Rattling chest when sneezing

M 21 im a little over 2 months post op and lately especially ive been really sore where my bars are when i breathe in, laugh, cough, and sneeze. Is it normal to be sore for this long because i feel good for the most part but the soreness in my chest and the pain in my back is the worse especially when i breathe.

And now for something completely different. Another one off, this time a more... well, I don't want to say darker, but not quite so comfy as the Amia. It's not quite as long as last week's story but it's still a bit long. As I was writing I thought to myself: 'you know, I could write a whole novel about this girl'. And although I know myself well enough to know I'd never actually finish a novel, I'd still like to know if anyone likes this as much as I do.
*
​
How do you make a choice?
​
Do you reason it out, weigh every element, consider every path? Or do you trust your gut. Trust yourself, take a leap of faith. Or maybe, you simply flip a coin.
​
How do you make a choice between life and death, when you don't know which is which?
​
Sometimes I wonder why my parents chose to settle on New Montana. It was never exactly a land of milk and honey. The terraforming was only barely holding on, and civilization consisted of a couple of small towns and isolated farmsteads. Maybe they thought it had potential, that at some point the ecology would stabilise and towns would become cities and the cities would become rich. Maybe they thought about the future we would have there, my little brother and me. But still, I wonder what they were running from, when they left Earth.
​
And I wonder why they chose to stay when the war started, and New Montana became a frontline colony. Maybe they believed in the cause. Maybe they didn't have anywhere else to go. Looking back, I wonder if they simply never really thought that the war would reach us...
​
It was my mother that woke me that night. I think I was already half awake; I remember hearing the rumbling in the distance, like a distant storm. Then, my mother's hand on my shoulder, shaking me out of sleep.
​
"They're here. Leah, wake up, they're here."
​
I was Leah Ingrid Olsson, I was thirteen years old, and I'd lived my entire life on New Montana. And everything I knew was about to end.
​
"Wha...", I mumbled, still barely awake. "Who's here? What's going on?"
​
"The Krr'za'skrr. They've landed outside the shield, we have to go."
​
The what? I turned the unfamiliar syllables over in my mind. Then it hit me. We had half a dozen slang names for them, the other kids and me: kurries, roaches, knifers, and so on. Their real name was too hard for us to pronounce, but somehow with everything else going on my mother said it perfectly, and it hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water.
​
They were here. The aliens.
​
They'd come to destroy the colony.
​
We'd been doing evacuation drills at school since the war started three years earlier. I'd done so many that to me, as a child, they seemed like just a normal part of life. If the attack had come while I was at school I'd probably have gone through the motions by rote, lining up with the other children and heading for the nearest bunker. But at home, at night, with my mother shaking me and the sound of explosions in the distance...
​
"Leah, get up! We need to go!" My mother's whisper was urgent, on the verge of begging. But I was frozen, gripping my bed covers, willing this to be just another nightmare. This couldn't be happening, it couldn't...
​
Then there was an explosion much closer, close enough to rattle the windows. And a moment later I heard my little brother crying from the next room. Somehow, that was what made it real for me.
​
"I'm up, I'm up. Go get Noah."
​
I threw the covers off as my mother rushed to get my brother. What do I need? What do I need? The question went round and round in my head. I was only wearing a T-Shirt and shorts, and the first thing I thought of was I should get my bra, because that's what I always did when I got up. It was stupid - it wasn't as if I even needed it back then - but that's what your mind does when you're panicking. Fixates on the little, easy thing, so you don't have to think about the big, terrifying thing going on outside. I grabbed my hairbrush, because in those days my long, blonde hair tangled like tumbleweed the moment my head touched a pillow.
​
Then the windows shook again and I finally snapped out of it. I had to get out of here, now. I ran into the hallway, and in the dark I almost knocked my mother over. She was carrying Noah, who had his face buried in her shoulder. He didn't have his blankey. He was four years old and he never went anywhere without his blankey, and I wanted to go and get it for him, but there was no time. There was no time.
​
They were here.
​
I slipped my pink running shoes on, and my mother grabbed my hand and dragged me out into the night.
​
The first thing I felt was the cold, as the night air bit into me. The first thing I saw was the flames. The storage tanks at the edge of the town were on fire and casting orange light and flickering shadows out across the streets and homes. A man ran past, at a full sprint, so quick he was gone before I could even think to ask him what was happening.
​
Where were the enemy? How many, what direction? Where was safe?
​
Then I finally thought to ask: "Where's dad?"
​
"With the militia."
​
He'd left without even saying goodbye. I imagine that moment sometimes, when I have too much time on my hands. When the alert came through on his phone, and he realised the day he'd spent three years praying would never come was finally here. How did he react? Calm, collected? 'I have to get to the armoury, you take the kids to the shelter'. Or did he freeze up like I did, sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, until my mother had to shake him, remind him of his duty. Did he think he was going to die, or did he tell himself it was probably just a false alarm? The latter, it must have been.
​
He never said goodbye. It would only have taken a second.
​
My mother gripped my hand like a vise and led me through the maze of alleys. Cheaper to build houses small and close together. Half the streets were nothing but dirt tracks, and it had rained earlier, so it wasn't long before I had mud streaks splashed up my bare legs.
​
It was so dark. The enemy must have used an EMP on the town; the power grid was out and not even the security lights above people's doors were on. The only light to see by was the flames rising in the distance.
​
Not so far away now, though. I could smell the smoke on the air, feel it stinging the back of my throat.
​
Street by street, winding our way towards the shelter for our section of town. It wasn't a big town, only about thirty thousand people, but it was strange how empty the streets were. Our house was near the outskirts of town, a poor neighbourhood even for New Montana. Most people must have already made it to the bunker.
​
Or they never found the nerve to leave their homes, and sat there in the dark, waiting for the enemy to reach them.
​
It started to rain again. We turned a corner and then suddenly my mother yanked my arm. Pulled me back into the shadow of the building. I was about to complain, whine about how she hurt my wrist. Then I heard the sound of footsteps, splashing through the mud. And the snap-hiss of an energy rifle being fired.
​
The fires cast shadows down the street, past the mouth of the alley. Long shadows. Shadows with too many arms, too many legs.
​
Quietly, praying Noah wouldn't so much as a whimper, we went back the way we'd come. Circling round, trying to find a route to the shelter that that was safe. More pitch-dark streets, more blacked out buildings, round and round until even though I'd lived in this town my whole life I wasn't sure where we were. I wasn't sure my mother knew either.
​
Every so often another person would appear out of the darkness for a moment and disappear again just as fast. Once or twice I heard shouts, like militia calling out orders. And a couple of times I heard screams. But other than that, just the wind-driven rain rippling across the rooftops, and the sound of distant gunfire.
​
We passed bodies, face down in the mud. I tried not to look. When Noah turned his head I stepped into his eyeline and smiled like nothing was wrong. "Don't be scared. We're just going to the shelter, like in the drills.", I whispered. "Don't look at the street, just look at me."
​
"'kay, Le.'
​
"I love you."
​
"Love you too."
​
Every corner we came to we stopped, peeking round quickly, darting back. Every couple of turns, we found the way we needed to go was blocked. Silhouettes that only bore a passing resemblance to the pictures on the propaganda posters, advancing through the town.
​
Then we came to one of the main streets. One that actually had paving. I knew we had to cross it, there was nowhere to go this time if we went back the way we'd come. They were closing in around us.
​
The snap-hiss of weapons fire greeted us, and I stopped short as energy bolts flickered past the mouth of the alley. My mother tried to drag me back again but this time I pulled my hand away and crouched down by the edge of the building.
​
There was a barricade down the street. Two half-tracks pulled across to block whatever was advancing from the other side. A couple of men, militia, firing from behind the meagre cover. I don't think my father was one of them but I'll never know. I only glanced for a moment, but it was long enough to see a man fall, a glowing hole through his torso. The crackling bolts cut lines of steam through the rain, whipping down the street in front of us.
​
Dead end. We couldn't go on, we couldn't go back.
​
How do you make that choice? Run out into gunfire, or go back and maybe meet the enemy advancing through the streets towards us? One path leads to death, one path leads to life, but there's no riddle you can solve
to tell you which is which. You just have to choose without knowing.
​
How do you make that choice? I knew there were enemies behind us, moving up. I didn't know what was on the other side of the street, and I didn't know if I could make it without being caught in the crossfire. But at least there would be a chance.
​
I gestured across the street, but my mother shook her head. "We have to!", I shouted, but she wouldn't move.
​
I ran for it. I felt my mothers fingers snatch at the hem of my shirt, but too slow; they slipped away.
​
Then I was out in the open. An energy bolt blinked passed right in front of me and stopped short. Took a step... lights flashing all around me, I froze. I almost turned back. Then something in me snapped, and I ran the last few metres to cover.
​
An energy bolt just grazed my shoulder as I reached the mouth of the alley. I half-spun, tripped, and landed face first in the mud.
​
But I made it.
​
I propped myself up on my elbows, then scrambled into a crouch. I was soaked - rain, mud, my own blood. But I made it.
​
I thought my mother would follow if she saw me make it. If she saw it could be done. She wouldn't leave me alone, she'd have to follow. She'd have to, she wouldn't leave me...
​
In the darkness on the other side of the street, past the flashing lines of energy, I could see her. Crouching, holding Noah tight against her body. I beckoned to her, but she wouldn't move. I started to get desperate. Glancing round the corner, seeing the bodies pile up at the barricade. I knew it was only moments before the enemy smashed through and came this way.
​
I stood there waiting for my mother to make the sprint across. Then in growing disbelief as I realised she wasn't going to do it. I think I was crying; or maybe it was the rain streaming down my cheeks. I'd left my little brother behind. That was what made me sick to my stomach: I should have grabbed him from my mother and run across with him. I wanted to go back, but I knew there was no way I'd make it across twice.
​
The enemy were breaking through the barricade. I was out of time. One last time I beckoned my mother to follow me. But instead, she turned away. I think that was her way of giving me permission. She knew she'd left it too late, but I still had a chance.
​
I hung there for another moment, a part of me not believing I could really do it.
​
Then I left them and ran, alone, into the night.
​
There were fewer of the enemy on that side of the settlement, but I still I almost ran into them a couple of times. No way I could get to a shelter, not now. I couldn't make it to the entrance and even if I did they'd be sealed shut by now. So I headed for the scrap yard on the edge of town. I played there with the other kids, I knew it well enough to find my way around even in the dark. It wasn't just old bits of metal and a couple of cars, there were stacks of old industrial machinery and farm equipment, saved to be cannibalised for parts. Plenty of places to hide.
​
I half expected it to be crawling with aliens, but it was deserted. The battle became flashes of light in the distance, punctuated by thunder. Just another storm, to shelter from until it passed by. I crawled into the outflow of an old harvester, and sat there, dripping wet and shivering.
​
And then I started to sob. Because my mother wasn't there, sure. And my dad. There was a part of me that was quite certain I'd never see either of them again. But mostly because I'd left Noah. I'd left my little brother behind. I could have grabbed him, I could have...
​
I must have fallen asleep at some point. I'd pulled the hatch of the outflow pipe closed when I got in, or closed as far as it would go, so it was almost warm from my body heat. I blinked my eyes, then sneezed; there were still dried up husks of wheat everywhere. My shoulder burned a little from where I'd been grazed, but it didn't seem too bad.
​
Then I realised that through the gap where the hatch didn't quite close, I could see light.
​
It was dawn.
​
I went to open the hatch. Then I realised that if any of the fucking roaches were anywhere near I'd be committing suicide. I waited a moment, then realised I really needed to pee. I thought about doing it out the hatch, but maybe that would give me away, so I crawled as far into the harvester as I could and did it there. Then I waited.
​
I waited all day. I tried to keep myself occupied by singing my favourite songs but I didn't dare make any noise so I just sang them in my head. Other than that, all I did was pee again, and tried to ignore the pain in my shoulder. I kept waiting until a few hours after nightfall, then when I didn't hear anything outside I crept out and drank some of the water that had collected a hub cap. Then I crawled back into my hiding place, and waited.
​
Four days. That was how long it took for me to get so hungry I couldn't stand it anymore. I couldn't hear sounds of fighting anymore, but although I dreamed about going home and finding everything the way it was with just a few scorch marks on the walls and the militia and my dad were heroes because they'd fought off the roaches...
​
That was just a dream. I was pretty sure that there was no fighting because the roaches had won.
​
But I figured it was better to take the risk than die of starvation. So I waited until it got dark again, and started trudging back towards town. There was a part of me that didn't even care if I got killed. The lights were still out and I was able to slip into the narrow streets without any chance anyone who wasn't looking specifically saw me. Automatically, I started heading for home. Then I realised how stupid that was, and picked the nearest door. Unlocked.
​
Empty house. Like everyone else, the occupants had left in a hurry. There were muddy prints on the floor, so someone must have been through here recently, but I couldn't tell who they belonged to. Either way there wasn't so much as a whisper, so I headed for the kitchen and started shovelling food out of the cupboards and into a plastic bag.
​
Then I heard a noise. I froze, but then I realised it was coming from out in the street, maybe some way off. A rumbling, growling noise, like heavy machinery running.
​
My first instinct was to hide. My second instinct was to run back to the scrapyard. But instead, I left the food behind and started creeping through the alleys towards the noise. Because it meant there was something still alive here. Probably the roaches; I knew it was a really bad idea, but I had to see. In my mind's eye, I saw a pen full of prisoners, and my parents and my little brother jammed in with the rest of the town, and if I could find something to cut the wires I could sneak them out...
​
I heard voices, and dived into cover in an open garage, shaking because I realised just how stupid I'd been. Everyone knew the roaches didn't take prisoners. I could just have gone back to the scrapyard with the food, but now I was stuck here, and if they found me, they would shoot me dead on sight. Or save me for their knives.
​
Ten minutes, fifteen. I curled up under a work bench and prayed, prayed, that whatever was out there would pass by. Instead, the voices got closer. I waited, and I waited, until I could barely breathe any more...
​
Then I realised the voices were speaking English. And cautiously, I crept out of my hiding place.
​
Colonial Marines. It was over. I was safe.
​
Continued here: Our Choices Make Us Human (Part 2)

Chapter One
.
.
Prev
.
-Factory Floor of the White Flame Industries Magifactory-
“First of all, I’d like to introduce you to your new co-workers. To reiterate, they aren’t directly from the hell-plane.” Master Demonologist Thippily was in his element, smiling and excited. He stepped aside to reveal an engraved chest behind him. He opened it, revealing a neat grid of small dark rods, each in their slot. He pulled out a single ebony imp totem and held it high so everyone could see it. The room was bright, lit by the narrow windows spaced evenly around the huge room, and some glass skylights overhead, and astonishing extravagance for Pine Bluffs.
“This is the totem. Without going into some super interesting details, this is what projects the imp, as well as binds it to our plane of reality.” Grigory paused, clearly waiting for someone to ask him to explain in more detail. Everyone in the room had fallen into that trap before and knew to keep their mouths shut. “They need to be invoked into our reality, but the invocation is a very simple gesture. Interestingly, the invocation itself doesn’t require magic, it’s all self-contained, just hold the thick side of the totem and–”
Grigory flicked the totem with a swift twist of his wrist, summoning a muted thunderclap that heralded the appearance of a tiny, dull-red demon. It materialised midair, landing with a soft clatter of hooves on the stone floor. It regarded its surroundings with its one big eye and sat down cross-legged, its big knobby knees sticking out widely.
Taritha, along with most of the rest of the audience, took some involuntary steps back in horror. It was grotesque, inhuman—a parody of a man, so diminutive that she could have trapped him in a woven basket. Though taller than a squirrel, its scrawny frame suggested it weighed no more than one. Sitting perfectly still it was less threatening, but the air itself stank of hell. Looking around, Grigory and Stanisk were both smiling, like they were waiting for us to get a funny joke, while the entire crew stared horrified at the little imp.
Grigory continued, with a showman’s cadence, ”First of all let me once again say they are safe! Imp! Take this knife and bring me Stanisk’s ear!” The demonologist crouched low with his silvered steel pocket knife on his open palm.
Before anyone could react, the imp just said, “Nerp.” Stanisk for his part didn’t look remotely worried.
“No matter what you ask it to do, it will refuse the order if it would hurt any living thing. Very safe! Well, large living things? People and animals for sure!” Grigory folded his knife and put it back in his pocket. “Come to the side, I’ll show you more why this is the most potent magic I’ve ever used. I’ve not finished furnishing your quarters yet, so let's work on that.” He led them across the floor to the side where a few planks were on one of the shelves, practically lost in the scale of the room.
As he spoke, he performed a different and more elaborate gesture over the chest. Like popcorn, a steady stream of imps popped into existence; Taritha lost count at twenty, with more continuing to appear. Without hesitation, they pulled tiny tools from boxes. The low, wide benches around the perimeter were actually imp-sized workbenches designed for such tasks. “Imps, craft one writing desk, sturdy with martial engravings. Use both pine and walnut,” he ordered.They moved quickly and confidently, and without a sound, other than the tools against the wood. It was an overwhelming swirl of activity, with so much happening at the same time that she couldn’t follow it all, so she focused on a single imp. He (it?) wielded a chisel in both hands and shaped a plank while two other imps held the plank firm. In as little time as it took for her to take it in, it was done. It started on another plank, while yet another imp ran away with the finished board.
Edging closer for a better look, their rapid, nimble movements were even more unnatural. Their limbs were long and agile, flitted about with eerie precision. The sight clawed at my gut, as revolting as watching a spider write a song with a quill on parchment. Their faces, such as they were, barely watched their own work.
Still reeling from what she saw, Taritha watched as one imp finished up and another sprinted away with the board. Then, the first imp picked up a tiny broom to tidy his workspace. Once the sawdust and shavings were cleared, it replaced its tools and sat down on the workbench, legs crossed, back straight and his single eye open and regarding the demonologist. Looking further down the row, she saw that the countless parts had been assembled into what was by all accounts an amazing desk. The imps covered the entire bench, still too many to count.
A pot wouldn’t have even started to boil in the amount of time it took them to build that thing!
Grigory noticed the discomfort in the room; everyone seemed torn between their unease with the demons and their curiosity about the work being done. He decided to remove their distraction. 'Imps, stand at the kilns,' he commanded crisply.
“Merp!”
The imps bounded and sprinted across the entire factory to stand by the kilns, well out of the way, and stood in straight rows at the far side of the factory floor.
“Take a look, It might be a familiar level of quality. Oh, and those are the only two words they seem to know.” He gestured to the completed desk on the bench.
“Holy shit, they are as good as the guys that made our stuff in the barracks, this is amazing!” Ros gushed.
The desk, crafted entirely from wood, had no screws or brackets—only amazingly intricate joinery. Its surfaces were smooth to the touch, except for the vertical faces, which displayed scenes of war and battle. They were created in a palette of carved white pine and deep walnut, shaded with hellfire scorches—some almost too small to see.
“You don’t think that, uh, they’re the same guys?” Rikad ventured.
“No, I haven’t been sleeping on a demon bed this whole time? Have I?” Theros said with growing horror.
“Of course! Not just that, the mugs in the cabinet, the bedding, the clothes, literally everything from the midsummer festival! Imps made it all, most of that was late at night in my bedroom, to be honest!” Mage Thippily said, bursting with pride.
Theros looked down at his bright green shirt, one he’d worn countless times, and immediately pulled it off, threw it on the floor and took a few steps back. “It was touching me!”
Wow, he’s in really good shape, Taritha observed approvingly. A refreshing reprise from the stressful morning.
I’ve no idea how I’d react if I knew I was wearing demon-made clothes. Oh shit.
“Uh, were all the clothes you’ve given me made by imps?” She asked Stanisk, already knowing the answer.
His laugh was deep and rumbling, “I sure as goat balls ain’t been sitting in the lamplight with a lil needle! It's fine miss, they’re handy as hell. Put yer damned shirt on Theros, and let’s keep moving.”
Grigory continued, “Yes, don’t worry too much about complex imp commands, that’s my responsibility. You are welcome to come to the factory whenever you like if you need something, anything at all. But please, don’t make anything outside of this room, just to keep things neat.”
Mustering her nerve Taritha piped up, “Uh, Sir? Can they make me a new comb?”
The demonologist was almost giddy with excitement at her request. “Oh yes! Ask them to!”
“Uh, I’d like a comb please?” Taritha gently said towards the swarm of imps by the kiln.
Nothing happened.
“Ah, there’s a bit of a knack to it, miss. You’se gotta address ‘em, then make the request. Then stay silent for a bit, and they’ll go. Imps! Craft five wooden combs for a lady, all different styles.” Stanisk said firmly, with the same tone and cadence he ordered his men.
A small handful of imps sprinted across the floor back to their workbenches, and this time the combs were done staggeringly fast. The tool noise ended, and Stanisk collected the combs off the bench as they tidied up then sat cross-legged. He placed them all firmly into her hands with a big grin, his hands warm and callused. “Anythin’ that can be made, any time you’se want. It’s a better way to live.”
Of course, each comb was perfect and beautiful. Each was unique, all had patterns, textures, and carvings on the handle. Each was made out of both pine and walnut, giving a pleasing contrast with pale and dark.
I would have bought a plain one, but these are so much nicer than anything I’ve owned before.
The linseed oil was still a little slick on them, so she held off running them through her hair and gently placed them into her satchel. Already they were her most prized possessions.
Grigory added, “Feel free to get me or Stanisk if you need help, but you’ll catch on fast enough, they are simplicity itself! Anyways let's have a look at the common spaces, I think you’ll find them much nicer than that old warehouse!”
Grigory’s tour was terrifying and overwhelming. He introduced new appliances, concepts and enchantments with every breath. The kitchen had no fire, just pyrostones that could be activated by moving an inhibitor stone, and in both the ‘stones’ were carved into a pleasing functional shape. The water jugs were massive rooftop barrels, linked by copper pipes to a fixed basin he called a sink. There were countless other minor and major strangenesses. Even the plain parts, the high ceilings, the smooth tiled floors and sturdy doors blew her mind. She’d never seen anything as refined, effortlessly expensive. She assumed such things existed in the homes of the nobility, but she’d never seen a building as grand, let alone been inside one. The trappings of wealth and the unique, fully enchanted aspects ran together badly for her.
“--This mattress is a series of magically linked columns of woven wool that dynamically change their diameter, which in turn–” Grigory droned on excitedly gesturing towards a gorgeous bed, as big as her entire hovel.
“Sir, souls don’t exist at all, or just for demons?” Theros interrupted, his face clouded with worry.
“Oh. Uh, I’m sure you have a soul, just not one that I have any way of detecting, affecting or interacting with?” Grigory said. His brow was furrowed with concern. He continued as conciliatory as possible. “And afterlives are likely some extraplanar reality that is also entirely undetectable?”
“Whew, that’s a relief! Thank you milord!” his stress melted away and he returned his full attention to the tour.
“Right. Anyways, there are no hearths, the heating and cooling of each room is controlled by–” and Mage Thippily happily continued his tour. The men looked at each other, taking a half dozen different conclusions from the short exchange. They continued to the extravagant latrines, to the totally empty armoury, and finally ended on the factory’s roof.
As they ascended the final flight of stairs, Mage Thippily ushered his soldiers onto the expansive rooftop. "Here we have the rooftop garden," he announced with a grand sweep of his hand. The area had been meticulously reinforced, the stonework beneath their feet solid and reassuring. "Feel free to run drills here if you like. But," his voice warmed with pride, "this is my favourite part!"
The rooftop was a vibrant tapestry of newly potted plants, their leaves still tender and bright against the sun. They passed rows of greenery that hinted at future seclusion and colour. Familiar patio furniture, just like the ones they had at their last barracks, offered a semblance of continuity and sanity. In the centre, a gazebo stood like a freshly bloomed flower, its newness evident in the crispness of the vibrant canvas and the shine of the wood.
Approaching the north wall, Grigory leaned casually against the defensive ramparts, a solid structure that spoke of strategic design. His men gathered around, following his gaze outward.
Beyond the fortress walls, a wide expanse of forest stretched toward the horizon, its canopy a patchwork of greens and browns. Where the trees broke, the land transformed dramatically into a steep, rocky shore. Below, the Nerian Sea churned, its waves crashing against the cliffs with relentless, rhythmic fury. From this vantage point, the view of the coastline stretched magnificently—a panoramic display of nature’s unbridled power and beauty.
"I’m thinking of adding all-weather tables and chairs up here," The demonologist mused, breaking the silence as his eyes scanned the horizon. "Maybe some cover and heaters too, to turn it into a kind of three-season space." His gaze drifted back to his hirelings, a tacit invitation in his eyes. "Feel free to come up here whenever you like. I only ask that you don’t interrupt me if you see me reading or writing."
Taritha nearly scoffed aloud, the idea of interrupting him was so many layers of taboo that the thought hadn’t even formed. The men seemed more at ease here, and several took seats and talked excitedly. Others walked the long perimeter of the rooftop. The sides closest to the courtyard extended to the top of the perimeter walls, allowing them to walk all the way to the gatehouse. Ros stood near her, looking out at the ocean.
“I didn’t think I’d ever get to set foot in a palace like this!” he said in hushed reverence as she joined her.
“Yeah, the funny part is how humble the mage keeps making it sound. As if it’s a boring workman's hut. I have no idea how the emperor lives, but I bet he doesn’t have half as many things as the mage does!” Taritha grinned ruefully.
“Definitely fewer imps! What do you think of them? I think they are the most special thing ever!” Ros gushed.
“I don’t know. They disgust and revolt me, but I also see how they are useful. I worry my reaction is based on assumptions I’ve not examined? Mage, I guess Demonologist, Thippily has been nothing but kind and open in every interaction, so I think I’m okay? With living with demons.”
Just saying that out loud made her skin crawl.
“That’s good! It’ll be alright, if the Chief and the mage think it’s good, it’s good.” Ros declared resolutely. She envied his clarity.
“Yes, we just became a lot more dependent on his goodwill. On the other hand, he didn’t have to tell us anything. He could have lied or covered up,” she said, staring out at the ocean. She’d never been so high up. The slight slope of the woods meant she could see over most trees. It both scared and exhilarated her. She leaned forward to look down and was rewarded with dizzying vertigo. Holding onto the rough stone battlements with both hands she looked out into the grey blue of the inland sea. She could see some fishing boats, just specks near the horizon, far beyond the small scraggly islands that clustered near the shore.
“Are you gonna move in with us? You didn’t say anything when he made the offer.” Ros made another attempt at casual subtly.
That was the exact question she’d been asking herself. On one hand, it was an incredible offer: to live in what might be the most luxurious residence in the entire Empire. And it would be safer, too—while the guards weren’t exactly her own, here they might as well be. But at what cost? Memories of her mother, executed by the Church for witchcraft, haunted her. Would accepting this offer make the Church right about her bloodline? Would it make her just like the evil she’d always feared? Mage Thippily seemed certain that demons weren’t evil, just a chaotic part of a chaotic universe. He knew more about demons than anyone that’s ever lived!
It’s easier to sleep with a guilty conscience in a nice warm room with tall ceilings and a soft bed.
She made her choice, and her stomach lurched as if she’d jumped from the battlement. She took a slow steadying breath before replying.
“I’d be insane not to. Look at this place! Have you seen where I’m living now? No comparison!” Her light tone hid the storm of uncertainties that were making her lightheaded.
This doesn’t have to be forever. Plus the demons seem quiet.
“Let’s go get your stuff! I’ll help you move right now!”
“Ohhhhh, okay. I can’t think of a single reason not to do that right now,” Taritha said slowly.
They started back to the staircase, passing Stanisk on the way. He was quietly discussing something with the mage.
“Sir, is it alright if we go get Taritha’s stuff and move her in?” Ros’s voice crackled with excitement.
“Aye, that’s fine. Take a few others with you, to load the cart at the warehouse and get our gear too. You and the men take the rooms on the second floor, the miss here is too delicate by half for you’se brutes so set her up on the third, 3-C oughta work?”
“We can have a company dinner when you all return! Come up here when you are ready!” Demonologist Thippily commented from where he was sitting.
Stanisk added, “I probably don’t need to tell you’se but don’t NEVER discuss what happens here when in town. Never.” His tone was low and flat, but he made direct unblinking eye contact with them.
“Of course, sir,” Ros said and bowed awkwardly, and the herbalist nodded as they descended the way they came.
They made their way down through the residence side of the factory, crossing to the exit via the second-floor dormitories. Everything was so new, and a few things weren’t entirely finished –some doors leaned against the hallway, and several rooms weren’t furnished.
“There are twelve of you in security, excluding your boss, right?” she asked as they walked.
“Yeah, the same twelve as we had in Jagged Cove!” Ros confirmed cheerfully.
“So why do you reckon there are twenty rooms on this level, and I assume the same number on the other third floor?” she asked.
“Hmm, maybe in case we have visitors?” he offered.
“Strange. Oh, hey guys,” She greeted Eowin, Kedril and Theros as they waited at the end of the hallway.
“The Chief said you needed a hand with moving stuff?”
Ros quickly and clearly explained their plan, and they hooked up the horse and wagon and headed to town. The trip back to town seemed shorter as everyone quietly contemplated their new futures.
“So his, uh, helpers would have made all the stuff we’ve been using?” Kedril wondered aloud.
“Yeah, I specifically asked about the clothes! They all were. It sounds like everything he’s done, he kind of hasn’t done?” Taritha trailed off, unsure what she even thought.
“No, everything he did was even better! He made something that anyone can use! Any one of us could open a factory just like him now, it’s the magic that made the tool, which is a full step more impressive if you ask me,” Ros said.
“Wait, so all those people healed? Was that all with them?!” Theros said with growing horror.
“Nah, I was there, he‘s a regular mage too. I saw him heal them with normal biomancy.” She said as if she had a single other point of reference for what biomancy ought to look like.
They continued in contemplative quietude. The midweek afternoon was busy, and lots of townsfolk were doing their normal chores, fetching water, hauling bundles, and feeding their chickens. Their pastoral tranquillity undisturbed by the demonic horde just down the twisting narrow road to what was recently a swampy forest.
“You guys go on to the barracks and start packing, I’ll be able to bring most of my stuff by myself. I’ll meet you there.” Taritha said as they approached an intersection.
“I’ll give you a hand, the fellas will be pretty quick anyhow,” Ros said gallantly as he accompanied her home.
“Alright, but you can’t judge me for my hut! It’s hard to make a living here without a wealthy patron!” she said. She hadn’t really wanted anyone to know how she lived. City folk wouldn’t understand what it’s like scraping by to survive a winter.
“I’m already impressed! That you owned a place free and clear makes you one of the richest folk I know! Well definitely richer than anyone that would talk to me in the days before I worked for Mage Thippily!” Ros spoke with a smile neither proud nor ashamed of his past.
“What did you do before you were an elite mage guard? You said you were poor but city poor is like country rich! I bet you were the captain of the guard for some rich merchant or something!”” she guessed as she ducked past the hide flap into her hut. “Wait here.”
Ros found a hefty log of firewood with moss growing on one side of it. With a grunt, he manoeuvred it upright, fashioning a makeshift and somewhat precarious stool. Seating himself atop it, he settled in to wait for her, the forest sounds filling the quiet. “Something like that! I picked fruit in orchards, I swept alleys, I did plenty of stuff! I was way too scrawny to be a guardsman though. Stanisk probably only hired me because he’d had a few beers that night!”
The inside of the hut had some clanks and thumps but she didn’t reply. He folded his arms and looked around. He’d come to appreciate the ancient pine forests around the small town. They were actually in town, but surrounded as they were by trees, he felt like he was in the primordial forest. It was the first forest he’d ever seen and hadn’t spent much time in it. His duties kept him constantly busy, other than the work trip to kill the big staghog. Considering all the trees, mosses, low flowers, and darty animals he saw, it felt a little unfair that it just smelled earthy, with the barest hint of pine. If he were in charge of forests, they’d smell like a thousand living things all at once.
“Need a hand?” he offered after a bit longer. He didn’t want to rush her, but he was also happy to help. He was comfortable and wondering if he’d changed at least a bit. Sitting on a log with his thoughts was something he liked now.
“Thanks, Ros, I got it. Do you reckon I should bring my old mattress, or he’ll give me one like he showed us?”
“I can’t imagine him making you sleep on a sack of old hay, while we sleep in the magic beds he’s making. I’ll tell you what, if he does, you can sleep in my bed,” he offered.
“Hah! Just when I thought there were no wolves in these woods!” she retorted.
“Oh, Light no! I meant I’d sleep elsewhere! Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that!” he blurted. She poked her head out of the low opening, and Ros worried it was mainly to see his deep red blushing.
“Hah! Take this!” she said. His firewood stool fell forward with a bassy woomp as he went to take an ancient iron cook pot, filled to the brim with clay jars and a few dark glass bottles. He carefully held the precious cargo, aware of the clacking and rattling they made with even the slightest movement. A few seconds later she emerged with a few old dresses thrown over her shoulder and holding a stack of woven reed baskets in her hands.
“Just as well you came by, I had more stuff than I remembered. I hope I have space for it!” she said, slightly embarrassed. “Oh anyways, back to your big city days! It must have been hard to leave all that excitement and culture for this dump.”
“Are you kidding? I’m exactly where I want to be!” he said with disarming sincerity. “This is where the people I care about are, and it’s where the world will start getting better. I wouldn’t leave for, not for a whole sack of coins. Besides, I bet Stanisk is cooking dinner tonight, and he’s the best cook I ever met!”
Prev

I teach a creative writing class to sophomores and juniors in high school. I worked on an example story for our horror genre unit. Anyone who feels like reading and providing input would be appreciated: **edit: I’m sorry for the format! I tried to post pictures for easier reading but it wouldn’t allow it.
“Room 13”

Crash. 

It all happened so fast. I didn’t know what was happening until it was over. I was just driving home from my job at the fish plant. My old red Chevy was chugging along, making a screeching noise when it shifted from second to third gear, as it usually does. Right when I was approaching the intersection of Fifth and Jackson, right when I was under the green light, it happened. Crash. The next ten minutes were a blur. There was an intense force and my body shook violently inside the single cab. I felt the tumult as the truck turned over. I was told later that it flipped three times, but I don’t remember that. I remember lying on the broken windshield, disoriented and in more pain than I thought possible. I heard the blood in my ears and a car peel out and drive away. The last thing I remembered seeing before the ambulance arrived was tail lights in the distance. The ride to Paul B. Johnson Hospital was a blur. I saw bright lights and two EMTs talking in hurried and worried voices. There were needles pricking me and beeping from machines. Then I passed out completely. I woke up eight hours later. “Good morning, Mr. Benson. You know, you’re one lucky SOB. That was the kind of car crash that should’ve killed you. You know, you really should wear a seatbelt.” The doctor was looking down at me with a worried expression but an attempt at a smile. His white coat was stained on the left lapel with what looked like a spot of mustard. His graying beard was unkempt. He generally looked tired and disheveled, but he had a kind face. “What…what happened?” I manage to stutter out. “Well, the short story is there was a hit and run and miraculously we were able to save you. The long story is that a truck T-boned you going at least 50 or 60, you flipped three times, sustained a concussion, lesions on your arms, legs, and face, and broke your foot and two ribs. We performed two surgeries in the past eight hours, and you should actually be able to go within a week or two.” “Oh my God. I can’t believe it. This is crazy.” The doctor nodded and genially replied, “Yes, yes it is. But the important thing is that you’re okay. I’m Dr. Griggs, and I’ll be back in to check on you in a few hours. The floor nurse, John Bates, will be in periodically to administer medicine until his shift ends at 3:00. If you need anything, just press the button.” Then he walked briskly away. At that time my mind was a race of thoughts…how did this happen…would they catch who did this…why was I able to be saved against all odds…why would this happen to me? As my mind continued to wonder, I drifted off into another bout of deep sleep. When I awoke next, it was noon, and a male nurse in blue scrubs was checking my monitor and writing on his clipboard. He quickly introduced himself as John, told me he was giving me something to help me continue to sleep and rest, and walked out. I barely had time to process the short interaction before I was out again. The next time I woke up, I felt much better. Still weak, and my ribs ached fiercely, but I felt like I’d actually make it to the other side of this horrible ordeal. That’s when he walked in. It was another male nurse. Blue scrubs, a surgical mask on, and no name tag. The room was dark except for the dim lamp on the other end of the room, and only darkness came through the windows. The clock said it was 9:46. This nurse didn’t say anything. “Hi, how’s it going?” I ask in an attempt to break the awkward silence. But he didn’t reply. He moved briskly to my IV bag and started fiddling with a syringe of clear liquid. “What’s that? I don’t think I need any medicine right now. I’m actually feeling much better,” I say in a timid voice. He looks at me with his dark eyes and simply says, “Yes, you do.” His voice was husky and gruff. He had no bedside manner and something in that stare made me feel uneasy. “No…I really do think I’m okay. What is that anyway?” As he shot the liquid into the IV, he looked back at me once more. His reply made me shutter. “Something that will finish the job.” He turned and walked quickly from the room, and the panic set in. What? What job? What does he mean? That’s when I started to feel the effects. I became cold, achy all over, and my brain started to fog over. I knew this wasn’t right, and I ripped the IV needle from my arm. Within a few minutes the effects began to wear off, and I thought that I would be okay. But at the same time…this nurse tried to kill me, and I think he tried to kill me in my truck last night. I struggle to get out of the bed, being careful not to put too much pressure on my left foot and clutching at my ribs, wincing with every slight movement, but I manage to stand. I’m still foggy from whatever that “nurse” gave me, but it’s getting clearer by the second. I know that I have to get help. I hobble my way to the door. Gasping as I limp across the room, every step feels like I’m running a mile through Hell. When I make it to the door and open it, I first notice how…quiet the hallway is. There’s no sound at all. No monitors beeping, no patients in their rooms, no doctors or nurses or staff anywhere to be seen or heard. Then the lights cut out. It’s pitch black except the green EXIT sign at the end of the hallway. Knowing that the man could be anywhere, I go as fast as I can. Using the wall to steady myself, I half walk, half drag myself. I make it through the ominous hall room by room. Room 17…my ribs are starting to feel like knives stuck into my sides…room 16…my breathing feels like swallowing glass…room 15…I collapse, resorting to dragging my body along the cold tiles…room 14…there’s no way I’ll ever make it…there’s much too far to go…room 13…at this moment, I hear the unmistakable sound of a door opening behind me down the hall. Then there’s a deep growl of frustration. I crane my head to see behind me, and I see him. The man. Or rather, I see the outline of a man in the darkness. I know he’s coming for me. With every second that passes, I hear his heavy thudded footsteps getting closer. His rattled breathing sounds like gravel crunching under a car’s tires. It shakes me to the core, but I make a break for it. Blocking out the excruciating pain in my foot and ribs, I clamor into room 13 and slam the door shut, locking it from the inside. Almost as soon as the lock clicks, the doorknob starts to rattle. It’s a furious, ferocious rattling, and I hear the man grunting and cursing under his breath, attempting to break through. In a panic I turn to find something, anything, to further block the door, but…there’s nothing. This room is entirely and utterly empty. At that moment, the noise at the door stops. Then a second later the lights turn back on, but there’s only a dim lamp in the room. With the light, though, I’m able to make out some of the details of the barren room. The walls are painted a dark gray, a severe contrast to the white of the other rooms’ walls. The checkered tile floor is grimy as if it hadn’t been mopped in years, and it was devoid of anything. No bed, no couch, no chairs, no…nothing. The only thing to be seen was a wooden chest in the corner that was painted black and had a large silver handle on it. The paint was faded and peeling, and there were red smudges splattered all over it. I couldn’t think of why or what that was here for, but I didn’t get much time to think about it at all. At that second, I heard a sound. Click. I look back to see the door knob turning slowly. Screeeeeech. The door starts to open. Oh God, no. He’s in. I hobble to the chest and wrench it open. The smell of decaying animals and dirt punch me in the face, but I clamor into the tight space anyway. As I turn around to close the lid, I see the man approaching with a scalpel in hand, his eyes as steady and dark as ever. I slam the lid shut and fumble with the latch to lock it, not thinking about why there would be a lock on the inside of this chest in the first place. I sit there, cramped and feeling like my foot and ribs are on fire. This must be what Hell is like…burning, blinding pain…unparalleled fear…no way out…I can’t do this anymore. I’m not going to make it. This is too much. But while these thoughts crept through my fear-ridden mind, I noticed something. It was…quiet. No attempt to open the chest, no grumbling or grunts, no footsteps. It’s just…silent. I tried to think about why or how the man wasn't trying to get in, but the pain became too much. I couldn’t take it anymore. Before I knew it, I passed out. When I came to, I was disoriented, and it took me a minute to remember what was happening. Then the fear sank back into my bones. I began to panic, wondering where he was, how long I had been in there, and if it was safe to get out. But then, I heard a voice. “Ahh…wakey wakey, I see. Welcome back, Jasper. It’s time to finish this.” The voice was deep and had that sound of gravel crunching, but the scariest part wasn’t the tone or the words themselves…the scariest part was that it didn’t come from outside the chest. It came from beneath. Crash. The floor opened up beneath me and I fell ten feet to the ground. It was a dirt floor, very hard and damp. I felt my left wrist break when I tried to catch my fall, and I let out an agonizing scream. “Oh, that’s what I’m talking about. Make it more fun for me, Jasper. I like to hear the screams.” In the dim light I make out his figure. He walks toward me slowly and steadily, knowing I couldn’t run even if the fear wasn’t paralyzing me. I manage a slight little shimmy backwards, but the fire erupts in my ribs again, and I can’t go any further than a foot or two. Looking around for anything that could help me defend myself, I see them. The bodies. They’re littered around the small room, piled three high in places. The stench is unbearable, and I turn and vomit immediately, causing my ribs to burn even more. I turn back to my attacker, only managing a soft whimper as he brings the scalpel down to my throat. “Time for your medicine, Jasper.”
▪️ ▪️ ▪️

I look up at the face of my nurse. He’s tall, wears blue scrubs, and has a surgical mask on. His brown eyes look down at me where I sit in the common room, and he’s holding a cup of water and two pills—one yellow and one white. “It’s time for your medicine, Jasper. I know you don’t like it, but it really does help with your condition. And oh, I’m sorry I still have my mask on. I’m still getting over the flu and would hate to give it to anyone. But here we go, let’s take this medicine and get back to your room. I think you could use a good nap. I take the medicine in a swallow and sip the water. I let my nurse lead me by the arm out of the gray common room with the dim, lamplit shadows and into the white-walled hallway. We pass room 17, then 16, 15, 14… “Ah, he we are, bud. Let’s get you to bed so you can rest. Good old room 13. I hope you get a good nap, and when you wake up it’ll be time for our Friday night movie, and it’s a good one. Crash! You know Dr. Griggs always tries to make life a little bit better for our patients here at Ashcliffe Asylum.” 

Let's get the obvious out of the way.
Being a PI sucks. It’s not what you think. It’s pretty much harassing women. Men hire PIs to go harass their wives and girlfriends and once in a blue moon you get asked to find a missing dog, or to harass a man instead. But that’s it, really. Sometimes I’m looking for hard evidence of infidelity, but a lot of the time my clients just want to rattle the soon-to-be-ex. To make them paranoid and jittery and less reliable in a courtroom, or less likely to pay attention to small print agreements that stiff them out of the holiday home. So that’s my job. I’m a pawn and it is almost always on behalf of the kind of men who think women reading a book in public are secretly looking for male attention.
I don’t have an office. I did for a short while. But things are tough, as I’m sure many of you know, and PI work isn’t exactly lucrative. I don’t know why I’m still doing this job, except to say I’m my own boss, and it’s not easy out there. I went into this with vastly different expectations. If anyone wants to hire someone who was convicted of insurance fraud while training to be a police officer, let me know. Otherwise I’m on my own, following people in cars and sleeping in dingy motels. So when this new job came along, a craigslist ad looking for a guy to stalk them, I just figured it was a fetish thing. I got a nephew who went to art school and makes big bucks painting cartoon characters doing fucked up stuff. He ain’t painting the Sistine Chapel, but he pays the bills and looks after his family. I figure if that work is good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.
So I met the woman who posted the ad and was surprised at how normal she looked. It was in a public place, a park with a nice bench. And even though it was starting to rain a little we didn’t let it bother either of us. We sat there, two tape recorders running, and hashed it out. She said she liked me. If she hadn’t she wouldn’t have gotten out of her car. That was flattering coming from her. Good looking woman. Professional. I didn’t know at the time but I’d quickly figure out she was a forensic accountant.
Anyway, we got talking. She never gave me her motivation, but I would later come to understand her as an amateur narcissist. She was new at loving herself. She was smart, accomplished, and actually rather beautiful provided you didn’t spend a great deal of time agonising over things like symmetry or eyebrows, and instead paid attention to how a smile reaches the eyes, or how laughter sounds when it catches someone by surprise. But she grew up dirt poor and spent her teen years unable to visit the dentist, or access a gym, or even just eat home cooked food that wasn’t microwaved. Plump frame, blotchy skin, hair she kept short with a pair of scissors because her and her mother relied on the shampoo and soap they stole from the motel where they shared cleaning shifts. When she fumbled awkward questions at some of the better looking boys in her class, she rarely met with success. That’s not to say she was an outcast, either. She had a social life. It’s just poor kids have to grow up early. Prom’s a luxury. Eating isn’t. If you know, you know. Otherwise you might be surprised by just how fucking tough it can be for some kids in this country. Anyway, she got out of that hole, fought tooth and nail, got an education, a good job, and by the time she finished her victory lap and took stock of her life she was thirty-five years old and a thousand miles from the trailer she was raised in.
And she looked good. The woman in the mirror was a stranger that she wanted to get to know. I think hiring me was an act of self-love. I think if she could have, she would have sat in a car and watched herself get a cup of coffee, spying closely at the professional looking woman doing a little half-run half-skip to get out of the rain. The way she stood in line rocking back and forth on her heels to the music in her airpods thinking no one’d notice. She wanted to admire herself, but unable to time travel or clone herself, she instead resorted to hiring me as a kind of proxy.
I had my own boundaries, of course. They covered anything that was gonna get me in trouble. The gist of the contract, after a nice week spent meeting after work and talking, was that I was to follow her as often as I could and just… observe her. Photos. Videos. Secret recordings. Occasionally a little bit more. Nothing physical. For example, one time I inventoried her handbag after she left it in a taxi by accident. I’m not a photographer, but something about all those knick knacks laid out on a motel bed snapped with a black and white polaroid, it looked good. Like something you’d see in a fancy gallery. Avant garde my nephew would say. She loved it. Paid me a bonus for it and everything.
Anyway, this carried on like this for about six months. They were… interesting times. Tailing her across train stations, racing across open parking lots to install a tracker on her car, standing on a bridge and dropping an air tag in her bag as she walked past. It was a little bit like being a spy. She even paid for me to buy high end equipment. Crazy stuff. One camera, I could sit on my balcony and read the texts on her phone from a block away. Occasionally there were days where I couldn’t or wouldn’t keep up the required intensity. Stalking requires a lot of cardio. When that happened, when I didn’t feel like following her into a crowded place, or sprinting half-way around town following her car, I’d do research. I’d investigate who this woman had once been. I created fake Facebook profiles and tracked down old school friends, spoke to former teachers, lovers, all of that. The whole job was a matter of mapping her out, like she was a country, you know? And a country isn’t just hills and rivers and borders. Countries have history.
She was happy with my initiative. The text she sent me when I showed her the research folder was a glowing commendation. First one I’d had in a long time. It was nice, someone telling me good job. She had a real way of making me feel like a kid getting a gold star. I didn’t realise at the time, but I was putty in her hands. Head over heels, bless my stupid heart. Of course I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I’d had just enough time to grow over confident. I made the mistake of thinking that I wasn’t gonna find anything in her past that’d give me trouble sleeping.
Boy did I get that one fucking wrong.
Her mother. That’s where things took an odd turn. Now I knew from news reports the mother died in their trailer while her daughter was off staying at some boyfriend’s place for a few days. Natural causes, it read. I wanted to know a little more about what natural causes they were. Figured if there was a congenital thing, it seemed like maybe I ought to know. You’d think the way the trailer park owner reacted to me asking about it, I’d tried asking the Russian government for proof of a democratic election. Thin reedy little woman who gave me hell the moment I mentioned a name. What do you wanna know that for? Who’s asking? Who’s paying you? Why you wanna dig this shit up?
Oh she ripped me to pieces. I put it down to the natural sprinkling of crazies in the standard population and took a different tact. Started calling up the older folks in the park. Residents. Every single one of them put the phone down on me the second I mentioned her name.
Well, all of them except one.
Some people wanna talk and this old bastard was one of them. He had a lot to say about everything from the president to social media and I let him ramble on before starting to press my point. Told him at the start I was a historian looking into the local area, that made it so it wasn’t too suspicious when I began asking about this and that. Slowly making my way to the death of a fifty-three year old woman a couple trailers down from him some years ago.
Again, soon as I mentioned her name, there was a change in the air, even over the phone. For a second I thought this old guy was gonna hang up just like the others. Could hear him smacking his dry lips as he mulled it over.
“Francine didn’t deserve what happened to her,” he said after a while. “She wasn’t a good woman. Didn’t treat her daughter too good neither. But didn’t deserve what happened. Maybe if they’d found her earlier, some of those fellas in white coats could’ve got more evidence, put that little wretch of hers away. But from what I understand, weren’t much left of her at all.”
Then he hung up, leaving me with a whole lot of questions.
This frustrated me. I had, until now, had a fair bit of luck at this new profession of mine. They say be careful what you get good at. Sad truth was, I was getting good at stalking and this was my first real roadblock. I remembered the way I felt when she told me good job and it bothered me I couldn’t really say much about this critical part of her life. That and, well, maybe I still got a chip on my shoulder about being a failed policeman. If you give me a problem, I can sometimes drive myself crazy looking for a fix.
So I hopped in my car and drove to the trailer park, damn near on the other side of the country. Don’t know I was hoping to find. No way the trailer was still there, and it wasn’t. But what I found odd was the lot hadn’t been replaced. There was a hole in the ground, about the right size, and nothing else. Just an empty spot where the trailer had once stood. And the trailers on either side weren’t occupied either. I could tell by politely and legally looking through the windows. Most of them were cleared out, but a few weren’t. They still had plates and other knick knacks left hanging around, like the owners had left without bothering to pack.
“You shouldn’t hang around there, mister.”
The girl who appeared stood a good twenty feet away, shouting over the wind so as to be heard.
“Smell can make you awful sick.”
I wrinkled my nose, aware of the odour she was talking about. Had been since I approached the empty lot. A faint musty smell that made me think of an exotic pet shop.
“What do you mean?”
“Smell makes you sick,” she said like it was self-explanatory. “Woman who died there left behind an awful stench. Made the neighbours sick. And the neighbour’s neighbours, and so on for a couple trailers in a row. No one likes to live there now. Still can’t. Had a couple move in a year or two back and they got sick too. Daddy says it’s a bad one. Not even rats go near that hole.”
The smell wasn’t pretty, but this trailer park looked like the kinda place where hubcaps went missing regularly. Figured they would’ve been used to bad smells. What made this one so special?
I looked over at the girl.
“Where is your dad?”
Few minutes later and I was stood outside a trailer waiting pensively. The little girl had disappeared inside to fetch her father and since then I’d been sat listening to the quietest trailer park in the whole world. Crickets and silence. Traffic on a distant highway. Place was dying, that much was clear.
When the father finally did make an appearance, he said nothing for the first few minutes. Lit a cigarette, offered me one. I refused on account of having quit some time back.
After a while he spoke up.
“I’d invite you in but if you been hanging around that old lot, not sure I want you inside my home. No offence.”
“None taken,” I replied.
“Sally says you’re a historian.”
The man wasn’t terribly old. Mid-thirties, at a guess, but he looked me up and down like I was a teenager caught throwing eggs at his house.
“What’re you really?”
“PI,” I replied.
“Ha now that makes sense. Some relative looking for answers? Heard the Hendersons had a sister with money.”
“That’s exactly it,” I lied. “She didn’t buy the official story.”
“Nor should she,” he replied. “Henderson was fit as a fiddle day he moved in. Weren’t no justice in what happened to those who got sick. And poor Francine… They say she died of natural causes. Man even back then I knew it was shit and I was just a lil kid. The smell alone. Think it’s bad now but at the time, before they came in with a crane to lift the trailer up whole and move it to the dump. Shit it was something awful. There was talk of moving the whole park. Course no one gave enough of a shit about us to go ahead and actually do it.”
“What did she die of?”
“Don’t know. Only thing I am sure of is that that girl of Francine’s lied. Said her mother was live and well when she left before the weekend and they was all on good terms, but that was bullshit. We heard ‘em fighting for weeks before, for one. And of course the body, state that was in, ain’t no way it’d been rotting for just a few days.”
He offered me another cigarette. I refused. He lit it up instead. Second one in what felt like just a few minutes. Made me itchy just to see. I wanted to say something, anything to get a little bit more. But I’d told a big lie pretending to be there on someone else’s behalf, and didn’t want to catch myself out, so I just sat and listened to the quiet buzz of his little patio light.
After the second cigarette was done he reached into his back pocket and took out an old photo.
“I hope you find justice for Henderson and the rest of them,” he said. “Only real bit of proof I ever had something fishy went on.”
He handed me the picture. Wasn’t easy to see what I was looking at. Pile of old leaves, maybe. Mulch. I squinted at it for a few good seconds but couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
“What…?”
“Took that the day they arrived to get rid of the trailer. Had to stand on my friend’s shoulders just to reach.”
“What is it?” I asked, my skin starting to crawl as I picked out details. Whatever I was looking at, it was slumped on a sofa with floral wallpaper in the background. It was about the size of a man, but riddled with holes and cavities the size of golf balls. In my whole life, I’d never seen something that looked like that.
“Why that’s Francine,” he said. “Or at least what was left of her.”
He let me keep the photo. At a guess, that was the only interesting thing that’d ever happened to that man and he’d been waiting to share it with someone. All I had to do was give him an excuse. He seemed to take some pleasure in passing it on. Certainly found my reaction to it amusing. I must’ve gone pale as I grappled with thoughts of what had happened to make a body go bad like that. Back in the hotel, under a good light, I checked that picture again and again. Something about it made me deeply uncomfortable. Knowing a woman was under all that… all those holes and crevices must’ve been made in her flesh. And what’d happened to her skin that’d turned it such a funny texture? Looked furry, like the kinda thing that grows on top of a long-forgotten cup of coffee.
A part of me considered asking my client about this, but I knew that wasn’t the way to go. First, she probably wouldn’t tell me good job if I had to ask. She hired me to do a certain thing and that didn’t involve politely requesting information right from the source. Second, well… I’d read the police reports, what was publicly available, anyway. And she’d made it clear she’d left on the friday and came home on the Monday and…
Well what if that guy was right? Did she really leave her mother alive and well? I mean, people kill. Not just psychos. People like you and me. We do it every day and sometimes we even pull it off. Only half of US murders get solved. That’s a fact. If anyone could be in the right half of that equation, it’d be her. She was smart as hell, my client. Even at seventeen she would’ve been a clever one. Clever enough that she might easily have been able to cover her tracks. Gone over to some boyfriend, twisted his arm into giving her an alibi. Sure, I could see that.
I just needed to figure out what the fuck was going on with that crime scene in the trailer. Thankfully I got some friends still on the force, one of which I even have a bit of leverage on. At first he couldn’t find much on the actual mother, but then I asked him to see if he could take the photo I had, show it around, and see if anyone had seen something like it before. That proved a lot more fruitful. Few days later he came back with a strange one, but straight away I saw the connection.
I’ll spare the details. Old man was found in a tub, all sorts of fucked up, in some old apartment building. It had since been condemned on account of the body which is fairly weird since bodies don’t usually cause that much fuss, but less weird when you realise that said body was in such a bad state it made three people sick and caused long-lasting structural damage. Whatever happened to this guy, it ate through the tub he’d been lying in and seeped into the floors and walls below. Turned plasterboard to shit and apparently even caused some trouble for the sturdier elements like steel and concrete. I don’t know how that works exactly, but that’s what the file said and going by the photos, I didn’t feel like anyone was lying.
As for the pictures? What can I say? Made my fucking skin crawl. No blurry little polaroid snapped by a kid. These were professional crime scene pictures that showed something in a bathtub that didn’t register as human until my eyes went looking for details. He looked like a hairy paper-wasp’s nest, only there were fingers and nipples and other little things that made it clear it had been built using a person as the framework. No face though. Just a head like a pile of used paper plates. Looking at those photos made me learn a new word just to describe how I felt. Trypophobia.
Wasn’t just the one guy either. Building was linked to the disappearance of the ground floor tenant. Some computer geek. I didn’t worry about him too much. But what did catch my eye was there was only one woman living in the whole place. Second floor apartment. The registered name was… somewhat familiar. Close enough to a certain someone’s that it raised the hairs on my neck. Police at the scene managed to get a photo of her and sure enough, there she was. My client going by a different name. Clearly something fishy was going on or else why the pseudonym? I figured it possible she’d maybe offed her own mother. Parents and spouses make the most common victims. But what connection was there to that second corpse, and what about the missing guy?
It was like a horror movie was following her around and she was just blissfully unaware. Condemned buildings and festering trailers made for a far cry from the professional accountant who enjoyed oat milk lattes and used sweetener instead of sugar to spare her teeth. But there was no denying she was the connection. There was photographic proof she’d lived in that building. If I wanted to get ahead of this, to really understand what was going on, I had to figure out what had happened to those bodies. I’d pretty much exhausted my favours with the police and truth was they didn’t know any more than I did. But it turned out the building was still standing. Condemned, but they hadn’t demolished it, partly because no one wanted to take responsibility, but I reckon it might have had something to do with the biohazard warnings slapped on every single window and door.
Good thing I’d brought a gas mask. I waited for sunset, geared up, and entered through the unlocked door. First thing that hit me as the door swung open was the smell. Similar to the trailer park but full pelt and hot as hell. Made me think of lizards and poorly kept terrariums. Strong enough to make my eyes water even through the mask. One thing was clear as I took a look around the hallway - the building was diseased. Not just rundown or decrepit like the usual urban decay. This was something else. Looked like the inside of a clogged pipe. You know how limescale fills it up? It was a bit like that. This oily rust coloured fluid had seeped down the walls and left them glistening and soft. Ropey stalactites of the stuff hung down from the ceiling like old party banners, and I edged around them afraid of what might happen if one touched me.
Best guess was that stuff was digesting the place. Anything soft or organic was going or gone. Old umbrella frames were left standing in one corner, the fabric burnt or dissolved away. The carpet was reduced to just a few patches no bigger than my hand. And a bunch of old cardboard boxes piled up under the stairs had turned squat and half-liquid, almost flowing down and around each other. The worst came when I took a look in the back room. More of a broom closet, I guess. Wouldn't have gone in but something caught my eye. A well-worn shoe that wasn’t covered in that oily shit. Sign of recent activity. That and the way the door was ajar just raised my suspicions, so I took a look.
Even now the timeline eludes me, but someone, a vagrant most likely given the way they were dressed, died a nasty death in there. Chemical burns come to mind. They were balled up in one corner, eyeless, looking up at me as I pushed the door open to take a closer look. Pink flesh threaded with red blood vessels, yellow bones poking through here and there. From the looks of things they’d been trying to work the door open. You could see a history of their escape attempts left by bleeding hands. Rust coloured finger streaks ran all along the door’s edges, special attention paid to the hinges. And he’d broken the only window and tried hauling himself up there only to realise it was barred from the other side. The jagged glass that still clung to the frame was covered in old blood. His palms must have looked like grated cheese. Eventually he’d given up and lain down in that shit and the thought of it made my chest feel heavy and tight. I’d only been in the building a few minutes and that shit was already eating through my shoes. I could hear the thick rubber soles sizzle and pop with each step. But that guy had been forced to sit down in an inch deep puddle of the stuff, likely because exhaustion had left him no choice but to tough it out. So how long had he tried staying up right?
Hours? Days? Weeks?
Him getting stuck in there had to be deliberate. I was sure of it. A feeling in my gut. Someone had locked the door behind him and left him to die slowly. God only knows why, but did that mean they were still hanging around and waiting for a chance to get to me? Looking around, I sure didn’t feel safe or alone. The shadows seemed too deep and the steady drip drip drip of that rancid oil oozing out of every surface was too monotonous. Someone or something lived in that filth and chances were they’d been responsible for that poor vagrant’s agonising death.
That meant getting out of that shithole was a priority, so I made for the stairs and started the climb. If there were any answers in that place, it’d be in the apartment where that old man died. The crime scene tape was still hanging off the door frame when I found it, and the TV and sofa, or what remained of them, stood in the same place as in the photos. Back in the day the old man had been a hoarder and I was surprised crime scene hadn’t cleared all his shit out. It was all still there, only what had once been a chest high maze of papers and magazines was now just a kind of hardened pulp, almost like magma dried mid-flow. Whole fucking place was covered in the stuff like a coral reef, growing up the walls and even patches of the ceiling. Looked a hell of a lot like a wasp’s nest, and it looked to be the source of that oily looking fluid. You could see it sweating out of every crease and fold in that strange hive. It was almost hypnotic to look at. Glistening amber beads oozing out of papery sheets that flowed like rock striata. There was a gentle, barely perceptible rhythm. Hypnotic.
I don’t know why but I reached out and ran the tip of my finger as gently as I could along the surface. It felt like the underside of a mushroom. All those papery gills. Gossamer thin. Soft and inviting. I wore no gloves and the brief moment of contact had deposited a single bead of that strange syrup on my fingertip. It caused a tingling sensation that was not entirely unpleasant. Even the blood that trickled down my knuckle felt warm and wet, like testing a hot bath with your hand. I liked it. I liked it and I wanted more.
I went to reach out and push my arm into the nest when a hand burst out of the nest and gripped my wrist. I was so surprised I didn’t even make a noise, but instead wordlessly fell back as the hand pushed me away from the nest. A very nearly skinless forearm followed and soon after a face emerged from the papery nest like a grime covered nightmare. Black eyes and a lipless mouth. It was a man that could have passed for a corpse, like a half-digested piece of meat. Terrified, I struggled to my feet and realised that this person had broken damn near every bone in my wrist with that single grip.
“Your meat smells raw,” he growled before heaving himself out of the nest in a disgusting parody of childbirth.
My sanity flickered and the next thing I knew I was on the ground floor with bleeding eyes and both hands frantically pulling at the door handle. My mind returned in pieces. I blinked red tears away but didn’t stop trying to open the door. I felt it, that urgent need to leave, like a suffocating man feels the need to breathe. But I’d fucked up bad. I’d sniffed out the closet and saw the trap laid there, but hadn’t seen the larger one set for me. There was only one way in and out of that building and I hadn’t jammed the door open! Now it was shut and nothing I did could get it open. With more time maybe I could’ve pried the jamb or even kicked it down, but my heart was racing and my vision blurring. I wanted out of that place. A hot primal need to get the hell out. The air was too hot. My mask too stifling. Sweat condensed on the inner plastic and made it damn near impossible to see. And the pain in my wrist was a throbbing explosion that made sensible thought impossible. I’d realised early on into my little foray that I was underprepared, but the scale of what that meant eluded me until I was there wrestling with thoughts of exposure and contagion and disease, fumbling at a greasy doorknob with a broken hand while suppressing thoughts of what might be crawling up my leg or back or neck. Panic threatened to consume me. The world and all the normality it represented was right fucking there. I could hear it. The distant hum of traffic. The amber glow of streetlights that lit up the biohazard posters. Not thirty minutes ago I’d been there. Safe and far away from this waking nightmare.
I was being reduced to a prey animal. Even in the moment I could sense it happening to me. Being made into something lesser, but it was like my actions were no longer my own. When I finally gave up on the front door, I turned around and saw the shadows way back at the hallway begin to shift as something descended the stairwell. There was no other way out. No door. No window. Just me, a long corridor, and a nightmare coming right at me.
Something inside me gave up. I don’t know how to describe it. I’m still not sure if it was that building and that strange fluid that seemed to warp my own thoughts, or maybe there’s just too much one person can go through. But I could practically hear the thin membrane of my sanity tear as I fell backwards into the door and slid down onto my ass, breathlessly awaiting my terrible fate. I almost contemplated turning off my light but by then it was too late. I could see him coming towards me. He was legless. Nothing from the waist down except blackened viscera trailing up the stairs behind him. He pulled himself towards hand over hand with hungry eyes. Before I knew it he was on top of me, one hand gripping my mouth with a salty palm, the other stroking my hair.
And then in an instant his demeanour changed. He pulled back with a terrified cry and scrambled away like I’d just stuck him with a blade.
“No no no no no,” he muttered. “No no you should have said you should have said I didn’t know I thought you were another one I didn’t know I thought you were here for me I didn’t know you were hers.”
He cowered away, pedalling on both hands backwards while keeping his eyes fixed on me.
“Tell her I did not know you were hers I could not smell until I was close very close if I hurt you I am sorry tell her I am sorry I did not mean to hurt you it is just I do not get to eat often and am always hungry.”
With a rapid gesture he threw the key for the door at me. It skittered across the floor and fell just short of my feet.
“Tell her I did not know.”
“W-w-w-what are you?” I stammered.
He looked at me curiously, stopping his retreat only briefly to gauge my expression.
“She likes to be seen but I looked without asking and I got what I deserve.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
He very nearly laughed, but with such deformities it was mostly a drooling guffaw.
“You know!” he gasped. “Don’t be stupid. You’re in love with her. Just like me. But different. You got permission. I didn’t. But she was good. She left me an old nest to live in. And I have permission to eat anything I kill or trap myself. Hard now that people know to stay away but sometimes I get lucky.”
His eyes flicked to the closet with sickening hunger.
“What has this got to do with her?” I asked.
“What colour are her eyes?” he replied, almost manic with excitement. “Answer. Answer. Tell me. Tell me. What colour are her eyes?”
“G–”
I stopped. The word felt wrong in my mouth.
“Bl–
“Bro–”
“No no,” he chittered. “None of those.”
Seemingly excited but afraid, he raced forward momentarily and gripped my lapels with twisted glee.
“Compound,” he hissed with such forbidden pleasure. “Her eyes are compound. She’s jealous of us, you know?
“Jealous we get to love her.”
And then he disappeared into the darkness and something inside me gave way entirely and I passed out.
I don’t know much of what came after, exactly. I was found a few hours later in my car, idling at a traffic light. I’d made some effort at getting away on my own but didn’t get very far. No surprise here but I got sick as a dog going in that place. A deep chest infection. The kind that scares everyone at least once in their life. Only fair given how fucking stupid I was. But forgive me, I hadn’t anticipated nightmares beyond human comprehension. I challenge anybody to think that fucking far ahead. You think junkies. You think flies. Squatters. But that guy… that man slipping out of the nest and barrelling towards me on two hands. My mind going sizzle pop along with the soles on my boots. In real life, shit like that always sneaks up on you.
So I paid the price. Six months. Jesus. Six long months. I got every fever you can think of. Sepsis. Kidney failure. Liver failure. Month after month drowning in my own fluids, coughing up shit that made the nurses gag and leave. I asked the doctor what the long term effects will be and he winced before reading a list of things that didn’t leave much hope for a happy retirement. And if it was hard on my body, it was even worse on my mind. Those fever dreams… doctors say what I remember in that building, that was all just part of the sickness. Say I spent a good three days in a coma and strange dreams are the norm. Which I might accept if it weren’t the fucking skin graft still healing on my right hand. No one can explain that.
My client visited. Just the once. There are universally sad moments in life and one of them is realising someone you have a lot of affection for doesn’t have it back. They have some. Just not the same amount. It was always one way though, wasn’t it? I saw her every single day but if I was doing my job right, she only saw me once a month for our meetings. Our arrangement ended not long after, so I hope anyway. She left like it was nothing but me… ah Jesus it felt like someone excavated my heart right out. Even after what she told me why she was there, even after what I did, I could barely stand up straight I was so heartbroken. There were times after that I wished the sickness would just take me. Maybe that defeatism is why it got so bad. Who knows?
She came to me looking for a recommendation, of all things. She wasn’t cold. Far from it. But there was a sense of disappointment as she sat beside me and eyed me up.
“I liked the initiative,” she said after a while. “But the results leave me unimpressed.”
“What the fuck happened in that place?” I asked, and even though I could barely hear my own voice, she seemed like she heard every word. For a moment, the way she contemplated it, I thought I was gonna get a straight answer.
“You know my mother said men don’t see ugly women. They know they exist but they just poof them right outta their mind. Like a magic trick. She said we worked better being a little plain. Good enough to take home for a night. Any more and we’d start to leave problems everywhere we go. That guy was a problem. She was trying to warn me about the dangers of attention but silly me, I went and got addicted. I hoped with you there might be a degree of… separation. Infatuation on a contractual basis.”
She took a deep breath like she’d had a long hard day.
“I don’t know. Maybe Mom was right. It’s ridiculous, I suppose. The fly shouldn’t admire the spider. It either sees it and fears it, or doesn’t know what’s coming until it’s too late. I think Mom was telling me to go for the latter. It’s no fun being invisible though. You spent all that time looking at me. Following me. What did you see?”
I looked at her until my eyes watered and something throbbed in my skull.
“I don’t know,” I tried to lie.
“Be honest.”
She looked right at me and something in the air changed. I don’t know what. Hot. Jesus it was hot. Like looking at the sun. I remember the heart rate monitor going nuts and then… then I remember gossamer wings and serrated chitin. A tick on the inside of your cheek. A leech on your tongue. A horsehair worm that won’t leave the skin. And then an instant later my eyes refocused and there was just a normal woman in front of me.
“Someone I could have loved,” I answered, unable to stop the words spilling like vomit. “Someone who I thought deserved love.”
“See,” she said. “Who wouldn’t like your version better?”
I was crying again. Heart racing. World like butter, going soft at the edges. Whatever she did, it was like undergoing brain surgery in real time.
“I’d like a recommendation,” she said after another minute or two of silence. “I’d like to see myself. I look in the mirror and I don’t see what you do. I’d like an artist to paint me. A version of me, at least. It won’t be easy on them. All this time you’ve probably looked directly at me for no more than five, ten minutes in total. Just didn’t realise it. Always the back of my head or my hair obscuring just so. That won’t do. I want a portrait. I want to know what you see.”
“What will you do to them?”
“I won’t do anything. Not intentionally. But if you ask someone to paint the sun, expect them to go blind. Whoever paints me will be painting the sun in their living room. Going blind is the least of their problems. Now, fess up. You know someone. You mentioned them once in passing. A cousin, maybe. An artist in need of cash. I’m sure of it.”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“Because you love me,” she said. “And because despite everything you will get better and you will come back to me. Year or two, I think. You are adamant I have no hold on you, and you will think that for a long time. And this period of freedom, you’ll enjoy it only by my good grace and mercy. You did a good job. Better than any before. I’ve read your notes and reports over and over and seen details of myself I didn’t even know were there. It’s a thing of beauty, what you did. And one day soon you’ll come back to me with some excuse for why you want the contract to continue.”
I tried to spit the word never but managed, at best, a weak shake of the head. Something that put a most peculiar smile on her face.
“It doesn’t work like that. It’d be like trying to brute force your way through Alzheimer’s. You’ll be back. Even now you’re mine. All mine. I’m just being gentle. And you’re going to give me the name and number of this artist because even though you know I could no more love you than a spider loves the fly, you are desperate to please me. Because when I broke the man in that apartment building. When I tore him in two and told him that he would live for as long as I desired, writhing without air for years and years, drowning in sickly fluids and trapped helplessly in a hive he is determined to maintain even though I wouldn't be caught dead going back there. He was grateful. And, with time, you’ll be grateful too.”
She put the pen in my hand. She smiled, mouthed the word good boy, and God help me…
I gave her my nephew’s number.
Edit: I've made some changes to the ending, if anyone finds themselves wondering why this changed after I already posted it.

Unwavering from falling for a scam, I continue on! Writing shall not cease!! And If any of you got caught up in the scams yesterday, I am so sorry for spreading it to y'all.
Thank you u/SpacePaladin15 for this universe!
And many thanks to u/TheManwithaNoPlan for being a full co-writer on this project!
[First]-[Prev]-[Next]
Memory Transcription Subject: Sharnet, Stealthy Investigative Journalist. Date [Standardized Human Time] October 31st, 2136
I watched Vekna dash off as my lift lowered itself down towards the hanger floor. I could barely believe how far I’d come in such a short time, from busting lower staff members in hiding to taking down Malcos himself. We had finally found where the monster had been hiding, and now had to quickly adapt to ensure our plan to take him and his operation went down successfully.
I had to say that this place was almost as much of a marvel as the temple itself; an entire artificial cavern dug underground and kept stable despite the rocks and dust of the desert that stood above it. How long had it been closed from the public? It must have been before even Malcos was born, as I couldn’t remember any news or history about this place being closed in favor of the above ground spaceports. It had to be at least over a century old, just completely forgotten besides maybe an obsessive historian. No wonder Malcos thought it perfect for this whole operation.
The creaky lift settled to a stop and shook me from my musings. I quickly opened the cage and marched out like I had somewhere to be. I had to work fast and act like I belong, lest I be unable to sneak a look into the crates without being seen. I needed a way to do so in such a way that, even if I were seen, nobody’s hackles would be raised. There were maybe a thousand people in here based on the quick look I got from the catwalks, meaning it wasn’t out of the question that they wouldn’t recognize me, but I needed something else to cement that possibility into certainty. Something to add to myself to sell that I am not out of place.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this journey, it’s that criminals can be smarter than you’d expect.
I looked around to scout out my surroundings for anything that could fulfill my needs. There were a few pallets of crates stacked between me and the closest cargo ship, the sound of metal against metal echoing from beyond them. I walked to the edge of the pallet wall and peered around to see what the ruckus was about. There was a Venlil mechanic with a wrench in their paw opening a maintenance panel on the side of the shuttle, a grimace spreading across his face as he picked up a voltmeter, tossing his wrench to a tool belt on the ground behind him.
This! This is perfect! If I’ve learned two things on this investigation, the second is that so long as you have a tool belt, you can go just about anywhere! I snuck over, trying to keep myself in the mechanics rear blind spot as I crept towards the belt. Thankfully, he was too focused on his voltmeter task at paw to even notice me pick it up and slip it around my waist.
Okay, keep moving, go with the crowd for now.
I fell into line in the center of the hanger, following the herd to where the wall of pallets I had been hiding behind were being moved onto the multitude of cargo vessels docked within the complex. The herd’s hustle was sufficiently organized so that I was able to slip in, but chaotic enough that nobody thought to take note of me as a stranger. I needed to keep moving so I didn’t garner attention. The crates were labeled crudely by way of spray paint symbols rather than a more sophisticated method. A rather shocking waste of something so expensive in my mind, but they would still give me an idea of their contents. I just needed to remember what those symbols meant from my smuggling story.
Orange eye… Lick powder. Three blue lines… Blue Blood amphetamine. An- an orange five point sun! Sun Bliss!
I snatched up the crate and immediately swung myself around back towards the shuttle that was under repair. This crate only had a couple latches as securing agents, so I’d easily be able to grab a couple cans and slip them into the tool belt once I set it down. I just needed to keep acting like I belonged, move with a purpose, and never falter in my stride. I could still see the shuttles mechanic working on the electric stuff as I returned. They haven’t noticed their belt is gone yet!
However, as I approached the loading ramp for the shuttle, and unexpected hiccup would rear it’s head. Two unmarked Venlil Exterminators guarded the small stockpile already amassed in the cargo hold, their flamers giving away their predisposition and loyalty. I still tried to pretend like I belonged, but I soon found a pair of batons blocking my path. “Hold it, this shuttle isn’t due for loading until the technical issues are sorted out. Are you lost?”
Speh, not good. Thinking quickly, I puffed up my chest and twisted my head to look at one of them fully with my eye. “Lost? I think not! By Solgalick, check the manifest! I think you’ll find this shuttle here is a crate short! I don’t think I need to remind you of everything on the line here, do I? Speak, I get pulled away from fixing a hydraulic leak for this, and I have to deal with you two brickheads standing in my way?!”
The pair of Exterminators seemed caught off guard by my aggression, backing up and hovering their hands over their flamer handles. Just as planned. Upon seeing that, I let my eyes go wide and let out a long exhale. “Look, I… I’m sorry. It’s just… all this? It’s stressful as brahk. I-I don’t want to give him an excuse to take my father’s good knee too, you know?”
The Exterminator pair were predictably comforted by my admission of weakness, resetting to a more relaxed position. They both flicked their ears in understanding, implying that Malcos wasn’t going to be winning Boss of the Rotation any time soon. “Alright, load what you need to and get back to work. We do have a schedule to keep.”
“Thank you,” I responded gratefully, plunging deep into the shallow catacomb of crates as the batons in my path cleared. Working quickly, I silently unlatched the crate and replaced a few water cylinders hanging on the belt with Sun Bliss, ready to ensure that no civilians would be caught in the potential crossfire this stunt could result in. However, as I’m about to leave, a thought occurs to me. What if the workers down here got a dose of their own product?
For such a thing, though, I’d need something more psychoactive than Sun Bliss, preferably some sort of hallucinogen. I did a quick scan of the crates surrounding me. Sun Bliss, StarLite, Ki-Yu’s Kiss, Ar- wait!
I saw exactly what I was looking for. A purple eye and a Crown. Solgalick’s Eye. A hallucinogenic drug made from a type of succulent plant native to the dayside of Venlil Prime, no wonder there was a hefty stock here. Supposedly, even a small spritz of the stuff could leave someone hallucinating they’re a flower for over a quarter claw. And this was a whole crate of probably 48 [600ml] cans! That amount could…
Could completely disable thousands.
It was almost too perfect, if not for one fact: it was up too high for me to reach without help. Perhaps I should push my luck just a little bit more. “Hey!” I called back out to the Exterminators guarding the entrance. As they glanced back at me, I waved them over. “There’s some unauthorized drugs being loaded here! Get over here and help me get this to the right shuttle!” They shared a look between one another, but they eventually decided to heed my commands. They made their way over and formed a cradle with their arms, preparing themselves to take the weight of my feet. I sway my tail in gratitude as I step up on their uniformed arms, reaching up as if to grab the crate. Before they had time to react, I unlatched the crate and snapped up the two cans. I jumped down and quickly jabbed the nozzles into their filter connectors, twisting hard so they jammed into place. I heard a hiss as they flailed back, their screams muffled by the gas rushing into their masks.
Once their screams turned into influenced mutters, I quickly removed the gas as not to facilitate any overdoses. Well, any fatal overdoses, this was very much over what was normal. Their legs and arms twitched uselessly as they reached at whatever vision the gas induced. I thought I heard one of them slur something about trees as I stood, admiring my handiwork. But before I left, a thought occurred. These people could do with a reminder that guarding drugs was very much a bad thing. I took out the flashlight in the belt and shone it into their faces at the brightest setting, and spoke.
“Solgalick condemns your activities, you have made yourselves wretched in their eyes. Face Their Judgement and Pray for mercy and a chance at redemption.”
Unlike before, this felt like an act all my own. The effect was still as I hoped, and the two exterminators' ears quickly shifted from swaying to pressed firmly against their heads in fear. Their mutters became disjointed begs and apologies as they seemed to fight between looking away from the flashlight and being unable to do so. The tool belt also had some tape in it, so I took it out and taped the flashlight onto one of the crates so that it continued to shine upon the pair. That should ensure that their hallucinations won’t lead them to wander too soon! I did this before, might as well double down. Just hope there’s no offense taken from this act!
With the crate now safely down from its perch, I made towards the cargo bay’s emergency cabinet, clipping the respirator mask within to the other side of the tool belt. I replaced the aerosol canisters in the case and secured it for transport. Now all I had to do was figure out how to distribute this all around the compound.
As I exited the shuttle, I heard a dull thumping coming from where the technician was working. I caught a glimpse of him hitting his head against the hull, seeming to have little luck with his task, whatever it may have been. Hah, a little trip oughta lift his spirits. I marched away from the shuttle, around the long way to avoid anyone asking questions about where I’m going unattended with a crate of Solgalick’s Eye.
As I went, I thought about the logistics of a place like this. Given its subterranean nature, it would only make sense for there to be a robust ventilation system. That would have to mean, as I learned from Tarlim, that there’s likely a ventilation unit somewhere that sucked air from the surface and blew it around the compound. If I could find that unit, I could plant the cans in there and wait until the first can was sucked in. Heck, if the unit is big enough, I might be able to just plant the whole crate inside with every can cracked completely open.
After that? It’s only a matter of time.
It would only make sense for the unit to be as close to the surface as possible, which meant returning to the catwalks we had come from. I carefully crept through the shadows, praying that my suspicious behaviors weren’t noticed. Thankfully, the herd were all so busy with their own tasks that I returned to the lift without so much as an errant ear flick in my direction. The lift shuddered as it lifted me up, betraying its age and vindicating my indications of this place’s era of construction.
As I reached the top, I thought I heard the sound of a dying ventilation unit. I started to turn the corner to head towards it, but immediately leapt back as soon as I caught sight of the actual, and retrospectively obvious, source of the noise. I watched from the shadows as “Ambassador” Vane waddled towards what looked like a control room, where Vekna was likely doing…something. I considered trying to warn her of the alteration to the plan somehow, but something told me she’d figure something out once the alarms were inevitably raised. She’s resourceful like that.
I waited until Vane was within the confines of the suspended room before I even thought about venturing out, as he would be certain to recognize me. Once I actually took a look around, I was able to isolate my target fairly quickly, as it was one of the only other rooms up here, plus it looked to be where most of the hanging ducts converged. I ran as fast as I could without rattling the walkways, the sheer height of which laid below them making my heart beat just that much faster as I went. Speh, why did they have to make this place so tall??
It wasn’t long before I arrived at the door to the ventilation unit room, panting from the exertion of running with such a heavy cargo in paw. For bottles of gas, they sure weigh a [ton]! Once I was able to hear anything over my breathing, I pressed my ear to the door to listen in for guards. Thankfully, it seemed as though Malcos didn’t take into consideration someone giving him a taste of his own medicine, as the only sounds I heard from within were the nominal whirrings of a functional machine.
I slid open the door and crept inside, trying to figure out how I could possibly load the can in so that they’d have a delayed deployment. Unfortunately, Tarlim wasn’t here to help me decipher the parts of the unit… but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help me. I could just hear his voice in the back of my head as he talked to me about his work. That… “…units are actually mostly empty. You unscrew any of these panels, and unless it’s directly where the fan is or by a condenser coil, it’s just open, empty air. A coworker even hid his lunch bucket there…until it finally got sucked in one paw when it was turned on for testing. I still haven’t forgotten the mess I had to help clean up.”
Heeding Tarlim’s instructions, I used my claws to undo the old screws on a nearby panel. I was concerned that rust might have rendered the task impossible, but they all managed to unscrew without a hitch. Guess Malcos put some effort into properly maintaining this place. Once I saw that it was open, I looked inside. A fan, rotating many times a second, spun inside. I felt the air in the room rush by me into the open area, sucked in by the massive set of blades. I unclipped and donned my mask before unlatching the crate of Solgalick’s Eye and pushing it inside. Its weight allowed it to mostly resist motion, but I knew that sooner or later, the fan blades would slice through every one of these cans and spread the drug throughout the facility.
That means I need to act fast.
Now that I didn’t have a crate of illicit substance weighing me down, the dash to the secret shaft we’d come down went far smoother and left me with more than enough endurance to climb back up to the top. Thankfully, my travel case was still firmly blocking the door, natural light nearly blinding me due to my eyes having adjusted to the relative darkness of the derelict underground spaceport. I quickly adjusted it back onto my back, as the next person who would need to exit through here would be Malcos himself, followed closely by Vekna if all goes to plan. I placed a hesitant paw on the canisters of Sun Bliss, trying to feel when the right time to deploy them would be.
Focus… Breathe… Calm…
Focus… Breathe… Calm…
Focus…
Breathe…
…Now.
I twisted the dispenser nozzles on the cans all the way out and chucked them as far as I could, uncaring about where they landed so long as it was within a sizable group of people. Despite my ineptitude for ballistics, both managed to land within large groups of tourists, who all screamed as the gas dispersed amongst them. The guards standing watch began to panic as they did their best to guide the groups away from the growing orange clouds, frantically putting in codes into their communicators as they followed behind to quarantine the area. I heard an alarm blare from the outskirts of the temple, which meant that they were likely going down below as well. Hopefully that gives Vekna the signal- and time- that she needs.
Now I just needed to get into position and…figure out what I’m actually supposed to do when Malcos runs out. I know what I will do after, but the way of actually taking him out was still a blur in my head.
No matter what, I won’t let him get away. By Solgalick and their companion Stars, I won’t.
{-Command Requested: Awaiting Input-}
{-[USERID-11229KMD]: timerew_2stm -}
{-Reversing Transcript…Done-}
{-Resume Play? Y/(N)-}
{-[USERID-11229KMD]: switchTrns_Sub -}
{-Please Enter Name: [Vekna] -}
{-Searching… 4328 Matches Found-}
{-Import Timeframe Settings? (Y)/N -}
{-Importing…1 Match Found-}
{-Play From Last Timestamp? (Y)/N -}
{-Playing…-}
[First]-[Prev]-[Next]

First/Previous
“I never should have taken you back there,” I said to Andrew, “Should’ve just left that place to rot.” I shook my head.
It was morning and the saferoom was small, but quiet—I’d taken the precaution of planting a large metal sheet across the only door and relaxing with my weight against it. Gemma slept soundly with Trouble lying alongside her while I sat cross legged on the floor at her feet in the dark and Andrew stood in the corner opposite me, arms crossed, seemingly lost in some deep thought. “No one knew what was happening.” There was a long pause where he shuffled his feet and the growl of Gemma’s snore resounded off the walls of the small closet. Then he added, “Do you think it was overrun?”
“Golgotha?” I asked. Gemma shifted in her sleep but was unaware beyond.
“Sure.”
“It’s doubtful. I think the wall men probably handled the situation the same way they always do—with enthusiastic violence.” I pointed to the hanging shelf by his shoulder and asked, “Hand me one of them books of matches, would you?” Andrew reached out with the hand that was missing and froze, stared at the spot the appendage had once been, and then grimly smiled before reaching with his other. He tossed me the matches and I lit the cigarette I’d only just rolled from a tin I’d stored in the safehouse ages ago and shook the match till it had a smoke tail. “Stale.” But I continued puffing till the fire was constant and the small room smelled completely of it. “I imagine there’s a lot of dead folks this morning, but I doubt the walls are gone. Though,” I thought of Dave, “If that explosion was anything to go off—the underground’s destroyed. Hard to say what’s happened to the place they manufacture munitions.” The young man looked old in the dark room with exaggerated creases in his face. “How’re you feeling?”
“In general?”
“No. How’s the wounds?”
“I still hurt all the time.”
“You might have chronic aches from here on.”
“Chronic?”
“You might have pains that’ll never stop. For the rest of your life. But I couldn’t say for sure. We’ll ask in Babylon. Not my expertise. They know better than me.”
“You said you should’ve left that place to rot. So, why didn’t you? If I could move like you, I’d go anywhere else. I would’ve done it a long time ago too.” Andrew rubbed his cheek while he spoke then planted his chin in his right palm, casually glancing to Gemma, perhaps fantasizing over the life they might’ve lived; the expression he wore was distant and the young man—as I’d learned in caring after him—could seemingly dissociate at will.
The girl’s snoring ceased and was replaced by a heavy breath, and I watched her shift on the makeshift bedding.
“Reasons come and go as they do,” I answered then shrugged.
“I’ve never seen her like that,” he said, eyes still locked on Gemma’s sleeping form, “She used to be so kind, so gentle.” He shook his head. “You think she did it? You really think she killed him?”
“Harold?”
Andrew nodded.
Gemma wasn’t sleeping any longer and answered abruptly, raising herself up to a sit, rubbing her eyes then looking incredulously through them in slits. “Why not just ask me?” She displayed hands still stained dull red from the previous night. “What’s this say then?” Trouble shifted nervously beside her.
“I don’t know,” said Andrew.
“What’s it say?” she repeated.
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you right now—I’d do it again.” She was immediately lucid and nearly frightening; there was a thing in her eyes I couldn’t read. “Think you can just go off and talk about me like I’m not here, huh? That’s total nonsense. I can’t believe it.”
I stared at the space between my crossed legs on the floor.
“That’s not how I meant it at all,” said Andrew, “It just worries me.”
“You said you didn’t love me anymore,” a hitch seemed to catch in her throat (there was the humanity), but she muscled through it, “So worry about yourself and keep me out of it!”
Trouble let go of a small whine and Gemma was there to the dog, rubbing her hand across its brow, and the dog caught my eyes from the corner of its own and I looked away.
“There, there,” said the girl to the dog.
“I’m sorry,” said Andrew.
“Keep it.”
I coughed into my fist and whispered dryly, “If you two keep at it, you’ll wake the whole city to us.”
Andrew nodded and Gemma watched the dog.
“So, you wanted to see the wizards so badly?” I asked them. “You wanted to see where they live? How they live?”
“We’ve seen the wizards,” said Gemma bluntly.
“Sure, but you’ve never seen a library, have you?”
“The Bosses have their books all stacked on shelves too, if that’s what you mean.” Gemma’s tone was far off somewhere and she did not remove her eyes from the dog.
“Sure, but it ain’t just shelves of books—there’s loads. Halls, walkways of them stacked so high you’d need a ladder to reach the tops of them.”
“You were the one that tried talking me out of leaving home,” said Gemma, “Remember?”
I watched her blood-stained hands pet the dog and she finally looked up from the mutt to me. “It doesn’t seem you’d be welcome home anymore.” I offered a crude grin. “Maybe be excited for it then.”
Andrew hunkered and leaned his curved back against the wall opposite and scratched his cheek. “How long’s it take?”
“If I was on my own,” I stared at the dark ceiling overhead where I watched dust collect in swirls over our heads, “It’d be two weeks and a day or more depending. With ya’ll too? I don’t know.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Gemma, moving to stand in the mess of blankets; the closet was not enough room for the four of us and the dampness of our collective breathing created a mugginess.
Andrew, who had the foresight to pack small rations, passed her his water gourd and she gulped some back without a word and Trouble looked up from across her paws where she laid her head. Upon Gemma returning the water, the boy took a bowl from his pack and poured a few drinks for the dog and rubbed its ear.
“I’m going out to scout. No fighting while I’m away.” I said and began rising, “You,” I pointed to the boy, “Put this metal sheet against the door and your weight against the sheet and don’t open for anyone but me.”
Andrew stared at me then nodded and I slipped out from the safehouse, into a mostly destroyed storefront which harbored the closet we hid in, into the street with shadows of cyclopean structures which towered seemingly to heaven and my mind went to Dave again and how I’d been overtop that industrial building, how I possibly might’ve ‘slipped’ and fallen to an early demise. Was Dave still alive? He was cunning and brave in doing what he’d done, but certainly dead. It was again the story of heroes. The primeval consequence for any person with goodness left in them; it could and would wring them dry—whether it be demons or fellows of their kind, it comes for heroes all the same.
I’d not slept the previous night and my senses were dulled by it and every long shadow in the periphery felt as though it might reach out and snatch me; it was not so much paranoia, but merely a standard reflex of sleep deprivation. Still, I hugged the walls where I could and crept through moldering vehicles which stood in the way. There I came to Fif Aven and I recalled Aggie but briefly and crawled into a corroded pickup truck with its passenger door missing; I slid onto the bench seat, disturbing so many years of dust and it choked me, but I lay there on the seat and stared at the cab’s roof and inhaled the stuff of the old world—certainly there was trouble then too, but what could be worse?
I rested shortly and listened to the dead silence and at times I caught my breath for it was overwhelming.
The thought of leaving those children to their demise arose—I could move quickly enough on my own.
After resting a while, I scooted from the truck and carried on, more tired than before, but I moved through the narrow avenues of rubble, going as quietly as ever until I came to the open field which encompassed Golgotha. There the city stood still, and prone bodies were taken before the exterior of the gate where they burned on pyre piles, flames melting the horizon in their spots. I held my breath for a moment, caught in the far-off presence of those fires and I wondered if Dave was there, burning. If not that, then it would be worse. If not that, then they’d make a spectacle of it in the square. The figures which lugged the others from the city gates were small pinpricks across the skyline and I breathed deep and could almost taste ash in the air, then I returned to the closet where I’d left Gemma and Andrew.
Each of them looked on at me with questioning brows without words and I told them to shimmy around in the small room so I could take account of the supplies. Sleep would be no issue as long as no one minded the hot breath of the person next to them.
“We’ll stay here tonight then move on,” I said. I scanned the hanging shelf; there were canned foods and a bit of tobacco lined there and a single lantern. I shook the lantern and a bit of oil swished within it. “No light tonight. No talking either.” I put my hand to my head and rubbed my forehead.
Andrew remained over my shoulder and said, “I’ve got some water—a little food too.”
“Good.”
That night, we ate from cans without words and when Trouble messed in the corner, Gemma scooped it and removed it from our miniscule dwelling; the smell of blood was strong on her and though I expected the two children’s bickering to continue, it was gone entirely and we arranged ourselves haphazardly in the closet, our collective legs like slats parallel and our backs against walls and Trouble took to Gemma.
Before it went full dark, Andrew examined the discoloring around his empty wrist and then I saw him remove the jar which contained his hand from his small knapsack—the thing was full on rotting with a congealing ooze forming along the base of the jar, but no smell escaped the container—he sat there with it, holding it inches from his face and he frowned.
“Why don’t you throw it out?” asked Gemma; she idly patted Trouble’s neck.
“It’s mine, isn’t it?” said the boy.
“So? It’s nasty.”
“If it was yours, would you keep it?” he asked.
Gemma shook her head.
“Well, it’s mine.”
She made a face.
We slept in terrible discomfort and Trouble awoke more than once in the night, letting go of little growls or whines—she was stuck with nightmares. Sometimes, Andrew might offer a comment about how Gemma should keep the dog quiet, but it was otherwise quiet.
At daybreak, we ate then arranged what could be gathered for the march onward; I put the shotgun sling over my shoulder, and we took into the ruins where the sun came through destruction in buildings in splintered rays and the dog kept to Gemma’s side with a bit of improvised twine as a lead.
“What’s it like out here all the time? You come out here all the time—you probably know more freedom than most, huh?” said Gemma.
“If you need to talk, you should whisper it. That said, you shouldn’t talk,” I hushed the words as I took to a nearby wall and the troupe followed, remaining in the relative shade of the buildings which towered over.
“Fine,” said Gemma, taking the center with the dog while Andrew trailed at the rear, “Then what’s all these?”
“What’s what?”
“These big tall buildings everywhere.”
“It’s our history,” I said.
“Of course, but why are they here?”
“It’s hard to imagine there was ever so many people for these.”
“There were billions at a time,” I said.
We came to an intersection of streets where vehicles were piled high, and we cut through a corner structure where all but the supports of the ground floor had long ago been blown away; arrangements of jagged rebar bent from exposed flooring like stalks and Gemma lifted the dog to not tangle the leash. Our footsteps were swift but not silent from all the debris.
“What’s that?” asked Andrew, joining in.
“What’s what? And whisper it for Christ sake.” I hissed the words, taking through a wide threshold into the street once more.
“You said billions. What’s that?”
“It’s a lot—a really big number.” I let go of a sigh and pivoted; the children froze in their walking and bumbled into one another. I put my forefinger to my lips. “No more,” I said.
And there was no more as we went.
The sun beat down on us more and as we angled through wreckages, through those pathways which took us our way, we sweated, and steam rose off our heads and the dog’s panting was the only noise, save our footfalls. There in that place, there in the plains beyond or in the mountains behind and yonder was where the souls of the dying were and we were with them and as I led, I felt aimless because leading was never my game.
A sky of rust domineered, and we took a moment in the shade of a brutal façade; within the emptied holes of a windowless storefront were long dark shadows, and the places where light met, I spied clothes on lines and spirals of racks and the clothes were so insect picked and dried one could assume they’d fall to dust if they were lifted from their stations.
We drained what freshwater we had Gemma hunkered down, first to pat Trouble then to tear strips from the hem of her robes. She created terrible scarves and handed one to both me and Andrew; the boy looked at her curiously while she wrapped a garland of the material around her own head.
“For your heads,” she shrugged as though it didn’t matter, “The sun might blister your skin.”
We pushed on, each of us peering through the slits of our makeshift headgear and when the time came and when plants—as green as dreams and more foreign—began to gather on either side of the place we walked, I motioned for another brief pause and they gathered there, Gemma’s eyes were serious, perhaps furious, and Andrew looked on at the vegetation which sprung through the overwhelming concrete with no less wonder than should be expected.
I first looked to Gemma, “It’s ahead. Not far now.”
She nodded that she knew where I meant.
“You know then?” I asked the girl.
Another nod followed.
Andrew put his hand to his brow and peered through the high light and whispered, “I think there’s fruits ahead. We hardly get fruits back home. They look big too. Trees like I’ve never seen.”
I put my hand to his shoulder. “Don’t eat them. Don’t even touch them. Alright?”
“Alright.” Andrew’s attention went to Gemma there next to him and he asked, “What’s the matter with you? You know this place?”
“It’s a garden ahead,” Her eyes moved from his to mine, “Right?”
“Right.”
“Why?” she asked.
“A garden? That’s incredible!” said Andrew.
“It is not,” said Gemma.
I took them in closer so that we were whispers away and we curled our bodies partially into the black storefront. “Ya’ll need to stay close me,” I said, “Stay close—Gemma, you carry the mutt. Andrew, you stay close too. Don’t speak. Don’t speak with what you see there.”
“What?” asked the boy.
“Shh,” said the girl, reaching out with one of those red stained hands to touch me, “Do we need to?”
Did we? I nodded. “Don’t touch anything. I reckon you two still have that holy spirit of Golgotha in you so if you feel it then pray and Gemma, I know you know some from Lady so say them quick and make it right and let’s go.”
They prayed for Jesus, for Elohim, for safety. I watched and Trouble watched them too.
We went to the garden and there was no flute playing, no sound of hooves—there was no sound at all but the baking of the earth and the small rhythm of fresh leaves caught in whatever dismal wind there was there in that place. Taking through the garden, there were trees which arched overhead—indeed the fruits that hung from those branches were moistened like with rain and bright and multicolored—and the shrubbery too was thick among our ankles and then there was Baphomet’s cobblestone yard with a throne and the well and there on a risen tablet by the throne, Baphomet sat, chest glistening in the sunlight, legs crossed, head arched back so that its head could see the sky.
So, you’ve come again. This time you’ve brought thrice the power to bargain with. Harlan, oh—don’t look at me like that and come closer and tell me what it is you wish. Baphoment shifted to catch me in its eye and then slid to sit with its legs off the edge of the great stone. You look tired. Is it perhaps that you have come to keep me company? Have you given in to those curious desires which compel humankind? I can take you to those places far and gaping. There are limits to your form, but form is changed easily of course—with time and pressure. Curious that you would arrive with tampered merchandise. That should be discounted. Still. The demon took note of Gemma flanking so closely to my left that we were touching; she carried Trouble and the dog shivered—the girl shivered too.
In a puff of smoke, Baphomet disappeared then reappeared directly in front of me; a hot breath escaped its snout visibly and then it took in the smell of us.
Mmm. That sin is on you all. Have I ever told you the euphoric nature of it?
“I’ve come to make a deal,” I said.
Baphomet cocked its head. If you’ve come for a return, I’m afraid the girl you left with me is long transformed. For, after all, is easy. I doubt you’ve have use for the state she’s in. Still, The creature stood tall so it towered over us then arched low to peer into Gemma’s eyes. Did you miss me? Is that it?
“It’ll be the last deal I make.”
It seemed the creature smiled, if it was possible. Promise?
“Yes.”
I get you? That’d certainly make others green with envy.
“Yes.”
What is it you want then?
“I want firepower,” I held the shotgun out in front of me, “And time enough to do what I need to do.”
Give me your hand. Reach out. It’ll hurt like the dickens for only a second. Baphomet extended its claw-like hands, beckoning my own.
I put out my right hand and the creature took it, drove the nail of its forefinger into my forearm nearest the elbow, then traced a shallow cut down the length of my arm till it met the top of my hand. The towering beast let go then looked me over, snorted, tapped a hoof, then crossed its arms. Blood dripped freely from the mark on my arm. “Will you make that deal?” I asked.
The demon shook its head. I won’t touch you. No one will.
“Why?”
The thing which I might want from you is not something you can give freely. It belongs to someone already.
I bit my tongue then shook my head. “Who?”
What fun would there be in me telling? Baphomet traced around our small group and came to a halt at the right shoulder of Andrew; the boy closed his eyes. I could tell you for a trade though.
I shook my head and turned to leave.
Mm. Harlan. You break my heart.
We left the garden, not looking back, not even when Baphomet took to playing its tune—though the sun beat us down there was a coolness which passed through me and I wondered if the same could be said for Gemma or Andrew; I caught the girl’s eyes as she carried the whimpering pup and there was a message there, a telepathy I understood and it was maybe sorrow or her unforgotten pain. I willed us on, and they followed, and we went to the safehouse up the stairs to rest and regroup.
I looked out over the street where the shadows cut darker as the sun began to rest and Andrew played a game of tug with the mutt, and I smoked while Gemma joined me at the tall windows.
“It’s the smell,” she said to me, “I smell that thing all the time. I scarcely remember the creature, but I know that’s where you found me,” there was a brief pause as she crossed her arms over her chest, “Isn’t it?”
I nodded, “Yeah.”
She hiked the arms of her robes up and examined the scars there and then looked at me then let the robes slink down her arms as her fists met her by her sides. Gemma pressed near the glass.
“Do they burn?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I might have something better for you to wear. Something with less catch when you move. Pants. Shirts. You’ve got boots on, haven’t you?”
She twisted the torn hems of her robes to expose her leathered feet.
I traced the walls—stacks crates of goods were there (surely I’d find something suitable for travel).
We found water in the safehouse and food and light too. When dark came, we huddled around her lanterns and Andrew assisted in watching the boiling pot. Gemma changed, cut her hair to her scalp, and washed her hands. With her new garb, her throat stood more exposed, and the healing wounds there were like embedded ropes in her flesh. Andrew kept his eyes flittering, his focus remained on the food, but always his gaze was primarily steals of her.
They were in love, for sure—anyone could see it (I could). It truly was a pain to be in the presence of two young people, the potential, the possibilities of a true life—I should not go on. Hope breeds determination, but anything more is weakness.
No one had an easy time with sleep that night, save Trouble; each of us lined ourselves by the windows and looked out to see glowing mutant eyes wilder than any electric light. We shut off the lanterns and sat with bellies full, a spiderlike skin taker lumbered through the avenue which we overlooked—the center mass of its body, stilted high from the ground on those spear legs, traced before our eyes and it was all black and fuzzy—and the children whispered to ask me what it was, and I told them I didn’t know exactly.
“They’re faster than they seem,” I said.
Gemma touched the window glass with her palm.
“They suck up your skin,” I said, “They take it right off your body.”
Gemma sat up straighter and withdrew her hand from the glass, leaving a hand mark there where the sweat of her fingers was. Their faces were coated in the bluish milk glaze of the moon and stars. “How?” she asked.
I moved from the window, leaving them there to watch. “Don’t make noise tonight. I’m going to sleep dead. I put a bucket in the corner over there if you need it.”
The bedroll smelled of mold, of dust, for it was an old thing I’d tucked away years prior, and I figured I would never have a use for it. It was for emergencies. Most of the supplies I kept were like that. They were things I hoped to never need.
As I stretched on my back, staring at the dead ceiling overhead, I listened to the silence of the ruins periodically broken from the whispers of Andrew and Gemma as they continued their talking, and I closed my eyes and directly before I was ferried on to the place of dreams, the face of Dave took to view in the black backdrop of my eye lids and there was Boss Maron; I imagined they put the poor rebel to his knees and blew his brains across the ground. Or worse. It was probably worse. It always was.
Just as the world was gone, it was back again; Andrew shook me awake and Trouble was growling. I propelled from the bedroll, eyes darting in every direction, and I half imagined we were under attack from Leviathan, but there was no such thing. Gemma stood by the locked door which connected to the stairwell, and someone banged with their fist on the other side. The door rattled in its frame, and I launched into position by the girl—her stance was half crouched, and she seemed frozen solid. I motioned at the door and she shrugged.
A voice came from the other side of the door, bemoaning desperation.
Help! said the voice, high pitched, feminine seeming. Please, help me!
“We should help them,” said Andrew, “God, open the door.”
“Shh,” Gemma put her index finger to her pursed lips, “Shut up. Don’t be stupid!”
They looked at me and Trouble continued growling.
First/Previous
Archive

First/Previous
Andrew remained sick for a time, and we watched over him while he recovered in my bed; I’d taken to sleeping on the floor—Dave visited often and Gemma came whenever she could sneak away from the watchful eye of her father, the Bosses, and their servants. The young man’s wounds were terrible, easily beyond my expertise (although I had some field experience, I was sure at times that Andrew would die) and he spoke often in his sleep, and he said Gemma’s name all the time. I fed him heartened soups when I could and gave him water, but his eyes remained unfocused like he was staring off into the great beyond somewhere. Gemma grew more worried with every passing day, and she tried to rouse him from his stupor, but nothing she did could breach his strange daze and Dave, whenever he came, helped me lift the boy, check that he wasn’t developing unnecessary sores, and he would aid in replacing Andrew’s bandages.
During his recovery, I stayed home often—more often than ever—and I would remain awake well into the night and smoke tobacco, lighting one cigarette off the last and theorizing his recovery. There was a night where I stood by the door with the entryway left partly open and blew smoke from its crack into the open air, and then I heard the boy speak and he said, “That smells.” I turned to see him sitting directly upright, eyes lucid but watery. Then he shifted into the blanket and immediately fell to sleep again. It was then that I knew the boy would live; still he slept hard, and still when Gemma came, he did not respond to her prodding, but his health seemed inevitable.
It rained twice while the boy was in bed and each time, the people in town grabbed up pails or stained washtubs and caught the brief downpours and some stood out in the falling rain and watched the zigzag lights shoot across the plump gray sky while I remained afraid that Leviathan might show or that any false shadow on the horizon might be that awful dragon, but each time my worries were proven unfounded.
When Andrew awoke in full force, he asked me for his severed hand, and I returned it to him in a wide mouth jar and he examined it and thanked me for keeping it; the dead thing was rotted, and bones began to emerge from the flesh around the fingertips and knuckles.
Gemma came and her presence had become a custom and upon him seeing her, he recoiled and told her to leave him be, but she couldn’t and instead went to him on the bed where she’d sit on the edge and reach out with her own scarred hands and he’d tell her, “Leave me alone.”
She wept, but the boy kept a stern expression, and she nearly stopped coming once he’d made himself clear that he no longer loved her.
It had been a week since Gemma’s last visit and nearly three since me and Dave first brought the boy to my home and I finally asked the boy in the bed, “Was it necessary to hurt the girl like that?” It was night out and through a crack in my room’s door, I could see the faint push of the moon’s milk splash light.
“I’m here because of her,” he told me.
“You’re here because of her father.”
“He hates me.”
“Do you hate her?”
“I couldn’t hate her ever.”
“Are you trying to protect her or yourself?” I asked.
“It could be both, but I don’t wanna’ talk about it. I think I’d like to go west though. It’d do me good to get out on my own, away from here.” Andrew pulled himself into a sit in the center of the mattress, moving slowly for his injuries, and draped the blanket around his shoulders then pulled the covering in close near his throat. “I don’t think I like it here—there’s nothing stopping me leaving either.”
“You’d certainly die on your own.”
“Then I’ll wait for those weirdo, pointed hats and I’ll ask them to take me with them.”
“Maybe.” I thought of how I’d told Suzanne I’d visit in a month’s time since their last arrival in Golgotha and the time had nearly come. “Perhaps we ought to find you a chaperone.”
More days passed us by, and Andrew felt better to remove himself from bed and properly bathe and I showed him the dosage he should take then let him look after his own medication. His spirits remained low while his cheeks ran with more color and although he hobbled about, he seldom went from my home and kept to himself—on more than one occasion, I tried to get him to go to market with me and he refused each time. Andrew’s brooding nature was an illness I couldn’t help and maybe that’s why whenever Dave came with the mutt—he’d taken to calling the animal Trouble due to the dog’s nature of going where it was forbade—Andrew’s face illuminated at the dog and the dog would go and rest its head between the boy’s knees whenever he sat and look up and the boy rubbed the dog’s ears and whispered to it secrets that he didn’t care about sharing.
Gemma came again and this time she was not the fawning doll of affection, but angry and rightly so; she’d pushed into my home after a light knock and Dave and Andrew and Trouble, and I each turned to see who might enter the already cramped room. The girl shut the door gently behind her then stepped quickly across the room, removing her head wrap. “You’re leaving?” she asked while pointing a finger at Andrew’s chest; the poke to his breastbone made a sound and her stance was aggressive, and she towered over him where he sat on the edge of the bed with Trouble at his feet; the dog merely lifted her head and examined the people. “I could kill you.”
“They already tried that!” Andrew spit with his words. “Besides, who told you that?” His eyes shot to me where I’d taken up leaning at the corner near the door.
I shook my head while Dave shifted nervously from his right foot to his left foot.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Her hands shook while she made them into frustrated claws. “How could you?”
“Go home.” The young man spoke dully as his eyes went dim.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“The hell you are,” I spoke up.
Gemma pivoted then cut her eyes at me. “Why not?”
“Did you fuckin’ forget what happened last time? You ain’t going anywhere.”
“Do you really think my father would actually let everyone go without water until they die?”
“You know him, don’t you?” I said.
She sighed then sat on the bed alongside the boy.
Andrew shifted from her then said, “I don’t want you to come with me. Stay here,” then he added, “Stay away from me.”
Gemma left, not even caring to return the disguise to her head in her hurry; once she was gone and there was no indication of her return, Dave spoke, “You did the right thing.” He clenched his jaw.
Me and Dave went to Felina’s at night if only to have a place to go where we could speak without the boy’s ears; he’d had enough trouble as of late and did not need to be caught amid a coup. We’d left Trouble with him and although he’d given us a concerned look, the boy merely shrugged and went to playing tug-o-war with the mutt on the end of an old rag. The brothel had become a meeting place for me and him where we would go and whisper—it had been a long time since I’d had anyone to do that with on a regular basis.
Dave had informed me that his friend—the one that worked in the basements alongside the Boss’s stores—wanted to meet in person to plan our next moves. It should also be good, on the chance that anything happened to Dave, I would know the face of the man.
Felina’s first floor was empty besides us, and the barwoman bathed in candlelight, and not a peep came from upstairs; we’d taken up in what had become our usual table and each object and person were caught in dancing ribbons of orange light.
“I’ll be gone for weeks,” I warned Dave, “I won’t be able to help you till I return.” It was true; the travel to Alexandria would take a long time, and longer still if Suzanne forced me to hesitate.
He nodded as Felina brought us our water and then leaned in close, took a sip, then nodded again, seemingly stuck in thinking. “You don’t mean to slip out on me, do you?”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a person to see. Whatever transpires here and the aftermath, I want to see them one last time if it means I’m to throw my life away on this uprising you’ve got.” I took my own cup and drank it in one go then set it away.
There was a long pause where he rubbed his thumbs along the rim of his cup and stared into the pool there; he opened his mouth as though to say something then shut it again.
“I keep my deals.” A chill pushed through me.
“I know. Who would’ve thought I’d trust you?” He smacked his lips.
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
He finished his own water. “Let me go with you.”
“Hm?”
“You’re taking the boy out west, out to where the wizards are, huh?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I’d like to go and see if they’d care to send any aid.”
I fought a smile. “They don’t fight. They’re soft folks.”
“Still.”
“Still what? I just told you. You’re not going to raise them to start a war. They’re traders, pagans—liars too. Proactive violence is something they don’t condone.”
“They couldn’t give us some—I don’t know. Don’t they have like spells or something they can teach us?”
I caught a surprised laugh in my cupped hand. “You think—It doesn’t work like that.”
Dave began to fidget in his seat. “You don’t haf’ta make me feel stupid.”
Without even realizing it, I reached out with a hand and put it on his shoulder for comfort, “Sorry,” I quickly withdrew the hand, “It’s not like that.”
“Well, what is like then?”
Just then, the door to Felina’s pushed in to reveal a haggard gentleman, pale, angular cheekbones, and deep eyes; it could only be Dave’s friend from the basements. The man came to our table and sat across from us, keeping his hands together and massaging his knuckles in front of his chest then leaning forward preparing a whisper; Felina, from her post behind the counter, shot a glance to us gathered, but otherwise continued in her own concerns, reading some book she kept with her.
“I’ve got something you should see,” said the man.
Dave grinned, but I did not care for the cut of the man’s gib, and I sat a bit straighter in my seat—Dave greeted the man warmly, “Mills, this is Harlan.”
The man shot a glance to me then a small nod, “Yeah, I know him.” Mills directed his attention back to Dave, “I’ve got something you should see. Outside. Right this moment.”
An ethereal dreamlike pause fell across the table, and I felt lightheaded and even Dave’s demeanor changed. There was a brief smile that fell across Mills’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as he shifted in his seat.
Finally, I spoke, “You could lie better.”
“I’m not lying,” protested Mills.
“How many are there?” I unsheathed the knife from my belt and traced my eyes across the dark and windowless room.
Mills opened his face, incredulous, and then shut it and slumped on his seat. “What are you talking about?”
“How many are waiting outside for us? Are they here to kill us or do they intend to capture? Say it plain and don’t try to deny it.”
“You fella’s are paranoid, huh?” said Mills.
Dave stood and put a hand on my shoulder, but I shirked it away, and the man chewed on the inside of his mouth then said, “Mills, please tell me you didn’t turn us in.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Mills. He scoffed. “There’s no way I would. How could you even think that?”
“Did they tell you you’d be safe? Did they tell you that everything was fine? I’ll tell you something—nothing that happens in this town’s fine. If you can’t see that.” Dave drifted off. “Well, Harlan,” he directed his attention to me, “What now?”
“We could skin him,” I brandished my knife and Mills recoiled. “I’m kidding. If those troopers are outside waiting on us, then we’ve got bad trouble on our hands. If we don’t do something quick, they’re liable to kick that door in and spray us dead.”
“You could go quietly,” offered Mills. “That Harold likes you pretty good,” he nodded at me, “I don’t think they’d hurt you bad.”
“So,” I said, “He admits at last. What’s the number? How many wall men did those jackals send?”
“Just the Sheriff. He wanted to talk. When I spoke to him, he seemed more pleasant than most.”
Dave moved to the counter where Felina was and he began saying something to her, hushed.
“What’s the Sheriff want?”
“He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“I don’t’ have a thing to say to the man.”
“I believe it. I believe he wants to talk with you and nothing more.” Mills seemed tired.
I kept my knife at the ready.
Dave returned to the table and stood beside Mills where he sat, “She said there’s a back way out,” said Dave.
We moved and Mills remained, but Dave rounded the table far more quickly than I believed him capable, pulled Mills to his feet by the scruff on the back of the man’s neck and without too much protest, Mills was our captive.
“I’ll scream,” said Mills.
“If you do, this blade’s going straight up your ass,” I said.
The three of us, in a strange marching line with Mills in front followed by Dave then me, rounded Felina’s counter and we followed the woman into the backroom where she lived; in the far corner was a bed with a sink—standard amenities—a few old books, and an exposed closet off the wall where clothes hung. She ushered us toward the rear of the room, furthest from where we’d come, and pushed a doorway into the warm black night that smelled of chicken feces.
Dave directed a whisper to the woman, “They might hurt you for helping us. Come with us.”
“Fuck ‘em,” she said, then pulled the door shut with her still on the other side.
We were there in the dirt street on the backside of the brothel, and it was quiet and empty—most of the exposed windows down the lane were black save the hydro towers. We took off, Dave keeping one of Mills’s arms pushed high on his back so that the man couldn’t move too far off the directed course.
“Where do we go?” said Dave, “Aw hell, I don’t even know where to go!”
“This way,” I said.
“Where are you leading us?” he asked.
“I’ve got to get my things.”
“You’re going home? They’ll be waiting there, won’t they?”
Just then, gunfire erupted from the direction of Felina’s; it was a short spurt, followed by perhaps shouting, then another volley of gunfire and then it was quiet.
Dave shifted on his feet, still holding Mills, like he intended to rush back; I put a hand on him and shook my head.
“Where do we go?” Small terror melted with his voice.
“We’ve gotta get out of town.”
“They’ll shoot us from the walls.”
Mills mumbled, “Well you can just leave me here.”
Ignoring this, I said, “All of my things are home,” then I thought to add, “What about Andrew? If they’ve already ransacked my place, they’ve surely killed him.”
“Trouble too,” said Dave, “Oh god.”
Then the bells over the hall of Bosses rang and my stomach twisted; lights in homes began illuminating in response to the ruckus and denizens stepped from their places, looking up and down the way. We stood there in the street and for the first time in a long time, I was frozen. Dave pushed on down an alley, Mills protested in saying that his arm was broken (it wasn’t) and I followed, totally bedazzled.
In the rush, Dave let go of our prisoner and directed me to keep the man and then he asked, “Have you got matches—a lighter? Something!”
I fumbled in my jacket pocket and produced a lighter; Dave snatched the thing from me, and we moved on further down the alley, further from the bells—along the way Mills cursed us and Dave flinched and balked at every person we moved by in the shadows, for they might be a wall man. People began screaming and more gunfire rang out—this time ahead of us; we spilled out of the alley into an opening which connected several narrow streets where two soldiers were standing over a body in the dark; Dave stopped ahead, and we shrank back into the alley then pressed ourselves against the exterior wall of an abode where the overhanging catwalks kept us in shadow.
One of the wall men kicked the unmoving body then fired another round into it; the corpse spasmed momentarily. If I had a softer heart, I would’ve vocalized the reason for the killing, but I knew because I’d seen it happen before; when killing started, those with the will to do so always stepped to the occasion. They’d heard the same gunfire we’d heard and decided not to be left out. The wall man fired another round into the body and for a flash, his face was illuminated, and I could see he was young—even if the millisecond of glow had twisted his expression in a wild blaze.
“Lemme go!” hushed Mills, popping me squarely in the groin with his free hand.
As he launched away from us in the shadows, I huffed forward, swiping my blade wildly, eyes blurred; with reckless thought, I would’ve gone after him, but Dave reached out to stop me and Mills charged toward the wall men in the square opening; I think he shouted something at them—maybe it was about where we were hiding and about how we’d been terrible captors.
The traitor danced with the echo of gunfire and the soldiers had a new body for target practice. The wall men paid us no mind in our poor hiding place—wilder gunpowder screams filled the night air and blood began to drift on the wind.
I’d not even noticed Dave holding my hand in the dark as we took to crouching behind rubbish pushed to the sides of the alley. “We’ll split up,” said Dave, letting go of my hand.
“Wait,” I slid my back up the wall to stand, putting my knife away, “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I know,” he said, both of us remaining in shadow, close enough that our shoulders were touching, “I’m heading towards the hall.”
There was a long pause; more shrieks echoed around us in that narrow passage and then I nodded.
“To the basements. To the gunpowder. I’ll try and catch you near the gate. If not.” He shook his head. “Goodbye tinman.”
Dave launched himself incredibly quickly from the shadows then moved the way we’d come from, keeping low and weaving. I soon followed, and I believe I saw him circling around one of the hydro towers in the ensuing chaos. A young boy was shoved into the moonlight where the brace of a rifle met his head; a woman was declothed then beheaded; an infant was sent through the air from the end of a mighty swing where it met the exterior wall of a storage shed. I saw them all and in the fury of the wall men, I lost sight of Dave and I kept to the darkness and held in my screams to remain unseen.
Doubling back some around the area by Felina’s where the buildings opened some, I saw Boss Maron barking orders, a club used to point before he put it to use against bewildered citizens. The night was cool and lonely, as I’d been accustomed, I moved quickly and without worry—survival reigned supreme in the labored breaths I inhaled through Golgotha’s blood-soaked streets where people pushed by or hid in the darkest recesses; a few times I happened by an open window and saw people scrunched in a corner on their haunches with their eyes closed and sometimes they prayed. Upon nearing the stairs that led to my home—the steps mere minutes away—a man scrambled around on his hands and knees. Thinking I could propel over him, he caught my foot and I stumbled and twisted around, ready to stick him with my knife; the man threw himself at my waist, clinging around my hips with locked arms, begging up at me with blood in his face. Moonlight caught the shine of his own mishappen brain exposed along the right side of his shattered skull. “Help! I’m on fire!” screamed the man, foam clung to his mouth, “Water! I’m burning!” I bit my lip and shoved the man off and he continued scrambling madly in the dark till he found a tub of stagnant water—knee high—precariously pushed against the wall of a nearby alley and plunged his head into the murkiness and he did not move again.
With focus, I rushed on, passing by executions in the streets, screams of mouths ground in the soil beneath boots, and all the while the moon hung between the shadows of the tall buildings, swathed in a gown of mist in a sky of absent stars so the night stretched like the void it was.
Coming to the stairs that led to the catwalks where my home was, a pale hand, stained dull red, shot from the darkness beneath the steps and held onto my ankle—a yell escaped me and I stumbled back, kicking at the hand with my free foot. The hand recoiled, cursed, then Gemma removed herself from the space beneath the stairs; scarcely, I could make out the face of Andrew still there in the darkness and the low growl of Trouble and the chaos fell away for a moment, and I asked the girl, “Are you hurt?” examining the blood on her clothes, on her hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I killed him,” she said while Andrew came from the recesses, the mutt at his side; the boy had my old shotgun slung over his shoulder, “I killed him,” the girl repeated, “So I could go. He’s dead.” Her eyes were far, and her fists hung at her sides.
“You’re all alive?” My quivering words barely registered to myself over the wails and clacks of war toys and a wall man began to pass us by, chasing after a boy with a long-flamed torch pushed over his head by his scrawny arm while he caterwauled a primitive shout into the night—the wall men stopped at us.
The soldier’s eyes reflected amidst the overhead catwalk shadows, and his facial hair was thin enough to be a stain and he raised a pistol to my face, and seeing the black hole of the barrel I merely closed my eyes, wincing, waiting for it. “Get inside. Please,” said the man before I cracked my eyes to see the openness he’d filled was empty, the clank of his gear rattled in his absence before disappearing after him.
“Might’ve killed you,” said Andrew.
I shook the thought from my head. “We should go.”
Gemma rubbed the dried blood down the front of herself, “He dropped so fast.”
“Shh.” I grabbed the girl’s hand and the boy followed at a restrained pace, the dog sniffing after, tail pulled between its legs, and I happened to notice its ears perking at whatever sound when I’d glance to be sure they came. We gave the hydro towers a wide berth, keeping to the western side of town till we met the buildings nearest the wall where there was relative quiet from the devastation; onlookers still pushed their moonlight glazed faces from apertures and watched us go and some called after us, but we ignored them. “Keep up!” I urged the youngins, “Don’t dally! Don’t fall behind!”
“It’s hard keeping this fucking thing and watching the dog!” said Andrew.
I reached over, slid the gun from his body, and put it across my chest in both hands. “Did you happen to grab any of the ammo?”
His refusal to answer made me slip the strap over my shoulder and we carried on till we met an alley that slithered to the opening of the southern square where the gate was. We hung in the darkness by a dead metal wagon of crates covered by a stained blanket and then I was at a loss. Smoke met us and I was sure there was a fire the way we’d come. Perhaps it was for the smoke or fire or the blood, but upon nosing out from the corner that led into the square, the snipers on the wall too began firing their weapons and I was certain they’d seen me and were shooting at me for a moment, but upon freezing in my position, I realized the people on the wall’s ramparts fired at something beyond; a volley of them resounded and I felt the others pull in close to me so we were all clumped and touching and the dog had gone from flinching to shivering for each round was so quick after the last. Surely, if Dave intended to meet me there at the square, he’d be there—my eyes scanned the black scenery.
“Mutants!” a woman on the wall shouted to her comrades, “More ‘en I’ve ever seen! Get your asses up here!”
The kids babbled something, and I hushed them and told them to stay in the darkness while I moved forward where large gashes of bluish moon threatened to betray my location and I moved to the unguarded electrical switch—surely they’d close it back soon enough—opened its door and flipped the switch and the grinding of the gate coming to life was never so loud before as its clockwork innards did their job. I could only imagine the bafflement of the wall men. I motioned for the kids to follow, and Gemma lifted the dog up in her arms, still making better pace than Andrew. The sound of boots rattling on the wall overhead came and someone fired down at me, but I pushed back towards the wall and the dirt ground between me and Gemma erupted spits of dirt. The girl shrieked, coming to a halt so the boy slammed into her, and they both stumbled in a mess, and caught one another without falling. Trouble yelped.
I pushed from my spot, gathered them in my arms and we moved like a strange centipede to the opened gate where we slid through to immediately be met by a meridian of glowing yellow eyes perhaps fifty yards out. The mutants, things once human but twisted by some greater demon, fought over one another in their lurch with jagged motions, pale in the moonlight without hair and thin skin that clung to bald heads and mouths blackened from filth and teeth nubbed from the circular grinding of their jaws; the creatures came with their homunculus growls, their hunched backs, their lizard quickness. They came for the direction of the open gate and all I heard were screams and the scuffle of our shared balance as we took across the blue horizon of open space and I ushered across that expanse with the black ruins on the horizon and the smoke rose over the starless sky and although I was certain we’d be shot dead in the back, providence saved us—no, it was Dave.
The earth trembled beneath our feet, and I heard the confetti of rubble on rubble and the earth itself screamed and I knew Dave had done what he’d set out to.
First/Previous
Archive

so i have a cough and i’m sneezing. and when i cough it either hurts my chest or my back. and i have asthma, is this normal?

Something is wrong, and there’s no second guessing it. Sure, since the Vanishing weird stuff has happened that didn’t always mean immediate danger, but watching the sky go dark a second time is an omen so bad my stomach is doing somersaults. My eyes dart around the vehicle, my first thought being, ‘Oh God, is anyone going to vanish?’ but when nothing happens, I ease up. Instead, everyone goes silent. Dead silent. Nobody knows how to react. In the front, I see Eight and Thirteen looking at one another, trying frantically to decide whether it’s a better idea to gun it away from whatever is about to happen, or to stay quiet and hide from it. We remain like that for a long moment before somebody dares speak.
“There’s something over there; through the trees.” Morgan points out with a small quiver, “Wes, i-is that one of those things that attacked us when we first met?”
Instantly, my heart sets to a heavy beat as I scan the windows for what he’s talking about. Images of slithers flood my mind, along with the gruesome scene that accompanied them that terrible day. When I finally catch the thing sticking out, however, I realize that they aren’t the beasts he’s talking about. There’s a light through the trees, bright and florescent, popping out like a sore thumb in the fresh darkness. A banshee. The haunting, floating corpses. Arguably worse than a slither, and certainly more dangerous to our current situation. While my eyes are zeroed in on the light, however, I realize that what I’m looking at can’t be a banshee…
“No,” I softly mutter, “I don’t think so. It’s not moving.”
The light is still and consistent, like it’s fixed to a solid point. I hear Val begin to shuffle her belongings next to me and realize that I should do the same. Together, we pull on our helmets and flick them on. Instantly, the sound map around us unfolds, mostly calm save for the rain against the truck and the rustle of the leaves in the flora above. No noise coming from where the light is.
“Captain, what’s the plan?” Val asks over the coms. We had locked channels with the two guards before setting out just in case of a situation exactly such as this, and while they were wearing the more high tech, powerful suits from the P.A.P facility, they were still able to connect to our regular military helms. Val and I would have taken suits ourselves, but unfortunately, the two were the only ones were able to get away with. The people back at the facility had a lot more to look after, and especially if the city never came for them, they would eventually need the armor to help journey out and find resources.
On the flip side, we figured that if the city was really going to come and help, the suits would be a good payment incentive for them to do so. How could they resist more advanced tech that could help them hold out just a little bit longer? Val and I had always gotten along fine with what we had, and so we made the call to only take two from the group in case our journey went awry. Unfortunately, the helmet parts of the suit were affixed to the body, which meant even if we just wanted that part, we couldn’t take it with us.
“Hang tight…” Eight responds to Val, “We’re going to inch forward. Stay frosty. If any of you spot anything, you signal immediately, and we gas it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With a gentle lurch, the truck begins to roll forward once more, crawling silently over the asphalt. With the light being my only point of reference, I keep my eyes on it and rely on the sound map for everything else around us. When we round the slight bend in the road, I finally get a read on what it is. It’s a streetlight. A tall pillar on the side of the road casting its beam down like a spotlight. Beyond it, I can see another, and another, fancy in design and almost flawless in cleanliness, a stark contrast to how most structures look now after so many years of no maintenance. A gentle rain trickles in the beams, reminding me of home, but other than that, nothing seems to be there.
“What the hell?” Thirteen mutters.
“Were there any established compounds out this way?” Val asks.
“No,” the guard replies, “There are no records of anything out this way since the beginning, as far as I know.”
“Then how is the power still on?”
“Maybe they’re on solar panels.” Eight offers, “The sun coming back out might have charged them up bit.”
“That’d make sense,” I agree, “Or maybe the dam from Seattle also powers the grid out here? They aren’t too far from each other.”
“Whatever it is, stay alert. There’s always the chance that people found a way to set up out here away from the government, and if they did, there’s also a good chance they aren’t friendly. This road could be trapped.”
The thought of other survivors in the apocalypse outside of compounds used to be unthinkable, but after everything that happened with Mason and his cult, the idea of facing another was not only very possible—it was dreadful.
Eight continues crawling along the road, all of our heads on swivels, even those without a night vision helmet. She picks up the car's pace a little more after a bit, feeling a little more comfortable since nothing has shown itself for several minutes now. We slow again, however, once we round the next bend and witness the scene waiting for us.
We’re at the top of a small mountain, looking down toward a valley. It’s densely forested, the dark firs creating a choppy ocean of mystery as to what lies below. Several lights speckling clearings are the only thing offering a slight hint. Buildings, some towering, some barely peeking above the trees, rest across the landscape, glowing like stars in a void.
Though the sight of civilization should be a good thing, the scene immediately gives me a hollow feeling in my stomach. There shouldn’t be civilization out here. There should be nothing. Eight’s solar panel explanation falls apart fast now that we can see what equates to a small town lit on the horizon. In the distance, directly opposite to us, the night vision on our helmets can barely make out the goliath, imposing silhouette of Mount Rainer towering over all of it. What would have been a gorgeous view at one point now only brings dread in the dark. The form of something so large just looming on the horizon feels almost menacing, as if it’s a sleeping beast that we might wake up with our presence.
A massive, ornate gate lies ahead of us with toll booths below, their striped blockers raised into the air. The lights inside the small cabins are on along with everything else, but there’s nobody inside. The only trace of human life is a crimson splatter across one of the far booth windows. I try to zoom in on it with my visor, but with how it’s lit against the transparent window, it’s hard to say how old it is. In regal letters, on the mountain shaped sign above, it reads, Welcome to Mt. Rainer National Park & Resort.
“Are we going through?” I ask after a few moments of no movement.
“I’m thinking…” Eight returns, “The road we need hugs the outside of the park. We wouldn’t have to go too deep in. Creatures also tend to stay away from light…”
“To be fair,” thirteen interjects, “That was back in a place where light meant ‘soldiers’ to them. I’m not too sure there’s any military around here.”
Eight leans her helm against the wheel, “I’m not sure we have a choice. We don’t have enough fuel to change the plans now. It’s either through, or we break down trying to get back to the main road.”
“It’s your call, Captain.” Thirteen tells her.
Eight takes a deep, almost frustrated sigh at the response, then puts on the gas, “If I get us all killed, you can tell me I told you so later.” She huffs at him.
We roll through the gate and start running down the road; fast, but still slow enough to retain some semblance of stealth. As we move through, off in the tree line, giant, wooden statues of bears line the road, probably once a spectacle for tourists, but now only serve as ominous watchers. We twist down the hillside till we hit the bottom of the valley where a large visitor center sits dead center at an intersection. I can see a few lights within the building, but they appear to be motion sensor bulbs that are only on when no one is there. The structure looks like it was closed when the Vanishing hit, and it’s been closed ever since. There’s a couple of cars still in the lot, but otherwise, it’s empty. At least, I think it is. I swear on the far side of the structure I see something rear its head around the side of the building. Eight doesn’t slow the truck as she whips the corner onto the road we need, however, and it’s left in the dust before I can even see what it was.
We wind on through the park, and as we do, I can’t help but admire the buildings we pass. My family and I had only been up to Rainer once when I was really young. On top of gas and the fee to get in, the trip was never really worth it, especially since Oregon had plenty of mountains to boast as its own. The resort was incredible though, and part of me wishes I had gotten to see it in its prime. The buildings we pass are all ornately crafted of polished wood and stone to maintain the earthen feel, but are still mixed with a bit of sleek modern siding and metals to give them a sturdy aura. There are several hotels we pass, all with lights on speckling the various rooms, but though I look closely into all the windows and lounges, I don’t see any signs of life. What I do find when I try to zoom in on a quickly passing lot ahead is rather disturbing.
A few car doors in the packed parking lot are opened as if their drivers either tried to flee them, or climb inside but never made it in time. I can see blood and viscera splayed about in a few places, but again, from so far and even with the zoom, I can’t quite make out how recent it all was. By the glisten of their innards in the streetlights above, I’d wager not long, but that might also have something to do with the steady rain. My eyes trace to the windows of the lobby where I find more of the same; a few bodies laid out, all dead and unmoving, but no signs of life otherwise. My throat grows tighter, and my stomach sinks deeper. None of these buildings look touched since the beginning of everything, yet my gut is telling me that it all just feels too… freshly active? Like we’re only just skating through after a recent tragedy.
What happened here?
“We’re halfway around the park, everyone,” Eight calls back to everyone, “Just hang tight, we’ll be out soon.”
“How are we on fuel?” asks Val privately over coms.
“I think we’ll make it.” Thirteen says, glancing over Eights arm at the dashboard, “Got about a quarter tank left and an hour drive to Seattle. It’ll be close, but I think we’ll make it.”
Then we hit the fog.
Like a dense curtain slapping against the windows, the area around us goes ghost white, something I can only tell thanks to the visor. The sound map still works to translate the space around us, but with the roar of the car's engine, it makes the scene choppy and inaccurate.
“Shit!” Eight gasps, reeling the speed down slightly but not stopping.
“What’s going on?”
“Eight, can you even see where you're going?”
“Everyone quiet! I need to focus.” She calls, “I can see between the sound map and GPS, but it might get a little choppy.”
I forgot that her suit has much better tech than mine, but considering we’re driving along steep drops and dense tree lines in rainy weather, I’m not the most comfortable right now.
“Everyone, strap in.” Thirteen demands over his shoulder. The truck obeys, and we all slip our arms into the straps on the wall. I can tell that the guards are more than a little worried about foggy weather. They’re panicked for the same reason I am. They know what kind of things are out lurking in the darkness. They know what they can do. This isn’t random abrupt fog. Something brought this.
Crack—pop.
Even through the armored vehicle, now hard pelting rain, and roaring wheels, my sound map picks it up. Branches in the tree line snapping. And if that sound was loud enough to be heard through all the noise, they had to be big branches.
Eight slams the gas hard, causing a startled gasp to rise to everyone’s lips. Somewhere past the wall behind me and to the left, more branches snap and shatter as something pursues that truck. The whole vehicle clearly hears it now, and I can see frightened looks painting their faces. Eight continues to crank the wheel as we weave the winding road, but the conditions are too much, and she’s quickly dropping in precision. I can feel the front passenger wheel scuff the side of the asphalt as the tire slips off it and into plain dirt, but Eight cranks it sideways just in time to course correct before we hit a tree or ledge guard.
The fog is getting denser now, and terrifyingly, the branches have stopped snapping. Whatever is following is out of the woods and straight behind us. The creature makes no noise, however, an incredible feat for something that would have to be fast enough to tail a speeding vehicle and big enough to plow through trees like they were nothing more than twigs. I rack my index of monsters for anything that I can think of that could do something like this, but it all comes back void. We’re in a new area; there could be an infinite number of creatures that Val and I have never even heard of.
My heart pounds in my chest, and I look out the back window as the truck growls with each shift and turn. All that lies beyond is a dense white shroud that hides anything from view. Still, I know it’s out there. I can sense it. Like being chased in a nightmare, I know something is still close behind, eager to finally catch its prize. I’m seconds away from running for a gun at the back, kicking the hatch open, and firing blindly into the mist, but I never get the chance. The creature, finally makes a noise. At least, I think it does.
Bells begin to chime. Haunting, thunderous bells that rattle my ribcage and make my hair stand on end. They sound distant, yet each ring has a force as if I’m standing right next to it. They encompass everything, filling every inch of air with their melody. I whip my head forward to see if Eight is still focused amidst the chaos just in time see the screen of the GPS that’s helping guide our way flicker out and go dark. Immediately after, my helmet does the same.
Then so does the truck.
“Shit!” Eight screams as the car rolls to a stop, “Guns! Now!” She orders to no one in particular.
Morgan, who is the closest, slips from his straps and reaches over to the rifles, immediately passing one to Tom, who passes it straight to Paul. Another pass from Morgan later, he’s armed as well, and then my dad, just in time for the car to roll to a halt. I draw my pistol from my holster, and Val does the same with the one she has now, and then, all goes silent as we hold our weapons at the ready.
Everything is still. The rain patters against the roof and the engine clicks as it winds down, but nothing living moves save for the rise and fall of our panting chests. I hear Claire breathing hard next to me, and across the way, I see Lyle clutching Kaphila like she’s the only thing keeping the monster away. If my heart wasn’t so filled with dread, it might have room to break at the sight. If this is it for us, if whatever this thing is is about to kill us, then it was on me. I convinced everyone to come out here. I told them this risk was better than staying at the compound. This was all my—
‘Focus.’
I swallow and lift my pistol slightly, unsure of where the creature might come from. In the front, Eight repeatedly smashes the start button to the car, muttering under her breath as she does and praying that it might start. It never does, however. Instead, a small, metallic screech fills the air.
Scrrrrrrritch!
My head darts toward the back of the car where the noise comes from, and I’m confused by what I see. At first, I don’t notice anything, just the fog outside the windows. But then, my brain begins to see it. A thin line forming in the ceiling and floor that runs the length of the truck toward the back where it meets in the middle at the trunk. It continues forward toward the front of the car, and when it draws closer to where I’m sitting I finally put together what’s happening. A piece of wire, no bigger than a piano string, is puncturing the vehicle, running from floor to ceiling and slicing through the metal and glass as if it was nothing more than a loaf of bread. I pull my feet in as close as I can to the bench, then check the path to make sure it’s not going to intercept anyone’s body.
“Stay to your sides of the car!” I frantically spit out, “It’s cutting the truck in—”
With a loud, harsh creak, I watch Dr. Kaphila and everyone on her bench fall away from me and into the fog. Our side does the same in the opposite direction, as the half a car tilts and thumps hard against the asphalt. I hear cries of shock yelp out around me as the collective wind is knocked out of us, but there’s no time to recuperate. I turn my head to quickly check my bench but find that the fog is so dense that I can barely make out Valentine sitting few inches away.
Hastily, I slip from my straps and start to sit up just in time to hear a new sound. An elk call. The shrill, chilling bugle of a horned animal wailing into the dark. My blood goes icy and my hands begin to shake. I raise my pistol in the direction the sound is emanating and place a finger on the trigger. It’s high above me, still off behind the now severed truck. With the fog and no sound map, I might as well be blindfolded, however. Still, I hold it there and wait. I almost squeeze the trigger, but restrain myself. Whatever is in the fog is undoubtedly hostile, but shooting when it hasn’t made a move yet might just piss it off more. My brain runs frantic, trying to solve how to get out of the car-bowl we find ourselves in and stave this thing off so that everyone can escape. We’re at its mercy though, and what’s worse is I can’t see where my friends are even if I did escape. How could I fight something I couldn’t see, reunite the two halves of the group, and get away on top of all that?
Chook chook chook chook!
A volley of suppressed shots rattles off from someone’s rifle in the fog, and soon after another follows. The beast howls its elk-like call again, and I grit my teeth as I hear the harsh sound of the other half of the truck take a heavy blow. Screams ring out from all the voices on that side; Myra, Paul, Tom, Arti and Lyle, and I begin to hyperventilate. I ready my pistol to shoot, but quickly reconsider. It’s hopeless. Shooting will only make it attack us too, and I most likely won’t even hit whatever it is. Our best option right now is simply to run. Get the hell out of this car, get over to the other half and pray that I can save the others before it’s too late. I hope that it hasn’t already come to that…
I slam my pistol back into its holster like my life depends on it, then reach over to where Claire was, “Give me your hand!” I tell her, gripping part of her shirt. I feel her hand grab my arm then pat its way over to my own. As she does that, I do the same thing with Val, who’s already gripped the shoulder of my jacket.
“Thirteen!” Eight screams out, “Get your side out of here! Find a safe spot and stay put! We’ll find you!”
Another round of shots fires out as I hear Val over the commotion on my left, “Mr. Neyome! Where are you?”
My heart skips a beat. What does she mean by that? How can she not find my dad? He was right next to her. She tries again, but when there’s still no response, she yells, “Morgan?”
“I’m here!” The boy yells back. My body is tugged slightly as Val gropes around for him in the fog, and I hear the shuffling as the boy seemingly finds her and draws closer.
Where is Dad? He was right between the two, and there’s nowhere else to go within the six-foot box that we’re trapped in. Did he climb out?
‘There’s no time to wait… we need to get everyone out of here.’
I don’t want to accept it, but I know it’s true. Dad was a soldier and a guard since the Vanishing. He can handle himself if he was separated from us. At least, I hope that’s all that has happened.
I give Claireese’s hand a squeeze, “Head for the front!” I tell her.
She doesn’t resist, and I feel our chain of limbs go taut as she feels her way along the floor-turned-wall. Around us, I hear the frantic yelling and calls back and forth from the other half of the truck and more shots, but there are no more calls from the beast.
“Thirteen, are you there?” Claire asks as she finds the opening to the front.
I hear a grunt from within, then the guard's voice, “Yeah, I’m outside! Quick, follow my voice and I’ll help you over!”
We all cram into the space next to the ceiling of the truck, then Claireese lets go, as she vaults the edge of the vehicle. We all frantically do the same one after the next, linking up on the other side once again before I hear thirteen yell, “Alright move!”
We start to take off in a random direction away from the truck, and that's when the creature lets out another one of its sirens. Shots from Eight’s group fill the mist again, but whoever’s gun it is, it begins to click rapidly as it runs out of ammo. The chain in front of me goes suddenly limp as I hear Thirteen crash into a tree, then try to continue running. The jostle yanks Val, Morgan and I forward a bit, but we eventually find our rhythm once again. I’m unsure how many mistakes like that we can afford, though.
The cold winter mist scrapes my hot face as we sprint through the woods with reckless abandon, yanking each other along and tripping with almost every step. Still, I hold on for dear life, the thought of losing anyone to the fog being a greater loss than losing a little bit of speed. I can only imagine how Thirteen feels heading the charge; each step a complete gamble. With how many cliff sides and hills are around us, I’m almost certain that we’re bound to go careening into a chasm; it’s just a matter of when. The harsh sound of branches violently shattering behind us in pursuit propels me onward, however, that fate a preferable one to whatever is behind us. The good news is that if the beast is on our tails, it’s left the other half of the caravan alone, and I hope that they’ll have time to recuperate and escape now. The sounds of them being attacked hang in my mind as more motivation to keep moving forward, and I stave off the urge to think about who it might have gotten.
‘It must not have gotten anyone. We never had a vision.’
That’s right. My chest feels relief as I realize, if anyone had died back there, I would have been the first to know. My strange death sense would have made me replay the moment twice, and that never happened. Or had it? Did I just not notice? It seems strange that a creature would hack our car in half but then not do anything once it caught us. Maybe some of the bullets found their mark and stunned it.
‘Or maybe it’s not the kind of beast that kills…’
My heart feels a stab of pain again at the thought, but I don’t have time to dwell on it as that ‘when’ from a few minutes ago finally catches up with us. Claireese’s hand strains tightly against mine before violently yanking me forward, harder than any of her precious stumbles, and I hear Thirteen yelp in surprise. I only have a microsecond to guess why before the ground is pulled away from under me, and I begin tumbling down a hillside, my fingers wrenching from Val’s in the process.
I don’t have time to find out if she and Morgan start down behind us; I’m too busy barreling down the steep incline much faster than I’d like to. My hand still holding to Claire's is quickly rattled free, and I lose her somewhere in the commotion. The world spins, but with my vision obscured by fog, I have no way of knowing which way is up or down until my body repeatedly finds out the hard way. The ground beneath me is muddy and matted with ferns, taking some of the pain away, but a fall is a fall, and by the time I come to a stop at the bottom, my whole body is on fire with aches and sores. I roll over onto my back just in time for my helmet to flicker back to life and see the outline of the surrounding woods. The fog is lesser here; we must have gotten some distance from the beast in our fall.
I instantly launch up and scan the area, looking for my friends. The forest is still too obscured to see far, but at least my sound map is working. I don’t see anyone on it, however.
“Thirteen? Are you there?”
“Wes?” I hear his muffled voice groan over the coms, “Where are you? Ping yourself.”
Through the fog and past a couple trees, I suddenly see a rippling outline of a helmet appear reading Thirteens suit number. I start toward him while trying to figure out the right mental current to carry out the action myself. I get it eventually and see the guards visor turn toward me.
“Is Claireese there?”
“No, I thought she fell with you?”
“Shit…” I mutter, looking back the way I came and I moving toward it. “Val, can you hear me? Are you there?”
Her microphone is crackly and spotty as she responds, “Y-Yeah, I am. I see you guys down the hill. I caught a tree on the way and Claireese did too. I have her, but it looks like she hit her head pretty hard…”
“Ping your location and get down here, we need to move ASAP.” Thirteen tells her.
“What about Morgan, did you see where he fell?” I ask.
Her tone grows slightly worried, “I… I don’t know if he did, Wes. H-His hand let go of mine before I went over; or maybe it just got yanked out—I don’t know.”
“Shit,” I hiss once more. “Morgan? Are you there?” I gently call out into the fog.
No response.
“Morgan? Say something if you can hear me. Or make a sound—Anything.”
Still nothing.
Val finally slides down the remaining part of the hill a few feet away holding Claireese against her shoulder. I put my search on hold and cross over to the girls, taking a closer look at Claire. The girl looks fine mostly, no broken limbs at least. Val was right though, there’s a sizable gash on her forehead right below her hairline. It runs blood down past her eye and cheek to drip slowly from her chin.
She sees me inspecting and stands up straight away from Val, “I’m fine, Wes, seriously. I told Val, I’m just a little dizzy.”
“A little dizzy could become a lot worse if you’re on your feet too long,” Thirteen notes, “We need to find somewhere to lie low and wait for the others.” The guard turns and calls out for Morgan one more time, but when there’s once again no response, he curses under his breath.
Val releases her supporting arm on Claire and turns back toward the slope, “I-I might be able to find him; give me just one minute.” She goes to move, but Thirteen lunges out to stop her, “Val, I know that you and Wes like to play hero, but right now, we are out in the open, and we just made a lot of noise up on that hill. We need to move; I’m sure he got away on his own.”
“Thirteen, it was right behind us though—I-I promised his brother I’d keep him safe.”
“He’ll be fine, Val. Everyone will. Right now though, we need to get Claireese some help, and find a spot to lie low for minute. Gather our bearings. I’ll send a message to Eight so she’ll know where we are once we get a connection again. If Morgan got away, he’s smart enough to know to either run or hide. If he ran, he’ll know to go somewhere we’ll find him, and if he hid, we can come search for him once that… thing is out of the area. Okay?”
I know Val well enough to know that it’s not okay, but she doesn’t argue. “Let’s go.” She plainly says.
Using the GPS on the helmets, the four of us start to jog back toward the resort, figuring that everyone will most likely do the same if they made it out. We have to slow down a bit a couple times when Claireese begins to stumble more frequently, but she insists that we don’t stop on her account, even if the fog is now far behind us. We reach the tree line in about ten minutes of walking, and luckily, don’t run into anything else along the way. That doesn’t do anything to lower my guard, as I move with my pistol drawn, however.
Across the field we find laid out before us, the lights of a massive hotel glint off a blue swimming pool behind it. It’s as good a place as any to hunker down, especially since it’s the most visible building around. We start across the field, hanging low as we do, our heads on a swivel. Claireese just hangs in the middle of the triangle that Val, Thirteen and I make with our body, her lack of night vision probably making all of this a very rough experience. I glance to the mountain that looms over us once more, its massive form staring angrily at us as if all of this is punishment for disturbing its sleep. That’s when something strange happens.
A red star appears in the sky.
It floats high above the mountain, just slightly off center, lighting the side of its peak with an eerie red glow.
“What the… Do you guys see that?” I ask, causing the group to turn and look. We slow down as we try to process it. My visor automatically zooms in at my curiosity, and that’s when I realize that it’s not a star at all. It’s a flare. A thin trail of smoke is illuminated behind it, roping high and already fading away in the wind.
“So there are others here…” Val says.
“Whoever they are, they aren’t our own. Not if they’re all the way over there. C’mon. Let’s get inside.”
We stand there staring for a moment longer before wordlessly continuing toward the hotel. The flare is most likely a distress signal, but right now, we’re in enough distress of our own.
The automatic doors to the palace slide open as we rush into the lobby, and Claireese gasps as she sees the sight laid out before her. I forget that she isn’t as desensitized to seeing horrific sights as we are. Several people lay dead and half eaten across the lobby, most of them wearing sleep ware as if they were rushing to leave in the dead of night. A few windows are smashed in, clearly the entry point for whatever caused the carnage. Claireese stares in horror and draws her hand to her mouth, presumably trying not to puke. I do the same when I see where her eyes have fallen. The body of a man next to a child, still holding hands. I step around her to block her view and wrap my arm into hers.
“Let’s go.” I tell her, drawing her further into the lobby.
I can’t help but look back at the carnage one last time, still never quite used to the gore and violence, no matter how many times I see it. There’s another reason, though. From so close now, it’s clear as day to see, these bodies are fresh. At least, fresher than two years old. Whenever these people died, it wasn’t the night of the Vanishing…
I’m suddenly all too eager to get out of the lobby. Not only do I not like imagining what might still be lurking, but I don’t like the light. It always makes me feel seen, like it’s a spotlight for everything else to come find us. Thirteen has already made his way around the desk and begun searching for room keys. The sign on the wall behind him reads in golden letters: Glacial Run Hotel. While he does that, Val quickly steps for the halls past the desk, glancing down them before moving toward a doorway that leads to a darkened restaurant and peering inside.
“Nothing immediately present.” She relays to Thirteen.
“Great. Let’s get upstairs, top floor, that way we can keep a lookout.”
Val nods, then the two start for a door labeled stairs before stopping once they see Claire and I not following. I point to the glowing elevator button that I just pushed.
“The thing still works, might as well use it.”
Nobody disagrees.
The room we find ourselves in is nice, and I mean, really nice. Practically an apartment built into the hotel. I don’t know if it was thirteens intention, but he certainly picked well. We don’t have much time to enjoy it as we hurriedly move Claire to the bed and have her sit down. Val goes to the bathroom and returns with some towels that she promptly presses to the girl's forehead.
“Ow! Damn, Romero, you don’t gotta be so rough with it! Gimme that, I can do it myself.”
“Sorry. How are you feeling?”
“Like I have one hell of a concussion.” Claireese groans.
“You probably do.” Val tells her. “Were the lights downstairs extra bright?”
“Yeah. I’m nauseous as hell, too.”
“Yeah, you’re definitely concussed.”
“Keep an eye on her, you two, and don’t let her go to sleep. If she got hit hard enough, she might not wake up. Get her some water as well. I need to go find a room facing the road so I can keep look out. See if anyone else made it out. I’ll try to contact the Captain too. Signal on the coms if there’s an emergency.”
I nod, and thirteen exits the room.
There’s a long, tension-filled silence between the three of us as we simply sit and catch our breaths. Nobody wants to acknowledge what just happened, especially not me. Like I said, I convinced everyone to come out here. What happened today falls on me. I imagine Eight feels pretty similar right now, wherever she is…
The silence goes on for nearly an hour, with Val and I silently tending to Claireese while she just sits on the bed, vacantly staring at the floor. I check in with thirteen a few times to see if there’s any word, but so far he’s got nothing. Val takes her helmet off at one point, and I do the same before cranking the volume in case I need to hear an update from he guard. I check Val over thoroughly, not having had the chance to do so since the accident. I can’t tell if she’s injured bodily, but the girl's expression is rough and full of pain. I almost forgot that just a few days ago, Val had to put her own mom down as if she were a feral dog, and now she’s having to deal with all of this. I can tell it’s Morgan that’s mainly bothering her. That promise she made to Tyler on his deathbed… Every part of me hopes he’s okay, but I really don’t know if anyone we left behind is. Not any of my neighbors, not the captain or Kaphila and Lyle
Dad…
Unable to do anything to chase all the pain away, I do the only thing that I know will make it all bearable. I take Val into my arms. She returns the hold as if she’d been waiting for it this whole time, and I hear her finally break with soft sniffles as she leans her head against my shoulder. As she vents her pain into me, Claireese sighs and leans over as well, resting against my back. And that’s how the three of us sit, waiting for anything to happen. Good news; bad news. Anything.
We wait for one hour, then two, and then three and four. After hour Eight, despite Thirteens orders, the girls lay back against the bed and fall into a rough sleep while I stay up in case he makes contact. I know I won’t get any real rest anyway; too many thoughts are running through my head. I pick up my helmet and move for a sliding door at the back of the room, then slip the shell on. Sliding open the glass, I step out onto the balcony, glancing down at the glistening swimming pool below. The thing should be filled with mold and algae, but it’s still perfectly clear and blue save for some floating debris and leaves. I draw away and turn my attention back toward the mountain. Toward the spot in the sky that the red star had been, now vacant and dark. Once again, the question draws to mind; what happened here? What is happening here?
I stand in the returned night, listening to the rain patter the roof top above me, and watching as the drops gradually morph into tiny, watery flecks of snow. I’m numb to the cold as I sit there in my trance, but I’m suddenly jarred from it when I hear thirteens voice in my ear.
“Wes? Val? You got a copy?”
I stand up straight, “Yeah, I’m here. Go ahead.”
“Someone is walking up to the hotel now, they just came out of the woods. It looks like Myra. I’m going down there to get her, she doesn’t know where we—”
“No, don’t worry about it.” I tell him, relief flooding my body, “I got it. You stay there in case anyone else is close behind and let me know.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I got it. I’m going crazy just sitting around over here.”
“Alright, be careful. Something might see her coming and be following close behind.”
“Roger that.” I tell him, before stepping back inside the building.
I look at Val and Claire on the bed and consider waking them for a moment, but decide instead to let them rest. It’s been a long day, and I know Val will try and come with me if I wake her up now. I’d rather her get the relief without all the work.
I waste no time with the elevator and instead charge down the stairs, wanting to catch Myra in case she passes by. I nearly trip down them with how fast I’m moving, and once I throw the door open, I charge into the lobby and look out through the window. Thirteen was right, Myra is shambling across the parking lot toward the front of the inn, however she definitely looks worse for wear. Her hair is frazzled and covered in leaves, and moves hunched over clutching her stomach. I immediately can see that she’s injured, a dark red stain plastering the entire front of her jacket and pants.
“Holy shit, Myra!” I call, rushing toward the door and calling out to her.
She immediately whips her head up to face me, but her expression is vacant and distant, like she almost doesn’t recognize me. “W-Wes? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me, don’t worry, you’re safe now,” I reassure, drawing closer, “You look hurt, let me see—”
“Wes?” Myra interrupts, her expression unflinching. Something about it strikes a very wrong chord in my gut, and I suddenly slow down, coming to a halt about 20 feet away from her. The automatic door between us slides shut as we both stand motionless, staring at one another, but then she shambles forward another step and it opens once more.
“D-Do you have any food?” Myra asks again, her voice a weak, heartbreaking croak.
“Uh, Y-yeah, we can get you some food. Myra, what happened? Is anyone else with you? A-Are you okay, you look like you’re bleeding all over the place.”
“Only one with me…” Myra drones. She swallows hard before coughing a bit, a small bit of blood draining from her mouth.
“Myra, what’s going on?” I ask again, slower this time so she’ll understand, “Are… you okay?” The question leaves my mouth another time, but I already know the answer. She’s not okay, but something isn’t right, and I need to figure out what it is.
“Oh, I-I’m fine,” she stammers, swallowing another deep, audible gulp, “I’ll be fine once I get some food in me. I’m just hungry, Wes… I feel so hungry…”
Myra takes another step closer, and this time, she stands up a little straighter. My eyes draw to the wound on her stomach to see the damage, but my own gut violently churns at the sight there. I slap my hand to my pistol and yank it free, taking a few cautious steps back.
“Myra…” I say calmly. I don’t know why. It doesn’t help anything. It’s just all I can think of to say.
“I’m hungry, Wes…” The librarian tells me again, “It hurts… It hurts how hungry I am…”
Through the opening in Myra’s jacket, I can see her wound now, but it’s not just a wound. It’s worse than that. There’s a hole. Where her stomach should be, there’s nothing but a massive, gaping hole, bloody and sliced open with deadly accuracy. That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that her organs aren’t there. Instead, there’s something round and covered in prickly fuzz, it’s eight glistening black eyes staring hungrily back at me.
The thing piloting Myra takes another step forward.

First Chapter Previous Chapter
TRAGEDY at Concert Hall.
NIGHTMARE performance by renowned violinist and orchestra.
66 DEAD & 100s INJURED in CONCERT MASSACRE!
For an entire month, the media incessantly buzzed about Gabrielle Vilonte's last performance, a relentless stream that wore on Mr. Vilonte's nerves. Reporters bombarded him with calls, clamoring for an exclusive interview. Fed up, he had silenced his phone for days, ignoring every text and call, and stowed it away in the glove compartment. Thankfully, public interest had already shifted to the next headline. The bizarre event was now a distant memory in people's minds. Except, of course, those who experienced it.
Sleep became a nightly struggle. Most nights brought a jolting awakening, leaving him trembling so fiercely that his bones rattled and teeth chattered, while his heart threatened to burst from his chest. The recurring nightmare haunted him relentlessly—the terrifying vision of blood-red waves closing in, his senses overwhelmed as he tumbled blindly and helplessly. His survival was nothing short of miraculous, requiring only a brief stay of a couple of nights at the hospital.
George had insisted he stay with them until Mrs. Vilonte and Gabrielle emerged from their coma at the hospital. Despite the kind offer, Mr. Vilonte politely declined. While he cherished the idea of being surrounded by his family's warmth during such a challenging time, he found solace in the comforting embrace of Sara's soft, ample bosom. While he often disagreed with Mrs. Vilonte's choices, particularly concerning their finances, he was grateful he had yielded to her insistence on hiring a personal assistant.
"Take a deep breath and exhale slowly,” Sara instructed, her hand gently stroking his sweaty, naked back.
He followed her guidance, and as he did, he felt the nightmare fading away, replaced by the soothing sound of her voice. The terror that had gripped him was gradually replaced by a warmth that flowed down his throat, spreading a comforting heat throughout his belly.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he sighed, pulling her into an embrace. "I wish we could stay like this forever."
"I wish the same, but we should go visit the hospital," she replied softly, gently pushing him aside as she rose from the bed to gather her clothes scattered on the floor.
He sighed again, sinking back onto the bed, overwhelmed by the prospect of abandoning its warmth to face the demands of the day. The thought of rejoining the world outside felt daunting. What finally persuaded him to rise from the bed was Sara's assurance that she would join him on the visit to Mrs. Vilonte, fulfilling her duties as the family's loyal and diligent personal assistant. But, in separate cars, of course.
On the way, he stopped to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Upon arrival, he warmly greeted the nurses and medical personnel he had come to know. They returned his gesture with sympathetic gazes and a small smile. As he entered Gabrielle's room, he found Eric already asleep in a chair by her bedside. Mr. Vilonte's heart sank at the sight. Despite the uncertainty surrounding her condition, he found solace in the fact that her baby remained safe within her womb, miraculously unharmed.
He arranged some lilies in a vase beside her, and pressed a fatherly kiss to her forehead before departing for his wife's room that was at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Vilonte lay peacefully, her complexion a little paler than usual. Gently placing roses on the nightstand, he pulled up a chair by her bedside, ready to share the latest updates.
With a soft voice, he relayed a few light-hearted news - George's pediatric clinic continued to thrive, their granddaughter landed a role in an upcoming school play, and Gabrielle’s condition remained in stable condition, but she had yet to awaken. Once he exhausted his list of news, he veered into trivial chatter about the weather, the traffic delays he encountered en route to the hospital which explained for his lateness (though in truth, he had persuaded Sara to join him for an intimate moment in the shower earlier), and his disappointment with the soggy cafeteria sandwich he bought.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened and Sara waltzed into the room, dressed in her business casual attire, every bit the dedicated assistant his wife had hired. Without saying anything, she walked over to his chair, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other caressed the sparse strands of hair on his balding head. Her touch sparked a warmth within him, kindling a fire that surged through his body.
“Do you think she'll ever wake up?” Sara asked.
“We can only pray,” he replied, then under his breath added, “that she doesn't.”
How he wished things in his life were different. He glanced at his wife, then shifted his gaze to the pillow beneath her head. A thought crossed his mind – it wasn't too late. He could grasp the pillow and silence her forever, altering the trajectory of his life for the better.
“I wonder what's going on inside of her head,” Mr. Vilonte wondered aloud, “Do you think she's dreaming or is it all just darkness?”
XXXXX
In a realm beyond the physical plane, Mr. Vilonte’s words echoed through the forest. Mrs. Vilonte, catching wind of his voice, raced forward barefoot. Her elegant dress shoes, now trapped in the mud, disappeared into the earth. Her gown had become torn and muddied from her struggles against the clutches of vines and twisted branches.
Stopping for a moment, she pondered the possibility of deception, the voice perhaps a sinister ploy by the otherworldly entity, taunting her with the mimicry of her husband's voice.
"Please, let me go home!" she pleaded, her words falling on ears that only responded with mocking laughter.
You love her…you love her… you want her to wake up…no, you loved her. Do it now. Or it's never.
She was sure it was his voice, drawing her towards him and she followed its trail.
XXXXX
When Sara stepped out in search of snacks, he stood by his wife's bedside, peering down at her sleeping figure. Inch by inch, he maneuvered the pillow from beneath her head, his hands trembling with each deliberate movement. Just as he was about to place the soft weapon over her face, he hesitated, clutching the pillow tightly as he paced the room, engaged in a fierce debate with himself.
“You love her. No, no, you loved her.”
In over thirty years of marriage, he found himself reminiscing only about the initial five years, a period suffused with warmth and happiness. The following decades, however, that love had withered away over time like a neglected rose, starved of nourishment.
If he didn't take the chance now, he may not have the opportunity to do so. He returned to her bedside, clutching the pillow. The weight of his decision bore down on him. Just as he prepared to act, her eyes flickered open, their intensity locking with his own. He gasped, stepping back in alarm and stumbling over the chair.
With a sudden jolt, Mrs. Vilonte shot upright, unleashing a piercing scream that shattered the silence of the room. Frantically, she attempted to flee her bed, only to crumple to the floor, her legs betraying her after a month of disuse, unable to bear her weight. She resorted to dragging herself with her arms, making her way towards the door.
As the initial shock began to subside, Mr. Vilonte hastily regained his footing and hurried to his wife's side.
“Isabella..." he gasped, stretching out a trembling hand to touch her shoulder, but she swatted it away.
She struggled to rise to her feet once more, using the wall for support as her legs shook beneath her. The knot of her hospital gown had unraveled, leaving it to drape loosely over her fragile, naked form.
“Gabby! Where's Gabby?” She cried, her eyes were wide and filled with terror.
“Her room's not far from here, just down the hall.”
“I have to see her.”
“No, no, what we need to do right now is to get you back to bed. I'll go get the doctor.”
“You don't understand!”
“What is it that I don't understand? Tell me!”
“The baby…”
“What about the baby?”
“It's not what you think it is.”
“What? What are you talking about? What are you trying to say?”
Mrs. Vilonte let out an angry cry of frustration. “We must put a stop to it. She's going to give birth to something…”
“Something, what?”
Without answering him, she seized the door handle and yanked it open. Despite his attempts to restrain her, she broke free from his grip, landing a sharp blow to his face with her fist. A dazzling flash of white and gold stars burst across his vision like fireworks.
A deafening scream tore through the air, its intensity reverberating down the hallway, freezing everyone in their tracks. The sheer force of it sent shivers of nausea and fear rippling through each person present. The scream jolted Mr. Vilonte out of his daze, a surge of fear flooding back as he realized it was coming from his daughter's room.
He raced to the room and found Eric cowering in the corner, his expression filled with horror as he stared up at the ceiling. Mrs. Vilonte stood nearby, her discarded gown lying on the floor, a pair of scissors clutched tightly in her hand, likely grabbed from the nurse's desk. She, too, gazed upwards. Following their line of sight, Mr. Vilonte's heart nearly stopped.
Crawling along the ceiling like a twisted spider was Gabrielle. She gnashed her teeth like a feral beast and with a guttural hiss, she leapt towards the window, breaking through the glass.
“Gabby, no!”
Mr. Vilonte rushed to the window, crying out in pain as the glass cut into his skin. Through the broken pane, he watched in disbelief as Gabrielle, somehow still alive after her jump from the fifth floor, dashed across the parking lot, dodging cars with uncanny agility.
XXXXX
“Slow down!” Sara screeched, her fingers tightening around the grab handle.
But Mr. Vilonte didn't hear her. He remained steadfast, his foot firmly on the gas pedal, propelling the vehicle forward on the freeway in a desperate attempt to catch up to the police car ahead.
Within the span of an hour, his world was once again upended and crushed by the merciless force of the universe. Gabrielle's escape from the hospital triggered a frantic response from the hospital staff. Wrestling the scissors from the hands of a hysterical and furious Mrs. Vilonte, they pinned her to the floor. Meanwhile, a nurse administered a sedative to calm her down, allowing them to carry her back to her room.
The police were called to locate Gabrielle, prompting him to join the frantic search alongside them. Sara, just returning from the cafeteria with snacks in hand, found herself swept up in the chaos, following him to the car and demanding an explanation.
He slammed on the brakes with a forceful stomp, jolting them forward and then back in their seats. Ahead, several vehicles were stacked up. The police car he had been tailing collided with one of them. Hastily unbuckling his seatbelt, he got out of the car and navigated through the wreckage of the mangled vehicles.
“Gabby!”
He spotted his daughter standing amidst the tumult of the freeway. Upon hearing her name, she turned to face him, her expression clouded with confusion.
“Dad? Why am I here? What's going on?” her voice was laced with fear.
“I don't know. But let's get you out of here.”
“I want to go home,” she sobbed.
“Of course, we'll go home, right after the doctors check you over.”
As Gabrielle moved towards him, the ground beneath them began to tremble, its intensity mounting with each passing second. Cracks spiderwebbed across the asphalt beneath her feet, and long, sinewy vines emerged from the fissures, wrapping themselves around her and pulling her down into the depths below.
Mr. Vilonte sank to his knees, overwhelmed by devastation.
XXXXX
Although the haze of sleepiness had partially lifted, she felt the weight of drowsiness still clinging to her body, like a heavy anchor. Attempting to move her hands, she discovered they were bound by leather cuffs fastened to the bedside rails.
The room lay cloaked in darkness, with only the faint, silver light of the moon filtering through the window blinds, casting a gentle glow across the space. Except for the corner by the door. A sudden drop in temperature sent shivers through her bones. A presence was in the room, and it was standing in that dark corner, watching her.
Mrs. Vilonte stayed silent for a moment, refraining from saying a single word or making even the slightest sound. She clenched her teeth, attempting to suppress a whimper, but it slipped past her lips nonetheless.
A pale foot stepped out of the darkness, then the other.
She sucked in her breath at the sight of Victoria, who greeted her with a sinister grin. Her eyes were as dark as coal. Her teeth jagged with saliva dribbling down her pink lips. Without moving her mouth, Victoria's voice echoed in her head, “The price is high, your soul to keep, give me more to eat!”
Raising her hands, she held up a beating heart, giving it a firm squeeze. Instantly, Mrs. Vilonte was struck by a violent pain in her chest. She was engulfed by wave after wave of agonizing pain, rendering her unable to scream until a brief moment of respite allowed her to catch her breath, prompting her to cry out, "If you want to kill me, do it now! Go ahead, kill me! Rip my heart out. But please, just do it quickly. I can't bear it any longer.”
The entity cackled. "Death will not come easily for you. Instead, you shall endure a long and torturous existence, my dear. A life abundant with suffering and despair, with the sweet release you crave remaining distant for many years to come.”
Its talons closed around the heart giving it one final squeeze.
Mrs. Vilonte erupted in a roar of agony, her body contorting as she strained against the restraints. A nurse burst into the room, switching on the light. Once the lights flickered on, the pain dissipated, and her body eased back onto the bed, her wrists raw from the restraints. Observing her labored breathing and the sheen of sweat across her forehead, he checked her vitals and inquired about her sudden scream and whether she experienced any lingering pain.
She moved her head from side to side. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” she said, choking down a sob.
“Oh, I'm sure everything's going to be fine, Mrs. Vilonte,” the nurse reassured with a gentle tone, offering comfort.
“Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?”
“I would, if I had time. I'm sorry I've got other patients to attend to.” And after a final check on her vitals, he turned off the lights and left the room.
Mrs. Vilonte cast a wary gaze toward the darkened corner, a sense of apprehension prickling her skin. A solitary tear traced its path down her cheek.

On a drizzling Monday afternoon in April, I lay in bed, a cold, wet cloth pressed to my forehead, and a wastepaper bin overflowing with tissues beside me, as I listened to the droplets of rain clink against my bedroom window. What had been sunshine a moment ago had quickly turned into a downpour, pattering on the rooftop above like television static. A cool breeze blew in through a crack in my window, blowing in the smell of wet cement, noticeable only when I breathed in deeply through my stuffed-up nose.
My bedroom was one of four in a dumpy, old, brick house on Belleview Street. The wooden floorboards creaked when you walked on them, and the plaster in the walls was beginning to crumble, revealing in places the brick wall underlayer beneath. A small, iron radiator purred gently in the corner, slowly losing its fight with the growing coldness of the outside.
I coughed violently, the force tearing at my throat. I took a lozenge and a sip of water and drew my blanket close. Beneath the warm buzz of the heater, I could hear one of the other tenants talking downstairs. The man spoke gruffly, and his footsteps clopped as he paced around the room. His guest hardly spoke, and I might’ve thought the man was talking to himself, if it weren’t for the odd, soft response I would catch from time to time.
I had lived at Belleview Place a little over a year now and knew everyone in the house but the man downstairs. He kept to himself, coming and going at all hours in the night. I didn’t know his name or what he did. The few times I had seen him, he hadn’t smiled to me or said a word, and from what I’d heard from the others, he had been much the same with them. A part of me didn’t mind listening in to this conversation, if only to get a glimpse into this life that I knew so little about.
The more I listened, the more I sensed an unpleasantness in the man's tone. Though the sounds were just muffles through the floorboards, I could still hear the deliberate way in which he spoke, as though it took him great effort just to speak at a normal volume. His guest took longer and longer in responding with anything at all, the silence between them at times stretching into the uncomfortable.
Cutlery and dishes rattled in the kitchen below as thunder bellowed on the outskirts of town and downstairs I could hear the voices getting louder. The two men were really getting into it now. Or was one pleading, I wondered*.* Now that I listened, I did notice a whining in the guest’s voice, a pitifully high-pitched noise that made me want to wince. I wondered if I should really be listening in, and I reconsidered just how much about this man I really needed to know.
The tenants voice grew only louder, roaring above the storm. I could feel the anger through my mattress and tried my best not to listen. As soon as I was better, I would have a word with the landlord. Even if this man thought he was alone, this was still no way to treat a guest, who could in no way be deserving of such a tirade. I could hear the guest’s sobs and only imagine what an ordeal this was for him. And still the shouts and the pleas persisted, clambering to a fever pitch with the growing madness of the storm outside.
Thunder shook the house as a sound like a canon erupted from the night. And as the last of the rumbles faded, I heard a second bang shortly follow.
I was upright in a second. The sound was gone as quickly, and in the aftermath, the house had become eerily quiet. The argument downstairs had suddenly resolved itself, as if in the time it took for the house to settle.
I sat as still as I could, straining my ears to hear for the slightest of noise in the silence downstairs, but the rainfall was too loud for me to pick out anything. As quietly as I could, I lowered my torso to the floor and pressed my ear into the carpet.
I could just hear a creak, as though someone were walking around softly. There was a click, and a muffled ring, and suddenly I could hear the tenant’s voice, oddly now much calmer. He said only a sentence or two to a person on the other end, before there was a beep and the crunch of the phone being returned to its stand. And from then on, it was just silence once more.
I could feel my heart inside my chest. My shirt was damp with sweat. But I knew what I’d heard, and I needed to hear more. I didn’t dare make a move for the phone at my desk and risk making a sound on the rickety floorboards. Rather, I would pay as much attention as I could to what was to follow, so I could give as detailed an account as I could for when I next got the chance to share. If I were to bring this to the police, I didn’t want to act too hastily, and risk not giving them enough to go on.
For the next twenty or so minutes, there was little but the odd creak. I became aware of the smell of a cigar and wondered if the man wasn’t waiting as much as I was. At last, I got my answer, as there came a knock at the door. The chair squeaked as the man got up, his footsteps moving towards the front of the house before returning a moment later, a second set of footsteps with him now, as he spoke in a measured tone with someone else in the room.
I could make out the word, “Jesus,” from a voice I didn’t recognize.
A short conversation followed, and though I couldn’t make out a word of it, I strained my ears to the edge of their ability to try to catch even a passing phrase. But the words of the men were always frustratingly out of reach.
I listened for any sounds that might give away what they were doing. And sure enough, as I listened, there came a rustling from down below, as though someone were moving the sheets of their bed. With it came grunts as well, as though whatever they were doing were causing the two men to strain themselves.
Someone spoke, and a set of footsteps retreated to the front entry. There was the distant thud of a car door, before the man returned to a chorus of crinkling paper.
For the next hour, a horrible scrapping sound escaped the room, like the sawing of a shop room. My stomach churned at the noise. My arms by now were beginning to hurt from holding my neck upright, and I felt lightheaded from being upside down for so long. But I couldn’t bring myself to even adjust my position, for fear that the men could hear the squeaking of my mattress as well as I could hear the noises downstairs.
There were sounds of cracks and of zipping, occasionally a pop or the dripping of something wet. At times, I could catch something slap stickily against the paper. And all the while I became more and more convinced that what I was listening to was the sound of a murder being attended to by men who were more skilled in the act than I would’ve otherwise liked to admit.
My arm trembled. I winced as my wrists were beginning to hurt, and my palms had become sore from the carpet fibers pressing into them. I tried to readjust my arm so that I was resting on my forearms. But as I did, I heard the floorboard beneath me creak. Suddenly, the sawing down below ceased.
I held my breath. The men were now whispering.
Thunder crashed overhead, and in the dying rumbles I became aware of a thudding from outside my wall, and with a sickening twist in my gut, I realized that it was the sound of someone storming up the stairs.
With a jolt, I leapt from my bed. The footsteps on the stairs doubled their pace, and I sprung for the door and flipped the two locks shut just as the thudding of their boots reached the second-floor landing.
The door shuddered in its frame.
“Are you in there?” the man shouted.
I tried not to make a sound as my breaths came out in ragged whimpers. The wind outside shrieked like the angry wails of a banshee.
“Hey! Did you hear me?”
I could feel the handle try to turn.
There came a flash of light, and another crash of thunder shook the house, and for a brief moment, I could see my room in all its detail, as normal as it had ever looked before, before it faded as quickly into the night.
“I asked if you’re in there, you little worm!” the man’s voice screamed inside my head.
Just keep quiet, I kept telling myself. Don’t make a sound. Perhaps they hadn’t heard me lock the door over the noise they’d made thundering up the hall. The rain was like machine gun fire now. It was entirely possible.
But then I heard the other man say, “We could always break it down.”
I inched away from the door in time to see it shudder in place. I nearly let out a cry. A second followed and I saw a crack splinter across the wood.
Without thinking, I felt for a lighter in my jacket that hung from its hanger as a third sent splinters flying across the room. I reached for the tissues by my bed, and as the door rattled again, this time the deadbolt plate loosening from its screws, I lit the clump of tissues and held them up to my smoke detector. Yellow flames sputtered from my hand. It took a second for the alarm to trip, but when it did, I heard it be accompanied by the others in the house, as a light flashed from the device.
Just like that, the door was still once more. I couldn’t hear for the siren whether they’d truly gone, but all the same, I took the phone from my desk and fell to the floor, sitting in the roar of the alarms as I waited for someone on the other side to pick up.
The winds died down by the time the call wrapped up, over as quickly as it had started.
When the police arrived, we found a pile of bloody, scrunched-up newspapers in the trash, but the body was nowhere to be discovered. To this day, we never heard of what happened to the tenant or who his guest had been that night. None of the other tenants were in the house at the time or knew a thing about it when I saw them again. All anyone had to talk about was how violent the storm from that day had been, and how it had came and went so unexpectedly.

Kind of clickbait title, but it's true. Like, everything about this whole thing pisses me off not because I particularly care about Israel's war-crimes. Noone gave a shit when Israel was bombing US Navy ships but boomer tv anchors actually have the audacity to call some little nineteen year old girl whose dad never loved her a terrorist. (Which is based by the way)
But the fact is, these boomers have out paced literal rainbow flags in fake and gay. Everything is a hecking anti-Semitism. I sneezed, anti-Semitism butchering the Hebrew language or something.
Or the fact that it's proof you cant do shit. Protesting without first doing the poopoo peepee dance? That's an arrest. Your sign offends me? That's an arrest. And people will actually pander to this shit "well... I'm not like THOSE protestors! I'm not an extremist!" Nigga, those cops will throw tear gas and bullets your way over the slightest cause. And the only reason they have food to eat is because of your tax dollars. Don't at me about extremism. They should tear gassing and showering bean bags into reddit mods chest. Are they? Have they even ever? No. Fucking worthless piggies. Not because I'm some pink haired liberal. But because you ain't shooting the people I want you to shoot, so get the fuck away from me. You don't exist in my world, simple as.
This is all theater. Everyone just pretending to care about something and at tje end of the day you're all gonna go home to work, shit, and die. It's beyond insane and cucked. Like why pretend you care on either side? But especially the wrong side that is defending Israel. The fuck has Israel ever done for me besides show they can get away with murder but I'm walking on egg shells? They act as if my very existence is a crime. So if they lose some territory, good. It should happen everywhere. Am I gonna sit here and pretend though I'm somehow distraught over random Muslims? No.

Me Hoi Me Noi. I told yall I will be posting two to three chapters a week until we are done. now Reddit has been doing something odd, I can't edit my old posts to update the next tag. so chck the comments for the next button until further notice. if anyone knows a solution, lemme know. for now.....
Let's get this bread.
------
"That son of a bitch actually was going to try to kill me," Martinez exclaimed, looking in sheer horror at the contents of Carol's duffle bag.
Martinez had some thoughts of what it might have contained, but nothing came close to this. The bag was essentially a kill kit you would see in the second-rate spy drama or some bad in the hollow flick: handcuffs, syringes, gloves, a jug of lye, bleach, a tarp, and some scalpels.
That was just what Martinez could immediately identify when opening the bag; there were dozens of technical marvels he had no concept of what they were for. The horrible reality that Martinez was facing only worsened when he dug past the tarp.
A knot formed in his throat, damn near gagging him when he realized what that taped-up plastic bag of gold and yellowish powder had to have been.
Visage.
How Kyroll, or anyone for that matter, was willing to use such a horrible substance was unfathomable. One whiff of this stuff, and you would forget the next several days, all while being so impressionable you would gladly chop your arm off if someone asked.
Martinez had seen plenty of people under the effects of this drug since working at the trauma center. None were ever stable, each usually near death or permanently maimed and across to the other side of the Galaxy from where they were drugged.
If Kyroll had a chance to use this on him, Martinez could easily have woken up on the far side of the galaxy. But if Kyroll was willing to use a drug like this to silence him, there was no doubt that he would main Martinez. Martinez likely would end up like Ruhinley: missing a limb, cold, and alone.
Pushing those dark thoughts aside, Martinez returned to the kit and continued looking through it. Just beneath the bag of Visage, there was another thing he did not recognize. It looked like wet granola shoved into a sandwich bag and soaked in oils.
But the colors were all wrong.
Instead of greys and browns, this was a mixture of deep reds, oranges, and purples. By look alone, it reminded him of wet cat food.
Whatever it was, it really didn't matter; it was going to get tossed out with everything else in this kit. Martinez was not going to give Kyroll a chance to use any of his preparations on him by scattering his equipment to the wind and booking it as fast as possible.
He could be home within a day or two; all he would have to do is manage to navigate back. Navigating back by hugging the roads would be easy enough, even if being in the semi-tundra would suck.
As quickly as possible Martinez draped one of the handles over his shoulder and fished the items out at random and began tossing them into the night, never to be found by Kyroll again.
Putting the kibosh on that horrible man's plan gave Martinez that warm and fuzzy feeling in his stomach. One, someone would only get it when they truly beat someone at their own game.
He hated to admit it, but Liza was right about Kyroll being no good, and now that Martinez had given the man a chance, he felt like an ass and realized that even trying was a horrible mistake.
All was going well until Martinez grabbed hold of the bag of kibble-like substance. It squelched and exploded oily juices onto his hand, soaking the bag through. He gagged from the overwhelming rot and decayed overflowing from the substance; as quickly as possible, Martinez chucked it off into the woods, pulling in every muscle possible, and oil dripped into a slick trail from where he stood off into the darkness.
Just as he grabbed the Visage, Martinez was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist. "Martinez, stop," Kyroll shouted, looking at Martinez in confusion and then down into the empty duffle bag covered in slick goo. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Yeah, I stopped you from using this shit on me," Martinez yelled, shoving Kyroll back and throwing the bag of Visage off into the pond before turning back around and then glowering at the older man looking flabbergasted at him.
"Not that you stupid Vur---" Kyroll started but groaned and collapsed to the ground when Martinez brought a firm kick straight into his crotch.
"shut the fuck up, you sociopath," Martinez barked while Kyroll collapsed down and tried to stay steady with one hand, a task that was nearly impossible as he began to vomit, spewing bile and food slop in the snow.
As a man, Martinez, I felt the slightest twinge of sympathy for Kyroll. No one likes getting hit in the nuts, after all. But as a realist, he could not have cared less; a nutshot was the bare minimum that he deserved.
Kyroll gagged and attempted to look up towards Martinez. His hollow, red eyes were vapid, looking as if he deserved what he was getting and accepted it.
The older Aviex looked pathetic, and rightfully so. Anyone willing to use those drugs as a weapon was an enemy, and the Marines had taught Martinez what you do with enemies: you give them no quarter—and make them submit.
Martinez stepped forward to enjoy giving Kyroll what he deserved—a firm ass-kicking. " Get up!" he challenged.
Kyrol tried to get to his feet, pressing up and out of the snow, but the moment his legs found unstable purchase beneath him, Martinez drove a kick into the hunched man's diaphragm, knocking him back into the frost.
" I said get up!" Martinez barked before stomping down onto Kyroll’s back. Martinez's hefty size 12 boot was audible through the night.
Martinez quickly removed his foot and let Kyroll try to stand up—the keyword was try. No matter how the older man attempted to scramble away and regain his composure or however many times he broke his lips and attempted to mutter more lies, a swift boot, fist, or shove was given as an answer, keeping him on the ground, and adding uncountable contusions to his body.
"Come on, is this all you can do? Weren't you going to try to kill me?" Martinez roared, demanding challenge from the man.
"I don't want to fight you," Kyroll managed to squeeze through his teeth after recovering just enough from a hit, but he was still on all fours in the frost. “You have to listen to me."
If anything, his pleading made the situation worse, turning Martinez’s treatment from punishment to cruelty. That Kyroll did not want to fight back earned him a swift boot straight into his face, leaving an imprint across his forehead and cracking his nose like an egg, blood pouring out and into the snow, mixing with the vomiting and bile.
"I don't have to listen to shit from you," Martinez yelled while stepping off to the side a moment before driving a soccer ball kick straight into Kyroll, several of his ribs buckling and snapping underneath the force, leaving him supine and gasping like a fish out of water.
"You know I was more than happy to give you a fucking chance for the sake of your wife or your daughter," Martinez started as Carol lay there gasping for air. "But now I don't care anymore," Martinez continued, placing his boot firmly atop Kyrolls chest and grinding it against his ribs. “But you—you just had to not even extend a fucking olive branch back,”
Despite the apparent amount of pain Kyroll was in, he hadn’t even yelped once as Martinez thrashed him. Maybe it was a matter of adrenaline coursing through him, or Kyroll was legitimately just that much of a hard ass.
Either way, Martinez didn't have any of it.
Martinez pushed more of his weight onto his foot atop Kyroll’s chest, leaning in closer.
Air escaped Kyrolls lungs as the weight on him increased, making breathing all but impossible. "Unlike you, I'm not just going to kill someone and think that solves all of my fucking problems. But don't get it twisted here. I am not above hurting you."
Kyrolls gripped Martinez’s calf and pushed, alleviating the slightest amount of pressure, but he still made no attempt to fight back; he just kept himself breathing.
This was different from how Martinez pictured a confrontation between them. Yeah, Martinez was a decent fighter, But Kyroll was a former Special Forces operator and had more combat experience than Martinez could fathom. Kyroll was almost double his age but still should be able to put up a fight; it shouldn't be a one-sided beatdown. Something was off here. But in Martinez’s sadistic rage, that thought did not register.
Before Martinez could ponder the idea further, Kyroll lifted his leg just enough so he could croak out his warning.
"Run Away!"
"Run? Run from what you? Or is there something else out here that you planned also to try to kill me?” Martinez replied, gesturing around himself into the darkness and re-engaging his hold on Kyroll. " are your friends out there ready to blow my brains out now?"
Before Kyroll could elaborate on the dangers present a roar as loud as a jet fighter echoed through the night, shaking the timbers and rattling both to the core.
"From that," Kyroll assured, using the lapse in Martinez's focus to slip out and spit up from the ground, taking the chance to spit blood and a broken fang out his mouth. "That bag of Brigal rang the dinner bell,"
"For what?" Martinez replied, rushing past the fire to retrieve his rifle, understanding that an animal is more dangerous than a sentient—at least in a pinch.
Kyroll hoisted himself out of the snow, every muscle screaming and in agony, and began to limp to his tent to grab his rifle." Any Milurt within several days' walk," he answered plainly, not wanting any embellishment to make the danger they were in any less evident. It also helped because just breathing at this point was agony.
Kyroll wanted Martinez to feel like he wasn't much of a threat anymore and thusly took the thrashing he gave him. But in retrospect, with that bag of Milurt having been opened? He should have actually fought back, but either way, they still would be in the same situation, and if you had fought, they both would be wounded messes, not just him. So it did not matter.
"So what were you going to feed me to that thing?" Martinez said, checking for a round in the chamber. Upon seeing the small orange straight-wall caseless round, he sent the bolt home and continued to scan for wherever that roar came from.
Kyroll shrugged, knowing there was no point in explaining the details of the plan he had given up on. If they made it through this, he could explain his thought process to Martinez, but he knew very well that was a big if. For now, survival was the only thing that mattered.
limping as quickly as his battered body could, Kyroll moved past Martinez toward the trail leading the truc,k leaving the majority of his gear where it lay. They wouldn't need it, and gathering it would take too long. "Come on, we need to go,"
Martinez shot his hand out and grabbed Carroll's shoulder, earning him a venom-filled glare, ”You must be high if you think showing you anywhere."
“I'm not high, and you will follow me if you want to live," Kyroll argued, rolling his shoulder free of Martinez's grasp, continuing down the path, and starting a slow jog.
The millisecond, Martinez's hand was wrenched from Kyroll's shoulder, a roar louder than the first vibrated his teeth; looking off into the distance, Martinez couldn't see hide nor hair of what was creating those whaling roars.
But more joined the first two and quickly became a defiant chorus. Like watchmen on an old bastion's front, one after another rose up, calling for violence; the cacophony shook the bows, each new tone announcing they had joined the hunt.
Before long, Martinez couldn't even tell one from the other. There were dozens of them, likely stretching out hundreds of kilometers, all answering the call to find the liquid soaking his skin.
Deciding that survival was more important than their fight, Martinez pivoted and followed as quickly as possible. "Can't we scare them off like last time?"
"It wouldn't work,” Kyroll plainly replied. “Any of that that Brigal would have alerted them to kill anything nearby.”
Hearing that, Martinez paused, his heart as still as a statue while he looked down at his right arm glistening in the dim moonlight; his heart sank like a stone, understanding fully what Kyroll had just told him.
"I’m covered in it," Martinez admitted
Without even looking back to confirm, Kyroll took Martinez’s words as gospel accelerated from a jog into a full-bore run, his wounded body moving as quickly as possible as the wan moonlight would allow. " double time Doc, we have to move,"
-----
So the turn tables have turned. Time for some dynamic changes of Martinez and Kyroll rolling back to what they have built into them. For now I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, expect a new one ASAP.
Please don't forget to updoot and comment.
your baker man
-Pirate
-----
Book One Start
Buy My Novels
Book Two Start
previous
Next
​

Welcome to The Oblivion Cycle universe, a vast setting spanning all of time and space and so much more. While many stories may shed perspective on this grand cosmic vista, there are also tales of adventure and sacrifice, romance and terror, grimdark corruption and scientific progress. To become immersed in the setting is to let the chaos of creativity flow through you, to let go of what is probable to discover what’s possible. I have created TOC for one reason, to inspire and entertain any who will listen. So please feel free to join me on this great adventure as I push the boundaries of what is possible and expand the limits of our creativity together. For more information on the setting and its lore there is a subreddit for TOC at TheOblivionCycle and a Discord server dedicated to it here [ https://discord.gg/uGsYHfdjYf ] called ‘The Oblivion Cycle Community Server’. I hope you find the following story entertaining and once more, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.
+ E1:P1 + E2:P1 + Previous Part + Next Episode +
__________________________________________________
Continued From E2:P6
Balinski watched the feed from inside the mobile command center with Siyel. The operatives were efficient and clearly knew their craft as they moved through the building quickly and methodically. Establishing clear lines of cover and overlapping fields of fire as they moved from room to room. It took them less than a minute to clear the entire ground floor, an impressive feat for any group.
The feed switched as they received a report, “Ground floor clear, no sign of hostile or any other recent activity. We are moving to the rear of the structure, there seems to be another floor below this one. No obvious entrance, stand by.”
Siyel glanced at him and then nodded. “Standing by, we have a canine unit available if you require.” She covered the mic with her hand and glanced at him and Caesar. “You wouldn't mind?”
Balinski shook his head, “I don’t mind. But you are going to have to convince her to move.”
Caesar knew she was being talked about now and raised her large furred head from his feet. Siyel looked at her and asked in a respectful manner, “Caesar, would you be willing to help my officers locate a hidden entrance?” Caesar seemed to balk slightly before glancing at him.
“Don't look at me, the lady asked you.” Caesar gave a small undignified grunt and then stood slowly.
Siyel smiled. “Thank you Caesar, I promise I will make it up to you.” The cyberhound gave her a pointed look that told her she was going to hold Siyel to that promise before she trotted over to the door.
As she did the ramp door opened remotely and she hopped out of the vehicle. The voice over the comms replied not a second later. “Yes, a canine unit would be incredibly welcome. How long until you can get them…” they paused. “Oh, that was fast. Hello there, er, what is this unit’s designation?”
Siyel grinned and replied smartly, “Her name is Caesar and she is a lot smarter than she looks. Treat her like one of your officers, she will know what to do.”
The man’s voice replied, the screen showing a feed of Caesar sitting in front of the man with her cybernetic jaws lolling open. A hand entered the view making a gesture towards her, “Hey you there, Caesar. We need to locate some manner of entrance to a lower level. If you could.. sniff it out?” Caesar barked and nodded her head before putting her nose to the ground and sniffing about in an over exaggerated manner.
Balinski chuckled. “She can be such a ham at times.”
Siyel nodded in response but remained silent. Of course, her microphone was still live. The feeds followed the enhanced husky as she moved from room to room, with each one checked off the list she seemed to narrow down the scents she was looking for. After only a couple minutes she was pawing at a large double-decker washing machine in the back of the store. Her muted growls being broadcast across the feed.
Two officers were then directed to take hold of the machine and they collectively managed to wrench it out of place. Balinski had to give a low grunt as the wall behind was revealed to have a metal doorway situated behind the machines. “A secret door, who would have guessed.”
As the man stepped through into the relative darkness the feed started to fizz, the black and white flecks of static appearing all at once across the screen.
The atraxses woman on the other side of Siyel seemed to murmur in annoyance once more before turning to Siyel and speaking in a gruff yet oddly feminine voice. “We are losing their telemetry. It would seem that there is some sort of faraday meshing in the sub-basement that is blocking all our signals.”
That was bad news, it meant that the team would be entirely cut off from anything but direct line of sight communications. He stood, not knowing what to do but feeling the overwhelming urge to do something. Siyel put out an arm and dragged him back into his seat, well, he allowed her too. There was no way she could have budged his heavy cybernetic frame if he hadn’t wanted her to.
She shook her horned head at him and gestured to the consoles. “They will be fine. They are highly trained officers of the law, you know?”
She was right, but he hated sitting impotent along the sidelines. Watching was anathema to him, as a man of action he liked to be stuck right in the middle of the action. He winced as his bruises stung, yeah.. that had been going just swell for him so far.
The waiting was an agony, but after another few minutes several of the officers including Caesar exited the dead zone and messaged back to Siyel, “It looks all clear. There is nobody here, one casualty. Civilian. They were already dead when we found them, they look like the owner. Please advise?”
She pounded one of her fists on the counter top and hissed in frustration. “Be advised, I am coming in with escort. Leave the body where you found it, I want to get a look at the place myself.” Siyel tossed off her headset and donned a navy blue police windbreaker. With a toss of her short black hair she gestured to him, “Are you coming?”
Balinski stood and glanced at the atraxses woman, she seemed perfectly content to stay where she was and so he just nodded and placed the headset he had been using down upon the counter. He had to duck slightly as he exited the Beast behind Siyel, they walked along the street quickly towards the activity up ahead. He chanced a glance behind them and could just make out a police cruiser manning a barricade that was blocking traffic from this part of the road. That was smart, limiting both coverage and innocents in any potential crossfire.
Siyel was walking just to his front and left, he watched the back of her head as they neared the site. He was wondering once more what it was that was making this entire debacle feel so personal to her. As if she felt his eyes on her she glanced at him and frowned causing him to snap his eye back forwards. He thought he heard a chuckle but he couldn't be sure, and by then they had reached the laundromat.
The man who’s feed they had been watching stepped forwards and gave her a salute before looking Balinski up and down with a skeptical look. “This is.. your escort?”
She nodded and reached out, smacking Balinski on the chest. He jumped slightly at the unexpected contact. “Yes, this is Balinski Katars. Void warden. He saved my life no fewer than three times during the attack last night, I trust him with my life. Anything you can tell me you can also tell him.” Balinski’s remaining eyebrow rose at that, that was a heavy statement indeed. He was a little shocked to hear her speak of him so positively.
It wasn’t as if he had expected her not to respect him, but to hear her so clearly express her trust in him made his heart flutter again. That same strange feeling crawled through his stomach and mind. He cleared his throat and nodded to the man, extending a cybernetic hand. The black digits whirring softly as they articulated into a friendly gesture.
“Hello, pleased to make your acquaintance officer.” The man gave his hand a quick shake and then stepped towards the structure, his Colt-Franz LMR v.17 held low and to the ready in case of any threats.
The walk into the building was short and tense. He looked around for any signs of danger while simultaneously keeping an eye on Siyel. She seemed to observe everything at once. Of course she would be good at this, she had been on the force for nearly a decade already, the woman was in her commanding position for a reason after all.
As he rounded a corner he was surprised by a large fluffy object rocketing into him, it was Caesar. Her cybernetic legs propelled her high into the air as she jumped straight into his chest and rebounded off him.
“Ooouff!” he wheezed as she gave a series of happy little barks and wagged her tail. He shook his head and then stood straight again as Siyel and the other officer walked around the corner.
Siyel smiled and waved to the pup, “Hello Caesar. Thanks for helping us. Good girl.”
Caesar smiled wide, her cybernetic jaws straining as she just sneezed and then strutted up to Balinski’s side where she looked up at him expectantly. He rolled his eyes and then leaned down to give her head a quick scrub. “Oh all right, good girl. But you only get this one for now.”
He opened a concealed pocket in his trench coat and plucked out a single small biscuit from a resealable bag with the stylized cartoonish picture of a croc noppin on it. The happy looking lizard-dog was smiling with a thumbs up under the brightly colored letters that spelled out ‘Happy Chompers Noppin Treats’.
He held it up, waggling the small treat above the excited pup’s head. She barked and made a jump for it, snatching the cookie from his hand with surprising precision before scarfing it down maniacally.
He shook his head. “What do they put in these things?”
Clearly it was something that drove the poor pooch bonkers for them, he flicked his eyes back to the others and followed them as Caesar followed at his heels. Siyel entered the dark tunnel of the secret entrance and Balinski followed. The passageway was dark, no lights evident as they followed the stairwell down to a lower basement floor that looked to have been converted from some manner of undercity utility chamber.
The walls were bare brick and there were tunnels that branched off into the depths, most of them far too short for a being to stand comfortably. In the center of the room were several smashed tables, their dromemite surfaces warped as if by high heat and the contents of a large wooden crate scattered around the floor.
Balinski took several steps closer to the scene and saw that just beyond the mess was a large figure, their form unmoving and surrounded by a pool of dark orange fluid that glinted in the fluorescent light like tiny gemstones. It was a gre’vahn, they had been stripped naked and beaten to death it looked like. And from the look of the wounds the death had been rather recent as well.
He covered his mouth at the grisly scene as he walked around to the front of the body. Siyel followed and then exclaimed in disgust.
“What in the lords mercy!” she turned away, her normally rosy features turning a pale shade of lavender as she had to take a second to recover.
Balinski himself was only a little better off, but he still felt his gorge rise at the sight. The large centauroid woman’s cat-like features had been smashed in, strips of tattered meat and the sparkling glint of shattered quartzoin visible through the mess that was once her face. What's more the woman's breasts seemed to have been cut from her mutilated chest and there were obscene slurs carved into the blood matted fur of her lower abdomen. From the deep scratches and gouges in the concrete floor around the woman’s corpse it looked as if the cutting may have been done while the poor woman was still alive.
He turned away now, the scene far more grisly than any of the mutilated and ruptured corpses he had seen in the war. This was not just a dead body, but the sheer cruelty and savagery of the act itself seemed to fog the very air with its insufferably evil brume.
He coughed weakly as he doubled over and had to take several steps away. Images forced themselves unbidden to the forefront of his mind and almost knocked him to his knees with their potency. Images of a tall furred alien in a blood stained coat and mask, a large surgical saw in one hand and a strip of chewed leather in the other. A voice echoed in his thoughts as if from a nightmare, ‘I’m sorry, but I need to remove your broken limbs. I am sorry.’
The psychosomatic pain of his cybernetics lit up like bonfires of sensation in his mind at the memory and he nearly blacked out from the neural overload, bet something stopped him from falling off the edge of that abyss.
A small whine sounded from his left and something soft butted into his side a few times in quick succession. He reached out near blindly and dragged Caesar close, hugging the cyberhound tightly and taking several deep calming breaths.
By the time he had recovered enough to stand Siyel had also regained her composure. She turned to the grim-faced human officer who had led them into the room and passed a hand over her horns. Her tail flicked in discomfort as she looked at the body again, “Lords Gavin.. You could have fucking warned me at least. That is, not good..” she finished simply.
Gavin nodded. “Yeah, well.. How do I accurately describe this? I guess I could have said the situation was FUBAR.”
Siyel nodded her horned head and then walked around the body to the other side before stopping again and averting her eyes. “Fucking perverts.. I hope.. no I just don’t.” she looked up at the ceiling as Balinski walked to the scattered packages on the floor.
As the other two talked quietly about the nature of the crime, he knelt and picked up one of the unruptured containers. It was a small vial of slightly silvery grey powder. He gave it a gentle shake and cycled through several different modes with his cybernetic eye before he spotted flecks of blue in it that glinted in the harsh white light. They were tiny, barely visible even to his enhanced cybernetic vision. He knew almost immediately what he was holding.
He stood and turned to Siyel holding up the small vial. “I know what this is.”
Gavin nodded and muttered, “yeah. It’s occusmite. Not exactly helpful in this instance.”
Balinski shrugged, “Sure. Unless you know who manufactured it.”
Siyel took a step in his direction, pointedly not looking at the broken body in the center of the room. “How on Jureillo do you know who manufactured that batch? There are illegal occusmite manufacturing rings all over the city.”
He tossed the bottle into the air before catching it a few times, weighing it in his hand as if it was important to his next statement. “Well, what I know is that the labs that make the good stuff, like this batch here.” he rattled the vial, the tiny tinkling sounds it made barely audible. “Tend to have signatures in them from the manufacturers. Something to mark their work and prevent counterfeiting. All a part of the business you know?”
She nodded. “Of course! And this batch is marked? How can you tell? The point of the marking is to be as indetectable as possible.” She walked over to him now, the nerivith woman was only a few centimeters shorter than him. Tall even for her own people. She was nearly able to look him in the eyes as she implored, “And who manufactured this batch?” She seemed to plead with him. Her violet eyes enraptured him as she stared into his very soul.
He coughed after a moment of silence and shook his head slightly. He held up the vial to the light and shook it. “It took me a bit of cycling through different color spectra, but I eventually noticed tiny flecks of blue in the 393 nanometer range specifically. That marks it out as unique and a product of the Psychosis Division.”
As he finished speaking she sacked her fist into her palm. “I knew it. This has all the hallmarks of the Pit Vipers. But they couldn't have come up with such an elaborate plan on their own, there had to be something guiding them.” She whirled around to the other officer. Pointing at them with a long fingered hand, she instructed commandingly, “Officer Gavin, I want you to run a sample of this to one of the technicians. Then call for a group of Tunnel Trawlers. I want these tunnels checked out.” The man gave her a crisp salute and then scurried away.
As his heavy footfalls receded it left Siyel alone in the room with only him and Caesar. She once more seemed to slump slightly, her normal stoic demeanour slipping like a mask. “I don’t know if I can do this, Balinski.” She walked towards one of the less damaged tables and leaned against its edge, her arms folded under her breasts as she looked over at him.
Balinski frowned. Where was this uncharacteristic emotion coming from? “I don’t believe that for a second Siyel. You are the best police officer I have ever seen, and I am not saying that just to make your head bigger.” She smiled slightly at his remark, but he continued. “Look, the truth of the matter is that this woman was likely killed before the raid even started. Those scumbags hopped themselves up on some fresh ockie and then had a rape party to get themselves in the mood.” Not to mention that the gre’vahn female had likely been at least tangentially aware of the criminal activity in the basement of her building.
He saw her shake her head. “No, I know that. But.. if I can’t help the people of this city then what good am I?” Her voice wavered slightly and he had to remind himself that he was talking to one of the highest ranking police officers in the city. She was an SC-3, in charge of countergang activities across the entire city.
That meant that this particular case must have some significance to her then, if she had been following it as closely as she had. He sidled over and leaned on the table next to her, pushing his already strange relationship with her to the limits of what he felt comfortable in a professional setting.
He gave her a hard look as he removed his hat and held it in both hands. “Look. I'm new to all this police stuff. I got my contract straight from the government as a sort of pity gift to a war cripple. They would have given me anything I wanted to make up for leaving me in that hell hole for…” He swallowed hard and changed the subject with a deep breath. She looked over at him, her expression changing ever so slightly. Her hard violet stare becoming slightly warmer in his own twisted imagination. “The fact of the matter is that I could have become anything. I chose to become a Warden. I wanted to help people, just like you do every single day. I saw injustice every day on the battlefield from corrupt officers and incompetent officials. I don’t see that when I am helping you, you are doing the work that nobody else can. Not because you have too, and not because it is easy. You do it because you care deeply for the people of this city. The people that are saved from injustice every single day by your task force operatives.” he had to pause for breath.
She took the opportunity to reach up and place a pink hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for that. I might not want to hear it, but I guess I am doing the work that others won’t. Thanks for reminding me.”
He nodded, his mouth snapping closed. He glanced down at her hand, the hand that was lingering slightly longer than was strictly necessary for the sake of comradery in that moment. He cleared his throat as Caesar whined. Siyel chuckled and removed her hand, reaching out to scrub the pup’s head.
Seeing her there wearing one of her rare smiles, it made him realise. He was indeed fond of her, surpassing that of simple friendship. He closed off the thoughts though, she had never shown any feelings towards him but mutual respect and so it was not his place to do anything different. “I think we can probably head back up now.”
As he moved to turn away he felt her hands grab his arm. Balinski jerked and looked back over his shoulder in surprise. She looked at him earnestly and then checked the surroundings before lowering her voice. “This is likely one of the very few times I can talk to you without fear of being overheard, Balinski. I’m being watched, somebody knows my every move I feel. There are ears everywhere.” his eyes widened at her words. What on Jureillo was she talking about?
She continued quickly, “I can’t say this up there. But I need you to catch the one responsible for this. Not for the city, for me… Will you do that for me, Balinski? Please?”
He looked at Siyel and felt something inside his mind shift. She had shown a side of herself that he had never seen before. He had seen her angry, he had even seen her panicked before. But he had never seen her look so desperate, every instinct in his body told him she was telling him the truth. And he had no reason not to trust her.
Balinski glanced down at Caesar who was looking at the pair with poorly veiled curiosity on her doggy features. He looked back at her and nodded. “Consider it done. They won’t escape justice again.”
She seemed to relax instantly and then released him before taking a deep breath and regaining her normal stoic composure. “Good, that's.. is good.” She placed her hands in the small of her back and stretched, pushing out her chest and causing a series of crackling pops. “Oough. It never gets any easier, trust me.” She gave him another nod and then started off towards the stairs.
Balinski started in surprise again as he felt something brush one of his hands, it was her tail. The dark tuft of hair on the end of her long sinuous appendage fluttering as it flicked away. She didn’t seem to react, it might have been unconscious or it could have been intentional. He would have no way of knowing and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her about it.
He just shook his head as she exited the room. What was he getting into? “Caesar, stop that.” he said as the insufferable pup kicked one of the glass vials across the floor. “That’s evidence tampering. I could report you to the field office for that.” he joked. She didn't seem to get the joke as she flattened her ears and gave a short whine.
He shook his head. “Oh you big baby. You know I wasn’t actually mad at you. Come on, let's get out of this place.”
He gave another glance to the body in the center of the room and burned the sight into his memory. He would find those responsible and make them suffer ten-fold for every atrocity they had ever committed. He grinned cruelly as he thought of just how he planned to make them pay for their crimes.
He strode out of the building and stopped on the edge of the street. He looked up at the sky, the orange colored sun was nearly directly overhead. As if to make a point he heard a small growl from his middle and had to chuckle as Caesar copied it.
He looked at her and smiled. “Yeah, I’m hungry too. What do you say we go and hit up a McDoinks Bugerhut? I'll get you an order of frine nuggets, does that sound fair?” She hopped up and down a few times before giving him a very positive woof.
He nodded, the dark thoughts that always scratched at the corners of his mind held at bay for another day. As long as they were together he could take on the world. He reached down and scrubbed her head, she was his best friend. And nothing would ever change that.
End of Episode 2
Continued in Episode 3 -Pulling at Treads-
==End of Transmission==

Ramy took advantage of his IT privileges and found out that Omar's work email was deactivated. He'd quit. If he was planning on returning at some point, he wasn't intending on reprising his role as one of our facility's project managers.
(If you haven't seen my pervious updates, click here to watch my life fall apart in real time.)
In his letter of resignation that was obtained using methods that are totally legal and ethically sound, Omar claimed that he'd accepted an offer for another position. The letter didn't give any clues as to where this imaginary position was, much to Ramy's disappointment. For now, it seems like Omar is running scared and is trying to cover his tracks as best as he can.
As for the hoofed jinn, I discovered that it had been wandering around in the woods behind my house, still in its catlike form. I started leaving a plate of raw chicken out for it each night before heading to work. I know that it's perfectly capable of hunting on its own, and chicken probably wouldn't be its ideal meal of choice, but I felt bad for the poor thing. After all it had been through, I figured the least I could do was give it a snack.
This went on over the course of a few days. Eventually, the hoofed jinn began to sit on my porch, waiting for me. It would eat, then curl up in a furry ball and sleep. After a while, I got bold enough to try to pet it. It glared at me the entire time, though it let me scratch its head.
All in all, I guess I have a new friend. Don't ask me why I feel the need to befriend everything that tries to kill me. I also would like to know why this is my primary method of forging friendships.
With those two updates out of the way, I have a question for those of you who are more experienced with relationships than I am: do you ever look at the person you're with and it just hits you how attractive they are?
Ramy was playing around with my router, brows furrowed together in concentration, eyes reflecting the blue light coming from my laptop monitor. It was something completely mundane, yet somehow, I found myself completely overwhelmed with how gorgeous he was. Is this normal?
Local Man Discovers He Is A Simp.
I grabbed the collar of his shirt, catching him off guard when I pulled him into a kiss. After a moment, his arm circled my waist as he playfully nipped at my lower lip. The fabric of his shirt shifted as he leaned into me, trying to back me up against the table. Wait, what was that? I broke the kiss, pushing the corner of his collar down to get a better look.
The necrosis was spreading. I quickly unbuttoned his shirt to see the extent of it. The decay had almost reached the hollow of his shoulder, the lower part of the injury crawling towards his waist like bolts of lightning.
"Jesus," I breathed. "It wasn't this bad two days ago."
With a sigh, Ramy slowly buttoned his shirt up again. "Yeah, you can thank Omar for that. Getting exorcized put my timeline way off."
"Timeline for what?"
"When this body let me take him over, it was on the condition that I make the jackasses that killed him suffer. Even though I've only got one left, the damn body's getting impatient."
Matthew's first set of entries had said that there was one other survivor besides him and his brother. God, that incident with the journals felt like a lifetime ago. What was the third soldier’s name again? Harris. That was it.
“I wi-” I cut myself off before I could make a terrible mistake. I had almost started my sentence with ‘wish.’
Of course, this didn't escape the notice of a certain shithead jinn. With a mischievous smirk, he asked, “What were you saying, Lab Rat?”
“First of all, fuck off.” His chuckle briefly interrupted me. “Second of all, I would have appreciated it if you had told me this sooner.”
“I didn't say anything because I'm not concerned about it.” After a moment, he added, “I don't want you worrying about me, alright?”
“Well, too bad. That's what you get for making me care about you.” I grabbed his collar again, this time pretending to threaten him, “And since you don't seem capable of worrying about yourself, someone has to.”
His cool fingers gently covered mine, keeping my hand where it was. I asked him if he knew where Harris was. He admitted that he didn't. Knowing that Ramy had a time limit made me curse the fact that we'd had to destroy the journals. One of them might've been able to give us a clue about where to find him.
I let the question that was making my chest feel tight with nervousness come out, “How long do you think you have to figure this out?”
He seemed hesitant to answer, but eventually confessed, “At this rate, probably a month.”
A month? Harris could be in a different country, for all we knew. A month.
I'd been saving my last wish for a long time; this was partially because I did not want to waste it, and also partly because I wasn’t sure what to use it for. Ramy had been trying to convince me to use it to replace the PT Cruiser, his reasons being that not only is the car a piece of shit, but it's also not tall person friendly. I'd always hesitated, thinking that a car was too frivolous. Shouldn't a final wish be for something important?
What could be more important than him?
“I wish that-”
Ramy's hand suddenly covered my mouth, stopping me before I could finish.
“What are you doing?” He asked calmly.
Clutching his wrist, I pulled his palm off of my mouth to respond, “Helping you?”
“Don't waste your last wish on me.”
“It's not a waste.” I insisted. “I've got a nice home, two happy, healthy animals, and a good job. What more could I possibly need?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You know what my answer to that question is.”
“I'm going to call the shop right now and tell them to install one of those lifty thingies on it to make it a monster PT Cruiser.”
Ramy tried not to laugh in an effort to keep his earlier stern expression, “Don't do that.”
“Bring it up again, and I'll make us both regret it. That car can uglier, I assure you.”
The hint of his familiar smile crept out, “You'd only be punishing yourself, man.”
We were getting sidetracked. I had to bring it back. “Okay, my shitty car is not the point. The point is that I've got a decent life. Yeah, it'd be nice to not have a near death experience once a week, but all in all, I'm doing better than I ever have been in… well, ever. For the first time since I can remember, I don't feel like some uncomfortable nuisance that everyone would rather just ignore.”
Ramy's eyes lowered, quietly considering my words
I ended my speech by exposing myself as the sappiest simp to have ever simped, “The only other thing I have left to want is you.”
He rested his forehead against mine. For a long moment, he didn't say a word, just stayed close to me.
When he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically soft, “You know, you're the only person that's seen me for more than what I can offer. Wishes. Power. Magic. None of that appears to mean anything to you.”
I whispered, “Like I said. I want you.”
Ramy gave me a small smile, “Careful. If you keep saying that, I might end up believing it.”
“Believe it.” I stroked his cheek. “Let me do this for you. Please.”
Ramy’s eyes closed, leaning into my hand. It's not often that I get to see this side of him. I only get brief glimpses here and there.
With a sigh, he eventually muttered, “It would be best to simply wish for the last soldier's whereabouts. If that's what you really want.”
Without any further hesitation, I made my wish.
Ramy’s arms tightened around me, pressing me against his chest. He told me to close my eyes. Thinking he was going to kiss me again, I readily obliged, however, I quickly realized that wasn't the case when I suddenly felt wind on my face. A cow bellowed.
Confused, my eyes snapped open. We were on a ranch. How the hell did we get to a ranch?
A barn that looked as if it had seen better days loomed over us. Muscular black cows wandered around behind a wire fence nearby, stretching beyond where I could see. The ground was dry and rocky, the landscape devoid of any trees. When I glanced up to see if I recognized any constellations, I was awestruck by the incredible sight above me. I had never seen so many stars in my life. I’d thought that I had a good view of it from my house, but at the ranch, the sky was so clear that I was able to make out the purple arm of the Milky Way swirling across the sky.
Not to sound like Dorothy, but we definitely weren't in Ohio anymore. I'm not sure where we were exactly, but my guess is that the ranch was out west, possibly in Nevada or Colorado.
I was about to question Ramy about our circumstances, but he was already on his way to the barn. He wasn't wasting time. I hurried after him.
There was a faint orange light emanating from inside the barn. It was pretty safe to assume that the wish had taken us to Harris. Did he know Ramy was coming for him, like how Matthew did? What were we walking into?
Ramy glanced at me from over his shoulder, “Wait here.”
Not knowing what else to do, I nodded, planting my feet uneasily just outside the barn door.
I've taken the advice some of you have given me to start learning Arabic. It's extremely slow going, but… it's going. The reason why I bring this up is because I heard Ramy let out an, “Uff!” Which was not a good sign.
I peeked through the doorway and instantly wished I hadn’t. What resembled a hunk of red meat was suspended in the middle of the barn by hooks protruding from the palms of its hands, connected to heavy-looking, golden chains fastened to the rafters. He didn't have skin anywhere except for his face. When Ramy got close, I was horrified when the flayed man wheezed, the sound wet and ragged. He was still alive. How could someone still be alive in that condition?
I turned away as Ramy reached for him. There was a gut-wrenching crack. The flayed man went silent.
Somewhere to my left in the desert around me, I heard the rattle of chains. Heart rate quickening, I darted into the barn, trying to avoid looking at Harris’ hanging body as much as possible.
Ramy whispered, “Whatever you do, don't run. The angel that did this is still here. If you try to run, it will chase you.”
Glancing around, I saw symbols written in chalk on the ground. Not Arabic. Not anything I’d ever seen before. Afterwards, I learned that it was Enochian.
Quietly, I asked, “Did Harris… summon that thing?”
Ramy replied, “Yes. He must've thought it would protect him. Unfortunately for him, they have no tolerance for those they deem wicked. It appears that he didn't measure up to the angel’s high standards.”
Chains rattled from outside. Closer.
I swallowed, choking out, “Can you get us out of here?”
Ramy sounded mildly surprised, “Huh. This is new.”
Eyes wide, I glanced over to see that he pulled his collar down. Thick, gray liquid had begun to ooze from the necrotic tissue on his chest.
“What's happening?” I asked.
Instead of answering, Ramy pushed me behind him. When he touched me, I was shocked to discover that for the first time since I'd known him, his skin was warm. He felt alive.
But I couldn't dwell on it right then. The angel stood in the doorway.
By all means, the angel should have been beautiful. Six pairs of feathered wings shone in a spectrum of pearlescent colors, giving off a light that was painful to look at for too long. His face was perfectly symmetrical to the point of making me feel uneasy, like I was looking at a machine’s idea of what a perfect human man would look like. His violet eyes glowed, not unlike the arm of the Milky Way outside. They scrutinized me like I was prey. He held a gold chain in its hands, the chain tipped with a nasty-looking hook, identical to the ones Harris hung from.
The angel grinned in a way that made my blood chill, “Who do you serve, ifrit?”
His voice was the guttural, growling voice of a beast, like broken glass against my ears.
Ramy responded, “I was an avenger. I've gotten what I came for.”
“That's not an answer.” The hook dropped threateningly to the ground, as if the angel was preparing to use it. “Where do your loyalties lie?”
When I took a small step back, the angel's head swiftly tilted, that cold grin now directed at me. “It's you, isn't it?”
Fuck.
Ramy's voice was harsh as he replied, “I serve no one. You know well that my purpose is to protect sacred places and things. What could be more sacred than one of God’s creations?”
The angel's eyes didn't flicker from me for even a second, “You treasure a man more than your maker? Or perhaps… this man bound you to him. Enslaved you using knowledge forbidden to him.”
The angel’s head tilted again, an almost feline motion, keeping his toothy smile as his eyes slitted, “Which is it?”
Ramy grabbed me just as the angel swung his chain towards me. I squeezed my eyes shut out of reflex, knowing that its trajectory would take the hook squarely between my eyes.
Thankfully, it never came.
The ground was gone. What?! Oh, there it was: my back found it for me, and rather painfully, might I add. I had arrived somewhere that was familiar, but my fearful mind couldn't immediately process where. The chorus of ‘Hell and You’ by Amigo the Devil was playing on crackly speakers. The lighting was dim. The sour smell of old beer made my nostrils flare. Slowly, I sat up, finding that I was next to a pool table.
It clicked into my brain that I was at the dive bar where Aanya had attacked me when we first met.
Where was Ramy? What was bizarre was that I couldn’t feel his presence anymore. Oh God, was he still there? With that fucking angel?
Frantic, I jumped up, the bar's patrons turning to me in bewilderment. One of them was Aanya. She left her place to rush over to me, abadoning the guy that she was most likely intending to eat later that night turning in his seat to give me dirty looks.
“How did you get here?” She demanded, her voice low to deter eavesdroppers.
Frantic, I whispered, “I don't know. We were at a barn, there was an angel, Ramy grabbed me, and then I fell- ”
At the word, ‘angel,’ the blood drained from Aanya's face. Without another word, she dragged me out the door.
Once we were outside, she said, “If you've got an angel after you, we've got to move.”
“How do we stop it?”
“We don't. I imagine that's why Ramy dropped you here.”
We got to her car. A Bonneville that wasn't in much better shape than my Cruiser.
She continued as she got the car started, “You better hope that your boyfriend is ready for the challenge. Angels are not to be fucked with.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, head pounding as blood rushed to my ears.
She shrugged, “Your house? It's the safest place I can think of. And I'm sorry, but I don't want to drag Jade into this.”
Jade was the name of the girl we'd rescued from Aanya's terrible ex. Aanya had told me a few days prior that the girl had begged her not to bring her back to her parents. I'm not sure what that's about, but I didn't ask. Long story short, Aanya's a mother now.
Anyways, I understood. Aanya was responsible for someone who completely relied on her. I uttered, “Thanks for doing this. For helping me.”
“Of course. We're bros now, aren't we?” She said with a smirk.
The ridiculous thing I said next was something that could've only been conjured by the mind of someone on the verge of snapping, “You got that right, Bromeo and Juliet!”
She took her eyes off the road for a brief moment to give me a withering look. “You know, I'm not afraid to kill us both. I will happily drive this car into the lake.”
Shakily, I laughed, feeling hysteria bubbling in my chest. From the tension present in the Bonneville afterwards, I could tell that Aanya was concerned about me.
“Don't ever tell Ramy I said this, and I mean ever because the last thing that jinn needs is an ego boost.” She began, “But he's strong. If anyone can beat an angel, I'd bet it would be him.”
I thought back to the gray secretion coming from the decay on his chest. What if it was making him weaker? What if that meant that finishing off Harris wasn't enough to stop whatever was happening to him? Stop. Working myself into a panic wasn't going to help. I tried to assure myself that this was Ramy. A walking Nokia. He'd be fine. Right?
I just wished that I could sense him again. Just so that I could know for sure if he was still alive. Was that the angel's doing? It had to have been.
During the drive, Aanya ended up breaking the silence by telling me about how she became a churel. I got her permission to retell it here, since I didn't want to violate her trust after such an intimate admission.
“On my 18th birthday, my parents told me that they were taking me to a big family party.” She chuckled bitterly. “Turns out, it was my wedding.
Horrified, I gaped at her.
She shrugged a shoulder, “That's how it worked, at the time. After the wedding, he hauled me off to America, saying that he wanted a better life, when really, he just wanted to remove me from everyone I knew.
“No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't get me pregnant, and somehow, that was my fault. One night, he got especially angry when I didn't ‘choose’ to bear him a son, so he strangled me. The worst part was I didn't fight it. At that point, I'd wanted to die, so I just… let it happen.”
Jesus Christ.
Aanya then flashed me a wry smile, “But then when I woke up, he became the one that was afraid. I followed him for years. Years. And thanks to you, I finally got to watch that fucker die.”
Her confessions left me speechless for a moment. I gazed out the windshield, eyes blurry from sympathetic tears as the weight of what she'd told me set in.
Eventually, I recovered the ability to speak. Somewhat. “I'm… That's all so… I'm sorry that happened to you.”
“Do you know why I told you this?” She asked.
I shook my head.
Aanya uttered, “It took dying for me to become who I needed to be. There's a part of me that wishes that I would've done what I'd needed to do sooner, but there’s no point in wanting to change the past.”
She glanced at me. “You might only have now, Lab Rat. If it came right down to it, do you believe that you could abandon who you are now to do what needs to be done?”
I shook my head again, raising a hand helplessly, “I don't know. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what you're trying to say. My brain feels like a scrambled egg.”
“If you had to do something terrible in order to save yourself, could you?” She clarified.
I thought back to Omar. How despite all that he'd done, I'd let him go. Every other time that I've had to help decide another person's fate, such as Matthew and Aanya's ex, I hadn't been the one to enact it.
My answer probably wasn't satisfying, “I don't know. I want to say that I could, but… I know myself. I'm kind of a bleeding heart.”
As Aanya pulled into my driveway, she softly replied, “At the risk of sounding like a cornball, I hope that your heart can bleed for you, too. Not just others.”
The first thing I noticed when I got out of the Bonneville was that the hoofed jinn wasn't in its feline form anymore. It was back to the lanky, humanoid figure that it had been before. It sat on my stairs, skeletal hands clasped together. The scratches covering its skin looked like they were starting to heal over.
Aanya initially got in between us, so I had to reassure her that the hoofed jinn wasn't an enemy. She didn't seem to fully believe me, but she did relent, her eyes guarded as she followed me to the front porch.
The hoofed jinn raised its head as we approached, its voice childlike as it rasped, “I can't feel the ifrit anymore.”
I informed it that I couldn't either, then I asked if it knew anything about angels. It let out a low growl.
“That explains it. Angels despise us.” The hoofed jinn gave a sharp-toothed smile. “They have no free will of their own, you see. They only know submission and expect the same of free-thinking beings.”
As I unlocked the door, I invited them both inside. This was definitely long overdue, but I finally inquired the hoofed jinn about its name. It said that it didn't remember due to how long it had been since anyone had bothered to ask. It had taken the identity of the unfortunate animal tech that it had eaten to get access to our post-mortem room. The poor animal tech's name had been Bill.
Yes… Bill. I stared at ‘Bill’ for a moment, wondering if the hoofed jinn was joking. It wasn't. Okay. Bill the Flesh-Eating Jinn, it is. It also said that it didn't give a fuck about pronouns, given that it could change its shape at will. It stated that ‘it’ was most suitable.
Naturally, neither of my animals was happy about our inhuman houseguests. I ended up securing them both in my bedroom after Aanya's eyes had begun to glaze with hunger.
While I was in the bedroom, comforting both of my furry daughters, I sensed Ramy for a split second. He was in the house?
I rushed out just as a tall, black shape glided out of my front door. As I got closer, I heard Aanya saying, “The fuck are we supposed to do with this?”
Ramy's body was laying on the ground, the dead man's eyes gazing sightlessly in front of him. The black shape I'd seen earlier must've been the real Ramy, going back outside after dropping off his human host.
That body had clearly been through the ringer. A necklace of bruises implied that the angel had gotten his chain around Ramy's throat, at one point. Deep cuts exposing the bone beneath were visible on his arms and torso.
Something else that caught my attention about the dead man was that the necrotic tissue was lighter, now, an odd gray-yellow; some parts of the injury had turned the bright, shiny pink of new skin.
Astonished, I breathed, “It's healing.”
Blinding white light erupted from outside my window. I shielded my eyes, knowing that it meant that the angel had arrived. Bill's lip curled, releasing a reptilian-sounding hiss from deep within its chest. Slowly, the light became more bearable. Either it dimmed or my eyes simply adjusted.
“You're going out there?” Aanya balked as Bill stomped towards the front door.
The hoofed jinn didn't answer, leaving her and I to glance at each other in equal discombobulation. Afterwards, both of us rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of the madness going on outside.
The angel was missing two of his wings, one from the middle set, the other from the lower. His eyes blazed like the hearts of twin flames. His face was no longer symmetrical, the right side of his mouth appeared to have been ripped off, showing his teeth in a permanent grimace. The golden chain he wielded was dripping with Ramy’s blood.
What was interesting is that the injuries on Ramy's host matched the ones on his actual form. The same sickeningly bone-deep gashes were present in his black arms. Besides that, I was relieved to see that he still had all of his limbs, including the leathery wings, curved horns, and scorpion tail.
It was hard for my eyes to process the vicious confrontation going on in my side yard. The angel moved in blurs of light and the occasional reflection of Ramy's eyes was the only way I could keep track of his equally swift movements. There was a glint of gold right before the chain narrowly missed Ramy's head. His horns hit the angel square in the chest, then they both disappeared again.
The chain soared through the air again, the hook embedding itself in Ramy's thigh, forcing him to the ground. He used one hand to catch himself, another to try to wrench the golden hook out of his leg. With a vicious grin, the angel pulled. Even though Ramy didn't make a sound, I could tell by the way his eyes slitted that he was agonized. The angel roughly wrapped the chain around his arm, pulling the hook again, forcing Ramy to move closer to him, his skin tenting nauseatingly, looking dangerously close to getting ripped clean off. Ramy's fingers clawed at the ground, his whole body shuddering.
I couldn't stand it. The angel's horrible smile was now directed at me, eyes burning at me through the window. He was baiting me.
Aanya suddenly pulled me away from the window just as I saw the angel's head turn sharply. Bill had lunged at him, its teeth just barely missing the angel's good cheek.
Aanya was saying something to me, but I wasn't listening. It sounded like I was underwater while her voice was stuck on the surface. My hands shook. My vision was blurred by frightened, desperate tears.
Why did cheek sting? I blinked frantically, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that I was alive and crouched in my living room. My eyes met Aanya's. She'd slapped me.
“Forgive me,” She snapped. “But you need to snap out of it.”
I nodded quickly, mind racing. Okay. What could I do? Could I do anything? I ignored the hoofed jinn’s furious howl from outside, the walls sounding far too thin compared to the battle being waged outside.
The chain. It could harm Ramy. The only other time I'd ever seen him in any real pain was after he'd been exorcized. Was it possible that the chain hurt the angel as well?
I whispered to Aanya, “ I think that chain might be the only way we can hurt the angel. If someone is able to use it against him, or at the very least get it away from him, that might be enough to stop this.”
Still shaking, I added, “I'm pretty sure that I’m the one the angel wants. I think… I think he believes that I’m controlling Ramy. Like how Omar did.”
“Lab Rat, if you go out there, that thing will kill you.” Aanya said slowly. “Unless…”
It dawned on her then. If we were to try this, she would have to be the one to distract the angel. She sighed through clenched teeth, “Fuck me!”
I tried to be reassuring, “You just need to be out there long enough to get that hook out of Ramy and to tell him what I just told you.”
“And if you're wrong?” Aanya asked.
“Then… I don't know.” I muttered. “We have to try something, don't we?”
She shook her head, jaw tight, “You and that jinn owe me big time for this.”
Aanya gave herself a small shake, stretching her neck from side to side as if to calm herself. Before she left, she made me promise that if anything happened to her, I'd take care of Jade. I agreed.
When I returned to the window, I saw Ramy had freed himself from the angel's hook, but he was slower now. His tail missed the angel by inches. The angel looped his chain around Bill's neck, using his wings to yank the hoofed jinn into the sky, the chain acting as a noose.
Ramy collided with the angel in midair. All three fell to the ground, the angel landing gracefully, his grip on the chain not faltering for even a moment. Meanwhile, Ramy struggled with his injured leg, relying heavily on his wings to keep moving. Bill loudly gasped for air, choking as it thudded to the ground.
I slid the window open a crack and yelled to catch the angel's attention. Another flash of gold. I dropped to the ground, shocked to hear the window break, followed by the glass falling onto the back of my head. That meant the angel was completely unfazed by the house's protection. It dawned on me then that he could get in at any moment, if he wanted to.
The hook had landed on the ground next to me. It started to retract back through the window, but then it stopped. My blood ran cold as I heard Aanya shriek from outside.
Please, let this work.
I didn't think. I grabbed the hook and started to pull it with all of my strength. The links clattered to the ground, seemingly endless as more and more of it passed through the window. How long was this thing?
The chain suddenly went taut as it was grabbed from the other end. Shit shit SHIT! I felt myself sliding across the floor, holding onto the chain for dear life. I couldn't let the angel get it back. I couldn't.
Two hands grabbed the chain next to mine. Aanya. Her breath was ragged. She sounded close to tears, but she held on, both of us putting all of our weight into this nightmarish game of tug-of-war. I knew that she was hurt, but I didn’t dare break my concentration in order to check on her. If we lost this chain, we were dead.
As she and I pulled together, eventually, the chain went rigid once again. I grit my teeth, hearing Aanya groan softly next to me. I didn't know how much longer she could carry on like this.
We both fell to the floor, the chain suddenly slack in our hands as it flew all the way through the window. What happened?
There was another burst of light outside, followed by a loud crash. Aanya struggled to her feet, wincing, but running out the door with the chain gripped tightly in her fists. Her back was soaked with blood, the back of her shirt hanging in tatters.
Back at the window, I saw that Ramy had impaled the angel with his tail, the tip driven into the ground to pin the angel in place. Aanya, teeth bared like she was feral, wrapped the chain around the angel's throat, set her backwards foot on the angel's shoulder, and started to pull.
The angel's fist swung at her. She held her ground. Ramy’s tail embedded itself deeper into the angel's torso, causing the being’s ribs to crack like twigs. Bill limped over to Aanya, picking up another section of chain to help her. The angel began to fruitlessly claw at the chain in an attempt to get it off. His wings thrashed, knocking Bill back a bit, but the hoofed jinn hung on.
Aanya let out a cry. The angel smiled, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
With a wet, ripping noise that I’ll never forget, the angel's head came off. The head’s eyes shifted to look at me once again before his gaze went glassy, that terrible fucking grin still on his face.
Aanya dropped to her knees, the chain falling limply from her hands. With a snarl, Ramy's tail flicked, flinging the rest of the angel's body away.
I abandoned the window to race to Aanya's side. When I reached for her, she lightly smacked my hand away, telling me that with how she felt, the smell of my blood could drive her crazy.
Aanya did her best to smile, “I’ll live. Now, get away from me. We’ll celebrate later.”
Bill was already recovering, stating that it’d keep an eye on her. It sat down crossed legged with her, a bony hand delicately tracing the deep injury in her back.
Ramy followed me back into the house. Once we were alone, he embraced me, those leathery wings forming a soothing cocoon around me. Neither of us said anything. We just held each other.
We did it. We really did it. All four of us had bested an angel.
After what felt like an eternity, yet somehow still not long enough for my liking, his arms loosened their comforting hold, telling me that he should return to his host.
“You know… your true form isn't so bad, either.” I admitted.
He winked, “You really shouldn't have told me that, Lab Rat.”
I let out an embarrassing yelp as those wings pushed me back into him. Good lord. I can't have a moment of peace around this shithead.
Afterwards, I learned that angels can't truly die, though I have been assured that it'll be awhile before the one we’d beheaded recovers enough to retaliate. I think that's why the piece of shit was smiling as his head was torn off. But that's future Ramy and Lab Rat’s problem.
So, I just want to say that I appreciate how many of you have accompanied me on this descent into madness. You've all given me so much advice, some of which has quite literally saved my life. I never believed in the kindness of strangers until I started this series. You've seriously all helped me grow into the Lab Rat I am today and I truly can't thank you all enough for that.
Originally, I started posting as a cry for help. I'd had no one to turn to as my life was flipped upside down by the strange guy in IT. But now I’m not alone anymore. I have people in my corner, now. This is bittersweet, but… I think this might be my last post. Yeah. It's time.

Standing in front of a decaying play palace, a teasing look twinkled in Salem’s eyes. Seconds from losing my shit, my fingers curled around the collar of his simple ruby dress shirt. Yanking him close to my face, a snarl twitched on my lips.
“No one finds out about my fear of clowns. No one!” I growled through gritted teeth, the corner of his lip curling up slightly. Kissing my lips hungrily, any irritation towards him fluttered away. Releasing me from his spell, a goofy grin illuminated my features. Grinning with pride, a light flickered in the tallest tower. Stains covered the colorful bricks, the joy of the moment dying. Glancing over at me with a sly grin, his finger tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.
“If you get too scared you might just leap into my arms.” He flirted shamelessly, a playful sure tumbling from my lips. Smoothing out my ruby rockabilly dress, my fraying nerves seemed like they were on fire. Kicking the door in, white and black balloons floated all round the rooms. Pinning my ears back, balloons were my second biggest fear. Shrinking back, Salem draped his arms over my shoulders. Plucking my blade from its case, a goofy giggle had chills running up my spine. Grumbling under my breath, Bobo Funs was out to play. Listening again for his position, a single scream had my fears dwindling. Listening again for another one, the scream bounced off of the wall nearest to me. Sprinting down the hall, my mind made a mental note about the balloons’ location. Anger mixed with shock at me falling down a slide. Salem slipped behind me, his arms curling around my tense body. Crashing into a ball pit, a sticky substance glittered on the smooth surfaces of the balls. Holding my finger in the slither of light, ruby painted my fingertip. Diving into the pit, horror rounded my eyes at a recorder playing screams at the bottom. Cursing under my breath, Salem pushed my head back down the second I managed to surface. Hiding next to me, a Gothic joke of a clown bounced by. A wild onyx wig floated with every step, the wild curls dripping with fresh blood. Scratching at his cheeks, ruby painted his cheeks. The vibrant blood clashed with his white face paint, the smear marks had me hoping that his latest victim was still breathing. Growling at the blood splatters on his scarlet and onyx clown outfit, the dark ball shimmering on the end of his nose had my fingers digging into Salem's hand. Dancing off with another sinister giggle, our bodies rose stealthily out of the pit. Fishing around my pocket for a flashlight, dismay dimmed my eyes at the lack of the desired item. Lights flickered on, creepy happy music crackled to life. Stepping back into the shadows, electric rides hummed to life. Hollow giggles echoed around the large space, Salem motioning towards the ladder next to us. Climbing up the slippery ladder, blood coated each rung. Hiding in a thick plastic slide, rapid thumps had my heart beating a mile a minute. Slamming my palm against the colorful surface of the slide, a thick ice wall blocked the current assailant. Constant clownish giggles rattled my nerves, Bobo banging on the other side.
“Come and play!” He pleaded in a sickly cheerful voice, every breath growing shorter. “Is that fear I sense? Does the great Nyx have such a paralyzing fear of clowns? What did we ever do to you?” Trembling in my spot, the ice wall thickened. Salem yanked himself up, his arms clutching me close to his chest.
“Think of him as a demon and not a clown. Strip away the makeup and god awful wig, a demon remains.” He comforted me, his lips brushing against the top of my head. “Work past the fear.” Breathing in and out slowly, every breath slowing down to its relaxed rate. Years ago, a sea of clown demons had hunted me down. The sound of endless creepy giggles had my fright returning, Salem kissing me tenderly melting it away.
“I am here this time.” He promised with his natural smile, my fraying nerves relaxing enough for my composure to remain. A shadowy puddle bubbled underneath us, our bodies sinking through. Rising into a room of arcade games, the loud dings and bright lights had me on edge all over again. Hearing another bout of screams, the worn floorboards wiggled underneath our feet. Jumping into the air, an arcade game caught my feet. Counting the amount of knocks, the color drained from my face. A real person had been trapped here this entire time, a cloud of dust obscuring my landing. Ripping up bored after board, a gaunt woman with oily black hair reached for me. Her copper eyes quivered with a mixture of joy and terror, my arms scooping her out. Old makeup had peeled off her face, the poor woman’s face twisting into one of sick pleasure. Sliding a dagger into my stomach, blood pooled in my throat. Choking on my blood, her form decayed to ash. A frustrated roar exploded from my twitching snarl, Salem attempting to get me to come down. My patience having worn thin, I struggled to my feet. Time to face my fears.
“Come on out, Giggles!” I bellowed over the chaos, ice spikes piercing the games. Music and lights died down, pride glistening in Salem’s eyes. Done with fucking around, Giggles was going to find out. Boards flew up around me, Salem and his shadows circling me. An eerie calmness came over the space, a gloved hand ripping me through the floor. Hitting a cement floor with a series of cracks, several of my ribs had broken. Wincing in pain, the sole thing I could do was roll around to avoid punches from Bobo himself. Banging my fist on the floor, a spike of ice had bells jingling back. Heaving myself to my feet, a quick healing spell had my ribs clicking back into place. A blizzard roared to life, my healing spell refusing to help with my stomach's stab wound. Twisting the dagger in further, inky blood stained the accumulating snow by my boots. Coughing up a glob of blood, my situation wasn’t looking great. Giggles behind me had terror rounding my eyes, a spin on my heels had me striking a balloon. Bewilderment haunted my features at an odd ticking noise. Throwing myself onto the snow, an ice dome groaned into place over me. Orange flames blurred on the other side, Salem crying out for help until a dull thud silenced him. Shattering my dome, a couple of his shadows waited for me. Following them through twisted halls, every footfall sounded empty in the barrage of cheerful music. Fighting tears at Salem being chained to a black and white wheel, his eyes flitting between Bobo and me discreetly. Kicking his foot in the direction of a hidden door, the tired look in his eyes told me to stop crying. Showing me his infinity mark, a small sense of relief returned my confidence. Darting behind the wall, the image of that day haunted me. The sea of clown demons around my dead target haunted me, my hands cupping my head. Thousands of twisted thoughts bounced around my head, Salem’s words snapping me back to reality.
“Nyx, remember our first date!” He shouted over the music, a blade striking the wood. Remembering his smile in the moonlight, his loving gaze matched the current one. Tears of joy streamed down my cheeks, his hand reaching for mine. Mouthing the words I love you, a loud fuck snapped me back to reality. Peeking through the crack, a couple of silver daggers quivered in his body. Remembering the balloons down the hall, my fear was mine to face. Kicking the door open, Bobo giggled maniacally in my direction. My muscles tensed up, my fingers gripping the hilt of my blade. Slapping my face to wake myself up, the hallway from before caught my eyes.
“Giggles!” I choked out with a nervous laugh, my boots pounding down the hall. “Come and get me!” Gathering the balloons, ice crept down my arms. Freezing them together, chains hit the floor down the hall. Pausing at the end of the hall, his body smashed into mine. Hitting the balloons, silent tears stained my cheeks the moment my blades met the balloons. Hanging on tight to him, a thin layer of ice prevented the heat from hurting me. Watching his own weapon melt him into a pile of sludge, Salem’s blade piercing the center. Twisting it in deeper until the body decayed to ash, his arm tugging me close to his hips. Lifting up my chin with his finger, his tender kiss relaxed any fraying nerves. Kissing my tears away, his embrace grew desperate. Letting his emotions soak my shoulders, another wave of guilt haunted me. Why couldn’t I be a better wife? Stepping back, his wet eyes met mine. Panic gripped my brain, my boots pounding out of the space. Sprinting into the forest, branches scratched my cheeks. Running until I couldn’t, a tree hid my body. Catching my breath, the dagger in my stomach caught my eyes. Chaos erupted behind me, Scantler begging for someone not to murder him. Hovering the tip of my blade over the dirt, my lips moved a mile a minute. Slamming the tip into the dirt, ice devoured the land. A thick coating covered the trees, horror rounding my eyes at Arvy battling Scantler. Darting in the trees, the change in season didn’t alarm them for some odd reason. Skating along the ice, one push off the snow had me over Arvy’s head. Blocking my blade with hers, steam hissed in the air. Pushing her back, my heels grazed the smooth surface. Skating around her, confusion mixed with frustration at her flames not melting my ice.
“You aren’t getting out of this little fight that freaking easy! Sicking Giggles on me was utter bullshit!” I barked hotly, her wicked laughter dancing in the air. “Is your fight not with me, dear sister?” Flashing a cocky grin, her remaining eye darted around in search of a way out. Unfolding my wings, feathers floated with the sparkling snow. Skating towards her, a wave of flames had me sliding underneath her. Snatching her ankle, her face hit the ice. Inky blood pooled around her face, the crack of her nose breaking not giving me guilt. Spinning her over my head, ice shards flew into the air the moment I slammed her body down. Flames stole her away, Scantler hitting the ice. Skidding over to him, his body was glitching out. Looking for his wounds, nothing caught my eyes.
“Don’t bother, child.” He rumbled with tears flowing from his eyes, his hands cupping mine. “My son is going to take my place. Immortality is the last thing I want.” Tears splashed onto his skull, his final wishes deserving respect. Wiping away his tears, heartbreak had me wanting to defy his wishes. Pulling his head onto my lap, my lips brushed against his skull.
“If you wish.” I wept brokenly, knowing what was coming next. Humming a song until his last breath drew, his body decayed to ash. Bowing my head, another friend had died because of me. A tortured wail burst from my lips, ice spikes shooting up all around me. Curling into a ball, a bluster of wind blew him into the sky. Too emotionally drained to move, the spikes bent to form a cage. Failure stung like a bitch, a knock doing little to help me move. Salem rose from the center, the ice crunched with every step towards me. Plopping down across from me, his arms lifted me onto his lap. Burying my head into his shoulder, his chin rested on my head. Guilt ate at me, the demon we killed being a distraction. Arvy struck me where it hurt, Salem holding me until the tears dried. The ice melted over us, a wave of water soaking him. Helping me to my feet, his hand cupped my cheek.
“Not a word. I know, my dear Nyx.” He spoke before I could, my face snuggling into his palm. “Let’s go home.” Smacking his hand away, a younger version of Scantler had me running deeper into the woods. Darting away faster than I could see him, my heart shattered for him. Sinking to my knees, guilt had me sobbing uncontrollably. Leaning over a puddle, tears created ring after ring.
“I am so sorry! I am so fucking sorry! Please let me apologize to your face!” I pleaded with wilder sobs, Salem not knowing what to do. “His death is on me and me alone. My problems bled into yours.” An icy chill had me looking up, a deer skull was staring pitifully down at me. His fur robes danced in another breeze, large tears pouring from the empty eye sockets. Smiling kindly in my direction, his skeletal hand hovered in front of my face.
“That was him from the start. That bitch was on her way to get you and he couldn’t have that. My father admired you from the start. Death is a release for us. We are kind of dead already.” He assured me, my fingers curling around his fingers. “I am King Deerthos, the courageous king. Join us for the funeral and have a nice warm meal.” Guiding me to a cave system, fresh tears cascaded from my quivering eyes, his people bowing in my direction. Bowing back, Salem took my side. Tucking my blade back into its case, Scantler’s gift blurred in my tears. Singing songs, fingers dipped into red paint to write his name on the wall. Dipping their palms onto the paint, every hand print was a testament to his impact among his people. Deerthos held the bowl underneath my palm, hesitation burning in my eyes. Shaking my head, the others watched with depressed smiles.
“Most living beings have one flame that snuffs itself out. Your palm will seal his soul to paradise. Please place your palm on the wall.” He urged with a quiet smile, his hand engulfing mine. Dipping it into the paint, the cold liquid covered every inch of my palm. Guiding me to the wall, the rock felt warm as I pressed my palm against the rock. Feeling the laughter behind the other side, his voice had my ears perking up.
“Take care of my tribe for me. Most importantly, mourn me not. Your life is worth my sacrifice.” He thundered graciously, a sad smile trembling to life on my lips. “There you go. Smile when you can. Laugh when you can. Life's a cycle that comes and goes. Paradise calls.” The warmth left, my hand dropping to my side. Deerthos spoke a few words, the others going off to make dinner. Crashing onto a log, his words planted themselves into my brain. Crossing my hands on my lap, the paint shimmered on my palm. Deerthos and Salem plopped down next to me, a numb expression haunting my features.
“I vow to protect your tribe with all that I have in me.” I promised with my palms pressed together, Deerthos raising his hand in the air. Grimacing in the direction of the cave floor, his giant hand ruffled the top of my head. Unsure of how to react, panic contorted his face.
“How about we protect each other?” He suggested with a hearty chuckle, a flicker of life returned to my eyes. “The mistake my father made was not working with you tonight.” Sighing deeply, his point could be viewed as valid. Touched by how gentle his son was, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in the best way.
“Well then, I look forward to our partnership.” I replied with a diminished real smile, hoping that his end wouldn’t occur anytime soon. "Together we can keep the world safe from the darkest energies.” Staring at the wall with me, the sheer amount of hand prints was mind numbing. Centuries of deaths resulted in a lovely mirage of hand prints, many questions resting on the tip of my tongue.
“If there is a paradise, a hell of that sort must exist by proxy. Where would I find that?” I inquired honestly, Deerthos perking up. Fiddling with his antlers, an anxious grin had me concerned with whether I had gone too far. Sliding his hands down to his lap, his hollow eyes rested on me.
“I suppose there is but I don’t know where it is. I doubt my father ever knew the location himself.” He returned while drumming on his skull, Salem yanking me onto his lap to relax his nerves. “If it means anything no one could survive getting tossed in there. On the off chance you can’t kill her, you can trap her in there.” Tapping my chin, that solution sounded like a bandage on a gaping wound.
“That won’t do.” I mumbled to myself, Salem shooting a pleading expression. “What might be on the other side? Perhaps a hungry soul that devours all that crosses its path.” Salem cleared his throat, Deerthos looking uncomfortable by my random scheming. A flute played in the distance, Deerthos popping to his feet. Towering over me by a good couple of feet, his hand rested on his hips.
“Take part in the celebration of his life.” He offered with an honest smile, Salem stating something along the lines that we will be there in a minute. Shooting one more smile, his boots crunched towards his tribe. Salem pushed my head back, his loving gaze seeming tainted with a splash of frustration and worry.
“What is going on in that head of yours?” He asked sweetly, his expression softening at my swift what. “The look in your eyes tells me that you are scheming away.” Spinning around to face him, our foreheads pressed together.
“All I know is that the opposite of paradise is a solid plan B.” I explained with a tired smile, a tender blush painting my cheeks. “Maybe we can make a deal with its guardian. The location can’t be that difficult to pin down.” Another flute called us, Salem picking me up as he popped to his feet. Placing me on his back, the flames of hope burned brighter in the shadows.

I am 24F and diagnosed with epilepsy, I take Keppra and Lamictal. I have back pain on the right side for three days (near where shoulder blade meets spine) and a bit of pain in the chest also in the right side.. The pain doesn’t get a lot worse when I breathe deep, when exhaling I feel a bit of tightness in the chest. The pain gets a worse when coughing and sneezing. The pain is better when lying on my left side and worse when sitting. Throughout the day I get low grade fever, everything hurts and I feel tired. The pain is not unbearable and I can still move. Yesterday I went to pharmacy to buy some ointment for back pain, but pharmacist was not so sure it’s back pain. I bought plasters for back pain and put them on, the back pain is maybe a bit better. Should I contact my doctor or just wait a few days to see if it gets better? Thanks!

James woke up as his fiancé was climbing into bed beside him. He didn’t sleep much and was resigned to not getting that last half hour of rest. He gave no indication to her that he was awake, instead waiting for her to drift off before beginning his preparations. Talking to her was always hard before a night shift, it was easier this way.
The cold shower washed away any tiredness his uneasy slumber brought and after stepping out of the shower he meticulously shaved and brushed and groomed until no hair was out of place. James hated this rule for the night guards, it stretched out the time before night shifts and gave him time to think, and worry. Nonetheless, all night watchmen must look immaculate, and James made sure this was the case. This golden rule included not having any distinct scent whatsoever, it may offend the visitors; No cologne, no scented shower gel and only prescription perfume-free deodorant. While he knew some of the guests to be more lenient in this matter, he didn’t take the chance.
Walking into the bedroom, he took out the black garment bag hanging in the corner of the closet and quietly laid it out on his side of the bed. The night watchmen uniform comprised of a white shirt, a black tie, polished black dress shoes and black suit pants; All ironed, starched, meticulous. These were made specially for the guards, flexible and easy to run in. James regarded the uniform in the mirror, he was dressed more like an undertaker than a security guard. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He gave himself a once over. Not a hair out of place.
James walked over to his sleeping fiancé and planted a kiss on her cheek. He found himself lingering there, taking in every detail of her face. Anything could happen on the night shift. He needed to savour this moment.
When it was time, James reached under the bed and picked up a worn brown leather briefcase. A brass plate was fixed to its face reading, “Night Watchman PPE – Property of James Nolan”. He wondered how many times that plate had been replaced.
That night was a good one. The biting winds of late autumn had yet to come rolling in, leaving the air comfortably cool. James strode towards his old death trap of a car, dead leaves crunching beneath his feet. He made a mental note to look into buying a replacement, something new that he wouldn’t be embarrassed driving, no loan needed. At least the night shift granted him that luxury.
The drive to the Old Library was a serene cruise down empty roads. The artificial stars of streetlamps shone before a black cloudless sky and flickered past the rolled down windows. It was cold, yes, but at least this way James could make sure he didn’t sweat in his tin box of a car; It was hard not to sweat before a night shift.
Was a march to the gallows ever this beautiful? No get your shit together James.
All throughout his ritualistic preparations James had let these thoughts slip through his experience hardened façade. But thinking like this didn’t help one bit working in the library, and he had a job to do.
As he pulled into the campus grounds his training subdued this fear and his mind was once again focused on the task at hand. Finding a parking space with relative ease, James pushed the handbrake and stepped out of the car, retrieving the briefcase from the back seat. And there it stood at the centre of the college grounds, far older than the stained concrete building that surrounded it. A long gothic behemoth made of artistically carved stone and aged wood; The Old Library stood returning James’ stare.
He could see the warm glow of the lights in the main hall and surrounding rooms. Good. He wasn’t the first one in.
Assuming the rest of the boys were already at there stations, he entered the library from an unassuming door that led to the tunnels underneath the library, tunnels not even the long tenured professors at the university knew about.
The night managers office was the first door seen when entering the tunnels. Pushing the slightly askew door aside, James entered the office, eager to just get to his patrol and get the night over with. Thick-spined books and bizarre relics from God knows when and God knows where decorated the large bookshelves flanking the night managers desk. The desk itself was a large ornate mahogany structure with a large plaque at the front depicting a hand clasping a small leaf-shaped sword. The entire plaque seemed to be gold plated, barring the hand which possessed a gleam of polished silver.
Behind the desk hung a washed out and frayed tapestry. The scene portrayed in those threads was a truce of sorts. On one side, a line of men knelt, all clad in bloodstained cloaks and dented helmets with their swords in the scabbards planted firmly in the ground. On the other side knelt a line of exotic beings, all strangely beautiful yet equally terrifying. In the centre stood two figures. A man and a god. God was the only word James could think of to aptly describe it, not a god in any modern sense of the word but a god, nonetheless. A god that has been long since forgotten and stripped of any name, title or sacrality. The man, dressed similarly to the supplicants behind him held a short golden sword pointing downwards with one hand, the sword seemingly bursting with light. His other hand was an intricate silver gauntlet, blending seamlessly with the regular skin of his upper arm and shoulder, and was grasping the forearm of the god, who in return wrapped its twisted bark hand around the man’s silver arm.
James shook off thoughts of ancient fairytales and folk legends, recomposing himself and looking down at the open leather-bound ledger on top of the desk. The rest of the boys had already signed their names in the book so James quickly marked his signature down along with the time and date, and left it open on the same page for the night manager who should be arriving at around 6am for debriefing.
James hadn’t notice that the other guards’ signatures were all written in the same heavy scrawl.
In the empty locker room, James opened his briefcase and lifted out a medallion connected to a polished silver chain. The medallion itself was a smaller version of the insignia decorating the night manager’s desk but still possessed an impressive weight. He then pulled out a thick leather holster belt containing a custom revolver with unusually thick bullets and strapped it around his waist.
Wanting to get the night over with, James moved to the Great Hall where he would begin his patrol route. Things were quiet tonight. While the guests were typically shy and did everything they could to not be seen by others, they tended to make an exception for the night guards. However tonight, there was no one in sight. James regarded this as strange, but not dangerously strange.
After standing on sentry at the entrance of the hall for half an hour, he began to walk slowly through the alcoves created by the grand bookshelves. At the end of one of these nooks, there lay a thick leather book opened beneath a reading lamp. The book was bound in a repulsively dry and thin leather, dotted with blemishes and imperfections. James glanced at the wood print illustrations on the opened page. A collage of twisted bodies, all marked with a symbol composed of sharp triangular runes surrounding a jagged spiral. The pained faces emerging from this torturous orgy all faced up, screaming at a dark shapeless figure perched at the top of the page. With a queasy stomach, James closed the book, allowing him to rid his mind of the disturbing drawing and to continue with his patrol.
Halfway through his inspection of the main hall, James felt a slight paranoia. Unlike his general uneasiness of the night shift, this feeling was more present, directed. As if something in this room put him in immediate danger. Goosebumps formed on the back of his neck, and he could feel, no, he knew he was being watched.
Reluctantly he glanced over his shoulder and saw that the lights in the entrance corridor to the main hall were off. The lights in the old library were always kept on. Always.
Squinting at the dark entrance he understood that whatever was watching him was waiting just beyond that threshold. James turned his head and continued with his route. This wasn’t something to investigate. On top of that, guards were not supposed to deviate from their route and add unnecessary risk. Anything can happen on the night shift.
Continuing his route, at an albeit faster pace, James neared the exit of the Great Hall. Then he heard a click breaking the maddening silence. He spun his head around and saw that the first light in the hall had been switched off. Then the second. James ran.
Once he reached the end of the hall the final light had went out. A coarse, rattled breath emanated from the darkness, almost touching James’ neck. A stench violated his nostrils, of what once might have been decay, now dry and dusty.
Determined to get as far away from the unknown threat as possible, James exited the hall and sprinted to a sign that bore the same insignia as the medallion around his neck. Turning the sword upwards on the sign, James pushed at the wall, and once he had just enough space to squeeze through, he shut the hidden doorway behind him.
James breathed heavily as he scanned the small closet sized room, composing himself and planning his next port of call. While not being outwardly impressive, the room was a beacon of safety for any night guard unfortunate enough to be in an emergency. On the left wall hung a large first-aid kit, on the right was an array of buttons, red caged lights, and large speakers, all with labels indicating which safe room they were wired to. Here James could catch his breath and contact the other watchmen on patrol tonight.
James began to systematically call each safe room. Pressing down hard on each brass button, James spoke.
‘SOS. This is night guard James Nolan; I am being pursued by a visitor.”
After relaying the message through each speaker, James sat down on the stool in the corner of the room and waited. Silence.
James sent the emergency call again.
Silence.
James racked his brain trying to think of any possible reason as to why he wasn’t getting an answer.
The night guards are here aren’t they? They signed their names in the ledger.
James recalled how easy it was to get a parking space. How he hadn’t ran into any of his colleagues in the locker room. How there were none of the usual visitors during his short-lived patrol of the library. How no matter what he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with the night shift this time around. The hairs out of place.
Nobody’s here.
As this thought was circling through his head, the light on the far-left side came to life and the speaker let out a loud buzz. But no voice followed. Once that column deactivated, the second proceeded to go through the same act, then the third, and fourth, until all lines of communication activated and deactivated. Once all were quiet once more, a knock rattled the hidden doorway. The knock persisted and grew louder. Suddenly the entire array of speakers came to life, emitting a deafening screech, with all of the lights basking the room in their red glow. Whatever had been knocking was now slamming hard on the door, shaking the entire room, almost knocking James off his stool.
With no time left to think, James unclipped the pistol from his hip and fired into the door. The smell of ozone wafted through the room and James blinked hard, attempting to clear the white neon after image the bullets left on his eyes. The slamming had stopped.
Using what little time he thought the shots had given him, James shouldered through the door, sprinting down the dark corridor, beelining towards the tunnels underneath the library. They were too well protected. Even though the tunnels were off limits to visitors they couldn’t enter if they tried.
Skipping down the service stairwell multiple steps at a time, James could sense his pursuer was getting further out of reach. That feeling of unseen eyes piercing through him had dissipated, the lights in the dingy stairwell were still on, and he couldn’t hear that rattled haunting breathing behind him. Slowing down to a jog, he reached the entrance to the tunnels, a metal doorway surrounded by gilded symbols and ruins he never had the patience to learn the true meaning of. After the events of tonight he would learn. He would comb through whatever knowledge the library had at its disposal, if not for his own safety, then for his fiancé, and his duty to the library.
With a movement well-rehearsed by now, James turned the sword upwards on the insignia fixed to the tunnel door and stepped through, fixing it shut behind him. He walked down the concrete tunnel with shaking steps. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off and tonight’s trauma was deflating James. The short breaths that were the precursors to uncontrollable sobbing began to escape James’ mouth just as he was about to reach the night manager’s office. But before he could break down, he noticed it. That smell. The smell of moth-eaten fabric and ancient rot.
He turned his head, and there it was, standing at the end of the tunnel.
It stared at James with hollow eye sockets stuffed with brown cloth. Its withered body was encased in desiccated skin, blackened by millenniums of soil and darkness. James could see areas where its failing skin gave way, revealing frayed fibrous muscle and chipped bone. A rats-tail of withered copper hair fell over one of its shoulders. On the other lay a thin cord of dark rope, looping around its neck in a flimsy noose.
James felt a sharp pain in his chest. He looked down to see blood beginning to soak his white shirt, slowly forming a crooked spiral. James’ last thoughts were of how stupid he had been to not notice what was wrong with tonight before it was too late.
After that night there was a new opening for night watchman at the old library.

First/Previous/Next
Andrew remained sick for a time, and we watched over him while he recovered in my bed; I’d taken to sleeping on the floor—Dave visited often and Gemma came whenever she could sneak away from the watchful eye of her father, the Bosses, and their servants. The young man’s wounds were terrible, easily beyond my expertise (although I had some field experience, I was sure at times that Andrew would die) and he spoke often in his sleep, and he said Gemma’s name all the time. I fed him heartened soups when I could and gave him water, but his eyes remained unfocused like he was staring off into the great beyond somewhere. Gemma grew more worried with every passing day, and she tried to rouse him from his stupor, but nothing she did could breach his strange daze and Dave, whenever he came, helped me lift the boy, check that he wasn’t developing unnecessary sores, and he would aid in replacing Andrew’s bandages.
During his recovery, I stayed home often—more often than ever—and I would remain awake well into the night and smoke tobacco, lighting one cigarette off the last and theorizing his recovery. There was a night where I stood by the door with the entryway left partly open and blew smoke from its crack into the open air, and then I heard the boy speak and he said, “That smells.” I turned to see him sitting directly upright, eyes lucid but watery. Then he shifted into the blanket and immediately fell to sleep again. It was then that I knew the boy would live; still he slept hard, and still when Gemma came, he did not respond to her prodding, but his health seemed inevitable.
It rained twice while the boy was in bed and each time, the people in town grabbed up pails or stained washtubs and caught the brief downpours and some stood out in the falling rain and watched the zigzag lights shoot across the plump gray sky while I remained afraid that Leviathan might show or that any false shadow on the horizon might be that awful dragon, but each time my worries were proven unfounded.
When Andrew awoke in full force, he asked me for his severed hand, and I returned it to him in a wide mouth jar and he examined it and thanked me for keeping it; the dead thing was rotted, and bones began to emerge from the flesh around the fingertips and knuckles.
Gemma came and her presence had become a custom and upon him seeing her, he recoiled and told her to leave him be, but she couldn’t and instead went to him on the bed where she’d sit on the edge and reach out with her own scarred hands and he’d tell her, “Leave me alone.”
She wept, but the boy kept a stern expression, and she nearly stopped coming once he’d made himself clear that he no longer loved her.
It had been a week since Gemma’s last visit and nearly three since me and Dave first brought the boy to my home and I finally asked the boy in the bed, “Was it necessary to hurt the girl like that?” It was night out and through a crack in my room’s door, I could see the faint push of the moon’s milk splash light.
“I’m here because of her,” he told me.
“You’re here because of her father.”
“He hates me.”
“Do you hate her?”
“I couldn’t hate her ever.”
“Are you trying to protect her or yourself?” I asked.
“It could be both, but I don’t wanna’ talk about it. I think I’d like to go west though. It’d do me good to get out on my own, away from here.” Andrew pulled himself into a sit in the center of the mattress, moving slowly for his injuries, and draped the blanket around his shoulders then pulled the covering in close near his throat. “I don’t think I like it here—there’s nothing stopping me leaving either.”
“You’d certainly die on your own.”
“Then I’ll wait for those weirdo, pointed hats and I’ll ask them to take me with them.”
“Maybe.” I thought of how I’d told Suzanne I’d visit in a month’s time since their last arrival in Golgotha and the time had nearly come. “Perhaps we ought to find you a chaperone.”
More days passed us by, and Andrew felt better to remove himself from bed and properly bathe and I showed him the dosage he should take then let him look after his own medication. His spirits remained low while his cheeks ran with more color and although he hobbled about, he seldom went from my home and kept to himself—on more than one occasion, I tried to get him to go to market with me and he refused each time. Andrew’s brooding nature was an illness I couldn’t help and maybe that’s why whenever Dave came with the mutt—he’d taken to calling the animal Trouble due to the dog’s nature of going where it was forbade—Andrew’s face illuminated at the dog and the dog would go and rest its head between the boy’s knees whenever he sat and look up and the boy rubbed the dog’s ears and whispered to it secrets that he didn’t care about sharing.
Gemma came again and this time she was not the fawning doll of affection, but angry and rightly so; she’d pushed into my home after a light knock and Dave and Andrew and Trouble, and I each turned to see who might enter the already cramped room. The girl shut the door gently behind her then stepped quickly across the room, removing her head wrap. “You’re leaving?” she asked while pointing a finger at Andrew’s chest; the poke to his breastbone made a sound and her stance was aggressive, and she towered over him where he sat on the edge of the bed with Trouble at his feet; the dog merely lifted her head and examined the people. “I could kill you.”
“They already tried that!” Andrew spit with his words. “Besides, who told you that?” His eyes shot to me where I’d taken up leaning at the corner near the door.
I shook my head while Dave shifted nervously from his right foot to his left foot.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Her hands shook while she made them into frustrated claws. “How could you?”
“Go home.” The young man spoke dully as his eyes went dim.
“I’m going with you,” she said.
“The hell you are,” I spoke up.
Gemma pivoted then cut her eyes at me. “Why not?”
“Did you fuckin’ forget what happened last time? You ain’t going anywhere.”
“Do you really think my father would actually let everyone go without water until they die?”
“You know him, don’t you?” I said.
She sighed then sat on the bed alongside the boy.
Andrew shifted from her then said, “I don’t want you to come with me. Stay here,” then he added, “Stay away from me.”
Gemma left, not even caring to return the disguise to her head in her hurry; once she was gone and there was no indication of her return, Dave spoke, “You did the right thing.” He clenched his jaw.
Me and Dave went to Felina’s at night if only to have a place to go where we could speak without the boy’s ears; he’d had enough trouble as of late and did not need to be caught amid a coup. We’d left Trouble with him and although he’d given us a concerned look, the boy merely shrugged and went to playing tug-o-war with the mutt on the end of an old rag. The brothel had become a meeting place for me and him where we would go and whisper—it had been a long time since I’d had anyone to do that with on a regular basis.
Dave had informed me that his friend—the one that worked in the basements alongside the Boss’s stores—wanted to meet in person to plan our next moves. It should also be good, on the chance that anything happened to Dave, I would know the face of the man.
Felina’s first floor was empty besides us, and the barwoman bathed in candlelight, and not a peep came from upstairs; we’d taken up in what had become our usual table and each object and person were caught in dancing ribbons of orange light.
“I’ll be gone for weeks,” I warned Dave, “I won’t be able to help you till I return.” It was true; the travel to Alexandria would take a long time, and longer still if Suzanne forced me to hesitate.
He nodded as Felina brought us our water and then leaned in close, took a sip, then nodded again, seemingly stuck in thinking. “You don’t mean to slip out on me, do you?”
I shook my head. “I’ve got a person to see. Whatever transpires here and the aftermath, I want to see them one last time if it means I’m to throw my life away on this uprising you’ve got.” I took my own cup and drank it in one go then set it away.
There was a long pause where he rubbed his thumbs along the rim of his cup and stared into the pool there; he opened his mouth as though to say something then shut it again.
“I keep my deals.” A chill pushed through me.
“I know. Who would’ve thought I’d trust you?” He smacked his lips.
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
He finished his own water. “Let me go with you.”
“Hm?”
“You’re taking the boy out west, out to where the wizards are, huh?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I’d like to go and see if they’d care to send any aid.”
I fought a smile. “They don’t fight. They’re soft folks.”
“Still.”
“Still what? I just told you. You’re not going to raise them to start a war. They’re traders, pagans—liars too. Proactive violence is something they don’t condone.”
“They couldn’t give us some—I don’t know. Don’t they have like spells or something they can teach us?”
I caught a surprised laugh in my cupped hand. “You think—It doesn’t work like that.”
Dave began to fidget in his seat. “You don’t haf’ta make me feel stupid.”
Without even realizing it, I reached out with a hand and put it on his shoulder for comfort, “Sorry,” I quickly withdrew the hand, “It’s not like that.”
“Well, what is like then?”
Just then, the door to Felina’s pushed in to reveal a haggard gentleman, pale, angular cheekbones, and deep eyes; it could only be Dave’s friend from the basements. The man came to our table and sat across from us, keeping his hands together and massaging his knuckles in front of his chest then leaning forward preparing a whisper; Felina, from her post behind the counter, shot a glance to us gathered, but otherwise continued in her own concerns, reading some book she kept with her.
“I’ve got something you should see,” said the man.
Dave grinned, but I did not care for the cut of the man’s gib, and I sat a bit straighter in my seat—Dave greeted the man warmly, “Mills, this is Harlan.”
The man shot a glance to me then a small nod, “Yeah, I know him.” Mills directed his attention back to Dave, “I’ve got something you should see. Outside. Right this moment.”
An ethereal dreamlike pause fell across the table, and I felt lightheaded and even Dave’s demeanor changed. There was a brief smile that fell across Mills’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as he shifted in his seat.
Finally, I spoke, “You could lie better.”
“I’m not lying,” protested Mills.
“How many are there?” I unsheathed the knife from my belt and traced my eyes across the dark and windowless room.
Mills opened his face, incredulous, and then shut it and slumped on his seat. “What are you talking about?”
“How many are waiting outside for us? Are they here to kill us or do they intend to capture? Say it plain and don’t try to deny it.”
“You fella’s are paranoid, huh?” said Mills.
Dave stood and put a hand on my shoulder, but I shirked it away, and the man chewed on the inside of his mouth then said, “Mills, please tell me you didn’t turn us in.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Mills. He scoffed. “There’s no way I would. How could you even think that?”
“Did they tell you you’d be safe? Did they tell you that everything was fine? I’ll tell you something—nothing that happens in this town’s fine. If you can’t see that.” Dave drifted off. “Well, Harlan,” he directed his attention to me, “What now?”
“We could skin him,” I brandished my knife and Mills recoiled. “I’m kidding. If those troopers are outside waiting on us, then we’ve got bad trouble on our hands. If we don’t do something quick, they’re liable to kick that door in and spray us dead.”
“You could go quietly,” offered Mills. “That Harold likes you pretty good,” he nodded at me, “I don’t think they’d hurt you bad.”
“So,” I said, “He admits at last. What’s the number? How many wall men did those jackals send?”
“Just the Sheriff. He wanted to talk. When I spoke to him, he seemed more pleasant than most.”
Dave moved to the counter where Felina was and he began saying something to her, hushed.
“What’s the Sheriff want?”
“He said he wanted to talk to you.”
“I don’t’ have a thing to say to the man.”
“I believe it. I believe he wants to talk with you and nothing more.” Mills seemed tired.
I kept my knife at the ready.
Dave returned to the table and stood beside Mills where he sat, “She said there’s a back way out,” said Dave.
We moved and Mills remained, but Dave rounded the table far more quickly than I believed him capable, pulled Mills to his feet by the scruff on the back of the man’s neck and without too much protest, Mills was our captive.
“I’ll scream,” said Mills.
“If you do, this blade’s going straight up your ass,” I said.
The three of us, in a strange marching line with Mills in front followed by Dave then me, rounded Felina’s counter and we followed the woman into the backroom where she lived; in the far corner was a bed with a sink—standard amenities—a few old books, and an exposed closet off the wall where clothes hung. She ushered us toward the rear of the room, furthest from where we’d come, and pushed a doorway into the warm black night that smelled of chicken feces.
Dave directed a whisper to the woman, “They might hurt you for helping us. Come with us.”
“Fuck ‘em,” she said, then pulled the door shut with her still on the other side.
We were there in the dirt street on the backside of the brothel, and it was quiet and empty—most of the exposed windows down the lane were black save the hydro towers. We took off, Dave keeping one of Mills’s arms pushed high on his back so that the man couldn’t move too far off the directed course.
“Where do we go?” said Dave, “Aw hell, I don’t even know where to go!”
“This way,” I said.
“Where are you leading us?” he asked.
“I’ve got to get my things.”
“You’re going home? They’ll be waiting there, won’t they?”
Just then, gunfire erupted from the direction of Felina’s; it was a short spurt, followed by perhaps shouting, then another volley of gunfire and then it was quiet.
Dave shifted on his feet, still holding Mills, like he intended to rush back; I put a hand on him and shook my head.
“Where do we go?” Small terror melted with his voice.
“We’ve gotta get out of town.”
“They’ll shoot us from the walls.”
Mills mumbled, “Well you can just leave me here.”
Ignoring this, I said, “All of my things are home,” then I thought to add, “What about Andrew? If they’ve already ransacked my place, they’ve surely killed him.”
“Trouble too,” said Dave, “Oh god.”
Then the bells over the hall of Bosses rang and my stomach twisted; lights in homes began illuminating in response to the ruckus and denizens stepped from their places, looking up and down the way. We stood there in the street and for the first time in a long time, I was frozen. Dave pushed on down an alley, Mills protested in saying that his arm was broken (it wasn’t) and I followed, totally bedazzled.
In the rush, Dave let go of our prisoner and directed me to keep the man and then he asked, “Have you got matches—a lighter? Something!”
I fumbled in my jacket pocket and produced a lighter; Dave snatched the thing from me, and we moved on further down the alley, further from the bells—along the way Mills cursed us and Dave flinched and balked at every person we moved by in the shadows, for they might be a wall man. People began screaming and more gunfire rang out—this time ahead of us; we spilled out of the alley into an opening which connected several narrow streets where two soldiers were standing over a body in the dark; Dave stopped ahead, and we shrank back into the alley then pressed ourselves against the exterior wall of an abode where the overhanging catwalks kept us in shadow.
One of the wall men kicked the unmoving body then fired another round into it; the corpse spasmed momentarily. If I had a softer heart, I would’ve vocalized the reason for the killing, but I knew because I’d seen it happen before; when killing started, those with the will to do so always stepped to the occasion. They’d heard the same gunfire we’d heard and decided not to be left out. The wall man fired another round into the body and for a flash, his face was illuminated, and I could see he was young—even if the millisecond of glow had twisted his expression in a wild blaze.
“Lemme go!” hushed Mills, popping me squarely in the groin with his free hand.
As he launched away from us in the shadows, I huffed forward, swiping my blade wildly, eyes blurred; with reckless thought, I would’ve gone after him, but Dave reached out to stop me and Mills charged toward the wall men in the square opening; I think he shouted something at them—maybe it was about where we were hiding and about how we’d been terrible captors.
The traitor danced with the echo of gunfire and the soldiers had a new body for target practice. The wall men paid us no mind in our poor hiding place—wilder gunpowder screams filled the night air and blood began to drift on the wind.
I’d not even noticed Dave holding my hand in the dark as we took to crouching behind rubbish pushed to the sides of the alley. “We’ll split up,” said Dave, letting go of my hand.
“Wait,” I slid my back up the wall to stand, putting my knife away, “That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“I know,” he said, both of us remaining in shadow, close enough that our shoulders were touching, “I’m heading towards the hall.”
There was a long pause; more shrieks echoed around us in that narrow passage and then I nodded.
“To the basements. To the gunpowder. I’ll try and catch you near the gate. If not.” He shook his head. “Goodbye tinman.”
Dave launched himself incredibly quickly from the shadows then moved the way we’d come from, keeping low and weaving. I soon followed, and I believe I saw him circling around one of the hydro towers in the ensuing chaos. A young boy was shoved into the moonlight where the brace of a rifle met his head; a woman was declothed then beheaded; an infant was sent through the air from the end of a mighty swing where it met the exterior wall of a storage shed. I saw them all and in the fury of the wall men, I lost sight of Dave and I kept to the darkness and held in my screams to remain unseen.
Doubling back some around the area by Felina’s where the buildings opened some, I saw Boss Maron barking orders, a club used to point before he put it to use against bewildered citizens. The night was cool and lonely, as I’d been accustomed, I moved quickly and without worry—survival reigned supreme in the labored breaths I inhaled through Golgotha’s blood-soaked streets where people pushed by or hid in the darkest recesses; a few times I happened by an open window and saw people scrunched in a corner on their haunches with their eyes closed and sometimes they prayed. Upon nearing the stairs that led to my home—the steps mere minutes away—a man scrambled around on his hands and knees. Thinking I could propel over him, he caught my foot and I stumbled and twisted around, ready to stick him with my knife; the man threw himself at my waist, clinging around my hips with locked arms, begging up at me with blood in his face. Moonlight caught the shine of his own mishappen brain exposed along the right side of his shattered skull. “Help! I’m on fire!” screamed the man, foam clung to his mouth, “Water! I’m burning!” I bit my lip and shoved the man off and he continued scrambling madly in the dark till he found a tub of stagnant water—knee high—precariously pushed against the wall of a nearby alley and plunged his head into the murkiness and he did not move again.
With focus, I rushed on, passing by executions in the streets, screams of mouths ground in the soil beneath boots, and all the while the moon hung between the shadows of the tall buildings, swathed in a gown of mist in a sky of absent stars so the night stretched like the void it was.
Coming to the stairs that led to the catwalks where my home was, a pale hand, stained dull red, shot from the darkness beneath the steps and held onto my ankle—a yell escaped me and I stumbled back, kicking at the hand with my free foot. The hand recoiled, cursed, then Gemma removed herself from the space beneath the stairs; scarcely, I could make out the face of Andrew still there in the darkness and the low growl of Trouble and the chaos fell away for a moment, and I asked the girl, “Are you hurt?” examining the blood on her clothes, on her hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I killed him,” she said while Andrew came from the recesses, the mutt at his side; the boy had my old shotgun slung over his shoulder, “I killed him,” the girl repeated, “So I could go. He’s dead.” Her eyes were far, and her fists hung at her sides.
“You’re all alive?” My quivering words barely registered to myself over the wails and clacks of war toys and a wall man began to pass us by, chasing after a boy with a long-flamed torch pushed over his head by his scrawny arm while he caterwauled a primitive shout into the night—the wall men stopped at us.
The soldier’s eyes reflected amidst the overhead catwalk shadows, and his facial hair was thin enough to be a stain and he raised a pistol to my face, and seeing the black hole of the barrel I merely closed my eyes, wincing, waiting for it. “Get inside. Please,” said the man before I cracked my eyes to see the openness he’d filled was empty, the clank of his gear rattled in his absence before disappearing after him.
“Might’ve killed you,” said Andrew.
I shook the thought from my head. “We should go.”
Gemma rubbed the dried blood down the front of herself, “He dropped so fast.”
“Shh.” I grabbed the girl’s hand and the boy followed at a restrained pace, the dog sniffing after, tail pulled between its legs, and I happened to notice its ears perking at whatever sound when I’d glance to be sure they came. We gave the hydro towers a wide berth, keeping to the western side of town till we met the buildings nearest the wall where there was relative quiet from the devastation; onlookers still pushed their moonlight glazed faces from apertures and watched us go and some called after us, but we ignored them. “Keep up!” I urged the youngins, “Don’t dally! Don’t fall behind!”
“It’s hard keeping this fucking thing and watching the dog!” said Andrew.
I reached over, slid the gun from his body, and put it across my chest in both hands. “Did you happen to grab any of the ammo?”
His refusal to answer made me slip the strap over my shoulder and we carried on till we met an alley that slithered to the opening of the southern square where the gate was. We hung in the darkness by a dead metal wagon of crates covered by a stained blanket and then I was at a loss. Smoke met us and I was sure there was a fire the way we’d come. Perhaps it was for the smoke or fire or the blood, but upon nosing out from the corner that led into the square, the snipers on the wall too began firing their weapons and I was certain they’d seen me and were shooting at me for a moment, but upon freezing in my position, I realized the people on the wall’s ramparts fired at something beyond; a volley of them resounded and I felt the others pull in close to me so we were all clumped and touching and the dog had gone from flinching to shivering for each round was so quick after the last. Surely, if Dave intended to meet me there at the square, he’d be there—my eyes scanned the black scenery.
“Mutants!” a woman on the wall shouted to her comrades, “More ‘en I’ve ever seen! Get your asses up here!”
The kids babbled something, and I hushed them and told them to stay in the darkness while I moved forward where large gashes of bluish moon threatened to betray my location and I moved to the unguarded electrical switch—surely they’d close it back soon enough—opened its door and flipped the switch and the grinding of the gate coming to life was never so loud before as its clockwork innards did their job. I could only imagine the bafflement of the wall men. I motioned for the kids to follow, and Gemma lifted the dog up in her arms, still making better pace than Andrew. The sound of boots rattling on the wall overhead came and someone fired down at me, but I pushed back towards the wall and the dirt ground between me and Gemma erupted spits of dirt. The girl shrieked, coming to a halt so the boy slammed into her, and they both stumbled in a mess, and caught one another without falling. Trouble yelped.
I pushed from my spot, gathered them in my arms and we moved like a strange centipede to the opened gate where we slid through to immediately be met by a meridian of glowing yellow eyes perhaps fifty yards out. The mutants, things once human but twisted by some greater demon, fought over one another in their lurch with jagged motions, pale in the moonlight without hair and thin skin that clung to bald heads and mouths blackened from filth and teeth nubbed from the circular grinding of their jaws; the creatures came with their homunculus growls, their hunched backs, their lizard quickness. They came for the direction of the open gate and all I heard were screams and the scuffle of our shared balance as we took across the blue horizon of open space and I ushered across that expanse with the black ruins on the horizon and the smoke rose over the starless sky and although I was certain we’d be shot dead in the back, providence saved us—no, it was Dave.
The earth trembled beneath our feet, and I heard the confetti of rubble on rubble and the earth itself screamed and I knew Dave had done what he’d set out to.
First/Previous/Next
Archive

TW for self harm and suicidal ideation
I’m so tired.
I was at work today, co-fronting with one of our protectors and we were just talking while I was doing my job (I’m a prep cook). I started feeling a little dizzy, the waitress (that I hate) kept asking me to do things when I was already busy (and the things she was asking wasn’t even really part of my job), I felt my chest get tight and the protector that was with me was noticing I was getting tense as we were talking. We started talking about my past, how I went dormant and why I might’ve gone dormant (I was really stressed out and depressed a few years ago that caused me to shut down).
I ended up having a panic attack and went to the back room of the restaurant to compose myself, ended up getting sent home early.
And since then I’ve just been… rattled, I guess. I don’t have panic attacks that often, and I’ve just been feeling shitty since. About a week ago I attempted to harm the body because of how overwhelmed I’ve been. We’re not particularly prone to self harm but lately I’ve just been so overwhelmed and needed to get my anger out on something, and that something just happened to be myself. I did manage to stop myself from doing any damage but the urge is still there.
And then because I’m overwhelmed from so much stress going on, brain is self destructing and I just… don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t have any true intentions of offing myself, but god dammit…
I’m kind of considering going to a mental hospital, but I’m also tight on money and I don’t really know how being committed to a mental hospital works and I don’t want to worry the family.
I see my therapist next week but it’s through telehealth because we live in the middle of nowhere. I hate telehealth. It reminds me too much of a shitty and traumatic situation we were in a few years ago. I want to be in-person but it’s just not in the cards.
I’m just lost.