty and mysterious girl my name and break rule one or lie and hope it doesn't come back to bite me.
I smiled and nodded my head like a dope.
She returned my smile and made the phone gesture with her hand, holding holding it up to her ear. I nodded and smiled again, mimicking the gesture. *Oh thank God she knows where the phone is.* I pulled out my own pen and scribbled on the other side of the paper: “what’s your name?” might as well even out the playing field, and tossed it to her. She opened it smiling wider this time, dimples appearing in her cheeks as she wrote her response and tossing the ball back to me. This was… actually kinda fun.
“Ana Odie” the note said. She wrote another and tossed it to me. It read: “what happened to your ears?”
I answered: “popped ‘em, I gotta answer the page.” I paused for a moment and quickly gestured for the paper back, she tossed it back to me and I added: “your ears aren’t damaged?”
I returned it and she responded by pulling a pair of scuffed-up EarPods out of her pocket with a sly smirk. Ah, good ol’ sound canceling. There was something about her that made that quiet suggestion to stay grow in intensity. She began to climb down, gesturing for me to follow, and I did so without missing a beat.
When I reached the bottom, the fog seemed so much thicker, the intoxicating smell of flowers lulled me to the point my eyelids began to feel heavy. The fog was so dense I couldn't even see my feet anymore, thankfully it only came to my knee. A gentle tap on my shoulder caused me to flinch and nearly reach for my box cutter. Ana held up her hands, smirking at me.
“Got ya.”
I still couldn't hear her voice, so I read her lips instead. I guess my ears are more messed up than I initially thought. I tried to relax and shrugged.
“You got me,” I said.
Ana began digging in her pocket once again but this time producing a fist-sized flower pod. It looked incredibly similar to the Zingiberaceae or The Shampoo Plant, but it was a vibrant electric blue and smelled like licorice root with molasses. She held it up and tilted her head.
“Tilt your head like this. It’ll help your ears.”
I didn’t argue and did as she said. Something about her was just so disarming. I tilted my head and she gently put one hand under my chin. With the other she held the pod above my ear. I heard a faint squish followed by the uncomfortable sensation of syrup being poured into my ear canal. My face contorted in a way that made her she giggled. At least she’s having fun…
What was strange though, her voice sounded like the quiet chirp of a broken bird…
This time when she spoke again, still no sound came from her. Either I was permanently deaf, she was mute or there was something else at play.
Either way I was faced with a new issue now. I couldn’t understand my guide and I’m horrible at lip reading…
She mouthed something I didn’t catch, She had no idea there was a huge communication barrier between us.
She took me by my chin, gently tilting my head to the other side. She squeezed the pod once more and it felt even worse going into my ear the second time. I couldn't help but stare and study her face for any sign of… something. Her eyes met mine again and she beamed. “Better?” She said, but didn't say.
My migraine and the throbbing in my ears quickly faded. So the flower juice did something.
“Y-yeah...thank you.”
She clapped. I heard that. Or I think I did.
“Good–” She said as well as a bunch of other things I couldn't really make out. She spoke quickly and I was only able to pick up something about flower food. She disappeared into the next aisle and I followed close behind her. I really hope we aren't taking a detour. I’m running out of time.
Every few steps I'd nearly trip over vines and whatever lay beneath the fog. Every time I did, she glanced at me from over her shoulder.
“Careful.” She’d say.
“Yeah, sorry.” my voice sounded even more muffled than before. I tried to keep pace with her as we walked and resist the urge to try digging the now quickly drying flower gunk in my ears.
By then I should have just kept my mouth shut, but I can't stand awkward silence. And now despite not being able to hear it, I could still feel it. Not to mention on top of being a horrible lip reader, I suck at talking to girls.
“So, how… how long have you been here?” I hoped she wouldn't notice me staring at her lips to understand what she was saying. I was becoming hyper-aware of what I was looking at which probably made it even worse.
“What do you mean?” She was now staring back at me which made me stare even harder at her. Dammit Max, Blink! Stop being weird!
“In ThetaMart… in Garden.”
“Oh. She began to fidget with her skirt and shrugged. “No.”
This is the hardest conversation I've ever had. Am I really that out of touch with talking to people? I seriously need to get out more.
Ana continued to talk, completely unfazed by our unspoken staring contest. She didn’t take her eyes off of me once. It was like she was so familiar with this place she didn't even need to look where she was going. I couldn’t help but wonder what that was like.
To be so sure of anything…
By then I had already missed half her sentence.
“–days or weeks and neither of us would know until our shifts are over.”
“Oh, yeah. But you aren't even a little concerned that you don't know how long you've been here?”
She gave me a strange look which told me I had almost certainly missed a social cue.
“Well, typically people who want to go home are people who either have someone they miss at home, or their home is better than where they are now. Neither of those apply to me. Plus I’m getting—” Something, something. I missed that last part. “And to top it all off, I think I found another reason to like it here.”
I felt her hand brush against mine and nearly leaped out of my skin.
“Y-yeah?” The only thing I could hear now was my heart thumping in my ears.
“Do you have someone you miss Max, someone waiting for you?”
“Me? No, not really. I’m half convinced that if I vanished, my family would be relieved.”
I paused. Why did I say that? There are people waiting for me.
The pink tint in my vision was making it hard to see. The fog now so thick…it felt like it was in my head. And the smell, was now so sweet it was starting to make me sick.
Ana traced my knuckles with her pinky finger before wrapping her hand around my own. The The distortion in my vision finally forcing me to break and look away.
She gently tugged on my earlobe. I looked at her again, being faced with the deep pools of striking emerald. The contrast was like lightning to the soul.
“That’s a shame, no one to miss or be missed by.”
I shrugged. Her words had no sound, but what they meant began to echo in my skull. I wanted her to stop, I wanted change the subject. But Ana kept going.
“Do you want to be missed, Max? To be loved?”
Her hands trailed up my arm and leaned her head on my shoulder as we walked. She continued staring up at me never once looking away. Her eyes practically piercing into me, the longer I looked into her eyes the harder it got to keep moving. To keep wanting to move, to blink, to speak.
I couldn't bring myself to respond anymore, I just nodded, my head bobbing like a bowling ball.
“Then stay here, with me. I'll make sure you are only loved.”
Wait. Hold on a second– I’m sure anyone who followed me to this point can say with certainty, I am not the smartest. But whatever this is, I knew that was a red flag. “That’s…a little forward–” My voice sounded like a lazy murmur, it was all I could manage.
“It’s what you need. You belong here.”
Her grip on me tightened. Ana was a lot stronger than she looked. Uh-oh–
“We'll have each other, always. We– Something, something– forever.”
My face began to go numb, Ana was all that was keeping me upright and walking. She knew it too. That dimpled smirk told me she had me right where she wanted me.
She stopped us and put her hands on my cheeks.
That little voice in my head telling me to stay was much louder now. It wasn’t mine…
Look at me Max. Don’t you want to stay?
I was transfixed. The smell felt like it was choking me. I could taste it, it sat in my lungs like cement and it left me rooted in place. Unable to move, think. Unable to call for help. Ana’s eyes had begun pulsing different shades of green. Infinite mandalas of spirals coalescing and folding in on themselves like beautiful stained glass mosaics. They were every shade of green imaginable.
“Stay with me.” She said. I couldn't even bring myself to tell her how much I wanted to.
I remember the soft bed of moss beneath me, chills running up and down my body in waves. I was so tired. I almost wished she would turn me to stone with those eyes, anything if it meant I could rest, Unbothered, forever. My brain re-registering how peaceful it was here, how easy it would be just to stay. It was such a comfortable idea.
I closed my heavy eyelids as Ana kissed me. Even to acknowledge the sensation of touch required too much energy. It burned and tasted like poison. But I gave in. My only reward was the world around me finally being plunged into an inviting, quiet black.
Consciousness came to me in waves. Strange sensations and sounds peaked my curiosity, but not enough to shake me from my stupor. At least that was the case until I felt a hot stinging on my backside. My eyes shot open. My body ached and my skin was tingling. That can’t be good.
My vision slowly came back into focus, and I realized I was sitting inside of a giant pitcher plant. I was submerged up to the neck in a translucent, green syrupy liquid that was doing God knows what to me. My entire body felt slightly numb but slightly warm. It was like being in an ogre's mouth. It was gross and I hated it.
“There he is.” Ana said, sitting on top of one of the pitchers beside me, like the hipster grunge version of Mary Poppins. But something was different. Something was very, very wrong.
I could hear her clear as a bell but… it sounded slightly distorted although she were speaking through a walkie-talkie that got dropped in the toilet. If that weren't disconcerting enough. She didn't look like she had before. Her face was gaunt, her lips had a blue tint to the and–
There was a large gaping hole in her left cheek. Her inner jaw left for the world to see. The right half of her ribcage was not much better. Inside I could see part of a lung and stomach tissue. Plants had made themselves at home in the exposed hole were her half decayed organs weren’t.
Oh. My. God. I got kissed by a dead girl. The fact I didn't puke inside my plant soup was pure luck. Guess Janis was right.
“I know that look.” She said. “Don’t be scared, it only hurts for a little while. But then you wont ever feel lonely or scared again. You wont feel anything ever again.”
“You CatFished him you Creep!!” Fred. screamed from somewhere above me. Of course. This mannequin was quickly becoming about as consistent as herpes.
I would've jumped if I hadn't already known Fred was four appendages short of a full mannequin and one brain cell short of having any semblance of common sense. Or even a plan.
“Shut up Fred!” Her once green eyes had too become covered in a swirling, milky film like Ralph’s. “I saw your pain, all those issues that have become a necrotic part of your life will be cut out.”
That’s what you think. You wont be happy cleaning me or my issues out of your people-slurping pod when the pager goes off again.
Ana looked at me like a butterfly in a jar. I could now see a thick vine connected to her lower back, suspending her in the air. She flashed me one last, now unintentionally toothy grin then shut the lid on my pitcher, and floated off. The pitcher itself was see through like glass with the texture of celery, and smelled like really pungent asparagus. To make matters worse, it was filling with more of the gross plant juice and that burn at the base of my spine began to build in intensity.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes tight as the soup cleared the top of my head. My brain began firing off thoughts like bullets from a gun.
Shit, shit, shit. I suck at holding my breath. I can't hold it forever. Ah God that really hurts. Is this what it felt like before I was born? Ew, don’t think about that. Focus Max, focus.
I did what no one in my situation should ever do, and opened my eyes again. Opening your eyes in giant carnivorous flower juice should melt your eyeballs on contact but to my surprise, that didn’t happen. I began digging into my apron pocket, pulled out my box cutter and made quick work of the plant flesh. I cut a hatch sized square and kicked it out of place. I didn’t really think that one through–
The juice spilled out and took me with it. I slipped out of the pitcher realizing I was many feet off the ground and falling. This must be what it's like to be a newborn giraffe. I fell about 10 feet before being jerked by the tender spot which I now saw was connected by a glowing vine thing doing probably nothing good. It came free with a sucking noise and keeping some of my skin as a souvenir. The burning increased tenfold, I heard a loud scream in my head and from everywhere around me.
I was left plummeting the rest of the way, screaming as well and holding the space above my asscrack.
Not one of my proudest moments...
Part 4

“A man’s spirit will endure sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?” — Proverbs 18:14

When midnight fell, I was broken, bleeding, and weeping; lost in a drunken haze of memories and sorrow and regret. My last impaired thought before I passed out was that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t wake up this time. I was okay with that. In fact, to my pain-wracked mind, it sounded just fine.

When the sheriff’s deputy showed up on my doorstep with the divorce papers, I was utterly beside myself with grief. I broke down completely. Unable to sleep for days, I would walk through our quiet apartment all night as if in a dream, touching little things from our life together. Her face haunted me. Memories swirled all around and tormented me. I tried to pray, but had no words. I had absolutely no appetite and getting myself to take my medications was an utter act of will. Then there were the dark times that I just stood there, staring at them—and thought about taking all of them.

“Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, Where there is no standing; I have come into deep waters, Where the floods overflow me. I am weary with my crying; My throat is dry; My eyes fail while I wait for my God.” — Psalm 69:1-3, NKJV

Ultimately, it was the sight of the curio cabinet in the living room at about three in the morning that shook me out of my stupor. I came out of the bedroom after another failed attempt at sleep, turned the light on, and there it was. Set up like a little shrine with our marriage license, cake topper, and her preserved bouquet; the sight suddenly made my knees buckle. I literally fell on my face in the living room and cried out to God with all my heart. I couldn’t pray, at first. I just lay there on my face, on the floor, and sobbed until I fell asleep. When I woke, it was a long while before I could find words. When I finally did, it was an explosion.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I screamed at God. “How dare you take her away from me after all I’ve been through? Heart attacks, migraines, unemployment, and now this? How dare you? I’m finally doing what You commanded me to do. I’m trying to obey You, and what good is it doing me? I’m finally trying to love her well, and she just throws it back in my face. What good am I doing? I wish I was dead. Why don’t you just kill me?!”
“Would you give up your life for her?” God asked me quietly.
The question came suddenly and I wasn’t at all prepared for it. Then, the husband’s high calling from Ephesians 5:25 thundered through my head, and I sobbed bitterly. If I was supposed to love my wife as Christ loves the church, and give myself up for her, did that mean that I was somehow supposed to die for her? Could I love her that much? What more could He ask?
Again, the answer came quickly and unexpectedly. “I didn’t ask you to die for her. I’ve already done that. I asked you to give yourself up.”
Weeping, but still furious at God in my grief, I did the spiritual equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and going, “La la la laaa, I don’t hear you.” I closed my heart against God’s voice and wallowed in my pain. It was His fault I was suffering so much, and nobody was going to tell me otherwise. Not even Him.
You would think that after a lifetime of dealing with pain, I would know better. The truth is that I simply didn’t want to believe this might not have a quick solution. I really didn’t want to believe that as much as she needed to change, I did too. But God has a way of speaking to you. When He really wants you to hear something, you’re going to hear it whether you want to or not.
Unfortunately, my way of coping with the destruction of my marriage was to drink. On one terrible night, I decided I would drink enough so that maybe I wouldn’t wake up. Most of that night is a haze, but part of it is indelibly clear. Just before I passed out, I thought that whether I ended up in heaven or hell it would be better than this. If it was heaven, I would be home with Jesus. If it was hell? Well, from where I was at that point, I couldn’t see how hell could be worse.
Hours later, I woke up… precisely at midnight. It was not only 12:00 a.m., when my eyes opened and I looked at the clock, the second hand had literally just started ticking around. I felt… strangely sober. I blinked, confused, and then I remembered everything. I wept for a long time, and then the poem A Midnight Falls started to form itself.

“So midnight falls, and I? I live; My ears ring with the silent cry, A scream with soft and trembling lips; A wordless cry against the Fall; I live! And I have failed to fail, The gasp with which I came awake, The tears that spill into my hands, The song with which the world was made. I do not know why I still breathe, Or why this heart is beating still; I only know that I still live, I do not know why I am here.” — A Midnight Falls, by Jason Christopher Hackwith

Brad Bramlet, a friend and pastor of the church I was attending, showed up at my door one day. He just looked at me for what seemed to be a long time, and then quietly told me in his inimitable humorous way that I looked terrible. He then set me up with his own medical provider so that I could get help with my depression and the other medical problems I was suffering from. I was so touched and grateful for his help.
It took a few weeks but I eventually called Brad and told him about the divorce filing. We met again for coffee, talked, and prayed. “Jason,” he said to me quietly, “in the story of the prodigal son, the father didn’t immediately go chasing off after his son. He let him go, so that he could get to the utter end of himself. He had to get to the place where he began to think that even the servants in his father’s house had better things to eat than the pig slop that now looked good to him. The son had to make the decision to come back on his own.
“She’s running, Jason,” he concluded gently. “You have to let her go where she’s going to go. You can’t save her from what she has to go through before she gets to the end of herself.”
I thought hard about what Brad said and bitterly conceded that he was right. But a phrase from the parable of the prodigal son resounded in my soul:

“And he arose and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.” — Luke 15:20

“While he was still a long way off.” The prodigal son didn’t come all the way back to the father. He made the decision to come back, repented, and began to make his way back home. But the father saw him while he was still a long way off, had compassion on him, and welcomed him with a kiss, a great feast and forgiveness.
Ephesians 5:25, my high calling as a husband, commanded me to love my wife as Christ loves the church. We have grieved Christ so many times, and yet He remains faithful. We have cheated on Him again and again with other gods, and yet He is just waiting for us to come to the end of ourselves and start for home.
Through faith, I saw two roads that could lead from where we now stood. Down one road, we would “in all things grow up into Him who is the Head, that is, Christ” (Ephesians 4:15). She would find repentance and forgiveness, even as I have had to find repentance and forgiveness, and God would lead us back together—not to pick up where we left off, but to a completely new relationship founded in truth and a right relationship with Jesus Christ.
I knew that road wouldn’t be easy, even as I determined to stand for my marriage. I knew we would have a lot of terribly hard work to do in counseling and prayer, and that trust that has been betrayed and lost would have to be restored the only way trust can ever be restored: through time, complete honesty, and true mutuality.
The other road, the one in which she would never return, seemed so dark to me that at that time I refused to really consider it. But friends and family gently reminded me that it was a possibility I must prepare for.
I’m so blessed to be surrounded by friends and family whose marriages have survived their own dark times. Their testimony has real power, because they’ve been through the fire and came out the other side. My own parents are the biggest inspiration for me in this area. They’ve been together over fifty years. Through their inspiration and hours of difficult prayer, God gave me the strength to forgive my former wife, even as I continued to pray that she would choose the road that led to our reconciliation.
I continued in prayer and counseling without her, and learned to accept that I had to let her go, regardless of the road she chose and how heartbreaking those decisions were for our families and me. I had to learn to give myself up, to accept that my identity was not found in marriage but in Christ alone. I had to learn to give her to God, and give up the false identity I had clung to.
She was going to do what she was going to do. I couldn’t protect her from the consequences of those decisions, and I couldn’t go riding off to save her like a knight in shining armor. The only thing I could really do for her was pray—but that is no small thing. I made a commitment to pray for her every day.
For a long time, I prayed that God would take her to the end of herself, just as he did with the prodigal son. I prayed that God would do whatever he had to do to change her heart, no matter how hard, and lead her to repentance.
Now, there is nothing really wrong with that prayer, but there was something very wrong in me. Something would happen that would change my heart from one wallowing in righteous indignation and anger to one of forgiveness and release.
Seven months after the judge granted my former wife the divorce, I attended a men’s conference in Spokane held by Iron Sharpens Iron. At a marriage workshop, I briefly told my story while asking the speaker for ways that I could love her well, even in our situation. He had kind and encouraging words for me, along with some very practical suggestions.
I was greatly encouraged by the speaker, but it is what happened next that truly changed my life. After the workshop ended, a man came up to me and kindly asked me if he could pray with me. We did so, and he told me he would continue to pray for my former wife and I. He then told me to pray for God to bless her.
I thanked him and walked away, but I wasn’t at all prepared for the surge of emotions that suggestion roiled up within me. Bless her? She betrayed me! I wanted God to take her to the end of herself so she would repent, not bless her! Why should God bless her? I walked a few more steps in an incredulous funk, then I repeated that question to myself. Why should God bless her? No, that’s the wrong question. Why couldn’t I pray for God to bless her? That thought literally brought me up short. I felt the Holy Spirit’s conviction upon me so gently, yet so clearly. Hadn’t I forgiven her? It was obvious that on at least some level, I hadn’t.
I slowly walked around the church where the conference was held, weaving in and out of the crowds of men, not really seeing any of them. Silently, I asked God to forgive me for my own hardness of heart, and prayed that He would help me to walk real forgiveness out in faith by praying for Him to bless her.
And then, though it was a little like tearing off my own skin, faith found me there and I prayed the prayer. God, please bless her—despite her betrayal and all she has said and done, bless her. May Your kindness lead her to repentance. My prayers for first wife changed from that day forward, and my heart began to change as well. God taught me what forgiveness truly is: to release those who hurt us not only to the consequences of their sin, but to the blessing of a dangerous God who forgives and restores.
Ultimately, my former wife chose the other road and remarried. Even if I wanted to renew a relationship with her at that point, I knew that she was forever gone to me. God had another plan, and that plan was my beautiful Lindsay. But at that end of things, I thought I was going to die. In one way of looking at things, I did. To find life, I had to pass through death. To give myself up, I had to give up my wife. I had to take my leave of everything I thought I was in order to find out who I truly am. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, to give up my life for the one God had for me. I had to learn the hard way that I have to put God first in my life. Putting anything or anyone in His place will only bring grief.

“The cross is laid on every Christian. The first Christ-suffering which every man must experience is the call to abandon the attachments of this world. It is that dying of the old man which is the result of his encounter with Christ. As we embark upon discipleship we surrender ourselves to Christ in union with his death—we give over our lives to death. Thus it begins; the cross is not the terrible end to an otherwise god-fearing and happy life, but it meets us at the beginning of our communion with Christ. When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die. It may be a death like that of the first disciples who had to leave home and work to follow him, or it may be a death like Luther’s, who had to leave the monastery and go out into the world. But it is the same death every time—death in Jesus Christ, the death of the old man at his call.” — from The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, pg 99

What I have been through is only one form of the death to which Christ calls us. But He does not leave us abandoned. He calls us to give everything to Him, but He will put back into our hands what we need, when we need it. When my first helper betrayed me, God led me to give up my life and give her to Him. Through her abandonment and betrayal, Jesus taught me that He alone is my perfect Helper, that no woman on earth could ever fill the place that He alone holds. But just like Job, God would later bring restoration of all the enemy had stolen. And in His gracious and perfect timing, God brought me a new helper: a true Proverbs 31 woman. My beautiful Lindsay brings me so much joy, but my lesson has been learned the hard way: God will always be first in my heart.
​
NIL NISI CRUCE: \"Midnight,\" by Jason Christopher Hackwith
Thirteen years almost to the day after my own midnight fell, I am releasing a print along with a few other creations*. NIL NISI CRUCE is Latin for “Nothing but by the Cross.” It means that nothing good comes easy. It means that Jesus called us to carry our cross and follow Him, even if that means walking straight into the fire or flood. In the remarkable photo by the amazing Stormseeker, we see a hand reaching up to the sky out of deep waters. “Out of the depths I cry to Thee,” (Psalm 130). It’s a reminder and a challenge to reach out and cry out to God in the midst of the flood, when you are under water and struggling for breath. What will you do when wading the waters leads you out into the deep?
^(*All proceeds from the print and every other creation go toward publication costs for my book of poetry, lyrics, illustrations, and prose: the river Beautiful; coming out late spring/early summer 2024.)

I really want to hear from you. When did your midnight fall? What was the worst moment of your life? What got you through it? How did it change you?

Post a comment here, post to social media with the hashtag #midnight, or if you prefer to keep it in the family shoot me a private message. And, THANK YOU!
Jason Christopher Hackwith
EDIT: Formatting

So, I added a bit of a musical link down there, to help set the mood for a scene. I got a few more bits of data at the end too, to clarify a thing i've done!
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Memory Transcription Subject: Frenelda, Planetary Board Representative Date [standardized jaslip time]: Thermes 1st, 1 AF
There are few things in the universe as good as a good nap. And one of them is to fall to the grip of winter. To fall prey to absolute comfort, to let your mind, body and soul be empty- To sleep in absolute contentment… It’s no wonder neither my mind nor my body want to wake up.
So I take my time, just feeling the comfort of my bed, eyes closed… I could be here all day… And just might-
Suddenly there’s a pull against me, something- Someone- Dragging me out of the bed, forcing my eyes open in the process. The flood of light blinds me, and it’s hard to think. A deep pressure starts inching through the back of my head, climbing up the brainstem from overstimulation. My paws hit the ground and falter, my muscles aren’t ready yet!
“..da…” a voice echoes far, far away as the pressure against my brain grows stronger, painful. Little else in my hearing other than a deep buzz “Fre…” the voice echoes far away…
I can feel a tail guiding me, the pain in my brain just growing stronger by the second from the rude awakening. Thankfully it only takes a few more seconds before my paws are at least responsive enough to move on my command- I don’t know who it is that is guiding me or why, but I trust them.
I have to, I’m too debilitated from being shocked out of winter slumber.
The lights get dimmer- Or rather my eyes finally get back down to bearable sensitivity by the time I can feel a lurching sensation that almost makes me want to vomit. Where even am I? I can still feel that tail guiding me, so I know I’m safe but- Wait, elevator?
The bell of the elevator arriving in it’s chosen floor echoes like a bomb against my ears, but not as hard as I feared. I’m getting back up fast- but every bit of my senses that returns is a bit more of this painful migraine that clambers my brain “...ave to see the news. NOW!”
Still can’t process every word but “Sidrin?” I mutter at my assistant. Right, I can identify Sidrin’s voice, the touch of her tail. She was chosen as the awakener this winter, so if she woke me up some disaster must have happened “Sidrin what-”
She’d dragged me up from the wintering halls to my office and right into my seat. There’s a small cup with a jet-black drink on my desk, the sight of it gives me a jolt of adrenaline that lets me grab it and down it all in one go. Surge is not a commonly used drug, this energetic will break a jaslip out of their winter slumber stupor in seconds-
The price is this damned migraine getting even worse, but she wouldn’t have given me Surge without a disaster going on “Frenelda, the news, look at it. We need to do- I don’t know-” after a couple of seconds I can finally make sense of her face, the panic that’s settled in her terrifying me in turn.
She tries to call up the news on holoprojectors on my desk, but her paws are too distressed to press the right buttons for a few moments. And that only makes me more terrified, the one waking up is me and she is the one who can’t control her paws, whatever happened must be cataclysmic.
After a while she finally manages to call up the latest news-
An ulchid reporter is on the screen, this newsreel indicating it aired minutes ago. “W-we come with grave news this day” he opens up with a trembling and solemn voice “We- We stand in solidarity with our jaslip brothers and sisters as we deliver these news…”
What? What?! No, no, no! Don’t tell me- They could not have found us yet! Dammit, Riccin promised me he’d watch us!
“As per the decision achieved in unanimity from the Planetary Board”
Unanimity? What? No, I was asleep. Sidrin doesn’t have any authority for that.
“They have initiated Operation La-last Resort… H-having declared the evacuation of Esquo… C-complete and… And have as of this morning… Initiated the orbital bombardment…” the reporter himself sounded as if he wanted to apologize for delivering the news.
No… No, no, no! This has to be misinformation, someone has had to-
The migraine makes it hard to think but I don’t need to- I need to- Damned computer, why are you so hard to- There! Finally getting the damned thing going I call up information available only in this secure connection. I have to find it, I have to find it it’s here somewhere-
The monitoring systems for the drone fleets! I shouldn’t be using this with Sindri in the room but I can’t care about that right now, passing through thousands of useless pieces of information I check their current orders… Useless, useless- Skip operational layer, skip tactical layer, strategic layer!
“No…” I can feel the strength leave my body, my legs falter… Five simple words among the overseeing tools strike at my heart ‘Planetary destruction protocol progress 87%’ is printed out, colder than the deepest winter…
It’s as if darkness had taken over my entire being, I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t speak- And yet something… Something else strikes my senses with a greater strength than it should have… Sitting innocuously in the lower left corner of the computer screen is the clock… A clock ticking by each second ever, every slowly, with a date…
The winters of Avor and Esquo overlap by fifteen days.
It is the thirteenth of the overlap.
The sadness, exhaustion, sleep- Adrenaline surges in my blood again- The pain in my brain only brings up even more fury “COWARDS!”
In a fit of fury I swipe at the only thing I’m seeing, the computer’s screen. It falls over the table, dangling by the short connection cables before it hits the ground. Breathe… Breathe… I pick up the glass slate sitting on the edge of the table and scratch its surface with the force I use to command it to start a call with the Planetary Board’s urgency call group.
Six five callers should be answering this in five minutes. We ALL had to answer an urgent call in five minutes, seconds if emergency. But only one symbol, one image, answers the call- Riccin. The backstabber’s long face stares at me across the call “Frenelda…” I don’t believe that pitiful stare of his in the slightest “I see you have awoken…”
“Riccin…” I focus directly on his visage. I can’t fight back the snarl on my lips, both paws grasp the communicator with such force I’m certain I could snap the glassy object “Explain…” I can’t form a complete sentence
“I’m sorry, Frenelda… This was necessary” he tries to look away, by a light growl makes him rethink his cowardice “We held an emergency meeting, matters had gotten out of paw- We did everything we could but-”
“Out of…” he didn’t just say that to me… “Emergency meeting… Without me?!” my breathing becomes deeper
“You were asleep, Frenelda-”
“Sidrin! You KNOW the protocols, she would have woken me up! She would have woken the entire council up if need be! That’s what the awakener does!” my shouts grow louder and louder “THIS WAS NOT AN EMERGENCY! An operation like this does not, can NOT be decided, planned, EXECUTED as an emergency! YOU HAD TIME TO WAKE ME UP!”
“Fren- I’m sorry-”
“You are not! You! Are! Not! You PROMISED ME!” I can feel the tears running down my face “YOU PROMISED ME! YOU TOLD ME IT WAS SAFE! YOU PROMISED TO WATCH OVER US WHILE WE SLEPT!” I bare my teeth, growling my words through them “And you killed them! KILLED THEM IN THEIR SLEEP, STABBED THEM IN THE BACK!” my breathing is more ragged “You didn’t have the courage of looking at the people you murdered in the face!”
Before the coward, the murderer can spout any more nonsense I growl and lunge at his face- My jaws clamp down on the communicator device and crush the glassy surface in multiple pieces barely held together by it’s internals, giving in to fury thrash with the object in my jaws as if it was that murderer himself and finally toss is aside.
Sidrin stares at me with a fearful look in her eyes… I can feel all the cuts in my mouth from that stupid maneuver, the pain in my gums and the metallic taste of my own blood can’t overpower the ever-growing migraine… The next thing I hear is my own howling.
Blood, pain, despair, rage… A volatile mix inside of me… I can scarcely remember every single step I’ve taken, like my brain had surrendered to autonomous functions only, and my instincts were driving me. I remember Sidrin having to tackle me at some point, the car trip, the train, the people looking at what could only be my all-but-feral visage on the streets.
All the way from Rebirth’s winter halls to the Board’s headquarters on Tonvos. Nothing but rage and despair driving me this continental distance. The silence I've kept just making my rage grow greater, and greater.
They’re lucky it only takes a couple of hours to make this accursed trip, because if I were to stew in this state any longer I would-
I had made my way into the building, the guards at the front didn’t even bother identifying me. I made my way to the right floor, though my subconscious knew I'd find nothing but empty halls here I still refused to admit that to myself. But something interrupted my thought patterns, a touch, an unwanted touch at my shoulder.
I snap back like a spring trap, jaws clamping down on whatever limb dared touch me… My entire body is shaking in fury, anger- I can feel a sour taste on my tongue, my eyes are staring directly at the body in front of me. Furless pink skin, a sinuous body, focused and… Unbothered…
Slowly I manage to pry open my jaws, stained green with Viddel’s blood, and take a pair of steps back. Instinctively I can feel my tails curl up under my body… “I’m… I’m sorry…”
“Don’t apologize” his voice is steady, too steady “You’ve done no wrong” he looks at the punctures in his arm for a moment, before lowering it to his side, little green pools forming on the ground from the ever so slow drips “It us who have”
Viddel’s voice is steady, professional, even… That is not his voice he is speaking with. “Why?”
“Three on two, emergency session… I don’t know how they moved Evala, but… They did” he’s looking at me directly.
“That… Unanimous thing was just kherhole, then…” I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it that I can’t stay angry. I got all the way over here. I want to tear Riccin apart, I want to make Radai pay for what he’s done, tear open Evala’s stupid shell- But they’re not here. They’d never be here. They’re cowards. And I’m powerless, weak-
“Just something we told the press…” he remains focused on me
“You’re… Hurt” what have I done. I- WE are powerless now. And I’ve hurt one of them.
“No” he voice is even, as it’d been all this time. Then, he extends me his other arm, and offers me the softest i’ve ever heard his voice “You are” I hate him, how disarming he is, how he knows just the right thing to say “Apologizing won’t bring back the dead. Or fix a broken world. So, how about we go somewhere else, somewhere better? And talk about the things that could?”
Memory Transcription Subject: Frenelda, Planetary Board Representative
Date [standardized jaslip time]: Thermes 237th, 23 AF
How long has it been? Too long, far too long. I’ve been counting the days, and yet I can’t remember.
There were sounds around me, of merriment and joy. It was expected, this was a place people came to do one of two things. Either find joy, or forget sorrow. Easy enough to know which one was I doing at the bar right now.
Not many other people came to jaslip bars, even here in the capital of Avor. And I know it’s not the seating that’s stopping them, no. What’s stopping them is the same reason I’m drinking right now.
We might be powerless. But we’re not silent, and nobody wants to listen to us.
They don’t listen to me.
Every day is another fight I can’t win, another meeting spent in silence. I bite down on the neck of the bottle and just raise it up, letting the silvery concoction flow down my throat with a burn.
“Has gotta be a hard day if you’re downing herbivore alcohol” there it was, that stupid cheerful voice. At least it was his cheerful voice. I don’t like his calm one. His calm voice tastes of sour blood.
“What day isn’t a hard one, Viddel…” I don’t look at him, instead I turn over to look at the television. There’s a game of sparkchase going on, I haven’t watched one in… How long? I used to play it in college…
“None, is what…” I can feel his mitten on my shoulder again. I don’t snap this time
“They haven’t built an elevator anchor for us yet…”
“We will get it done” he says with hope I cannot understand
“When? It’s been twenty three years…”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we will” he slithers around me, placing himself in front of me “Because that’s all that matters, we just need to keep fighting”
“For what? For nothing? They have those stupid machines here on Rebirth too…” I look away from him again, back to my bottle. I grab it again, but he grabs it with his mitten “Let me, Viddel”
“You haven’t slept” he changes subject
“Someone has to be up”
He gently touches me under the chin, and I don’t know why I don’t stop him when he guides me to look towards him “Look at you… Those aren’t the marks of a jaslip who was awake in winter… They’re the marks of one who was awake at night…”
“I haven’t…” my voice hitches “I haven’t been able to…”
“For how long?”
“Since… Since that day” why am I telling him now “I… Sometimes I just get drunk… I don’t- I don’t trust the medicine”
He lets go, knowing full well I can’t look away from him anymore “You know” he says with that soft voice again “It’s really impossible to take care of someone else when you can’t take care of yourself” before I can say something he continues “Can’t lift a rock if your arm’s broken, right?”
“What does it matter…” my voice turns to a whisper, as I notice the other patrons have cleared away from us. They’re afraid, afraid of anything that might come out of my mouth “I can’t do anything. All I can do is talk, what worth is that to those who don’t listen?” I lower my head “They barely listen to you…”
“You know how it is. If you wanna be heard, you gotta be loud!” he says with too much cheer “Turn up those amps, you know?”
With a sigh I continue “Your optimism is very annoying, Riddel”
“I know!” he pats me on the shoulder “But neither moping nor pep talking gets anything done” he slithers beside me towards the door “So why don’t we talk about things that do?”
My ears perk up at his words. The same kind of words he told me years ago. The same kind of words that mean more than what he’s saying, they always do “Like what?” I say, following him out
“Oh, you know how there’s some jaslip who just don’t leave their homes these days? Such dreary lives they’re living. We’ve been planning on delivering some entertainment to their residences!”
“Really, now…”
“Mhm! Rainbow’s planning on bringing her show to some apartment complexes. And hey, we figured since this is for your people, why not get the local stars involved! Oh, the one she’s planning right now will be wonderful!”
“Is it?” We step out in the sun. The streets are… Quiet. Calm. As if everything was normal in the world “Well, I look forward to hearing it in the news. Her shows always make it”
To clarify a bit things i've used! I figured with being what's effectively an arctic planet, one that's at the far end of the habitable zone of their star, Esquo wouldn't have too many seasons, so they set up their calendars switching between the long "Fertile Season" when crops grow and beasts roam and the "Infertile Seasons" when they usually hybernate. That's why I set up the date like that. Y'all can guess what AF means, but if you wanna know it means After Fall, and you got to witness the first day of the new calendar Also I mentioned 'sparkchase', tbh I sorta came up with the name first, but I figured it was american football-ish wherein they need to carry an object (a stick with a sparkler, hence called 'spark-chase') to the goal on the other side. Tackling included, and the match time is dictated by how long the sparkler burns.
Either way, I hope you've enjoyed a very, very, VERY rude awakening of our first named jaslip.

Special thanks to u/SpacePaladin15 for allowing fanfiction.
Special thanks and my excuse for not writing another chapter of NoGrimdark and for the inspiration the write this fanfic inspired by the latest (at the time of this writing, chapter 21) of New York Carnival goes to u/RegulusPratus.
NextChapter 5Chapter 10
Memory Transcription Subject: Vilna, Venlil Prime Exterminator Researcher
Date [standardized human time]: July 17, 2136
By Inatala, the predators had shaken apart the little tranquility left on Venlil Prime. After the last Arxur raid, I had thought that things would quiet down a portion. Unfortunately, the resurrection of humanity from the hypothetical ashes meant that my job became nonstop work. Normally, I would study novel predator situations and scenarios of the rare times that the guild didn’t understand something about predators already.
I usually just consulted for the guild as a predator expert and spent the little research budget I had hiring an intern to help me research and write meta-analysis research, literature reviews, exploratory speculation, conduct longitudinal studies that were low priority, and so on. I was paid handsomely well for a very small amount of effort and were it not for my expensive hobbies commissioning artwork, music, and literature, I would have no reason to take a second job lecturing about predator studies at the local community college.
Now, I had to actually do my job, and in addition I had to write a predatory number of reports, all of which would actually be read so had to be done correctly with exhaustive research, attend meetings with literally every single magister (and, I do mean every last one, given that I was “the expert” on humans [why did I choose that to be my dissertation!?] back when we thought them extinct), and give occasional press releases on behalf of my alma mater all without being paid, I now despise governmental mandates with more unchecked loathing than my subject matter; even the Arxur rate higher in my eyes than those brahking mandates.
Getting an actual rest paw was tantamount to a vacation on its own. So, on my first rest paw after doing back-to-back shifts with only a handful of rest claws (I literally had to write my reports lying down in order to recover the energy), getting notified of a surprise request from the planetary government to clandestinely participate in a new initiative of theirs was like getting eaten by a shadestalker. Scratch that, it was worse.
I sleepily trundled my way out of the bullet train that had pulled into the capital and found my way to a bus, heading toward the governor’s mansion. I had no idea what this was about, or what happened since humans made first contact with the government. The bits and pieces I heard from osmotic conversations with leaders was that we weren’t exterminating the predators, which made no sense to me. I figured that in my sleep deprived stupor, I had exacerbated my mild strain of predator disease. Nonetheless, it was concerning that the rumors had been fairly consistent since I was ordered to leave the bunker to give an emergency breakdown of humanity.
I leaned back against the seat and tried to take a small nap while I was in transit. I overheard some excited chatter about some sort of human-venlil exchange program, which I chucked up to my currently indisposed state. I drifted off enough to have nightmares of the governor welcoming the predators to venlil prime, before being woken up by the bus’s chime alerting me that I had arrived at my destination. I downed a can of sprunk that I had in my shoulder bag and trundled to the front door. I was welcomed into the mansion and told to wait in a conference room.
After nearly falling asleep while waiting for the governor’s secretary of extermination herself came through the door. She seemed livid about something and jolted me out of my stupor with a shout, “Now is not the time to be asleep and lazy! Do you not understand how serious this matter is?!”
“Ah, sorry. It has been a long, paw or three, I have lost track. Is there something you need me for?”
“Have you not been paying attention to the news!? Are you seriously that oblivious!?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I have not. The last thing I have been told after writing endless reports and attending endless meetings to talk about my expertise was something about a stay of extermination for the predators, we long thought dead, but I figure that is nonsense or the governor is trying to ensure that our extermination is handled with a great deal of care. Either way, that is my understanding of the situation. I take it that it is the latter?”
The secretary’s tail and ears radiated anger and resentment when she chortled a frustrated laugh, “You really didn’t know? You poor thing. Governor Tarva has clearly been exposed for having predator disease as she has welcomed predators to Venlil Prime. You are here to investigate what the predator’s are up to and to investigate how bad the governor’s condition is.”
Ah, I am still on the bus asleep, “I see. Huh. This is a strange nightmare, I think I need to wake up soon or I will miss my stop-“
“This isn’t a dream, you fool! Get up and register for this human-venlil exchange program. Uncover what is going on and report to me quickly! We need to get information, and we need to get it immediately!”
I had a difficult time processing what I was being told and I figured that this odd dream or perhaps sleep deprived hallucination was messing with my head, “Ok, that is weird. I am going to just nod off here until this dream makes sense.” To which the secretary shook me quite harshly and ordered me to wake the hell up, “Get up you idiot! This isn’t a dream or hallucination! I need you to hurry up before the program’s administrators get suspicious as I ensured that you would get into the exchange. You have a paw to make yourself presentable and consider any previous work you had scheduled over till I say otherwise.”
It took this level of intensity to snap me out of my stupor, to which I responded to with seeing nothing but blackness envelop my mind as my body and mind gave out under the combination of exhaustion and stark revelation.
Memory Transcription Subject: Vilna, Venlil Prime Exterminator Researcher
Date [standardized human time]: July 18, 2136
I found myself in a hospital room, with a massive migraine and the first real rest I had in several paws. It took me a minute to reprocess the events that had led me to waking up in the hospital from fainting. I wasn’t entirely convinced that the series of events had actually taken place until I checked my holopad and had detailed instructions from the secretary. Naturally she had taken the liberty of signing me up for the blasted exchange program or whatever it was she was talking about. My migraine was the only thing keeping me from screaming as I confirmed that my nightmare was very real. The Humanity from what was my favorite exhibit, “Pure Evil”, the one that originally convinced me to do my dissertation on humanity, the warlike species that occasionally made them worse than the Arxur, was going to be interacting with me directly. The secretary had a great deal of power over me and I had no way of telling her no. I didn’t even have a job to return to, she had made it quite clear that she wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Her excuse for this was a planetary emergency, in which I was now drafted to try to resolve. I had to investigate humanity by any means necessary to uncover their devious plot. I was not looking forward to this at all. “Luckily” for me I had gotten premier access to the exchange program and had already been matched with a partner, convincing me to add government overreach and corrupt power to my list of things to loath. How much I wished that the usual bureaucracy was as slow and arduous as it was whenever it inconvenienced me.
I was now to become a predator’s meal, a sacrifice on behalf of the herd. I could only hope that the human would eat me quickly, as I didn’t relish being the target of a human explorer’s conquest. If I were dead, I couldn’t be forced to document the behavior of the sadistic primates, I at least could look forward to that, I hoped.
Memory Transcription Subject: George Banker, Hardware Chain Customer Service Associate
Date [standardized human time]: July 18, 2136
I had finally finished cleaning up the lumber aisle and ensured that the lumber was properly stocked with the forklift put away before heading out of the store to my car. While we were told that we were to park as far away from the store as possible to give the customers the best place, I was one of the few who actually did so. The policy was rarely actually enforced, particularly given the perennial labor shortage in retail. I was still working my way through the college system and needed a job for over the summer. I was interested in studying genetic engineering, but as I had just started my bachelor’s degree, I had a hard time finding work in the field I wanted to specialize in. Thankfully, I was able to keep my debts low by taking advantage of some investments that I had made while I was a teen.
So, I just needed to make sure I didn’t dip into my savings too much, and I would walk out with a debt of only 100K, I could easily pay that off with my wages, even if I had to keep working in retail. The best part was that because of the satellite wars and making first contact, it was likely that inflation was going to spike again, and my relative debt would get even smaller. I felt a little bad for those who hadn’t prepared like I had, but there wasn’t much I could do at this time, beyond the after-church charity I went to.
Once I got to my car, I excitedly looked at my holopad to see if my request had gone in. I felt a little guilty about misleading the application when they asked if I had a religion, and if I was vegetarian (I guess I was starting today). I figured that I didn’t consider what I believed in to be a religion, given that the root word was more about the cultural practices and rituals of the time and place, rather than a set of beliefs. The church I went to was nondenominational, and I preferred keeping the number of rituals and customs to a minimum. I’d rather discuss theology and try to live a good life rather than participate in any rituals not expressly prescribed in the bible.
I reviewed order 56 by the UN and decided that while I couldn’t talk about my faith, I could evangelize by being a stalwart example of living a faithful life. I didn’t have to deny my faith to my hypothetical exchange partner if it came up, but I would have to refuse to go into detail about it. Thankfully, based on the behavior of what we had been told was typical for the venlil, I wouldn’t have to worry too much. I doubt they would be interested in what I believed and thought. I was grateful that I hadn’t left a paper trail for the background check to uncover my beliefs, being an introvert who mostly keeps to himself and stays out of the radar has its perks, though I was intrigued by the idea of talking to an alien and I really hope that I get paired with some expert in biology or a similar field; it would be awesome to learn what secrets they had uncovered being a more advanced society. My new task was to baby my holopad until I received a notice of either being rejected or accepted to move forward with the battery of psychological tests. I prayed that God would grant me this boon for the chance to spread the Good News to the rest of the galaxy, albeit in a subtle manner.
Next
A/N – I wanted to write a brief story that explored the conversation of the topic of Christianity to a venlil specifically trying to uncover the “predatory plot” of the faith, while exploring some theological ideas at the same time. I will probably not update this as much, unless it gains significant traction, as I want to finish NoGrimdark and a couple spinoff ideas I have of that universe before investing a lot of time into a new series. I will probably take a short break from NoGrimdark to write a few chapters (probably just enough to get to the reveal), before returning to NoGrimdark
Please note that the opinions of the characters do not necessarily reflect those of the author. While I do not deny my beliefs, I wanted to make a more believable character than one that would be closer to what I personally think and what interests I actually have.

When the doctor told me that through my veins coursed a poison so foul that it would rot me from within in a matter of days, I laughed at him. I hadn’t done anything medically unsound; hadn’t been anywhere toxic to my health. And yet I'd somehow contracted a poison - one so inimical that antibiotics and transfusions were deemed useless.
I was given referrals to specialists: cardiologists, endocrinologists, even oncologists, but told not to expect better news; a statement delivered with absolute, spine-seizing certainty.
But the doctor's grim assessment wouldn't be the only words I'd hear regarding my affliction. A man showed up at my door the following morning.
This man - who introduced himself The Herald - showed up unannounced at my doorstep yesterday, wearing a grey, plainly antiquated coat, and bearing that terrible news - with proof of my malady; he'd somehow acquired my medical records. I'd gone to the doctor the previous day upon waking up and feeling like grim death: plagued by a blinding migraine, tremors, and an unending cough. My open window suggested a cold, or allergies, but I had never experienced such a miserable reaction before.
I welcomed the strangely dressed man into my home, something I probably wouldn't have done under normal circumstances and in sound mind. In my unsettled state I didn't offer him anything, and he didn't ask. He at once told me of the toxin and its cell-ravaging effects, and I listened numbly; just as I'd done at the hospital. After a period of silence - during which he seemed to stare directly at the midday sun through my living room window - I asked him why he'd come. I had already been informed of my condition, as vague and unprecedented as it was. A next-day reminder wasn't necessary.
He replied that while my condition was dire, and had apparently been fatal to many *of his order*, there was still a chance for my survival. When I asked him how, he responded: "Blood transfusions are ineffective because the *curse* is far too pervasive, too blackly stubborn, to be removed in such a mundane fashion. No, what you'll need is a transference of spirit."
I didn't have any idea what he meant, and before I could ask he got up and excused himself, leaving my home as mysteriously as he had arrived. Baffled, I instinctively turned toward the window, and I swear that for a moment I saw a shape pass across the sky; something large, glistening, and winged, like an enormous wasp.
Later that day the symptoms of my condition became so intense that I actually passed out for a moment whilst making lunch - somehow my appetite hadn't waned as it usually does when I'm sick.
Despite my delirious and worsening state I strove to stay optimistic, hoping that the man would return and explain exactly what he'd meant by a spiritual transference.
When night arrived, I found myself standing on my front porch, gazing languidly at the starlit sky. As I became fully cognizant of the situation I tried to recall when exactly I had exited the house, but my memory was a maelstrom of irreconcilable images - I'd somehow lost hours of conscious awareness. This apparent fugue state sent me into a brief panic. Losing my mind terrified me more than losing my life, if that makes sense.
But my terror was abruptly ended by another glimpse of the sky.
It was strangely, eerily calming. There was nothing unusual about it; the stars had no special arrangement as far as I could tell. The moon was no whiter or bigger than normal. And yet the very sight of it had calmed me completely. I stood there, mystified by the celestial normalcy, while the toxin corroded my cells.
I was broken from my lunar stupor by the frightening impression that the moon had suddenly split open. But the fracture moved, sinking beneath the scope of the moon, and I realized that something was flying through the air - toward me.
A dark and massive shape cut through the night sky, great wings flapping powerfully; its body shimmering brilliantly in the moonlight. Its descent towards me was gradual, casual, as if it were savoring the baleful moment - stoking my fear.
I turned to my front door intending to barricade myself inside, but the knob wouldn't turn - the door was locked. I patted my pockets for my key but couldn't find it. It wasn't anywhere on the ground, either. I had apparently locked myself out of my own home in my mentally vacuous state.
A gust of wind brought my attention back to the sky, and a soul-sinking horror seized me as I watched that wicked creature make its terribly graceful landing on my front lawn. I tried to shout, but my voice froze in my throat. I tried to move, but my immense terror - or some dark telepathy of the creature - kept me petrified. My eyes darted left and right, but I saw no one else outside. Meanwhile, this fiend of the night folded its black wings upon itself and stood upright.
It was nightmare incarnate: an armored, ebon colossus with the face of some Hell-born insect - pulsing probuscises, horn-like antennae, crimson, multifaceted eyes. Humanoid in form, aside from those dragon-like wings. It raised a razor-taloned hand and pointed at me, and my spell of immobility was broken.
I immediately turned to run back inside, not caring why this creature had set me free of its sorcery. Before I could make it to my door, I was seized around the waist by a tightly constricting force and yanked back.
A tail - which I hadn't noticed before - pulled me across the lawn; stopping just before the towering horror. Scrambling away was impossible - the thing had some sort of magnetism about its body, an atmosphere of evil attraction that prevented me from escaping. It eyed me inscrutably with those sanguine eyes, then - impossibly - spoke in perfect English despite its inhuman face.
Its voice was harsh and metallic, like some demonically possessed garbage disposal, but also strangely familiar.
"If you wish to survive the curse, transmutation of your form is necessary. Your spirit must abide in another body - one not dissimilar to my own. To survive, you must become a Herald."
Before I could even process what it had said, the tail slid from around my waist. It reared skyward, and my heart sank when I saw the stinger at its end. It glowed a with a volcanic purple aura, like some swamp witch's lamp. And then, mercilessly, it plunged down into my chest.
I awoke on my bed, the dawning sun casting its soft rays through the open window; the shades drawn apart. I at once noticed a difference in my state of being: I no longer felt the disorienting unrest and sense of physiological wrongness I'd felt the days before.
I sat up and the recollection of the previous night's events hit me abruptly. With fear again mounting in my heart, I took off my shirt and screamed at the sight of the ugly mark on my chest. It was a large wound that had somehow already scarred itself into a strange flesh-rune of some kind. The red-tinged symbol was unfamiliar to me, but I felt sure that it meant something wicked; that I'd been inducted into some inhuman order. Scanning my room, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Neither were there any signs that the monster's massive form had entered my room.
I stumbled into my bathroom, hoping to wash away the terrible, inexplicable memory of the night before. My reflection brought the most horrific moment of all: during the night my face had begun to warp into an insectioid visage similar to that of the creature.
A few hours have passed, and I've since undergone several more alarming changes. Physically imperceptible, but visually apparent. There is no pain, only a mounting dread. I fear for what I'll become, for how my mind will be altered when the transformation is complete. I will end this entry here, while my hands are still those of a human.
Pray for me

When the doctor told me that through my veins coursed a poison so foul that it would rot me from within in a matter of days, I laughed at him. I hadn’t done anything medically unsound; hadn’t been anywhere toxic to my health. And yet I'd somehow contracted a poison - one so inimical that antibiotics and transfusions were deemed useless.
I was given referrals to specialists: cardiologists, endocrinologists, even oncologists, but told not to expect better news; a statement delivered with absolute, spine-seizing certainty.
But the doctor's grim assessment wouldn't be the only words I'd hear regarding my affliction. A man showed up at my door the following morning.
This man - who introduced himself The Herald - showed up unannounced at my doorstep yesterday, wearing a grey, plainly antiquated coat, and bearing that terrible news - with proof of my malady; he'd somehow acquired my medical records. I'd gone to the doctor the previous day upon waking up and feeling like grim death: plagued by a blinding migraine, tremors, and an unending cough. My open window suggested a cold, or allergies, but I had never experienced such a miserable reaction before.
I welcomed the strangely dressed man into my home, something I probably wouldn't have done under normal circumstances and in sound mind. In my unsettled state I didn't offer him anything, and he didn't ask. He at once told me of the toxin and its cell-ravaging effects, and I listened numbly; just as I'd done at the hospital. After a period of silence - during which he seemed to stare directly at the midday sun through my living room window - I asked him why he'd come. I had already been informed of my condition, as vague and unprecedented as it was. A next-day reminder wasn't necessary.
He replied that while my condition was dire, and had apparently been fatal to many *of his order*, there was still a chance for my survival. When I asked him how, he responded: "Blood transfusions are ineffective because the *curse* is far too pervasive, too blackly stubborn, to be removed in such a mundane fashion. No, what you'll need is a transference of spirit."
I didn't have any idea what he meant, and before I could ask he got up and excused himself, leaving my home as mysteriously as he had arrived. Baffled, I instinctively turned toward the window, and I swear that for a moment I saw a shape pass across the sky; something large, glistening, and winged, like an enormous wasp.
Later that day the symptoms of my condition became so intense that I actually passed out for a moment whilst making lunch - somehow my appetite hadn't waned as it usually does when I'm sick.
Despite my delirious and worsening state I strove to stay optimistic, hoping that the man would return and explain exactly what he'd meant by a spiritual transference.
When night arrived, I found myself standing on my front porch, gazing languidly at the starlit sky. As I became fully cognizant of the situation I tried to recall when exactly I had exited the house, but my memory was a maelstrom of irreconcilable images - I'd somehow lost hours of conscious awareness. This apparent fugue state sent me into a brief panic. Losing my mind terrified me more than losing my life, if that makes sense.
But my terror was abruptly ended by another glimpse of the sky.
It was strangely, eerily calming. There was nothing unusual about it; the stars had no special arrangement as far as I could tell. The moon was no whiter or bigger than normal. And yet the very sight of it had calmed me completely. I stood there, mystified by the celestial normalcy, while the toxin corroded my cells.
I was broken from my lunar stupor by the frightening impression that the moon had suddenly split open. But the fracture moved, sinking beneath the scope of the moon, and I realized that something was flying through the air - toward me.
A dark and massive shape cut through the night sky, great wings flapping powerfully; its body shimmering brilliantly in the moonlight. Its descent towards me was gradual, casual, as if it were savoring the baleful moment - stoking my fear.
I turned to my front door intending to barricade myself inside, but the knob wouldn't turn - the door was locked. I patted my pockets for my key but couldn't find it. It wasn't anywhere on the ground, either. I had apparently locked myself out of my own home in my mentally vacuous state.
A gust of wind brought my attention back to the sky, and a soul-sinking horror seized me as I watched that wicked creature make its terribly graceful landing on my front lawn. I tried to shout, but my voice froze in my throat. I tried to move, but my immense terror - or some dark telepathy of the creature - kept me petrified. My eyes darted left and right, but I saw no one else outside. Meanwhile, this fiend of the night folded its black wings upon itself and stood upright.
It was nightmare incarnate: an armored, ebon colossus with the face of some Hell-born insect - pulsing probuscises, horn-like antennae, crimson, multifaceted eyes. Humanoid in form, aside from those dragon-like wings. It raised a razor-taloned hand and pointed at me, and my spell of immobility was broken.
I immediately turned to run back inside, not caring why this creature had set me free of its sorcery. Before I could make it to my door, I was seized around the waist by a tightly constricting force and yanked back.
A tail - which I hadn't noticed before - pulled me across the lawn; stopping just before the towering horror. Scrambling away was impossible - the thing had some sort of magnetism about its body, an atmosphere of evil attraction that prevented me from escaping. It eyed me inscrutably with those sanguine eyes, then - impossibly - spoke in perfect English despite its inhuman face.
Its voice was harsh and metallic, like some demonically possessed garbage disposal, but also strangely familiar.
"If you wish to survive the curse, transmutation of your form is necessary. Your spirit must abide in another body - one not dissimilar to my own. To survive, you must become a Herald."
Before I could even process what it had said, the tail slid from around my waist. It reared skyward, and my heart sank when I saw the stinger at its end. It glowed a with a volcanic purple aura, like some swamp witch's lamp. And then, mercilessly, it plunged down into my chest.
I awoke on my bed, the dawning sun casting its soft rays through the open window; the shades drawn apart. I at once noticed a difference in my state of being: I no longer felt the disorienting unrest and sense of physiological wrongness I'd felt the days before.
I sat up and the recollection of the previous night's events hit me abruptly. With fear again mounting in my heart, I took off my shirt and screamed at the sight of the ugly mark on my chest. It was a large wound that had somehow already scarred itself into a strange flesh-rune of some kind. The red-tinged symbol was unfamiliar to me, but I felt sure that it meant something wicked; that I'd been inducted into some inhuman order. Scanning my room, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Neither were there any signs that the monster's massive form had entered my room.
I stumbled into my bathroom, hoping to wash away the terrible, inexplicable memory of the night before. My reflection brought the most horrific moment of all: during the night my face had begun to warp into an insectioid visage similar to that of the creature.
A few hours have passed, and I've since undergone several more alarming changes. Physically imperceptible, but visually apparent. There is no pain, only a mounting dread. I fear for what I'll become, for how my mind will be altered when the transformation is complete. I will end this entry here, while my hands are still those of a human.
Pray for me

When the doctor told me that through my veins coursed a poison so foul that it would rot me from within in a matter of days, I laughed at him. I hadn’t done anything medically unsound; hadn’t been anywhere toxic to my health. And yet I'd somehow contracted a poison - one so inimical that antibiotics and transfusions were deemed useless.
I was given referrals to specialists: cardiologists, endocrinologists, even oncologists, but told not to expect better news; a statement delivered with absolute, spine-seizing certainty.
But the doctor's grim assessment wouldn't be the only words I'd hear regarding my affliction. A man showed up at my door the following morning.
This man - who introduced himself The Herald - showed up unannounced at my doorstep yesterday, wearing a grey, plainly antiquated coat, and bearing that terrible news - with proof of my malady; he'd somehow acquired my medical records. I'd gone to the doctor the previous day upon waking up and feeling like grim death: plagued by a blinding migraine, tremors, and an unending cough. My open window suggested a cold, or allergies, but I had never experienced such a miserable reaction before.
I welcomed the strangely dressed man into my home, something I probably wouldn't have done under normal circumstances and in sound mind. In my unsettled state I didn't offer him anything, and he didn't ask. He at once told me of the toxin and its cell-ravaging effects, and I listened numbly; just as I'd done at the hospital. After a period of silence - during which he seemed to stare directly at the midday sun through my living room window - I asked him why he'd come. I had already been informed of my condition, as vague and unprecedented as it was. A next-day reminder wasn't necessary.
He replied that while my condition was dire, and had apparently been fatal to many *of his order*, there was still a chance for my survival. When I asked him how, he responded: "Blood transfusions are ineffective because the *curse* is far too pervasive, too blackly stubborn, to be removed in such a mundane fashion. No, what you'll need is a transference of spirit."
I didn't have any idea what he meant, and before I could ask he got up and excused himself, leaving my home as mysteriously as he had arrived. Baffled, I instinctively turned toward the window, and I swear that for a moment I saw a shape pass across the sky; something large, glistening, and winged, like an enormous wasp.
Later that day the symptoms of my condition became so intense that I actually passed out for a moment whilst making lunch - somehow my appetite hadn't waned as it usually does when I'm sick.
Despite my delirious and worsening state I strove to stay optimistic, hoping that the man would return and explain exactly what he'd meant by a spiritual transference.
When night arrived, I found myself standing on my front porch, gazing languidly at the starlit sky. As I became fully cognizant of the situation I tried to recall when exactly I had exited the house, but my memory was a maelstrom of irreconcilable images - I'd somehow lost hours of conscious awareness. This apparent fugue state sent me into a brief panic. Losing my mind terrified me more than losing my life, if that makes sense.
But my terror was abruptly ended by another glimpse of the sky.
It was strangely, eerily calming. There was nothing unusual about it; the stars had no special arrangement as far as I could tell. The moon was no whiter or bigger than normal. And yet the very sight of it had calmed me completely. I stood there, mystified by the celestial normalcy, while the toxin corroded my cells.
I was broken from my lunar stupor by the frightening impression that the moon had suddenly split open. But the fracture moved, sinking beneath the scope of the moon, and I realized that something was flying through the air - toward me.
A dark and massive shape cut through the night sky, great wings flapping powerfully; its body shimmering brilliantly in the moonlight. Its descent towards me was gradual, casual, as if it were savoring the baleful moment - stoking my fear.
I turned to my front door intending to barricade myself inside, but the knob wouldn't turn - the door was locked. I patted my pockets for my key but couldn't find it. It wasn't anywhere on the ground, either. I had apparently locked myself out of my own home in my mentally vacuous state.
A gust of wind brought my attention back to the sky, and a soul-sinking horror seized me as I watched that wicked creature make its terribly graceful landing on my front lawn. I tried to shout, but my voice froze in my throat. I tried to move, but my immense terror - or some dark telepathy of the creature - kept me petrified. My eyes darted left and right, but I saw no one else outside. Meanwhile, this fiend of the night folded its black wings upon itself and stood upright.
It was nightmare incarnate: an armored, ebon colossus with the face of some Hell-born insect - pulsing probuscises, horn-like antennae, crimson, multifaceted eyes. Humanoid in form, aside from those dragon-like wings. It raised a razor-taloned hand and pointed at me, and my spell of immobility was broken.
I immediately turned to run back inside, not caring why this creature had set me free of its sorcery. Before I could make it to my door, I was seized around the waist by a tightly constricting force and yanked back.
A tail - which I hadn't noticed before - pulled me across the lawn; stopping just before the towering horror. Scrambling away was impossible - the thing had some sort of magnetism about its body, an atmosphere of evil attraction that prevented me from escaping. It eyed me inscrutably with those sanguine eyes, then - impossibly - spoke in perfect English despite its inhuman face.
Its voice was harsh and metallic, like some demonically possessed garbage disposal, but also strangely familiar.
"If you wish to survive the curse, transmutation of your form is necessary. Your spirit must abide in another body - one not dissimilar to my own. To survive, you must become a Herald."
Before I could even process what it had said, the tail slid from around my waist. It reared skyward, and my heart sank when I saw the stinger at its end. It glowed a with a volcanic purple aura, like some swamp witch's lamp. And then, mercilessly, it plunged down into my chest.
I awoke on my bed, the dawning sun casting its soft rays through the open window; the shades drawn apart. I at once noticed a difference in my state of being: I no longer felt the disorienting unrest and sense of physiological wrongness I'd felt the days before.
I sat up and the recollection of the previous night's events hit me abruptly. With fear again mounting in my heart, I took off my shirt and screamed at the sight of the ugly mark on my chest. It was a large wound that had somehow already scarred itself into a strange flesh-rune of some kind. The red-tinged symbol was unfamiliar to me, but I felt sure that it meant something wicked; that I'd been inducted into some inhuman order. Scanning my room, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Neither were there any signs that the monster's massive form had entered my room.
I stumbled into my bathroom, hoping to wash away the terrible, inexplicable memory of the night before. My reflection brought the most horrific moment of all: during the night my face had begun to warp into an insectioid visage similar to that of the creature.
A few hours have passed, and I've since undergone several more alarming changes. Physically imperceptible, but visually apparent. There is no pain, only a mounting dread. I fear for what I'll become, for how my mind will be altered when the transformation is complete. I will end this entry here, while my hands are still those of a human.
Pray for me

When the doctor told me that through my veins coursed a poison so foul that it would rot me from within in a matter of days, I laughed at him. I hadn’t done anything medically unsound; hadn’t been anywhere toxic to my health. And yet I'd somehow contracted a poison - one so inimical that antibiotics and transfusions were deemed useless.
​
I was given referrals to specialists: cardiologists, endocrinologists, even oncologists, but told not to expect better news; a statement delivered with absolute, spine-seizing certainty.
​
But the doctor's grim assessment wouldn't be the only words I'd hear regarding my affliction. A man showed up at my door the following morning.
​
This man - who introduced himself The Herald - showed up unannounced at my doorstep yesterday, wearing a grey, plainly antiquated coat, and bearing that terrible news - with proof of my malady; he'd somehow acquired my medical records. I'd gone to the doctor the previous day upon waking up and feeling like grim death: plagued by a blinding migraine, tremors, and an unending cough. My open window suggested a cold, or allergies, but I had never experienced such a miserable reaction before.
​
I welcomed the strangely dressed man into my home, something I probably wouldn't have done under normal circumstances and in sound mind. In my unsettled state I didn't offer him anything, and he didn't ask. He at once told me of the toxin and its cell-ravaging effects, and I listened numbly; just as I'd done at the hospital. After a period of silence - during which he seemed to stare directly at the midday sun through my living room window - I asked him why he'd come. I had already been informed of my condition, as vague and unprecedented as it was. A next-day reminder wasn't necessary.
​
He replied that while my condition was dire, and had apparently been fatal to many *of his order*, there was still a chance for my survival. When I asked him how, he responded: "Blood transfusions are ineffective because the *curse* is far too pervasive, too blackly stubborn, to be removed in such a mundane fashion. No, what you'll need is a transference of spirit."
​
I didn't have any idea what he meant, and before I could ask he got up and excused himself, leaving my home as mysteriously as he had arrived. Baffled, I instinctively turned toward the window, and I swear that for a moment I saw a shape pass across the sky; something large, glistening, and winged, like an enormous wasp.
​
Later that day the symptoms of my condition became so intense that I actually passed out for a moment whilst making lunch - somehow my appetite hadn't waned as it usually does when I'm sick.
​
Despite my delirious and worsening state I strove to stay optimistic, hoping that the man would return and explain exactly what he'd meant by a spiritual transference.
​
When night arrived, I found myself standing on my front porch, gazing languidly at the starlit sky. As I became fully cognizant of the situation I tried to recall when exactly I had exited the house, but my memory was a maelstrom of irreconcilable images - I'd somehow lost hours of conscious awareness. This apparent fugue state sent me into a brief panic. Losing my mind terrified me more than losing my life, if that makes sense.
​
But my terror was abruptly ended by another glimpse of the sky.
​
It was strangely, eerily calming. There was nothing unusual about it; the stars had no special arrangement as far as I could tell. The moon was no whiter or bigger than normal. And yet the very sight of it had calmed me completely.
​
*I stood there, mystified by the celestial normalcy, while the toxin corroded my cells.*
​
I was broken from my lunar stupor by the frightening impression that the moon had suddenly split open. But the fracture moved, sinking beneath the scope of the moon, and I realized that something was flying through the air - toward me.
​
A dark and massive shape cut through the night sky, great wings flapping powerfully; its body shimmering brilliantly in the moonlight. Its descent towards me was gradual, casual, as if it were savoring the baleful moment - stoking my fear.
​
I turned to my front door intending to barricade myself inside, but the knob wouldn't turn - the door was locked. I patted my pockets for my key but couldn't find it. It wasn't anywhere on the ground, either. I had apparently locked myself out of my own home in my mentally vacuous state.
​
A gust of wind brought my attention back to the sky, and a soul-sinking horror seized me as I watched that wicked creature make its terribly graceful landing on my front lawn. I tried to shout, but my voice froze in my throat. I tried to move, but my immense terror - or some dark telepathy of the creature - kept me petrified. My eyes darted left and right, but I saw no one else outside. Meanwhile, this fiend of the night folded its black wings upon itself and stood upright.
​
It was nightmare incarnate: an armored, ebon colossus with the face of some Hell-born insect - pulsing probuscises, horn-like antennae, crimson, multifaceted eyes. Humanoid in form, aside from those dragon-like wings. It raised a razor-taloned hand and pointed at me, and my spell of immobility was broken.
​
I immediately turned to run back inside, not caring why this creature had set me free of its sorcery. Before I could make it to my door, I was seized around the waist by a tightly constricting force and yanked back.
​
A tail - which I hadn't noticed before - pulled me across the lawn; stopping just before the towering horror. Scrambling away was impossible - the thing had some sort of magnetism about its body, an atmosphere of evil attraction that prevented me from escaping. It eyed me inscrutably with those sanguine eyes, then - impossibly - spoke in perfect English despite its inhuman face.
​
Its voice was harsh and metallic, like some demonically possessed garbage disposal, but also strangely familiar.
​
"If you wish to survive the curse, transmutation of your form is necessary. Your spirit must abide in another body - one not dissimilar to my own. To survive, you must become a Herald."
​
Before I could even process what it had said, the tail slid from around my waist. It reared skyward, and my heart sank when I saw the stinger at its end. It glowed a with a volcanic purple aura, like some swamp witch's lamp. And then, mercilessly, it plunged down into my chest.
​
I awoke on my bed, the dawning sun casting its soft rays through the open window; the shades drawn apart. I at once noticed a difference in my state of being: I no longer felt the disorienting unrest and sense of physiological wrongness I'd felt the days before.
​
I sat up and the recollection of the previous night's events hit me abruptly. With fear again mounting in my heart, I took off my shirt and screamed at the sight of the ugly mark on my chest. It was a large wound that had somehow already scarred itself into a strange flesh-rune of some kind. The red-tinged symbol was unfamiliar to me, but I felt sure that it meant something wicked; that I'd been inducted into some inhuman order. Scanning my room, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Neither were there any signs that the monster's massive form had entered my room.
​
I stumbled into my bathroom, hoping to wash away the terrible, inexplicable memory of the night before. My reflection brought the most horrific moment of all: during the night my face had begun to warp into an insectioid visage similar to that of the creature.
​
A few hours have passed, and I've since undergone several more alarming changes. Physically imperceptible, but visually apparent. There is no pain, only a mounting dread. I fear for what I'll become, for how my mind will be altered when the transformation is complete. I will end this entry here, while my hands are still those of a human.
​
Pray for me

When he came to, his head was a searing migraine.
Groaning and painstakingly opening his eyes, Higuruma found that he had been laid down on the platform just underneath the elevated stage – carefully placed there by someone. His groggy mind was still sluggish, but his consciousness and awareness was gradually returning. God, his head was killing him. He remembered that he had been fighting someone and received an absolutely brutal blow to the face… but after that…
Wait a second.
Suddenly becoming alarmed, he turned his head towards the sea of chairs that was the auditorium. There in the distance, Nanami was sitting legs crossed, looking right at him with his goggles obscuring his eyes.
Quickly trying to get up, the pain in his body reverberated throughout him and told him he couldn't. No, now that he thought about it, there was no need; the fact that he was still alive meant that this man who confronted him never had any intention of killing him. It would be out of character. Higuruma had come to understand him in the little time that he had known him; his steadfast righteousness was already made evident by their conversation before the fight and the court trial where he learned how Nanami refused to sink to the level of his stockbroker colleagues. It was strange, but he felt like he was in zero danger – as if he was merely in the presence of a reliable friend, or a strong politician. He supposed it was oddly respectable.
Sighing, he collapsed again to the floor in resignation.
"Damn it."
Lowly groaning once more, he stared at the ceiling and pondered how things even ended up this way.
Nanami corrected his slouch and warily stared at the man on the floor. He was curious to see what his reaction would be when he woke up, but although they had just fought, he was able to see that Higuruma had fully given up. There was no need to be on guard. Relaxing his shoulders and trying to defuse the awkward tension in the air, he spoke in his distinct voice.
"It would appear you've awoken."
There was an awkward silence that filled the space between them, and the sound of the ambient noise became abundantly more evident as a result. Higuruma continued staring lifelessly at the stage lights dangling above him.
"How long was I out?"
Nanami glanced at his wristwatch. "About one hour."
He sighed and closed his eyes, tilting his head to the side in utter disbelief.
He already knew what the man wanted: his points. Because of that, he refused to kill him. Even if Higuruma said no, the man would still refuse to kill him out of basic respect for human life. He also didn’t seem like the type to torture others to get what he wants either. If Higuruma truly wanted, he could just lay here and refuse to cooperate with him still. Such a move would be childish and futile, but he was curious to see what the salaryman would do.
However, he knew that was unbecoming. This man deserved more than that. No, that’s not quite right either. The fact is, Higuruma was tired of it all: tired of the guilt, tired of the violence, tired of his job, tired of his life, and tired of running. It could be said that this stranger had quite literally knocked some sense into him – or perhaps snapped him out of his misanthropic stupor. Deep down Higuruma always knew what was going on was wrong, but he lied to himself to spare himself the pain.
He told himself that what he did to that attorney and judge was justified – that the people he’d killed in the Culling Game had it coming. He gave up on society because he was afraid of living in a world full of consequences and immorality.
But he realized now what a fool he had been. How could he run from justice when it was what he had strived for all his life? It was enough to make a man cry.
“Kogane.”
A small, insect-like shikigami with a mustache appeared floating above Higuruma’s head.
“Add a rule that allows players to transfers points to each other in the Culling Game.”
“?!” Nanami was surprised. This came out of nowhere; the once obstinate lawyer he failed convincing earlier was now doing what he asked without him even having to ask again. He stayed on guard as he wasn’t sure what to make of this.
“And make sure it counts towards the point change mentioned in Rule 8.”
Several seconds passed before the Kogane finally chimed in with its high-pitched voice, as if it had been verifying the new rule and deciding if it was within the game’s rules or not.
“Approved!”
“Give one of my points to Mr. Nanami here.”
Nanami’s own Kogane appeared – one without a mustache – and immediately chimed in as well. “You have received 1 point from Hiromi Higuruma!”
“…” He took a moment to evaluate the situation. It was surreal to think about, but he had gotten what he wanted. Although it was difficult to process right now, deep down he was feeling unconsciously relieved. Still, he just couldn’t fathom it and had to ask one question.
“… Why?”
When he woke up, he had realized something that caused his mind to ache: the man – Kento Nanami – while strong, was undoubtedly kind. It was something that he himself used to be, and something he wished to return to. Feeling the adrenaline rush of combat – and then having his life spared – put a lot into perspective about the person he had become, and how vile he felt about himself.
What kind of person would think that the madness going on in Tokyo would be a more fair society than the one they used to inhabit? How could a society where the strong crush the weak, and morality means nothing, ever hope to come close to the utopia he once pursued? It was ludicrous. This man – Kento Nanami – his appearance was a blessing in disguise. But now, Higuruma felt disgusting just being near him.
Laying there on the ground, he truly realized how weak he really was. How weak he was for giving in to his nihilism and fatalistic thoughts, and how he wanted to be judged and punished for his actions. The self-hatred just wouldn’t end; the tortuous thoughts continued to circulate within his head.
He felt ashamed.
Higuruma was motionless, gazing with glazed over black eyes. In a depressed low tone, he softly uttered,
“You’re a good person, Mr. Nanami.”
“…” Nanami listened.
Higuruma took a long pause, his voice sounding somber and joyless. His eyes were that of a wounded dog, but he kept his words steady and firm.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself as of late.” Rolling over and grunting, he slowly hobbled to his feet, his head still pounding. Almost tripping, he sauntered. “I’ve done you a great disservice. My actions were unforgiveable, and I’m grievously sorry for the trouble.”
Facing the man sitting down, he gave a deep and sincere bow, staying hunched over for a good ten seconds at least. Nanami rose from his chair and looked down at the back of his black hair, feeling slightly uncomfortable. For some reason, he was starting to feel a small sense of sympathy for the man in front of him.
Nanami blew a nervous exhale and adjusted his goggles, unsure of what to do with his hands. “No, don’t think anything of it. I’m just thankful you decided to add the rule.” He said in his typical monotone way, trying to keep a professional demeanor. Higuruma finally came up from his bow and seemed to be looking at Nanami’s torso, judging himself unworthy of meeting him in the eyes. His face as unmoving as a statue, he did well to hide the inner strife he was going through. Nanami could barely make out what he was thinking – only that he seemed to be going through some kind of mental conflict.
“The thing is, I’d forgotten what it was like to believe in people. Before the Culling Game, I’d lost my temper in court and killed two of my colleagues in a fit of rage. I haven’t been able to live with it.”
Nanami just… stood there, unsure of how to act or what to say. He wanted to offer some consolation, but he didn’t know the best way. Thankfully, however, Higuruma picked up on this and saw it fit to spare him the trouble, summarily deciding that he had taken enough of the poor man’s time.
“Once the Culling Game is over, I’m going to turn myself in. Until then, I’ll think about my actions. In the meantime, please save as many people as you can, and try and save this country too.”
His words were direct and unfaltering. It was as if his mind was clearer than it’d ever been before. The course of atonement was the only one he could walk now, and so he began to walk past Nanami and up the stairs as he finished talking.
Nanami, in turn, merely watched him go as his mouth was slightly parsed.
This wouldn’t do. In such a short amount of time, this man went from Nanami’s enemy to someone whom he felt immense sympathy for. Perhaps it was because he thought of him as similar to himself, or perhaps it was just a general sense of empathy that he feels for everyone. But, whichever it was, he couldn’t just let him walk away – not like this. He wasn’t going to pry, but he was going to try and help in some small way.
He was somewhat hesitant, but as he saw the lawyer ascend further and further, he just came out with it.
“Why don’t you help save people as well?”
He saw the lawyer pause mid-step - his back facing him.
Nanami knew Higuruma’s type, and he knew that the guilt would eat him up inside until it eventually destroys him. Call it irrational, or emotional, but for some reason he didn’t want to think about someone living such a miserable life like that – especially someone who appeared to be a decent human being, even if they have made mistakes.
The black suit didn’t speak.
Nanami had to lay it on thicker. “If you truly feel that way, then surely you must want to end this suffering once and for all, correct? We need more sorcerers looking out for civilians, especially against reincarnated players. You’re strong, and I believe you’d be a great asset.”
Still no reply. Nanami made an audible footstep forward. “It’s not too late.”
“…” The lawyer stood there, frozen.
…
…
In truth, Higuruma did indeed want to help others – to right his wrongs and make up for all the sins he had committed recently. However… the thought of saving other victims of the Culling Game, and having them thank him, and then having them see him as some kind of white knight without knowing what he’d done – all of it made him too sick to imagine.
What gave him the right? To save others when he deliberately chose to murder people in cold blood? No, the logical side of his brain was telling him that there was some merit to that. But still, right now he just needed to be by himself.
“Sorry. But I can’t.”
He was grateful for the sorcerer’s concern. It was strangely reassuring.
“… I see.” Nanami was saddened to hear that. However, he wouldn’t try to push it; right now, maybe he was being more of a nuisance than a benefit. It was time to let him go his own way, and maybe one day...
Well... one day, he could learn to live again.
“Then I wish you luck.”
Higuruma smiled, although the salaryman below couldn’t see it. He watched as he slowly took one step at a time until the doors above finally creaked open and slammed shut.
And that was it. As their two worlds collided, their encounter had reached its natural conclusion. Still standing somewhat dejected, he couldn’t help but feel like this was bittersweet as he watched another human being grapple with their guilt and self-hatred. In another life, maybe...
A vibration shook his pocket and tickled his thigh. Nanami jolted.
What? Who could it be? Reaching in, he whipped out his phone and was surprised to see…
It was Itadori calling him! Tapping the green button with his thumb, he pressed the device against his ear.
“Yes?”
“Nanamin! We got rid of the jamming effect in the colonies!”
… So they did.
That was good news indeed. “I see. Good work, Itadori-kun.”
“We saw the new rule get added!” Like an overexcited puppy, Itadori couldn’t help but overflow with questions and curiosity. “Was it Higuruma? Did he give in? What happened?!”
Nanami scoffed. “Calm down. Yes, I was able to get him to add the rule.”
**“**AWESOME!!! Way to go, Nanamin! {Are you really going to keep calling him Nanamin…}”
That muffled voice in the back sounded like Fushiguro.
Nanami laughed, although neither of them on the other end caught it.
Their energy was welcome after what he had just gone through. It was funny to admit it, but he was glad to hear their voices. Smiling softly, he looked up at the exit doors.
Just past them was the brutal battlefield known as the Culling Game. Mayhem was still afoot, and thus time was still of the essence. Reassuming his professional demeanor, he spoke monotonically again. “Now that I’ve wrapped up here, I’ll be heading to your locations. Did you find the Angel yet?”
“Uh, something like that.”
“Hm?” Why does he sound hesitant? Nanami scrunched his brows silently, with Itadori taking that as his cue to explain.
“We’re uh… kind of chilling with them in a hotel room at the moment.”
…
Did he hear that right…
“You’re what?”
“It’s a long story! You should get here quick. We’ll catch you up.”
He sighed.
Unbelievable. But, it was a very Itadori-like thing to do. He was glad that they’d found her so quickly. Truly, things just kept going suspiciously well for them. While he was cautious to be optimistic, he would take the small victories while he could.
“Stay put. I’ll be there soon.”
“Over and out!” [ boop ]
Putting his phone back inside his pocket, he found himself all alone inside the empty auditorium. Walking up the steps, he made his way to the exit as he pondered what kind of nonsense awaited him when he made it outside. He thought about Higuruma one more time, but then realized he was needed elsewhere. With him and the rest of Jujutsu High working as a unit, they had to do their best to put an end to the Culling Game and stop Kenjaku.
He sighed. A sorcerer’s work is never done...
Swinging open the doors, the Grade One continued on his mission.

Been depressed for years (M 32). I used to categorize it as just stress, but things got increasingly worse when I got my first child. Her mom wasn’t handling postpartum too well amongst other personal issues but, the child (7) is happy healthy & quite the academic.
Things came to a peak during COVID, I would cry uncontrollably & just in general sadness ALL THE TIME. I try not to be around too much people or share too much for the sake of depressing others, I stuck it out. I tried a new relationship with someone else after constantly arguing with my child’s mother- it got so bad she just grunts on the phone. But this new relationship tore me to shreds & I tried everything to save it including seeking professional help & dug up past trauma just to get a different perspective on how to move forward. The doctors prescribed Paxil & my God I feel so numb. I still feel a sense of despair, hopelessness, beta, unmotivated. But I stuck it out even though Paxil(20mg) gives me the jitters. I stopped taking it at night as I can’t sleep. Mornings are fine but I’m not a morning person nor do I like breakfast, but I pushed myself. Some days are great, my mind is literally blank, no ruminations, just a floating state (high without the clouds). But I hate this feeling, this is not me & I know this but I can’t seem to pull myself out of this stupor. I put on a brave face for my family to hide these overwhelming suicidal feelings to the point I don’t feel scared of it anymore. I no longer cry in silence, I no longer feel angry at myself, not even nervous for certain tasks, just emotionally numb to everything & that in itself is now becoming a problem. I’m afraid of coming off Paxil but everything inside me wants off these meds, to the point I now have slowly ramping migraines, today was the worse. I never grew up taking much pills or meds this whole ordeal has me scared like a whip & this is not me. (my brain isn’t braining anymore). The only thing that gives me a vein sense of purpose is seeing my daughter’s face but I feel neither excited of sad to see or hold her. This is debilitating. I’m not sure if this is all Paxil or just me.

First/Previous/Next
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Chapter 3 Part 1
​
They always said that you never dreamed in cryogenic sleep. Which was true. It was \impossible to dream with your entire being frozen to negative temperatures, body flooded with preservation medications so ice crystals wouldn't form in the cell walls or a host of other complications that would otherwise kill a person. What they neglected to tell you was the dreams you had when thawing out and waking up.
The dreams a person experienced while undergoing this thawing process were always intense too. As vivid as reality as it was sometimes reported. No one knew why. Whatever it was; whether it was the combination of drugs, the brain trying to understand the trauma it had just experienced or even the soul catching up with the universe as some more spiritualist elements theorised, without fail the dreams were the most intense someone could experience. For her, this time, they were far more than just intense.
​
Her eyes darted under her eyelids as the ghosts of energy bolts from aeons past darted in her memory. She heard the screams at the shaking of each dust filled rumble in her head. Her ears barely registered the dulled hum of ancient machinery fulfilling vital life sustaining protocols and the silent clicks of her standardised survival suit undergoing restart checks. Her helmet blocked out everything else or she'd have also heard the murmurs of voices beyond her pod. The cries of the dying desperately making one last stand echoed in her ears, drowning out the dull sounds. Those dying to protect her.
In her dream her arms reached out painfully slow for her father. She ached for them to go faster. This time she would make it. She'd be able to block the lid from fully sealing, preventing the cryogenic pod from starting. She was millimetres away. And yet the pod sealed effortlessly with a resounding hiss. At that her limbs decided to move normally again and hammered on the inside of the pod as the reinforced armour glass door's magnetic locks clunked to activation.
A dull green light shone into her face. Glacial coolness washed over her body as she slowly succumbed to the sensation of drowning. In one last desperate attempt she tried again to reach for her father. He wouldn't even look at her. A woman in midnight black armour cloaked in ragged robes embraced him from behind.
She screamed herself hoarse, trying to use sheer force of will to make the glass melt away. For her fingers and hands to phase through the transparent barrier and wipe away the tears staining his white bearded face. To just touch him one last time, even through the haptic feedback of her suit. To get him away from the stranger caressing him and wiping away the tears that belonged to her. She screamed a guttural scream as his face became sallow at the stranger's touch. It was killing him. Eyes sunk into sockets and flesh peeled back at the rapid mummification. "Alas" said the midnight black armoured woman in the ragged robes, holding her father's grinning skull in a gentle caress on the tips of her fingers. "Poor girl. Time to wake up. Wake up, and smell the ashes"
Fear gripped at her heart in a vice. There was nothing she could do but watch. The only way out was the emergency release button embedded at her side. But it was already too late, she didn't get to try as the feeling of drowsiness drowned her out, pulling her deep into the depths of slumber.
Except this time the feeling didn't become a stifling cold malaise. Instead, it was getting warmer. The sensation of drowning was slowly dissipating. As if she suddenly remembered she needed to breathe, her chest gave a mighty heave and began to rise and fall. For the first time in both more than a millenia and less than a handful of minutes, a large gasping breath passed through her lips. The inside of her visor fogged from the condensation.
She still heard the residual echoes of screams and cries in her ears like a phantom pain. But they were fading. Being replaced by a newer, stranger sound. The murmuring of a language she couldn't understand filtered through the glass and barely perceptible inside her helmet. Voices crowded around her pod. She hadn't yet opened her eyes. She didn't want to. She wished she was still in the dream.
Revival was always a confusing process and this was no different than the fifty odd times she’d undergone it before. But each time she had woken up her father had been there. He had to be there. Like how he’d be there this time. After all, it had only been a bad thaw dream.
The urge to open her eyes and look was almost overwhelming but she had to keep them shut. It was imperative until the medical diagnosis beeped an all clear signal. Otherwise she risked retinal damage before they were fully thawed. Until then she was alone in the dark with her thoughts. It was comforting to have thoughts however. What’s more; it was an even greater comfort knowing that because she was even having thoughts, she wouldn't spend an eternity of limbo in her frozen tomb, lost to the universe.
Finally, after what felt like an aeon, a dull chime resounded inside her helmet. Her eyelids slowly fluttered open. Microsensors within her helmet immediately noticed the movement and activated her suit's display systems. A heads up display appeared in front of her face. Light teal transparent letters flickered as she read information being displayed.
​
CRYOGENIC REANIMATION COMPLETE.
​
PLEASE EXIT THE UNIT AT YOUR DISCRETION.
​
This was strange. If her father was monitoring he would have already opened the pod right as her eyes opened. At least the words were reassuring. If there was anything wrong with either the pod or herself it would have been indicated in bright red flashing letters. A flick of her eyes and a blink dismissed the notification from her visor and she laid there in a stupor. She needed to get out and find everyone, find out what had happened.
It had all been so fast. There was barely enough time to even put on her survival suit and rush to the lowest levels.
The guards escorting her, Sergeant Lockley and a subordinate of his she had never got the name of, had practically dragged her in their rush, the entire bunker wasn’t even bothering with security procedures anymore. Everywhere else had gone quiet days ago, as far as they had been aware they were the last ones left.
No matter how much she'd pestered Sergeant Lockley he'd never given her any details on what had happened beyond that they needed to hurry and were about to be under attack. He didn't need to say by who, especially that late into the war. If it could even be called a war by then. It was more like a genocide with the fleets falling from the sky burning the heavens. City after City had collapsed, less and less reports coming in until they were isolated. And then it had been their turn. The entire human race reduced from carving out their own territory in the wider community to a scant few fighting tooth and nail for every scrap of dirt in a few decades.
That pit in her stomach as she'd been unceremoniously thrown in the pod while her father had ran all the checks himself when it normally took an entire team, was returning. Or had it never gone and she was only now allowed to feel it once again?
But she had been woken up. If she was awake then someone knew she was here, which meant they must have won. Beat the terrible odds stacked against them and come out the other side. If it had only been a few hours, or even a few days, either way it didn’t matter. She needed to get out and help the survivors, an extra pair of hands would be absolutely invaluable.
Looking at the lid, there were unexpected layers of thick dust caked against the outside of the glass, all except where her head had been. Maybe the combat had been so heavy the cryo chamber had nearly collapsed and whoever had woken up had brushed that portion aside to check on her. Yes, that must have been it. Holographic displays floated in front of her beyond the glass, their brightness blinding her eyes as well as making it almost impossible to make out who stood beyond their glare. She tried squinting past them, the shapes of the people outside were hard to make out, the fuzzy outlines of their bodies blurred together. However, their heads were still identifiable in the darkness as her eyes still adjusted. And from the looks of it there were at least four people in front of her. There was only one way to definitively find out though.
She motioned her fingers to indicate she was awake to the internal sensors inlaid into the walls of her glass coffin. She didn’t know why they hadn’t used the external controls to let her out, maybe they had been broken.
A dull clunk sounded indicating the magnetic locks had been released and the holograms flickered off as the glass slowly slid upwards with a motorised hum. The metal brim passed over her face, her visor compensated automatically for the low light levels, revealing, at last, her rescuers.
Four definitely humanoid figures crowded around her in the dark room. If she hadn’t been wearing her helmet the light coming from their torches being shined directly in her face would have blinded her. Instead, the glare was automatically filtered, revealing the figures standing in the room with her. They wore strange plated purple armour, bulky in the fashion all military equipment tended to be. A metallic point descended in the middle of their faceplates giving them an appearance similar to angry owls. Maybe it had been a special prototype her father had kept in storage somewhere, something given to the few elite soldiers remaining that helped to turn the tide. All the guesswork and unanswered questions directly after the panicked scramble to get into the pod was beginning to agitate her.
As a result, even through her reasoning, something nagged at the back of her mind. Trying to tell her something was off. She slowly looked over the four people again with her eyes, studying them closely without turning her head and giving away what she was doing. The one to the far right of her had their weapon hovering vaguely in her direction, as if unsure of what to do suddenly. Why would people that knew about her be so scared of her? It looked like an odd combination between an ornate staff and a rifle yet not quite either and looked to be encased in the same dark purple material as their armour. No matter how it looked, a weapon was a weapon and these people were dangerous. But they had also just woken her up. Surely if they had done that they wouldn’t be here to harm her. If they were, they could have easily done that while she slept.
The one directly in front of her, however, had no weapon out that she could see. Instead they had paused with a hand pressed into what looked like a computer device embedded on their forearm armour. The glow of the screen was reflected in the strangely shaped visor.
She tried weakly reaching out of her pod for the one closest to her in an attempt for aid.
"Where’s my dad? Did we win? How many days has it been?" She asked in a rapid succession, her weak voice amplified by the speakers within her helmet. She had to know.
The strangers looked at each other. They seemed more shocked at her speaking than helping her get up in her weakened state. She gave up on reaching out and instead used her arms to adjust herself on her near vertical frozen bed. She could feel the strength slowly return to her limbs as she moved. It would take a little while longer until she felt she could make an attempt to stagger out of her cryo pod but until then she was essentially helpless.
The strangers simply kept staring at her, as if they didn’t even know what she was. Which meant they weren’t from her bunker. They truly were strangers in the truest sense. But even so, they were survivors. And if they had survived then perhaps others had as well. For now however she needed information, her feelings either way could wait until she knew more.
"Who are you, how did you get here?" She asked again.
One of the beings, the one she had been reaching out to, spoke. It was a strange, melodic language that she didn't understand. Almost haughty in tone. That it hadn’t been automatically translated meant it must have not been in the system. An oversight by the programmers no doubt. Either that or they were speaking in a form of code. She sighed, that would make this far harder in an already difficult situation. Her powerful in built computer would be able to eventually figure out and create a translation if it really was a language but until then she needed them to speak more to hurry the process. Or even better, if she could activate one of the embedded computers on the wall, it would be able to extrapolate from just a scant few words. A common frame of reference to start with would be the best option but she struggled to think of what to use.
She remembered reading back when she was younger; even under the best of circumstances experts would deliberate for months, even years, on the meanings and nuances of individual words to ensure the most accurate translations possible. Computers helped immensely with the process but without the subtleties of organic beings they could create embarrassing inaccuracies.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. But if you can understand me, please help me get to the computer over there I'll be able to understand you" she pleaded, pointing with her right hand at the dust covered screen mounted into the wall.
The second stranger on the left, standing behind the closest one she had been reaching for, said something in their still untranslated language and slowly walked over to the computer.
They must not be able to understand me either she thought.
The stranger pointed at the screen and said something. She had a feeling this time it was a question with the tonal inflection. That was good, if her hunch paid off it would help immensely.
Hoping what they had asked was something similar to "do you want me to turn this on" she nodded. The being said something that sounded harsher this time and the two she hadn't interacted with raised their weapons squarely on her. That message didn't need a translation. They obviously didn't trust her. The being cautiously reached out while looking at her, hesitating only for a moment, before wiping away a layer of dust and placing their hand on the touch sensitive glass. The machinery hummed to life as the screen registered the limb pressed against it and turned on.
Relieved by the fact that the fortress bunker's fusion core was still operational, she watched as the state of the art device cycled itself.
Yet another dull blue glow added to the room’s illumination as the main screen activated. Her own armour's holographic interface automatically synchronised to the system and displayed in front of her, adding to the blue light, its own illumination and brightening the room from a dull gloom to a faded glow.
The strangers still eyed her warily, fingers not on their triggers but hovering close enough to fire if she tried anything. This was more than not trusting her. They seemed scared of her.
Slowly and deliberately to show them she wasn't up to anything untoward, she lifted her right hand to tap on the translator option in front of her among the myriad of options. The haptic feedback in her glove gave her the sensation of resistance as she pressed and the computer gave a chime of recognition. Three concentric rings appeared on the screen, pulsating like a heartbeat. She spoke and the rings pulsed in time with her words.
"If you speak, that should be able to translate for us in real time" she said.
The one to her left lifted up her arm with the miniature screen and pointed it at the wall computer as the one who had touched the wall screen voiced more of their melodic speech.
"I think it's a translation programme, commander. I've managed to connect and uploaded our language to its database. They obviously designed it to be universal, it automatically reached out to my pad. It doesn’t seem like there aren't any defences or compatibility issues at the moment but this one will need to go through maintenance checks back on the ship" the being said, the software translating the language to her in real time. “But right now the risk is minima, I’m letting our systems access the programme now”
It was a wonder of coding, even managing to mimic vocal tones and cadences of the individual accurately. Although there was a slight disorienting disconnect in person when the sounds didn't quite match up to the mouth movements but that was something you got used to.
She smiled inside her helmet and relaxed, the tension that had been building easing out of her body. It was working and she'd be able to talk to them finally. And get some much needed answers.
"At least you’ll finally be able to understand me" she said.
The beings were confused for a second, each looking at each other like they'd been the ones to say it before it dawned on them that she had just spoken to them in their own language. They turned to stare at her from behind their owlish visors. It would have been almost predatory if their brief naive confusion hadn't been so amusing.
Immediately, the two with their weapons trained on her began to lean in, their fingers barely hovering over the triggers. The one who had placed their hand on the computer moved in front and motioned to them with a gesture. They lowered their weapons but did not appear to have calmed down.
"Who are you?" the person demanded.
The simple question confused her immensely. If they didn’t know who she was then why were they even down here in the first place? Even so, she needed their help to be able to get out of her pod. Let alone leaving the bunker and getting to the surface and finding any survivors. There was little choice, she needed to be careful. Secrecy protocols drilled into her by intelligence trainers until she’d had migraines were almost second nature at this point. Especially with what she should reveal and to who. But her name was something she shouldn't have to worry about.
"My name is.. Alice" she said with only the briefest hesitation.
Deciding that she could get further with these strangers by forcing a situation and getting out of the pod rather than just laying there, Alice leaned up and took a tentative shaky step forwards. She braced herself with her hands against the cushioned sides as she placed her weight on her dominant foot, stepping out warily. As soon as she lifted the weight off her back foot her leg buckled and she collapsed onto the ground in a heap.
The one who had been closest to her this entire time rushed forwards to help her.
"Are you alright?" they panicked as they helped Alice stand.
"I'm fine. Just a bit shaky after being asleep for so long." Alice replied calmly. "It's a side effect of the drugs for cryogenics. It'll take me a few more moments for it to get out of my system"
"Why would they keep you frozen for so long if it would have such deleterious effects?" asked her helper.
"What do you mean for so long? It’s just what’s used"
"Can you tell us why you were here? What happened? Why are there so many dead soldiers in this facility?" asked the demanding one.
Alice couldn’t let them see how such a casual line of questioning shook her. Taking all of her meagre strength to not simply collapse again from shock. She had to compose herself or she’d let something go by accident. At least she could be honest in this instance.
"I don't know any of that either. I was put in there before any of that happened or anything was explained to me" she said, indicating with a thumb over her shoulder. Her casual body language was key. Keep them off balanced, make sure they didn’t know how much she was internally panicking then.
he body language of the person asking her so many questions appeared incredulous at her hesitancy to be forthcoming.
Besides which, Alice had questions of her own.
“Not to be ungrateful, but who are you all?” she asked.
The one who had been demanding of her appeared to straighten up their back even further somehow.
“I am Commander Yurisa. The one kindly helping you stand at the moment is Second Rating Shand."
The latter term was unfamiliar to her but she perfectly understood the implications of there being a commander. There were enough survivors to field a well equipped and manned military. Tentative hope began to form as Alice looked at the person helping her. She gave them a nod of greeting.
"What about them?" asked Alice, indicating to the two who had been the tensest and most willing to point their weapons eagerly at her. They were still slightly hovering their weapons in her general direction.
"Conscripts Doane and Hedi. They do not need your attention, pay them no heed" said the commander curtly.
The lack of respect for the two subordinates caught Alice off guard. The two people, Doane and Hedi, may have been jumpy at her. But they didn't deserve to be dismissed so out of hand.
Even so, she could think about the ramifications of someone who would dismiss their underlings in such a manner later. Now her focus was changing as the strength returned to her limbs. She needed to find out about the rest of the bunker, what had happened after she had been frozen.
She untangled herself from Shand who had been helping her and stood straight on her own, albeit still slightly wobbling.
"Thank you for waking me up, all of you. But if it's alright, I'd like to know what happened. How many days has it been since I was locked in there?" she slightly chuckled nervously.
"Not until we know you won't pose a danger to my people or my ship" Yurisa replied sternly, a hand extended in front of her. They had evidently identified the weapon she carried.
This seemed like a hard line she shouldn’t push for the moment. She didn’t know these people and they in turn didn’t know about her it seemed. A rapport was more important for the moment, leaving her only one course of action if she didn’t want to be shot by the jumpy soldiers. Slowly reaching towards her thigh for the standard issue civilian sidearm clamped there. Making sure to deliberately grab it by the casing rather than the grip and placed the rugged weapon in the proffered commander’s hand.
Yurisa looked at her for a seeming eternity before hooking her gun on an armoured belt.
Stand down" she commanded.
Doane and Hedi once again relaxed, except this time they slung their weapons onto their backs in fluid motions.
Content they had relaxed and weren’t going to shoot her after all, Alice went to the computer she had indicated to Yurisa to turn on. She tapped the screen to change menus from the translation software to a full cultural database download. The computer chimed and began downloading the entire memory bank into her onboard storage. All the information amassed before and after her sleep. All public research and development. All scientific theories and art and literature. The entire sum of all human knowledge and culture. She'd carry it with her. The weight would be immense. The guilt of leaving it behind would be worse.
"I promise I'm not a threat commander" she said dejectedly. The energy rushed out of her as fast as it had returned, like a collapsing wave on a beach. She accessed the imaging network. Before there had been hundreds of cameras available, ranging from CCTV in the cities to satellites in orbit. Now it seemed none remained, not even static from severed connections. They were simply blank screens with error codes. She couldn't even see what had become of her home. She tried accessing previous recordings, hoping at least the final moments of the people who had protected her had been saved. The files listed themselves in front of her in a cascade of videos all dated and timestamped. She added them to the download, vowing to sort through them at the earliest opportunity.
"I just want to leave. I want to get out and see what’s survived. Who’s survived. I want to see the Earth and help rebuild, maybe even find anyone I know if I’m lucky."
She stared at the screen, willing the cameras to life. To show her the bustling streets and busy sky lanes. To see the grand ships hanging in low orbit above the urban centres, ever watchful sentinels of the heavens. But the screen defied her will and remained stubbornly black. Her rapt attention shielded her from the awkward glances the people seemed to be sharing behind her.
Shand nervously cleared her throat. “About that..”
She began but the commander furiously cut her off with a swift hand signal.
Frustration clawed at her as Alice repeatedly swiped horizontally through the vast list of camera nodes, the error codes stubbornly refusing to yield. A single flash of colour blurred past her frantic swiping. She swiftly backpedalled, searching for the frame that had zoomed by. With a tap, the swiping stopped. She had found it. A single camera she had overlooked. Tapping on the frame to enlarge the feed, she stood back. The image before her was severely cracked and pitted, barely feeding a picture let alone video. Static suffused almost the entire screen. But past it she could just about make it out. The ruins of the city. No fires flared or smoke dissipated into the sky as she expected. Or even rebuilt to its former splendour like she was hoping with these strangers being in her bunker. Instead, her eyes tried to process the rusted sharp jags of bare metal left to rot into nothing. The illusion her brain had imagined while she had been so desperate moments ago shattered at the reality in front of her.
It was gone. All of it. Just how long have I been frozen?
Grief and fear threatened to rear up in her before an entirely different sensation replaced them.
They destroyed it all. All of it. No mercy After all we had given them. Their very reason for being. If it hadn’t been for the human race they wouldn’t have even existed. HOW DARE THEY!
“HOW DARE THEY!” she screamed, punching the screen with unbridled rage.
Webs of cracks spread out from under her fist as she took deep breaths. She had to control herself. She didn’t want to turn and look at the people no doubt staring at her after her outburst. No clacks of weapons had sounded so at least they weren’t panicking even if they would be on edge yet again.
A warbling chime broke the spell around her. The download was complete. Everything that had been was now with her. The importance of it was undeniable before but now it was possibly the only record left in the galaxy. She had to guarantee its safety, as well as her own. The fallback option when she was woken up without the expected personnel. She typed in the final command she had been told to do when she had been briefed so long ago.
​
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS
​
Alice snorted to herself.
Of course it would be that, they always thought they had a sense of humour. What idiots.
And with those last letters, the fortress that had survived fathomless millenia protecting its charge shut down with barely a dulcet low whine. The ruined screen flickered as the fission reactors went off line. The dull blue light slowly dimmed, once again returning the room to darkness. The last thread of life that had lasted so long finally free. And the last man made structure died, its duty carried for so long fulfilled.
Alice turned from the console a final time. The only sources of light came from the torches of the people standing in the room with her. She reached up to the side of her own helmet and touched a small pad. An embedded LED just above her faceplate illuminated itself, adding a narrow cutting beam to the wide ones of these apparent soldiers.
Commander Yurisa appeared to become distracted for a moment, her head tilting slightly to one side as if someone were talking directly into her ear. Her reply to whoever was on the other end of the obvious communication was heard by Alice.
"No, nothing to worry about. Sit tight, we're on our way back" she said to whoever it was.
Judging by that context, Alice guessed they were heading back up to the surface. They had come down and discovered her and were now leaving with their prize in tow.
No matter, as long as she could get off the planet she didn’t care where they took her now. She didn’t think she could handle the ghosts if they left her here.
Commander Yurisa indicated towards Alice, gaining her attention.
“We will be taking you back to our ship in orbit. Standard procedure means you will be confined to quarantine until medical scans show you are clear of any pathogens or other such contaminants that may prove a risk to us. These scans are non invasive and barring any complications will last no longer than a single rotation” she said in a statement that sounded rehearsed more than sincere.
Alice’s brain scratched like a record at what she had just been so casually told. A ship in orbit. She could barely comprehend all the implications it raised, not least of all the biggest one of how. She had to find out, to see if they had found an intact ship or maybe were even from a separate colony that had been missed. Her mind raced as she simply nodded in return, keeping the facade.
“I understand. I wouldn’t want to cause any harm to any of you. Just please, can we leave.” she begged.
“Doane, take the lead back to the surface. Second Rating, follow him and map our way out” ordered the stern commander.
Doane performed an odd slamming across his torso and nodded before heading towards the doorway. Alice gave one last glimpse at the pod that had kept her safe. She didn’t know if she would miss it in time but for now she felt hollow. Everything was proceeding so quickly and sooner or later she would have confront being left behind for such a long time. At least soon she would be getting answers. Why they had never found or woken her before now. She didn’t even know when now was, that was something she’d have to look up in the records when she had time.
Her lamenting was interrupted by the form of the commander filling her vision. Arm extended, indicating it was her turn to leave. Passing through the once pristine doorway, she immediately noticed the state of sheer decay. Instead of an elevator, rubble and rust met her eyes. She looked up, trying to spot where these people had climbed down. The opposite doorway wasn’t far above her, barely two levels. Doane and Shand were already more than halfway up. More beams of light were cutting through the gloom back at her, revealing the individual that Yurisa must have been talking to over the radio earlier.
Crossing the debris strewn floor, Alice reached for the corroded ladder, grabbing the rung closest to her. With mighty heaves she brought herself up, step by step, her limited strength making the simple task a strained ordeal.Finally she reached the opening she had seen from the bottom. Reaching out with her left food to dismount she hopped the small gap. Her weakened muscles still building their stamina back up from her lengthy internment failed her. Her foot slipped off the rung as she overexerted her leg, her left foot buckling from beneath her. Arms waving in front of her, desperately scrabbling for purchase on anything before she would plunge back into the darkness. Gravity inevitably overcame her struggle and pulled her back into the black shaft. A hand shot out, yanking on her forearm and dragging her back from the brink of her overbalance and firmly out of the doorway.
Alice collapsed hard onto her hands and knees, panting at the loss of strength and exhaustion wracking her body. Desperately trying to catch her breath, she looked up at who had pulled her in. Shand stood over her, head cocked while watching her. Alice fought against a giggle from erupting, the helmet the being was wearing made it look like a curious bird caught red handed in a spotlight.
Were they concerned? she wondered to herself.
Shand extended their purple gloved hand to her as she gasped from exhaustion. Alice grabbed the proffered hand. With a mighty heave, and a grunt from Shand, she stood unsteadily on her feet. Two of the soldiers rushed to her aid as she swayed on the spot, their rough armoured forms propping her up between them. Which two had helped her Alice didn’t know but nevertheless she voiced her thanks to them.
One of the group took the lead and began to head towards where they must have entered from. That must have been Doane, and Shand was the one following. She was easier to tell apart due to the holographic map being displayed on her wrist.
As they walked she looked at the aged remains of the carnage around her. Bodies and weapons strewn about the wreckage, no one left to bury them but entombed all the same in this bunker.
My father could be in here Alice realised as she slowly walked past an armoured skeleton wearing the stripes of a Sergeant draped over the remains of a concrete barrier.
They had still clung onto their rifle in a literal death grip, defending her as she had been frozen and slept. Guilt flushed through her at the sight of so many who had given themselves. Especially the Sergeant.
"Commander Yurisa. Could we stop for a moment please" asked Alice
The commander walked up to her, seeing her staring at the remains around her in the chamber.
"I think we can spare a minute or two" said Yurisa.
Alice gently removed the support of the two people who had been helping her and knelt in front of the Sergeant. An unsettling grin stared back at her through the smashed face plate of the helmet that once fitted. The unsettling truth suffused her being as she knelt. Days, or even months wouldn’t leave such a bare skeleton. This was years, decades at least. Alice looked around her at the other bodies lying around her, as if looking for any scrap of evidence that what she was realising couldn’t be true. All were beached with age, their tooth filled smiles laughing at the cosmic joke being played on her by the universe.
Looking away from the grim audience, she reached past the neck, briefly rummaging for the chain necklace she hoped would still be there. Gently lifting it past the skull, she dangled the rugged jewellery in front of her visor and attempted to read the dog tag hanging in the air. The thin slice of treated metal was caked in rust but even then it wasn't so far gone as to be illegible. Wiping the plate with her thumb, she read the name she had suspected it would say since seeing the rank of the remains.
Lockley.
The man who had rushed her to her pod so she could be where she was now. Alice bowed her head at the man she once knew. The man's armour may have been corroded with age but tradition was still tradition.
She reached out and disconnected his bulky left shoulder armour, the magnetic clamps still keeping it secure in place after so long. Placing it on top of her own civilian suit's lightly armoured shoulder with a light click, the piece looked completely out of place compared to the rest of her suit. A large dent in the centre showed where something had struck the late Sergeant as he had fought, perhaps an energy bolt or shrapnel from the fight. She rotated her shoulder, ensuring the piece wasn't interfering with movement or cumbersome. Satisfied it wasn’t, she then placed the dog tags back around the man's neck. The last thing she needed to take was his identity. The final thing he could keep.
Her deed done, she stood back up, looking around at the people she didn't realise had been staring at her.
"It was a tradition that started during the war" she said sheepishly. "You take the pauldron of whoever saved you if they died, that way you can carry them with you out of respect"
"That's a nice tradition" one of the soldiers she didn't know the name of yet said from behind her. One of the pair who had helped her. One who had been there when she had woken up. Which meant this must have been Hedi.
Alice chuckled slightly to herself as a sudden absurdity came to her. "Yeah but unfortunately I don't have enough shoulders right now for all the rest" she indicated with a sweep of her arms.
The group gave a few quiet sounds of amusement of their own, looking down at the ground or up at the ceiling rather than meeting her faceplate.
With a heavy sigh Alice willed herself to move. If she stayed any longer she would begin to lament on the lives lost for her and if she began that she may never leave.
Catching up with the awaiting Shand and Mannad, the group were led to a narrow maintenance utility shaft embedded into the wall. The cramped spaces twisted and turned as they took a winding path directed by shand.
The soldier Alice had not yet learned the name of was revealed to her when Iftan annoyed Mannad with an attempt at humour commenting on how it appeared to take longer to return the way they had come and if Shand had gotten them lost. Apparently Mannad had acute claustrophobia, however it was swiftly eased with a thump on the back of Iftan's helmet.
Alice smiled to herself at the thought of how soldiers were soldiers no matter what time or part of the universe you were from.

First Prev Next Royal Road
u/KieveKRS providing the Trash certification of quality!
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Harrow adjusted the hood of her vest, the cutouts for her ears anchoring it to her head as she fetched a fresh ironwood knife from one of her many pockets and passed it to Joe below her, his body resting on the ground under her widened stance. The Grand Hunter grunted his appreciation from his prone form, reaching with the implement and scratching out some of the excess material that they had forgotten to account for when asking the Atmo to do the prototype.
She was tempted to sit on his back, if only to rest her own from the awkward position. She had been holding up their latest project for a while now, the dulled edge of the wooden knives being unsuitable for prolonged use and delaying the process, but they didn’t want to risk giving Heralt more work at the moment by bending or breaking their limited metal. Not when he was busy speeding along the manual lathe, anyway.
As funny as the concept was, Joe had the idea to hook something of a treadmill up to one, whatever security member needing cardio training powering it for the workshop and not needing to be so far away from possible events during their exercise. The motion would be transferred out via drive shafts and gears, turning the exercise into 'power' for useful rotational machines. Heralt was also a bit of a hard-ass when it came to his work, so whoever was on ‘mill duty’ would be about ready to metaphorically keel over and die by the time the male was satisfied.
It wasn’t something they would have seriously humoured if it wasn’t for the new temporary workers, the group picking up the slack in some much needed areas. Though Harrow could go help the smith, her job was mostly prototyping and getting new ideas into working order so that others could manufacture it. Usually with Joseph’s help—when he wasn’t busy making sure that everything was going well or correcting Jax’s more formal language lessons with her own casual speech.
The Human could speak Lilhun passably now, at least, but still preferred to use his own tongue most of the time. Something to do with wanting an edge in what conversations were happening. And Tel. Something about Tel.
The Blade’s name passing through her thoughts made her back hurt even more.
The grey-furred female had taken to teaching Harrow a lot of things, though none of it was the flashy or lethal information that the Head of Technology had been looking for when she had originally sought lessons. It was a lot of learning how to walk silently and slip in and out of populated areas without drawing attention to herself. She wanted to think she was doing a good job, but witnessing how effortlessly the Wraiths managed it had her pouting and complaining to Jax on more than one occasion. The ‘girls’ just seemed to disappear, even if you were watching them go.
“….Row. Harrow?”
She blinked at the strained voice, looking down at the heavy frame she had inadvertently rested on Joseph’s stomach, the male having rolled over to get a better angle at something. She gasped, tilting it more to alleviate the pressure and feeling the muscles in her back complain.
“Sorry,” she murmured apologetically, her ears flicking in embarrassment for losing herself in thought enough to become a hindrance. Joe extended an arm to raise a thumb, a weak cough robbing his ability to speak as his other paw rubbed at his chest, a slight wheeze escaping him while he caught his breath.
“All good. Need to get the weight down on this thing anyway,” he dismissed after a moment, his cursory checks of his work ending with a satisfied nod. He motioned for Harrow to lift it up enough for him to escape, the female doing as requested and the Human slipping downwards with a few stiff wiggles.
Free, the male let himself go limp on the ground, his heaving chest sending a pang of guilt through her mind as she realized that he likely spent more than two attempts trying to get her attention.
“You okay?”
An unconcerned wave of his claws was given in response, his paw firmly anchored to his stomach. “You can…. Phew. You can let it down.”
She obliged, gingerly letting the project fall back down above his head, a jolt as it rolled away from her slightly causing her to lose her balance. Joseph shot an arm out, pulling her back so that she didn’t land into it face first. Her haunches landed on his hips heavily as a result, a fresh grunt of discomfort given for the effort.
Her cheeks instantly burned, a scramble to her feet was covered by an extended paw to help the Grand Hunter to his own. She winced at the weight of hauling him up, the Human much denser than a Lilhun of a similar build. Only Jax was so heavy, and he had quite some height on the Human when standing fully erect.
Perceptive—or perhaps sympathetic to what she had spent the last hour doing—Joseph reached out and idly moulded her lower back with his claws, the dull tips of his digits sinking into her sore muscles in a way that made her purr with deep satisfaction as she melted into his touch more than she would openly admit.
“Feel good?” he asked with an amused interest, stopping after a moment to crack his knuckles.
She gave him a deadpanned stare, discontent that he had stopped. Jax had rubbed her back quite often, but he lacked the delicate touch to really get in the way Joe did, as well as the grip strength to back it up. Maybe she should ask?
Regardless, the male was raising his brow at the continued ruminations taking her away from their work, a slight hint of concern in his eyes.
“If I strip off, would you do more?” she prodded teasingly to cover her absent mind, her eyes going from sensual to shocked when he gripped her by the jaw, manipulating her head as his gaze scoured her face for something.
“When’s the last time you slept?”
“What do you mean?”
He tightened his hold on her, an annoyed expression marred by worry. “You’re not all there today. Plus, your tail had been flicking by your feet on and off for a while.”
He let her glance down. The traitorous appendage was doing as he said, a subdued expectation percolating in the orange fluff licking the ground around her legs as it waited for a tail that didn’t exist to seek it. She didn’t want to tell him that she could only drift off when she was with him since he had gotten hurt, Jax’s presence only soothing half of her unrest. She didn’t want to think about why, though there were other reasons too.
She wasn’t stupid, her inclusion was irritating Tel, the grey-furred female growing less and less concerned about the arrangement Joseph agreed to in the wake of whatever compulsion was driving the Blade to be in constant contact with her mate. Harrow had a sneaking suspicion that Tel had bonded, but didn’t have enough evidence to confidently say. It would explain the anxiety when Joe wasn’t around for a while, as well as the increasingly close relationship between her and Pan, but some things just didn’t line up right.
She pushed his paw aside lightly, turning her attention to the thing they had spent most of the last few suns working on rather than thoughts that didn’t matter. “I’ll get some rest later when Jax gets off duty. Is it done now?”
Joseph hummed his disapproval, but a slow blink and a shrug seemed enough for him to shelf the issue for the time being. “As done as it’s going to be. At least until we get some feedback.”
“So, do we show this to Bratik or Sorren first?” she asked with a curious tone, happy to switch topics.
“Both,” he answered tiredly, “I think they’re out back in the sun.”
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“A moving chair?” Bratik asked curiously from his seated position, Sorren allowing the mate to rest their head against his chest. “I would not have expected to see one in a place like this.”
“Custom order,” Joseph explained with a grin, patting the ‘wheelchair’ fondly. “It’s a heavy bastard, but the metal we had to use for a few parts is solid until we can get a roller underway for tubes.”
“Think that will be an issue?” Harrow added to the translation, the question directed to the able-bodied of the two.
Sorren lit up with a bright smile, gratitude written all over his face. “Not at all. Bratik will be able to travel wherever he would like with this, yes?”
Joseph scratched his chin, a pensive expression returned. “Yes and no. It’s too heavy to do anything by himself. Not with one arm, anyway. It won’t be a problem if someone helps him around, though.”
The ex-High Hunter returned a dry chuckle, a slightly resigned tone to his voice. “I suppose I will be of limited use.”
“Lots of use to be had yet, Bratik,” Joe insisted with a paw raised chest high to distance himself from the assertion. “If nothing else, Sorren will like the help around the chapel.”
“And we might get someone with more medical experience,” Harrow offered, pausing to think. “Who knows, we might get lucky and physiotherapy will take care of most of it. Could get use of your leg again, and the arm will heal naturally. Hopefully, back to normal.”
The mated males looked at each other, nodding with hopeful expressions. Sorren bowed his head towards the Human. “Regardless, your paws are what keeps my mate with me. Even this much is more than I could have ever asked for. You have my heartfelt thanks, Grand Hunter.”
“Oh, fuck off with the title,” the male grumbled, gesturing for Harrow to keep his whining to himself for the moment instead of translating it. “Let’s get him in the chair and you guys can go for a walk. Sound good?”
They accepted, Sorren and Joseph helping the ash-furred male into his new mode of transportation. A few tests proved that he wouldn’t be able to do much in it without assistance, but he might be able to go around the den where the floors were level. Even the Hall wasn’t expecting too much of him, which seemed to ease the self-pity that the injured male felt.
With a look of joy that Harrow doubted would have ever existed on the enfeebled male’s face ever again, the two took a small stroll around the farm plot, Bratik reaching out and lightly brushing his paw over the leaves as they passed by. Sorren's look of contentment stirred something within the female. Just seeing that Joseph was willing to spend so many sleepless moons for their den was one thing, but doing the same for all in his pack made her pause, her tail once again low and expectant.
She excused herself as the two recently-mobile Lilhuns did the same to show off the new accommodation to their friends, the orange-furred female heading out to check on how Heralt was doing with the new wire she had asked him to make. The thing Tel had her working on in secret was almost done and all the pieces were ready for assembly, but she needed the wire and some final touch-ups before she could present it to Joe.
Anything to distract her for now.
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Joseph waited for the response to the question, mostly out of curiosity than anything else. The largest of the Atmo carved her response for all to see, though the English was effectively useless for anyone but him at the moment.
[We do not judge other species,] Mama explained via tablet, a contemplative tilt of his head returned from Tel’s lap. Pan waited for Violet to translate it onto her own writing surface, their adoptive daughter trying her blade at acting as an intermediary while the group talked.
He smirked at the arrangement they assumed in the ‘hidden sanctum’ outside of his office, the high walls blocking all but the sky above them as gentle winds flowed through the enclosed space, Pan’s white fur almost glistening from whatever moisture was left from their bath.
Tel was leaning against the wall, seated on her ankles in the shade. Joseph had taken the opportunity to lie down, his waist in the sun while he enjoyed not having to squint and feeling her thighs on his neck. Mama was lowered across from him, Pan using her as a backrest with her legs splayed out. Violet was bouncing between the two every so often to claim as a pillow whenever she wasn’t walking over to Scarlet to play with the birds, the odd collection of avians having become a regular enough occurrence that they had started entering the office when the window was open to sit on his desk. It was surprising at first, but he had given in after the first few times and now kept some jerky in there to feed them if they behaved.
“I would have assumed you of many mates. Much like smaller insects,” Tel mused, not particularly concerned with the possible insult.
Mama chittered, wiping the wax on her tablet flat as Pan closed her eyes to enjoy the breeze. [I am sure some prefer it, but the majority of us choose a partner for life.]
Joseph read the answer, wracking his brain to remember how many species stuck to a single love for their entire lives. He knew there were a few, but the specific ones escaped him. It had been quite a while since he poured over the required reading Rob had him digest before the cruise, and even then his recollection was spotty at best.
Violet translated the answer, Tel offering a correction in the grammar that he didn’t catch—if only because the script still gave him a migraine. Deciding that she was bored with practising her writing, the young Queen laid her tablet down and wandered to the edge of their area to bother Scarlet. A raven landed on her base, making for a very still Atmo as she peered over her shoulder, a slight vibration telling of her excitement.
Pan giggled, a slit of amber visible beneath her eyelid as she looked to see whatever had him so amused. Tel ran her claws through his scalp, the female being the most at ease he had seen her in a while. He offered a smile, receiving a light peck for his troubles, as well as Pan looking perfectly content with everything about the situation. Joseph looked at both of them before shifting his gaze to Violet, his relaxation becoming a hesitant frown.
“Wait, Violet uses us as a guide.” He looked at Mama with a raised brow and a defeated grin. “Am I going to need to fight off two Atmo when she grows up?”
“Overprotective?” Tel teased, poking his cheek. He frowned, her melodic laughter lightening his soul as Pan joined in. He batted the paw away, unable to keep the smile away any longer.
“She can almost kick my ass as it is. Think I’d do okay versus two of them?”
“She has been taught by yourself,” Pan said, offering him a lifeline.
“And she will surpass him when she removes her protective gear,” Tel countered, taking great joy in making sure he didn’t have a way to save his ego. Mama chittered her amusement, opting to rest her blades in front of Pan, the white-furred female laying a paw to them to stroke softly.
“Hard to be ‘top dog’ when I’m competing against living weapons,” he quipped warmly, a thought crossing his mind. “Speaking of; Scarlet?”
“Yes, sir?” she responded, taking his tone as permission to continue playing with the birds.
“How’s Faye doing with the wolves?”
The Wraith held her arm out, a raven having landed on it and was patiently waiting for a morsel of food. “She insists they will be suitable for broader interaction soon. Idee was asked to make harnesses for them, as per your description.”
Idee, there was a surprise. The Grand Huntress giving up her position and fleeing across the land to join a pack with rumours surrounding it was a questionable move, but he had to admit, she could leave whenever she wanted under the premise of being a temporary worker. It wasn’t like he could stop her—the contract with Trill protected her—not that he would want to anyway. She had quickly become a close friend of his bonded girlfriend and the two spent much of their time chatting while they set about tailoring whatever was needed or crossed their mind.
With her inclusion to Pan’s workload, things around the base had sped up wherever leather or textiles were involved. There were even a few new summer-appropriate dresses spreading amongst the females, though they were sparse in number and were reserved for personal time. The males seemed to prefer vests or going topless as the heat increased, Jax taking to the latter more recently.
However the fashion trend started, Joseph found himself in a sea of people who looked far less ‘survivalist’ whenever the pack was winding down. Add in the new chess boards they had managed to roll out and the barracks occasionally held fifteen to twenty people playing games and laughing. With smaller activities in the mix—horseshoes, sparring, communal feasts after a larger hunt—people enjoying themselves had begun making the place feel welcoming.
Pan nodded towards Scarlet, watching everything with a lazily sweeping gaze. “With the forward lodge in use, our leathers have increased in production. There should be no restrictions, as far as materials are concerned, for the foreseeable future.”
“Mi’low happy to be the fuck away from me?” he asked with a sly grin. The actress was one of the first people to ask to go on the extended hunting trips, if only to get away from Toril. Maybe himself too, but he wasn’t too worried about that.
Once Toril met the first of the previous Grand Hunters to end up under Joseph, he had spent a lot of time asking her about the Human due to their extended relationship. Though it seemed to be a purely clinical set of questions, Mi’low quickly lost her temper with the inquisitive male and jumped at the chance to be free of him for a few nights. With Joseph and Pan around to supervise the rest of her pack, as well as any Heads that they were regularly employed by, there wasn’t any concern about them falling out of order. Not that the Human suspected they would—everyone was pretty well acclimated to the pack and how things worked now. Save for the sparse new Lilhuns who were too nervous to act up.
As amusing as it was to have the newest members of the pack that trickled in through smaller caravans here and there bowing to him in respectful fear—most of the traders having adjusted their routes through territories to accommodate the growing pack—he really just wanted to bang his head on a wall after a few weeks of it. That was what he got for wearing what had been affectionately dubbed Wraith armour by the girls, their similar garb when ‘on duty’ designed to be as visually disturbing as possible to the animal-like race. The new trench coat sported thicker plates and some more macabre framing built in, making it far more imposing than the previous model that had been effectively ruined by a sword. Once Atrox and Mama insisted on it, anyway.
It was very much armour now, the weight of the garment increasing threefold in response to the scar he had on his back. There was a lighter coat made for when he wasn’t going to be running into combat or scaring the shit out of the visitors, but it was getting warm enough that even that seemed overkill. Enough so that he was debating joining Jax in taking off his shirt and maybe asking if Pan could do shorts for him.
“We’re happy to be free of her,” Tel deadpanned, her distaste for the female presenting as quiet venom. Joseph reached up to tap her snout with a finger, the scrunched face and flattened ears making him chuckle.
“Be nice. She’s welcome to her opinion as long as it doesn’t cause issues.”
The grey-furred female leaned lower to pout at him, her subtle dark stripes highlighting her lithe form. “You are my Sheath and her Grand Hunter. The only grievances levied against you should be that you do not bed her.”
He rolled his eyes, Pan’s chuckling ruining any minor annoyance he might have had regarding the almost reverential opinion Tel held of him at times. When she wasn’t scolding him for doing something stupid, anyway.
“Want me to?” he asked sarcastically, a nonplussed expression showing how appealing he found the prospect.
“Want me to bed you?” she challenged, preemptive victory in her voice. He opened his mouth to argue, closing it when she extended a claw in playful threat.
“Pan, Tel’s bullying me.”
The white-furred female freed herself from Mama, the Atmo watching Violet try to mimic Scarlet by holding her joint out for a raven to land on and failing so far. Pan stood over them, her normally short frame towering. She placed a fist to her lips for a moment before unceremoniously nudging him onto one of Tel’s thighs while she lid down to occupied the other, a paw grabbing for his hand as she closed her eyes to get comfortable.
“I am not furniture,” Tel complained with a laugh, Pan disregarding her with her own.
“You must bully us both now,” she declared, a wide yawn betraying the sleepiness the heat of the sun imparted on her. Tel grumbled, but copied the stroking of Joseph’s scalp on Pan, the latter dozing within seconds. The Grand Hunter glanced up to the grey-furred female, the warm smile of contentment complimenting her own drooping eyelids, her having gained some comfort having the two of them within her touch. He found the whole arrangement soothing, enough so that he was likely fighting Tel for who fell asleep next.
Whoever it was, Mama’s quiet chittering was what he drifted off to, Violet’s hushed excitement likely telling of her success in having a bird use her as a perch.
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“Think it’ll work?” he asked the seated white-furred male, Toril pondering his request with his persistent smile. Tersa was busy crushing some more of the purple crystal that worked as a painkiller for the pack, a mining expedition having returned with some. The two were in the process of trying to break down as many things as they could so the chemist could run tests, though he was limited in materials for now.
The small building they had erected to act as a lab was built with expansion in mind, so it wasn’t as thoroughly insulated as the other constructions. Luckily, the heat meant that it wasn’t such a concern for now. It wasn’t overly furnished, a few tables and benches to act as work surfaces and storage, but the ex-Grand Hunter was more than happy to do his job with the stone and metal tools, ironwood substituting where better variants had yet to be produced. Some containers lined a table against the wall, consisting of mostly compounds he had managed to make so far. Something that was looking to be a mild acid that Pan used for her leather processing, but concentrated enough for other uses, was stored in an iron-lined container, though Joseph couldn’t wager how necessary the precaution was. He wasn’t about to tell the guy whose job it was to deal with the stuff what to do.
Toril’s eyes wandered over to Kaslin, the Wraith dutifully sorting some new materials into piles based on some obscure metric. Though the bronze-furred female seemed reticent and professional, Joseph knew for a fact that she was tied with Tel for her sadistic streak once the shackles of her disguise loosened. The iron-tipped whip she wore as a sash around her hips was tied off in a large bow behind her back, looking like little more than a fashion accessory at the moment. A twitch of her paw and she had an excess of twenty feet of supersonic lethality at her fingertips. Claw tips. Claws.
The whip was fucking scary.
Though the servile female had been assigned as their primary supervision since the two joined, neither seemed to suspect that ‘Klohe’ was the one carrying out a lot of their more mundane tasks while Toril taught Tersa the smaller nuances of chemistry. Though they may have expected some hyper-specialized Blade to be watching them through a scope or something, the fact that the biggest threat in the room was currently placing several strips of healroot in some sort of solution while passively listening to the conversation was amusing to the Human.
“I believe it would, though I ask that I not be involved in its creation,” the chemist answered after considering it, his wandering gaze settling on Tersa looking proud over her pestle and mortar. It was small moments like that where Joseph could see the smile reach the male’s eyes, instead of seeming like an odd resting position for his face.
“Hey, works for me. I’m just glad you haven’t kicked me out for asking your opinion.”
Toril chuckled, waving a paw dismissively. “I doubt you will use your devices for more than defending your pack, Grand Hunter.”
He sighed, glancing at Pan as she tried to subdue her giggling at his frustrations. “I doubt a spice bomb would bring down a settlement.” He paused, his brow furrowed. “Maybe if we add a chamber for alcohol and set up an ignition? Fire bomb?”
The white-furred male simply smiled, content to leave the idea where it was. Joseph nodded, raising a palm up in apology.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to probe for your thoughts on it.”
“Worry not,” the male assured. “Your mind is much like the orange-furred female and my own. We tend to become absorbed by our musings. I do not take offence.”
“Good,” he replied with a relieved breath. “Anything you need before I head off?”
Toril’s eyes lost focus for a moment before coming back to the conversation with a blink. “Besides glassware, and perhaps some samples from yourself, there is little we would benefit from at the moment. Much of our work is determining the properties of the materials we have.”
“Samples?” both him and Pan asked at once, neither expecting such a request. Tersa raised a brow from her work, having caught the slight slip. Joseph kept his confused expression, hoping that the Blade assumed he picked up a word here and there rather than the fact that his girlfriend’s translation was largely unneeded by now.
“Oh yes. Blood, urine, sweat, saliva,” Toril listed off, his excitement growing. “You are an alien, Grand Hunter, there is much potential within your body. Compounds that perhaps may be uniquely produced or interactions to chemicals that our forms do not have.”
He opened his mouth, fluttering it closed as he tried to formulate a response. He clamped it shut, drawing his lips thin. “I…. guess? You’re the expert. Though, I thought you didn’t deal with biochemistry?”
The chemist laughed lightly. “All chemistry is fascinating, Grand Hunter. I am merely more versed in some than others.”
Joseph waited for more, but it seemed that is all he was going to get in response. “I don’t want to whip it out to piss here, but I can do blood and saliva now, if you want.”
The male lit up, beckoning Tersa and fetching a pair of processed cups. Gesturing for his arm, Toril gently examined it, finding the veins easily and dipping his claw in alcohol to sterilize it before making a surprisingly clean cut, letting steady drip of the crimson fluid fill a portion of the container while the Blade held the other towards his mouth.
He eyed the female cautiously, but she seemed fairly unperturbed by the odd requirement, so he gathered as much saliva as he could and poured it into the cup, repeating it twice more when she kept the cup there.
Satisfied with their collections, Tersa placed the spit aside with some other containers, sealing the top with a leaf while Toril happily waited for the Human’s natural clotting factor to stymie the bleeding. He released Joseph’s arm, the Grand Hunter glancing around for healroot to bandage the new cut fruitlessly.
“May I?” Pan offered, a claw pointing to his wrist. Not seeing the harm in it, and figuring that it would work just as well for the purpose, he extended his arm. Her warm and textured tongue grazed over the wound a few times, the female nodding to herself when she was satisfied that it was working as she wished.
Toril watched the interaction with a speculative flame in his eye, more and more interest garnered in the sealed injury. “Curious.”
“What is?” Joseph asked, wiping the saliva off his skin gingerly with his shirt.
“That worked almost instantly,” the chemist commented, his smile faltering as his mind churned. “Have you previous experience with the interaction?”
He nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, Harrow licked the cut on my back when I brought Bratik back. Stopped the bleeding pretty much on the spot, but healroot was needed to seal it and whatnot. Didn’t get infected, at least.”
The white-furred male hummed to himself, spinning on his chair and reaching for a few containers. Sensing that the Human had stopped existing for the guy, Joseph bid farewell to Tersa and Kaslin, receiving a disinterested wave and a bow in return. Gesturing for Pan to lead the way, they left the lab, coming out across from the Hall. A Lilhun from security greeted them with a hurried pace.
“Grand Hunter, Huntress Pan. I pray the sun has treated you well,” the guard opened, their chest heaving slightly from the jog.
“You as well,” Pan returned politely, her head tilting in response to the sudden approach, “What may we be of assistance in?”
“There is another caravan.”
Her brow furrowed. “Yes, we have them come fairly regularly now. Is there something in particular about it?”
The security member seemed conflicted, glancing at Joseph. “They are transporting Atmo.”
“Atmo?” Joseph prodded, his eyes narrowing at the phrasing. “As in; ‘Atmo are a part of the group?’”
The guard blinked, surprised to hear passable Lilhun from the Human. Joseph didn’t care about the slip. Something about how it was said had his instincts flickering flames internally.
“N-no, they…. They are transporting them on carriages.”
His eye twitched. “Details. Now.”
The Lilhun shrunk, unaccustomed to the Grand Hunter being anything but relaxed or mildly annoyed. Pan wrapped her tail around his hand, grounding him from losing his temper. He took a breath to even himself out.
“Sorry. What do you mean? Are they being treated like animals?”
A nod was returned after a moment, the flicker of anger growing into a solid base of embers but a light breeze away from igniting. He heard a low growl behind him, Pan likewise disturbed by the news.
“Escort them in,” he decided, a steeled expression dominating his face. “If we’re lucky, they’re just here to ‘trade’ for them and we can get them the fuck out of my territory. If we’re really lucky, they can help bring more, costs be damned.”
“If we are not so lucky?” the guard asked after a few seconds, their paw clutching for a sword the pack had traded for while Heralt was busy with other projects. Joseph waved them off.
“Then we deal with it as needed.”
The security member nodded, jogging back towards the gate at a slightly faster pace than they had arrived. Pan settled a bit, her loosening tail letting blood flow back into his fingers.
“Will you require your Wraith armour?”
He shook his head. “Not this time.” A sharp whistle drew two Wraiths from the shadows, Scarlet currently watching over Violet as the Queen worked with Rose and Cobalt to clean the den under Volta’s guidance. The deep gold-furred and brown-furred servants assumed their subdued posture in front of him, their heads lowered and eyes closed.
“You called, sir?”
“Faye, Raine. There is a caravan coming with Atmo being treated like trade goods. I want both of you ready to act on my signal if it’s needed.”
The two females exchanged a glance at his tone, a subtle sniff of the air told them of his simmering displeasure. With a pair of lurid smiles, they bowed, slipping away without a sound. He turned back to Pan, his girlfriend eyeing him with an intensity he suspected he was returning.
“Where’s Tel?”
“She should be preparing for her lessons with her protege.”
He cursed, looking back towards the gate to see the first hint of the caravan, his eyes widening as he saw the carts.
Ten Atmo, several close to Violet in size, all confined within a large cage on wheels. The adults were crowding around the children, their carapaces gashed and cut.
A black-furred paw encapsulated his shoulder, stopping him from marching over and breaking everyone that allowed the treatment to happen to the insects.
“Calm, Grand Hunter,” came the low baritone voice of Jax, Joseph shooting a venomous glare back. “You are scaring your pack.”
He glanced around, several passing members having tried their best to meld into walls when the surfaces stopped their panicked egress, the more senior Lilhuns clutching for their weapons and looking to him for permission to act on his rage. They seemed just as incensed to see people like the Atmo they had been working with treated so poorly. The solidarity eased him back a few levels.
Sensing the loaded coil of wrath being loosened slightly, Jax released him. “It would be wise to ascertain if there are more within their territory before we begin a war, Joseph. We may be of enough might to subdue these visitors, but we are ill equipped to fight the treaty.”
He spit, the only outlet for his vitriol being the simple action, but it spoke all the words he needed to. The pack moved their paws from their weapons, but the damage was done. The air throughout the settlement grew thick with enmity.
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
“Two hundred of those snares, thirty bows, and a cart of meat,” the male offered calmly, the tension palpable.
Though they allowed two guards to enter with the trader—mostly in response to the aura permeating throughout the settlement—Joseph had played his interactions in a fairly levelheaded manner, though Jax was unable to scent if the Grand Hunter was presenting as such. Given by the subtle twitches of the guards, it was likely that they suspected he would attack at any moment.
It meant that the Human had reigned in his anger quite a bit. Neither were retreating or showing open hostility.
“For ten of those weapons and a few servants?” Joseph responded incredulously, his distaste evident for the descriptor of the Atmo. Pan didn’t carry the same tone, but her claws resting on the deployment mechanism of her bracers told of her opinion. “No. One hundred and twenty. We can supply the payment within the hour and you can be on your way.”
“They are very well trained,” the trader countered with a raised paw. “Simply threaten the smaller ones and the largest will follow your commands.”
A crack from the desk pierced the room, Joseph’s grip on a shelf snapping it. A shiver ran up Jax spine at his tone, the facade of translation fading to cold Lilhun.
“One hundred snares. Twenty bows. A cart of meat,” he listed tersely, each word clipped with growled purpose. Somehow, the clumsy pronunciation faded with his increasingly calm demeanour. It didn’t make the black-furred male any more relaxed, because each syllable carried a judgment weighing heavily on it. “Then you leave here enriched, and I get the insects and servants. This is not a haggle. This is a peace offering. Bring any other weapon you have when you make your next trip, and we will open regular trade relations. We might even offer you better terms than reasonable for the trouble.”
The two guards pulled their swords slightly, an eye kept on the uncovered Human. The merchant raised a paw to stop them with far more confidence than he should still have.
“You speak our language, yet do not know of the might Grand Hunter Pernel has at his disposal? What of Grand Hunter Trill? Do you wish to test the treaty?”
Joseph leaned forward in his chair, his claws interlaced on the desk. “I don’t care. He doesn’t want the insects. You can ferry them wherever you want, but you won’t be able to feed them long enough for them to survive the trip. They’re quite the drain in those numbers, right? Your supplies dwindled far faster than you thought, even when you starved them. What use is dead goods?”
The male narrowed his eyes. “We would trade for their limbs elsewhere, if so.”
“And get next to nothing for it,” he countered quickly. “You make the deal now, and you have weapons, hunting supplies, and enough food to trade down the line, if not just to eat yourselves.” He pointed a claw at the trader. “Deny me, and you lose out on a very profitable client.”
“And our lives,” the male commented, parsing the hidden threat. Joseph stared, not bothering to confirm or deny. The Lilhun mused the offer before nodding sharply. “So it will be. One hundred snares, twenty bows, a cart of meat. In return, you will receive the weapons and servants, as well as priority when we trade the last batch. I pray for a fruitful arrangement, Grand Hunter, lest the treaty be invoked.”
Jax almost expected the Grand Hunter to offer to ‘shake hands’, but the Human simply returned the nod and waved him off, Faye escorting the group outside as Raine remained.
“Raine, coordinate a few people to gather what they need. Order from the Grand Hunter. I want them packed up and gone before nightfall.”
The Wraith bowed, leaving with the door clacking closed behind her. Jax blinked.
“You are commanding the pack directly? Are you well?”
A loud crash jolted him from his stupor, Joseph’s fist passing through the table startling him, tablets of reports clattering to the ground.
“Kids, Jax,” the male said, agony burning in his whispered words. “They were threatening the fucking kids to get the adults to listen. ‘Am I well?’ Fuck no, I’m not okay. I want to break every cock-sucking bone in their fucking bodies and dump the fucking mess on Pernel’s doorstep before burning the fucker alive.”
Joseph paused, his snarl and Lilhun-infused growl abating, a tearful remorse taking its place. “Come on. There’s Atmo who need treatment and people I need to get off my fucking lawn.”
The door to the office opened abruptly, Harrow peeking in. A short sniff and her ears pinned back, a hesitant fear stealing her faculties from her as she hid behind the wall.
“H-hey…. Um…. Joe?”
The Grand Hunter noticed the effect he was having, glancing at Pan, the white-furred female oddly subdued, though there was a sharp edge to her eyes. He looked back to the orange-furred female.
“What?” he snapped, stopping to rub his paws over his face roughly for a moment, a growl into his palms levelling his tone. “Sorry, just got worked up. It’s nothing about you. What do you need?”
“There’s…. There’s a pending communication on the terminal. It’s marked ‘urgent.’ I didn’t want to accept it without you.”
Jax walked over to the torn male to pat his back. “Go sate your curiosity, Grand Hunter. Your presence would only incite the pack as it is. We will see to it that they leave swiftly.”
The Human glared at him for a while, exhaling through his nose before nodding. “Okay. Keep an eye out. I doubt the girls will ask questions if you give them the ‘go-ahead’ when shit goes down.”
“We will act with impunity,” Jax growled, forgetting himself long enough to dig his claws in the male. He was keeping himself detached, but the possibility of such a fate befalling the den-kit had scorched his own self control as well. If they so much as bore steel against Violet, he doubted he would be the first to draw blood in the pack. With or without Joseph’s command.
Accepting the answer, and presumably calming down enough to think it through, the Grand Hunter left the room, pausing at the door to look back. “Jax?”
“Yes, Grand Hunter?”
The Human remained silent for a long while, a twitch of his lip betraying the snarl barely concealed as Pan walked quietly past him to oversee the exchange outside.
“One fucking move towards the Atmo,” he warned, though the words were not met for Jax. “I want them buried. No questions. No regrets.”
Jax knew that not one iota of the male was hidden behind those words. It was a sincere order. The black-furred male bowed for the first time in a long time.
“It will be done, Grand Hunter, as you command.”
Next

I fucked up big time.
1.4 miles in total, carrying a little over 10 lbs on the way back. I won't lie, I'm undoubtedly proud of the fact I was able to do that much, but I was also very much not pacing myself until the end because I have chronic I Need To Catch Up To Everyone Else's Speed disease (/lhj). 15 minute walks for everyone else turn into hours if I pace myself and I hate that. Pacing myself on stairs makes me look like a snail and it's humiliating.
"Just exercise/lose weight and you'll have energy". I'm so SICK of hearing that. I won't, actually! Because I've had this fatigue since I was in middle school and despite those years of me repeatedly walking up a hill on average 5 days a week to go home for 3 years, I never got better. In fact, I only got worse! And, curious, I'm gaining more weight even though I'm eating both healthier and less!
But sure. I'll exercise. I'll do what supposedly everyone else can do. What happens?
Migraine, nausea, heartburn, extreme muscle pain & weakness, joint pain, horrible brain fog, insomnia; god knows what else, I can barely fucking remember. I was in so much agony I just wanted to go to the hospital and be seen. Too bad transport is unreliable at 18, and it's not like anyone believes me unless I pass out in front of them. I felt like I was in such a stupor as I was standing, contemplating if I should go or not. I eventually just fell right onto my bed and it was more comfortable than ever.
At least the pounds I carried back is good food I can make for myself... assuming I can/want to get up, anyway. And can hold it down... and can stand up long enough to actually make the meal...
I hate this, I'm so damn sick of this nonsense. I need a wheelchair lmfao. I just wanna be able to catch up with everyone else and be free. I feel like an embarrassingly limp piece of bacon.

I looked around my old bedroom and put my bags down with a resigned sigh. Other than the stairmaster my mom had put in the corner where my desk used to be, it remained almost entirely untouched from how it was when I left for college. It was comforting in a way, like stepping into an old pair of shoes. I still couldn't help feeling a tinge of embarrassment at moving back in with my mom in my thirties, even knowing times are tough and thousands of people are cohabitating with parents again after being on their own, it does sting to lose that sense of independence.
After a whirlwind week, my whole life came crashing down around me. Seven days ago exactly, my fiance sat me down and told me we were through, he wasn't in love with me anymore and wanted to move on. He gave me a week to pack and plan and get out. Ten years of my life, gone like that. The lease was in his name, the good car was in mine. I got the sofa. I stared at my lumpy old mattress. He got the bed.
My mom came up and asked if I wanted to go grab a bite to eat. I felt like my stomach had been replaced with a medicine ball, but I didn't want her to worry seeing me not eat all day, so I acquiesced and we walked down the hall together.
It was ten o'clock that first night home when I went to bed. The bedframe squeaked lightly when I flopped down, mentally and physically exhausted. I flicked off the lamp on my nightstand, ready for the sweet miniature embrace of death that sleep provides. A wash of bright white LED light illuminated the wall opposite the window. That was new. They must have put in a new street lamp between now and then. Light blocking curtains went up to the top of my priority list in the morning.
Just as I was drifting off, I felt 𝘪𝘵.
A flood of memories, long forgotten, came crashing over me. Countless terrified nights throughout my childhood rushed to the forefront of my mind. We moved here the summer I turned eight. The very first night, I felt 𝘪𝘵; a presence, an intense feeling of being watched, fear and the promise of pain. There was always an unspoken understanding made between 𝘪𝘵 and myself, whatever I do, do not open my eyes when 𝘪𝘵 was present. I would be safe as long as I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep.
Every night for years, I appeared to be sleeping soundly as a babe, while my headspace racked with a primal fear. Heart pounding, desperately trying to regulate my horrified gasps into a facsimile of the steady slow breaths of a normal sleeping human. At some point, it almost always showed up. For having never seen it, my imagination could provide enough concepts to horrify me, an inky black shadow slinking along the walls, creeping up next to my vulnerable sleeping form.
I was terrified of it touching me, I wrapped up as much as possible, sleeping with the blankets tucked tight around my chin. I couldn't sleep with the blankets over my head, even though I craved the coverage. That went against our unspoken agreement. Covering my face wasn't how I naturally slept and it would know.
That's how I went to sleep for close to a decade until I escaped to college. Even as I grew more emboldened in my teen years and dared to lay with a leg hanging out from under the blanket, I still always kept my eyes shut when I could feel the presence in my room.
Flash forward to me now, feeling this creepy shit all over again, something I had managed to completely forget about. Instinctively, I tucked the blankets up as high as I could around my head (while looking natural) and pretended to sleep. I stayed like that for a moment and then I began to feel silly.
I was an eight year old little girl when I first felt that. I was in a new room in a new house. It was dark and I was a scaredy cat by nature. I had nightmares after watching Home Alone (I would dream my parents forgot me at home and all of my booby traps failed and Joe Pesci shot me in the chest), of course my imagination had conjured up some sort of Boogie Man!
"Fuck this," I thought, "this shit had me so scared my whole childhood, I owe it to my younger self to be brave."
So I opened my eyes.
Big mistake.
There was something in my room, standing right next to the bed, illuminated by the silvery light from the street. Its features were fuzzy. It kind of looked like me, but like a blurred photograph negative of me. My eyes struggled with the lighting, I couldn't tell if its skin was gray or blue. Before I could process or even respond, it loomed over me and smiled, showing me a wide mouth filled with obsidian teeth. Reaching out it touched my forehead.
I was suddenly laying supine when I had been on my side. I tried to turn over and realized I couldn't move. That thing was still standing over me, smiling its horrible inky grin. I was terrified, but I suddenly felt a sense of relief wash over me.
Sweet merciful Jesus, I was having sleep paralysis. I was fine and just had to try to go back to sleep. I closed my eyes.
Then I felt cold fingers on my lips and another set of cold fingers squeezing my cheeks so my mouth popped open. This felt really real for sleep paralysis.
I tried to keep my cool.
Fingers began probing into my mouth.
Just breathe. It's sleep paralysis.
Fingers locked on one of my teeth, my upper left cuspid. Vice like grip, pressure began to be applied.
Genuine panic bubbling through me. This has to be sleep paralysis.
The pressure increased. It hurt so badly. I tried to scream, but all that got out was a whispery moan. My arms were dead weights, unable to push it away.
The pressure increased, still. Pain quickly shifted into pure agony as I heard the roots of my tooth beginning to shift and crack from my head.
More pressure. With a horrible crunching sound that reverberated through my skull, my poor tooth was wrenched out of my mouth. I struggled to scream, desperate to scream. That was the worst pain I'd ever felt and my body was insistent I try to verbalize it.
The monster smiled, quite pleased with itself, and tucked my tooth somewhere on its belonging. I could taste the blood, but my tongue struggled to move itself to investigate the new hole in its surroundings.
I watched in a kind of stupor as it then reached into its own mouth and swiftly pulled a black tooth free from its silvery gums with a brittle cracking noise. Still smiling, it bent back over me and pried my mouth open with one hand and inserted the black tooth into the raw gum wound that had once housed a very fine incisor.
Having a tooth put back in was worse than having one ripped out. It felt like poking a finger into floral foam, but in my bone, a sensation I could feel and hear. Pain radiated in a straight line from my gums through my head, sharp and bright. My eyesight dimmed around the edges and the horrible grinning face over me fell out of focus.
I passed out.
I woke up the next morning and immediately thought about that wild ass sleep paralysis I had had the night before. I must have had a tooth get infected or had a migraine in my jaw last night while experiencing sleep paralysis. I'd heard of people getting headaches so bad they thought they were dying.
I was in no pain now, but I felt an urgent need to inspect my tooth and rushed to the bathroom…
Blood. The mirror revealed to me blood, rusty brown, dried and flaking all around my mouth. My bowels turned to liquid, a cold rush from my diaphragm straight down. My feet moved me closer to the mirror, despite the sudden numbness in my extremities.
I started weeping before I even open my mouth. I knew what I was going to find, but I had to see it. With shaking hands, I lifted my lip and saw that grotesque black tooth, dark as jet. Other than the color, it looked just like my old tooth. It felt normal to my tongue. Tentatively, I raised a hand to my mouth and poked it gently. It felt firm.
I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger and wiggled it as aggressively as a child working on a loose baby tooth. Solid. Maybe even more solid than the original.
I brushed my teeth and washed the blood off my face while silently freaking out. I went to work wearing a face mask and claimed a head cold to my coworkers. I called my dentist the second her office opened to schedule an emergency appointment, blessing silently whoever canceled their afternoon root canal leaving an opening.
In my head the dentist would tell me a cavity had rotted out from behind, I've seen people with black teeth before, but I didn't think it happened overnight. I felt sure she would know something. In reality, Dr. Klepper had no idea what had happened to it. She took X-rays, which looked healthy and normal, hardly changed compared to the ones taken last year.
She poked. She prodded. She could find nothing structurally wrong with it. I begged her to pull it out. I'd rather be missing a tooth than have this. She acquiesced and had the dental assistant prepare the tools while she searched for similar cases. Her research did not bring up anything and was as much a mystery to her as it was to I, although she didn't have the full story, I had omitted the part about a Boogie Man from my childhood doing this in the story I told her. As far as she knows I just woke up like this.
I'm normally a baby about getting novacaine shots, but after what I had endured last night, it felt like nothing. When I was numbed up, she took the pliers and started pulling, and there was nothing. She applied more force. More force. The tooth resisted. It soon felt like my actual bone was going to be cracked and ripped out if she kept going.
I tapped out. Dr. Klepper looked perplexed by that tooth. That cuspid was rock solid and unlikely to go anywhere without extensive dental surgery. I went back to my mom's and ugly cried with my numb lips, drooling like a baby.
Too freaked out to sleep in my bedroom that night, I chose to sleep on the couch. I'd never felt the presence anywhere but in my room and I thought it might have a connection to something in that space.
Whatever it was to initially have a connection with, it had switched to me after that first tooth. I awoke in the night with cold fingers prying into my mouth while I was paralyzed and helpless to stop it. Tears poured down the sides of my face as it repeated the same gruesome ritual as it had the night before; ripping a tooth out with brutal efficiency and replacing it with an obsidian doppelganger procured from its horrible mouth. Second molar on the top right.
The pain was insane. I blacked out again.
This went on for weeks. I was so afraid to sleep at night, and I was no longer capable of sleeping during the day. I tried sleeping in hotel rooms, it found me. I tried camping deep in the woods and lost another tooth. I drove for a day straight and slept at a truck stop in Iowa and woke up the next morning, short another original tooth. I tried scheduling a sleep study, but they were booked out for months. I did the math and at this rate, I'd be out of teeth long before the appointment. Searches online brought up nothing, not even an ancient thread with long dead links sharing experiences with this monster.
I begged my mother to keep guard over me while I slept. That night I watched it appear behind the chair she was reading in. Before I could warn her, it reached a creepy silver finger over my mother's head, tapping her forehead. Her chin fell to her chest, the book slid onto the floor. It was at my side with disarming speed. She gently snored while the thing separated another tooth from my aching gums.
My life was truly falling apart and I was struggling. Panic attacks were nearly daily now. The breakup, earth shattering to me just a few weeks ago, felt inconsequential now. I was so scared to go to bed, but no matter how hard I tried, I would eventually give in to Mr. Sandman and betray myself with sleep. Lateral incisors, premolars, first molars… one by one, they fell, and my mouth looked more and more like a game of chess that black was winning.
Last week, I was riding the bus (I didn't trust myself enough to drive anymore) and had forgotten my face mask that day. I was so self conscious of my teeth at this point, I rarely smiled or talked anymore, but that day, watching a funny gif on my phone, I burst out laughing and smiled. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I hoped no one had seen my teeth, but at least one person had.
A guy who had been sitting across from me on the bus also got out at my stop. The fastest way to get to my mother's was cutting through the park, it was large, a couple acres, and had wooded areas. It was broad daylight and I didn't notice the man from the bus following at first, but he began catching up to me. I moved over to the side of the path to let him pass me, instead, he forcefully grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
"That thing with the teeth, you seen it before, does it come at night?" he asked. While he was talking, I noticed how tired and haggard he looked, a scruffy beard forming on his jaw, glassy eyes with purple bags underneath. Wafts of alcohol from his breath washed over me. He also had a mouthful of black teeth with a shining pearl of a remaining human tooth. His right canine.
I was honestly stunned and surprised, I stammered for a second, we were in a copse of trees and out of sight of everyone else.
"Hey! I asked a question! It ain't hard. You seen that thing? It takes your teeth?" His voice raised in tone the whole time he was talking, slurring his words slightly, "too good to talk to me, stupid bitch? Just show me your teeth!"
Hands grabbed for my face before I could process what was happening. It escalated at a terrifying rate. I reached out to his shoulders to stop him from getting closer, but he still grabbed for my mouth. We began tussling and fell to the ground. He was on top of me.
"Show me your teeth!" He yelled as his hands frantically scratched and probed trying to get my lips open, I was thrashing my head from side to side, lips pursed shut, "show me your teeth! Show me your teeth! Show me your fuckin' teeth!"
Flailing my hands through the dirt and leaves, I found something solid with my left hand, a rock, and hit him in the face with it as hard as I could. He stopped mid yell and was visibly dazed, falling off me into the dirt. Blood pooled around his mouth and something a few inches away caught my eye.
A white canine.
I don't know why, I grabbed his tooth as I scrambled up out of the dirt and ran as fast as I could while he was still stupefied. I didn't stop running until I got home. My hands were shaking with adrenaline from the encounter as I opened my hand and saw the tooth. What the actual fuck was wrong with me? Why did I take that crazy guy's tooth?
That happened over a week ago and the monster kept showing up almost every night, playing its methodical game of tooth swap with me.
I am down to my last tooth now, my right canine. I am so afraid of what the end game is going to be. I'm afraid I will die, or even worse, I'm beginning to worry I might turn into one of those things myself. Honestly, I don't know what to expect. Exhaustion has me thinking irrationally.
It will come, either tonight or tomorrow, to take my final tooth. On my nightstand, I have placed that guy's canine as an offering, it's the same tooth it has yet to collect from me. It almost feels silly thinking I could dupe a paranormal being of horrific power, but it's my Hail Mary pass. I'm so very tired. I'm tired of running. I'm about to lie down and go to sleep. Hopefully I get to wake up in the morning, but I'm honestly at peace if I don't.
However this turns out, for my sake folks, please remember to not be brave and to keep your fucking eyes closed while in the presence of monsters.

It all started with a snake.
Far too early in the morning, Verona Halčínova, aged mother of the mayor, was making her climb up the hillside cemetery to the church. Since her son was the head of the village and held considerable sway over life between the forests, Verona thought it boorish for her to not be prominent in the community as well. With the priest being — to put it lightly — an odd fellow, Verona decided she would serve as the village’s head of faith. Her self-decreed title required Verona to not only attend every mass of the week, but to also show up half an hour before the priest arrived to shame him into some semblance of sobriety.
So, every morning, far too early in the morning; Verona would don a fresh kerchief, grab her cane and climb up the steep hill on which the village’s little chapel stood. It’s on one of these early morning climbs, with not a soul around aside from the pious Verona, that it all started.
And it all started with a snake falling from the sky.
As an outsider I wasn’t privy to village gossip. I only found out about the snake until Sunday morning. Brother Donát was stumbling his way through end-of-mass announcements when Verona stood up and interrupted.
For four days she had sat in the pews and listened to the preacher avoid the unavoidable, the old woman screeched. There had been an omen, a snake had fallen from the sky. A cobra straight from the lands of Egypt. The Lord had sent a serpent as a warning and that warning was going unheeded.
Some in the church murmured in approval, some hissed at the interruption and Brother Donát didn’t do much at all. He simply said something about the Lord working in mysterious ways and how we all must look into our hearts to see if we are at fault. After a brief sneeze Donát continued with end-of-mass announcements.
Verona, once again, interrupted the priest with more shrieking but this time there was considerable resistance. The priest was announcing the funeral mass of a villager that was, even in death, more beloved than Verona.
Sensing the shifting tempers in the creaky chapel, Mayor Halčín stood up and announced that a meeting regarding the snakes would be held in the town hall after the priest would bless his parish goodbye. Aside from another sneeze from Brother Donát, no objections to the change of venue were raised.
The ‘town hall’ of the village was actually a decommissioned Bolshevik-era fire station that was solely used for funeral receptions and elections. It made for a poor town hall location. The space was never intended to hold a crowd, let alone an agitated one at that. The walk down from the chapel had let theories start to fester and by the time the villagers crowded into the cement box accusations started flying around.
The main hall had little standing room or air and the flickering of the fluorescent lightbulbs agitate the crowd further. Everyone had a theory for what unchristian behavior might have brought on God’s wrath and everyone had decided to voice their varying theories in unison. It wasn’t until Halčín had asserted his authority with shouting that the crowd settled down.
With the same composure he handled every crisis, the mayor asked if anyone had an explanation for the falling snake which did not involve the Lord’s anger. Only one man spoke up — the village veterinarian; he said that the snake might have fallen from a bird’s beak. Perhaps a stork or an eagle had made a nest nearby and had simply dropped its prey by accident.
The veterinarian’s theory was not well received.
By the time differing theories, theories which revolved around unchristian neighbors, started to emerge Halčín once again silenced the crowd. If the topic of the mysterious snake was to be discussed through a theological lens, then it should be done by a priest, the mayor decreed.
Brother Donát, however, was nowhere to be found. When someone announced that the priest’s car was gone, much of the room emptied out to verify. With a taste of fresh valley air the crowd calmed down. Accusations were still being thrown around but the villagers agreed to postpone the discussion until next mass.
On my walk back to the cottage I saw no eagles or storks. Then again, I wasn’t exactly searching for birds.
Originally, I only attended Sunday mass to stay in the good graces of the village. Back in the city I wasn’t a religious person and I definitely wasn’t a catholic. When one lives between the forests though, it becomes difficult to not grasp for some level of supernatural safety. Up in that rickety steeple on the hill I wasn’t making peace with Jesus Christ, I was trying to hedge my bets with the forest beyond.
That Sunday night there was a storm. It was the sort of storm that makes you fear God. The rain came down heavy and thick just before sunset and there was barely a moment without thunder. Having done most of the repairs on the roof myself I was doubly scared of the howling wind tearing the cottage apart and, with the prospect of a thunderstrike frying my computer, I wasn’t able to distract myself with any work. I spent that Sunday night lying in bed draped in terror.
It was well after the storm and I was only half-awake when I first heard it. It broke through the steady pitter patter of tin roof rain like a brick through glass. An unearthly roar descended from the sky. The dark growl dragged itself through the valley for what felt like minutes but there was no lightning anywhere on the horizon. The sound had stirred me out of my sleep enough to look outside, but when the darkness provided no answers and the skies descended into silence once more, I went back to sleep.
Just like the mystery of the falling snake, I decided to ignore the strange thunder.
Perhaps because I needed something to distract myself, I spent most of the following day behind the computer. I moved out to the village to be closer to nature and further away from the trappings of modern life, but I work as a freelance graphic designer so there’s certain things that are inescapable. With a hefty day of screen time behind me and a certain curiosity about how morning mass went I made my way to the village pub.
As it turned out, Brother Donát’s spiritual guidance did not satisfy his parish. Nothing of consequence was said and the priest refused to pick a side on whether the snake was of godly or earthly origin. The steeple of the church was examined from below, but when the prospect of checking the top of the flimsy structure was floated no one volunteered. The question of the graveyard snake was starting to lose its novelty and it almost lost it completely if it wasn’t for one of the farmhands.
The boy had managed to spot not one, but two snakes warming themselves on a grave in the afternoon sun. Not knowing what else to do the farmhand dashed down the hill and roused whatever soul he could out of the nearby cottages. A few of the curious crowd had witnessed the snakes before they scampered off but the moment the sighting turned into news the facts started to differ.
When I entered the pub, the air had already turned thick with tobacco and debate.
None of those who had witnessed the snakes were present in the pub, yet versions of their stories were being shouted across the room. The Miller was certain that the two serpents were nothing but harmless garden snakes. The Carpenter, on the other hand, swore he heard that the two snakes were cobras just like the one that Verona had witnessed. Old Štefan, who did very little of use in the village, claimed that both men were misled. The creatures spotted in the graveyard were neither garden snakes nor cobras, they were a reptile dreamed up by the devil himself. Not only that, the grave that the snakes rested on was none other but that of the woodsman.
The mention of the woodsman had quieted down the table. An uncomfortable topic to which I was not privy to squirmed itself through everyone’s eyes. The whole pub became unbearably tense until — with a slam on the table — the Mayor broke the spell.
‘This is not the time to speak about the snakes. None who witnessed them are present and no conclusions can be reached without evidence,’ Halčín decreed, ‘Let us not debate around this table about who heard what. Let us do what should be done in a pub! Drink!’
Then, the mayor summoned the bartender and made sure no man was left without slivovitz. Once the shot glasses were emptied the conversation shifted away from the snakes. Once the shot glasses were filled and emptied again, some of us might have even forgotten about the alleged serpents in the first place.
I arrived back at my cottage much drunker than anticipated. The slivovitz in my stomach made the stairs up to my bedroom a mighty climb and when I finally reached my bed the world was spinning far too quickly for me to fall asleep. Half-awake, I managed to crawl my way over to the bathroom and empty my stomach. Too exhausted to make the journey back to bed I took my rest by the toilet bowl.
I drifted between the numb darkness of drunken dreams and the cold tile of my bathroom well after the road lights had gone out. The headache came slowly. At first, I was able to ignore the pain with sleep, yet with each new spindle of discomfort that popped behind my eyes, escape became more improbable. Suddenly I was sweaty and my heart was skipping beats. The punishment for slivovitz on an empty stomach had caught up with me.
I drank as much water as my stomach could handle and laid down in my bed, yet the room refused to stop spinning. The rolling around in bed was just making me sweatier. Getting up and stumbling down the stairs brought on another wave of nausea but getting out into the mountain air settled me. In my underwear and a shirt that reeked of cigarettes I stood out in the complete darkness.
The road lights had been turned off and the night was absolute. With the exception of a silhouetted countryside and the burning moon above everything else was plunged into darkness. All that existed was the bubbling of the nearby brook. Sitting on a bench by the door, I started to breathe off my hangover.
The drunkenness had long overstayed its welcome and my brain felt like it had burst into flames, yet even past the hangover I was able to enjoy my surroundings. I remember that moment well — that tranquility that reminded me why I left the city.
I remember that moment well because of how it ended.
The sound started off faint, but nonetheless concerning. Like a burst of thunder dragged past its breaking point. It undoubtedly came from the sky and it was undoubtedly getting louder. My brain squirmed with renewed pain, but I kept my eyes locked on the dark forest and the burning moon above. When my migraine had reached its zenith an imminent sense of nausea climbed up my throat. The louder the dark note in the skies got the more my condition worsened.
I only saw the source of that cursed roar for a split second before I had to avert my eyes. Big and black and shining red, the machine passed above. All the water that I had drank to hold back my hangover left my throat and my body collapsed in the grass. For what felt like hours but must’ve been minutes, I lay on the floor and shivered in fear and weakness, unable to face the heavens. It wasn’t until the horrible sound was nothing but an echo that I managed to rise to my feet.
The sky was clear once more, but off in the distance, away from the moon — I could see two dim red lights disappear into the forest. The perplexing sight and sound had sobered me enough to lead me back up the stairs to my bedroom. Being covered in mud from my collapse, I elected to take a shower. Shortly after that shower I fell into an exhausted sleep.
I had hoped that I would wake up and not remember the affair, or at least that by morning light I would be able to discount the whole experience as a product of drunken stupor. I did neither. Instead, I woke up well into the late afternoon feeling like a corpse with the perplexing events of the previous night burning in the back of my skull right next to the headache.
For hours I lay in bed, questioning my sanity. When no comforting answers presented themselves, I climbed out of bed, pulled on some fresh clothes and made my way to the pub. I had hoped that someone else had heard the terrible sound, that there would be some simple rural explanation to the phenomena that my upbringing in the city had simply robbed me of — yet in the pub I found no answers.
Instead, I found chaos.
The pub was much angrier than before. Different stories of snake sightings had spread through the village and were getting aired out in the smokey room. The Veterinarian, who rarely visited the pub, stood in opposition to the rumors with a few sober voices of support. He had seen the stork nesting at the top of the steeple. Others had too. The sightings of exotic serpents, the Veterinarian claimed, were fabulations brought on by religious panic.
The bartender — as always — was the calmest person in the room and made no fuss about me getting a Kofola. When I tried to ask him about the strange roar in the middle of the night, however, he nodded his head towards the lively debate about the snakes. He was not interested in conversation; he was enjoying the show.
Halčín, befitting a mayor, sat at the center of the rowdy table. When I had first entered the pub, he was trying to calm the atmosphere with jokes and laughter, but by the time I sat down his appetite for diplomacy had passed.
His slam on the table sent a glass of wine and one of the ashtrays crashing to the ground. In no uncertain terms, Halčín declared that all discussion of snakes was to cease at once. On the following morning a ladder was to be brought to the church and the steeple was to be inspected for nests. Any further discussion of the serpents until then was not suited for polite company.
The sound of broken glass quieted the crowd and the bulging veins on Halčín’s forehead prolonged the silence. On any other occasion I would have stayed silent as well, knowing that I am still an outsider in the village community, yet, driven by fear I spoke up.
I asked the table if anyone had heard the horrible howl last night.
My question was answered with nothing but stares that bounced between me and Halčín. Over the months I had been welcome into the village community as an outsider, yet asking the question about the mysterious night-sound had been a bridge too far.
I tried to explain myself further, to mention the red lights and the dark shape that moved across the sky — yet I scarcely got a sentence out before Halčín silenced me.
No one else had heard the sound, he said. I was simply spreading further panic.
As divided as the rest of the table was about the snakes, they were united on the issue of me speaking. This was no time for outsiders. I was not welcome among the village people anymore. With the pub silent and tense, I finished off my pint of Kofola and excused myself from all social activities.
I did not plan to stay awake that night. All I wanted to do was become unconscious as soon as possible and wake up to a world that I would understand better. The thought of that terrible sound, however, of that indescribable black machine, of those two burning red lights — it kept me sleepless well into darkness.
It was around two in the morning when I heard it again. The dark groan started softly enough that I thought it a product of my imagination, yet when my windows started to shake under the strain of that unearthly sound, I knew that what had haunted me the night prior had returned.
Perhaps, I was driven purely by exhaustion and confusion. Perhaps, what got me out of bed was a morbid sense of curiosity. Either way, I made my way down the creaky stairs and out into the darkness.
My stomach and head had recovered somewhat from the slivovitz, yet the metallic bedlam above brought on the same discomfort that had plagued me the night prior. The roar was louder this time, much louder. The sound of the calm bubbling stream had been utterly annihilated by the sky. All that existed was the burning moon, the silhouette of the forest and that terrible roar.
I watched the sky, every fiber of my being wanted me to turn around and hide in my cottage — yet with tears in my eyes I faced the sky demanding answers to the origins of that cursed roar.
I saw the machine for but a moment but that moment will forever be etched into memory. Set against the backdrop of the bright yellow moon, its wings massive and shining red — I saw what looked like a massive cargo plane.
It flew much lower than it did the night prior and its roar was loud enough to feel in the teeth. My knees buckled and my heartbeat throbbed in my eardrums. As the massive black airbus passed above all I could do was whimper in the mud.
I could not see the machine, but every inch of my body felt it. The plane flew much lower than any plane should. When the giant was right above me and my terror had reached its zenith, I found myself screaming. Yet no sound left my mouth. The roar of the metal monster had completely ensnared the world.
When the sound finally started to fade, I thought myself deaf for a moment. It’s not until the gentle bubbling of the nearby stream edged itself into reality that I finally found myself safe.
The mere sight of the machine made me doubt my sanity. I did not look back at the plane’s glowing wings. Instead, I looked out at the village. The road lights were long dead, but the windows of the cottages were lighting up one by one. I stood out in the mud, listening for any hint of conversation, for some sort of clue to what had just happened — yet the villagers stayed in their homes and kept their conversations contained there as well.
Soon enough the moon became swallowed up in clouds that leaked lightning. With the first burst of thunder — real thunder — the lights in the cottages started to turn dar. By the time the first drop of rain left the sky I made my way back to my home as well.
I was still terrified. I was nearly going mad trying to understand what had just transpired. There was, however, some solace in the idea that others had heard that terrible roar as well. I would not be alone in my terror. Maybe, I tried to convince myself, someone from the village might have a perfectly reasonable explanation for the strange plane. For a while that misguided ember of hope kept me company, but by the time I had laid down in bed it was snuffed out.
There was no reasonable explanation.
The airbus wholly defied reason. I found myself sick to my stomach even trying to visualize it. The machine was — at first glance — just a particularly large airplane. Yet the more I replayed those few fevered seconds of its visage the more I became sure it was a thing of the eldritch. It moved far too slow for an object that flies. The machine’s roar was unlike that of any airport. There was no conceivable reason for why the airbus would fly so low.
The inexplicable nature of what I had witnessed kept me from sleep for hours, yet as the rain died down to nothing but taps on a tin roof, I found myself counting sheep. I never fell asleep that night — or at least I don’t think I did. I did, however, find some solace in those dark tranquil hours. I found solace in the idea that I would get answers soon, that once the whole village had gathered and acknowledged the terrible plane that my fears would be quelled.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Long before the rooster crowed, I found myself on my feet. I wasn’t planning to head to the church yet, it was barely light outside — yet when I looked out of the window, I could already see people making their way up the road. Everyone had umbrellas out but no one was dressed in their church clothes. The villagers weren’t going to the church to pray. They were going to the church to get answers.
The rain had picked up into cold wet chunks, but no one was dissuaded. On top of the hill, surrounding the church; an agitated crowd gathered. Among the villagers murmurs about the strange thunder from last night were starting to spread. Whenever the discussion of the unearthly sound got too loud, however, mayor Halčín would quiet down the discussion.
One crisis at a time, he said. The issue of the strange thunder would be discussed once the stork nest was retrieved.
The church had been standing for well over a hundred years and, at its top, it once held a bell. During the war the Nazis reappropriated the bell to be smelted down into munitions and the Bolsheviks were in no rush to replace it. Without a bell the stairs to the steeple aged without repair until they became a death-trap.
It wasn’t until the two farmhands carried in the lengthy ladder that conversation shifted away from the snakes and strange thunder. In quiet whispers, far too quiet for the third farmhand to hear, the gathered crowd of villagers wondered whether the church steeple would be safe to ascend.
Perhaps because he didn’t hear the concerns, or perhaps in a false show of bravado; the third farmhand climbed up the ladder without complaint or pause. It wasn’t until he was halfway up the rickety structure that his steps lost their confidence. A gust of wind ruffled many of the umbrellas below. The church steeple creaked, ever so gently. The farmhand became aware of the height he had climbed to and stopped. For a moment it looked as if he would descend.
The farmhand’s mind was quickly changed by his colleagues holding the ladder. Past the rain they swayed between encouraging shouts and questions about his masculinity. The farmhand put on another burst of speed and leaped up the ladder to the top of the steeple.
The storm drowned out what the farmhand was yelling, but he was clearly reaching out for something. Whatever he was trying to grab, however, escaped his grasp.
One moment the farmhand was reaching inside of the steeple — the next he was grasping at air. With another groan from the steeple the ladder lost its balance and tipped towards the iron fence of the churchyard.
A horrible scream that refused to die stretched through the valley like a high-pitched air raid siren. As he rushed down the hill to help the poor youth, the Veterinarian called out for someone to call an ambulance. I managed to avert my eyes from the dying farmhand but I couldn’t shut out my ears to his horrid screams.
Among those screams, I could hear calls for a priest. The boy wasn’t going to make it. The boy wasn’t going to make it and Brother Donát was nowhere to be found. In the absence of a priest, mayor Halčín descended down the hill to comfort the dying youth.
For a moment the crowd of villagers on the hill stood in complete silence with nothing but death rattles and rain to keep them company. Then, seizing the opportunity for spiritual support; Verona Halčínová climbed up the church steps and started to preach.
The snakes, the strange thunder, the accident; it was all a sign, she said. The Lord had seen into the homes of the village and found them wanting of faith. Calamities would keep on happening until each and every member of the village had atoned for their sins and accepted the truth of God into their heart.
As she raved, the old woman kept on looking at me; as if I was the source of all the signs. Perhaps I reacted to her singling me out, or maybe it was because I was so starved for answers that I couldn’t stay quiet — but I spoke out.
I told the Mayor’s mother that she was wrong. That the sounds in the night weren’t strange thunder, but an airplane. The village was not being punished for some abstract crime of the spirit — there was simply a giant black airbus flying dangerously low through the valley at night.
Even as the farmhand expired within ear shot, my explanation for the strange thunder produced some laughs. Most of the crowd, however, became angry.
I was speaking out of line and, furthermore, I was speaking nonsense.
Energized by the crowd Verona launched into another religious diatribe this time directed specifically at me. I had come from the city and I belonged back in the city. It was only with my arrival a couple months prior that strange things started to happen in the village. It sounded as if Verona was about to list off these strange things but her preaching was cut short by a barrage of hail.
Within seconds the shards of ice went from peas to pebbles to fists. Much of the congregation quickly retreated into the church but I ran down the hill towards the exit from the churchyard. As I passed the crowd that had gathered around the farmhand, they paid me no mind. They were too busy shielding the fresh corpse with umbrellas.
The storm that washed over the village was unlike anything I had witnessed before. I arrived back at my cottage wet and shivering and bruised. Not for a moment did the barrage of hail relent. None of it broke the skin, yet minutes after I found shelter beneath my tin roof dark purple bruises of impact spread up my arms and back.
The cabin had sheltered me from many storms over the months but this tempest seemed to be of a wholly different nature. The whole wooden structure vibrated under the relentless barrage of hail and wind. The calm stream in front of the cabin strengthened into a wild river of mud and my whole yard was swallowed up with shards of ice. The mood felt decidedly apocalyptic and I had no idea what to do.
Standing anywhere near the windows felt hazardous and no part of the creaky cabin felt particularly stable. Not knowing what else to do I curled up beneath the winding staircase that led to the second floor of the cottage. It felt like the most stable part of the house and the noise was the most bearable in that dusty corner.
For a while I just shivered, my mind blank with terror. Then, even though the pandemonium outside stayed the same — my breaths slowed. Past the sheer confusion from the storm, past the questions about that horrid airbus —
I found myself counting sheep.
When I woke, I woke to complete darkness. Hunger and thirst quickly followed. Every muscle in my body roared with bruises but after some groans and false starts I managed to get up and locate the fridge. I found a Tupperware container with overcooked pasta. I was so groggy and hungry that I ate straight from the container. After the cold meal was done, I chased it with my last can of coke.
The storm had passed and only the hiss of the muddy river remained. With my immediate needs met, I found myself in a sense of dazed calm. Soon enough, however, my mind drifted back to the plane and its terrible roar.
My phone read fifteen minutes to two AM.
When I pulled my aching body up the staircase, I told myself that I would just take a shower, change into dry clothes and lie down in bed. I told myself that I would wake up wiser, but deep inside I knew I wasn’t going to sleep.
I did not shower. I simply put on dry clothes and made my way back down the stairs.
Outside the sky had turned cloudless and the moon shined just as bright as it did before. The stream, however, had grown wild. The water leaped up much higher than it ever had before and would occasionally splash into my front yard. All that divided me from the raging torrents below was a bridge that was rickety on the best of days.
My flashlight shook as I crossed the rotting wood, yet I did not let myself think about the possibility of a collapse. I had more important things to worry about.
I had the airbus to consider.
Perhaps if I raised my concerns with the Veterinarian or even Mayor Halčín, they would be heard. The rest of the village, however, wouldn’t believe anything without concrete evidence. The mere existence of the plane bothered me to no end, but I knew that if I was to get help in solving its mystery I would need proof. So, with a flashlight in one hand and a phone in the other, I made my way up the village road.
It was one minute from the hour when I reached the churchyard. The spot of fence where the farmhand had landed in the morning was covered in a burlap sack. I did my best to force any question of its contents out of my mind. Thoughts of the boy’s body still being impaled on those metal spikes quickly became replaced with fevered questions about the flying machine.
I kept my phone trained on the moon.
Every neuron of my attention was focused on picking up any hint of that terrible sound, of seeing even the slightest shiver in the trees that would suggest the arrival of that horrible plane — yet no precursors to horror manifested. All I could hear was the hush of the muddied river and, when the silhouettes of trees did sway, it was from a gentle forest breeze.
I found myself wondering whether the plane was just a product of my imagination, whether I had simply gone mad out in the countryside. My worry for my sanity only lasted for a moment. There was a pile of manure further up the road, but the wind from the woods had brought in the undeniable smell of forest. The hush of the wild stream went from a source of concern to a source of tranquility.
The village was nothing but a little bastion of civilization in a valley of the incomprehensible. I was nothing but a little man trying to find reason in the face of nature. The plane was nothing but a figment of my imagination, I convinced myself. Spending months away from the comforts of city life had just driven me a little bit mad.
It was time for me to go back home and sleep in a bed.
I scarcely made three steps when I heard it though. I had started to believe that visions of the airbus were nothing but me going crazy in the woods, but the moment I heard the start of the rumble I let go of those lies.
The plane was real. The plane was real and it was approaching the village.
The moment the machine emerged from the woods I averted my eyes. It was much closer. It was much louder. The sight of its terrible silhouette was enough to make me hold down vomit and grit my teeth. Through my distress I still managed to raise my shaking hand to the sky. As the phone captured the plane bathed in moonlight it grew unbearably hot but I kept my grip strong.
The airbus flew much, much lower than it did before. Its roar annihilated all other sounds from the universe, but past my panic I could see the other cottage windows light up. I wasn’t the only one who was witness to the terrible machine, but not being alone in my horror did nothing to ease my anguish.
For a mere moment I thought I heard a sound of wood cracking, of something falling on the side of the church hill — yet the deafening sound of the dark plane’s engine quickly rendered my surroundings irrelevant. As the airbus passed over me it felt as if my eyeballs were about to vibrate out of their sockets.
It wasn’t until the plane’s roar started to subside that I noticed the flames. Half of the spire had been knocked to the ground below and what was left of the church was on fire. The remnants of the spire were ablaze as well, yet the water-soaked earth had kept their light dim. The only bright fire on the ground was that of the burlap sack stretched across the iron fence.
My hopes of recording the dark machine had proved futile. When the villagers spilled from their homes out onto the road my phone was hot and dark and refused to turn on.
I had no evidence of the plane knocking down the church’s steeple.
The blaze at the top of the churchyard hill attracted immediate attention, yet as the villagers armed with buckets of water sobered from their sleep the futility of their fight became apparent. It would take at least half an hour for a firetruck to arrive.
No amount of buckets could stop the blaze atop of the hill.
I tried explaining to the gathered mob that I had seen the plane, that I had witnessed the crash and had no doubts about what had caused it. My testimony, however, soon became just another theory.
Even though the storm had long passed, some considered the crash a freak lightning strike. Other — much more fanatical voices — considered the collapsed steeple and blaze another sign that the Lord had been displeased with the village. When I told them that they were wrong, when I told them that I had witnessed the airplane with my own eyes — the crowd turned aggressive.
I fled the churchyard and, once the roads became visible, I fled the village. There was no reasoning with the locals and I fear that if I stayed there any longer more of them would start to consider me the source of their misfortune.
I write this as I sit on a high-speed train to the city. I do not know where I will sleep tonight, but I take solace in the idea that I will not be anywhere near that incomprehensible machine. I worry about what will happen to the village tonight. I worry that the plane will fly lower once more and cause unspeakable suffering.
Yet, as the train whizzes through the countryside that turns into small towns that turns into cities, I find my mind calming. I am safe. I content myself on the idea that I am safe from that terrible plane.
As the stations through which the train passes become familiar, however, I can’t let go of a single sight.
When the steeple first fell, as the villagers dashed up and down the hill with rusty buckets of water — I saw something. Out among the kindling that was once the top of the steeple, with burning straw for company and its white feathers caked in mud and blood — I saw a dead stork.
It had a garden snake in its mouth.

[Part 1] [Part 2]
I’ve been dreading this moment. Everything up to this point has a play-by-play of the worst moments of my existence, and I know I’m not ready to recount this part, but what other choice do I have? This needs to end, and it can’t until the entire tale is told.
In the chaotic darkness, a shotgun racked, and the twelve-gauge sang into the night with defiance.
The Big One howled, and jerked its arm back through the opening, the sudden movement enough to send the section of stairwell behind us crumbling down. The chasm yawned, more of the steps collapsed, and I heard the collective shriek of the Puppet horde as they were buried under the falling rubble.
“Now’s our chance.” Mark pushed me up the remaining stairs. “Go, get to the—”
Crash.
Like a freight train of blind rage, the clenched fist of the Big One exploded through the wall, and Mark flew sideways. Unable to keep my feet, I pulled myself into a recess on the rough, cold cement, in an effort to keep from being crushed. Rain and wind trickled in from the gap in the tower, and against the backdrop of lightning, I realized I sat at shoulder height to the enormous gray visage.
The red light from my headlamp caught its face, and I recoiled in terror.
Crouched low to peer into the gap, the Big One studied me without eyes, it’s face a mass of tangled, gnarled tree branches all woven together. Something hummed in the back of my brain, a whining that pried into every fold of my thoughts and paralyzed my limbs. Whispers rose in the static, soft voices that urged me to not to fight, to stay still, that it was so much sweeter on the other side. The pain wouldn’t last long. I wouldn’t feel it after a while. So warm and dry, it’d be just like falling asleep.
Sleep sounds good. I could sleep. Maybe it won’t hurt if I just . . .
A bright orange glow flared to life, and the static fizzled out.
My head pounded with a sudden migraine, and a wave of nausea roiled in my guts.
To my right, Mark slumped against the far wall, holding a green glass bottle with a flaming rag tied to the neck of it. Rivulets of blood poured down from a gash on his scalp, and his right leg lay twisted at a horrible angle, but Mark wound his arm back, and hurled the bottle with all the energy he had left.
Yellow flames exploded over the tangled branches of its face, and the Big One reeled with an agonized screech. Awash in fire, the creature stampeded for the nearby tree line, its bellows louder than the storm that raged overhead. All around its feet, those Puppets that hadn’t been buried in the collapsed stairwell scurried away in hasty retreat. Lightning snapped, the thunder boomed, and all at once everything fell silent again, save for the ancient mutterings of the wind and rain.
I fell forward onto my hands and knees and puked over the edge of the ruined stairwell, the dark rubble below swallowing the vomit with cruel indifference. Cold crept through me now, the adrenaline wore off, and I realized how much black gore was smeared over my face, arms, chest, and hands.
I beat that one girl to death. I crushed her face in with a rock. Dear God, what’s happening to me?
With both eyes shut, I pictured my dad at the gun range teaching me how to shoot, and his words about surviving bad situations.
You’ve got to stay calm, Maddie. No matter what, stay calm, breathe, and act. If you do that, you’ll be okay.
“Gotta go.” I sucked in a deep breath and forced myself not to gag at the taste of bile in my mouth. “Mark, we . . . we have to go.”
He didn’t respond.
My knees almost gave out the first time I stood up, and I had to brace myself against the ruined wall. Exhaustion threatened to bring me down, and my ears throbbed as if someone had shoved needles down inside them. Still, I turned back to my friend, and groped to find the switch on my headlamp.
Click.
I slapped one filthy hand over my mouth to stifle another wave of nausea.
In the scarlet light, Mark’s blood looked black, and pooled on the cement beneath him. Bright white bone stuck out from his snapped leg, the end jagged and slick. Mark’s eyes were shut, one half of his face red with blood, the other pale as new fallen snow.
“Mark?” I squeaked the words out, too afraid to admit what I suspected to be true. “Mark, please say something. Mark.”
His head rolled limply onto one shoulder, and my heart skipped a frantic beat.
The bags.
I scrambled for my green satchel, tore it apart in a search for something to help. My hands smeared black goo over everything, but I didn’t care. There had to be something, either in his kit or mine, to fix this.
A small green nylon pouch surfaced, and I saw a little red cross stitched onto the flap.
“Yes.” In spite of everything, I shouted with joy, and hugged the little pack to my chest.
My clumsy cold fingers struggled to unzip it, and I pawed through the contents until I found a black torniquet, like the ones my father stockpiled in our basement for the day the world decided to end. I’d hardly paid attention when he’d showed me how to use them, but the instructions still resonated in my mind, and I decided that if I ever got home, I’d hug Dad so hard his ribs would break.
“High and tight.” I gritted my teeth and laced the strap around Mark’s thigh, well above the shattered femur. Yanking it as hard as I could, I tried not to think about how Mark didn’t even groan in pain as I wound the little metal windlass to staunch the tide of glistening blood.
Somewhere in the distance, another whale-like bellow echoed, and I swallowed a nervous, bile-flavored lump.
“We can make it.” I talked to him, more to keep from crying than anything else, and slid my shoulder under Mark’s armpit. “Come on, get up. Up, up, up, come on.”
But no matter how much I strained, I couldn’t lift him, my leg muscles shot from the terrified run through the fields, Mark’s 170-pound frame like a fallen log. I clawed the gray rucksack off his back, along with the red duffel bag, and tossed aside the green shoulder bag he’d given me.
I strained, screamed in desperation, but fell to my knees, spent.
A glimpse at his still face sent an icy chill down my spine, and I put two fingers to Mark’s throat.
Stupid idiot, you should have checked sooner.
Panicked, I rolled Mark onto his back on the cold concrete, and pressed my hands to his sternum, my brain a fog of fear. “Mark, you have to wake up. Come on, wake up. Wake up.”
I pumped at his chest, put my ear to his mouth and listened.
Nothing.
“Y-you can’t do that.” I spat, angry and scared, tears brimming in my eyes. “You c-can’t leave me, you can’t.”
Again and again, I leaned on his diaphragm, and this time, I lifted Mark’s chin to put my mouth to his. Every bit of guilt and shame rushed back to choke me at the sensation of his soft lips on mine, but I had to fight through it to breathe air into his lungs.
My arms began to cramp, seconds passed, and my despair grew. Mark wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, and his pulse . . .
Please God, don’t do this. I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a fool, please don’t take him, not like this, please.
My brain began to accept the inevitable, and tears streamed down my face along with the cold rain, salty and bitter. This was all my fault. If I hadn’t come back this year, hadn’t stayed too long after work, hadn’t stopped to talk to him in the parking lot, Mark wouldn’t be here. He’d saved me, cared for me, forgiven me, and after everything, I’d led him to his death. I didn’t deserve that kind of love. I didn’t deserve Mark Petric.
Giving up, I dropped my head to his chest, my wet hair hanging in curtains around my grimy face.
“Maddie.”
I jerked back with a muffled scream of surprise.
Mark blinked up at me, his face almost gray, but his eyes still warm, chocolate brown. “You . . . you okay?”
Unable to speak through my relieved sobs, I threw my arms around his shoulders, and curled up beside him on the cold cement. Mark slid one sluggish arm around me, and I relished what little warmth I could feel coming from his chest beneath the layers of waterlogged clothes.
“Can’t stay here.” He grunted into my ear, and Mark winced as though the pain had at last started to set in. “You can’t stay.”
I pressed my face to his collarbone and shook my head like a stubborn child. “I’m not going without you.”
His fingers squeezed my arm in earnest, though his strength seemed to wane by the minute. “Yes, you are. If . . . if that thing comes back, it’ll rip this place apart, and you won’t make it to the exit. You have to leave me here.”
“No.” I clung to him even harder, and my voice cracked like a glass dropped from a skyscraper. “I’ll fight it I-I’ll use one of your firebombs—”
“That was the last one.” He sighed, and something about the way he sounded, so tired, so weak, made my chest throb. “And it just made it angry. You have to go, or it’ll kill you.”
His fingers laced into my hair, the braid long gone, the strands now wild tangles around my neck. Mark pulled, in a gentle but insistent pull, and I brought my head up to meet his gaze.
In the dark, with the rain and wind whipping outside our hovel, the lightning slithered through the sky, and revealed Mark’s thin smile.
“You can do it, you just have to focus. Still have your gun?”
Shame burned across my cheeks. “I . . . I think I lost it. In the field.”
“That’s fine.” He rolled his head to nod at the far wall, which still bore his blood stains. “Take my shotgun. Got more slugs for it in my coat. And my knife, you’ll need it.”
My eyes stung with fresh waves of remorse, and I went to shake my head, but Mark’s touch on my face stopped me, his calloused fingers wiping away the tears.
“You’ll be alright. Come on, get my ruck. And the red bag too.”
My arms and legs seemed to move on their own, and I crawled over to lug the bags to Mark. The twelve gauge was covered in concrete dust, with dents and scratches on its wooden stock, but otherwise remained functional, and I slung the heavy weapon over my shoulder like I’d seen him do.
“Put the gun across your chest.” Mark nudged his folded gray jacket my way, along with the silver-colored camping knife from his belt, and grimaced as though the pain intensified with every move he made. “You’ll have to drop from high up and . . . ahh . . . and roll onto your back. Don’t want to break your spine on that thing.”
“Drop?” I choked, fear and pain mingling in my head. “What do you mean?”
Mark flicked his eyes up the dark stairs above us. “There’s a room at the top of the tower, with four windows all around it. There should be a stack of harnesses under one of them. Once you put one on, hitch it to a cable outside and ride it like a zipline across the opposite field. At the end, the line stops about ten feet off the ground. You’ll have to cut yourself loose and drop down.”
My throat turned dry, but I pulled his jacket on over my slender shoulders and tried to focus on his instructions even as apocalyptic footsteps echoed in the tree line not far away. “O-Okay. Then what?”
“If you made the sacrifice right, you should be able to see a light from the base of the cable pole. Head for that. There’s gonna be a lot of freaks hanging around the exit so . . . run like the wind, and don’t look back.”
Both eyebrows hitched higher on my face, and a word stuck out among all the others. “Sacrifice? Wait, what sacrifice?”
Mark made a grim, stoic nod. “Usually, if you want to leave here, you have to give up something really important to you, something you can’t get replace. I had to leave my heirloom pocket watch behind last time Randy came to get me. He had to leave his wedding band.”
My heart sank. I had left my necklace at home in my room, and with nothing in my pockets but a cheap flashlight and an old candy wrapper, I would be trapped. “But I don’t have anything . . .”
He met my confusion with an apologetic smile, and I realized what Mark meant.
“No!” It came out as a whimper more than a scream, my soul writhing from the terrible truth.
But Mark gripped my wrist with a desperate gleam in his eyes. “I can’t make that jump, not with my leg like this. You’ve got nothing to give, and you can’t carry me and make the sprint at the end. But if I stay, I should be enough to get you through.”
“I won’t go without you.” Shaking off his grasp, I tried to be angry, but only felt more miserable by the second. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t.
He cupped my chin, and despite myself, I leaned into his touch, the palm still warm enough to make my spine tingle in that pleasant way I hadn’t known was possible.
“And I won’t let you die here.” Mark ran his thumb over my cheek in a tenderness that made a guilty fire blaze inside my heart. “Now hurry up, we don’t have much time.”
Trying to hold myself together, I sorted through the dirty, torn bags, all the while fighting the fog of hypothermia that crept into my brain.
Gotta stay awake. I can’t pass out, not now.
Mark drew a shuddery breath and cringed at his mutilated leg. “In the top flap there’s a road flare. I need it.”
I found it, a brown cardboard wrapped tube with a red cap on one end. Too numb to be confused, I handed him the flare, and heard plastic clatter to the concrete floor.
Instantly, we both knew exactly what it was.
Mark nodded at the little plastic hairbrush, his eyes softening. “Would you . . .”
“Sure.” I placed it in Mark’s cold grasp, and my heart ached at how he clutched the brush to his chest with tender affection.
He’s losing her. No more Claire, no more kids, no farmhouse in the woods. He’s losing everything . . . all because of me.
Mark shut his eyes, sniffled, and held the brush out to me. “Take this when you go.”
Another wave of nausea slammed into me, and I whipped my head back and forth. “No, I can’t, I—”
“Maddie, please.” His voice broke, halfway between begging and groaning in agony from his wounds. “I don’t want it stuck here too. Take it to Claire, and . . . tell her that I . . .”
I held onto Mark like he was an anchor keeping me from going adrift in the storm. “I know. I’ll t-tell her, I promise.”
He pushed the brush into my left hand, his own still welded to my right, and a volcano rose inside my brain. I wasn’t just looking at Mark Petric, my goofy friend from work who liked my cupcakes and my terrible karaoke. The man lying beside me meant more to me than all of that, and it hit me now just what I was losing.
“I’m sorry.”
It exploded from me at last, a cascade of emotion all tangled into one giant mess, the tears hot on my face, every breath short and excruciating. I didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t put my feelings into words now when it mattered most, but I knew then that I cared for him more than ever before. I was sorry that I’d let this happen, sorry I’d not stayed in my car, sorry I’d brushed him off in the parking lot, and I was so very sorry that all those months ago, I’d turned away my one chance to be more than Mark Petric’s friend from Carnivore Cove.
“Don’t.” His fingers tightened on mine, and Mark let slide a sympathetic grin that held flickers of something deeper, remnants of feelings that drove nails into my heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re here, and that’s all that matters. Now, help me up.”
Watching my arms move almost independent of myself, I propped him against the wall, hating every second of it.
Mark pulled the red duffel bag close and unzipped it to reveal a metal pressure cooker coated with nails and tape, a bundle of wires that led to some big square batteries, and a repurposed digital stopwatch. Outside, the footsteps thundered closer, and the screeches returned, the horde of Puppets ready to finish the job.
I wish I had more time. One more minute, one more day, just one. Even if it meant watching him with Claire, I’d be okay with that.
I shouldered the green bag and turned from the steps to look back at Mark.
He struck the end of the flare to ignite it, the stairwell bathed in its blood-red light, and threw me a warm, handsome smile for the last time. “You’re still one in a million, Maddie.”
Doing my best to grin through my waterfall of tears, I felt my heart tear in half inside of me. “Goodbye Mark.”
With that, I smothered a mournful sob, and sped up the stairs.
Shadows closed in around me in accusatory sheets, and the tears smeared with Mark’s red blood on my cheek to form a bitter avalanche of regret. Everything seemed to move in slow motion now that seconds counted, and I wanted nothing more than to wake up in my own bed and discover that this entire nightmare was over.
A colossal baleen roar rumbled through the earth, even as I charged through a small metal door at the top of the stairs and skidded to a halt in surprise.
Unlike everywhere else in this hellscape road, the small square room was dry, it’s windows mysteriously intact, and all around the mundane cement walls lay heaps of random items. Pictures, rings, a golden pocket watch that I suspected was Mark’s, and various other trinkets sat in reverent heaps like treasures in the tomb of some ancient civilization. A hollow sensation tore through me at the thought that my sacrifice lay only seventeen steps down from here, with gentle hands, a kind smile, and chocolate brown eyes that melted me every time.
Focus. The cable. Find the cable.
To one side, a pile of dusty multicolored harnesses caught my eye, like the kind we had for the zipline attractions at New Wilderness. It had been a while since I’d been on a zipline, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I picked one, yellow, Mark’s favorite color, and stepped into it.
Rabid cries floated up from the ground outside, and a shadowy figure strode into view, fixated on the red glow of Mark’s flare.
Shoving open the window above the stack of harnesses, I braced my hands against the dry-rotted frame and leaned out into the icy wind.
There.
Above me, a braided steel cable ran from a heavy mounting, and stretched out into the gloom, far across the soggy grass fields that surrounded the old coal building. A small flicker of hope kindled inside me, the prospect of this ordeal ending like sweet intoxication to my mind.
“Maddie, go!”
Mark’s cry split the night, and I glanced down to find the Big One right underneath me, peering into the gap it had made in the stairwell during the previous attack. It slid one massive hand into the breach, and I fumbled to clip the rusted carabiner onto the cable.
Click.
The second it latched on, I threw myself out the window, and the metal cable whined at my rapid descent. I spun on the end of the nylon strap and twisted my neck to look back toward the tower.
Boom.
An explosion ripped through the night, pillars of flame gushed from the hole in the tower, and the Big One let out a long, loud roar of agony. For one slit second, I could see everything silhouetted in the darkness, the Puppets piling on top of each other in an attempt to climb the outer walls, the Big One stumbling backward with its head and arms wreathed in orange flame, and the lonely tower where my best friend had been, coated in thick black smoke.
It shrank into the distance until darkness swallowed the terrible scene, and I shut my eyes to let loose a wail of unbearable grief. Deep, rending pain brought scream after scream from me, loud sobs and cries I never would have emitted around anyone, wordless sorrow that made me want to die for the emptiness it left in my center.
Gone. Mark was gone.
A sudden lurch broke me from my weeping, and I looked up to find myself suspended in space, a large, frayed knot in the cable having stopped me right before a tall, rusty steel pole. The ground lay not far under me, coated in rain-soaked brush and chest-high grass. Was this the exit Mark had spoken of, or once again had I been foiled, tricked by this awful place into yet another hellish maze?
Sniffling, I spun on the end of my harness like a spider on its web and peered into the rainy abyss.
Is that . . . a light?
My heart jerked, and I gasped between renewed sobs at a dim, yet discernable white glow not two hundred yards away, across a low-lying section of grassland. It was so close, all I had to do was run to the light, and I’d be free. I could go home.
Pulling Mark’s camping knife from my belt, I sawed at the nylon harness, my nerves grating with each snap of the tiny fibers that brought me closer to the inevitable drop.
Almost there, almost . . .
Like an invisible hand had released me, I plummeted downward, my heels slamming into the spongy muck of the wet earth. My butt hit the ground next and I almost rolled over in a complete somersault, both legs flying up into the air. The arches of both feet stung, and the wind had been knocked out of me, but I was alive.
Somewhere off to my right, an eerie shriek crackled into the night air, and my blood ran cold.
“Oh, come on.” I muttered under my breath, exasperated and desperate. I’d come so far, lost so much, and now my way out was right there, yet still I would be hunted like a rabbit to the very end.
No. Not like a rabbit. I’m not dying like that.
My hands found Mark’s shotgun, and I thumbed the safety off.
Through the clearing, the rain fell, the wind hissed, and everything waited for me to make my move.
This is for you, Mark.
I darted through the grass, my sore legs moved underneath me with renewed energy, and the field erupted into chaos.
From the mud, twisted and distended limbs dragged macabre figures into the light of my headlamp. Not quite Puppets, but certainly not human, they were broken and torn, rotten and decayed, but worst of all, they were all the same.
“Maddie.” They called in sing-song mockery of his soft voice, the dozens of half-rotted Marks staggering after me, their arms outstretched. Each one bore his face, his mousy hair, his strong arms, even his brown eyes, but without the warmth, the life, the love. They materialized in waves from the grass, the trees, and the muck in various stages of decay, repeating any words the darkness had overhead him saying in a cruel mantra.
“Maddie, run.”
“Maddie, please.”
“Maddie, stop.”
Fear sliced through me, but it paled in comparison to the grief that came with Mark’s words being replayed from their vile throats. My eyes blurred with tears at how real they looked. The clotted blood made my heart ache, the horrid wounds like razor blades to my soul, and step-by-step, sadness overwhelmed my terror. Mark was dead, yet his death now chased me through the tall grass with Cheshire grins and haunting calls, tormenting me for my mistake.
A figure popped up right in my path, his back to me, and the Mark apparition snapped his head over backwards so that his chin faced the sky.
With the awful crunching of shattered neck bones, he gave me a wide, inverted smile. “Strawberry upside down.”
He lunged at me with his decayed arms bent at unnatural angles, and a throaty laugh frothed out of his fluid-filled lungs.
“Stop it!” The shotgun bucked against my shoulder, and the apparition’s head disappeared, black goo misting into the air where it had been.
Stifling my own tortured sob, I sidestepped the corpse and ran on, the white light just ahead, as more enemies shambled through the grass.
They closed in from all sides, so much that I stopped trying to aim the shotgun, and simply pumped round after round into every counterfeit Mark that came within range. Pulling the trigger sent a fresh stab into my already destroyed heart, and when they didn’t die right away, they screamed with a surprisingly convincing imitation of Mark’s pained cries. I had to force myself to shoot, to murder him over and over again, and my raw emotions continued to bleed rivers the entire way.
Mottled dead hands snagged at my green shoulder bag, and I slipped it off without a glance backward. My scrabbling fingers couldn’t find any more shells in the pockets of Mark’s jacket, so I wielded the twelve gauge like a club, until another apparition caught it by the sling, and yanked it away. There were so many of them, the grass so tall, the hands reaching from everywhere, and the light seemed so far away.
Clammy fingers grabbed a fistful of my loose hair, and I drew the last weapon I had.
With a desperate yell, I spun around and plunged Mark’s knife into the imitation’s face. As soon as it let go, I pushed through a wall of hands, finally able to feel the white light’s rays on my face and threw myself into the grass beyond.
My foot plummeted over an unseen bank, and I went down.
I rolled, through grass and mud, across a small briar bush, and into a shallow water-filled ditch. Rain clamored down around me, my body ached with fatigue, and overhead, the dark storm clouds rumbled with hidden tongues of lightning. Too exhausted to stand, I lay there in a crumpled heap and shut my eyes, ready for the fiends to rip into me.
I waited.
Nothing.
Daring to open my eyes, I sat up. Aside from the whistle of the wind, the curtains of rain and droning thunder, the shrieks had ceased, the apparitions gone. No one called my name, and I could hear no crashing in the underbrush. Somehow, I was alone once more.
Confused, I crawled out of the ditch, and felt something smooth and hard under my palms. What was that? It felt so familiar, yet my tired, frazzled mind couldn’t place it.
So cold. Got to get warm. Have to get warm and dry.
I struggled to stand, but fell, my ankles and knees so worn from my ordeal that I could barely move. My skin felt like old rubber, my fingers wouldn’t bend, and I shivered uncontrollably.
The air began to glow, a loud metallic screeching split the air, and two bright blue orbs stopped not five yards away. Whatever new thing was coming for me would have an easy meal, and I struggled back toward the ditch as the lights flooded over me.
Footsteps thudded nearer, and I raised my hands to shield myself in the blinding aura of the light.
“Maddie?”
I flinched. Perhaps the apparitions had followed me after all?
A man stepped into view, with brown work boots, dark blue jeans and a tan Carhart coat. He had auburn hair like me, and wide worried eyes that took in my bedraggled appearance with horror and disbelief. No doubt I looked like someone from a disaster movie, covered in cuts and bruises, my hair in a tangle, wearing mud-and-blood-smeared clothes that weren’t my own, with a vacant stare in my eyes that had seen things too scarring to forget.
“No.” I shook my head and scuttled away as best I could. I wasn’t going to fall for this, not now.
“Maddie, it’s me.” The man edged closer, his hands held out in a show of peace. “For God’s sake, what happened?”
It’s not him, it can’t be.
“You’re not real.” I dragged myself backwards on numb elbows, too weak to fight, but too hateful to die. “You’re not. I know what you are.”
“Madison, listen to me. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Sweetheart, please.” He stepped closer, and I palmed around for a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon.
I just need to get one good swing at his head.
But there was nothing except that strange, hard surface that hung on the edge of my mind as if behind a bank of fog. I had run out of time, and if he was in fact a fake, I might as well find out on my own terms.
“If you’re real.” I met his eyes, sky blue like mine, and fought the instinctive urge to cry. “Then where did we go for my twelfth birthday?”
The man crouched down onto his heels, and a small, fond smile crossed his face. “Cedar Point.”
Cedar Point.
A dam broke inside me, and my eyes pooled with tears I didn’t think I could make. I realized in that moment how the sky already seemed clearer, the rain thinner, the thunder more distant. White painted lines on the hard black asphalt of route 142 stretched away into the night, cool and firm beneath my ragged palms. The lights were headlights, and the man crouched in front of me with two well-worn hands held out . . .
“Dad.”
I tried to crawl to him, and my father scooped me off the asphalt without pause. Crying uncontrollably, I let myself fall apart while he carried me to his truck, feeling like I’d just woken up from the worst nightmare of my life. The storm faded, the starry night sky slowly reappeared overhead, and at long last, my fear melted away.
Over. It was over.
At least, the easy part was.
Every day afterward became a blur of one horrible situation after another. I was shuffled from the police station, to the hospital, to a therapist in a loop, forced to retell the same story to the point that I gave up trusting anyone. No one believed me, not even my parents, and I had three separate mental breakdowns in the course of a week.
At first, the police assumed that I’d been brutally assaulted, and suspected Mark. When I vehemently disagreed with that, they decided that someone else had attacked me, and convinced my parents to have me undergo an invasive, uncomfortable examination in the local emergency clinic to prove them wrong. Sitting in that tiny cold room after the exam was over, I bawled my eyes out, feeling more alone than I ever had in my entire life.
Next, the detectives involved with the investigation recruited a therapist who had one too many colors in her attention-desperate butch haircut to put me on a slew of anti-psychotics, which I promptly flushed down the toilet. But the real blow came when they confiscated the clothes Mark had given me, and said they suspected me of killing him, which almost made me vomit the first time one of them suggested it. Without the old T-shirt, flannel jacket, and wrinkled camouflage pants, all I had left to remember Mark by was the pink plastic hairbrush, which I’d hidden in my room the night Dad brought me home.
I would have strangled the person who tried to take it from me.
This whirlwind of speculation fed the rumor mill at New Wilderness, and soon half of my former friends wanted nothing to do with me, assuming I was in fact responsible for Mark’s death. The other half treated me like some kind of broken china figurine, convinced that Mark had in fact hurt me, and I was just too traumatized to admit it to myself. Even Kendra made snide comments about Mark when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, saying she ‘hoped it was hot’ where he was.
I spent the whole day crying in the bathroom after she said that.
Soon, the story went viral, and people who didn’t even know Mark began trashing him online, saying he deserved what he got, that men like him were scum, and I was a classic example of Stockholm syndrome. More than once I got into comment fights with such keyboard ghouls, and my outbursts got me banned from several platforms. How anyone could believe he’d done something like that, when I was the primary witness who insisted he’d done nothing wrong, made my blood boil.
Then came the funeral.
I found myself walking up to the tiny gray brick funeral home alone, having begged my dad to stay in the car. He’d wanted to come with me, now officially vindicated beyond belief that the world was out to hurt his precious baby girl, and he never went anywhere without his gun tucked into his belt. Still, I made him stay, mainly because I didn’t want him to see all the hateful looks I was sure to get from the people who loved Mark, and thought of me as nothing more than either the source of his reputational slander, or his murderess. It was bad enough that I had to endure their scorn. I didn’t want Dad to see it too.
My black sweater itched, but it covered me from wrist to neck, made me feel a little more invisible, and didn’t stand out in the crowd. I couldn’t bring myself to sign the visitor roster, my stomach turning sour just looking at the table with Mark’s photograph nestled amongst all the white plastic candles. He would have hated the whole thing, the overwhelming aroma of old-lady perfume, the soft organ music in the background, and the dollar store quilts with pictures of doves on them. Of course, there was no casket, no body; no one here even knew where Mark Petric had died.
No one but me.
The line to the little shrine of pictures that stood in for a coffin was long, and I spent most of the time staring at my scuffed black dress boots, the resentful eyes from around the room enough to burn a hole in my heart. It hurt enough to know that Mark was gone, but to be detested by those who loved him, and had been loved by him, that was a new level of torture I’d dreaded for days.
At last, I reached the front, and stepped underneath the little wicker archway.
Hey stranger. Long time no see.
My heart twitched, and I choked back tears.
Dozens of pictures of him decorated the wicker siding and stood in frames on various stands beneath the arch. Mark smiling at high school graduation. Mark in his green army fatigues, fresh out of basic training. Mark at a table in college, sleeping when he should have been studying. Mark embracing a pretty blonde girl, who wore a shiny diamond ring on one finger.
At last, my eyes settled on Mark in his black New Wilderness uniform shirt, standing with the other veterans during the Veterans Appreciation Day photoshoot. He beamed back at me from the glass frame, proud and gentle, sweet and kind, my best friend, and a good man.
One I didn’t deserve.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the pink plastic hairbrush, it’s handle still peppered with a few flecks of his dried blood and set it beside the picture. It looked odd amongst all the prim and proper gifts, but I knew it would find its way into the right hands. Besides, I felt better seeing it alongside Mark’s amazing smile.
I turned and found myself at the head of the procession that passed by Mark’s waiting family members, his red-eyed father, weeping mother, stoic sisters, and morose brother. At the end of the line stood a pretty blonde girl, that same diamond ring on her finger, her head hung low with sad, empty eyes glued to the floor.
A few older women pushed past me to throw themselves into the arms of Mark’s mother, and I used them as a smoke screen to slip away from the rest of the crowd.
Coming to a stop in front of the blonde girl, I waited till she raised her head, my heart pounding like a trip-hammer. “Claire?”
She blinked at me, forlorn but calm, as though the girl had already grieved too much to break down on a day like today. Still, in the blue irises that stared back at me, I could see the pain there, the shattered heart of someone who had loved Mark with all her soul, only to have him stolen away without even saying goodbye.
“I’m . . .” I coughed, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m Madison.”
“Oh.” Claire looked back down at her hands and picked nervously at her thumbnail.
Get it over with, so she can have some comfort in hating you.
I shut my eyes, pictured Mark’s warm grin, and drew a deep breath. “I was the girl who—”
“I know who you are.”
A stiff cringe almost snapped my spine, but I opened my eyes to find Claire watching me, not with anger or hatred, but with a small, sympathetic smile.
“Mark and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. Before we got engaged, he told me about you. He . . . he said you made really good cupcakes.”
Of course he did.
I laughed, though it came out as a choked sob. “Strawberry upside-down.”
Claire fought hard against her own tears, though she sighed fondly in a way that made me feel a million times worse. “Strawberry upside-down.”
Silence reigned between us, and I didn’t know what to say.
Her touch on my arm startled me from my stupor. “You were with him? When it happened?”
My soul writhed, and tears started to roll down my face, hot and salty. How could I tell her the truth? If anyone deserved to know, it was Claire, but how could I even begin to explain what Mark had died for? He’d braved a terrible unknown, sacrificed everything, his life, his love, his dreams, all for me, and I didn’t even know how to put that into words for his grieving fiancée.
Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw a desperation there, an excruciating need to know the truth.
I nodded.
Claire shut her eyes, and grimaced against the agony that must have been welling up inside her chest. “H-How did he die?”
You’re one in a million, Maddie.
Mark’s voice echoed in my head with a thunderclap of clarity, and I forced myself to return Claire’s sad gaze. “Protecting me.”
A flash of pride crossed the pretty features of Claire’s face, and she made a valiant attempt to grin once more. “That sounds like him.”
We both chuckled through our torment, but I knew I had one last thing to do.
“It’s my fault.” The truth ripped from me like a knife, and I couldn’t stop myself from sobbing, the pain in my chest too much to bear. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t know . . .”
She wrapped me in a tight hug before I could say anything more, and I felt moist tears on my shoulder as we mourned together. There was no insincerity in her embrace, no reservation or faux kindness, just the empathy of someone who hurt for the same reason as I did. With the whole world watching, my internal protective walls crumbled, and I wept with Claire over the man who had changed our lives forever.
We talked and shared stories about Mark for the rest of the night, until Dad wandered in to make sure I was okay. Claire turned out to be really nice, and we decided to stay in touch, the first real friendship I’d had since that awful night. I figured Mark would have wanted that, for both of us.
All that was four months ago. Four months. It feels like a horrible lifetime, someone else’s life, a foreign dream where I don’t belong, but am trapped in all the same.
That’s why I volunteered to take Mark’s place in the Night Rangers.
At first, everyone in the entire park was against it, but I begged Randy, the head of security, until he finally agreed out of sheer pity. Of course, my parents were furious, but they knew they couldn’t stop me, not after I told them that I’d go even if I had to walk. I know no one else will understand, but the instant I saw the position come up for new applicants, I knew it had to be me. Even now, sitting here in the company truck next to the visitor center, I can hear thunder booming in the distance as the sky grows darker, the lighting rippling in the clouds, calling to me with cruel anticipation.
My father’s Armalite rifle is propped up on the passenger seat, along with a canvas bandoleer full of loaded magazines. The necklace that my grandma got for me is around my neck, so I have something to sacrifice if I make it that far. In the event that I don’t, my grandpa’s old bowling bag holds a steel pressure cooker filled with jellied gasoline, the outside covered with taped-on framing nails and several batteries wired to a digital baking timer. I suppose the FBI will freak if they ever find this post, but they don’t have to worry. I’m not after them.
If you’re reading this, Dad, Mom, I love you. I hope I can tell you in the morning, but if not, then understand that this isn’t suicide, not technically. I’m doing my job as a ranger. That thing killed my best friend, and if someone doesn’t stop it, it’s only a matter of time before the Big One takes more innocent people. Mark knew that, and it cost him everything. I can’t let his death be in vain.
To anyone else who just so happens to stumble upon this final excerpt of my sad little tale, I hope you live your life well. Soak up the sun, find a job you love, and most importantly, hold on to the people who care about you. You never know when you’re going to lose them.
And if you are ever around the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve on a stormy, rainy night, please . . . stay away from Tauerpin Road.

[Part 1] [Part 2]
I’ve been dreading this moment. Everything up to this point has a play-by-play of the worst moments of my existence, and I know I’m not ready to recount this part, but what other choice do I have? This needs to end, and it can’t until the entire tale is told.
In the chaotic darkness, a shotgun racked, and the twelve-gauge sang into the night with defiance.
The Big One howled, and jerked its arm back through the opening, the sudden movement enough to send the section of stairwell behind us crumbling down. The chasm yawned, more of the steps collapsed, and I heard the collective shriek of the Puppet horde as they were buried under the falling rubble.
“Now’s our chance.” Mark pushed me up the remaining stairs. “Go, get to the—”
Crash.
Like a freight train of blind rage, the clenched fist of the Big One exploded through the wall, and Mark flew sideways. Unable to keep my feet, I pulled myself into a recess on the rough, cold cement, in an effort to keep from being crushed. Rain and wind trickled in from the gap in the tower, and against the backdrop of lightning, I realized I sat at shoulder height to the enormous gray visage.
The red light from my headlamp caught its face, and I recoiled in terror.
Crouched low to peer into the gap, the Big One studied me without eyes, it’s face a mass of tangled, gnarled tree branches all woven together. Something hummed in the back of my brain, a whining that pried into every fold of my thoughts and paralyzed my limbs. Whispers rose in the static, soft voices that urged me to not to fight, to stay still, that it was so much sweeter on the other side. The pain wouldn’t last long. I wouldn’t feel it after a while. So warm and dry, it’d be just like falling asleep.
Sleep sounds good. I could sleep. Maybe it won’t hurt if I just . . .
A bright orange glow flared to life, and the static fizzled out.
My head pounded with a sudden migraine, and a wave of nausea roiled in my guts.
To my right, Mark slumped against the far wall, holding a green glass bottle with a flaming rag tied to the neck of it. Rivulets of blood poured down from a gash on his scalp, and his right leg lay twisted at a horrible angle, but Mark wound his arm back, and hurled the bottle with all the energy he had left.
Yellow flames exploded over the tangled branches of its face, and the Big One reeled with an agonized screech. Awash in fire, the creature stampeded for the nearby tree line, its bellows louder than the storm that raged overhead. All around its feet, those Puppets that hadn’t been buried in the collapsed stairwell scurried away in hasty retreat. Lightning snapped, the thunder boomed, and all at once everything fell silent again, save for the ancient mutterings of the wind and rain.
I fell forward onto my hands and knees and puked over the edge of the ruined stairwell, the dark rubble below swallowing the vomit with cruel indifference. Cold crept through me now, the adrenaline wore off, and I realized how much black gore was smeared over my face, arms, chest, and hands.
I beat that one girl to death. I crushed her face in with a rock. Dear God, what’s happening to me?
With both eyes shut, I pictured my dad at the gun range teaching me how to shoot, and his words about surviving bad situations.
You’ve got to stay calm, Maddie. No matter what, stay calm, breathe, and act. If you do that, you’ll be okay.
“Gotta go.” I sucked in a deep breath and forced myself not to gag at the taste of bile in my mouth. “Mark, we . . . we have to go.”
He didn’t respond.
My knees almost gave out the first time I stood up, and I had to brace myself against the ruined wall. Exhaustion threatened to bring me down, and my ears throbbed as if someone had shoved needles down inside them. Still, I turned back to my friend, and groped to find the switch on my headlamp.
Click.
I slapped one filthy hand over my mouth to stifle another wave of nausea.
In the scarlet light, Mark’s blood looked black, and pooled on the cement beneath him. Bright white bone stuck out from his snapped leg, the end jagged and slick. Mark’s eyes were shut, one half of his face red with blood, the other pale as new fallen snow.
“Mark?” I squeaked the words out, too afraid to admit what I suspected to be true. “Mark, please say something. Mark.”
His head rolled limply onto one shoulder, and my heart skipped a frantic beat.
The bags.
I scrambled for my green satchel, tore it apart in a search for something to help. My hands smeared black goo over everything, but I didn’t care. There had to be something, either in his kit or mine, to fix this.
A small green nylon pouch surfaced, and I saw a little red cross stitched onto the flap.
“Yes.” In spite of everything, I shouted with joy, and hugged the little pack to my chest.
My clumsy cold fingers struggled to unzip it, and I pawed through the contents until I found a black torniquet, like the ones my father stockpiled in our basement for the day the world decided to end. I’d hardly paid attention when he’d showed me how to use them, but the instructions still resonated in my mind, and I decided that if I ever got home, I’d hug Dad so hard his ribs would break.
“High and tight.” I gritted my teeth and laced the strap around Mark’s thigh, well above the shattered femur. Yanking it as hard as I could, I tried not to think about how Mark didn’t even groan in pain as I wound the little metal windlass to staunch the tide of glistening blood.
Somewhere in the distance, another whale-like bellow echoed, and I swallowed a nervous, bile-flavored lump.
“We can make it.” I talked to him, more to keep from crying than anything else, and slid my shoulder under Mark’s armpit. “Come on, get up. Up, up, up, come on.”
But no matter how much I strained, I couldn’t lift him, my leg muscles shot from the terrified run through the fields, Mark’s 170-pound frame like a fallen log. I clawed the gray rucksack off his back, along with the red duffel bag, and tossed aside the green shoulder bag he’d given me.
I strained, screamed in desperation, but fell to my knees, spent.
A glimpse at his still face sent an icy chill down my spine, and I put two fingers to Mark’s throat.
Stupid idiot, you should have checked sooner.
Panicked, I rolled Mark onto his back on the cold concrete, and pressed my hands to his sternum, my brain a fog of fear. “Mark, you have to wake up. Come on, wake up. Wake up.”
I pumped at his chest, put my ear to his mouth and listened.
Nothing.
“Y-you can’t do that.” I spat, angry and scared, tears brimming in my eyes. “You c-can’t leave me, you can’t.”
Again and again, I leaned on his diaphragm, and this time, I lifted Mark’s chin to put my mouth to his. Every bit of guilt and shame rushed back to choke me at the sensation of his soft lips on mine, but I had to fight through it to breathe air into his lungs.
My arms began to cramp, seconds passed, and my despair grew. Mark wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, and his pulse . . .
Please God, don’t do this. I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a fool, please don’t take him, not like this, please.
My brain began to accept the inevitable, and tears streamed down my face along with the cold rain, salty and bitter. This was all my fault. If I hadn’t come back this year, hadn’t stayed too long after work, hadn’t stopped to talk to him in the parking lot, Mark wouldn’t be here. He’d saved me, cared for me, forgiven me, and after everything, I’d led him to his death. I didn’t deserve that kind of love. I didn’t deserve Mark Petric.
Giving up, I dropped my head to his chest, my wet hair hanging in curtains around my grimy face.
“Maddie.”
I jerked back with a muffled scream of surprise.
Mark blinked up at me, his face almost gray, but his eyes still warm, chocolate brown. “You . . . you okay?”
Unable to speak through my relieved sobs, I threw my arms around his shoulders, and curled up beside him on the cold cement. Mark slid one sluggish arm around me, and I relished what little warmth I could feel coming from his chest beneath the layers of waterlogged clothes.
“Can’t stay here.” He grunted into my ear, and Mark winced as though the pain had at last started to set in. “You can’t stay.”
I pressed my face to his collarbone and shook my head like a stubborn child. “I’m not going without you.”
His fingers squeezed my arm in earnest, though his strength seemed to wane by the minute. “Yes, you are. If . . . if that thing comes back, it’ll rip this place apart, and you won’t make it to the exit. You have to leave me here.”
“No.” I clung to him even harder, and my voice cracked like a glass dropped from a skyscraper. “I’ll fight it I-I’ll use one of your firebombs—”
“That was the last one.” He sighed, and something about the way he sounded, so tired, so weak, made my chest throb. “And it just made it angry. You have to go, or it’ll kill you.”
His fingers laced into my hair, the braid long gone, the strands now wild tangles around my neck. Mark pulled, in a gentle but insistent pull, and I brought my head up to meet his gaze.
In the dark, with the rain and wind whipping outside our hovel, the lightning slithered through the sky, and revealed Mark’s thin smile.
“You can do it, you just have to focus. Still have your gun?”
Shame burned across my cheeks. “I . . . I think I lost it. In the field.”
“That’s fine.” He rolled his head to nod at the far wall, which still bore his blood stains. “Take my shotgun. Got more slugs for it in my coat. And my knife, you’ll need it.”
My eyes stung with fresh waves of remorse, and I went to shake my head, but Mark’s touch on my face stopped me, his calloused fingers wiping away the tears.
“You’ll be alright. Come on, get my ruck. And the red bag too.”
My arms and legs seemed to move on their own, and I crawled over to lug the bags to Mark. The twelve gauge was covered in concrete dust, with dents and scratches on its wooden stock, but otherwise remained functional, and I slung the heavy weapon over my shoulder like I’d seen him do.
“Put the gun across your chest.” Mark nudged his folded gray jacket my way, along with the silver-colored camping knife from his belt, and grimaced as though the pain intensified with every move he made. “You’ll have to drop from high up and . . . ahh . . . and roll onto your back. Don’t want to break your spine on that thing.”
“Drop?” I choked, fear and pain mingling in my head. “What do you mean?”
Mark flicked his eyes up the dark stairs above us. “There’s a room at the top of the tower, with four windows all around it. There should be a stack of harnesses under one of them. Once you put one on, hitch it to a cable outside and ride it like a zipline across the opposite field. At the end, the line stops about ten feet off the ground. You’ll have to cut yourself loose and drop down.”
My throat turned dry, but I pulled his jacket on over my slender shoulders and tried to focus on his instructions even as apocalyptic footsteps echoed in the tree line not far away. “O-Okay. Then what?”
“If you made the sacrifice right, you should be able to see a light from the base of the cable pole. Head for that. There’s gonna be a lot of freaks hanging around the exit so . . . run like the wind, and don’t look back.”
Both eyebrows hitched higher on my face, and a word stuck out among all the others. “Sacrifice? Wait, what sacrifice?”
Mark made a grim, stoic nod. “Usually, if you want to leave here, you have to give up something really important to you, something you can’t get replace. I had to leave my heirloom pocket watch behind last time Randy came to get me. He had to leave his wedding band.”
My heart sank. I had left my necklace at home in my room, and with nothing in my pockets but a cheap flashlight and an old candy wrapper, I would be trapped. “But I don’t have anything . . .”
He met my confusion with an apologetic smile, and I realized what Mark meant.
“No!” It came out as a whimper more than a scream, my soul writhing from the terrible truth.
But Mark gripped my wrist with a desperate gleam in his eyes. “I can’t make that jump, not with my leg like this. You’ve got nothing to give, and you can’t carry me and make the sprint at the end. But if I stay, I should be enough to get you through.”
“I won’t go without you.” Shaking off his grasp, I tried to be angry, but only felt more miserable by the second. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t.
He cupped my chin, and despite myself, I leaned into his touch, the palm still warm enough to make my spine tingle in that pleasant way I hadn’t known was possible.
“And I won’t let you die here.” Mark ran his thumb over my cheek in a tenderness that made a guilty fire blaze inside my heart. “Now hurry up, we don’t have much time.”
Trying to hold myself together, I sorted through the dirty, torn bags, all the while fighting the fog of hypothermia that crept into my brain.
Gotta stay awake. I can’t pass out, not now.
Mark drew a shuddery breath and cringed at his mutilated leg. “In the top flap there’s a road flare. I need it.”
I found it, a brown cardboard wrapped tube with a red cap on one end. Too numb to be confused, I handed him the flare, and heard plastic clatter to the concrete floor.
Instantly, we both knew exactly what it was.
Mark nodded at the little plastic hairbrush, his eyes softening. “Would you . . .”
“Sure.” I placed it in Mark’s cold grasp, and my heart ached at how he clutched the brush to his chest with tender affection.
He’s losing her. No more Claire, no more kids, no farmhouse in the woods. He’s losing everything . . . all because of me.
Mark shut his eyes, sniffled, and held the brush out to me. “Take this when you go.”
Another wave of nausea slammed into me, and I whipped my head back and forth. “No, I can’t, I—”
“Maddie, please.” His voice broke, halfway between begging and groaning in agony from his wounds. “I don’t want it stuck here too. Take it to Claire, and . . . tell her that I . . .”
I held onto Mark like he was an anchor keeping me from going adrift in the storm. “I know. I’ll t-tell her, I promise.”
He pushed the brush into my left hand, his own still welded to my right, and a volcano rose inside my brain. I wasn’t just looking at Mark Petric, my goofy friend from work who liked my cupcakes and my terrible karaoke. The man lying beside me meant more to me than all of that, and it hit me now just what I was losing.
“I’m sorry.”
It exploded from me at last, a cascade of emotion all tangled into one giant mess, the tears hot on my face, every breath short and excruciating. I didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t put my feelings into words now when it mattered most, but I knew then that I cared for him more than ever before. I was sorry that I’d let this happen, sorry I’d not stayed in my car, sorry I’d brushed him off in the parking lot, and I was so very sorry that all those months ago, I’d turned away my one chance to be more than Mark Petric’s friend from Carnivore Cove.
“Don’t.” His fingers tightened on mine, and Mark let slide a sympathetic grin that held flickers of something deeper, remnants of feelings that drove nails into my heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re here, and that’s all that matters. Now, help me up.”
Watching my arms move almost independent of myself, I propped him against the wall, hating every second of it.
Mark pulled the red duffel bag close and unzipped it to reveal a metal pressure cooker coated with nails and tape, a bundle of wires that led to some big square batteries, and a repurposed digital stopwatch. Outside, the footsteps thundered closer, and the screeches returned, the horde of Puppets ready to finish the job.
I wish I had more time. One more minute, one more day, just one. Even if it meant watching him with Claire, I’d be okay with that.
I shouldered the green bag and turned from the steps to look back at Mark.
He struck the end of the flare to ignite it, the stairwell bathed in its blood-red light, and threw me a warm, handsome smile for the last time. “You’re still one in a million, Maddie.”
Doing my best to grin through my waterfall of tears, I felt my heart tear in half inside of me. “Goodbye Mark.”
With that, I smothered a mournful sob, and sped up the stairs.
Shadows closed in around me in accusatory sheets, and the tears smeared with Mark’s red blood on my cheek to form a bitter avalanche of regret. Everything seemed to move in slow motion now that seconds counted, and I wanted nothing more than to wake up in my own bed and discover that this entire nightmare was over.
A colossal baleen roar rumbled through the earth, even as I charged through a small metal door at the top of the stairs and skidded to a halt in surprise.
Unlike everywhere else in this hellscape road, the small square room was dry, it’s windows mysteriously intact, and all around the mundane cement walls lay heaps of random items. Pictures, rings, a golden pocket watch that I suspected was Mark’s, and various other trinkets sat in reverent heaps like treasures in the tomb of some ancient civilization. A hollow sensation tore through me at the thought that my sacrifice lay only seventeen steps down from here, with gentle hands, a kind smile, and chocolate brown eyes that melted me every time.
Focus. The cable. Find the cable.
To one side, a pile of dusty multicolored harnesses caught my eye, like the kind we had for the zipline attractions at New Wilderness. It had been a while since I’d been on a zipline, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I picked one, yellow, Mark’s favorite color, and stepped into it.
Rabid cries floated up from the ground outside, and a shadowy figure strode into view, fixated on the red glow of Mark’s flare.
Shoving open the window above the stack of harnesses, I braced my hands against the dry-rotted frame and leaned out into the icy wind.
There.
Above me, a braided steel cable ran from a heavy mounting, and stretched out into the gloom, far across the soggy grass fields that surrounded the old coal building. A small flicker of hope kindled inside me, the prospect of this ordeal ending like sweet intoxication to my mind.
“Maddie, go!”
Mark’s cry split the night, and I glanced down to find the Big One right underneath me, peering into the gap it had made in the stairwell during the previous attack. It slid one massive hand into the breach, and I fumbled to clip the rusted carabiner onto the cable.
Click.
The second it latched on, I threw myself out the window, and the metal cable whined at my rapid descent. I spun on the end of the nylon strap and twisted my neck to look back toward the tower.
Boom.
An explosion ripped through the night, pillars of flame gushed from the hole in the tower, and the Big One let out a long, loud roar of agony. For one slit second, I could see everything silhouetted in the darkness, the Puppets piling on top of each other in an attempt to climb the outer walls, the Big One stumbling backward with its head and arms wreathed in orange flame, and the lonely tower where my best friend had been, coated in thick black smoke.
It shrank into the distance until darkness swallowed the terrible scene, and I shut my eyes to let loose a wail of unbearable grief. Deep, rending pain brought scream after scream from me, loud sobs and cries I never would have emitted around anyone, wordless sorrow that made me want to die for the emptiness it left in my center.
Gone. Mark was gone.
A sudden lurch broke me from my weeping, and I looked up to find myself suspended in space, a large, frayed knot in the cable having stopped me right before a tall, rusty steel pole. The ground lay not far under me, coated in rain-soaked brush and chest-high grass. Was this the exit Mark had spoken of, or once again had I been foiled, tricked by this awful place into yet another hellish maze?
Sniffling, I spun on the end of my harness like a spider on its web and peered into the rainy abyss.
Is that . . . a light?
My heart jerked, and I gasped between renewed sobs at a dim, yet discernable white glow not two hundred yards away, across a low-lying section of grassland. It was so close, all I had to do was run to the light, and I’d be free. I could go home.
Pulling Mark’s camping knife from my belt, I sawed at the nylon harness, my nerves grating with each snap of the tiny fibers that brought me closer to the inevitable drop.
Almost there, almost . . .
Like an invisible hand had released me, I plummeted downward, my heels slamming into the spongy muck of the wet earth. My butt hit the ground next and I almost rolled over in a complete somersault, both legs flying up into the air. The arches of both feet stung, and the wind had been knocked out of me, but I was alive.
Somewhere off to my right, an eerie shriek crackled into the night air, and my blood ran cold.
“Oh, come on.” I muttered under my breath, exasperated and desperate. I’d come so far, lost so much, and now my way out was right there, yet still I would be hunted like a rabbit to the very end.
No. Not like a rabbit. I’m not dying like that.
My hands found Mark’s shotgun, and I thumbed the safety off.
Through the clearing, the rain fell, the wind hissed, and everything waited for me to make my move.
This is for you, Mark.
I darted through the grass, my sore legs moved underneath me with renewed energy, and the field erupted into chaos.
From the mud, twisted and distended limbs dragged macabre figures into the light of my headlamp. Not quite Puppets, but certainly not human, they were broken and torn, rotten and decayed, but worst of all, they were all the same.
“Maddie.” They called in sing-song mockery of his soft voice, the dozens of half-rotted Marks staggering after me, their arms outstretched. Each one bore his face, his mousy hair, his strong arms, even his brown eyes, but without the warmth, the life, the love. They materialized in waves from the grass, the trees, and the muck in various stages of decay, repeating any words the darkness had overhead him saying in a cruel mantra.
“Maddie, run.”
“Maddie, please.”
“Maddie, stop.”
Fear sliced through me, but it paled in comparison to the grief that came with Mark’s words being replayed from their vile throats. My eyes blurred with tears at how real they looked. The clotted blood made my heart ache, the horrid wounds like razor blades to my soul, and step-by-step, sadness overwhelmed my terror. Mark was dead, yet his death now chased me through the tall grass with Cheshire grins and haunting calls, tormenting me for my mistake.
A figure popped up right in my path, his back to me, and the Mark apparition snapped his head over backwards so that his chin faced the sky.
With the awful crunching of shattered neck bones, he gave me a wide, inverted smile. “Strawberry upside down.”
He lunged at me with his decayed arms bent at unnatural angles, and a throaty laugh frothed out of his fluid-filled lungs.
“Stop it!” The shotgun bucked against my shoulder, and the apparition’s head disappeared, black goo misting into the air where it had been.
Stifling my own tortured sob, I sidestepped the corpse and ran on, the white light just ahead, as more enemies shambled through the grass.
They closed in from all sides, so much that I stopped trying to aim the shotgun, and simply pumped round after round into every counterfeit Mark that came within range. Pulling the trigger sent a fresh stab into my already destroyed heart, and when they didn’t die right away, they screamed with a surprisingly convincing imitation of Mark’s pained cries. I had to force myself to shoot, to murder him over and over again, and my raw emotions continued to bleed rivers the entire way.
Mottled dead hands snagged at my green shoulder bag, and I slipped it off without a glance backward. My scrabbling fingers couldn’t find any more shells in the pockets of Mark’s jacket, so I wielded the twelve gauge like a club, until another apparition caught it by the sling, and yanked it away. There were so many of them, the grass so tall, the hands reaching from everywhere, and the light seemed so far away.
Clammy fingers grabbed a fistful of my loose hair, and I drew the last weapon I had.
With a desperate yell, I spun around and plunged Mark’s knife into the imitation’s face. As soon as it let go, I pushed through a wall of hands, finally able to feel the white light’s rays on my face and threw myself into the grass beyond.
My foot plummeted over an unseen bank, and I went down.
I rolled, through grass and mud, across a small briar bush, and into a shallow water-filled ditch. Rain clamored down around me, my body ached with fatigue, and overhead, the dark storm clouds rumbled with hidden tongues of lightning. Too exhausted to stand, I lay there in a crumpled heap and shut my eyes, ready for the fiends to rip into me.
I waited.
Nothing.
Daring to open my eyes, I sat up. Aside from the whistle of the wind, the curtains of rain and droning thunder, the shrieks had ceased, the apparitions gone. No one called my name, and I could hear no crashing in the underbrush. Somehow, I was alone once more.
Confused, I crawled out of the ditch, and felt something smooth and hard under my palms. What was that? It felt so familiar, yet my tired, frazzled mind couldn’t place it.
So cold. Got to get warm. Have to get warm and dry.
I struggled to stand, but fell, my ankles and knees so worn from my ordeal that I could barely move. My skin felt like old rubber, my fingers wouldn’t bend, and I shivered uncontrollably.
The air began to glow, a loud metallic screeching split the air, and two bright blue orbs stopped not five yards away. Whatever new thing was coming for me would have an easy meal, and I struggled back toward the ditch as the lights flooded over me.
Footsteps thudded nearer, and I raised my hands to shield myself in the blinding aura of the light.
“Maddie?”
I flinched. Perhaps the apparitions had followed me after all?
A man stepped into view, with brown work boots, dark blue jeans and a tan Carhart coat. He had auburn hair like me, and wide worried eyes that took in my bedraggled appearance with horror and disbelief. No doubt I looked like someone from a disaster movie, covered in cuts and bruises, my hair in a tangle, wearing mud-and-blood-smeared clothes that weren’t my own, with a vacant stare in my eyes that had seen things too scarring to forget.
“No.” I shook my head and scuttled away as best I could. I wasn’t going to fall for this, not now.
“Maddie, it’s me.” The man edged closer, his hands held out in a show of peace. “For God’s sake, what happened?”
It’s not him, it can’t be.
“You’re not real.” I dragged myself backwards on numb elbows, too weak to fight, but too hateful to die. “You’re not. I know what you are.”
“Madison, listen to me. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Sweetheart, please.” He stepped closer, and I palmed around for a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon.
I just need to get one good swing at his head.
But there was nothing except that strange, hard surface that hung on the edge of my mind as if behind a bank of fog. I had run out of time, and if he was in fact a fake, I might as well find out on my own terms.
“If you’re real.” I met his eyes, sky blue like mine, and fought the instinctive urge to cry. “Then where did we go for my twelfth birthday?”
The man crouched down onto his heels, and a small, fond smile crossed his face. “Cedar Point.”
Cedar Point.
A dam broke inside me, and my eyes pooled with tears I didn’t think I could make. I realized in that moment how the sky already seemed clearer, the rain thinner, the thunder more distant. White painted lines on the hard black asphalt of route 142 stretched away into the night, cool and firm beneath my ragged palms. The lights were headlights, and the man crouched in front of me with two well-worn hands held out . . .
“Dad.”
I tried to crawl to him, and my father scooped me off the asphalt without pause. Crying uncontrollably, I let myself fall apart while he carried me to his truck, feeling like I’d just woken up from the worst nightmare of my life. The storm faded, the starry night sky slowly reappeared overhead, and at long last, my fear melted away.
Over. It was over.
At least, the easy part was.
Every day afterward became a blur of one horrible situation after another. I was shuffled from the police station, to the hospital, to a therapist in a loop, forced to retell the same story to the point that I gave up trusting anyone. No one believed me, not even my parents, and I had three separate mental breakdowns in the course of a week.
At first, the police assumed that I’d been brutally assaulted, and suspected Mark. When I vehemently disagreed with that, they decided that someone else had attacked me, and convinced my parents to have me undergo an invasive, uncomfortable examination in the local emergency clinic to prove them wrong. Sitting in that tiny cold room after the exam was over, I bawled my eyes out, feeling more alone than I ever had in my entire life.
Next, the detectives involved with the investigation recruited a therapist who had one too many colors in her attention-desperate butch haircut to put me on a slew of anti-psychotics, which I promptly flushed down the toilet. But the real blow came when they confiscated the clothes Mark had given me, and said they suspected me of killing him, which almost made me vomit the first time one of them suggested it. Without the old T-shirt, flannel jacket, and wrinkled camouflage pants, all I had left to remember Mark by was the pink plastic hairbrush, which I’d hidden in my room the night Dad brought me home.
I would have strangled the person who tried to take it from me.
This whirlwind of speculation fed the rumor mill at New Wilderness, and soon half of my former friends wanted nothing to do with me, assuming I was in fact responsible for Mark’s death. The other half treated me like some kind of broken china figurine, convinced that Mark had in fact hurt me, and I was just too traumatized to admit it to myself. Even Kendra made snide comments about Mark when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, saying she ‘hoped it was hot’ where he was.
I spent the whole day crying in the bathroom after she said that.
Soon, the story went viral, and people who didn’t even know Mark began trashing him online, saying he deserved what he got, that men like him were scum, and I was a classic example of Stockholm syndrome. More than once I got into comment fights with such keyboard ghouls, and my outbursts got me banned from several platforms. How anyone could believe he’d done something like that, when I was the primary witness who insisted he’d done nothing wrong, made my blood boil.
Then came the funeral.
I found myself walking up to the tiny gray brick funeral home alone, having begged my dad to stay in the car. He’d wanted to come with me, now officially vindicated beyond belief that the world was out to hurt his precious baby girl, and he never went anywhere without his gun tucked into his belt. Still, I made him stay, mainly because I didn’t want him to see all the hateful looks I was sure to get from the people who loved Mark, and thought of me as nothing more than either the source of his reputational slander, or his murderess. It was bad enough that I had to endure their scorn. I didn’t want Dad to see it too.
My black sweater itched, but it covered me from wrist to neck, made me feel a little more invisible, and didn’t stand out in the crowd. I couldn’t bring myself to sign the visitor roster, my stomach turning sour just looking at the table with Mark’s photograph nestled amongst all the white plastic candles. He would have hated the whole thing, the overwhelming aroma of old-lady perfume, the soft organ music in the background, and the dollar store quilts with pictures of doves on them. Of course, there was no casket, no body; no one here even knew where Mark Petric had died.
No one but me.
The line to the little shrine of pictures that stood in for a coffin was long, and I spent most of the time staring at my scuffed black dress boots, the resentful eyes from around the room enough to burn a hole in my heart. It hurt enough to know that Mark was gone, but to be detested by those who loved him, and had been loved by him, that was a new level of torture I’d dreaded for days.
At last, I reached the front, and stepped underneath the little wicker archway.
Hey stranger. Long time no see.
My heart twitched, and I choked back tears.
Dozens of pictures of him decorated the wicker siding and stood in frames on various stands beneath the arch. Mark smiling at high school graduation. Mark in his green army fatigues, fresh out of basic training. Mark at a table in college, sleeping when he should have been studying. Mark embracing a pretty blonde girl, who wore a shiny diamond ring on one finger.
At last, my eyes settled on Mark in his black New Wilderness uniform shirt, standing with the other veterans during the Veterans Appreciation Day photoshoot. He beamed back at me from the glass frame, proud and gentle, sweet and kind, my best friend, and a good man.
One I didn’t deserve.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the pink plastic hairbrush, it’s handle still peppered with a few flecks of his dried blood and set it beside the picture. It looked odd amongst all the prim and proper gifts, but I knew it would find its way into the right hands. Besides, I felt better seeing it alongside Mark’s amazing smile.
I turned and found myself at the head of the procession that passed by Mark’s waiting family members, his red-eyed father, weeping mother, stoic sisters, and morose brother. At the end of the line stood a pretty blonde girl, that same diamond ring on her finger, her head hung low with sad, empty eyes glued to the floor.
A few older women pushed past me to throw themselves into the arms of Mark’s mother, and I used them as a smoke screen to slip away from the rest of the crowd.
Coming to a stop in front of the blonde girl, I waited till she raised her head, my heart pounding like a trip-hammer. “Claire?”
She blinked at me, forlorn but calm, as though the girl had already grieved too much to break down on a day like today. Still, in the blue irises that stared back at me, I could see the pain there, the shattered heart of someone who had loved Mark with all her soul, only to have him stolen away without even saying goodbye.
“I’m . . .” I coughed, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m Madison.”
“Oh.” Claire looked back down at her hands and picked nervously at her thumbnail.
Get it over with, so she can have some comfort in hating you.
I shut my eyes, pictured Mark’s warm grin, and drew a deep breath. “I was the girl who—”
“I know who you are.”
A stiff cringe almost snapped my spine, but I opened my eyes to find Claire watching me, not with anger or hatred, but with a small, sympathetic smile.
“Mark and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. Before we got engaged, he told me about you. He . . . he said you made really good cupcakes.”
Of course he did.
I laughed, though it came out as a choked sob. “Strawberry upside-down.”
Claire fought hard against her own tears, though she sighed fondly in a way that made me feel a million times worse. “Strawberry upside-down.”
Silence reigned between us, and I didn’t know what to say.
Her touch on my arm startled me from my stupor. “You were with him? When it happened?”
My soul writhed, and tears started to roll down my face, hot and salty. How could I tell her the truth? If anyone deserved to know, it was Claire, but how could I even begin to explain what Mark had died for? He’d braved a terrible unknown, sacrificed everything, his life, his love, his dreams, all for me, and I didn’t even know how to put that into words for his grieving fiancée.
Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw a desperation there, an excruciating need to know the truth.
I nodded.
Claire shut her eyes, and grimaced against the agony that must have been welling up inside her chest. “H-How did he die?”
You’re one in a million, Maddie.
Mark’s voice echoed in my head with a thunderclap of clarity, and I forced myself to return Claire’s sad gaze. “Protecting me.”
A flash of pride crossed the pretty features of Claire’s face, and she made a valiant attempt to grin once more. “That sounds like him.”
We both chuckled through our torment, but I knew I had one last thing to do.
“It’s my fault.” The truth ripped from me like a knife, and I couldn’t stop myself from sobbing, the pain in my chest too much to bear. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t know . . .”
She wrapped me in a tight hug before I could say anything more, and I felt moist tears on my shoulder as we mourned together. There was no insincerity in her embrace, no reservation or faux kindness, just the empathy of someone who hurt for the same reason as I did. With the whole world watching, my internal protective walls crumbled, and I wept with Claire over the man who had changed our lives forever.
We talked and shared stories about Mark for the rest of the night, until Dad wandered in to make sure I was okay. Claire turned out to be really nice, and we decided to stay in touch, the first real friendship I’d had since that awful night. I figured Mark would have wanted that, for both of us.
All that was four months ago. Four months. It feels like a horrible lifetime, someone else’s life, a foreign dream where I don’t belong, but am trapped in all the same.
That’s why I volunteered to take Mark’s place in the Night Rangers.
At first, everyone in the entire park was against it, but I begged Randy, the head of security, until he finally agreed out of sheer pity. Of course, my parents were furious, but they knew they couldn’t stop me, not after I told them that I’d go even if I had to walk. I know no one else will understand, but the instant I saw the position come up for new applicants, I knew it had to be me. Even now, sitting here in the company truck next to the visitor center, I can hear thunder booming in the distance as the sky grows darker, the lighting rippling in the clouds, calling to me with cruel anticipation.
My father’s Armalite rifle is propped up on the passenger seat, along with a canvas bandoleer full of loaded magazines. The necklace that my grandma got for me is around my neck, so I have something to sacrifice if I make it that far. In the event that I don’t, my grandpa’s old bowling bag holds a steel pressure cooker filled with jellied gasoline, the outside covered with taped-on framing nails and several batteries wired to a digital baking timer. I suppose the FBI will freak if they ever find this post, but they don’t have to worry. I’m not after them.
If you’re reading this, Dad, Mom, I love you. I hope I can tell you in the morning, but if not, then understand that this isn’t suicide, not technically. I’m doing my job as a ranger. That thing killed my best friend, and if someone doesn’t stop it, it’s only a matter of time before the Big One takes more innocent people. Mark knew that, and it cost him everything. I can’t let his death be in vain.
To anyone else who just so happens to stumble upon this final excerpt of my sad little tale, I hope you live your life well. Soak up the sun, find a job you love, and most importantly, hold on to the people who care about you. You never know when you’re going to lose them.
And if you are ever around the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve on a stormy, rainy night, please . . . stay away from Tauerpin Road.

[Part 1] [Part 2]
I’ve been dreading this moment. Everything up to this point has a play-by-play of the worst moments of my existence, and I know I’m not ready to recount this part, but what other choice do I have? This needs to end, and it can’t until the entire tale is told.
In the chaotic darkness, a shotgun racked, and the twelve-gauge sang into the night with defiance.
The Big One howled, and jerked its arm back through the opening, the sudden movement enough to send the section of stairwell behind us crumbling down. The chasm yawned, more of the steps collapsed, and I heard the collective shriek of the Puppet horde as they were buried under the falling rubble.
“Now’s our chance.” Mark pushed me up the remaining stairs. “Go, get to the—”
Crash.
Like a freight train of blind rage, the clenched fist of the Big One exploded through the wall, and Mark flew sideways. Unable to keep my feet, I pulled myself into a recess on the rough, cold cement, in an effort to keep from being crushed. Rain and wind trickled in from the gap in the tower, and against the backdrop of lightning, I realized I sat at shoulder height to the enormous gray visage.
The red light from my headlamp caught its face, and I recoiled in terror.
Crouched low to peer into the gap, the Big One studied me without eyes, it’s face a mass of tangled, gnarled tree branches all woven together. Something hummed in the back of my brain, a whining that pried into every fold of my thoughts and paralyzed my limbs. Whispers rose in the static, soft voices that urged me to not to fight, to stay still, that it was so much sweeter on the other side. The pain wouldn’t last long. I wouldn’t feel it after a while. So warm and dry, it’d be just like falling asleep.
Sleep sounds good. I could sleep. Maybe it won’t hurt if I just . . .
A bright orange glow flared to life, and the static fizzled out.
My head pounded with a sudden migraine, and a wave of nausea roiled in my guts.
To my right, Mark slumped against the far wall, holding a green glass bottle with a flaming rag tied to the neck of it. Rivulets of blood poured down from a gash on his scalp, and his right leg lay twisted at a horrible angle, but Mark wound his arm back, and hurled the bottle with all the energy he had left.
Yellow flames exploded over the tangled branches of its face, and the Big One reeled with an agonized screech. Awash in fire, the creature stampeded for the nearby tree line, its bellows louder than the storm that raged overhead. All around its feet, those Puppets that hadn’t been buried in the collapsed stairwell scurried away in hasty retreat. Lightning snapped, the thunder boomed, and all at once everything fell silent again, save for the ancient mutterings of the wind and rain.
I fell forward onto my hands and knees and puked over the edge of the ruined stairwell, the dark rubble below swallowing the vomit with cruel indifference. Cold crept through me now, the adrenaline wore off, and I realized how much black gore was smeared over my face, arms, chest, and hands.
I beat that one girl to death. I crushed her face in with a rock. Dear God, what’s happening to me?
With both eyes shut, I pictured my dad at the gun range teaching me how to shoot, and his words about surviving bad situations.
You’ve got to stay calm, Maddie. No matter what, stay calm, breathe, and act. If you do that, you’ll be okay.
“Gotta go.” I sucked in a deep breath and forced myself not to gag at the taste of bile in my mouth. “Mark, we . . . we have to go.”
He didn’t respond.
My knees almost gave out the first time I stood up, and I had to brace myself against the ruined wall. Exhaustion threatened to bring me down, and my ears throbbed as if someone had shoved needles down inside them. Still, I turned back to my friend, and groped to find the switch on my headlamp.
Click.
I slapped one filthy hand over my mouth to stifle another wave of nausea.
In the scarlet light, Mark’s blood looked black, and pooled on the cement beneath him. Bright white bone stuck out from his snapped leg, the end jagged and slick. Mark’s eyes were shut, one half of his face red with blood, the other pale as new fallen snow.
“Mark?” I squeaked the words out, too afraid to admit what I suspected to be true. “Mark, please say something. Mark.”
His head rolled limply onto one shoulder, and my heart skipped a frantic beat.
The bags.
I scrambled for my green satchel, tore it apart in a search for something to help. My hands smeared black goo over everything, but I didn’t care. There had to be something, either in his kit or mine, to fix this.
A small green nylon pouch surfaced, and I saw a little red cross stitched onto the flap.
“Yes.” In spite of everything, I shouted with joy, and hugged the little pack to my chest.
My clumsy cold fingers struggled to unzip it, and I pawed through the contents until I found a black torniquet, like the ones my father stockpiled in our basement for the day the world decided to end. I’d hardly paid attention when he’d showed me how to use them, but the instructions still resonated in my mind, and I decided that if I ever got home, I’d hug Dad so hard his ribs would break.
“High and tight.” I gritted my teeth and laced the strap around Mark’s thigh, well above the shattered femur. Yanking it as hard as I could, I tried not to think about how Mark didn’t even groan in pain as I wound the little metal windlass to staunch the tide of glistening blood.
Somewhere in the distance, another whale-like bellow echoed, and I swallowed a nervous, bile-flavored lump.
“We can make it.” I talked to him, more to keep from crying than anything else, and slid my shoulder under Mark’s armpit. “Come on, get up. Up, up, up, come on.”
But no matter how much I strained, I couldn’t lift him, my leg muscles shot from the terrified run through the fields, Mark’s 170-pound frame like a fallen log. I clawed the gray rucksack off his back, along with the red duffel bag, and tossed aside the green shoulder bag he’d given me.
I strained, screamed in desperation, but fell to my knees, spent.
A glimpse at his still face sent an icy chill down my spine, and I put two fingers to Mark’s throat.
Stupid idiot, you should have checked sooner.
Panicked, I rolled Mark onto his back on the cold concrete, and pressed my hands to his sternum, my brain a fog of fear. “Mark, you have to wake up. Come on, wake up. Wake up.”
I pumped at his chest, put my ear to his mouth and listened.
Nothing.
“Y-you can’t do that.” I spat, angry and scared, tears brimming in my eyes. “You c-can’t leave me, you can’t.”
Again and again, I leaned on his diaphragm, and this time, I lifted Mark’s chin to put my mouth to his. Every bit of guilt and shame rushed back to choke me at the sensation of his soft lips on mine, but I had to fight through it to breathe air into his lungs.
My arms began to cramp, seconds passed, and my despair grew. Mark wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing, and his pulse . . .
Please God, don’t do this. I’m so sorry, I’ve been such a fool, please don’t take him, not like this, please.
My brain began to accept the inevitable, and tears streamed down my face along with the cold rain, salty and bitter. This was all my fault. If I hadn’t come back this year, hadn’t stayed too long after work, hadn’t stopped to talk to him in the parking lot, Mark wouldn’t be here. He’d saved me, cared for me, forgiven me, and after everything, I’d led him to his death. I didn’t deserve that kind of love. I didn’t deserve Mark Petric.
Giving up, I dropped my head to his chest, my wet hair hanging in curtains around my grimy face.
“Maddie.”
I jerked back with a muffled scream of surprise.
Mark blinked up at me, his face almost gray, but his eyes still warm, chocolate brown. “You . . . you okay?”
Unable to speak through my relieved sobs, I threw my arms around his shoulders, and curled up beside him on the cold cement. Mark slid one sluggish arm around me, and I relished what little warmth I could feel coming from his chest beneath the layers of waterlogged clothes.
“Can’t stay here.” He grunted into my ear, and Mark winced as though the pain had at last started to set in. “You can’t stay.”
I pressed my face to his collarbone and shook my head like a stubborn child. “I’m not going without you.”
His fingers squeezed my arm in earnest, though his strength seemed to wane by the minute. “Yes, you are. If . . . if that thing comes back, it’ll rip this place apart, and you won’t make it to the exit. You have to leave me here.”
“No.” I clung to him even harder, and my voice cracked like a glass dropped from a skyscraper. “I’ll fight it I-I’ll use one of your firebombs—”
“That was the last one.” He sighed, and something about the way he sounded, so tired, so weak, made my chest throb. “And it just made it angry. You have to go, or it’ll kill you.”
His fingers laced into my hair, the braid long gone, the strands now wild tangles around my neck. Mark pulled, in a gentle but insistent pull, and I brought my head up to meet his gaze.
In the dark, with the rain and wind whipping outside our hovel, the lightning slithered through the sky, and revealed Mark’s thin smile.
“You can do it, you just have to focus. Still have your gun?”
Shame burned across my cheeks. “I . . . I think I lost it. In the field.”
“That’s fine.” He rolled his head to nod at the far wall, which still bore his blood stains. “Take my shotgun. Got more slugs for it in my coat. And my knife, you’ll need it.”
My eyes stung with fresh waves of remorse, and I went to shake my head, but Mark’s touch on my face stopped me, his calloused fingers wiping away the tears.
“You’ll be alright. Come on, get my ruck. And the red bag too.”
My arms and legs seemed to move on their own, and I crawled over to lug the bags to Mark. The twelve gauge was covered in concrete dust, with dents and scratches on its wooden stock, but otherwise remained functional, and I slung the heavy weapon over my shoulder like I’d seen him do.
“Put the gun across your chest.” Mark nudged his folded gray jacket my way, along with the silver-colored camping knife from his belt, and grimaced as though the pain intensified with every move he made. “You’ll have to drop from high up and . . . ahh . . . and roll onto your back. Don’t want to break your spine on that thing.”
“Drop?” I choked, fear and pain mingling in my head. “What do you mean?”
Mark flicked his eyes up the dark stairs above us. “There’s a room at the top of the tower, with four windows all around it. There should be a stack of harnesses under one of them. Once you put one on, hitch it to a cable outside and ride it like a zipline across the opposite field. At the end, the line stops about ten feet off the ground. You’ll have to cut yourself loose and drop down.”
My throat turned dry, but I pulled his jacket on over my slender shoulders and tried to focus on his instructions even as apocalyptic footsteps echoed in the tree line not far away. “O-Okay. Then what?”
“If you made the sacrifice right, you should be able to see a light from the base of the cable pole. Head for that. There’s gonna be a lot of freaks hanging around the exit so . . . run like the wind, and don’t look back.”
Both eyebrows hitched higher on my face, and a word stuck out among all the others. “Sacrifice? Wait, what sacrifice?”
Mark made a grim, stoic nod. “Usually, if you want to leave here, you have to give up something really important to you, something you can’t get replace. I had to leave my heirloom pocket watch behind last time Randy came to get me. He had to leave his wedding band.”
My heart sank. I had left my necklace at home in my room, and with nothing in my pockets but a cheap flashlight and an old candy wrapper, I would be trapped. “But I don’t have anything . . .”
He met my confusion with an apologetic smile, and I realized what Mark meant.
“No!” It came out as a whimper more than a scream, my soul writhing from the terrible truth.
But Mark gripped my wrist with a desperate gleam in his eyes. “I can’t make that jump, not with my leg like this. You’ve got nothing to give, and you can’t carry me and make the sprint at the end. But if I stay, I should be enough to get you through.”
“I won’t go without you.” Shaking off his grasp, I tried to be angry, but only felt more miserable by the second. This couldn’t be happening, it just couldn’t.
He cupped my chin, and despite myself, I leaned into his touch, the palm still warm enough to make my spine tingle in that pleasant way I hadn’t known was possible.
“And I won’t let you die here.” Mark ran his thumb over my cheek in a tenderness that made a guilty fire blaze inside my heart. “Now hurry up, we don’t have much time.”
Trying to hold myself together, I sorted through the dirty, torn bags, all the while fighting the fog of hypothermia that crept into my brain.
Gotta stay awake. I can’t pass out, not now.
Mark drew a shuddery breath and cringed at his mutilated leg. “In the top flap there’s a road flare. I need it.”
I found it, a brown cardboard wrapped tube with a red cap on one end. Too numb to be confused, I handed him the flare, and heard plastic clatter to the concrete floor.
Instantly, we both knew exactly what it was.
Mark nodded at the little plastic hairbrush, his eyes softening. “Would you . . .”
“Sure.” I placed it in Mark’s cold grasp, and my heart ached at how he clutched the brush to his chest with tender affection.
He’s losing her. No more Claire, no more kids, no farmhouse in the woods. He’s losing everything . . . all because of me.
Mark shut his eyes, sniffled, and held the brush out to me. “Take this when you go.”
Another wave of nausea slammed into me, and I whipped my head back and forth. “No, I can’t, I—”
“Maddie, please.” His voice broke, halfway between begging and groaning in agony from his wounds. “I don’t want it stuck here too. Take it to Claire, and . . . tell her that I . . .”
I held onto Mark like he was an anchor keeping me from going adrift in the storm. “I know. I’ll t-tell her, I promise.”
He pushed the brush into my left hand, his own still welded to my right, and a volcano rose inside my brain. I wasn’t just looking at Mark Petric, my goofy friend from work who liked my cupcakes and my terrible karaoke. The man lying beside me meant more to me than all of that, and it hit me now just what I was losing.
“I’m sorry.”
It exploded from me at last, a cascade of emotion all tangled into one giant mess, the tears hot on my face, every breath short and excruciating. I didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t put my feelings into words now when it mattered most, but I knew then that I cared for him more than ever before. I was sorry that I’d let this happen, sorry I’d not stayed in my car, sorry I’d brushed him off in the parking lot, and I was so very sorry that all those months ago, I’d turned away my one chance to be more than Mark Petric’s friend from Carnivore Cove.
“Don’t.” His fingers tightened on mine, and Mark let slide a sympathetic grin that held flickers of something deeper, remnants of feelings that drove nails into my heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re here, and that’s all that matters. Now, help me up.”
Watching my arms move almost independent of myself, I propped him against the wall, hating every second of it.
Mark pulled the red duffel bag close and unzipped it to reveal a metal pressure cooker coated with nails and tape, a bundle of wires that led to some big square batteries, and a repurposed digital stopwatch. Outside, the footsteps thundered closer, and the screeches returned, the horde of Puppets ready to finish the job.
I wish I had more time. One more minute, one more day, just one. Even if it meant watching him with Claire, I’d be okay with that.
I shouldered the green bag and turned from the steps to look back at Mark.
He struck the end of the flare to ignite it, the stairwell bathed in its blood-red light, and threw me a warm, handsome smile for the last time. “You’re still one in a million, Maddie.”
Doing my best to grin through my waterfall of tears, I felt my heart tear in half inside of me. “Goodbye Mark.”
With that, I smothered a mournful sob, and sped up the stairs.
Shadows closed in around me in accusatory sheets, and the tears smeared with Mark’s red blood on my cheek to form a bitter avalanche of regret. Everything seemed to move in slow motion now that seconds counted, and I wanted nothing more than to wake up in my own bed and discover that this entire nightmare was over.
A colossal baleen roar rumbled through the earth, even as I charged through a small metal door at the top of the stairs and skidded to a halt in surprise.
Unlike everywhere else in this hellscape road, the small square room was dry, it’s windows mysteriously intact, and all around the mundane cement walls lay heaps of random items. Pictures, rings, a golden pocket watch that I suspected was Mark’s, and various other trinkets sat in reverent heaps like treasures in the tomb of some ancient civilization. A hollow sensation tore through me at the thought that my sacrifice lay only seventeen steps down from here, with gentle hands, a kind smile, and chocolate brown eyes that melted me every time.
Focus. The cable. Find the cable.
To one side, a pile of dusty multicolored harnesses caught my eye, like the kind we had for the zipline attractions at New Wilderness. It had been a while since I’d been on a zipline, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I picked one, yellow, Mark’s favorite color, and stepped into it.
Rabid cries floated up from the ground outside, and a shadowy figure strode into view, fixated on the red glow of Mark’s flare.
Shoving open the window above the stack of harnesses, I braced my hands against the dry-rotted frame and leaned out into the icy wind.
There.
Above me, a braided steel cable ran from a heavy mounting, and stretched out into the gloom, far across the soggy grass fields that surrounded the old coal building. A small flicker of hope kindled inside me, the prospect of this ordeal ending like sweet intoxication to my mind.
“Maddie, go!”
Mark’s cry split the night, and I glanced down to find the Big One right underneath me, peering into the gap it had made in the stairwell during the previous attack. It slid one massive hand into the breach, and I fumbled to clip the rusted carabiner onto the cable.
Click.
The second it latched on, I threw myself out the window, and the metal cable whined at my rapid descent. I spun on the end of the nylon strap and twisted my neck to look back toward the tower.
Boom.
An explosion ripped through the night, pillars of flame gushed from the hole in the tower, and the Big One let out a long, loud roar of agony. For one slit second, I could see everything silhouetted in the darkness, the Puppets piling on top of each other in an attempt to climb the outer walls, the Big One stumbling backward with its head and arms wreathed in orange flame, and the lonely tower where my best friend had been, coated in thick black smoke.
It shrank into the distance until darkness swallowed the terrible scene, and I shut my eyes to let loose a wail of unbearable grief. Deep, rending pain brought scream after scream from me, loud sobs and cries I never would have emitted around anyone, wordless sorrow that made me want to die for the emptiness it left in my center.
Gone. Mark was gone.
A sudden lurch broke me from my weeping, and I looked up to find myself suspended in space, a large, frayed knot in the cable having stopped me right before a tall, rusty steel pole. The ground lay not far under me, coated in rain-soaked brush and chest-high grass. Was this the exit Mark had spoken of, or once again had I been foiled, tricked by this awful place into yet another hellish maze?
Sniffling, I spun on the end of my harness like a spider on its web and peered into the rainy abyss.
Is that . . . a light?
My heart jerked, and I gasped between renewed sobs at a dim, yet discernable white glow not two hundred yards away, across a low-lying section of grassland. It was so close, all I had to do was run to the light, and I’d be free. I could go home.
Pulling Mark’s camping knife from my belt, I sawed at the nylon harness, my nerves grating with each snap of the tiny fibers that brought me closer to the inevitable drop.
Almost there, almost . . .
Like an invisible hand had released me, I plummeted downward, my heels slamming into the spongy muck of the wet earth. My butt hit the ground next and I almost rolled over in a complete somersault, both legs flying up into the air. The arches of both feet stung, and the wind had been knocked out of me, but I was alive.
Somewhere off to my right, an eerie shriek crackled into the night air, and my blood ran cold.
“Oh, come on.” I muttered under my breath, exasperated and desperate. I’d come so far, lost so much, and now my way out was right there, yet still I would be hunted like a rabbit to the very end.
No. Not like a rabbit. I’m not dying like that.
My hands found Mark’s shotgun, and I thumbed the safety off.
Through the clearing, the rain fell, the wind hissed, and everything waited for me to make my move.
This is for you, Mark.
I darted through the grass, my sore legs moved underneath me with renewed energy, and the field erupted into chaos.
From the mud, twisted and distended limbs dragged macabre figures into the light of my headlamp. Not quite Puppets, but certainly not human, they were broken and torn, rotten and decayed, but worst of all, they were all the same.
“Maddie.” They called in sing-song mockery of his soft voice, the dozens of half-rotted Marks staggering after me, their arms outstretched. Each one bore his face, his mousy hair, his strong arms, even his brown eyes, but without the warmth, the life, the love. They materialized in waves from the grass, the trees, and the muck in various stages of decay, repeating any words the darkness had overhead him saying in a cruel mantra.
“Maddie, run.”
“Maddie, please.”
“Maddie, stop.”
Fear sliced through me, but it paled in comparison to the grief that came with Mark’s words being replayed from their vile throats. My eyes blurred with tears at how real they looked. The clotted blood made my heart ache, the horrid wounds like razor blades to my soul, and step-by-step, sadness overwhelmed my terror. Mark was dead, yet his death now chased me through the tall grass with Cheshire grins and haunting calls, tormenting me for my mistake.
A figure popped up right in my path, his back to me, and the Mark apparition snapped his head over backwards so that his chin faced the sky.
With the awful crunching of shattered neck bones, he gave me a wide, inverted smile. “Strawberry upside down.”
He lunged at me with his decayed arms bent at unnatural angles, and a throaty laugh frothed out of his fluid-filled lungs.
“Stop it!” The shotgun bucked against my shoulder, and the apparition’s head disappeared, black goo misting into the air where it had been.
Stifling my own tortured sob, I sidestepped the corpse and ran on, the white light just ahead, as more enemies shambled through the grass.
They closed in from all sides, so much that I stopped trying to aim the shotgun, and simply pumped round after round into every counterfeit Mark that came within range. Pulling the trigger sent a fresh stab into my already destroyed heart, and when they didn’t die right away, they screamed with a surprisingly convincing imitation of Mark’s pained cries. I had to force myself to shoot, to murder him over and over again, and my raw emotions continued to bleed rivers the entire way.
Mottled dead hands snagged at my green shoulder bag, and I slipped it off without a glance backward. My scrabbling fingers couldn’t find any more shells in the pockets of Mark’s jacket, so I wielded the twelve gauge like a club, until another apparition caught it by the sling, and yanked it away. There were so many of them, the grass so tall, the hands reaching from everywhere, and the light seemed so far away.
Clammy fingers grabbed a fistful of my loose hair, and I drew the last weapon I had.
With a desperate yell, I spun around and plunged Mark’s knife into the imitation’s face. As soon as it let go, I pushed through a wall of hands, finally able to feel the white light’s rays on my face and threw myself into the grass beyond.
My foot plummeted over an unseen bank, and I went down.
I rolled, through grass and mud, across a small briar bush, and into a shallow water-filled ditch. Rain clamored down around me, my body ached with fatigue, and overhead, the dark storm clouds rumbled with hidden tongues of lightning. Too exhausted to stand, I lay there in a crumpled heap and shut my eyes, ready for the fiends to rip into me.
I waited.
Nothing.
Daring to open my eyes, I sat up. Aside from the whistle of the wind, the curtains of rain and droning thunder, the shrieks had ceased, the apparitions gone. No one called my name, and I could hear no crashing in the underbrush. Somehow, I was alone once more.
Confused, I crawled out of the ditch, and felt something smooth and hard under my palms. What was that? It felt so familiar, yet my tired, frazzled mind couldn’t place it.
So cold. Got to get warm. Have to get warm and dry.
I struggled to stand, but fell, my ankles and knees so worn from my ordeal that I could barely move. My skin felt like old rubber, my fingers wouldn’t bend, and I shivered uncontrollably.
The air began to glow, a loud metallic screeching split the air, and two bright blue orbs stopped not five yards away. Whatever new thing was coming for me would have an easy meal, and I struggled back toward the ditch as the lights flooded over me.
Footsteps thudded nearer, and I raised my hands to shield myself in the blinding aura of the light.
“Maddie?”
I flinched. Perhaps the apparitions had followed me after all?
A man stepped into view, with brown work boots, dark blue jeans and a tan Carhart coat. He had auburn hair like me, and wide worried eyes that took in my bedraggled appearance with horror and disbelief. No doubt I looked like someone from a disaster movie, covered in cuts and bruises, my hair in a tangle, wearing mud-and-blood-smeared clothes that weren’t my own, with a vacant stare in my eyes that had seen things too scarring to forget.
“No.” I shook my head and scuttled away as best I could. I wasn’t going to fall for this, not now.
“Maddie, it’s me.” The man edged closer, his hands held out in a show of peace. “For God’s sake, what happened?”
It’s not him, it can’t be.
“You’re not real.” I dragged myself backwards on numb elbows, too weak to fight, but too hateful to die. “You’re not. I know what you are.”
“Madison, listen to me. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Sweetheart, please.” He stepped closer, and I palmed around for a rock, a stick, anything to use as a weapon.
I just need to get one good swing at his head.
But there was nothing except that strange, hard surface that hung on the edge of my mind as if behind a bank of fog. I had run out of time, and if he was in fact a fake, I might as well find out on my own terms.
“If you’re real.” I met his eyes, sky blue like mine, and fought the instinctive urge to cry. “Then where did we go for my twelfth birthday?”
The man crouched down onto his heels, and a small, fond smile crossed his face. “Cedar Point.”
Cedar Point.
A dam broke inside me, and my eyes pooled with tears I didn’t think I could make. I realized in that moment how the sky already seemed clearer, the rain thinner, the thunder more distant. White painted lines on the hard black asphalt of route 142 stretched away into the night, cool and firm beneath my ragged palms. The lights were headlights, and the man crouched in front of me with two well-worn hands held out . . .
“Dad.”
I tried to crawl to him, and my father scooped me off the asphalt without pause. Crying uncontrollably, I let myself fall apart while he carried me to his truck, feeling like I’d just woken up from the worst nightmare of my life. The storm faded, the starry night sky slowly reappeared overhead, and at long last, my fear melted away.
Over. It was over.
At least, the easy part was.
Every day afterward became a blur of one horrible situation after another. I was shuffled from the police station, to the hospital, to a therapist in a loop, forced to retell the same story to the point that I gave up trusting anyone. No one believed me, not even my parents, and I had three separate mental breakdowns in the course of a week.
At first, the police assumed that I’d been brutally assaulted, and suspected Mark. When I vehemently disagreed with that, they decided that someone else had attacked me, and convinced my parents to have me undergo an invasive, uncomfortable examination in the local emergency clinic to prove them wrong. Sitting in that tiny cold room after the exam was over, I bawled my eyes out, feeling more alone than I ever had in my entire life.
Next, the detectives involved with the investigation recruited a therapist who had one too many colors in her attention-desperate butch haircut to put me on a slew of anti-psychotics, which I promptly flushed down the toilet. But the real blow came when they confiscated the clothes Mark had given me, and said they suspected me of killing him, which almost made me vomit the first time one of them suggested it. Without the old T-shirt, flannel jacket, and wrinkled camouflage pants, all I had left to remember Mark by was the pink plastic hairbrush, which I’d hidden in my room the night Dad brought me home.
I would have strangled the person who tried to take it from me.
This whirlwind of speculation fed the rumor mill at New Wilderness, and soon half of my former friends wanted nothing to do with me, assuming I was in fact responsible for Mark’s death. The other half treated me like some kind of broken china figurine, convinced that Mark had in fact hurt me, and I was just too traumatized to admit it to myself. Even Kendra made snide comments about Mark when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, saying she ‘hoped it was hot’ where he was.
I spent the whole day crying in the bathroom after she said that.
Soon, the story went viral, and people who didn’t even know Mark began trashing him online, saying he deserved what he got, that men like him were scum, and I was a classic example of Stockholm syndrome. More than once I got into comment fights with such keyboard ghouls, and my outbursts got me banned from several platforms. How anyone could believe he’d done something like that, when I was the primary witness who insisted he’d done nothing wrong, made my blood boil.
Then came the funeral.
I found myself walking up to the tiny gray brick funeral home alone, having begged my dad to stay in the car. He’d wanted to come with me, now officially vindicated beyond belief that the world was out to hurt his precious baby girl, and he never went anywhere without his gun tucked into his belt. Still, I made him stay, mainly because I didn’t want him to see all the hateful looks I was sure to get from the people who loved Mark, and thought of me as nothing more than either the source of his reputational slander, or his murderess. It was bad enough that I had to endure their scorn. I didn’t want Dad to see it too.
My black sweater itched, but it covered me from wrist to neck, made me feel a little more invisible, and didn’t stand out in the crowd. I couldn’t bring myself to sign the visitor roster, my stomach turning sour just looking at the table with Mark’s photograph nestled amongst all the white plastic candles. He would have hated the whole thing, the overwhelming aroma of old-lady perfume, the soft organ music in the background, and the dollar store quilts with pictures of doves on them. Of course, there was no casket, no body; no one here even knew where Mark Petric had died.
No one but me.
The line to the little shrine of pictures that stood in for a coffin was long, and I spent most of the time staring at my scuffed black dress boots, the resentful eyes from around the room enough to burn a hole in my heart. It hurt enough to know that Mark was gone, but to be detested by those who loved him, and had been loved by him, that was a new level of torture I’d dreaded for days.
At last, I reached the front, and stepped underneath the little wicker archway.
Hey stranger. Long time no see.
My heart twitched, and I choked back tears.
Dozens of pictures of him decorated the wicker siding and stood in frames on various stands beneath the arch. Mark smiling at high school graduation. Mark in his green army fatigues, fresh out of basic training. Mark at a table in college, sleeping when he should have been studying. Mark embracing a pretty blonde girl, who wore a shiny diamond ring on one finger.
At last, my eyes settled on Mark in his black New Wilderness uniform shirt, standing with the other veterans during the Veterans Appreciation Day photoshoot. He beamed back at me from the glass frame, proud and gentle, sweet and kind, my best friend, and a good man.
One I didn’t deserve.
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the pink plastic hairbrush, it’s handle still peppered with a few flecks of his dried blood and set it beside the picture. It looked odd amongst all the prim and proper gifts, but I knew it would find its way into the right hands. Besides, I felt better seeing it alongside Mark’s amazing smile.
I turned and found myself at the head of the procession that passed by Mark’s waiting family members, his red-eyed father, weeping mother, stoic sisters, and morose brother. At the end of the line stood a pretty blonde girl, that same diamond ring on her finger, her head hung low with sad, empty eyes glued to the floor.
A few older women pushed past me to throw themselves into the arms of Mark’s mother, and I used them as a smoke screen to slip away from the rest of the crowd.
Coming to a stop in front of the blonde girl, I waited till she raised her head, my heart pounding like a trip-hammer. “Claire?”
She blinked at me, forlorn but calm, as though the girl had already grieved too much to break down on a day like today. Still, in the blue irises that stared back at me, I could see the pain there, the shattered heart of someone who had loved Mark with all her soul, only to have him stolen away without even saying goodbye.
“I’m . . .” I coughed, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m Madison.”
“Oh.” Claire looked back down at her hands and picked nervously at her thumbnail.
Get it over with, so she can have some comfort in hating you.
I shut my eyes, pictured Mark’s warm grin, and drew a deep breath. “I was the girl who—”
“I know who you are.”
A stiff cringe almost snapped my spine, but I opened my eyes to find Claire watching me, not with anger or hatred, but with a small, sympathetic smile.
“Mark and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. Before we got engaged, he told me about you. He . . . he said you made really good cupcakes.”
Of course he did.
I laughed, though it came out as a choked sob. “Strawberry upside-down.”
Claire fought hard against her own tears, though she sighed fondly in a way that made me feel a million times worse. “Strawberry upside-down.”
Silence reigned between us, and I didn’t know what to say.
Her touch on my arm startled me from my stupor. “You were with him? When it happened?”
My soul writhed, and tears started to roll down my face, hot and salty. How could I tell her the truth? If anyone deserved to know, it was Claire, but how could I even begin to explain what Mark had died for? He’d braved a terrible unknown, sacrificed everything, his life, his love, his dreams, all for me, and I didn’t even know how to put that into words for his grieving fiancée.
Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw a desperation there, an excruciating need to know the truth.
I nodded.
Claire shut her eyes, and grimaced against the agony that must have been welling up inside her chest. “H-How did he die?”
You’re one in a million, Maddie.
Mark’s voice echoed in my head with a thunderclap of clarity, and I forced myself to return Claire’s sad gaze. “Protecting me.”
A flash of pride crossed the pretty features of Claire’s face, and she made a valiant attempt to grin once more. “That sounds like him.”
We both chuckled through our torment, but I knew I had one last thing to do.
“It’s my fault.” The truth ripped from me like a knife, and I couldn’t stop myself from sobbing, the pain in my chest too much to bear. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I didn’t know . . .”
She wrapped me in a tight hug before I could say anything more, and I felt moist tears on my shoulder as we mourned together. There was no insincerity in her embrace, no reservation or faux kindness, just the empathy of someone who hurt for the same reason as I did. With the whole world watching, my internal protective walls crumbled, and I wept with Claire over the man who had changed our lives forever.
We talked and shared stories about Mark for the rest of the night, until Dad wandered in to make sure I was okay. Claire turned out to be really nice, and we decided to stay in touch, the first real friendship I’d had since that awful night. I figured Mark would have wanted that, for both of us.
All that was four months ago. Four months. It feels like a horrible lifetime, someone else’s life, a foreign dream where I don’t belong, but am trapped in all the same.
That’s why I volunteered to take Mark’s place in the Night Rangers.
At first, everyone in the entire park was against it, but I begged Randy, the head of security, until he finally agreed out of sheer pity. Of course, my parents were furious, but they knew they couldn’t stop me, not after I told them that I’d go even if I had to walk. I know no one else will understand, but the instant I saw the position come up for new applicants, I knew it had to be me. Even now, sitting here in the company truck next to the visitor center, I can hear thunder booming in the distance as the sky grows darker, the lighting rippling in the clouds, calling to me with cruel anticipation.
My father’s Armalite rifle is propped up on the passenger seat, along with a canvas bandoleer full of loaded magazines. The necklace that my grandma got for me is around my neck, so I have something to sacrifice if I make it that far. In the event that I don’t, my grandpa’s old bowling bag holds a steel pressure cooker filled with jellied gasoline, the outside covered with taped-on framing nails and several batteries wired to a digital baking timer. I suppose the FBI will freak if they ever find this post, but they don’t have to worry. I’m not after them.
If you’re reading this, Dad, Mom, I love you. I hope I can tell you in the morning, but if not, then understand that this isn’t suicide, not technically. I’m doing my job as a ranger. That thing killed my best friend, and if someone doesn’t stop it, it’s only a matter of time before the Big One takes more innocent people. Mark knew that, and it cost him everything. I can’t let his death be in vain.
To anyone else who just so happens to stumble upon this final excerpt of my sad little tale, I hope you live your life well. Soak up the sun, find a job you love, and most importantly, hold on to the people who care about you. You never know when you’re going to lose them.
And if you are ever around the New Wilderness Wildlife Reserve on a stormy, rainy night, please . . . stay away from Tauerpin Road.

Some people were cut out for working in daycare. David Harrison wasn’t one of them. At twenty-eight years old, David had little options given he had no degree and no professional skills. All he had was a job as a teacher’s aide at Rise And Shine Daycare, a pristine brick building in Leesburg, Georgia that housed preschool, Pre-K, and after school services.
The job was rough. Not to mention thankless since David was the only male employee there which led to many mistrusting parents who didn’t know what to make of him. David’s main task was watching the usual array of late children who stayed at Rise And Shine up until the center closed at eight P.M., a grueling part of the shift David termed ‘The Late Show.’ If the far-right politics in a small town like Leesburg didn’t drive David crazy, the kids at Rise And Shine did. Typically, David had Ms. Vee to help him close. Much like the rest of Rise And Shine’s employees, Ms. Vee was African-American woman whereas most of the children at the daycare were white, a dynamic that certainly didn’t go unnoticed by David whose research led him to realize Leesburg was nothing more than a white flight community outside the more urban terrain of Albany, Georgia. That being said, David’s status as a Caucasian male didn’t affect the way he bonded with The Late Show children, a group comprised entirely of African-American kids.
David may have liked the kids, hell, even his boss Diane recognized that, but David also knew none of them respected him. Such was the status David knew he held for being a skinny, five-foot-nine, and 20-something teacher. About the only thing David could do to keep Rise And Shine from burning down was let the late kids watch his iPhone which in turn led to them watching Patsy’s Playhouse.
David wasn’t surprised. After all, Rise And Shine pushed Patsy’s Playhouse on both the teachers and kids, the daycare emphasizing the YouTube children’s show moreso than its famous contemporaries like Blippi or Cocomelon. From what David understood, Patsy’s Playhouse had an edge due to it being produced in Albany. At least the show had the excuse of being progressive given Patsy wasn’t an obnoxious, middle-aged, nerdy white guy but an obnoxious, middle-aged, black female host. But whatever kept The Late Show from discombobulating into a total fucking madhouse is how David excused himself for showing Patsy’s Playhouse so much to the kids.
But there was one aspect of Rise And Shine’s closing period that bothered David: the calmdown room. David noticed how throughout the day, no other teacher used the calmdown room. Hell, not even Ms. Vee used it despite how some of those Late Show kids drove David and her up a fucking wall. Rather, it was always when Ms. Vee had a day off and when Diane stayed late with David that the calmdown room became a thing. Diane’s thing, that is.
David hadn’t paid much attention to the calmdown room until recently when Ms. Vee became busy with family matters. During these past few days, Diane would stay late in her office while David was at the mercy of the rowdiest kids Rise And Shine had to offer. But whenever David phoned for Diane’s help, she’d be in the central room within seconds and within seconds, she’d haul off one of those kids to the calmdown room up until the last parent showed up.
It was on a rainy Wednesday night when David began to suspect something more sinister was happening. Again, David was on his own in the central room, a room slightly bigger than a regular classroom but that presented the same claustrophobia of a padded cell given there was only two windows, one bare table, and bland walls that were still decorated by the faded arts and crafts from the center’s Christmas Camp.
Slouching at the table, David was sandwiched in between Jasmine and Kendrick, two of the center’s regulars. The two kids leaned in closer, each of them clinging to David’s arm as they stared on at the small iPhone 6 David held while Patsy’s Playhouse played.
One thing David had noticed that evening was how quiet Jasmine’s four-year-old brother Jaylen had been. Rather than hogging David’s phone or trying to run out of the room like he usually did, Jaylen instead sat in a corner all by himself as he silently played with a box of cheap toys. As Jasmine and Kendrick kept sifting in place and fighting for control of a phone that David struggled to hold on to, David watched Jaylen closely. The boy wasn’t just quiet, there was a somber stiltedness to his movements. He didn’t even jump when thunder rattled the windows. To David, Jaylen didn’t look like he was on medication but looked to have been scared into submission.
She took him to the calmdown room last night, David reflected. What the hell does Diane do with them in there?
“Look, Mr. David, this is the best part!” Jasmine said softly.
“I can’t see it!” yelled Kendrick, his booming voice belying a body that was scrawny and short even by third-grader standards.
David had never heard of Patsy’s Playhouse till he started working here. David certainly never laughed at the show’s host Patsy despite her cheesy skimmer hat and orange suit that channeled a carnival barker or the excessive make-up consisting of rosy red cheeks and excessive white eye shadow that emulated a circus clown. The setting for Patsy’s Playhouse wasn’t entertaining either given it was the same old bland room of soundproof walls and a few hanging lightbulbs that made David think Patsy filmed this in her garage. From David’s perspective, Patsy was nothing more than an androgynous nightmare made all the more unsettling by her high-pitched voice.
“Now that’s a cut above the rest!” Patsy proclaimed after lowering a hunting knife to present to her audience a wooden carving of a horse.
David could only shake his head in dismay.
“Kendrick,” Jasmine said as she leaned over, “did you know there’s a baaad Patsy’s Playhouse?”
“Oh yeah!” Kendrick beamed. “They said it’s on the dark web. They got episodes where she kills people!”
Their shared enthusiasm made David crack up. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, David’s polo shirt and khakis always wrinkled by this point in the workday. “Y’all are crazy…”
“I’ve seen it!” Jasmine said, her natural theatrics making her sit up straight and tilt her small head up higher to stare down both Kendrick and David with a churchwoman’s shrill conviction. “It’s scary!”
“You ain’t seen it!” Kendrick replied.
“Yes-huh!”
“My mama told me ain’t no kids can get on the dark web!”
Once Jasmine put her hands on her hips and stuck a tongue out at Kendrick, David knew he had to act quick before the ticking time bomb that was Kendrick’s temper took over. He held his arms out as if he were breaking up a bar fight between two eight-year-olds. “Hey, look. How do y’all even know about the dark web?”
Jasmine pointed toward Patsy’s Playhouse. “Cause she’s on there! I heard it on TikTok.”
As she and Kendrick settled back down, the thought of Patsy’s Playhouse being on the dark web intrigued David. He couldn’t help but wonder why Patsy couldn’t afford better lighting, consistent music, or better yet a set that wasn’t so bland and devoid of color?
David looked over to see where Jaylen hadn’t moved from that same spot. David let Kendrick and Jasmine fight for control of his phone since he knew he’d only need a few seconds. But once David approached Jaylen, the boy moved further away… yet that didn’t stop David from noticing a few slight bruises on Jaylen’s arms.
Later, David was surprised when Jaylen’s mom didn’t question him about the bruises. And once all three children were picked up, a worried David made his way to Diane’s office. In the main hallway, David stopped to look over at a small door on the left, a room that was labeled for storage but that David knew was really the calmdown room.
“David, I informed her last night,” Diane told him, her voice a precise monotone that would be impossible for David to take offense to. She folded her hands on a wooden desk decorated not by dull corporate awards but by framed photos of Diane with her family in addition to framed acting awards she received from Florida A&M, an HBCU she went to as an undergrad during the 1990s. “Jaylen got those bruises during recess,” Diane further explained, “Ms. Green mentioned it to his mom as well.”
“It’s just how he’s acting,” David responded, “he’s different. I don’t, I can’t explain it.” He threw up his hands in frustration but when he saw how Diane’s brow became more furrowed on smooth brown skin she did her damndest to keep from being besieged by wrinkles, David relented. Slightly. “But you’re fine. I guess I’m just being worried.” To David’s relief, his forced smile made Diane force one in return. “Did he really just get the bruises from recess?”
Diane nodded. “We even checked the cameras.” She leaned in a little closer, her hands still folded in a way that garnished her motherly concern with a mob boss’s posture. “But David, I’m a little concerned for you. Maybe you should take some time off-”
David shook his head weakly. “No.” He felt along spotty facial hair he could never quite grow out. “I’m fine, Mrs. Diane.”
The following day, David was left in charge of The Late Show, a crew that tonight only consisted of Kendrick, Jasmine, and Jaylen. Things started smoothly with Patsy’s Playhouse entertaining Kendrick and Jasmine while Jaylen went back to his spot in the corner, the boy once again unusually quiet. It was when Jasmine and Kendrick came to blows over David’s iPhone, an issue David was willing to look past until Kendrick made a light punch against Jasmine’s arm that forced David’s hand to call Diane. Almost immediately, Diane swooped in and hauled Kendrick straight down to the calmdown room, Kendrick’s sobs and pleas echoing from down the hall until the storage room door slammed shut behind them.
David did his best to hide his clear and present fear. He watched how continually docile Jaylen was and how the incident had led Jasmine to keep her cool as she went back to watching Patsy’s Playhouse. Other than worrying about Kendrick for the next fifteen minutes, David saw where this was looking to be an easy night. Especially once Jasmine’s mom came to get her and Jaylen earlier than usual. After giving Jasmine a fist bump and after her family departed, David looked down the hall toward the calmdown room. His heart pounded, the adrenaline mounting. One glance at his phone showed David it was only six twenty, meaning there was over an hour and a half before Kendrick’s mom showed up. Plenty of time for David to really see what the fuck was going on in that room.
David took a deep breath and marched down the long hallway, his nervous footsteps the only thing he heard save for the sound of rumbling thunder outside. Given that he and Diane were the only employees left in the building, he wasn’t surprised to find the calmdown room’s door unlocked. David let it creak open, allowing the bright warm lighting of Rise And Shine’s main hallway to give way to the calmdown room’s dim overhead bulbs. David stepped inside. “Hello? Ms. Diane?”
Behind him, the door closed back in place but David was just glad to see the lights didn’t go out. At first, he was glad anyway. Then horror swooped in, a rush of unease coursed through his veins, David feeling the type of fear that feels real, visceral, and that paralyzes you in place. There in the center of the room was a foldout table complete with Kendrick strapped to it by body restraint straps as the child were a mental patient awaiting a lobotomy. Only Kendrick just looked back at David, Kendrick’s eyes wide with fright. For once, the child wasn’t ready to refuse to use his inside voice or walking feet. He just laid there, strapped to the table, silent and vulnerable and with the same stilted mannerisms David had noted about Jaylen throughout the week.
“Kendrick!” David yelled and then realized his voice didn’t echo because of the soundproof walls surrounding him. But that didn’t stop David from snapping out of his scared stupor to rush up to Kendrick, David in a frenzy as he barely noticed a closet door on his left before he leaned toward the table and tried to undo the straps binding the boy. “Did Ms. Diane do this! Did she do this to you!” David cried. But Kendrick didn’t say a word. Rather, he laid back down on the metal table, apparently doing his best to submerge himself into its cold surface. “Kendrick, it’s okay!” David tried to reassure. Panicking, he managed to undo a strap wrapped around the boy’s legs. “We’ll get you out of here! We’re getting out of here. We’ll…” David’s voice trailed off when he saw the boy shudder. Kendrick closed his eyes not in anticipation but in dread of what was likely to be something horrible happening next. “Kendrick-” David started-
One slug to the back of the head knocked him out.
When he awakened, David’s migraine gave way to horror once he realized he couldn’t move, such was how tight those restraint straps bound him to the table. “What the fuck!” David cried, not caring that he was cussing out loud for the first time at Rise And Shine. He squirmed beneath the straps, the metal table making an already cold room all the more frigid. “Kendrick!” David struggled to lift his head up, David at first mortified by the sight of blood dripping from his head wound until David saw more lights other than the swinging bulbs: red lights. Several cameras positioned on tripods surrounded him, David even able to see a laptop placed on a service cart that had been wheeled in from the closet. What was on the laptop David wasn’t sure as from this distance all he could make out were what seemed like hundreds of windows featuring hundreds of distorted faces watching him. “What the fuck is this!” David cried. He squirmed against the straps, David’s best efforts at escape nothing but pitiful. “Kendrick!”
“There he is,” said a southern squeal David had heard before but couldn’t immediately place. “You know what to do, Kendrick,” the voice continued as it got closer.
Helpless, David looked toward the other side of the room where he saw two figures emerge from the shadows. There was Kendrick, the boy still looking terrified and at the mercy of the adult standing next to him: Patsy. Together, they stopped by the table, David now seeing the three of them were all at center stage for the cameras… and for what David knew was an audience watching them from that laptop.
“Now,” Patsy’s high-pitched voice went on as she caressed Kendrick’s shoulder. “You have to do this, Kendrick. We can’t be having you act up again.”
David continued to fight against straps that wouldn’t budge. He looked around for any sign of help on the horizon but saw no one under the dim lights. He then saw where the closet door was wide open, David able to get a glimpse of an arsenal of power tools and knives lined up on a garden shed’s tool rack. David wasn’t sure but he thought he could see specks of blood on some of the sharper blades…
“You know what you must do to Mr. David,” Patsy continued.
David turned to see her give Kendrick a pat on the shoulder to further encourage the terrified child. Kendrick stood completely still, his arms lowered, his big eyes stuck on David. But it was Patsy who fueled David’s fear. An eerie epiphany settled in once he heard the children’s show host call him by his name. And behind the ghastly elaborate make-up, David now saw the familiar face of Diane hovering up over him. The fake smile she’d showed now was certainly a smile David was familiar with from all those Rise And Shine meetings and parties.
Patsy hugged Kendrick a little closer. “Now the show must go on, Kendrick,” she told him before waving a hand toward the laptop, “and we can’t keep all these fine people waiting.”
“No!” David yelled. The tears streaming down his face never felt colder. Again and again, he tried to break free of straps that must’ve been where the majority of Patsy’s Playhouse budget went given how unbreakable and sturdy they were. “Let go of me, goddammit!” He looked toward Kendrick, David pleading with all the life he had left and all the life he knew was fleeting. “Kendrick, please untie me. Don’t listen to her!”
When Kendrick looked up at Patsy in defeat, Patsy gave a gentle nod over at David. “This is what you have to do to be forgiven, Kendrick.” She confronted David, Patsy’s smile vanishing in an instant to be replaced by the scowl of the stern administrator she really was. “This is why you’re in the calmdown room,” she said to Kendrick but very well could’ve meant for David.
Before David could protest further, Kendrick held up the hunting knife, the same one David had seen Patsy/Diane use in the whittling clip earlier. Now David yelled louder, he lunged against the straps that would never break, David cringing when Kendrick raised the hunting knife with both hands over David’s heart. Kendrick’s steady teardrops matched David’s.
“I’m sorry, Mr. David,” the boy sobbed.
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