"You gotta know that there's an art to it, Ezra," Hitch said, cutting another piece of duct tape.
The sleeves of his weather-beaten coat were shoved all the way up his arms, to stop the fabric from falling over his knuckles while he was working, and goosebumps lined his skin. He was strapping a rubber chicken to the back of his truck, over the lens of the shattered backup camera, with the legs pointing down so that they hung a couple inches above the ground. There were dents in the hood from the crash last week, and scratches along the door from scraping into a curb. The chicken, hopefully, would keep him from breaking anything else.
"You can't go cheap," Hitch said. "The cheap rubber chickens only make noise when pressure lets go. That's no good. As soon as I back up into something, I want this chicken to be screaming like it’s in the depths of hell."
“Sure thing,” I said in a monotone, leaning against the side of the truck.
There were scrambled electronic parts piled in the back of the truck, the innards of a radio, a broken computer, tangled wires, a couple loose pairs of earbuds. He found the parts in alleyways or bummed them off his friends for a couple bucks or stole them from the vacation homes that were left empty for most of the year. Then he sold them for a profit at the scrapyard. Hitch had bounced between minimum-wage jobs for a while after high school, spending a couple months as a bagger at the grocery store or as a seasonal worker at the farm two hours down the highway. He'd never stuck with it. At the very least, the scrapyard got him enough money to eat and occasionally spend a night in a motel when he got tired of sleeping in his car.
Hitch pressed the last piece of tape in place and grinned up at me. "I've got something for you, duck."
The nickname came from when I’d broken my leg as a child and waddled around in a cast until it was healed. I hated it with a burning passion, and I glared at Hitch with the ease of twenty-one years of practice. He had a duck tattoo at the base of his thumb that he’d gotten in a back-alley shop as a teenager. He said that he’d gotten it to remind him of me, and the fact that I hated the nickname was just a bonus. It was shaky-lined, with an uneven face, but he loved it anyway.
The handle stuck when Hitch tried to open the door, a consequence of the rust collecting in the crevices of the car and running down the sides like blood from a cut. The car groaned when the door finally popped open, a metal against metal screech that had me flinching away. Hitch dug through the cluttered fast food containers in the passenger-side footwell, eventually coming up with a crinkly paper bag. He waved away the flies buzzing around the opening of the bag and held it out to me.
The last time Hitch had brought me food, I’d gotten food poisoning because he’d left it out in the midday sun for two days. The donut was squished slightly, and the icing was stuck to the bag. I still ate it, grimacing at the harsh citrus flavor. Taking Hitch’s food was an instinct engraved from the days when Dad had given us a can of kidney beans for dinner and Hitch had drank the juice, leaving the beans for me.
I rarely went hungry anymore, three mostly square meals a day and granola in my pockets just in case, but habits didn’t die easy.
These days, Hitch only brought me food when he wanted my help, like when he saw a place he wanted to hit but was worried about doing it alone.
I got in the car, like I always did.
We drove past the cluster of seafood-themed restaurants with chipped paint decks, the beachfront park where there were always shifty-eyed men sitting under the slide, the single room library where all the books had been water damaged in the flood last year. The change was quick as we drove across Main Street, heading closer to the beach. The roads were freshly paved, the concrete a smooth black except where the sun had already started to pick away at it. The three-story homes lining the sides of the street were crouched on elegant stilts, with space underneath for a car or three. Most of the garages were empty, with the lights off and curtains drawn in the house. Come summer, the streets would be swarming with tourists and vacationers, but until then, most of the buildings nearest to the beach were unoccupied.
Hitch stopped as the sun started to go down at a house that was leaning precariously out towards the beach, tilted ever so slightly, the edge of its foundation buried in the shifting sand of the beach. It certainly looked deserted, with an overgrown yard and blue paint peeling off the door in sheets.
Hitch took his hammer out of the backseat, hoisting it over his shoulder. It was two feet of solid metal with rags wrapped around the head to muffle the sound of the hits. Hitch squared up, bending his knees and holding the hammer like a baseball bat. Before he could swing, though, the door creaked open on its own, the hinges squeaking. The house beyond was dark enough that I could only make out general shapes, glimpsing the curve of a sofa to the left, what was maybe the shimmer of a chandelier on the other side.
Hitch lowered his hammer, looking vaguely disappointed that he didn’t get to use it. “That’s…weird as hell.”
“Maybe the deadbolt broke, maybe they forgot to lock it, it doesn’t matter,” I hissed, checking our surroundings for other people again. “Just hurry up and get inside before someone calls the cops.”
Hitch flicked the lightswitch on the wall, and the lights flickered on. They were dim, buzzing audibly and blinking off occasionally. The walls were plastered with contrasting swatches of wallpaper and splattered with random colors. There was neon orange behind the dining table, a galaxy swirl in the kitchen, and on the ceiling there was a repeating floral pattern covered in nametag stickers. Each of the stickers was filled out with The Erlking. Chandeliers hung in every room, three or four for each, and rubber ducks sat on every table. A miniature carousel sat in the corner along with a towering model rocket.
Sand was heaped on every surface, at least a couple inches everywhere. It was piled in the corners and stuck to the walls, and it covered the floor in a thick blanket. Our hesitant steps into the house left footprints clearly outlined in the sand.
Hitch took a cursory look around and headed immediately for the TV mounted on the wall. “Look out the windows and tell me if anyone is coming.”
I shook the sand out of the blinds and pulled them open, then had to brush sand off of the window before I could see anything.
Hitch was quick, practiced at finding and appropriating the things that were worth taking. He came back to me with an armful of electronics and chandeliers, dumping it at my feet before turning to head deeper into the house again.
There was a thump, somewhere upstairs, and then footsteps, slow and deliberate. Hitch froze at the threshold of the room, then ran for the door with me just ahead of him, sand flying out from under our feet.
My hand was almost brushing the doorknob, close enough that I could see the light from the streetlamp outside streaming in through the cracks in the door. My fingers touched the wood and it gave under my touch, becoming malleable and warm. I yelped, stumbling backwards, and the door started to melt. The paint ran down in thick drops, pooling at the bottom of the door, and the wood warped like metal being welded. The soft edges of the door ran into the walls until there was no sign of an exit ever being there.
“Well, well, well,” said a cultured voice with just an edge of snooty elitism. “What do we have here?”
The man was well over eight feet tall, with long black hair covering his eyes. He was wearing a yellow raincoat with holes cut out of the hood to accommodate the deer antlers jutting upwards from his head. There was sand settled on his shoulders and hovering around his head like a halo.
“Who the fuck are you?” Hitch said, inching towards a window.
He smiled, just a little bit, and his teeth shone in the dim light. “I am the Erlking.”
Hitch nodded, and seemed about to respond. I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him towards the window. I could feel sand in the wind roaring against my back as the Erlking growled in anger, the grains scraping harshly against my cheeks.
We were almost to the window when Hitch was ripped away from me, and I came to a startled halt. The sand had formed long grasping arms that pressed Hitch against the floral wallpaper. His wrists were held tight, and as I watched, a sandy hand wrapped around his mouth and forced its way between his teeth. He gagged, and sand trickled out of the corners of his mouth.
The Erlking strolled towards him, not seeming to be in any sort of rush. “You know, I’m not very fond of your yapping.”
He made an idle gesture and the sand wrapped around my ankles, tethering me in place.
“I yap all the time,” Hitch said. “Three-time olympic yapper, that’s me. Best to just let me go now and save yourself some trouble.”
The Erlking tapped a manicured nail against Hitch’s mouth, hard enough to hurt, judging by the way he flinched away. “But why would I ever let you go when I’ve gone to this much trouble to catch you and your sister? It’s so hard, these days, to find people that no one will miss.”
Hitch struggled against the sand, trying to escape and failing. “What do you want with us, then? You just said it, we’re nobody.”
“I’m fae, dear one,” the Erlking said. “I get my power from my followers. And I think that you two will make lovely additions to my flock.”

He flicked Hitch's nose and Hitch gasped. Feathers started to form on his arms, popping out from under his skin in a spray of blood.
Hitch pushed off the wall, using his bound hands as a fulcrum, and his knees crashed into the Erlking’s stomach. The Erlking fell backwards, wheezing, and the sand around my ankles loosened.
Hitch made desperate eye contact with me as feathers shot up his neck and jerked his head towards the window. The message was obvious. Run.
The last thing I saw before crashing out the window and into freedom was Hitch’s body twisting, his arms wrenching into wings and feathers covering every inch of his skin. By the time I landed on the concrete outside, he was a small black bird, held tightly in the Erlking’s hands. The whole building was sinking into the ground, burnished-gold sand piling up over top and streaming from the windows.
Thirty years later, I saw Sam’s Supernatural Consultation and Neutralization written in neat, looping handwriting on a piece of paper taped to the door. The tape was peeling at the corners and the paper was yellowed with age, but there was obviously care put into the sign, in its perfectly centered text and looping floral designs drawn over the edges in gold marker.
I knocked, hesitantly, drawing my woolen coat closer around my shoulders. I’d bought it as a fiftieth birthday gift for myself, and I took comfort in the heavy weight of it over my shoulders.
“Coming!” someone called from within the depths of the office.
There were a couple crashes, and the sound of paper shuffling. Eventually, the door was opened by a young woman with ketchup stains on her shirt and pencils stuck through her hair.
“Hi, I’m Sam, I specialize in supernatural consultation and hunting, how may I help you today?” Sam said, customer-service pep in her voice. She stood in the doorway, solidly blocking entry into the office.
“My name is Ezra, I’m for a consultation. I emailed you but you didn’t respond?” I shifted in place, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Oh! Yeah, I lost the password for the email ages ago. Sorry for the bad welcome, I get lots of people thinking I’m crazy or pulling a prank and harassing me.”
She ushered me into the office, clearing papers off one of the chairs to make room for me to sit down. There was a collection of swords along one wall, all of them polished to perfection, several with deep knicks in the metal which indicated that they’d been used heavily.
“So what can I help you with?” Sam asked again, more sincere this time.
“Thirty years ago, my brother was turned into a bird,” I started. I’d told this story so many times that it barely felt ridiculous to say anymore. I was used to the disbelieving looks, the careful pity. But Sam just nodded along, face open and welcoming.
“I’ve almost given up on finding him, at this point,” I said. “But I saw your ad in the newspaper, and…here I am, I suppose.”
“Here you are,” Sam echoed, smiling. She pulled one of the pencils out of her hair and took a bit of paperwork off of one of her stacks, turning it over so that the blank side sat neatly in front of her. “Tell me everything.”
I told Sam everything, and she wrote it all down, pencil scratching along the paper.
The last part of the story was always the hardest to tell. “I left him there. I ran and I didn’t look back.”
I had been to dozens of detectives and investigators over the years, once the police had dropped Hitch’s case. I’d been to professional offices with smartly-dressed secretaries and met scraggly men in coffee shops. All of them had given me the same look, pity and annoyance all mixed up into a humor-the-crazy-lady soup. Sam, though, just seemed thoughtful.
Sam leaned forward and put a hand over mine, carefully, like she thought that I would pull away. “Sometimes you have to leave people behind.”
I tightened her hold on Sam’s hand and drew it towards me, like I could make Sam listen if only I squeezed tight enough. “But that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to leave him behind.”
“Okay then. I’ll do my best to help you.” Sam agreed, finally. Then she paused, and said softly, “You know…I think I met your brother once. He might have saved my life. He’s certainly why I started in this business.”
“Really? What happened?” I asked.
This is the story that Sam told me, related to the best of my abilities:
It was a new moon, so the only illumination came from the stars gazing idly down and distant porch lights shining across the scraggly brush of the dunes. Sam’s neighbors were decent people who cared about baby turtles, so the lights were a low, unobtrusive red, and the ocean sloshed like blood. Sam walked on the beach almost every night, drawing back the gauzy pink curtains and clambering out her bedroom window. She didn’t often bother to be quiet; her mama worked the late shift and came home exhausted. As long as Sam got home before the sun, her mama would never find out that she paced the shoreline and dreamed of inhaling sand until her lungs became their own beach.
The sky was lightening. The sun would come up soon, and that meant Sam’s time on the beach was over. She needed to get back to her real life, go to her fifth grade class and stop that nonsense, as her mother would say. Her mother loved to say things like that, pushing Sam into her proper place by implication alone.
“She’s a good kid, of course, but she’s a bit…” Her mother would trail off there, usually getting a commiserating expression from whoever she was talking to. Sam always wondered how that sentence would have finished. She’s a bit strange, maybe. She’s a bit intense. She’s a bit abrasive. She’s quiet enough but when Jason tried to steal her pencil in math class, she stabbed him in the hand so hard that the lead tattooed him.
Her mother was better, for the most part. The days of her stocking up the fridge, and leaving a post-it note on the counter, and leaving for days at a time were gone. But Sam still stepped around the place on the kitchen tile where her mother had collapsed and caved her head in, even though the bloodstains had been replaced with new tile.
“Your auntie got an abortion, you know,” her mother had said from her place on the couch, slurring her words. “Pill in the mail and then bam, no more baby.”
She had clapped her hands together to illustrate her point. Her mother jerked forward and grabbed Sam by the wrist, then, staring up at her until Sam met her eyes.
“I love you, you know? But sometimes I wonder…” She settled back onto the couch. “Yeah. I wonder.”
She’d gotten up, then, back to the kitchen. She’d been stumbling, a shambling zombie of a woman. The ground in the entryway of the kitchen was raised, ever so slightly, and her mother went down hard. Her head cracked against the tile, chin first, and she didn’t move.
Sam had been the one to call the ambulance. She had stared at the scattering of loose teeth on the ground while she waited, and considered what her life would be like with a dead mom. Not so bad, she thought, and immediately felt guilty for it.
Her mom was better, now, for the most part. But Sam still stepped around the place on the kitchen floor where she had collapsed. There was still a matchbox hidden under her bed with the gleaming shine of her mother’s lost teeth, two canines and a molar. It was nice, having a piece of her mom to keep. Even if she left again, Sam would still have part of her.
Sam sighed, and turned away from the ocean. As she faced towards the low dunes further up the beach, she saw a sandcastle sitting nestled among them. It was such a strange sight that her eyes skipped over it at first, almost automatically, disregarding it because it was so out of place.
Sam found sandcastles out on the beach sometimes, usually half-collapsed and on the verge of being washed away by the waves, but she had never seen anything like the sandcastle in front of her. It was life-sized, something that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Scottish highlands, with spires shooting up above her head and carefully etched out bricks lining each side. The front wall was dominated by an arched set of double doors, twice her height, with a portcullis nestled at the top, ready to be dropped. All of it was lovingly detailed, down to the rust on the tips of the towers and the wood grain of the door. It was made out of wet, densely-packed sand, held together impossibly. It had not been there two hours ago, when she had come to the beach.
There was a bird sitting on the overhang of the door, small and black.
As soon as she took a step towards the sandcastle, the bird shook out its feathers and swooped down towards Sam, landing at her feet with a little stumble.
“Hey, kid, get out of here,” said the bird.
Sam closed her eyes, very deliberately. When she opened them, the bird was still there. Sam considered herself a very reasonable person, so she immediately drew the most logical conclusion. The bird was, she was almost certain, a demon.
“Trust me, you don’t want to run into Mr. Salty, the queen bitch himself,” the bird said.
“Mr. Salty?” Sam inquired, polite as she knew how to be. She edged to the side, trying to get a good angle to kick the bird like a soccer ball.
The bird did something similar to a wince, all its feathers fluffing up then settling back down. “Ah, don’t call him that. He’d turn you into a toad.”
The bird gestured with its head, towards the looming sand structure. “That’s his castle. He’s in there, probably scuttling along the ceiling or some shit because that’s the sort of weirdo he is.”
Sam nodded, encouraging. She pulled back her foot and lined up her shot, the way she’d seen athletes do on TV. She aimed right for its sharp beak and let loose. The bird saw it coming, its beady eyes widening, and it cawed in distress. It flapped away, avoiding her kick only to fall backward into the sand in a scramble of wings.
“What’s your fucking problem?” it squawked. “I was trying to help you!”
“I don’t need the help of a demon,” Sam yelled, trying to remember the exorcism that her mama had taught her once, because her mama believed in being prepared for anything.
“I’m not a demon,” the bird said indignantly.
It was at about that moment that Sam gave up and just decided to roll with it.
“What are you, then?” Sam asked.
The bird shuffled its clawed feet, looking about as awkward as it could, given that it didn’t really have recognizable facial expressions. “Technically I’m a familiar of the Erlking, prince of the fae, but I prefer to be called Hitch.”
“You can’t blame me for assuming, though,” Sam said. “Ravens do tend to be associated with murder.”
“Hey, excuse you,” Hitch said. “I’m a rook, not a raven. Ravens are way bigger.”
“Sure,” Sam said, not really paying attention. Her eyes had caught on the details of the sandcastle, and she was transfixed by the slow spirals of the sand, the strange beauty of it. She found herself stepping towards the great doors, lifting a hand to knock, and as she did, the sand warped in front of her eyes, heaving itself towards her with bulging slowness. The door creaked open before her, revealing a vast, empty room. Just before she stepped inside, she felt a piercing pain in her foot, and she yelped, leaping backwards.
Hitch pecked her again, really digging his beak in. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Sam glared at him, rubbing her foot. About to retort, she finally really took in the room inside the sandcastle, and her words died in her throat.
There was a body just past the threshold of the door, face down and limbs hanging limp at its sides. Long hair splayed out in a halo around its head.
“Don’t,” Hitch warned, suddenly serious. “Just leave, kid, I mean it. I’ve seen too many people go down this road and you don’t want to be one of them.”
Sam ignored him. She made her way across the beach, slipping with every step. The sand felt deeper, piling up around her feet in silent drifts. She picked up the nearest stick and poked the body with it through the door, ready to leap back if anything went wrong, staying firmly outside of the sandcastle.
This close, Sam could tell that it used to be a woman. Her head wasn’t attached to her body. It hadn’t been a clean amputation, either. Her upper body was bruised, with chunks taken out of it, and the bones in her neck hung mangled, not connected to anything.
“Well, I warned you,” Hitch said, defeated. “I did warn you.”
Sam nudged the head with the end of the stick, nudging it over so that she could see the face. Her mother stared back at her, torn to pieces, breath still wheezing from her lungs. She wasn’t blinking, just gazing forward with glazed eyes. Sweat dripped down from her hairline.
Sam screamed and dropped the stick, tripping over herself in her haste to get away.
Her mother’s eyes were wide and pleading, and she was mouthing desperate words at Sam. Her vocal cords were broken to bits, and the only sound that came out was a strained groan.
The head rolled, inching closer to Sam like a grotesque caterpillar.
Her mother gasped for air, torn lips fluttering. Finally, comprehensible words came out. “Help. Help me, daughter.”
“That’s not your mother,” Hitch said, quiet.
Sam knew that. Her mother was sleeping back at home, and anyways her mom had never asked for her help. She had an aversion to accepting charity, as she put it.
“Okay,” Sam said, shaking all over. “Okay.”
She backed away from the sandcastle, not looking away.
“Failure,” her mother hissed as she stepped away. “I never wanted a daughter like you.”
The sun came up over the horizon. The sandcastle, Hitch, and her mom all disintegrated into sand as the light hit them.
The beach, the next night, was almost exactly how I remembered it. The beams of our flashlights sent light bouncing across the dunes, illuminating the waves, and I imagined faces in the foam of the waves.
“I’ve been back here a hundred times. There’s nothing left,” I said.
Sam took the car key out of her purse and pointed it at the sand, adjusting the sword slung over her shoulder in order to do it. The key had belonged to Hitch; Sam had requested an item of his, and it was the only thing I had left. She rested the key on the sand and drew a circle around it, inscribing symbols around the borders.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Sam shrugged. “Not much, really. I’m…I guess you could say that I’m knocking.”
The key laid inert on the sand for long enough that I was just about to give up and go home, admit to myself that Hitch was dead and that I was a fool to believe that Sam could actually help me. Then a building started to take shape, flickering in and out like it was struggling to get away. With a pop of displaced air, the sandcastle settled into existence.
Sam banged on the entryway. Nothing happened. She did it again, harder, and scowled when the door still didn’t open.
“We demand entrance, under your honor,” Sam yelled. There was a hard rush of wind, and I gripped Sam’s arm to keep my balance, but the doors cracked open reluctantly.
The inside of the sandcastle consisted of one enormous hall, the roof arching up out of sight. Rafters crisscrossed from wall to wall, and a cobbled path led further into the building, but other than that, it was completely empty, except for the birds. There were thousands of them, perched on the rafters or hopping along the ground. They parted in front of Sam and I, and reformed behind us, leaving us in a small pocket of open space. They were all black-feathered, with sharp beaks and beady eyes.
The Erlking sat on a throne at the end of the hall, lounging across it with his feet up on the armrest. He watched them as they came forward, the soft caw of the birds the only sound.
“I am here to bargain for the life of my brother,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster, before the Erlking could say anything.
The Erlking ignored her, tilting his head to look at Sam. “I remember you. I almost got you, once.”

Sam glared at him but didn’t respond.
“You want your brother,” The Erlking said to me, and he almost sounded amused. “Then go get him.”
As if by some sort of silent signal, every bird in the room took flight at once, and their cawing made me think of screams. I covered my head against the flapping of their wings, and my vision was quickly obscured by the chaotic movement of them. I found myself on my knees, just trying to escape them.
A hand met my shoulder. Sam urged me to my feet, and together we ran for the edge of the room, where the swarm was the thinnest. We pressed ourselves into the corner and the swarm spiraled tighter and tighter at the center of the room. It went on until there seemed to be no differentiation between the birds, all of them fused together into one creature.
When the chaos died down, the birds had become one mass, with wings and eyes and talons sticking out of its flesh, thrashing and chirping. Human body parts stuck out of it, bulging out from the feathers. It was hands, mostly, with a couple knees or staring eyes. The bird amalgamation had no recognizable facial features, but there was one long beak extending from the front of its head. Most of the body parts were concentrated around the beak, and they peeked out from where the beak connected with muscle, or grew from the tongue, nestled between the two crushing halves of the beak.
It turned its beak down and crawled forward, using the hands to balance. The fingers scrambled over the ground. I was afraid of centipedes as a child, and I felt that same crawling dread when it started moving.
“Holy shit,” Sam whispered, which was rather disappointing, because I had been hoping that at least one of us knew what to do.
The creature turned, a lurching movement that crushed some of the hands underneath it, and started heaving itself slowly towards our corner.
“Better hurry up!” the Erlking called from his throne.
It was blocking the exit, by then. The shifting body of it had moved to block us off. It ambled towards us and I tried to sink further into the corner.
As it approached, getting close enough that I could smell the stink of it, I saw a flash of a tattoo on one of the hands. I leaned in, trying to find it again, like looking for dolphins surfacing in the ocean. And again, I caught a glimpse of a duck tattoo, the tattoo that Hitch had gotten on his hand as a teenager.
I ripped away from Sam’s death grip and ran for the monster.
I fell to my knees in front of it, wincing as I impacted the ground, and reached into the nest of hands. I could feel them tearing at my forearms and ripping into me with their sharp nails, but I kept going. I pressed further in, up to my shoulder in a writhing mass of limbs, aiming for the spot where I had last seen that tattoo.
The hands were tugging at me, wrapping around my back and hair. They were pulling together, trying to draw me completely into the mass of them. I was aware of Sam at my side, anchoring me in place and bashing any hand that got too close with her sword or the sparks that leapt from her hands with muttered words. But I didn’t think it would be enough. They were too strong, and there were too many of them.
I was up to my waist in the hands when something grabbed my palm. I felt the way it clung to me, and the calluses on its palm, and I knew that I had found my brother.
I flung herself back. The hands didn’t want to let me go, and they fought the whole way, but slowly, I made progress. I kept hold of Hitch’s hand in mine the whole time, gripping it as hard as I could. I finally broke free, Hitch with me, and Sam was immediately charging the creature, able to use her sword with much greater strength without being worried about injuring Hitch. She swung it forward, and it sliced through the wrist of one of the hands. It fell without a sound, red sand flowing out of it. It deflated until it looked like dirty laundry, just a piece of limp flesh. The creature shrieked, scuttling away enough that the door was finally accessible. The three of us ran for it, Sam and I supporting Hitch between us.
I looked back as I left and found the Erlking staring right at me.
“Interesting,” he murmured, his voice carrying impossibly across the vast space between us.
The sandcastle collapsed behind us, the great walls falling in on themselves. We were out in the morning sun, the sandcastle disappearing as we watched. Hitch was on the ground in front of me, as young as he’d been thirty years ago, when he was captured. He started laughing, feathers puffing out of his mouth. He laughed until he cried and I hugged him in the way that he’d held me when I was young, in the times when my life had been defined by hunger and fear.
Hitch left, afterwards. He scratched at the pinhole scars covering his body, where feathers burst through his skin, and pulled his long sleeves down around his wrists. He didn’t know where he was going but he told me that he needed time
I had spent thirty years worth of time without him. I wanted to grab my brother by the shoulders and beg him to stay. But he flinched when I hugged him goodbye and he refused to go near sand and he stared distrustfully at the birds chirping in the trees. Hitch needed to go away and I loved him too much to stop him.
I sat out on the beach every morning. I felt the sun on my face and I waited for Hitch to come home.

Keith's Transformation Ch 4 [M30s/M30s/F30s][crossdressing][femdom][chastity][first time bi][blowjob]
Friday morning came, meaning it had been a week since their session, and Keith couldn’t stop wondering about the surprise Jasmine had mentioned. His cock was still locked away, and though he had grown used to the weight, it served as a constant reminder. He had to laugh at the irony, the cage making him horny while also preventing him from so much as getting hard, much less getting relief.
As he started getting ready for the day, he was intrigued to find a pair of silk panties and a note in his underwear drawer. He could nearly hear the words written in Jasmine’s dominant voice. “I think you should wear these today. I want to make sure you’re in the mood for tonight.” His cock fought against the cage as his thoughts fought between sexy fantasies of what was coming, and the embarrassment of wearing panties all day. Nevertheless he pulled them on, leaving his folded boxers in the drawer.
His day passed in a daze, barely able to focus on the work he was doing. His heart skipped a beat every time someone came to his desk to ask a question, and through every meeting, sure someone would notice somehow. When the end of the day came, he rushed to pack up and head out, politely declining offers to go out for a drink from a few co-workers on his team.
Dinner was mercilessly normal. Jasmine gave nothing away, almost as if she hadn’t been taunting him about tonight for a week. It wasn’t until later, as he was bent over loading the dishwasher, that she made her move. She came up behind him, hand rubbing over his ass and whispered in his ear “When you’re done there, come upstairs so we can get ready for your surprise. You’ve been such a patient girl for me.” His cock twitched against the cage as she walked off and he hurried to finish loading the last of the plates.
He came into the room as she finished laying out his outfit for the night, but he was surprised to see she wasn’t dressed yet. She looked at him expectantly and he stripped and started to put on his outfit for the night. It started with a pair of black lacy panties that swallowed up his caged package, leaving just the hint of a bulge. This was followed shortly by soft fishnet leggings, though he left the heels for now. A lacy bra matched the panties, and he was surprised to find that some clever padding and positioning turned his natural, slightly flabby chest into a perky pair of A cups, complete with a hint of cleavage. Finally, he pulled the dress on top, taking a few moments to adjust the mesh sleeves and straps, and stepped into a pair of high heels.
Once he was dressed, she sat him on the bed and grabbed her makeup. This was new, but he sat obediently as she went at him with brushes and pencils. Satisfied, she gave his ass a slap before leaving to get ready herself.
Keith stared in disbelief at the woman he saw in the full-length mirror in front of him. A pair of crimson, three-inch heels started the outfit, giving way to fishnets running up her smooth legs. The centerpiece of the outfit was a black and red gothic Lolita dress. Fluffy ruffles and frills of lace gave a playful edge to the short skirt and revealing top. Transparent black mesh covered her arms below the shoulder. The top was low cut, dipping low enough to give just a peak of her small but firm cleavage. Straps ran from the top to a trimmed collar around her neck. Her dark hair was left down, falling just short of her shoulders, framing her face. Her lips were painted with a deep red that looked nearly black, giving sharp contrast to her pale skin. Light mascara and eye shadow drew attention to her piercing blue eyes that seemed to look through Keith’s soul as he stared.
The sight left Keith in a daze, there was no way he was looking at himself. There wasn’t a trace of himself in the reflection, no matter where he looked. No, this wasn’t him anymore. Sure, Keith was the one looking into the mirror, but Kelly was staring back at him.
“How the hell did I get here?” He asked himself, then shook his head to clear his thoughts as he heard Jasmine coming back.
His eyes widened as he saw her outfit for the night. She stood before him in a white suit that had just a hint of pearlescent shine. Matching pearl earrings glinted from among her flowing hair. The suit jacket was fastened by just one button right below her cleavage, showing and framing a lacy crimson corset displaying her impressive cleavage. The crisp suit pants stopped right above her ankles, giving clear view of blood red heels to match the corset. Her own makeup was impeccably done. Around her neck was a thin silver chain. Dangling on the end, resting just above her cleavage, was a small padlock key.
“Ready to go Kelly?” She asked, taking his hand before he could respond. His heart was pounding as she grabbed her purse and pulled him to the garage. She ushered him into the passenger side of the car and climbed in. She saw the panic clear on his face and took his hand, smiling at him.
“We don’t have to go out, we can just go back upstairs. But I want to see you suck a real cock, and I think you want to be a good girl and show me, don’t you?” His submissive urge to please her warred with his humiliation, the two feelings mixing and setting off a storm of desire in his chest. She whispered in his ear and his fate was sealed. “Are you going to be my good girl?” Keith nodded weakly. He, or tonight rather she, was Jasmine’s to command.
Jasmine drove them through the town, one hand resting on Kelly’s leg for support, pulling into the parking lot of a small local bar. Once again taking her hand as they entered the bar, Kelly could feel multiple pairs of eyes on them as they entered. She supposed they did make quite the pair. Jasmine led her to a booth in the corner, leaving her to sit as she went for drinks.
A few minutes into their drinks and chatting someone approached their booth. Kelly nearly jumped in surprised as he said hi, but Jasmine clapped in excitement. “John! You’re right on time. This is Kelly, she’s who I was telling you about. Kelly this is John, he’s going to help us tonight.” She said with a knowing wink in her direction.
A few drinks and a short walk later, the three of them found themselves in a hotel room Jasmine had reserved for the night. As soon as they got in the room, Jasmine grabbed Kelly by the hair and pulled her towards the bed. John pulled off his shirt and pants, but as he was hooking in his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear he was stopped by Jasmine. “Leave the boxers, I want her to get the full reveal.” He shrugged and came to sit on the edge of the bed in front of them.
Jasmine pulled Kelly’s head in front of his crotch then leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Now be a good girl and give me a good show.” Kelly shuddered, her dick fighting to rise in her cage, as she looked at the obvious bulge in front of her. Jasmine let her go and moved to sit in a chair off to the side, unbuttoning her suit jacket as she sat. “I’m waiting slut.” Kelly slowly pulled off his boxers, eyes widening as his cock came into view. Already hard, he was even bigger than the strap-on Jasmine had trained her with. Licking her lips, she opened her mouth and took the head in with no hesitation. She paused for a minute, not used to the taste and the warmth compared to the dildos she was used to sucking. John’s hand came to rest lightly on her head and she went to work.
She started slow, sucking gently on the head as she swirled her tongue around, then moving down his shaft slowly. She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft and stroked slowly as she bobbed over the first few inches of his dick. His hand pushed lightly on the back of her head, fingers twisting in her hair as she sucked and licked. Her hand moved down to play with his balls as she lowered her mouth completely down his shaft. She looked up at him with lust in her eyes as she deepthroated his dick, reveling in his soft groans as his cock stretched her throat.
Over in the chair, Jasmine’s pants were around her ankles and her fingers were rubbing her clit furiously. Her gaze fixed on the sight of Kelly on her knees, her throat bulging around John’s thick cock. “God yes baby, you’re such a good girl.” She moaned out, slipping two fingers inside herself. “Show me what a good cock sucker you are.” Kelly redoubled her efforts and started to slide faster up and down his dick. John groaned, letting her go for a few minutes before tightening his grip and taking control. He held her head in place and started thrusting at a brutal pace. Drool dripped off Kelly’s chin as he fucked her face, using her mouth fast and hard. Kelly’s dick was leaking precum into her panties as she was used like a cheap toy.
It didn’t take long before John groaned loudly and pulled her as far as he could down his dick. She felt his dick throb as he pumped his cum directly down her throat and heard Jasmine moan out loudly as her own orgasm overtook her. John pulled her off his dick, causing the last few shots of cum to fill her mouth and splash across her face. Pulling her glistening fingers from her pussy, Jasmine smiled a wicked smile as she looked at Kelly’s cum smeared face.
“Good girl. You did so well. Now for the main event...”

A week had gone by since the planet had been pacified. A solid week.
Fleet Marshal Simmons was sitting in her quarters, nursing a cup of coffee, and from the drumbeat of her fingers on the table she was seconds away from tearing the wall down and storming the bridge... Again. She had to be patient however, it wouldn’t do if she went out to the bridge wing and started barking for status updates. Reinforcements had arrived, the Antares had even gotten a resupply of the small amount of food that was needed to top off its stores. The fleet was fully operational, and they had already replenished half of the ships back to full ammunition stores. It had been a week since she had taken this system. A solid week. For her, it had been quite possibly the longest week of her life. The Barraki, only a few jumps away, were engaged in a back and forth battle against the Vral that had kicked off the second the Barraki had entered the war. From what she was reading the Vral were trying not to commit too heavily, which had at first amused her, but then as the reports kept adding up it started to infuriate her.
The Terran Front Antares fleet was just sitting on it’s hands, right at the border of former shesvie space. Her orders from Central Command had been very lenient, and broad. Take back all of chua space, and wait for further instructions. It had taken her less than two weeks to do that, but now here she was, a full week later, and even though she was ready to plow ahead she was waiting. She had sent more than one message back to Earth, and for a moment she was reminded of several old statements that encapsulated how she felt right now. The ram has touched the wall. Today’s tactical victory does not guarantee tomorrow’s strategic success. Then there was her favorite, which was setting her mind on fire, ‘I’m pissing in the Rhine, now send me gas!’
She felt like a caged animal, and more and more she just wanted to pry the bars off. She thought about bringing up her husband’s image on the datapad sitting in front of her and decided against it. Sometimes it calmed her, but right now she didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to order the Antares to dive right straight through until they reached the Barraki, she wanted to park the Antares over the Vral homeworld and turn it into a slag pile. Her datapad chimed and she glanced at it, then sat back and drank slowly from her cup. The TFS St. Petersburg’s repairs were complete and it was leaving the Antares repair docks, she reached out and tapped the acknowledgement, then stared at the wall. The ground campaign was over. The salvage campaign in space was well underway, with most of the dead hulls arranged and ready for reprocessing. Entire logistics flotillas were already in the system. Why was she still here.
Instead of kicking her table over and stalking around she took another civilized sip of her mug. She was the picture of calm, or so she believed. If she could hear the thoughts of her attendant who was currently out of her quarters getting another coffee prepared she would have known she looked like she was actively on the verge of losing her mind. Her datapad chimed again. TFS Firebrand requesting to pull alongside to resupply food stores. Why not. She tapped a short reply of ‘Granted.’ She then stopped herself from hurling the datapad across the room. Civil, calm. The picture of command. The picture of serene composure. At least that is what she tried to convince herself she looked like. A rabid wolverine ready to murder anyone who came within a square mile is what anyone else would say. Her datapad chimed again. She slammed the mug down on the table and coffee splashed out, her hand snapped out and grabbed hold of the datapad.
“Fucking damnit!” She growled, pulling her hand back to throw. She breathed, then slowly pulled the pad to her eye level.
Initiate Operation Naked Sun at Earliest Convenience
Bold letters, type 12 font, times new roman. From Central Command. To her. God bless the Terran Front, finally. She came out off of her seat like she had been launched from it and stalked for the door. The doors to her quarters opened to the bridgewing. She came out like a tiger chasing a squealing pig. She was holding up the datapad like it was a burning sword, an expression of pure and absolute victory on her face. “Get me a fucking channel to the Fleet Admirals!” She roared.
Petty Officer Hazard hid his expression with his shoulder, but from the way his shoulders were heaving she knew he was struggling and failing not to laugh. “In a good mood today ma’am?”
“You’re goddamned right.” She turned and stalked over to her command table and put the datapad down, opening the message.
‘Intel reports favorable conditions to initiate breakdown of Antares operational group. Advance all fronts. Begin Operation Naked Sun. Proceed at discretion according to operational plan’
“Finally.” She whispered, and she glanced over to Hazard, squaring herself towards the display. After a few moments a feed was sent to her display, panels were shown, with a green or red outline. Red outlines were turning green, showing that the Fleet Admirals in question were ready to receive. She brought up a map of the adjoining systems, seeing the branch points of the hyperspace lanes. “Finally.” She whispered again.
Lieutenant Conrad had always wanted his first command to be like his father’s. The picture of his father sat in his cramped quarters, standing stern faced and ready in front of the Bengal class destroyer named after someone from Earth’s distant past, John C. Stennis. His father had told him stories, rubbing the stump of his right leg, of commanding the eighty crewed, quarter kilometer long vessel. His father’s favorite story was the one that had ended his career, of taking on a vral battleship at point blank range and crippling it before his own ship started flying apart around him. The rescue that had brought him back from death, and the Star of Terra that he had received as a result. When Conrad had left the Mars Naval Academy he had hoped he would be slotted for service on a battleship, just like his old man, and then given command of a destroyer, just like his old man. At least the first part went right. Every waking moment of his service onboard the TFS Paris, the Thunder Child class battleship that even now hovered a few thousand kilometers away, he had pursued command with a fever. His pursuit had been noticed. His studious nature had been noticed. His promotion to Lieutenant Junior Grade had come with the remark that officers of his dedication and passion belonged in the captain’s chair. As a Junior Grade he had completed every required training and qualification regarding ship leadership, logistics, fire control, engineering, and navigation that he could get his hands on.
The look on his captain’s face when they put his new bars on, Conrad couldn’t wipe from his mind. In the two years he had been onboard the Paris, the captain had been like a father figure to him. He didn’t know why. Nor could he wipe from his mind the way that same captain had gestured with grandeur out of the viewport of the bridge of the Paris, and loudly announced that the command he had sought was his. That was the first time he had seen TFSC 2252. The smile he had worn seeing it was fake. At sixty seven meters long, it was not a destroyer. It was a corvette, Hornet class, and a brand new one at that. It had the shake down crew, his crew would be arriving with him. It hadn’t even gotten its name yet. There it sat, moored to Thermopylae station, his first command. His disappointment felt like a vice on his chest. Not a ship expected to fly in formation, but a ship expected to swarm, like a glorified fighter. Conrad never wanted to be a fighter pilot, he had turned down strike craft schools for a reason, but now, here it was.
Still, it wouldn’t have done to have voiced that disappointment. He would have to make do. That same day he moved from the spacious quarters he had been assigned onboard the TFS Paris, and moved into the quarters barely large enough for a narrow bed over a coffin locker, with a fold down desk. No chair. His bed was his chair. It was cramped, the doors weren’t big enough for him to walk through without turning his body. The bridge was the largest space on the entire ship, and even then there was not a lot of room to move around. The ‘gym’, if one could even call it that, was the second largest space and held a treadmill and just enough room for a multi-purpose weight machine. The crew mess was just large enough to seat the full crew of twelve. Anyone serving on a corvette naturally had to have a psychological screening against claustrophobia, because the last thing you wanted on a ship this size was for someone to start freaking out. It’s drive was massively overpowered for a ship it’s size which meant the dampeners that handled acceleration g’s would not and could not accommodate correctly. People who served on corvettes were often said to have ‘Sea Legs’ because of this, an archaic term used to talk about how sailors who traveled Earth’s oceans became accustomed to the ship moving under them. It’s weapons were oversized for it’s tonnage which meant it shook when it fired. It didn’t have sound dampening enough to drown out the noise the corvette made naturally, so sleep was a problem because Conrad preferred silence. The Hornet class corvette, two days after he had taken command, was given the name Dhampir, which Conrad was less than enthused about. He also met his crew, and found out that as cramped as the Dhampir was, it was even more cramped with personnel.
Then there was the crew. It was said you had to be insane to want to fly around in a corvette, and his crew was certifiable. His executive officer, if you could call her that, was her weapon’s officer, again, if you could call her that. In fact, the next highest rank to his was a First Class Petty Officer, which was his weapon’s officer. The oldest member of his crew was twenty eight, which was his weapon’s officer. Gunner’s Mate First Class Cassandra Towns, his weapon’s officer, refused to be called anything other than Cass or Mom. By anyone. Including him. She had introduced the rest of the crew, which had trained together and been shipped together from the Mars Training Yard. A medic who doubled as a damage control technician named Doc which was short for Mad Doc, the chua who managed the reactor called Crispy, weapons operators Rev and Dev ( no relation be assured ), sensor operator Batz, comms operator Fidget, systems technicians Smokey and Crash, and the two engineer technicians BB and Cross. He had given up trying to learn their real names, because they didn’t respond to them half the time anyway. A few days later, he found out he had gotten a name too, Chill, which after threatening Cass with court marshal he found out was short for Chill The Fuck Out You Rod Up The Ass Bastard. At the end of his first week of command, after hearing that, he found he didn’t have the shame needed to actually put that on a disciplinary form.
So no shit, there he was, a freshly minted captain who had expected his first command to be one of pride and prestige, with crisp uniforms and crisper salutes, great mentors, and a vessel with a name that he could speak of with pride and dignity. Instead he got crammed inside of what was essentially a sardine can with eleven misfits whom spent half of their time in various states of half in and half out of uniform, and had a relationship with military discipline that could be considered indifferent at best. Conrad didn’t even know how these people were found considering how strict life was pretty much anywhere else. He had dreams of elder mentors but got none. He had dreams of crisp military discipline, yes sirs, no sirs, but the best he got was ‘Rog’. When he confided in his long time mentor on the Paris about his crew he found out that most crews of the smaller corvettes were manned by those who either directly requested it, or had passed the psychiatric evaluation to be placed there, and usually they were drawn from crew who were going to wash out of standard training due to behavior issues.
He hated it. He hated it with a passion.
Until the engine came on. The growl of the overpowered reactor had sent a chill through his spine and a rush of blood through his body, and he felt his eyes bulge open with a sudden surge of adrenaline. They had left Thermopylae, his crew baying as they entered the hyperspace lane, and when Fleet Marshal Simmons had given the order to run down the Vral he had been howling just like the rest of them.
That was three weeks ago.
Conrad had his feet kicked up, above his head was the nameplate of the ship with Dhampir crossed out in chalk and Chill’s Boat written over it. He was wearing his uniform half off with his arm sleeves tied around his waist. Cass was lounging in her railgun carriage seat, her arms hanging down as she slept in the chair. Conrad reached over and flipped his comm panel open and pressed the button for Excursion Suit One. “BB.” He said, and waited. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath, then looked out of the viewscreen of the bridge. A few seconds later a figure in an environmentally enclosed space walk harness appeared and waved. “How’s it looking?”
“Bitchin’ Chill.” She said, her voice coming through the speaker next to his head. “I’ve taken some pictures with this POS camera they have.” He couldn’t see her face through the visor, the gold leaf hiding it.
“Nice.” Conrad said, “How do the kill marks look?”
“Crispy made a good call, they show up nice. I’m almost done out here. Ten minutes tops” BB didn’t wait for him to dismiss her, and he didn’t bother trying. Conrad turned off the comms line and sat back in the chair, then pulled down his display. He cycled through the reports the crew had sent in and made a couple of check marks in his head. After the last two weeks he had barely checked up anymore, because while every member of the Dhampir’s crew was someone that would get sent for non-judicial punishment at least once a week based off the way they acted alone, they were extremely good at their jobs. Extremely good. Right now though, they were all bored. They had come together to decide on some flair for the ship, and Conrad knew that most corvettes, and some destroyers, had mascots they’d paint on the hull. Every ship in the fleet had kill markers. So next they had decided what the cover art should be. Four designs had been shut down by Cass almost instantly, and in fact Batz had been told if that if his idea went on the hull Batz himself would be on the hull. They had settled on a stylized set of fangs set in a mouth. Their kill markers were vral faces, drawn with cartoonish shocked expressions, with bright red x’s. The tonnage of the kills was marked by simple letters, SC for strike craft, C for corvette, D for destroyer, LC for light cruiser. In the three weeks they had been a crew, the Dhampir had a nice set of kill marks. Fifty two small vral heads for fighters, eighteen for corvettes, seven for destroyers, and three for light cruisers. Yes, it was a good haul. There was a spot marked off to the side that had a C. C for cruiser. Conrad was looking forward to putting a bug head underneath it.
For now though, he reclined back and looked out of the viewport and waited. Like he had been waiting. Aside from him and BB, everyone was either in their small beds or at their station asleep. Well, he couldn’t say everyone. He had a good feeling what was happening in a few quarters. Considering the male to female split on this ship he was fully convinced that the only people who weren’t paired off was himself, Cass, Fidget, and the chua, and he wasn’t too sure about the chua. The first time he had caught two of the crew going at it he didn’t know what to say. When talking with Cass about it she pointed out they were having a talk about two crew members having sex, all the while the two of them were one wardrobe malfunction and a bump away from the same thing considering how tight the spaces were. To fully illustrate the point, she rolled her hips once while she was sliding past him. The point had been proven. Conrad decided on two things at that exact moment. One, he wasn’t going to complain when people who rubbed against each other any time they tried to pass each other wound up rubbing up against each other in other ways.The second was that having any conversation with Cass from here on out wasn’t going to be done in the passageway because she had no shame, and frankly he was more pent up than he wanted to actually admit.
What living on a corvette did to the body did not help. Every time you moved to your station, every time you moved through the ship, you were twisting, pulling yourself up, crouching, pushing down, and squeezing in and out of places. It was a constant workout just to make your way through the three decks. Then of course was the diet. Corvettes had specially prepared meals, high protein, low carbohydrates. Everyone also had the added requirement of mandatory cardiovascular training, thirty minutes a day. You couldn’t be overweight and be on a corvette. Between the diet and the constant workout that was moving through the ship, Conrad was already achieving a level of tone on his body that he had never thought he could gain, and frankly, everyone else either was getting the same way, or was already at that level. You had to be flexible, you had to be fit, you had to be able to move in tight spaces or simply put you were not cut out for corvette service. Add the opposite sex in that situation and the results were flat out obvious to anyone with two neurons firing. In fact the close nature of this ship was turning into a real problem for him, and Cass knew it, and frankly after that conversation and the subsequent close brushes with Cass he fully believed that Cass didn’t have a soul. Some of the brushes between them were downright unnecessary, and frankly every time he got near her now he ran through the litany of reasons why trying to take her up on what she might be offering was a bad idea. He was her superior, she wasn’t an officer, it wouldn’t be right for the captain to be doing something like this with a member of his crew, it could be bad for morale, etc, etc. Cass, for her part, deemed it necessary to put him in compromising positions as frequently as possible it seemed after they had their little talk. It only took him a few days after that conversation to realize that the moniker that smaller corvettes got tagged with, Pleasure Boats, might not be a joke about the size of the ship itself.
How does one address sexual tension so thick you could cut it with a knife on a ship where the crew would be pressed against each other trying not to think about sex while you’re having a conversation explicitly about sex. This was impossible.
He loved his boat.
What he didn’t love right now was the inactivity. Maintenance was done, all checks were done, their meal kits were fully stocked, ammo was fully stocked. The only person with anything to do right now was BB and that was because she had volunteered. Conrad had filed all his reports. They were quite literally just floating in space waiting for something to happen. Then it happened.
The red light on his comm panel went off with a tone, and Conrad reached up, taking his personal receiver off it’s clip on the ceiling. “This is Dhampir actual go ahead.”
“Dhampir actual, this is Paris actual.” The gravelly voice of Captain Calhoon was unmistakable, the captain of the Thunderchild battleship Paris was his senior reporting officer. “How are you adjusting to command Lieutenant?” Conrad opened his hands and looked around, then sat back in his chair and pulled his panel down in front of him. “Well I hope? I had noticed your crewman outside. A fine bit of decoration on your hull.”
“Uhh yes sir!” He said, hoping to god BB hadn’t put Batz’s idea on the hull. “I let the crew decide on how they wanted to represent themselves.” He felt acutely aware of the fact that he was feeling just like he felt when he was trying to figure out if he was in trouble with his actual father when he was young.
“A fine display. A fine display.” The older man rumbled, and Conrad felt his pulse die down. “Now, for the reason I contacted you. I will be sending you operational details for Operation Naked Sun. We engage at fleet time 1230.” Conrad blinked, then looked at the onboard clock. The time read 1042.
“Naked Sun, acknowledged.”
“Very good. You know, something I didn’t tell you, I started off in my command days as a corvette captain myself.” Captain Calhoon sounded wistful over the speakers of his headset. “Tell me, is your crew everything you wanted?”
“Yes sir!” Conrad declared, and Cass began to stir in her chair, her curly red hair cascading down as she turned and stared at him, bleary eyed. “It’s a fine crew.” Cass canted her head to the side then slowly smiled at him, batting her eyes. He threw his hands out at her like he was shooing her away. He pressed the tab to mute his receiver, checked to make sure he was muted, then hissed. “Damnit it’s the Paris, cut the sexual harassment.” She only laughed at him and turned back to her controls.
“Good. That’s good. I sent you a picture of my old crew a few days ago. I'd like one of yours when you have a chance to get off and have a bit of space. You will be a fine commander one day, but relish these days. Especially with what’s to come. Make every moment matter.” Conrad grinned as he listened to the older man talk. On a whim he checked to see his messages from the Captain and saw the one he was talking about. He opened it and blinked. Standing in front of an older Bulldog class corvette, one of the first of the TFS designs, was a crew of ten people. All of them were dressed with their uniform half done, most of them looking like the just climbed out of bed. The man in the center, with his arms draped comfortably around a woman, was the man he knew to be the captain. He looked relaxed, leaner than even Conrad himself was. All of them had a middle finger raised towards the camera, with a stylized Misfits painted on the hull behind them. They didn’t look like a professional crew, not even the captain who now commanded the Paris. They looked like a pirate gang.
“I’m having a look at the picture now.” Conrad said, for lack of anything else to say. Captain Calhoon was the most professional officer he had ever met, but there he was, arm curled around one of his crew, resting his head on her shoulder, and flipping off the camera. He glanced at the bottom and started reading off the names, and some of them were familiar. Dulhan, Vikof, Martins, Smith, Calhoon, Hadrian, Johnson, Sikks, Dupree, Yi.
“We’re a special breed, corvette crew.” The captain of the Paris said. “I’ll leave you to it. Be sure to review the operation, we will have a commander’s meeting to discuss the particulars. For now though, take station ten kilometers off my starboard.” Conrad leaned over, jotting down the instruction. “We’ll have the meeting at 1200 fleet time. Paris out.”
“Dhampir out.” Conrad said in reply, “Cass, jump in the chair and get us ten kilometers off of the Paris’ starboard flank once BB is inside.” He watched as she slid out of the chair and curled her body into the pilot seat, wordlessly. She reached for the comms panel, heard her talking to BB, but shoved the conversation to the back of his mind. He brought up the operational overview, then began reading. He felt the drive kick on, feeling the light rumble in his seat as the powerful engine directed them. Cass guided the ship into place with practiced ease, but Conrad, at the moment, was too engrossed in what he was reading. He poured through the hyperlane maps, the instruction and fall back points. He suddenly became aware of the fact Cass was calling him. He looked back to the pilot seat only to see she wasn’t there, she was standing, twisted up against her own chair staring at him. “Interesting reading.”
“Looks like it. Are we moving out?” She said, then he motioned for her to come over to him. Curiously, she made her way through the cluttered assemblage of stations and tight knit walls to get to him, having to lean on his shoulder as he pulled his panel around. “Operation Naked Sun. Naming conventions are fun.” She whispered, a little too close to his ear, and he snapped his head to find her face only an inch away from his.
“Yeah.” He said, then he turned back to the brief, even as she leaned on him and looked closer at the brief. A lot of the times, she made unnecessary contact with him, mostly to provoke a reaction out of him. This time though, she was trying to see better, because the details, for them, were incredible. Every so often she reached to bring up new information. “What do you think XO.”
“Oh this is gonna be fun.” She slowly brought up the listing of ships, then she eased back. They stayed there for a moment, with her leaning on him as they looked at the symbol for the operation, a rather uninspiring comment plunging into what passed for a star. “Do you want to brief the kids or should I?”
“We’ll do it separately. I’ll take Batz, Rev, Dev, Crispy, and Fidget up here on the bridge, you get Doc, BB, Cross, Crash, and Smokey back in the maintenance bay. I’ll send it to your pad just in case.” He relaxed back into his chair, and she turned a bit to stand next to him, placing a hand on his headrest right behind his ear. “It’s about to get real interesting.”
“You bet. Do it now?” Her grin was predatory.
“Do it now.” He replied, and she turned, heading for her station and punching the ship wide communication. She called off the crew, told BB to get back inside, and organized the two groups as Conrad sent through the operational brief to her pad. Then, a few moments later, he yanked himself out of his chair. Cass must have been distracted, because when he pushed up against her to go by she jumped and almost hit her head on the ceiling plates. He steadied her as he went by, grabbing hold of her arm and waist, keeping her for being carried along with him. For the first time since he had been on the ship and subjected to her particular methods of moving past him in confined spaces, he was the one who kept the contact for longer than needed. He was the one to maintain his hold on her that extra second. She looked back at him and blinked wide eyed. He hid his expression well, it wasn’t often he was the one getting a reaction out of her, but he couldn’t help himself but smirk as he turned his back to her. As he got past her, he felt her eyes boring into his back before he turned. He stared at her for a second, then leaned back into the space between two consoles. “Something wrong Cass?”
Her grin came back, more fierce than before. “Nope.” She reached over and grabbed her pad, then tapped it on her thigh, never taking her eyes off him. She stood her for a few seconds more. “Nope.” She said again, then she turned and began moving out of the bridge. Just before she opened the hatchway she stopped and looked back at him, the door hanging open. He made a simple motion with his hand, ushering her onwards. There was a flash in her eyes, and for a moment he thought maybe it might not be a good idea to provoke her. “Nope.” She said, stepping out of the bridge and shutting the hatch behind her.
‘Relish these days. Make every moment matter.’ He heard Captain Calhoon’s words echo to him from the photo he had seen.
Maybe, just maybe he would, provided this operation didn’t kill him first.

Something in the woods
Something I don’t know what it is, but something is in the woods, something primal and old, something tired, something pure evil, Something very fucking big, something that predates all of this that nothing we made or can make will ever be able to stop. Do you know that feeling that you’re being watched? This thing is so big that it doesn’t give you that feeling. It has eyes everywhere, so many that you can’t tell whether you are looking at it or the woods, maybe it is the woods, and we’ve always lived with it, something older than the big bang or whatever came before it. Something older than our concept of God or God itself. When it moves the forest moves with it, it is the forest. One of those things that came long before humans or plants, names, rocks or sound. It can remain shapeless, which means it can remain deathless and it is not restricted to our space nor the blue rock that is the earth, something that attempting to rationalize or size up would reduce the hardest men to tears and screams of pure insanity and terror. It comes from a place in this hostile universe that is savage, hungry, and primal to its core, a place our god ran from when he created this. It’s always watched us, but we are not and never will be big enough for it to care. Few men have seen it and fewer men have understood it. None survive. To see it is to meet fate, something so terrible and large and beautiful and bizarre shatters the mind and soul. Something so big that death can’t escape it. Death simply takes us to a different place, and whatever piece he takes with him takes us to a place where IT IS. Maybe it isn’t evil, just primal. Older than concepts and our small insignificant differences that we so desperately attempt to use to get ahead. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters and only one thing is certain. There is something in the woods.
I wake up again in the cold sweat that I’ve become used to. It’s that same dream that always comes after she disappeared. I never used to dream. Kelsey said it’s because I had no imagination. What I wouldn’t give for her to say that to me just one more time, but that’s why I’m here isn’t it? The dream gets longer, more vivid the further I follow her. It must mean I’m getting close. I pull over at the motel where he said it would happen and stare into the woods across the street. I feel a strange pulling sensation the longer I stare, and I have to force myself to look away. I’m in the right place, I know it.
“Chuck. You’ve been here all day and all night for over a week. You need sleep.” Bob says as he sits up straight at his desk.
“I’ll sleep when I catch this fuck.” I say as I down yet another cup of coffee.
“Chief has been talking about putting us both on sabbatical after this case. He said he might not wait and just let Morris and Rogers take over.” He says, standing to meet me at the board.
“Those two dumbasses couldn’t find water in the ocean. We almost got…... get me 10th precinct on the line and call in the SWAT team, I know who it is.” I say putting my coat on and heading down to my car.
The triple murder case was closed. Turns out the owner of a local butcher shop had the idea that selling high end restaurants human meat would be a grand money-making scheme. What was left of his victims were found in a storage locker 5 miles from the shop. 3 officers retired after the case was closed. Bob and I were given a month-long sabbatical for our troubles. I decided that the joint savings account could take the hit and Kelsey and I should commence our delayed honeymoon in the Bahamas.
I opened the door of my apartment and expected to be greeted by Kelsey, the brochure in my hand ready to drop the happiest bombshell in the last 6 months. Instead, I was greeted by silence. At first, I thought rational husband thoughts, after all it was 10 AM on a Tuesday, and she was a full-time accountant. And then I see the little piece of paper that would alter the course of my life forever.
DON’T FOLLOW. I LOVE YOU. – Kelsey
I would spend the next few days in a drunken stupor, going through the divorcee grief process, waiting to be served from a different state or a post card with a new man on it, but nothing came. A week went by, and nothing came. I called, I texted, I emailed to no avail. I tried to reach her parents, her siblings, all to no avail. I would spend hours staring at the note trying to find something, anything that would lead me to her, and as if my pathetic state was so moving that it caught the attention of something beyond our realm, I was thrown a cosmic bone. A glint of light would expose the symbol drawn in invisible ink. This is where having an old flame in the FBI comes in handy and soon after calling in a few favors, I received the phone call.
“Yknow, it’s not every day that you get something from a secret organization, I’m still amazed that you even found it.” Syd muses.
“I’m a detective that’s kind of my thing.” I say, taking another drag of my cigarette as I stare out into the skyline.
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news chucky, but these guys are good, I’ve found jack shit on the internet about it aside from a few scattered remnants here and there.”
“Do you have a general location? I get the feeling that this isn’t a symbol you find just anywhere.”
“A few scattered carvings on trees, a few tattoos. Give me two seconds…. Alright, I’ve narrowed it down. North Carolina ringing any bells?”
I almost drop my cigarette.
“She went home.” I say, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking, but let’s try and think rational here, I don’t know if it’s a good idea that you just go stomping around her neck of the woods. People leave each other all the time…”
“SHE WOULDN’T LEAVE ME.” I almost scream into the phone.
Almost a minute of silence passes.
“I’ll give you a call if I find anything more. Don’t do anything stupid.” She hangs up before I can say another word.
As I walk to board the plane, I get a strange feeling that I’m being watched. I look around to see who’s making the hair on the back of my neck raise until I see him. He’s tall and wears a black jacket and jeans. A long beard covers his face, and his eyes are almost white with cataracts, but somehow, I know that he still sees me. He continues walking towards me and I feel my hand drift into my pocket and feel the cold metal of the pocketknife. I wait until he stands next to me and as he’s walking, I hear him say one word.
“Usurper.”
The word has burned itself into my mind and stays with me until I drift into sleep on the flight.
That’s when I had the first dream.
I stand in the clearing looking at the tree line of the woods. I can see the trees begin to move ever so slightly until it makes some sort of face. It blinks.
I wake with a start as the flight attendant nudges me back into consciousness.
“Sir, the plane has landed.” She says with a smile that is a little too wide. I notice that we are the only ones still on the plane and I begin to feel the hair on my arms rise. She turns to walk off and then turns around to look at me one last time.
“For her sake Usurper, don’t interfere.” She says and she steps into the terminal.
I drive to her hometown of Troy, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Usurper? Interfere? What the fuck is going on here? The thoughts plague my mind until I reach her parents’ house. I see the smoke from miles away. At first, I think it’s just a garbage fire until I turn down the dirt road that leads to the house and can almost taste the acrid vapor. I continue down the winding path and stop at the smoldering remains of the foundation. There is not a single inch of the house that hasn’t been turned to ash or charred wood. No fire trucks. No cops. No ambulances. What the fuck is going on here.
I decide I need to try and get some face to face with the locals and so I head to the bar closest to her former home.
I enter the bar and pull up a chair. The Bartender walks up and slaps his hands on the counter.
“What can I get you?” he says cheerily. The bar is empty except for the two of us and I can tell he’s appreciative of the company.
“Whisky Sour.” I say, which warrants a strange look from him.
“You new around here?” He says with an analytical tone.
“How could you tell?” I say as I count the cash in my wallet.
“It ain’t every day I got folks asking for fancy drinks like that.”
“You got Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“You got Coke?”
“Yep.”
“What’s the next thing do you think I’m gonna ask?” I say, finger gunning him and trying my best to force a disarming smile.
“Single or Double?” He says returning a middle finger.
“Double.”
“Gotcha, want to keep the tab open?”
“Sure.”
He slides me the drink and then pulls up his own stool from behind the bar.
“So, what brings you to town?” he says, eyeballing me like I’m a new exhibit at the zoo.
“Looking for someone. Think you could help?”
“Town ain’t all that big Yankee. You a cop?” He says with a grin.
“How’d you know I was a cop?” I say, surprised at his analysis.
“Accent, Walk, Talk, you’re probably also carrying despite the fact that says no firearms on the premises. Plus, the fact that you’re looking for someone. So, what are you? Marshall? DEA? FBI?” he says, counting on his fingers as he picks me apart.
“So that makes me federal off the bat? Not just a new deputy?” I say, returning with my own sarcasm.
“I run a dive bar in bumfuck nowhere; I know every single cop in this county. Plus, nobody moves here by choice.” Swirling his finger in the air with a laugh.
I laugh with him as I realize that there isn’t a point in trying to hide it, and if anyone knew what was going on around here it was probably him.
“So, what are you doing here?” He says leaning in.
“I’m looking for someone.” I say leaning in and sliding a 100$ bill across the counter.
“Who?” he says, eyeing the bill.
“My wife.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
“Ah yes, one for details. Does this wife of yours have a name? Also keep the money, I ain’t a man who needs to be bribed for his help.” He says sliding the money back to me.
“Kelsey Smith.”
Almost as if on queue, the doors of the bar fly open, and 3 men walk in. They walk almost in lock step and carry easy smiles that deeply unsettle me. The same smile that the flight attendant had.
The bartender stiffens at the sight of them and becomes noticeably uncomfortable.
“Terry.” The leader says warmly, stepping forward to the bar.
“We’re about to close.” Terry says as he begins shutting the lights and jukebox off.
“We can help!” and with a wave of his hand, he disperses the other two to stand at the opposing sides of the bar, blocking our exits.
While the goons look passively on, the smiles still on their faces, the leader pulls up a seat right next to mine.
“My name is Jeremy.” he says, extending his hand in a polite but almost forceful manner.
“Pleasure” I say, sipping from my drink and leaving him hanging. He puts his hand on the counter and the smile on his face grows, almost as if he were baring his teeth.
“You’re new in town. What’s your name.” He says, angling his entire body towards me.
“Charles.”
“Well Charles. Allow me to cut to the chase, have you had the dreams yet?”
This sends a shiver up my spine, and I feel sweat break out across my forehead.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, I understand that you are stepping into an environment that you would consider…. Foreign” he says motioning his hands across the bar.
“But when two people call you the same name before you even get to a destination, one must ask himself. Is this the place I should be going?” He sounds like my old elementary school principal, the prick always knew how to talk down to me, keeping perfectly calm but managing to make my blood boil.
“I’m just looking for my wife. I will leave when I find out what happened to her.” I say, staring into my drink.
“There is something at work here that many people have put a lot of effort into, Kelsey included, and we will not have the usurper come and disrupt our efforts.” At the mention of her name I turn to look at him. His face is off. His eyes are wild and almost manic, and his lips are quivering ever so slightly.
“What do you want.” I growl and feel my hand drift to my waist.
“Leave. Never return. I’m sure you know the spiel.” He says. His tone has changed as well. If he wasn’t threatening me then he is now.
“And if I don’t?” I say, sparing a glance at Terry. His hands are under the bar now, most likely reaching for a piece he has underneath the counter.
“We will spare no detail.” Jeremy says, as the veins in his neck begin to bulge.
“Alright, you’ve sold me. I’ll leave.” I say as I stand, put the hundred back on the counter and stand from my seat.
“I’m so happy we decided to be reasonable.” Jeremy says, his face returning to its normal shape.
Without a further word, I get in my car and begin speeding down the road. It’s past 9PM and I’d bet my retirement on the fact that they’re going to follow me, and they sure as hell aren’t going to let me leave this town alive.
I drive for about 10 minutes down the dark and winding roads, long enough for me to realize that I haven’t seen anyone else on the road, which is strange in its own right. My thoughts are interrupted as a pair of headlights appear in my rear-view window and gunshots start ringing off into the night. One nails my taillight, another peppers my trunk. I speed up as my side mirror disappears with another crack. I pull out my own pistol and fire blindly through the rear windshield. One of the headlights on the truck goes out and a second later the truck veers off the side of the road, its course being intercepted by a tree. I look at my pistol in shock. And feel myself chuckle as I pull off to the side of the road. “Still got it.” I say to myself.
I reload and step out of my car and go to inspect the wreckage of my failed assassins. I’m not shocked to find that it’s Jeremy and his 2 goons from the bar. One of them was sent through the front window and face first into the tree, his body resembling something of a meat accordion. The other is slumped in the front seat, a noticeable indention in his skull after he hit the steering wheel and a penny sized hole in his forehead. I look around the truck to see the back door open and a trail of blood leading into the forest. I see Jeremy sitting against a tree. His breathing is labored, his legs are mangled, and he clutches his shoulder as he tries to plug the new hole, I gave him a few minutes earlier. I keep my gun on him as I approach.
“What happened man? I thought we were gonna be reasonable.” I say as I continue walking towards him.
He looks up at me. His smile is long gone, and only rage stains his face.
“Cmon then, get it over with.” He spits at me.
“I’m in no rush Jeremy, I need to ask you some questions.”
“I’m not telling you shit, Usurper.” In response to his name calling, I kick one of his legs which causes him to yelp like a beaten dog.
“Let’s start with that. What’s this Usurper thing about?” I say, dragging a log for me to sit on.
“You are the arch enemy. You will destroy everything my people have built. You and yours will be the ones to usher the destruction of all.” Despite his truly terrible condition, I’m impressed at his vigor and energy.
“I’ve started having dreams Jeremy. Something tells me you know why.”
He laughs at this, a harsh wheezing that sounds like the irony is worse than his pain.
“You moron. You’re apart of this, all of it.” he says, as he leans his head back on to the tree and stares into the sky.
“I’m a part of what. You keep saying these things that don’t make any sense. The only reason I’m here is for Kelsey, you know who she is, you know where she is. Tell me, and I’ll call an ambulance.” I say as I snap my fingers to make sure this smug bastard is staying awake.
“All will be revealed in due time.” He says it, reciting it like a mantra.
“Alright then, I tried the nice way.” I say smacking his hand away and sticking my thumb into the bullet hole in his shoulder.
He winces.
“Where.”
I dig. He moans.
“The Fuck.”
I dig deeper. He cries out.
“Is she.”
I push to the bone.
“STOP STOP. I’ll TALK.” He howls.
I pull my thumb out and rub it on his shirt.
“Sunset. Roadway inn. Cross the street and walk until you hear the songs.” He says as he coughs and tries to compose himself.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I say.
“May it tear you limb from limb usurper.” He says, and then pulling a knife from his waist belt and draws it across his throat.
I stand in shock as he slumps over and gurgles out his last few breaths.
As I stand in the motel room, I do a last-minute check. I take my old hunting rifle and make sure the scope is still working. I tap all of my equipment and jump up and down to make sure nothing rattles. A gnawing feeling in the back of my mind tells me that I came unprepared, but it’s too late to back out. I find my resolve and step outside. I’m in the right place. I stand in the spot where I stand in the dream. It’s almost as if I can see the forest stare back at me, and without further thought I walk across the street and make my way into the trees. I don’t walk far when I can start hearing the songs. A bizarre chant carried on the wind, in a language that I’ve never heard. I can then see the firelights in the distance as the songs grow louder. I see a hill and climb it, and then crawl until I reach the top. What I see draws the breath from my body.
A massive pit. A black hole in the middle of the forest. Standing around it is a ring of torches and behind it stand over 100 people. They’re naked and are covered head to toe in bizarre tattoos, with the same joyous smiles that Jeremy and his men had plastered across their faces. At the front of the pit stands an altar and that’s when I see her. Standing at the edge of the pit is the love of my life, naked, tattooed and smiling. Beside her stands a man, who raises his hands and silences the song.
“It seems that everyone has finally arrived.” He calls out. Which ignites a cheer throughout the crowd. Shit. Theres no way he knows I’m here.
“YOU’RE TIME HAS COME. RISE. CLAIM THE STARS.” The man screams and falls to his knees.
I then see movement in the pit, and giant tendrils rise and begin to plant themselves on the sides of the hole. The man rises and stands behind Kelsey, who he then begins to push towards the hole. She resists and begins to push back. I decide that I’ve seen enough and line the scope of the rifle with the center of his chest. Breathe out. And squeeze the trigger. I feel the push as the shot vibrates throughout my body and a hole appears in the man’s chest. Silence falls and then screams ring out. “USURPER”
Before I understand what’s happening, they’re on top of me and dragging me towards the pit. They beat me with their fists and clubs, tearing my clothes off and painting the tattoos on my body. I try to fight but they hold me down and drag me to the altar. I am brought to my knees before the altar and look at Kelsey. She is joined by an old woman who raises her hand to bring the crowd to silence.
“THE FALSE VESSAL HAS BEEN DISPOSED. THE USURPER HAS COME TO LEAD US TO THE STARS.”
I’m brought to my feet and led to the edge of the pit. I feel a hand grab mine. I look to see Kelsey holding on to me. She pulls me into an embrace, pulls away, and leans into my ear.
“Trust me.” She says, and then shoves me into the abyss.
I’m falling. I fall for what seems like hours and seconds. I finally land. I begin to sink, and I realize I haven’t landed on the ground but something warm. Something alive. I then feel the tendrils wrap around me and pull me in. I sink and as I sink, I begin to see. A billion-year plot, eons of deliberation, plans, executions, all of history, every hour, every minute, every second all converging to center on this very moment. The big bang, the creation of all life, and everything before it. I begin to feel an urge, the urge to claim, the urge to conquer, the urge to take. I rise. I continue to rise until I rise out of the pit and into the sky to go and claim the stars.

My name is Arthur Bannon and I work in data entry. Worked? Yes, I guess it should be in the past tense now. I worked in data entry and my workplace was a great big concrete brutalist structure. The hallways ran through the facility labyrinthine and illusory. I swear I’d get lost in that place several times a day, keeping my right hand on the wall so as to make sure I wasn’t taking any wrong turns. The only guideposts were bright dizzying metallic pointers sporadically placed throughout the facility to indicate different corporate factions. I might’ve needed to find my way to accounting and end up in human resources. It always seemed like I’d get lost and end up in human resources. Then Janice would lead me back to my desk. If not for her, I’m sure I’d have died on my way back to my office cubicle, forever lost in that nauseating gray blur of halls.
My boss was a great big burly bastard with a furry face and hairy arms. His biceps and gut almost split the material of his clothing and I’m still unsure how he managed to tug his belt up every time he was upset. That’s what he would do. “Art, you’re gonna’ be working late again.” Then he would grip his belt and tug it up. Or “Sorry Art, but we got a memo from corporate saying that the network went on the fritz, so all of last week’s entries are void.” This was normally followed by him sighing heavily and dabbing around his cheeks with a kerchief. His name was Quincey.
These were the players.
Sceptre Incorporated was the stage.
Phones rang all around me. Sometimes ten or fifteen at a time so that half of them would be left on hold at any given moment. The phones rang day in and day out. There was heavy breathing on some lines and on others there were screaming irate customers. You may be wondering why someone working in data entry should be answering phones and you’d be right to question it. Some months ago, the company decided to consolidate data entry and customer service into one department. I was the only one that worked in data entry and so it was that I was the only one working in customer service too. This came with no extra pay, but the plastic plaque on my desk read:
ARTHUR BANNON; HEAD ENTRY CONSULTANT; LEAD CUSTOMER REPRESENTATIVE ASSOCIATE.
I hated that plaque, but Quincey insisted on using my full title whenever referencing me to someone else.
It was strange to meet other people around the water cooler and have them mention my name even if I’d never met them. They’d lean in and whisper something like, “Art, we need those points you promised in last month’s email. You didn’t forget, did you?”
I’d raise my eyebrows and respond listlessly, “No, I’ve got them. I was just awaiting your confirmation email.”
“Yes. The confirmation email.” They’d sip their paper water cone cup and crumple it into the nearby receptacle. “Did you fax over your notary’s info? Can’t confirm a confirmation email without your notary’s authorization.”
Like I didn’t know that. Cheeky.
“I think Quincey is trying to kill me.” I said in the bare office.
Janice pursed her lips from behind her desk, leaning back in her chair. “Most employees feel that their bosses are out to get them.”
“Is that true?” I sighed. I watched a metronome she kept on her desk bob back and forth. Hypnotic. Click. Click. Click. Click.
She sighed. “Arthur. We’ve been over this. This is human resources. We have resources for *humans*.”
“Yes, that’s right. That’s what I’m looking for!” I protested.
“What would you do with resources for humans?” Her voice was far away in water as I watched the rod of the metronome go back and forth.
I blinked, turning back to face her. “What?”
“I said, ‘How can human resources help you?’.”
“Did you?”
“I did.”
I shifted in the big leather chair, feeling it fart underneath me. “It’s the chair.” I tried smiling. My eyes drifted back to the melodic metronome.
“Why?”
“Why what?” I asked.
“Why do you think Quincey is trying to kill you?” Far away in water.
“I don’t know. But I think I need to kill him first.” I said.
“Yes.” She said.
“What?”
“I said, ‘I’ll talk to Quincey and let him know he should lay off you.’.”
I blinked. “Thank you.”
“Now let’s get you back to your desk.”
“Thank you, Janice. Boy, what would I do without you?”
“Die.”
“What?” I said, feeling a chill tickle up my spine.
Janice laughed, ushering me out of the room. “I said, “You’re stronger than you think.’.”
“Did you?”
“I did.” She assured me.
The old squalor factory I called a home was cast in weird long shadows as I walked to the front steps. Mary and Margery, the twin girls, were sitting on the steps, braiding one another’s hair together. By together, I mean that they’d intertwined their hair. Mary on the left, Margery on the right. Or maybe it was the opposite. I can never tell. Between them was a ropey knotted mass of hair. I stepped past them.
Mary whispered to Margery. Or Margery whispered to Mary. Or maybe it was the opposite. I never can tell.
I stopped at the top of the steps and turned to greet them. “Huh?” I asked.
“You’re a strange man.” Said one of them.
“Am I?”
“No.” said the other. They giggled.
“What?” I asked.
They ignored me.
The old squalor factory hadn’t produced anything within even the previous century but an ambiance of filth and drugs. Sometime over the previous fifty years, the building owners decided to convert the place into a series of apartments but had given up on that project halfway through. Whereas the exposed brick would have looked nice in another place, here it only served to indicate the owners’ sloppy attitude. This hadn’t stopped them from charging rent, however.
A laid on my sheetless mattress on the floor, watching the flicker of the oil lamp on the floor next to my head. The thing cast wild purple shadows against the rusty walls. I rolled onto my back and looked at the beams of the landing above me. My eyes went unfocused and I breathed slowly, listening to my heartbeat. Click. Click. Click. Click.
My mind strayed back to the metronome sitting in the resources for humans office and as I closed my eyes, it was the only thing I could see; it floated in my mind within a vast unblinking void. “Click. Click. Click. Click.” I began whispering to myself in the darkened room. When I opened my eyes again, I was startled to see that the sun was sparkling in through the cracked factory window next to my bed. The oil lamp was empty.
In a rush, I fired up the camping stove and started a can of beans. As the pan heated, I checked my phone and saw I had a few unread messages from Quincey:
“I’m coming for you. Be ready.”
“Don’t forget to bring that power point from last week.”
“Did you hear me? I’m coming for you.”
I stirred the beans with butter and sipped on a murky glass of water. “What does that mean?” I asked to no one in particular. I found myself whispering under my breath as I hunkered over the camping stove, “Click. Click. Click. Click.”
A small cockroach skittered up to my feet to inspect what a gourmand I was. Startled, I squashed it with my barefoot and excused its guts from me with a paper towel.
Getting dressed in front of the dirty standing mirror, I straightened my tie without any trousers on. I leaned closer to my reflection and he leaned closer too. Beneath each eye I’d accumulated a dark black bruise. “Hmm.” Said the man in the mirror.
After putting on a pair of holey socks, I was down the steps with my laptop over my shoulder in a khaki satchel. I saw one of the twins sitting on the steps of the old squalor factory.
“Where’s Mary?” I asked the girl.
“I’m Mary.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I looked around at the drab littered surroundings of the stoop. “Where’s Margery?”
“I told you!” said the girl, “I’m Margery!”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry.” I shook my head and rubbed my temples. “I’ll just be on my way then. Have a good one.”
She ignored me.
“You’re late!” said Quincey, leaning over my cubicle wall with a broad yellow grin as warm as the sun. “Art, you know I’ll have to dock you for that.”
“Of course, sir.” I nodded while rifling through a set of papers.
“Well.”
“Yes sir?”
“Aren’t you going to get that?” He motioned to one of the phones on my desk. None of them were ringing.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Answer the phone, Art.”
I looked down at the phones. “Which one was it?”
Quincey let out an exasperated sigh and lifted the phone from its cradle. “Here.”
I took it and put it up to my ear. “Hello?”
“Good morning Mister Bannon.” Said the gruff voice. “Your boss will come for you in two days’ time.”
I squirmed in my seat, hoping Quincey hadn’t heard the voice. I trusted a sidelong glance in his direction. “Of course.” I said.
“Now, Mister Bannon, if you’d please pass the phone to your supervisor, I’d be thankful.”
“Of course.” I held the phone out for Quincey.
Quincey took it, giving me a confused raised eyebrow. “Hello?” he said.
I watched as Quincey gave me a suspicious glance then slammed the phone in its cradle, tugging up on his belt. “Damned crazies.” He said then chuckled. As he turned to leave me, he added, “You’ll have to work OT tonight.”
“Yes sir.”
I stood at my post near the water cooler, sipping an empty cup and surveying the lonely break room. People rarely went in there, but it was nice to stand next to the water cooler. It was against a wall and it felt good to have a wall to my back. Everything was cement gray. The drapes, the floor tiles, the cabinets, the furniture. It made me sick to my stomach. I waited longer in the break room than normal.
My cellphone went off. It was Quincey sending me a text:
“You will be docked if you stand in the break room any longer.”
I crumpled my paper cup and threw it in the bin.
I rubbed my eyes against my fingertips, stepping out into the cool night air. Work was over. Car headlights splashed against my pant legs as I sulked down the sidewalk to the squalor factory, kicking loose bits of asphalt beneath my dress shoes. I loosened my tie and fancied for a moment that a drink would do me good but thought better of it. I always awoke with a shattering headache after saucing myself up.
Approaching the steps to the squalor factory, I saw that the twin girls were there.
I ignored them and unlocked the door to the factory.
“Quincey is coming for you.” Said one or the other.
“Excuse me?” I shifted around to face them.
“Go away weirdo.” Said one or the other.
I went away.
Sitting on my mattress in my barren room, I refilled the oil lantern near the bed, hushing slowly to myself, “Click. Click. Click. Click.”
I watched as a cockroach about the length of a stick of gum crept from the far corner of the room. I lit the lantern and inspected the insect. “Click.” I said. It rose up on its haunches, rubbing its fore mandibles together. “Click. Click. Click. Click.” I said. The cockroach began rocking from side to side in tune with the rhythm I’d created.
I reached down, laying my palm flat. It scooted itself along the floor and into my hand. I lifted the small creature level with my face and began, “Click. Click. Click. Click.” It began dancing in my hand, moving itself undeniably along with the clicks. Its little antenna stood on stiff ends. It made a hissing sound, startling me. I dropped it and it landed on its back. Watching it struggle was a bit sad, so I reached down to knock it right side up.
It insisted its hissing again and as I was reaching for my shoe, I saw that perhaps fifty or sixty more cockroaches crept from various places. My gut shrank and my skin grew cold. They sat in a line. The original cockroach crept from the line and let out another hiss, rising on its haunches.
“Click.” I said. They stood at attention and I watched them cautiously, pulling my feet beneath me on the mattress. I began my clicking again and they all began swaying their posteriors in affirmation.
I dressed myself as the cockroaches made my breakfast. It was slow learning at first and the toast was only a little black around the edges. Leaning back in awe, I saw they’d found the time to tie my shoes as well.
“You’re early.” Said Quincey.
“Damn right.” I said.
“What was that?”
“Yes, sir.” I shrugged. “Thought I’d get an early start on things. Lots of work to do.”
He peered at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “That’s right.”
Click, click, click, click went the metronome.
“That’s a funny thing you’ve got there.” I pointed at it.
“I find it helps me to focus on a single sound,” said Janice, “Calms the nerves.”
“I know what you mean.” I said.
“How’ve you been feeling?” she asked.
“Better.”
“That’s good. Quincey is coming for you.”
“Huh?”
“I said, ‘That’s good.’.”
“Oh. Yes. I feel better today.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Does anyone?”
“I like mine.” She said.
“It’s alright, but the customer service aspect of my job is strange.” I focused on the clicks of the metronome. And blinked.
“That’s right. People are stupid.”
“Yes!” I said, “That’s exactly right!”
“You could kill them all, you know.”
“What?”
“You could help them all, you know.” She smiled from behind her desk and leaned in to add, “One more day.”
“I know.” I said.
I gathered an army of roaches. I never counted them, but if I had to give a rough estimate, I’d say I had a few thousand under the control of my clicks.
After gathering them around the alley adjacent the squalor factory, I laid a thick greasy sausage out on the pavement and stepped away. “Click.” I pointed at the sausage, leaning from a dumpster. The shadows spilled the cockroaches, skittering like mad to devour. After they’d dispersed, I approached the spot, lifting the one thing they’d left behind: a casing.
“Good.” I whispered to myself. “Quincey doesn’t stand a chance.”
Before work, I ushered them into my khaki satchel, hoping that it would be enough to defeat the boss. Moving the bag with them squirming around inside was an arduous task, but it still felt as though I had a hop in my step.
As I approached the twin girls with the bulging bag, I noticed they were braiding their hair together once more so that their heads were connected by a blonde rope.
“Good morning, ladies,” I said.
“Go away weirdo!” squealed one or the other.
“Click.” I pointed at them.
A cockroach popped its pinpoint head from the corner of my satchel flap and jumped to the ground, hissing. The girls screeched in horror. One or the other attempted to run from the insect, taking her sister with her by the end of that blonde rope of hair. The two girls went head under feet then over again, tumbling down the stairs. I watched them and chuckled.
“Click.” I said, pointing at my bag. The cockroach skittered up my leg and disappeared beneath the satchel’s flap.
“Art, where have you been?”
“Right here.” I said. “I’ve been working on these.” I held up a sheet of graph paper to show him.
“No excuses, alright?”
I gritted my teeth, reaching for the satchel at my feet. “Yes sir.”
The bag was empty and loose. I gasped, pushing my head between my legs to search for the insects. “What’s your problem, Art?”
“Lost my laptop. I can’t find it anywhere.” I was sweating.
“It’s right there.” Quincey pointed to the closed laptop on my desk.
I bit my lip. “Oh. Of course. You’re right.” My legs shook beneath the desk.
After Quincey’s departure, I scanned the room of empty cubicles, finding nothing.
A phone rang.
I lifted it to my ear.
“Ah, Mister Bannon.” The gruff voice sighed. “The roaches have gone rogue.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“They’ve found a new master.” The voice sighed again. “Perhaps you were too friendly with them. They need a strong hand to hold, Mister Bannon.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry. Goodbye.”
I crept through the halls, following all the proper indicators on the walls, but knowing full well where I’d end up. There came the sound of the metronome from the end of the concrete hallway. Moving slowly with my breath caught in my throat, I approached the cracked office door.
“So, anyway, I told him, ‘You’re stronger than you think.’.” That was Janice, but who was she talking too?
In response came a wheezing laugh. “He’s such a dolt!” That was Quincey. “He’s always so, ‘Yes sir. Of course, sir.’.” I peeked in through the crack just in time to see Quincey wipe a tear from his laughing cheek.
My heart sank as I stood at the door.
At his feet were the cockroaches, wobbling along to the beat of Janice’s metronome.
With one last futile effort I tried my clicks, “Click. Click. Click. Click.”
Quincey and Janice’s eyes shot to meet mine, noticing my presence. Their faces became manic, oily plasticine, with smiles that set my synapses on fire. Maddening.
Janice pointed at me and the roaches came.
I ran.
The skittering of their mandibles was deafening as they surrounded me. Some of them fluttered into the air erratically, landing on my pants. I swatted at them and screamed in terror. They went for the soft tissue in my mouth, so I bit down, sending insect viscera down the front of my shirt. Pumping my legs in tandem with my own heartbeat, I moved faster than I’d ever moved before through those delirious halls.
In my path, I saw a woman in a white shirt and black skirt. She turned to look at me with a stack of papers in her arms, mouth agape. I shoved her and she smacked the floor, twisting herself up in her own legs. “Sorry!” I said as her screams echoed all around. I didn’t dare turn to look if they’d stripped the poor woman clean of her casing.
As luck would have it, I did not end up in human resources again, but the gray break room. I slammed the door shut with my chest heaving beneath my work shirt.
I stamped as they tried coming in beneath the door. Whether it be some higher intelligence, or because enough of their bodies had crammed beneath the door that no more could fit through, I can’t tell you. I sighed for a moment of relief and moved to sit on the couch near the water cooler, never letting my eyes stray from the crack at the bottom of the door.
Then I felt a tickling sensation run up my back. I shifted around in the seat, removing my shirt as I was sure one of the roaches had slipped in under my clothing. I smacked around my shoulder as I felt it move up my back. It stopped for a moment before running around the right side of my rib cage. I watched the raised flesh as it moved beneath my skin.
In a fit, I pinched the skin on my chest so that it could not move from the spot. Panicked, I bolted to the utensil drawer, removing a pair of scissors. Leaning over the sink, I focused on my breathing.
I took the pinched skin between the blades of the scissors and looked away. It was a sweet relief to no longer have the thing inside of me, but as I looked to the spot it had been exercised from, I felt sick.
The roach rocked to and fro on its back in the sink basin. I stabbed it with the scissors. It’s mandibles shot in all directions then relaxed.
I wrapped myself in my shirt, being sure the wound would stop bleeding.
The sound of the roaches just outside of the break room door were still there. But another noise joined them. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Next

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Finale
Something just occurred to me: these last few nights have been the first in years I’ve gotten through stone sober.
Having a few beers after work was just a matter of course, like taking medication before bed so you won’t feel sick. If it was a particularly bad day, I’d end up overdoing it and condemn myself to wake up the next morning with a murderous hangover and the knowledge that yet another potentially productive afternoon slipped right through my fingers.
But now, I feel focused. Fulfilled. Like I’m doing something that matters for the very first time.
The headmistress has the place under lockdown, of course. Every window covered and sealed, multiple lanky security agents attending every class, gas occasionally flushed through the ventilation system. For a woman so emotionless, the slight perspiration on her brow was basically her equivalent to a nervous breakdown.
And yet, of course, she demanded that her precious teaching schedule be maintained, through thick and thin. I didn’t mind. I liked to think that I was helping keep the kids sane — although really, it was more like the other way around.
I noticed the kids didn’t bother to hide their less human features anymore. Like Billy’s arm stretching a macabre seventeen feet to collect his graded papers from my desk, or Abigail climbing along the walls like a spider during recess. It made me smile, somehow, like they were letting me in on a secret world most people would never get to see. I was just reading them a cute little book about how a human boy and a wendigo learned to set aside their differences when the ball rang, and there she was at the door, ushering me with a finger.
“So who is this Saladin guy, anyways?” I asked as she led me down the hall.
“A hunter. Perhaps the most skilled we know of in the modern era, with a reputation for being capable of… punching above his weight class, so to speak,” she explained. “We thought we had him occupied chasing false leads across Bangladesh. To think that he was here in America all along, that he was slowly narrowing in on our exact location all this time and we never knew…” She clenched a hand into a fist. For her, the equivalent to screaming in frustration.
“Why did he decide to target… me?”
“Because you’re the first fully human teacher this school has ever had,” she confessed. “You were an unprecedented experiment. Even though it may introduce many… risk factors such as this, I thought it would do good for the children to have experience with a regular, everyday human.”
“And did you really choose me because I was… a loner? Expendable?”
She didn’t hear that question. Or maybe she just pretended not to hear it. “Saladin always pursues more covert means of achieving his ends, at first. He likes to take his quarry by surprise. But if that fails, as it now has, his plan B invariably involves some form of, well… overwhelming force.” She sighed. “But there is some good news, at least. Thanks to the efforts of you and Katie, he was forced to leave behind his weapon of choice.”
From her sleeve, she produced that blade that Saladin had been pulling from his throat. The one that would have dealt Katie the killing blow, if I’d just been a second later. It was jagged and black, and looked primitive, but a bit dazzling with the scarlet streaks embedded into its surface. “What’s so special about it?”
“It’s a blade of obsidian damascened with aglaophotis. To put it simply… it can cut through anything.” I reached out to feel its shiny surface, but she jerked it away from me. “I would recommend you avoided even so much as touching it. It may have… deleterious effects on a regular human.”
For some reason, I was reminded of Saladin’s words: when dealing with matters of the occult for long, there are two options: sacrifice your life, or your humanity. There is no third path.
We came upon a heavy iron door in some obscure corner of the school, and she set about unlocking multiple tiers of locks. “I apologize, Mister Vermeil. I know you appreciate your autonomy, but I must insist that you remain within the complex for the duration of the lockdown,” she said. “That means staying in the dorms. The ‘bunker’ down the mountainside. I’m sure you’ve noticed it.”
“Is this some sort of… secret path?”
“The school’s access tunnels provide secure routes to many places. But I must confess, while the school itself was made to provide a safe and welcoming front for human visitors, the tunnels were not. They were never intended for your kind.” She paused. Even she seemed the slightest bit nervous. “There are… many dangers down there. So I must ask that you stay by my side, and do exactly as I say, when I say it. Are we understood?”
She didn’t have to ask me twice.
I immediately saw what she meant when she said these tunnels weren’t designed for human use. They were horrifically claustrophobic labyrinths of concrete, to the point I sometimes had to bend down or angle myself sideways just to squeeze through. The must was suffocating. Hallways of seemingly random shapes and sizes jut out in every direction, and I had no idea how she’d memorized which to take.
All it took was a single moment. A single instant’s lapse in concentration, a single glance away as my clothes caught on a hunk of concrete. And she was gone.
I’ll be honest: I don’t do well with cramped spaces. And when it fully sunk in that she had vanished, and I was alone down here in the dark, my first instinct was to crumple into a ball and start sobbing.
Embarrassingly, I had to calm myself down in the exact same ways I calmed my students when they were having a tantrum: I talked through my feelings, took deep breaths, grounded myself. You’ve been through so much worse than some tight hallways, I thought. Keep it together. But every step forward was a herculean effort, like I was knee-deep in sludge.
All I had to light the way, now, was my little phone flashlight. And the darkness around me seemed to somehow be fighting back against the light, and was rapidly taking territory. I’d venture forward down a hall, and it’d get tighter and tighter with every step… so I’d turn around, and somehow, the same thing would happen on my way back. Was I losing my mind, down here in the dark? Or were the walls really closing in on me, like I was about to be crushed by the peristaltic motions inside of some cyclopean creature?
And every so often, I’d run into one of those shed skins, like I’d seen in the ditch outside the school all those days ago. They’d tangle around me like a spider’s web, and I’d cry out as I thrashed to tear them off of me. On a closer look like this, they didn’t seem reptilian in the slightest. They looked… human.
And then, down the hall, came a sound. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God,” I called out. “Headmistress, I’m right-”
And then came another sound, the guttural crackling of a snarl rising from an unnatural throat. And I realized that I had just drawn the attention of something terrible.
I bit my tongue to stifle a gasp. Mentally I screamed at myself over how stupid I’d been. I tried to turn my flashlight off, but ended up dropping my phone and illuminating the entire hall. All I could do was back up as far as I could, press my back to the dead end, and await whatever was coming to me.
Footsteps in the darkness, of a sort of hobbling, awkward gait.
In the dim light, a silhouette came vaguely into view. It looked roughly the shape of a man, but the proportions were all wrong. The shapes. It was like a child’s drawing of a human being. Too angular, too thin. And along that jagged form was a garden of tumorous growths, hair and teeth and blind half-formed eyes poking from malignant teratomas, cushioned in almost scrotal pockets of loose and wrinkled flesh.
There was no head above its shoulders. Instead, there was a limp, swaying tube of flesh, and when it faced me, I could see down into the countless rows of teeth lining that esophageal tube like a Lamprey eel. Some sort of black ichor drooled from that undulating tube as the creature stood where my phone had landed, creaking and groaning in place.
Then, the thing turned, and shuffled back into the darkness.
It was blind! Of course! It had just been investigating the last noise it had heard. I thanked whatever gods may be, and clung to my little corner for what felt like hours before finally working up the courage to retrieve my phone with a shaky hand, and kept creeping down the halls.
Another noise. My blood froze in my veins. But then the headmistress’ face emerged from the dark, and I almost cried from relief. “Oh, thank God! I lost you, and… and why didn’t you warn me about the, the creature down here? That blind… leech-looking thing!” I demanded. “I know you said it was dangerous, but I cannot believe you let something like that just… go waltzing around down here!”
And, for the first time in my life, I saw the headmistress go pale.
“We don’t.”
This time, she kept a hand squeezed around my wrist as she practically sprinted down the halls. We came to an observation deck observing what looked like some sort of containment chamber. One of those security agents laid sprawled across the floor, split in two. The chamber below was littered with those shed skins, as well as chunks of other things I couldn’t name. She looked down on the empty chamber with bewilderment. “The Cancer. It’s… it’s really out. Who… who would ever do this?”
“The Cancer? Why’s it called–“
She swallowed her fear. “Because that’s simply what it is. A walking cancer. Cells growing and dividing aimlessly, uselessly, limitlessly.” She gestured to herself. “From it, we grow these human skins we wear. Guide its ceaseless growth to build our new bodies, piece by piece.”
Automatically in accordance to some built-in schedule, a red light clicked on in the containment unit accompanied by an industrial wail. Chunks of red viscera dropped from a tube in the wall — and amid the meat, I swore I saw hands, feet, clothes. “You feed people to that thing!?”
She sighed as if my human emotions were an inconvenience. “The meat is recovered from cemeteries and morgues. Don’t lose your composure, now. We have to focus.”
She laid out the situation. Every cancer wants to spread, wants to feed itself. It’ll find a way out before long, and when it does, that won’t exactly bode well for the people of our cozy little mountain town. Whoever did this disconnected all emergency switches down here, and we didn’t have any signal. We couldn’t go all the way back to gather reinforcements. We had to handle this now.
On our way out, we found another of those security agents, sat near one of the control consoles by the containment chamber security airlocks. This one, I almost didn’t recognize as human at first. A man-sized tumor had mostly consumed him, that hairy, throbbing mass bulging as we neared as if sensing we were threats. Only one arm and his head poked free from the malignant growth, eyes wide and yellow, mouth hanging open breathlessly. The headmistress stood over him, coldly. “It was… you? You did this? May I ask… why?”
He croaked out a few words in a slow wheeze. “Saladin. He… had my family.” She nodded without a word, and ended his life with the damascened blade dispassionately. I guess it was a mercy, at that point.
I felt helpless, unarmed like this. Being the bait was an unenviable position. God, I wished I could get my hands on that blade of hers. I was fighting a panic attack as we went creeping through those halls again, until the headmistress stopped us with a raise of her hand. I was confused for a moment, until I strained my ears. There it was: that wheezing, shuddering croak from down the hall.
She gestured. I nodded, took a deep breath, and got into position. She hid around another corner as I braced myself… and clapped.
The immediate roar from down the hall sent such chills through me that my legs almost gave out from underneath me. The thing came sprinting down the hall full-force, drool flickering everywhere as its tubelike head flopped around with its movements. I closed my eyes and awaited the end.
The headmistress popped out at just the right time. Seizing the moment, she stuck her blade right through the thing’s back, leaving it thrashing on the end of it like a field mouse impaled by a spade fork. With speed no human could match, she took chunks out of it, the sort of chunks that even it could not heal back. But it wasn’t enough. With a swing of its long head, it batted her away… and when I stepped forward to help her, it impaled me through the chest with that writhing tube, and stole my breath away.
I was pale and shivering as I held my hands against my bleeding wound. This is it, I thought. This is how I die. The life that flashed before my eyes was dull and boring, but at least it got pretty interesting right at the end. But darkness didn’t come creeping around the edges of my vision like I expected. Instead, I felt a tingling down below. I looked down at my chest, and witnessed the wound closing — wait, no.
Metastasizing.
Bulging pustules of permeating tumors filled the gaps in my flesh, rife with patches of hairs and little chunks of teeth just as the creature itself had been. I screamed at the agony of it as the cancer cracked through my ribs and pushed my heart and lungs aside.
And then those thin, boney hands settled on either side of my head, and yanked it upwards with a strength that should be impossible to them. In a rational world, it would have ripped it off. Instead, I felt jolted high in the air, and realized my neck had been extended a good few feet through sheer cancerous tissues, like a character from some morbid cartoon. My head bobbed on its distended neck like a jack-in-the-box, as I was left staring down at my own body. Every single thing the creature did to me just created more of me to fill the wounds. Oh God, I thought. It won’t even let me die.
It was the very distant singing of birds down another hall that ultimately drew the beast’s attention away. It visibly quivered as it realized it had found its way out. All we could do was watch as the thing tore off into the darkness, roaring to itself as if in triumph.
I don’t know how many hours have passed. I’m in the infirmary, now, largely returned to normal. The three-eyed nurse seems bored even as she treats me with medicines and surgeries no earthly doctor would ever recognize. Reversing, slowly and by degrees, the impossible ways the beast had twisted and reshaped my body. I’ve at least regained some control of my physical faculties, but in the process, I’ve been exposed to whole new categories of pain. Types of agony I thought were impossible. Types I never would’ve had to know had I gotten a job at any other school in the world.
But the poor headmistress in the bed next to me seems more miserable, still. Shellshocked, even. Her eyes sunken and haunted. “He’ll be back,” I can hear her whisper. “He’ll let the Cancer gorge itself. Grow and grow. And then… he’ll be back.”
Part 5

I awoke at the crack of 3:30 pm on that fateful morning, April 27, 2020. I had been up all night, and most of the morning, training my new 20 year old Mexican housekeeper on the skills she needs to effectively perform her job. After stuffing her taco several times and serving up some hot cheese dip all over her assets, I fell asleep.
When I awoke the first thing I did was reach for my cell phone to check for any incoming messages. I had 10 missed calls and several voice mails. They were all from my old buddy, Hawg Leg. He is an associate of mine in the Bigfoot field.
It seems that old Hawg Leg went out to investigate a Sasquatch report on his own and got himself into a right messy situation. I gave the sumbitch a call and spoke to him about it. It seems that he has a neighbor, Miss Rita, who has been getting nightly visits from a creature.
It started off rather mundane, with slaps on the outside walls of the house, some howls and huffing noises, and missing chickens. Then the animal got brazenly aggressive and started peeking in her front porch windows at night. But it was when it started fiddling with the door knobs and clawing on the doors that Ms. Rita started fearing for her safety. She was afraid the creature may get into her house.
She called ole Hawg Leg to come over, telling him there had been some prowlers on her property. But when he got to her house she broke down crying and told Hawg Leg what was really going on. She had seen the creature.
One night old Rita was expecting a visitor, you see. She works two jobs, one as a waitress at the local Waffle House and the other as a rural mail carrier. But she still has a hard time making ends meet. So she kind of put out the word that she was available as “company” for men in exchange for pay.
This one night she had an old feller down the way stopping by around 10:00 pm to spend some time with her. It was good old Leroy Perkins who worked on a nearby dairy farm. Well, at about 10:30 pm that night there came a rattling on her front door, so she just assumed it was ole Leroy, late as usual and probably too drunk to find the door bell. She was annoyed because he was late, but she knew he would have the cash, so she went to the front door to let him in.
Rita unlocked her door and whipped it open, expecting to find the old farmer standing there. Instead, she found herself looking into the eyes of a hellish monster! It was standing on the edge of her porch hunched over so it could fit under the porch roof. She said it was as wide as a car, covered in jet black hair, had a ape-like build, and the face of pure evil. It’s eyes were black. She said it looked like it had no soul. It just stood there looking at her, and emitting a hoarse breathing noise. Then she noticed something else. It had an erection. It had a HUGE erection!
The monster stood no more than 4 feet from her. She screamed, slammed the door, locked it, then ran into her bedroom. She retrieved a pistol from her nightstand and stood there in terror, quiet and listening. She said she stood there in silence for what seemed an eternity, shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly there was a loud thud against her house, outside her bedroom wall, followed by a low, guttural growl she could hear outside. At that point she went into hysterics. Nothing else happened after that.
The next day, as soon as the sun came up, she packed some clothes and left. She holed up at a friend’s house. Her friend knew Hawg Leg too, from a while back when he discreetly took care of a problem for her, so she called him to come over.
According to ole Hawg Leg, Ms. Rita was super freaked out and had to be sedated. He decided to go over to her property and investigate. He found 3 well-formed footprints around Rita’s house that he estimated being 18 inches in length and 9 inches across the widest portions.
Hawg Leg decided that he needed some heavy heat to go up against this beast, so he called me. I told him I would throw my shit together and be there by sunset. Old Hawg Leg was to remain on the property until I arrived.
Now normally, I would assemble my A-Team. But I was a little short-handed at the moment. Old Big Dick was laid up in the hospital with the Corona Virus (what a pussy!). Black Shade got pinched for not paying his child support. Roscoe had disappeared. And good old Murder went and got himself killed in an armed robbery. So it was just going to be me and Hawg Leg on this Squatch Op.
I started to look for my shit, but it was not where it should be. “What the hell?!?”, I thought. I went to my gun cabinet and ... NOTHING! What the fuck was going on?!? I yelled for Maria, my illegal housekeeper and jizz receptacle, but she was gone too. I put 2 and 2 together and came to the conclusion that the bitch had ripped me off! “GODDAMNIT!”, I thought to myself, “Never fall asleep with a b##ner in your house. Son of a bitch!!”
Fortunately, the dumb bitch did not know about my secret stash. I grabbed my .45-70 lever action and my old .480 revolver and shoulder rig and headed out, cussing that bitch Maria all the way to my truck. I was going to have to deal with her treachery when I got finished dusting this Sasquatch. I ended up having to use my fly fishing vest to hold my fucking ammo and magazines because she even stole my goddamned tactical vest!
I arrived at the coordinates at 8:00 pm sharp, just before sunset. Old Hawg Leg was there standing by his truck. He greeted me with “Hey there, General. How’s it going?” I noticed immediately that he was not packing as I strolled up to him, armed to the teeth and ready to murder a Bigfoot. I asked “Where the fuck are your guns, Hawg Leg?”
Old Hawg Leg started telling me that he had been doing some reading on the inter-webs about how killing a Bigfoot is wrong because they are basically a tribe of primative man, and that killing one would be murder. So he decided he couldn’t kill one of these creatures.
After a brief pause to allow the absurdity of the situation sink in, I took the butt of my rifle stock and violently slammed it into old Hawg Leg’s face as hard as I could. He went down like a sack of potatoes, blood spraying everywhere and spitting out teeth. I said “YOU STUPID F#GGOT!! GET YOUR GODDAMN GUN AND LET’S GET SET UP!!” Hawg Leg was holding his smashed-in face in his hands, blood and tears streaming down, but he finally pulled himself together, got his rifle from behind the seat of his truck, and followed me to the wood line.
The property consisted of a small house that sat on approximately an acre of open land, surrounded on 3 sides by wood lines that led into deep woods. I told old Hawg Leg to hunker down inside one corner of the wood line behind the house while I did the same on the opposite corner. Soon thereafter the sun set and nighttime crept down on us.
Nothing much happened that evening. But there was an eerie quiet around us. There was no insect noise, nor were any nocturnal creatures stirring. Clearly, something was up, and it was entirely consistent with having a Sasquatch in the area. However, despite the tension in the air, nothing occurred.
At 5:00 am I decided to call it a night. I walked out of the tree line and signaled for Hawg Leg to meet me at my truck. Old Hawg leg felt the tension too. We strongly suspected a beast in the area and were perplexed by the lack of activity.
We were standing at the back of my truck, which was parked next to Hawg Leg’s flat-bed, just off the road in front of Ms. Rita’s house. As we were talking about what our next move would be, suddenly there came a crashing sound in the woods from where we just came. It was loud and wild. It sounded like a tank was coming through the woods, minus the mechanical noise. Shocked, we turned toward the woods. It was clearly moving in our direction!
Just before whatever was plowing recklessly through the woods hit the wood line, it let loose with a deafening, unholy roar that sounded like something straight out of the pits of Hell! Both Hawg Leg and I recoiled in horror at the sound.
Now, I have been roared at by big Sasquatch before. But this time was different. First, it was LOUD and LONG. The animal emitting such an infernal sound had to have lungs like a hot air balloon. This meant it was HUGE. Second, it was not merely a roar. To call it a simple roar would not do justice to it. It was a ferocious battle cry!
Then we saw it. It came busting through the wood line and headed straight for us. It was charging!! And it was coming FAST! In just a blink of an eye it was on top of us. I had gone to one knee to steady myself for a shot with my rifle. Old Hawg Leg broke down like a big, fat pussy, then tucked tail, and went running in the opposite direction.
That fucker moved so damn fast. It was uncanny. I was only able to squeeze off 2 shots before it reached my location. I don’t think I even hit it. If I did hit it, it showed absolutely no sign of it. Then it was over; it was right on top of my position!! I was fucked!!
The beast was massive. It was at least 12 feet tall and 5-6 feet across at the shoulders. It was covered in dark hair and moved on 2 legs. It was built like a fucking brick shit house, with bulging muscles. It’s eyes were as black as coal and it was huffing and grunting as it approached.
Right before it reached my location it dropped down on all fours, making it resemble an ape. It literally propelled itself forward with its huge, muscular arms. Then, as I knew I was about to be ripped into pieces, the damnedest thing happened.
It kept running, on all fours, and passed by me, passing just 5 feet to my left as I was still on one knee. Despite my gunfire, it was not focused on me at all. Instead, it focused in on old Hawg Leg running off. I quickly stood and looked behind me just as the monster leapt upon Hawg Leg, knocking him to the ground on the other side of the road in front of Rita’s house.
In the pale moonlight I could make out the red spray of blood emitted from Hawg Leg’s neck as the beast ripped off his head. Old Hawg Leg’s body hit the ground as the beast held his head in its right hand. The beast held up the severed head and looked at it, as if it was admiring its work. Then it slowly turned its head and body to look at me. I swear the damned thing was grinning at me.
I immediately raised my rifle and placed my sights on its head. But in the split second between putting the creature in my sights and pulling the trigger, it disappeared into the wood line across the road. Gone... just like that. It did not make a sound.
I don’t know why the beast did not maul me instead of Hawg Leg. I also did not know what it’s game was. Was it gone? Did it move away after re-entering the woods across the street from the house? Or, was it still there, watching me?
One thing was for sure: I was in a bad situation. I had no idea where the monster was. I decided that a retreat was in order, so I jumped in my truck and hauled ass away from there, keeping my eyes on the rear view mirror expecting to see that beast jump out at any moment. But it never did.
I drove to the nearest town, about a half hour away. I stopped at the local Waffle House, went inside, and sat there drinking coffee for the next hour, and trying to decide what my next move would be. At sunrise I left and returned to the scene to get rid of what was left of Hawg Leg’s body.
When I arrived I was already halfway expecting the body to be gone. Therefore, I was not at all surprised to see it gone with no trace of blood anywhere. The sneaky bastard had taken the body, either to conceal it or eat it. I made a phone call and arranged to have old Hawg Leg’s flat bed truck hauled off.
Then I left. I knew that I needed reinforcements to deal with this bastard. It was just way too dangerous to take on by myself. It would be suicide. But I had a plan, a proverbial “ace in the hole”. I had to go see a man. But he was not just any man. He is the very definition of “BAD ASS”. ——————————————————
I called my man. He was down for the gig and was going to meet me back out at Ms. Rita’s property at sundown tonight. With my bud lined up, I had no doubt that this would be the night we send that hairy fuck back to hell.
At around noon I decided to drive over to see Ms. Rita at her friend’s house. Upon knocking on the door I was greeted by a very nice looking, well-kept, 40-ish looking MILF. “Are you Ms. Rita?”, I asked. Turned out it wasn’t; it was her friend. But she ushered me inside when I told her I was Hawg Leg’s associate and that I was there to help.
She took me into the parlor where I found poor Ms. Rita, sitting alone and eyes red from crying. Her friend announced my presence, “Rita, honey, this man is here to see you. He says he knows Hawg Leg. His name is “The General.” Rita started to rise but I motioned her to stay seated. Clearly she was in a bad way.
Now, even though Rita’s emotions had been ripped apart by her terrifying encounter, I could not get past her beauty. Hawg Leg told me she had been whoring herself out to make ends meet. I could see why too. She could make a fortune with that tight little body on her! Both Rita and her friend were smoking hot. My mind began to wonder, drifting into prurient and clouded fantasies about box munching and 3-ways. Then Rita’s friend jerked me back into the moment.
“So, where are we at with the Investigation? Did you go out to Rita’s house?”, asked the friend. I told them that I had been there just hours before and that I had an up-close encounter with the monster. This news brought both women to the edge of their seats. I told them what went down. I left out the part about old Hawg Leg getting his head ripped off and blood spewing everywhere on account of the tender sensibilities in the room.
I explained that I had just this morning employed a real badass to assist me in killing this beast, and that I am certain it will be dead after tonight. Both women looked pleased and relieved. Then the friend asked about old Hawg Leg. “Will he be out there tonight too? I’d really like to thank him”, she said.
I shook my head, to which the friend’s expression took a dour turn. “What’s wrong? Is Hawg Leg Ok?”, the friend asked. Then I spilled the beans as gently as I could. “That sumbitch is dead as fuck, sweetheart. When the beast charged us, old Hawg Leg tucked tail and ran like a pussy! He got his head ripped clean off and died a most horrible, bloody, and gore-filled death imaginable”, I said.
The friend looked in horror to Rita. Then she turned to me, smiled, and said “good”. A perplexed look entered my face, which caused the friend to explain. “You see, old Hawg Leg did me a favor a while back. But then the sumbitch started blackmailing me, saying he would turn me in for the crime he committed on her behalf.” “That’s terrible”, I said, “I had no idea.”
Then, without me asking, she went on to explain further. I said “Really, honey, I don’t need to know the details”, but she continued. It seems that old Hawg Leg’s kink was something called “pegging”. I was unfamiliar with this term, so I asked her to explain. Then Rita jumped in and enthusiastically explained it in graphic detail, telling me that when she entertains johns, 9 times out of 10 they want her to strap on and peg them. “Hell, it does not even feel like whoring when I am the one wearing the strap-on”, said Rita.
Frankly, I was shocked. I had no idea that deep down all these old time farmers were a bunch of f#gs. The women saw the look of bewilderment on my face. I slowly sat down on the couch, a couple feet away from Rita. She said “Oh, come on, it does not necessarily mean they are f#gs ...”, but I motioned her to stop.
Seeing my uneasiness, Rita scooted up close to me on the couch and took my right hand in both of hers. Then the friend sat down on the other side of me, places her arm around my back and started rubbing the back of my neck. The friend said “Come on, General, it’s ok. Even if 90% of farmers ARE f#gs, what’s it to you?”. I looked over at her. The first thing I noticed were her bare legs. The skirt she was wearing had hiked way up when she sat down. Raising my head I then noticed her titties, the tops of which were bare and exposed by the plunging neckline on her shirt.
I then realized that my cock was rock hard. I felt like I could stick it through a fucking brick wall! Rita must have seen it because the next thing I know I feel her stroking my erection through my pants. I started making out with the friend as Rita stroked me. It was not long thereafter that Rita had my cock out and was eagerly going down on me. By this point, I had pulled her friend on top of me. My left hand was up her skirt, where I had pushed her panties aside and I was using my fingers to rub her clit and periodically plunge them deep inside of her to her moans of pleasure.
Suffice it to say that the 3 of us engaged in some hot and heavy, and very, very nasty fucking the rest of the afternoon. I dumped my last load up Rita’s ass just after 7:30 pm. And God help me, I think I was completely dry after that. But, the fun had to come to an end because I had to get to Rita’s property by sundown to dust that Sasquatch.
“Ok, bitches, I got to go to work. Ya’ll go ahead and finish each other off while I get ready to go”, I said. Both of them wanted to come with me, but I told them it was too dangerous. Then Rita started begging and her friend fondled my balls. Then I thought, “What the hell? I’m never going to see these two whores again, so who cares if they get their heads ripped off?” I told them they could both come, but it was getting late so they needed to hurry the fuck up and get dressed!
All 3 of us were piled into the front seat of my pickup truck. Rita blew me as I drove us out to her place while her friend ate her out from behind. The stench of sex filled the air. Then I filled Rita’s mouth with goo right as I was pulling into her driveway.
We took a moment to compose ourselves then got out of my truck. “Where’s your friend”, asked Rita. I told her he would be here at sundown. I looked at my watch, then the sky, then silently acknowledged to myself the truth of the matter: my buddy is late. The motherfucker is always late. It is the one annoying thing about him. He is never fucking on time for anything.
Then we heard something from down the road. It was quickly getting louder. We heard the bass from the woofers before we even heard his straight-piped turbo diesel engine. My buddy was finally here.
He pulled up in a jacked-up, jet black Ford F-350 turbo diesel pickup truck. The music and thumping sound coming from its sound system was deafening. You could not see inside the cab of the truck because the windows are tinted black (and because they are too high up off the ground).
Before he got to the house I’d say he was probably going over 100mph. He hit the e-brake about 1/4 mile from Rita’s house and then drifted sideways the remainder of the distance to her driveway. The controlled recklessness of such a move startled Rita and her friend, so they closed in tight to me.
The jacked-up truck stopped right in front of us. I guided the girls around to the driver’s side, with one bitch on each arm. The truck shut off, the driver’s door opened, and there he was. He just coolly and casually drifted down from the cab of the truck, even though it sat at near nosebleed height.
There he stood. 6’8”, 240 pounds of solid muscle, custom made jungle camo leather suit, alligator hide boots, and a black Stetson hat. The girls gasped at the sight of such a manly creature. Rita’s friend whispered “Who is THAT?”. I said “That is Boss. Boss N#gger”.
Now, people get the wrong idea about me all the time: They falsely accuse me of being racist all the time because I use words like “n#gger” and hold a lot of far right political views. But nothing could be further from the truth. I love everyone. Hell, old Boss N#gger insists on being called “Boss N#GGER”; he says it’s part of his name. There’s nothing racist about it at all. It’s just who he is.
After Boss N#gger got down out of his truck, he casually took off his driving gloves (everything Boss N#gger does he does casually), looked at me and the girls, then asked “What the fuck is with the bitches, Bud? I thought we were here to bump a Sasquatch.” I replied “Hell, Boss N#gger, I just been fucking these two whores all day, and they wanted to tag along. Besides, this bitch here is Rita. This is her place.” Boss N#gger nodded in understanding.
I had already briefed Boss N#gger on what went down last night on the property. We decided to do the same thing me and old Hawg Leg did: Take up positions inside the wood line, then in the early morning hours we would walk back to our trucks out in the open. If that sumbitch is still here, then maybe it will show itself again and try to run us out of its territory.
It was already dark and we were running behind since Boss N#gger adheres strictly to Colored People’s Time (CPT). I grabbed my guns and Boss N#gger grabbed his: A Barrett .50 BMG semi-auto rifle chopped down to the size of a carbine, and a sawed off, highly illegal, short-barreled, double barely 12 gauge shot gun as a sidearm. I gave Boss N#gger a walkie-talkie and then we headed out.
We told the bitches to go into Rita’s house and lock the doors. Meanwhile, we took up positions behind the house inside the wood line and waited. Like the prior night, a thick layer of tension hung heavily in the air. The woods were silent. There was no Sasquatch action.
At midnight I heard the first noise: it was a “Pop” sound followed by a “Psssst”. It came from Boss N#gger’s position. Then I heard something that sounded like wrapping paper, followed by a crunching sound. I raised my .45-70 and pulled back the hammer. Then I whispered into my walker-talkie, “Boss N#gger. Do you hear that noise? What’s going on down there?”
Boss N#gger replied “Fuck, General, they ain’t nuffin a’goin’ on down this way. Shit. I am just having me a little snack.” I paused and then asked him what he was snacking on. He replied “I gots me some leftover fried chicken and a bottle of grape soda.” I grimaced and said to myself “motherfucker!”, then I calmed myself by remembering the old adage: you can take a man out of the ghetto, but you will never take the ghetto out of a man.
At this point you may be asking yourself: how the hell did The General ever get mixed up with this here Boss N#gger character? Well, I’m going to tell you. It was back in 1993 or thereabouts and I was at an illegal cock fight doing some gambling. Old Boss N#gger ran the show. But most of the time while the cock fighting was going on he was out back in the trailers whoring bitches.
This one particular night a scuffle broke out because some good old boys thought the event was fixed. They got all rowdy, then they pulled their guns. Someone ran out back and got Boss N#gger. Old Boss came out there and whipped their asses, all of them. As he and his boys were throwing them out, the good old boys swore they would be back with some more guys and would get their revenge.
Come about 3:00 am, the cock fight was long over and the place was empty. I was just finishing up with one of the whores, a sweet little Latin chick named “Madusa”. She only had one leg, but she can suck the sheets right up your ass! Then came the ruckus.
Up pulled no less that 5 big, jacked-up pickup trucks, just hauling ass and doing donuts while some of the fellas hung out the windows shooting their guns. Now I cannot tell a lie. The General is a proud son of the South. In fact, my heart yearns for a return to the good old days of an aristocratic South, free from the meddling federal government. Back in them good old days when a bunch of rowdy rednecks came onto your property raising hell you settled things with an axe handle and several shallow graves. Lots of problems were solved in these South Georgia swamps thattaway.
Well, those good old boys stormed the place looking to settle the score with Boss N#gger. I quickly got dressed and ran into the barn to find that there were 10 men standing there, surrounding Boss N#gger. They were all carrying weapons. One man was carrying a noose. Things looked bad for Boss N#gger. Real bad.
Maybe it was the sight of this mess, a prelude to a lynching, that stirred my soul to act. Maybe it was all the cocaine I had done earlier that night. I don’t know. But I decided that I was going to intervene. Nobody was going to get lynched here tonight.
I walked into the barn and yelled, “HEY, F#GGOTS!! NOBODY IS LYNCHING ANYONE HERE TONIGHT!” The crowd turned and looked at me approaching, in stunned silence. The leader of this crew was an old redneck named Silas. He pointed in my direction and said “Hey, now look General, this does not involve you. This here is between me and Boss N#gger.”
I didn’t really know Boss N#gger except as the proprietor of this establishment. The fact is, we had barely said two words to each other. See, Boss N#gger does not like white people. So with me being a honky, he had little use for me. But his place was my kind of scene. I always paid my bill and I didn’t start any shit. So he tolerated me. He had a reputation of being a real badass and I had no urge to cross him.
I walked right up to Silas and said “I am going to give you 10 seconds to apologize to Boss N#gger for coming in here raising hell, then you are going to turn around and get your f#ggot asses out of here.”
Silas looked around at his crew to gauge their reactions. Then he started laughing. They all started laughing. I took a couple steps back, but still stood facing Silas. Then I opened my coat so he could see the two pistols I was packing. They suddenly got quiet. I said “I don’t think it’s nice...you laughing.”
The first of Silas’s crew to make a move was old Cletus. He raised his shotgun. I pulled my pistols. That son of a bitch was dead with a massive head wound before his body hit the floor. I was carrying a couple Glock 17s back then, both with high cap mags in each. As all hell broke loose I opened fire. Half of those good old boys tried to fight. I dropped them all. The last four ran for the door. “BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!”
They were all down in just an instant. All head shots except for one. I only tagged Silas in the shoulder. I walked up to Silas lying there. He looked up at me and started begging for his life. I put the heal of my boot on his shoulder wound and grinded at it, twisting my heal back and forth. Silas was screaming from the pain.
Just about then Boss N#gger walked up. I turned to him and said “I saved this bitch for you, Boss N#gger. Do with him as you will.” Boss N#gger put his huge hand on my shoulder and said “Thank ya, General. From now on you and I are tight.” I nodded at him then walked off. As I climbed up into my truck I could hear Silas screaming. I don’t know what Boss N#gger was doing to him exactly, but I know it was righteous!
Boss N#gger and I have been tight since that day I saved his black ass from those rednecks. We periodically call on one another to catch up on things, and when we need someone we can trust for a particular job. That’s why I called him for this particular bigfoot hunt.
Come 5:00 am I left my hide and walked out of the wood line. I radioed Boss N#gger that we ought to meet back at my truck. I do not know why, but the idea stuck with me that if we did the exact same thing that Hawg Leg and I did last night, the Sasquatch may show itself again.
You see, this night was identical to the last. Even though we heard and saw no Sasquatch activity, the woods were eerily silent. There were no bugs chirping and no animals stirring. It was quite bizarre. It was a textbook experience for the presence of a Sasquatch.
Back at the truck I asked Boss N#gger what he thought. He said “Well Sir, there be a haint-like spell on these here woods tonight.” Boss N#gger felt it too. Then he asked, “You want to go into the house and fuck them 2 bitches in there?”
Before I could answer we heard it. It was a blood curdling scream from the woods. It sounded like it was just inside the wood line. I told Boss N#gger “There he is! Let’s take cover behind my truck and blast the shit out of him when he steps out!”
Boss N#gger said “Fuck that shit, General! I ain’t scared of no fuckin monkey.” Then he started strutting toward the woods where the scream came from. He was also talking trash to the monster. He said “Hey, Sasquatch! Git yo bitch ass out here RIGHT NOW! I is gonna put an ass whoopin’ on your hairy ass!”
I was stunned at Boss N#gger’s directness. Was he deliberately trying to confuse the beast by approaching it? Or, was he just THIS badass? But before I could give it any thought the huge Sasquatch stepped out of the wood line and showed itself. It stared at the approaching Boss N#gger, showing it’s teeth and growling.
Boss N#gger just kept moving forward. But when that monster started growling at him Boss N#gger got pissed! He yelled at the Sasquatch “NOW I KNOW YOU AIN’T GROWLING AT ME, YOU NASTY ASS BEAST!”
Boss N#gger then CHARGED the beast! That’s right … HE charged the beast! As he ran he pulled out his .50 BMG, held it forward with one hand like it was a pistol, and dumped a mag into it!! I could see the Sasquatch twitch and jerk with each shot that hit home.
When he ran out of ammo Boss N#gger threw down the gun and seemed to accelerate toward the thing. When he was about 10 yards from the Bigfoot he leapt at it. Boss N#gger’s feet did not hit the ground again until he tackled the monster. They both went tumbling into the wood line.
Up until now I stood there in stunned silence watching this drama unfold. But when Boss N#gger tackled the beast I took off running toward them. I could hear the struggle in the brush as I ran. As I was right at the wood line, out stepped Boss N#gger!
That son of a bitch, Boss N#gger, was holding the limp body of that huge 12’ beast over his head! Then, with a guttural scream of vengeance, Boss N#gger ripped the goddamn Sasquatch into TWO PIECES!!
I could not fucking believe what I was seeing. Blood and guts went everywhere. Finally Boss N#gger tossed the pieces of the Bigfoot corpse onto the ground and said “Ain’t no fucking monkey a match fo my black ass!”
I said “Goddamn, Boss N#gger! That was some righteous shit right there!” He replied, “Damn straight it was.” He was covered in Bigfoot blood and what appeared to be intestines. It smelled like microwaved dog shit. I suggested we go to the house so he could get cleaned up and we could tell the bitches what happened.
As Boss N#gger showered in Rita’s bathroom, I relayed the story to the bitches over coffee. They were enthralled by what I had to say, as well as being filled with relief.
The sun had started rising and it was getting light outside. By then I was on my third cup of coffee. Boss N#gger came walking in wearing nothing but a towel. The bitches looked him up and down, with goo-goo eyes and big smiles on their faces.
Boss N#gger then spoke up, “Well, General, are we gonna fuck these bitches or what?” I said I had been up for two days in a row and that I had to get some sleep. He nodded and I got up to leave. I looked back as I was walking out the door and saw Boss N#gger with a bitch in each arm, walking toward Rita’s bedroom.

I never intended to become a male stripper. In fact, I held a lucrative position as a hedge fund manager at Wendigo Portfolio Management, LTD. But when I decided to give it a try on a whim I found that I made a heck of a lot more money stripping off my clothes than stripping pensioners of their Social Security benefits!
See, I was busy one night plowing this chick bent over her kitchen table when her husband came home unexpectedly and caught us in mid stroke. Enraged at the sight of a young, good looking stud with a huge rod banging his smoking hot little trophy wife, this guy pulled a pistol out of his jacket and pointed it at me, saying “You got exactly 2 seconds to live, motherfucker”.
Not taking my eye off this swarthy prick, I took a step back, pulling out of the chick. My giant Hawg leg came out and hit the floor hard with a huge “WHUMP!!” At the sight of my dinosauric wang the guy’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Clearly, he was stunned. He slowly lowered his pistol and put it back into his shoulder rig under his jacket.
He then asked me, “Hey, uh, you want to make a little extra money with that thing, dude?” I replied, “You got the wrong idea, fella. I’m not gay. And my name is not dude; it is Lord Long Rod.” He replied, “That’s perfect!”
The guy’s name was Ahmed Hamas. He was Persian. He explained that he owned and operated an adult entertainment club in midtown that features male strippers. “A dick bar?”, I asked. “Yes”, he replied, “The Throbbing Johnson”. He told me that with my package I could make a fortune stripping there.
As I was getting finished off by Ahmed’s chick I told him that I was just a simple country boy from down south. I grew up on a farm raising chickens and plowing fields (or was it the other way around?). I just happened to come to the big city because I had a knack for ripping people off via securities fraud. What would little old me know about stripping?
But Ahmed assured me that I could handle it. Sensing my apprehension, Ahmed asked, “Do you like cocaine?” I said, “Fuck yeah!! I’m a hedge fund manager!!” We both enjoyed a good laugh. I finished on his chick’s face, then we got down to business.
Ahmed explained the business to me. It was a club strictly for female clients. “I don’t want none of them tranny sexuals ogling my dick either”, I demanded. Ahmed assured me that trannies were not allowed in his club. In fact, he told me that if they catch one in his club they take him upstairs to the roof on the 10th floor of the building and throw him off. “Whew!”, I replied.
So I started stripping the next night. I started making wads of cash immediately. After a couple of weeks I made it to the top of the club performers, even beating out Big Wang Tyrone. There was a little bit of jealousy from the other male strippers. But since I was clearly the cock of the walk, they did not dare give me any shit.
Ahmed insisted on using my real, Christian name, Lord Long Rod, during introductions. He said it “fit” me. After only 2 months I was easily earning $10-15 grand a week. I quit my job at the hedge fund and started stripping full time. It was a great gig! It also led to many very lucrative private gigs, most of which led to wild sex scenes with multiple women at one time. Ahmed was cool about this, which is unusual for a fucking Persian. He let me keep all my side gig money.
However, all good things must eventually come to an end. It all came crashing down due to one particular private gig I was hired for. It was to involve 3-4 chicks and another guy. Now, I don’t do gay stuff. But there was supposed to be a lot of blow there. The other guy was a major coke head!!
I was promptly wired $10,000.00 from someone designated as “The Big Guy”. I thought to myself, “What a pretentious douche bag!” But who cares? The money is all I cared about.
I arrived at the hotel at 11:30 pm. It was already a wild scene. There turned out to be 5 girls, all hot. None of them spoke a lick of English. The guy’s name was Hunter. He was sketchy as fuck and spoke a mile a minute. “Hi buddy!!How they hanging? Ha ha!! Want some blow? We gonna have a good time with these bitches tonight, know what I mean? Ha ha!! Hey look at my dick. Does this sore look infected to you? Ha ha!! Hey, want some coke?!?”, he babbled upon meeting.
There was blow, meth, and booze everywhere. Pretty soon I was balls deep in a drug-fueled orgy. The guy was videotaping the entire scene. It went on for hours, with the stereo blaring Smash Mouth’s “Allstar” over and over and over on an endless loop.
At one point there was a knock at the door. Hunter answered the door, bare-assed. I continued banging this one particular chick named Anna Conda, or some shit. A lot of bad noise started coming from the doorway. Clearly, it was hotel management. Hunter started ranting, asking the hotel folks if they knew who he was. The next thing I know, Hunter had a pistol in his hand and was threatening to kill the hotel people. They quickly withdrew, the door closed, and Hunter went back to fucking the chicks, like nothing had happened. I asked, “Everything ok, dude?” Hunter replied, “A-ok, dude. Why do you ask? Hey, want some more blow?!?”
I noticed that Hunter had a white cocaine mustache, dried blood around his nostrils, wide bulging eyes that were disproportionately black pupil, and a weird tick causing his head to snap back and forth. I was already spent and exhausted. The blow was wearing off. I decided it was time for me to leave. But I had to be discreet because there was no telling what this coked up maniac, Hunter, would do.
I finished off Anna. Then I noticed that Hunter was fucking this broad with his big toe as he mainlined cocaine into his erect dick. Blood spurted everywhere. One girl gleefully went “OOOOOOHHHH!!! That’s so pretty!” I took this as my opportunity to flee. I grabbed my clothes and went for the door, figuring I would get dressed in the elevator.
When I opened the hotel room door I was met with several armed policemen pointing guns at me. “SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!!! NOW!!!!”, they screamed. I complied. 10 of them burst into the room around me. They all rushed to Hunter. “Mr. B!! Mr. B!!! Are you ok?!? Do you need medical attention?!?”, they asked. Then shit got real.
One of the cops asked Hunter if he was being held against his will by “that guy with the huge wang”. Obviously, he meant me. By this time I was lying face down on the floor, with a boot violently pressing down against my neck and at least 3 pistols pointed at the back of my head.
The one cop continued to query Hunter. “Did that man kidnap you, bring you here against your will, dope you up, and force you to have sex with these Russian women?!?” Hunter replied, “Yeah, man. Whatever.” The police then turned all their attention to me.
I thought they were going to kill me. They were trash talking me and kicking me in my ribs while they ushered out the whores and helped Hunter get dressed. One cop said, “I gotta call The Big Guy to see what he wants us to do with THIS piece of shit”. He was referring to me.
As he was on the phone, the other cops were accusing me of being a MAGA terrorist. I was scared shitless. Another cop kicked me and said he had a partner who died at J6. Of course he was lying. No police died at J6.
Finally, the other cop got off the phone. He walked over to me lying there and said, “Boy, you are one lucky little piece of dog shit. The Big Guy does not want us to ice you. That is the ONLY reason you are going to get out of this shit alive.” Then he ordered the other cops to take me to “Rot Bottom Swamp, beat the shit out of me, then leave me “for the gators to clean up”. That is exactly what they did.
I was rescued 3 days later. I had managed to crawl out of that swamp and to the side of a road, where I collapsed. A passerby saw me and offered care. I told him not to call the police or an ambulance. I asked him to drop me off at the next convenience store, or whatever, and I would find my way from there. The driver was quite apprehensive about this, as I was in very bad shape. But he complied with my request.
I had to move and change my name after all this shit. Fortunately, I had built up quite a large nest egg from stripping and whoring. Hell, a little bit of it was from The Big Guy himself. LOL!! After this, I kept my mouth shut and went back to the family farm. The hedge fund I worked for had been shut down by the federal government and my co-workers had all been indicted. So, you know, everything worked out in the end.

In the morning I feel like I’ve slept a month.
It isn’t cold. I’m not dizzy. And Jimmy hasn’t thrown up again. I know I’m not supposed to stop taking my pills all at once, but I don’t feel like I need them anymore. I want to be a good Mom. And a good Mom can’t live in that kind of fog.
I smile at my son, who rubs his eyes groggily from a stool at the kitchen island while I hunt for something to make for breakfast. I barely notice the empty refrigerator shelves when there’s a knock at the door. I leave Jimmy in the kitchen and run to the front entrance where I see a repairman through the side window. I grasp the top deadbolt and attempt to twist, but I must be so weak from being ill—how long have I been ill?—because it won’t budge, and Jimmy calls my name from the kitchen. I shout over my shoulder that I will be right there, only to be interrupted by a voice I don’t recognize from the back of the house.
I look away from the door as Jimmy dashes up the stairs and a woman in a teal suit and heavy gold jewelry marches in high heels up the hall, talking on a cell phone.
“Hey, who are you?” I call out to her. “What are you doing here?”
“I have to call you back,” she says into the phone. “The repairman is here again.”
“Hey!” I holler at the woman who doesn’t so much as look at me as she passes and starts turning each lock on the door, ushering the repairman inside.
Realtor: “Thanks for coming today. We’re expecting heavy foot traffic and I’d like to be able to tell them the whole…issue…is taken care of. By the way…were you the one that found them?”
“Thank goodness you’re here,” I follow at the repairman’s heels as he follows the woman in teal with the gold jewelry down the hall. “It’s been so cold. Every day it gets worse—”
Crew Cut: “Excuse me.”
I’m startled by someone grabbing my arm, turning me away from the repairman and the woman who shouldn’t be in my house that is leading the way to the basement.
“What? Who are you?” I demand, ripping my arm away from a stout woman with a crew cut and serious face. Terror floods my body and I think she must be here to rob me. “What are you doing in my house?”
Crew Cut: “Are you Morgan?”
“There’s nothing here to steal, or can’t you see that?” I shriek, and it’s only then that I realize there’s nothing actually here. From where we stand in the hallway, I can see into the living room where there should be a sofa on the right and a TV mounted on the opposite wall. Both are gone. The room is empty.
“What the hell?” I breathe, spinning into the room that spins around me so fast I clutch the sides of my head to slow it down. When was the last time I took my anti-anxiety medication? The sleeping pills? I can’t remember. The last few days have been such a blur and I’ve slept so long I’m not actually sure what day it is, but I do know that this isn’t right. My TV should be here. My couch should be here—right here. Right where I’m standing in the spinning room. I try to remember the side effects of my medication. Drowsiness. Confusion. Nausea. Dizziness. Operating machinery without memory of doing so. Scary, ridiculous things that I decided were worth the risk when I agreed to take them. But outright hallucinations? I need to call my doctor, then I remember that I haven’t seen my phone since…
Crew Cut: “You okay?”
I scream as I turn and find Crew Cut beside me. Her sharp features have softened with what looks like understanding, but I don’t even understand. Should I know who she is? Should I know why she’s here?
Morgan: “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Crew Cut: “I’m here for the open house.”
I’m staring at her, mouth gaping, not sure which one of us is the crazy one, when I hear voices down the hall. Two women are admiring the staircase, running their fingers over the spindles and commenting on the sturdiness of the railing.
Morgan: “Hey! What are you doing? Get out, this is my house.”
They continue past the staircase to the other side of the hall, tittering about restored crown moldings before disappearing into the formal dining room.
“Hey!” I chase after them. “Stop! Where do you think you’re going?”
Crew Cut: “Come sit with me for a minute.
Before I answer, Crew Cut takes my arm in her beefy grip and hauls me toward the kitchen. A woman in a pantsuit is coming out of it, taking a video on her phone and muttering things like lovely, and simply gorgeous.
Morgan: “Who is—”
Crew Cut: “Relax and come sit.”
Crew Cut’s heavy hands push me onto a stool at the island, and I grasp the marble, steadying my voice as much as my frayed nerves will allow.
Morgan: “I don’t know who any of you are, but you shouldn’t be here. I’m going to call the police.”
Crew Cut: “Oh yeah? Where’s your phone?”
I won’t meet her gaze when I say, “I’ll find it.”
Crew Cut: “Sure you will.”
Morgan: “It should be on the counter, beside the toaster—”
I stop when I realize the toaster isn’t where it should be next to the stove. Come to think of it, the counters are completely bare when there was supposed to be soap by the sink, a roll of paper towels in the holder, and a Keurig on the coffee bar.
I stand and Crew Cut pushes me back down.
Crew Cut: “Save it. The cops aren’t coming.”
Morgan: “Are you—are you holding me hostage?”
Crew Cut (laughs): “Am I holding you hostage?”
Morgan: “Why is this funny?”
Crew Cut: “Oh honey, I wish it were that simple…No, I’m not holding you hostage. I’m like you.”
Morgan: “What do you mean?”
Crew Cut: “I used to live here.”
Morgan: “What? When?”
More people—what look like two couples under forty—pass by in the hall.
Crew Cut: “Long enough to see many people come and go.”
Morgan: “What are you doing here now?”
Crew Cut (shrugs): “Same as you.”
Morgan: “No. No, I don’t know you. I didn’t invite you.”
She scoffs and I spring from the stool and run toward the people—the outright strangers in my home—and am stopped by a petite woman who appears in the kitchen doorway.
Lyla (cheerily): “Oh, hello.”
Morgan: “What are you doing here?”
Lyla: “Oh, me? My name’s Lyla, and I used to live here, too. I had to come and see how much has changed.”
Morgan: “But this is my home. What gives you the right. What gives any of you the right?”
Crew Cut is directly behind me, squeezing my shoulder. Her touch is friendlier this time, but still infuriating.
Crew Cut: “Better take that seat, sister. Wait for the traffic to die down.”
Morgan: “The only one who should even be here is the repairman. Where the hell did he go? He needs to fix the heat—"
Lyla: “Oh dear.”
Crew Cut: “Come. Sit.”
Morgan: “Get your hands off of me! I need my phone. I need the police.”
It’s hard to think, hard to breathe with one particularly strong woman at my back insisting I sit, and another at my front blocking the way. This can’t be happening. Maybe this isn’t happening. Maybe I am going crazy.
Morgan (cries): “Why are you in my house?”
I see a glimpse of the repairman heading down the back hall to the basement. With a mighty heave, I shove aside the petite woman—Lyla—and chase after the repairman. He’s the only part of this—whatever this is—that doesn’t feel completely insane or like some kind of terrible nightmare. I’m sure he’s the only one who can help me.
I don’t think about the basement, the fire. I need to get to him, to ask him what’s going on, as if he’ll know. Lyla catches up with me at the top of the basement stairs and twists my arm.
Lyla: “You don’t want to go down there. Morgan—”
I don’t ask how she knows my name or why her eyes are wide with terror. Answers are in the basement, with the man who is finally here to fix the heat. I pull away from Lyla and plunge into the darkness that swallows me whole the second I descend the steps.
Morgan (calls out): “Hello? Sir?”
My voice falls flat, as if smothered by the darkness around me. When I reach the bottom, actual smoke creeps up so suddenly and so fiercely, it clogs my throat as I feel around for the string for the lightbulb. I cough, calling out to the repairman again. There’s no way he can navigate this darkness; no way he can breathe when my own lungs ache for fresh air. Where is he? And where is the string for the light? My fingers finally brush against it, and it takes another few tries to get a grip on it. Then I pull…
There’s a woman standing beside me, her features taut in a horrifying mask of fear and desperation. I see the whites of her bulging eyes, lips curled back from her yellowed teeth in a snarl, cheeks smeared with soot. But it’s the sounds she’s making that steal whatever breath I have left. From between her clenched teeth, guttural moans escape, as if she’s sobbing or screaming around a clamped jaw.
I stumble away from her, toward the room I previously refused to enter. Heat pours from the claustrophobic space, the red walls seeming to pulse and bulge, as if reaching for me. My cheeks flush with more than heat. Fear is thick here. Terror coats my body like an oily, viscous second skin that doesn’t just weigh me down—it pulls me into the small room. The moment I cross the threshold, I’m fully engulfed in smoke, and through the haze I see flames along the walls, spreading toward the center of the room, toward me just inside the door. The heat sears my arms, my face, my legs beneath my pajama pants, and I see two small figures within the flames. Two iridescent balls with flailing limbs that reach for me—
A hand on my shoulder pulls me out. The air is instantly cooler and I can breathe without choking on smoke.
Lyla has me by the arm, yanking me step after stumbling step up the stairs, cursing at me all the way.
Lyla: “We don’t go in the basement. Damnit, we don’t go down there.”
Morgan (coughing): “What was that? What was that?”
At the top, I think I see the desperate, soot-covered woman step into the small circle of light at the foot of the stairs before Lyla slams the door and shakes my shoulders.
Lyla: “That’s Miranda’s place. We don’t disturb Miranda. Do you understand?”
Morgan: “No, no, I don’t understand. Who are you? Who is she?”
Lyla: “She used to live in your house. She lost her children in that room.”
The flailing limbs looked a lot like small arms, I realize.
Morgan: “How? When?”
Lyla: “We leave her alone. She’s gone through enough.”
Morgan: “But why is she in my house? Why are any of you in my house?”
There are so many people here now. I bump into them. They don’t notice me. They’re admiring the molding, the floors, the staircase. They’re eating cookies and reading off pieces of paper. I burst into the kitchen, scream at a couple opening my fridge—my empty fridge—and put my hands on the counter beside the stocky, crew cut woman and yell in her face.
Morgan: “What the fuck is happening here?”
She looks bored, but a hint of sympathy colors her face.
Lyla: “Just tell her.”
Crew Cut rolls her eyes and holds the paper she’s been reading up to me. It’s a picture of my house from the street with a list of specs beneath it.
Morgan: “What is this? Why do you have a picture of my house?”
Crew Cut: “They all do. Look around.”
She’s right. Every person poking through my home does so with one of these papers. They read, compare, write notes. I look again at the paper in Crew Cut’s hands.
It says FOR SALE at the top.
Morgan: “No. No, it can’t. I—I just bought this place. We still live here. We—”
Jimmy.
My heart leaps from my chest as I leap away from the women—the only ones who seem to notice me—and past two biddies admiring the staircase as I throw up myself up it. How could I have forgotten my boy? My precious Jimmy. He’s probably terrified in this house with all these strangers. I am a shit mom. What if something’s happened to him? What if one of these people has hurt him? I can’t let myself imagine it. When I find him—and I will—I will hold him and kiss him and love him until he knows it's going to be OK.
A young couple is skirting the edges of my bedroom, stopping to check out the view from the window.
Morgan (screeches): “Why are you in my room?”
I don’t wait for their answer before I pull aside the sheet to look inside the tent in the middle of the floor.
It’s empty.
I call out his name and rip through the blankets because sometimes he likes to hide underneath them, but he isn’t there. Where else would he be? Maybe someone has hurt him. Oh god…What if….
What if someone took him?
I push through the terror to the hall where I am almost run down by a small, naked girl scampering from the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the floor.
I holler after her, chasing her into Jimmy’s room. His racecar bed isn’t pressed against the wall where we set it up. The boxes of toys in the corner are gone, and the latest Lego creation, the one that spelled out WELCOME, has also disappeared. There’s no sign of Jimmy or the sopping wet child I followed in here.
A naked child. Why, with all these other people, would there be a naked kid here? What if she’s not here and those pills really are making me hallucinate? It makes more sense than anything else—certainly more than naked kids in the hall or two fully-clothed men sitting in my bathtub, laughing and pretending to sip from imaginary glasses of wine.
If I’m hallucinating, why are there still footprints on the floor? I reach down and touch one and my fingers come away wet. I’m not imagining them or the child that made them, and that’s a problem. And I still haven’t found Jimmy.
I throw open doors until I’ve searched the entirety of the second floor and make my way up the next flight of stairs. There isn’t any furniture on the third floor—never had been. I’m spinning in the center of the empty office space when a new kind of terror strikes.
The roof. The pathways between buildings. The three-story fall to the ground.
“Jimmy!” I scream and rush up the spiral staircase and out the rooftop door. I brace myself for a gust of winter wind that never comes. It should be freezing. The last time I came up here, the cold was blistering. Now—
Now my mind trails past the weather as I turn in a circle, sweeping the roof for any sign of my son. There’s an elderly couple at the front edge, looking down. My god…have they found him?
“Jimmy,” I breathe. When I make my way to them, I’m too afraid to look down. They smile—at each other, not me—and turn to head back inside. They aren’t disturbed as they should be if my Jimmy had fallen. I look over the side and see only the sidewalk and the street lined with budding trees and the first blades of green grass.
Green grass, as if it’s spring.
No, it’s impossible. It’s—a dream. Of course. It must be. It was the only thing that explained the people and the weather and everything else. Women like the soot-covered Miranda weren’t real. Flaming bodies of small children certainly didn’t exist outside of nightmares. I think night terrors was one of the side effects of my sleeping pills, and that’s what this is, and when I’ve exhausted myself here, I’ll wake up in the tent beside Jimmy and I’ll flush every last pill down the toilet. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only—
Roof Woman: “It isn’t a dream.”
My frantic gaze snags on a woman sitting on a folding chair, her back to me, huddling underneath a blanket.
Roof Woman: “It isn’t a dream. I wish it was.”
I back away from the edge of the roof and she slowly turns to me. She’s not old but not exactly young, with a tired look about her and a deep sadness in her eyes as she appraises me.
“Who are you?” I whisper, but I’m terrified of the answer because deep in my bones, in a place I won’t acknowledge, I already know what she’s going to say.
Roof Woman: “I used to live here…Just like you.”
Morgan: “I—I live here now. My son—have you seen him? I can’t find him.”
Roof Woman: “This is all a little much for the kids. This house is not a great place for children. You’ve heard about the basement?”
The flaming arms reaching for me in a burning room are forever seared into my brain. I realize for the first time that if the basement really was on fire right now, everyone would be leaving. I would be leaving. Why didn’t I try to run outside when Lyla brought me back upstairs? If that fire was real, this whole place would be up in flames by now. It’s just more confirmation that the woman in front of me is wrong and this is a very bad dream.
“I’ve heard about the basement,” I manage to say with a suddenly dry throat.
Roof Woman: “Good. But have you heard about what happened on the roof? The little boy who ran too fast and fell over the side before his mother could catch him?”
My own eyes press out of my skull. She can’t really mean—
Morgan (chokes out): “Jimmy—”
Roof Woman: “His name was Dale. My son was six when he got away from me. Six and so fast. So…fearless.”
Her eyes gloss with tears and she turns away, her gaze lowering to the edge of the roof beside her. There’s a small child’s shoe on the ground beneath her chair, as if it slipped off of Dale’s foot when he went over.
Morgan: “I didn’t…I didn’t know.”
Roof Woman: “How could you? You have your own son to be concerned with. Your own precious boy to keep safe.”
Morgan: “Please…do you know where he is?”
Roof Woman: “We have one job as mothers. When we fail, we never get over it.”
Morgan: “That’s why I need to find him. All these people... It’s not safe here.”
Roof Woman: “No, it’s not.”
She narrows her weary eyes and pulls the blanket tighter around her. For a moment, her sleeve slides up her arm and I see a long, deep scar on her left wrist.
Roof Woman: “Try the closet. For some reason they all like the closets.”
Something has shifted in my body while talking to her. Some of the hysteria has settled. And I’m certain I will find Jimmy in a closet, but…
But I don’t know if finding him will be enough. I wonder if I’ve kept him safe, or if I’ve missed something, some crucial detail that damned us to some terrible fate.
I’m turning down the spiral stairs when I notice two teenagers huddling underneath it, reading something off a piece of paper I assume is the listing of my home that all the other people have.
Teenage Boy: “Okay, okay, so we did the beams in the dining room where that guy hung himself, we got the master bedroom. We got…we got everything except the roof where that kid fell and…the basement.”
The boys are arguing about who should go down to the basement, when their mother—looking frazzled and annoyed—takes the paper from their hands and scolds them for what she calls despicable rubbish, before shoving them out the door. Shaking her head, she balls up the paper and tosses it behind her.
As soon as they leave, I descend the spiral stairs, collect the paper, and open it.
It’s a list with checkmarks down the left side. At the top, in big, bold letters, it says Death-Rowhouse. On the list, in seemingly no particular order, are rooms with a brief description of what has happened there.
Dining Room – January 1, 1930, at approximately four-fifteen in the afternoon, stockbroker James Hollis hung himself from the rafters.
Upstairs Bathroom – September 21, 1990, MaryAnn Wilson, four years old, drowned in the bathtub while her parents had a party downstairs.
Back entrance – May 5, 1983, Dawn Fields was strangled by an unknown attacker just outside the door in the area’s first homophobic hate crime.
Kitchen – February 23, 2019, Lyla Henderson—
Lyla. I stop reading and head for the stairs in the hall. It couldn’t be the same woman who yanked me out of the basement. Despicable rubbish the boys’ mother had said. That’s all this is. A terrible joke.
There are so many people coming in and out of rooms that I don’t notice the wet, naked child running down the second-floor hallway until she almost collides with me. I move out of her way and into a hushed conversation between the same old biddies I saw downstairs. One tips her head until her neck fat collects in a pile under her throat, claiming this house is so reasonably priced because of all the death, while the other tsks and asks her co-conspirator if she really believes all that garbage.
I don’t wait for the other to reply before I push through a family headed for Jimmy’s room and make it to the top of the last flight of stairs. Above the casual din of many conversations I hear shouting—voices I recognize but I’m not sure how. My socks slip on the wood floor at the bottom of the stairs and I trip into the living room where I find a couple screaming the most terrible obscenities at each other. None of the other people touring the room pay the raging couple any attention—not even when she pulls a gun out of her purse and flat out accuses the man of sleeping with someone named Cheryl—
Cheryl. I know that name. I’ve heard it before. But…where?
She has a gun and that should scare everyone. It should scare me. We should all be running for an exit in this house that should’ve burned down from the fire in the basement, but everyone is strolling around like this isn’t madness, like I really am dreaming, and none of it feels real right now so I turn away from the living room—even as I wince at the gunshot that sends no one in a panic—and hurry back to the kitchen where I find Lyla at the counter with Crew Cut.
They look up at me and I slap the paper down between them, smoothing it so they can see what I’ve been reading.
Crew Cut (sniggers): “Death-Rowhouse. Clever.”
Lyla (groans): “Ugh, not this again.”
Morgan: “What is this? What the fuck is happening here?”
Crew Cut: “Just another open house.”
She shrugs and for the first time I notice the purple bruises around her neck.
Morgan (mutters): “It’s the pills. It’s got to be the pills.”
Lyla: “The pills?”
Morgan: “I’ve taken too many. Or they’re too strong. Or…or…”
Crew Cut: “Or it’s the carbon monoxide.”
I stop muttering and look across the island at Crew Cut. At Dawn Fields and the strangulation marks above the collar of her flannel shirt. At Lyla whose blue lips are smiling softly at me, her eyes glistening above dark, haunted circles and gaunt cheeks.
Lyla: “Same thing happened to me. In this very room. Only, mine was intentional.”
I can’t speak. Lyla pushes the paper across the marble countertop to me and I look down.
Lyla in the kitchen. Miranda and her children in the basement. Dale on the roof and his mother Jane in the third-floor bedroom. And then I read…
Master Bedroom – February 28, 2024, Morgan and Jimmy Fraser were found dead of carbon monoxide poisoning when a furnace repairman called in a welfare check.
Morgan and Jimmy Fraser found dead. The coldness in the words seep through my body, through blood and bones and a heart that isn’t beating. For the first time since waking up I’m not dizzy or confused or feigning hallucinations. I can see Lyla and Dawn for the ghosts they are, the dullness that surrounds them compared to the vibrance of the people who move around us like we aren’t even there.
Because we aren’t.
Lyla’s blue lips crack with another try at a smile.
Lyla: “Welcome Morgan. You’re with us now.”
I slowly back away from the island, from Lyla and Dawn, from the sudden smell of natural gas in the kitchen and someone’s comment about the stove being electric now—for safety reasons. I turn down the hall, past a woman shaking her head, telling her husband that something is wrong in the living room. That it just feels off. And it should. There’s a man bleeding out on the floor from a gunshot wound to the chest and his wife is piled on top of him after swallowing her own bullet. As I round the stairs, I catch a glimpse of James Hollis dangling like a worm at the end of a hook from a rope tied to the beams to the left of where the dining room table should’ve been.
On the second-floor landing, a couple is speaking to the woman with the gold jewelry. The realtor. She’s assuring them—and everyone within earshot—that the furnace is being fixed and what happened a few months ago will surely NOT happen again.
A few months ago…when Morgan and Jimmy Fraser were found dead.
There is a boy in the doorway of Jimmy’s room. He’s wearing a winter coat and missing a shoe. When the wet, naked child—MaryAnn—bolts down the hallway again, he catches her and shakes his head. She glances up warily at me, slumps her shoulders, and heads back to the bathroom. The boy retreats into Jimmy’s room and I follow him. He stands a few feet from the closet, staring at the closed doors with his dark, vacant eyes. I pull the doors open and find Jimmy in his Star Wars pajamas on the floor. He looks up at me with dark circles under his eyes, his skin too pale, his lips too blue. My heart shatters because I’ve failed him in the most absolute way, at the only thing I was ever supposed to do: keep my son safe.
He stands as I fall to my knees, and he wraps his thin arms around my neck while I cry. I tried to be a good mom. I tried to protect him from the pain of his father’s loss, from my pain about it. I tried to give him a good life. And here we are…surrounded by—
Ghosts.
I look up and see the boy with the missing shoe—the boy from upstairs whose name is Dale. Behind us, near the bedroom door, Dawn and Lyla wait holding hopeful breaths, Lyla with a tentative smile. I don’t see couples taking notes and photographs of my home, the old biddies gossiping, the teenage boys obsessing over heinous deaths. Our deaths.
The living have gone, and I’ve got Jimmy, and suddenly it hits me. I’m free. We’re free. I don’t need pills anymore. I don’t need to grieve. I’m relieved. Relieved from trying so hard to hold it together and be all things to my son. Relieved from trying so hard to live.
I kiss his hair and promise him that it’s going to be okay, and this time I mean it. We can spend the rest of eternity in this big, beautiful house together, with the other mothers and children, and the women and men who met tragic ends, just like we did, here—in the place where we used to live.

Something I don’t know what it is, but something is in the woods, something primal and old, something tired, something pure evil, Something very fucking big, something that predates all of this that nothing we made or can make will ever be able to stop. Do you know that feeling that you’re being watched? This thing is so big that it doesn’t give you that feeling. It has eyes everywhere, so many that you can’t tell whether you are looking at it or the woods, maybe it is the woods, and we’ve always lived with it, something older than the big bang or whatever came before it. Something older than our concept of God or God itself. When it moves the forest moves with it, it is the forest. One of those things that came long before humans or plants, names, rocks or sound. It can remain shapeless, which means it can remain deathless and it is not restricted to our space nor the blue rock that is the earth, something that attempting to rationalize or size up would reduce the hardest men to tears and screams of pure insanity and terror. It comes from a place in this hostile universe that is savage, hungry, and primal to its core, a place our god ran from when he created this. It’s always watched us, but we are not and never will be big enough for it to care. Few men have seen it and fewer men have understood it. None survive. To see it is to meet fate, something so terrible and large and beautiful and bizarre shatters the mind and soul. Something so big that death can’t escape it. Death simply takes us to a different place, and whatever piece he takes with him takes us to a place where IT IS. Maybe it isn’t evil, just primal. Older than concepts and our small insignificant differences that we so desperately attempt to use to get ahead. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters and only one thing is certain. There is something in the woods.

I wake up again in the cold sweat that I’ve become used to. It’s that same dream that always comes after she disappeared. I never used to dream. Kelsey said it’s because I had no imagination. What I wouldn’t give for her to say that to me just one more time, but that’s why I’m here isn’t it? The dream gets longer, more vivid the further I follow her. It must mean I’m getting close. I pull over at the motel where he said it would happen and stare into the woods across the street. I feel a strange pulling sensation the longer I stare, and I have to force myself to look away. I’m in the right place, I know it.

“Chuck. You’ve been here all day and all night for over a week. You need sleep.” Bob says as he sits up straight at his desk.
“I’ll sleep when I catch this fuck.” I say as I down yet another cup of coffee.
“Chief has been talking about putting us both on sabbatical after this case. He said he might not wait and just let Morris and Rogers take over.” He says, standing to meet me at the board.
“Those two dumbasses couldn’t find water in the ocean. We almost got…... get me 10^th precinct on the line and call in the SWAT team, I know who it is.” I say putting my coat on and heading down to my car.
The triple murder case was closed. Turns out the owner of a local butcher shop had the idea that selling high end restaurants human meat would be a grand money-making scheme. What was left of his victims were found in a storage locker 5 miles from the shop. 3 officers retired after the case was closed. Bob and I were given a month-long sabbatical for our troubles. I decided that the joint savings account could take the hit and Kelsey and I should commence our delayed honeymoon in the Bahamas.
I opened the door of my apartment and expected to be greeted by Kelsey, the brochure in my hand ready to drop the happiest bombshell in the last 6 months. Instead, I was greeted by silence. At first, I thought rational husband thoughts, after all it was 10 AM on a Tuesday, and she was a full-time accountant. And then I see the little piece of paper that would alter the course of my life forever.
DON’T FOLLOW. I LOVE YOU. – Kelsey
I would spend the next few days in a drunken stupor, going through the divorcee grief process, waiting to be served from a different state or a post card with a new man on it, but nothing came. A week went by, and nothing came. I called, I texted, I emailed to no avail. I tried to reach her parents, her siblings, all to no avail. I would spend hours staring at the note trying to find something, anything that would lead me to her, and as if my pathetic state was so moving that it caught the attention of something beyond our realm, I was thrown a cosmic bone. A glint of light would expose the symbol drawn in invisible ink. This is where having an old flame in the FBI comes in handy and soon after calling in a few favors, I received the phone call.
“Yknow, it’s not every day that you get something from a secret organization, I’m still amazed that you even found it.” Syd muses.
“I’m a detective that’s kind of my thing.” I say, taking another drag of my cigarette as I stare out into the skyline.
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news chucky, but these guys are good, I’ve found jack shit on the internet about it aside from a few scattered remnants here and there.”
“Do you have a general location? I get the feeling that this isn’t a symbol you find just anywhere.”
“A few scattered carvings on trees, a few tattoos. Give me two seconds…. Alright, I’ve narrowed it down. North Carolina ringing any bells?”
I almost drop my cigarette.
“She went home.” I say, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking, but let’s try and think rational here, I don’t know if it’s a good idea that you just go stomping around her neck of the woods. People leave each other all the time…”
“SHE WOULDN’T LEAVE ME.” I almost scream into the phone.
Almost a minute of silence passes.
“I’ll give you a call if I find anything more. Don’t do anything stupid.” She hangs up before I can say another word.
As I walk to board the plane, I get a strange feeling that I’m being watched. I look around to see who’s making the hair on the back of my neck raise until I see him. He’s tall and wears a black jacket and jeans. A long beard covers his face, and his eyes are almost white with cataracts, but somehow, I know that he still sees me. He continues walking towards me and I feel my hand drift into my pocket and feel the cold metal of the pocketknife. I wait until he stands next to me and as he’s walking, I hear him say one word.
“Usurper.”
The word has burned itself into my mind and stays with me until I drift into sleep on the flight.
That’s when I had the first dream.
I stand in the clearing looking at the tree line of the woods. I can see the trees begin to move ever so slightly until it makes some sort of face. It blinks.
I wake with a start as the flight attendant nudges me back into consciousness.
“Sir, the plane has landed.” She says with a smile that is a little too wide. I notice that we are the only ones still on the plane and I begin to feel the hair on my arms rise. She turns to walk off and then turns around to look at me one last time.
“For her sake Usurper, don’t interfere.” She says and she steps into the terminal.
I drive to her hometown of Troy, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Usurper? Interfere? What the fuck is going on here? The thoughts plague my mind until I reach her parents’ house. I see the smoke from miles away. At first, I think it’s just a garbage fire until I turn down the dirt road that leads to the house and can almost taste the acrid vapor. I continue down the winding path and stop at the smoldering remains of the foundation. There is not a single inch of the house that hasn’t been turned to ash or charred wood. No fire trucks. No cops. No ambulances. What the fuck is going on here.
I decide I need to try and get some face to face with the locals and so I head to the bar closest to her former home.
I enter the bar and pull up a chair. The Bartender walks up and slaps his hands on the counter.
“What can I get you?” he says cheerily. The bar is empty except for the two of us and I can tell he’s appreciative of the company.
“Whisky Sour.” I say, which warrants a strange look from him.
“You new around here?” He says with an analytical tone.
“How could you tell?” I say as I count the cash in my wallet.
“It ain’t every day I got folks asking for fancy drinks like that.”
“You got Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“You got Coke?”
“Yep.”
“What’s the next thing do you think I’m gonna ask?” I say, finger gunning him and trying my best to force a disarming smile.
“Single or Double?” He says returning a middle finger.
“Double.”
“Gotcha, want to keep the tab open?”
“Sure.”
He slides me the drink and then pulls up his own stool from behind the bar.
“So, what brings you to town?” he says, eyeballing me like I’m a new exhibit at the zoo.
“Looking for someone. Think you could help?”
“Town ain’t all that big Yankee. You a cop?” He says with a grin.
“How’d you know I was a cop?” I say, surprised at his analysis.
“Accent, Walk, Talk, you’re probably also carrying despite the fact that says no firearms on the premises. Plus, the fact that you’re looking for someone. So, what are you? Marshall? DEA? FBI?” he says, counting on his fingers as he picks me apart.
“So that makes me federal off the bat? Not just a new deputy?” I say, returning with my own sarcasm.
“I run a dive bar in bumfuck nowhere; I know every single cop in this county. Plus, nobody moves here by choice.” Swirling his finger in the air with a laugh.
I laugh with him as I realize that there isn’t a point in trying to hide it, and if anyone knew what was going on around here it was probably him.
“So, what are you doing here?” He says leaning in.
“I’m looking for someone.” I say leaning in and sliding a 100$ bill across the counter.
“Who?” he says, eyeing the bill.
“My wife.”
He throws his head back and laughs.
“Ah yes, one for details. Does this wife of yours have a name? Also keep the money, I ain’t a man who needs to be bribed for his help.” He says sliding the money back to me.
“Kelsey Smith.”
Almost as if on queue, the doors of the bar fly open, and 3 men walk in. They walk almost in lock step and carry easy smiles that deeply unsettle me. The same smile that the flight attendant had.
The bartender stiffens at the sight of them and becomes noticeably uncomfortable.
“Terry.” The leader says warmly, stepping forward to the bar.
“We’re about to close.” Terry says as he begins shutting the lights and jukebox off.
“We can help!” and with a wave of his hand, he disperses the other two to stand at the opposing sides of the bar, blocking our exits.
While the goons look passively on, the smiles still on their faces, the leader pulls up a seat right next to mine.
“My name is Jeremy.” he says, extending his hand in a polite but almost forceful manner.
“Pleasure” I say, sipping from my drink and leaving him hanging. He puts his hand on the counter and the smile on his face grows, almost as if he were baring his teeth.
“You’re new in town. What’s your name.” He says, angling his entire body towards me.
“Charles.”
“Well Charles. Allow me to cut to the chase, have you had the dreams yet?”
This sends a shiver up my spine, and I feel sweat break out across my forehead.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, I understand that you are stepping into an environment that you would consider…. Foreign” he says motioning his hands across the bar.
“But when two people call you the same name before you even get to a destination, one must ask himself. Is this the place I should be going?” He sounds like my old elementary school principal, the prick always knew how to talk down to me, keeping perfectly calm but managing to make my blood boil.
“I’m just looking for my wife. I will leave when I find out what happened to her.” I say, staring into my drink.
“There is something at work here that many people have put a lot of effort into, Kelsey included, and we will not have the usurper come and disrupt our efforts.” At the mention of her name I turn to look at him. His face is off. His eyes are wild and almost manic, and his lips are quivering ever so slightly.
“What do you want.” I growl and feel my hand drift to my waist.
“Leave. Never return. I’m sure you know the spiel.” He says. His tone has changed as well. If he wasn’t threatening me then he is now.
“And if I don’t?” I say, sparing a glance at Terry. His hands are under the bar now, most likely reaching for a piece he has underneath the counter.
“We will spare no detail.” Jeremy says, as the veins in his neck begin to bulge.
“Alright, you’ve sold me. I’ll leave.” I say as I stand, put the hundred back on the counter and stand from my seat.
“I’m so happy we decided to be reasonable.” Jeremy says, his face returning to its normal shape.
Without a further word, I get in my car and begin speeding down the road. It’s past 9PM and I’d bet my retirement on the fact that they’re going to follow me, and they sure as hell aren’t going to let me leave this town alive.
I drive for about 10 minutes down the dark and winding roads, long enough for me to realize that I haven’t seen anyone else on the road, which is strange in its own right. My thoughts are interrupted as a pair of headlights appear in my rear-view window and gunshots start ringing off into the night. One nails my taillight, another peppers my trunk. I speed up as my side mirror disappears with another crack. I pull out my own pistol and fire blindly through the rear windshield. One of the headlights on the truck goes out and a second later the truck veers off the side of the road, its course being intercepted by a tree. I look at my pistol in shock. And feel myself chuckle as I pull off to the side of the road. “Still got it.” I say to myself.
I reload and step out of my car and go to inspect the wreckage of my failed assassins. I’m not shocked to find that it’s Jeremy and his 2 goons from the bar. One of them was sent through the front window and face first into the tree, his body resembling something of a meat accordion. The other is slumped in the front seat, a noticeable indention in his skull after he hit the steering wheel and a penny sized hole in his forehead. I look around the truck to see the back door open and a trail of blood leading into the forest. I see Jeremy sitting against a tree. His breathing is labored, his legs are mangled, and he clutches his shoulder as he tries to plug the new hole, I gave him a few minutes earlier. I keep my gun on him as I approach.
“What happened man? I thought we were gonna be reasonable.” I say as I continue walking towards him.
He looks up at me. His smile is long gone, and only rage stains his face.
“Cmon then, get it over with.” He spits at me.
“I’m in no rush Jeremy, I need to ask you some questions.”
“I’m not telling you shit, Usurper.” In response to his name calling, I kick one of his legs which causes him to yelp like a beaten dog.
“Let’s start with that. What’s this Usurper thing about?” I say, dragging a log for me to sit on.
“You are the arch enemy. You will destroy everything my people have built. You and yours will be the ones to usher the destruction of all.” Despite his truly terrible condition, I’m impressed at his vigor and energy.
“I’ve started having dreams Jeremy. Something tells me you know why.”
He laughs at this, a harsh wheezing that sounds like the irony is worse than his pain.
“You moron. You’re apart of this, all of it.” he says, as he leans his head back on to the tree and stares into the sky.
“I’m a part of what. You keep saying these things that don’t make any sense. The only reason I’m here is for Kelsey, you know who she is, you know where she is. Tell me, and I’ll call an ambulance.” I say as I snap my fingers to make sure this smug bastard is staying awake.
“All will be revealed in due time.” He says it, reciting it like a mantra.
“Alright then, I tried the nice way.” I say smacking his hand away and sticking my thumb into the bullet hole in his shoulder.
He winces.
“Where.”
I dig. He moans.
“The Fuck.”
I dig deeper. He cries out.
“Is she.”
I push to the bone.
“STOP STOP. I’ll TALK.” He howls.
I pull my thumb out and rub it on his shirt.
“Sunset. Roadway inn. Cross the street and walk until you hear the songs.” He says as he coughs and tries to compose himself.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” I say.
“May it tear you limb from limb usurper.” He says, and then pulling a knife from his waist belt and draws it across his throat.
I stand in shock as he slumps over and gurgles out his last few breaths.

As I stand in the motel room, I do a last-minute check. I take my old hunting rifle and make sure the scope is still working. I tap all of my equipment and jump up and down to make sure nothing rattles. A gnawing feeling in the back of my mind tells me that I came unprepared, but it’s too late to back out. I find my resolve and step outside. I’m in the right place. I stand in the spot where I stand in the dream. It’s almost as if I can see the forest stare back at me, and without further thought I walk across the street and make my way into the trees. I don’t walk far when I can start hearing the songs. A bizarre chant carried on the wind, in a language that I’ve never heard. I can then see the firelights in the distance as the songs grow louder. I see a hill and climb it, and then crawl until I reach the top. What I see draws the breath from my body.
A massive pit. A black hole in the middle of the forest. Standing around it is a ring of torches and behind it stand over 100 people. They’re naked and are covered head to toe in bizarre tattoos, with the same joyous smiles that Jeremy and his men had plastered across their faces. At the front of the pit stands an altar and that’s when I see her. Standing at the edge of the pit is the love of my life, naked, tattooed and smiling. Beside her stands a man, who raises his hands and silences the song.
“It seems that everyone has finally arrived.” He calls out. Which ignites a cheer throughout the crowd. Shit. Theres no way he knows I’m here.
“YOU’RE TIME HAS COME. RISE. CLAIM THE STARS.” The man screams and falls to his knees.
I then see movement in the pit, and giant tendrils rise and begin to plant themselves on the sides of the hole. The man rises and stands behind Kelsey, who he then begins to push towards the hole. She resists and begins to push back. I decide that I’ve seen enough and line the scope of the rifle with the center of his chest. Breathe out. And squeeze the trigger. I feel the push as the shot vibrates throughout my body and a hole appears in the man’s chest. Silence falls and then screams ring out. “USURPER”
Before I understand what’s happening, they’re on top of me and dragging me towards the pit. They beat me with their fists and clubs, tearing my clothes off and painting the tattoos on my body. I try to fight but they hold me down and drag me to the altar. I am brought to my knees before the altar and look at Kelsey. She is joined by an old woman who raises her hand to bring the crowd to silence.
“THE FALSE VESSAL HAS BEEN DISPOSED. THE USURPER HAS COME TO LEAD US TO THE STARS.”
I’m brought to my feet and led to the edge of the pit. I feel a hand grab mine. I look to see Kelsey holding on to me. She pulls me into an embrace, pulls away, and leans into my ear.
“Trust me.” She says, and then shoves me into the abyss.
I’m falling. I fall for what seems like hours and seconds. I finally land. I begin to sink, and I realize I haven’t landed on the ground but something warm. Something alive. I then feel the tendrils wrap around me and pull me in. I sink and as I sink, I begin to see. A billion-year plot, eons of deliberation, plans, executions, all of history, every hour, every minute, every second all converging to center on this very moment. The big bang, the creation of all life, and everything before it. I begin to feel an urge, the urge to claim, the urge to conquer, the urge to take. I rise. I continue to rise until I rise out of the pit and into the sky to go and claim the stars.

The greatest April Fool’s joke I ever thought of: dig up my dead best friend and use him to scare my other best friend. I earnestly thought it was the funniest prank ever….until it went all so wrong.
Bit of background, I live in a small town in flyover country. Everyone knows each other but I’ve had the same two best friends since I could walk.
Tom’s a total dudebro but I mean that with love. He owns one of the two gyms in town and is obsessed with his gains. The whole muscle obsession started when he tried to bulk up for the high school football team. He eventually quit the team because ‘training got in the way of my recovery and stopped hypertrophy. That’s a big no’. That’s what he said to the face of the head coach who looked at Tom like he was some freak. Tom was always a bit self-obsessed but from then on it seemed like his ego swelled with his biceps. Although Tom may be obnoxious he’s always had my back. Best hype man I’ve ever met.
Jeff on the other hand, it was like he was trying his best to do an impression of a Mormon missionary growing up. Always had cropped hair, an iron-pressed shirt, even came to high school with a tie on. Which was weird because I never saw his family go to church. They lived a way out of town on their own farm. Rumors constantly swirled about how they were strange folk who kept to themselves even though Jeff seemed like he was going to grow up to be the most well-adjusted out of the three of us. Always polite, never got on anyone’s bad side, seemed to have a joke ready whenever there was tension.
What kept the group together was our love of pranks, on each other and on the town. It started with whoopie cushions, evolved into cling wrap over the toilet seat, and eventually rearranging the entire furniture of their house (did that to Tom, his dad was not amused). It got larger, of course. We disassembled a car and reassembled it in a classroom. They spent half a day trying to figure out how to get it back out. Another time we led a cow to the second storey of the school. Cows have bad depth perception so it wouldn’t go back down the stairs. Somebody had to tranquilise her and roll her down the stairs. I admit, we went too far and we never confessed because of the punishment we would receive. But those were our pranks, jokes between three best friends that would live on until we die. A unwavering rite of friendship that nobody could take from us.
But April Fools’ Day was like our own personal Christmas. That was the one day of the year we really did our best to prank each other.
That is until Jeff died two weeks ago.
We don’t know what happened. One of those mysterious deaths. Tom and me were particularly upset that his parents never disclosed anything. We never got along with Jeff’s parents since they were just always so unfriendly and cold to everyone but after his death it was just all so excessive. We didn’t even get to go to his funeral. Eventually, we found out he was buried in his family’s graveyard on his property. All we could do to pay our respects was to leave flowers at his grave.
Before that I was all set for April Fool’s Day. It was going to be great; I had just bought over a hundred or so cheap garden gnomes and I was going to lay them out overnight as if they had just invaded Tom and Jeff’s homes. But now that seemed so childish.
There was only one real way to honour the memory of my dead friend. I would dig him up, dress him in his ironed shirt and tie, position him in my living room and invite Tom over, where Tom would walk in to find Jeff’s corpse playing video games or whatever. It was going to be the ultimate prank.
It was going to be so funny.
It would be the best way to honor Jeff’s memory.
It turned out so horribly, horribly wrong.
I should’ve known things would go wrong when Jeff’s right arm fell off in the boot of my car. That shocked me a bit, yet when I positioned Jeff on the couch facing the TV, his one remaining arm placed on the back of the sofa, I thought it was hilarious. Decided that it was funnier this way so I left that right arm in the boot of my car. Jeff was ready for my greatest April Fool’s prank yet.
​
Hey, I need help taking this couch out to the curb, would you mind coming over.
Jesus, I thought you’d never ask. That couch is a piece of shit, I’m glad you’re getting rid of it.
Okay, okay. It’s a shit couch and I will have to throw it out after I put a corpse on it but still.
Anyway, so Tom comes over and I make a promise we’ll go out for drinks afterwards. We been both down in the dumps after Jeff passed away so it made sense. Greeted him at the door and we both weakly smile at each other. To be honest, we were both still hurting after losing our friend.
That’s why this prank was so important, I knew it would put a smile on Tom’s face. I led him down the hallway and motioned for him to sit in the living room while I got us some breskis (yeah I still call ‘em brewskis, what of it?).
“Yeah just sit down and I’ll bring us some beers. Oh, I invited someone else to go out with us…”
“Who?”
“You’ll see.”
“I hope it’s not Darrel, he annoys the shit out of me.”
So I motioned him to the living room as I quickly skipped off into the kitchen. I tried to make as little noise as possible since I wanted to hear what Tom said. But I still hadn’t heard anything when I reached the fridge.
He was probably stunned, I thought to myself. Not the reaction I wanted but I’ll take it. However when I reached inside to grab the beers I stopped when I heard the sound of a low humming. Frozen, I turned to my right and saw…my oven was on.
Odd, I didn’t remember turning it on.
I walked slowly over to the oven and turned it off. As I stood there I realised that the house was eerily silent and I still hadn’t heard Tom say anything.
Must be scared shitless.
Eager to scare him again, I tiptoed back to the living room and waited outside the doorway to listen in.
Again, no sound.
Undeterred, I jumped out from behind the wall and pointed a beer at Tom sitting on the couch and said, “Hah! Got ya! April Fool’s!”
But he just stared at me confused and raised his eyebrows.
“It’s Jeff! Don’t you-“ I said as I pointed to where Jeff’s corpse was sitting.
Was sitting.
He wasn’t sitting there no more.
Tom’s face changed from that of confusion to pity. He sombrely stood up and walked over to me as I stared at the space where Jeff’s body used to be. Wrapping his arms around me he said, “I miss him too bro. I miss him too.”
Rejecting his comforting embrace, I pushed him off. We both stared at each other dumbfounded before I cracked up laughing. It just came to me.
“Ah! You got me good. You really got me good there.”
He looked at me even more confused than before. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Where’d you move his body? And so quietly, you wouldn’t believe the amount of noise I made getting him in here.”
Tom raised his hands as if he were trying to grasp what I was telling him only for it to slip through his fingers. “What the hell are you talking about? What body?”
“Jeff, man.”
“Jeffman? Is it like some kind of doll?”
He seemed to play naïve really convincingly so I just kept going. I wasn’t going to be outpranked.
“You know, I should’ve expected this.” I placed my hand on my hips in my “aw shucks” pose, playing the good sport in an attempt to lull him in a false sense of security…where I could prank him. “So where’d you put him?” I looked around the living room but there weren’t many places you could hide a dead body. He wasn’t laying directly in front of the couch, no bulges behind the curtains, wasn’t hiding underneath cushions-
“You still haven’t got over Jeff’s death yet, have you?” Tom looked at me with genuine concern and pity but I couldn’t accept that. I just couldn’t. I didn’t go through all that trouble just to be outpranked. I get it, he was probably thinking of the same prank, that’s why he didn’t react, that’s why he calmly moved the body out of sight, that’s why he’s acting like this. No, I wouldn’t let myself be beaten like this. For Jeff’s sake.
So like some cartoon detective I scoped the room, inspected around every piece of furniture. Then I stood still with my hand on my chin as if contemplating the series of events to deduce the most probable scenario that occurred.
Tom allowed my little pantomime for a few moments before he chimed in. “If you want, we don’t have to go out drinking. We can just chill here if you want.”
Something in me snapped. I think it was just the state of confusion I was in but I just interpreted that innocent gesture of friendship for smug gloating by the victor.
“Oh ho. You think I’m going to fall for that? Then you’ll just bring out Jeff’s dead body and punk me when I least suspect it. I’m not falling for it.”
“Jeff’s dead body?”
“Why continue with this game any longer? I’ll put all the cards on the table. I’ll show you my hand. I’ll pull back the curtain. Let’s lift up the fog of war, reveal the entire map. I know you have Jeff’s body, the one I placed right there. But I will not, I will not allow you to prank me!”
“Prank you? Jeff’s body? What the hell are you talking about?”
It’s cold. It’s so cold.
We both froze in fear. A strange voice echoed through the house from outside the room. Tom and me stared at each other.
“Is that another one of your April Fool’s pranks?” Tom whispered to me. I meekly shook my head, no.
It’s so cold. Everything is cold.
Even though I was struck with fear, there was something about that voice that felt familiar, warm, inviting…
Tom walked over to the doorway and peeked his head out.
“I think there’s somebody else in the house.”
My legs felt like they were planted into the floorboards and I just couldn’t move. Beads of sweat started running down my forehead dropped on to the floorboards. The idea that the voice was…that the voice was Jeff bounced around my skull. All the different explanations were racing around my head, passing each other, ducking, diving, doing somersaults, I wasn’t able to think clearly at all. I wish I was in a daze, it was more like I was being bombarded with possibilities, both unreal and fantastic, my sanity being held up through sheer inertia from my twenty plus years of life rather than a concerted effort of mental will on my part. I could feel myself breaking down when Tom clasped my shoulder and his fierce eyes met mine.
“Do you have a gun in the house?” He whispered sternly.
I shook my head.
“I think we should take him. He can’t win the two of us. We’ll show him not to mess with a man’s house.”
That was the last thing I wanted to do.
But Tom pulled me into the hallway and I was still too shocked to put up any kind of resistance.
We treaded to the kitchen, the only noise in the house was my heavy breathing until we reached the kitchen, greeted by that same humming sound from before: the oven.
Which I turned off.
“He’s not here.” Tom growled.
Instinctively went over to the oven and turned it off again. Standing there, I remembered to breathe. I know that’s funny to say, but this situation was all so surreal. I looked over to Tom who was peering down the corridor, his body behind the wall. I wasn’t even sure what we were going to do once we caught this “intruder”. Beat him up? Did he steal Jeff’s body? Or was he…
“Hey, come over here.” Tom motioned his hand over to the doorway next to him.
As if I had no will of my own, I crept towards him and listened tentatively as I stared down the dark hallway.
The sound of running water.
I heard the sound of running water coming from my bathroom, opposite my bedroom.
I don’t remember leaving a tap on either.
“This cocky son of a bitch is taking a shower? Man, people these days.”
“Maybe we should leave and call the-“
“Leave? This is your castle bro. Nah, we’ll teach this punk not to mess with a man’s castle.”
And with that awe-inspiring call to arms (sarcasm) Tom ran down the dark hallway, his stomping reverberating the house. Surprisingly calm-headed considering all that was going on, I actually turned on the hallway light just as Tom reached the bathroom door. Underneath him was a pool of water seeping from underneath the door. That didn’t stop Tom though, he snatched at the door handle and flew it wide open where he was then met with a cloud of hot steam. Unprepared, he coughed and waved away the steam from his face, collected himself, and then jumped into the bathroom, creating a splash that flew water into the hallway and screaming, “We’ve got you now punk!”
Of course, I’m a pretty scrawny guy, I wasn’t going to be wrestling anybody in my house, so I just stood at the end of the corridor and waited. And waited. Then waited some more. Then, just as I was about to step forth, Tom exited the bathroom, looked to me and shrugged.
“No one’s in there.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only because Tom’s safe but because maybe there was no intruder, maybe what we heard was just our imagination, or somebody outside or-
“Look, footprints.” Tom pointed to piles of water leading off down the hall and towards…the basement door.
Aw hell no. I wasn’t going to be led into some dark dank basement of doom. Where I would meet my death from the shadows, the spacious underground room where I stored my excess kitchen appliances and old chairs, serving as a permanent tomb for my corpse stuck in a position of sheer abject terror for all eternity.
But Tom thought otherwise.
“We got him cornered now.”
“Wait, what?”
Before I could even tell him to stop, Tom had bolted to the basement door already. But what would he find? Was it an intruder, or was it Jeff? My imagination got the better of me, the only way to save Tom from certain death was to confess.
“Tom, I don’t think it’s an intruder.”
“What?”
“It’s Jeff. I think it’s Jeff.”
“Jeff? Bro, he’s dead. I get it, this is traumatic, someone invading your home, and you’re piling on more trauma. It’s like the trauma are plates and your life is a barbell and you just want to get that one rep max on your deadlift (I swear this was word for word what he said, I’m not making that up, he really is a nice guy even if he's self-obsessed). But I’m here to be your spotter bro, I’ll help you through this. But I need your help. Get over here.”
Knees trembling, I slowly shuffled down the corridor, my mind was racing as to what I would find down in the basement. I stepped through the puddle of water, I didn’t even care that the water was still running, yet that only reminded me of how dry my mouth had become, I was struggling to breath as I got closer and closer to Tom, who was looking at me eagerly as if I was going to be of some use to him. But I knew him better than that, even though he was ready to open that door, I could see him fidgeting with the door handle, likely just as terrified as I was of the intruder in the basement.
But that intruder is Jeff, isn’t it? I thought to myself. Two best friends, ready to confront their dead best friend.
I reached Tom and he patted me on the back. But all I could think about was that he wasn’t ready for what was down there. I opened my mouth.
“Jeff’s down there.” I screamed out.
Tom just looked at me perplexed. “Huh?”
“I dug up his body. I was going to prank you. But now I think he’s raised from the dead. We can’t go in there.”
Perturbed, Tom shook his head. “Get yourself together bro.” Then I could see the resolve in his eyes and fear gripped my chest because I knew what he was going to do next. “We’re doing this.”
Tom threw open the door and turned on the basement light to reveal…nothing. Nothing except old pieces of furniture and kitchen appliances. We both looked at each other dumbfounded.
​
After that Tom ushered me out of the house where he then called the police. When the police arrived, they combed the place twice over but found nothing. Nothing, that is, until they asked me to open the boot of my car.
“Why?” I asked. I looked over to Jeff for support but he sheepishly looked away, then I realised he betrayed me.
“It was just meant to be a prank.”
I kept repeating that as one of the officers watched over me as I opened the boot of my car to reveal Jeff’s right arm where I left it. That was enough to take to the local station. Later on I heard they inspected Jeff’s freshly dug grave and couldn’t find his body. His parents were so furious they wanted the police to charge me with every felony they could.
The officer just told me they’ll keep me locked up in the local station until I settled down. He thought I was so grief stricken that I dug up my best friend to be with him one more time…but it was still against the law. And what better way to get over your grief than spending the night in a jail cell?
So I did. It was cold, very cold. I was lying down in the cot, my eyes wide awake, running over the events of that day in my head when I heard a familiar, warm, inviting voice from outside the cell.
“You know, for what it’s worth…”
There he was. Standing on the other side of the bars was Jeff. Dead as when I dug him up, his eyes bulging, his lips pared back with teeth glaring, his cheeks sallow and sunken, skin flaking off his entire body. Dressed up in his black tie and white shirt. He stood there and kept talking.
“I thought it was a really funny prank. Really funny. I’ll have to prank you back sometime.”
I screamed so loud I must have caused myself to pass out from a lack of oxygen, at least that’s what the officer said. I don’t know about that but as I’m lying in this cell, having been charged with intentionally disinterring human remains, writing this to Reddit on my phone, I’m glad I’m locked up. I’m safe here. I can’t get pranked here.
If you see a man in a black tie and white shirt, maybe holding one of his arms, probably not looking the healthiest, tell him it was a prank. Tell him it was meant to be funny. Tell him April Fool’s day is over. Tell him he doesn’t need to get me back.
It was just a prank.

There was a man behind the turnstiles.
A plain-looking man, tidy, lean, with a languid expression across his face. He waited amongst the flood of professionals scurrying through the lobby in all directions. Had it not been for his crisp suit and flat cap he may have faded into the background, lost in the flurry of activity and the din of the lunch-hour traffic.
I wouldn’t have noticed him, had it not been for the sign he was holding with my name on it.
“How long has he stood there?” I asked.
Judith popped her head up from the classified ads and replied, rather disinterested, “Oh, just about an hour now, surely.” I had known the head of security for years, but could never picture her laying herself on the line for the safety of others. She rarely left her stool. And her co-worker was a new face, but he seemed more of a boy than a man.
There was no reason to suspect this man of anything other than jamming up my Monday afternoon. But still…something felt off about the man, and I was not the type for surprises.
I took him in a moment longer. He greeted me from afar with the tilt of his hat.
“Can we not send him away?” I asked Judith, dialling my voice down to a polite whisper.
“We’ve tried,” she responded, “short of ushering his ass to the curb there’s really nothing we can do.” She glanced back at her partner playing on his phone and looked up at me with an abrupt confidence. “We’ve got no problem doing that though. Just give us the word.” She returned to her paper, casually turning the page.
I managed to fight off a chuckle, but a rogue smirk emerged.
“He’s adamant he was sent to get you,” she mentioned tauntingly. “Says he can’t leave until he sees you.”
I sighed, muttering under my breath. “I really don’t have time for this shit, Jude.” Not with the mountain of emails flooding my inbox. Not with the back-to-back conference calls and meetings. The news had hit last week, but the aftermath had a cascading effect that seemed to be endless. It meant a lot of late nights and splitting headaches.
The gates beeped as I swiped my card and walked through. I stormed the desk from the other side.“If I’m not back by 1:30 PM, please give Stella a ring.”
Judith mumbled something back in the vague spirit of yes. The boy didn’t even look up from his phone.
“Mr. Mooney?” Tucking the sign underneath his arm, he graciously held out his hand.
“Splendid,” he replied, turning for the exit. “We’re rather late. It shouldn’t be a problem if we leave now.”
“Hold on a second, will you?”
The man’s forehead bunched up.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
The thin smile was wiped from his face. Stroking his bottom lip, he seemed to ponder a response, but no words were offered in return.
“Who sent you?” I repeated.“It’s a simple question, really. My assistant has no memory of an appointment over lunch hour and my calendar remains empty. Quite frankly, I’m inclined to send you on your way.”
More stroking, his fingers now migrating to his chin. After another pause, he spoke softly, “We really must be going, sir.” For a second, I detected a hint of fear.
“And where would we be going?”
His mouth opened, albeit brief, before regretfully clamping shut. More silence. Averted eyes. I scoffed and left him in his place. I made it down the hall and halfway up the lobby stairs, the smells of the food court on the tip of my nose, before I felt a firm grip on my shoulders.
His words were sheltered under his brown leather glove, but his voice was brash and urgent. “Shall we step outside, sir? So we can talk?”
I studied the man as lunchgoers continued to pass. Appalled by his sudden use of force, but intrigued by the veil of secrecy, I stepped out into the brisk wind with him. The sounds of the city followed us to the polished limousine. Snow fell delicately from the cloud-filled skies.“This better be good, or so help me God.”
He leaned against the vehicle with slumped shoulders, and I could feel it in his gaze.
It was the look of a man just trying to do his job.
“It’s Mr. Walter Whaylen, sir,” he whispered. The breeze nearly blew the hat right off his head.
Walter Whaylen, you dirty dog. The name stirred up some unforeseen butterflies in my stomach. Amid a potential sales process, competitors would do just about anything to sweeten the deal; the line between “gift” and “bribe” were blurred, which didn’t bother me in the slightest. I had fought tooth and nail to rise to my position, there should be a little whipped cream at the top for executives, as far as I was concerned. That was how negotiations worked.
But Walter Whaylen was an unlikely buyer. Somewhat of a mystical entity, known for being a cutthroat and ruthless bastard in his consolidation approach; it was a name often feared, and a face rarely seen. A powerhouse in the asset management territory, but entirely absent in the insurance space, from what I could remember. But maybe that was the point. Everyone needed life insurance. And I welcomed the challenge with open arms. I had been known to be a shrewd, stubborn bastard myself.
“It was meant to be a surprise, sir,” the man added, nervously. “So, please…no mention, will you?”
“Of course. My lips are sealed.”
There was a sudden breath of relief from the man. “Come along, then,” he urged, holding the door open. “We mustn't keep him waiting.”
I slid into the back seat, as the last gust of winter air and city racket swept into the vehicle. The smooth heated leather welcomed my frigid fingers. The door shut with an empathetic thud.
The engine hummed as he turned the key. Then a grin poked up at me from the rearview mirror.
“You’re riding in the T4 S-Class,” he said, his pale eyes glimmering with pride. He continued to rattle off the extensive upgrades the vehicle offered. Bulletproof windows. A complimentary bar, stocked as generously as a nightclub. Shelving units stored with snacks and beverages. Everything one could wish for. The glee seemed to ooze out of the man in this environment where everything seemed to dazzle, and he was in control.
I caught a glimpse of him searching my reflection in the mirror, looking for some sign of acknowledgment or recognition. My eyes were largely fixed on my phone. An email regarding the Woodworth estate had just popped up. Another requesting updated powerpoints for the upcoming board meeting. I told him it was all very nice and tended to my work.
I hate to admit it, but I had become accustomed to certain luxuries. It was where we were going that got my juices flowing. Lunch at a Michelin restaurant? Box seats for a home game? Greg had stories of hush-hush underground strip clubs. What kind of man was Walter Whaylen?
“You know, the president hasn’t ridden in something like this,” he noted, sharply, pulling the vehicle into motion. “The president, Mr. Mooney.”
The man’s smile vanished as he placed his finger on the button. The privacy screen vibrated upward.
***
In the end, it was a phone call that woke me. I wiped the trail of drool from my cheek and patted the damp collar of my dress shirt. How long had I been out? I panicked. For the first time in a long time I had dreamed—the bleary visions left vague wisps of something dark, something sinister, the details of which eluded my memory but left me with a groggy mind and pounding heart.
The heat was turned up to an uncomfortable level. Sweat pooled up in dark stains around my pits, beads dripping down my brow. But most of all, I felt disconnected. I clawed at my pockets, the ringer still dancing its merry jingle. I gawked in horror when I realized where it was coming from.
The tune sailed back to me from the front seat.
The eyes of the driver met mine, gleaming in the rearview. The look was far from dull now, it was something frightening, a look ablaze with something…something I didn’t quite trust.
“Nice nap, Mr. Mooney?”
The ringer died.
“Yes…thank you,” I mumbled back, still stunned by the strange predicament. With the privacy screen lowered a crack, I could just make out the hazy beams of the headlights chopping through an otherwise crippling darkness. The road was rocky, bobbing the vehicle from side to side as the gravel and lack of street signs sent me into a flurry of distress.
How long had we been driving?
“We’re getting close now. Don’t worry.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?” I probed.
…And why was it so dark?
The tint was impossible to see through now, but what I could make out around me left me wary. Strange greys, flickers of discolored shadows, splashes of faint light dancing behind the shaded windows.
And the suffocating blackness up ahead.
“Well, Ken—” the driver started. The car suddenly lurched to the left, steamrolling through something solid. “The truth of the matter is we’re almost there. But you’ll need to be making a decision.”
“Give me back my phone,” I ordered. “I’ll dial Walter Whaylen directly. Wait till he hears about this wild goose chase you’ve put me through. You need to stop this. Now.”
“There’s no stopping here, sir,” the man laughed, madly. His eyes were wide and alert, both hands gripping the wheel with tense wrists. “No, you wouldn’t want that at all.” It was as if the flat road had disappeared, the car was now bumping and jerking its way down a tiny hill of moguls.
He reached over his shoulder and lazily tossed back my phone. It toppled backward, inches from my lap. “It won’t do you much good, but here.”
Scrolling past the emails and missed calls, the worrisome text messages from Stella and my wife, I found myself in tears.
“Tell me what you want?” I begged. “If it’s money, you can have it. Just let me go...Please...”
“It’s not what I want,” the man said, “it’s what he wants. And please, consult whoever you need to make your decision. It’s a big one, after all. And Mr. Whaylen drives a pretty hard bargain.”
My hand shot to the door handle. It didn’t bulge. It burned. I recoiled from the touch, the skin on my palm raw and searing with pain. Something guttural escaped from inside me, whimpers mixed with moans of dread.
We were heading down an unsteady decline. It felt like a cruel ride, the roller coaster creeping inch by inch before the inevitable drop.
“Where the hell are you taking me—” I yelped, searching for a name and realizing there was none to speak of—no name tag clipped to his lappel. No company logo. No identification.
“Who are you?” I trembled.
“Names,” he shook his head, “names like Walter Whaylen, Mr. Mooney…These things are just labels. Pseudonyms,. Something to serve the higher calling. What you need to be concerned with is your decision.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I sneered.
“Are you willing to sell?” he smiled, a nasty, conniving grin. “He wants everything.”
I kicked at the window, my feet pounding against the glass like a tantruming little boy. Each stomp bounced back, the scent of burnt rubber in the air. “Let me out!”
“Or we can keep driving. You choose.”
“Let me out!” I screamed, emptying my lungs in a shrill shriek that dissipated into a fit of sobs.
“We’re about to hit the tunnel now,” the man warned. “I’ll need an answer...and quickly.”’
The darkness gave way to haunting flickers of light off in the distance. As we approached closer, I could see the glowing eyes. Millions of cloudy beads, their ghoulish skeletons and the thump and whump of the vehicle running over their outstretched gnarled hands. Their flesh slipped off their bones like goop. An arc of flames steadily approached, plumes of brimstone and clouds of souls whisking around the entrance in billows of demented faces. They floated towards the vehicle as the rusty gate slowly swung open. More bodies approached the vehicle, bringing their choruses of wails. There was scratching at the windows now, on the rooftop, the undercarriage. The creatures clung on, clawing desperately to get in.
The man placed his sunglasses on and took a heavy breath. He made one final glance in my direction and shrugged:
“Suit yourself.”
Then we passed through the gate.
***
There was the phone in my palm again. The sunlight, the sounds of the city pouring in before the door slammed shut.
This time, I noticed the light dusting of snow that trickled in from my suit. The flakes sparkled as they fell before melting away into nothing by the heat of the seat warmers. The simple beauty almost brought tears to my eyes.
The driver's eyes stared back at me in the rearview, flashing with eagerness. “You’re riding in the T4 S-Class,” he continued…a chill sweeping through me. My eyes followed every feature, in order, highlighted with great enthusiasm by the man, and I could do nothing but merely blink. Blink in the hopes that everything would rinse away, that I would be back in the corner office with the drab walls, where nothing seemed to stop, but at least it all made sense.
The driver kept talking while I escaped into my phone. There was the Woodworth estate email. The board meeting request. Every word had been memorized to the punctuation marks. But there was a new notification that leaped forward on the screen.
Have you come to a decision?
I lunged at the driver through the gap in the compartment. My body wedged into the gap, my hands wildly clawing at his back.
Always just out of reach.
“Mr. Mooney!” the man growled. “What has gotten into you? Get back, for God’s sake, sir. Please!”
My fingertips slipped against the waxy twill of his coat. His chest lay flat against the steering wheel, his index finger placed firmly on the button. The swipes were futile, but the effort gave me a sad semblance of control.
The screen rose, the pressure constricting my midriff against the thick sheet of glass and the roof. It forced the air out of my lungs, my teeth gnashed and snarling.
It kept rising, the car still moving.
My head began to swim in flashes of dancing lights and stars. A fierce bolt of pain shot through my midsection as something cracked.
“Sit back, Mr. Mooney,” the driver advised. “We’ll be there, soon enough.”
***
I awoke to a phone call sailing in from the front seat.
Mr. Mooney’s eyes were bright and wide with a shimmer of that woeful, impending doom that he seemed to enjoy.
They jumped playfully from the rearview and back to the darkness up ahead.
The grin slowly came back to his face.
“Nice nap, Mr. Mooney?”
A.P.R.

There was a man behind the turnstiles.
A plain-looking man, tidy, lean, with a languid expression across his face. He waited amongst the flood of professionals scurrying through the lobby in all directions. Had it not been for his crisp suit and flat cap he may have faded into the background, lost in the flurry of activity and the din of the lunch-hour traffic.
I wouldn’t have noticed him, had it not been for the sign he was holding with my name on it.
“How long has he stood there?” I asked.
Judith popped her head up from the classified ads and replied, rather disinterested, “Oh, just about an hour now, surely.” I had known the head of security for years, but could never picture her laying herself on the line for the safety of others. She rarely left her stool. And her co-worker was a new face, but he seemed more of a boy than a man.
There was no reason to suspect this man of anything other than jamming up my Monday afternoon. But still…something felt off about the man, and I was not the type for surprises.
I took him in a moment longer. He greeted me from afar with the tilt of his hat.
“Can we not send him away?” I asked Judith, dialling my voice down to a polite whisper.
“We’ve tried,” she responded, “short of ushering his ass to the curb there’s really nothing we can do.” She glanced back at her partner playing on his phone and looked up at me with an abrupt confidence. “We’ve got no problem doing that though. Just give us the word.” She returned to her paper, casually turning the page.
I managed to fight off a chuckle, but a rogue smirk emerged.
“He’s adamant he was sent to get you,” she mentioned tauntingly. “Says he can’t leave until he sees you.”
I sighed, muttering under my breath. “I really don’t have time for this shit, Jude.” Not with the mountain of emails flooding my inbox. Not with the back-to-back conference calls and meetings. The news had hit last week, but the aftermath had a cascading effect that seemed to be endless. It meant a lot of late nights and splitting headaches.
The gates beeped as I swiped my card and walked through. I stormed the desk from the other side.“If I’m not back by 1:30 PM, please give Stella a ring.”
Judith mumbled something back in the vague spirit of yes. The boy didn’t even look up from his phone.
“Mr. Mooney?” Tucking the sign underneath his arm, he graciously held out his hand.
“Splendid,” he replied, turning for the exit. “We’re rather late. It shouldn’t be a problem if we leave now.”
“Hold on a second, will you?”
The man’s forehead bunched up.
“Who sent you?” I asked.
The thin smile was wiped from his face. Stroking his bottom lip, he seemed to ponder a response, but no words were offered in return.
“Who sent you?” I repeated.“It’s a simple question, really. My assistant has no memory of an appointment over lunch hour and my calendar remains empty. Quite frankly, I’m inclined to send you on your way.”
More stroking, his fingers now migrating to his chin. After another pause, he spoke softly, “We really must be going, sir.” For a second, I detected a hint of fear.
“And where would we be going?”
His mouth opened, albeit brief, before regretfully clamping shut. More silence. Averted eyes. I scoffed and left him in his place. I made it down the hall and halfway up the lobby stairs, the smells of the food court on the tip of my nose, before I felt a firm grip on my shoulders.
His words were sheltered under his brown leather glove, but his voice was brash and urgent. “Shall we step outside, sir? So we can talk?”
I studied the man as lunchgoers continued to pass. Appalled by his sudden use of force, but intrigued by the veil of secrecy, I stepped out into the brisk wind with him. The sounds of the city followed us to the polished limousine. Snow fell delicately from the cloud-filled skies.“This better be good, or so help me God.”
He leaned against the vehicle with slumped shoulders, and I could feel it in his gaze.
It was the look of a man just trying to do his job.
“It’s Mr. Walter Whaylen, sir,” he whispered. The breeze nearly blew the hat right off his head.
Walter Whaylen, you dirty dog. The name stirred up some unforeseen butterflies in my stomach. Amid a potential sales process, competitors would do just about anything to sweeten the deal; the line between “gift” and “bribe” were blurred, which didn’t bother me in the slightest. I had fought tooth and nail to rise to my position, there should be a little whipped cream at the top for executives, as far as I was concerned. That was how negotiations worked.
But Walter Whaylen was an unlikely buyer. Somewhat of a mystical entity, known for being a cutthroat and ruthless bastard in his consolidation approach; it was a name often feared, and a face rarely seen. A powerhouse in the asset management territory, but entirely absent in the insurance space, from what I could remember. But maybe that was the point. Everyone needed life insurance. And I welcomed the challenge with open arms. I had been known to be a shrewd, stubborn bastard myself.
“It was meant to be a surprise, sir,” the man added, nervously. “So, please…no mention, will you?”
“Of course. My lips are sealed.”
There was a sudden breath of relief from the man. “Come along, then,” he urged, holding the door open. “We mustn't keep him waiting.”
I slid into the back seat, as the last gust of winter air and city racket swept into the vehicle. The smooth heated leather welcomed my frigid fingers. The door shut with an empathetic thud.
The engine hummed as he turned the key. Then a grin poked up at me from the rearview mirror.
“You’re riding in the T4 S-Class,” he said, his pale eyes glimmering with pride. He continued to rattle off the extensive upgrades the vehicle offered. Bulletproof windows. A complimentary bar, stocked as generously as a nightclub. Shelving units stored with snacks and beverages. Everything one could wish for. The glee seemed to ooze out of the man in this environment where everything seemed to dazzle, and he was in control.
I caught a glimpse of him searching my reflection in the mirror, looking for some sign of acknowledgment or recognition. My eyes were largely fixed on my phone. An email regarding the Woodworth estate had just popped up. Another requesting updated powerpoints for the upcoming board meeting. I told him it was all very nice and tended to my work.
I hate to admit it, but I had become accustomed to certain luxuries. It was where we were going that got my juices flowing. Lunch at a Michelin restaurant? Box seats for a home game? Greg had stories of hush-hush underground strip clubs. What kind of man was Walter Whaylen?
“You know, the president hasn’t ridden in something like this,” he noted, sharply, pulling the vehicle into motion. “The president, Mr. Mooney.”
The man’s smile vanished as he placed his finger on the button. The privacy screen vibrated upward.
***
In the end, it was a phone call that woke me. I wiped the trail of drool from my cheek and patted the damp collar of my dress shirt. How long had I been out? I panicked. For the first time in a long time I had dreamed—the bleary visions left vague wisps of something dark, something sinister, the details of which eluded my memory but left me with a groggy mind and pounding heart.
The heat was turned up to an uncomfortable level. Sweat pooled up in dark stains around my pits, beads dripping down my brow. But most of all, I felt disconnected. I clawed at my pockets, the ringer still dancing its merry jingle. I gawked in horror when I realized where it was coming from.
The tune sailed back to me from the front seat.
The eyes of the driver met mine, gleaming in the rearview. The look was far from dull now, it was something frightening, a look ablaze with something…something I didn’t quite trust.
“Nice nap, Mr. Mooney?”
The ringer died.
“Yes…thank you,” I mumbled back, still stunned by the strange predicament. With the privacy screen lowered a crack, I could just make out the hazy beams of the headlights chopping through an otherwise crippling darkness. The road was rocky, bobbing the vehicle from side to side as the gravel and lack of street signs sent me into a flurry of distress.
How long had we been driving?
“We’re getting close now. Don’t worry.”
“Where the hell are you taking me?” I probed.
…And why was it so dark?
The tint was impossible to see through now, but what I could make out around me left me wary. Strange greys, flickers of discolored shadows, splashes of faint light dancing behind the shaded windows.
And the suffocating blackness up ahead.
“Well, Ken—” the driver started. The car suddenly lurched to the left, steamrolling through something solid. “The truth of the matter is we’re almost there. But you’ll need to be making a decision.”
“Give me back my phone,” I ordered. “I’ll dial Walter Whaylen directly. Wait till he hears about this wild goose chase you’ve put me through. You need to stop this. Now.”
“There’s no stopping here, sir,” the man laughed, madly. His eyes were wide and alert, both hands gripping the wheel with tense wrists. “No, you wouldn’t want that at all.” It was as if the flat road had disappeared, the car was now bumping and jerking its way down a tiny hill of moguls.
He reached over his shoulder and lazily tossed back my phone. It toppled backward, inches from my lap. “It won’t do you much good, but here.”
Scrolling past the emails and missed calls, the worrisome text messages from Stella and my wife, I found myself in tears.
“Tell me what you want?” I begged. “If it’s money, you can have it. Just let me go...Please...”
“It’s not what I want,” the man said, “it’s what he wants. And please, consult whoever you need to make your decision. It’s a big one, after all. And Mr. Whaylen drives a pretty hard bargain.”
My hand shot to the door handle. It didn’t bulge. It burned. I recoiled from the touch, the skin on my palm raw and searing with pain. Something guttural escaped from inside me, whimpers mixed with moans of dread.
We were heading down an unsteady decline. It felt like a cruel ride, the roller coaster creeping inch by inch before the inevitable drop.
“Where the hell are you taking me—” I yelped, searching for a name and realizing there was none to speak of—no name tag clipped to his lappel. No company logo. No identification.
“Who are you?” I trembled.
“Names,” he shook his head, “names like Walter Whaylen, Mr. Mooney…These things are just labels. Pseudonyms,. Something to serve the higher calling. What you need to be concerned with is your decision.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I sneered.
“Are you willing to sell?” he smiled, a nasty, conniving grin. “He wants everything.”
I kicked at the window, my feet pounding against the glass like a tantruming little boy. Each stomp bounced back, the scent of burnt rubber in the air. “Let me out!”
“Or we can keep driving. You choose.”
“Let me out!” I screamed, emptying my lungs in a shrill shriek that dissipated into a fit of sobs.
“We’re about to hit the tunnel now,” the man warned. “I’ll need an answer...and quickly.”’
The darkness gave way to haunting flickers of light off in the distance. As we approached closer, I could see the glowing eyes. Millions of cloudy beads, their ghoulish skeletons and the thump and whump of the vehicle running over their outstretched gnarled hands. Their flesh slipped off their bones like goop. An arc of flames steadily approached, plumes of brimstone and clouds of souls whisking around the entrance in billows of demented faces. They floated towards the vehicle as the rusty gate slowly swung open. More bodies approached the vehicle, bringing their choruses of wails. There was scratching at the windows now, on the rooftop, the undercarriage. The creatures clung on, clawing desperately to get in.
The man placed his sunglasses on and took a heavy breath. He made one final glance in my direction and shrugged:
“Suit yourself.”
Then we passed through the gate.
***
There was the phone in my palm again. The sunlight, the sounds of the city pouring in before the door slammed shut.
This time, I noticed the light dusting of snow that trickled in from my suit. The flakes sparkled as they fell before melting away into nothing by the heat of the seat warmers. The simple beauty almost brought tears to my eyes.
The driver's eyes stared back at me in the rearview, flashing with eagerness. “You’re riding in the T4 S-Class,” he continued…a chill sweeping through me. My eyes followed every feature, in order, highlighted with great enthusiasm by the man, and I could do nothing but merely blink. Blink in the hopes that everything would rinse away, that I would be back in the corner office with the drab walls, where nothing seemed to stop, but at least it all made sense.
The driver kept talking while I escaped into my phone. There was the Woodworth estate email. The board meeting request. Every word had been memorized to the punctuation marks. But there was a new notification that leaped forward on the screen.
Have you come to a decision?
I lunged at the driver through the gap in the compartment. My body wedged into the gap, my hands wildly clawing at his back.
Always just out of reach.
“Mr. Mooney!” the man growled. “What has gotten into you? Get back, for God’s sake, sir. Please!”
My fingertips slipped against the waxy twill of his coat. His chest lay flat against the steering wheel, his index finger placed firmly on the button. The swipes were futile, but the effort gave me a sad semblance of control.
The screen rose, the pressure constricting my midriff against the thick sheet of glass and the roof. It forced the air out of my lungs, my teeth gnashed and snarling.
It kept rising, the car still moving.
My head began to swim in flashes of dancing lights and stars. A fierce bolt of pain shot through my midsection as something cracked.
“Sit back, Mr. Mooney,” the driver advised. “We’ll be there, soon enough.”
***
I awoke to a phone call sailing in from the front seat.
Mr. Mooney’s eyes were bright and wide with a shimmer of that woeful, impending doom that he seemed to enjoy.
They jumped playfully from the rearview and back to the darkness up ahead.
The grin slowly came back to his face.
“Nice nap, Mr. Mooney?”
A.P.R.

This is a storyline that I find very interesting but it's one that has only been explored through relatively unpopular books and supplements, however it's very important for the Iron Hands. I have seen many newcomers believe that the Iron Hands are the Mechanicus' personal chapter, or that they're utter assholes with no redeeming qualities. Now this is somewhat true, but the Iron Hands have been undergoing a lot of character development in M.41 which is slowly making them a more well rounded chapter. Unfortunately I've also seen this shift described as "Headcanon" so I want to lay it all out here.
So first some context: After the death of Ferrus Manus the Iron Hands shattered into numerous different groups. These groups began to be reunited by Shadrak Meduson who led a guerilla campaign against Horus using small warbands of Iron Hands, Salamanders and Raven Guard working together. While this was successful Meduson grew more and more obsessed with vengeance and hunting down a commander from the Sons of Horus. Believing that anger, a need for vengeance and emotions in general led to Ferrus' death the Iron Fathers (a fusion of Chaplains and Tech-marines that lead the Iron Hands) abandon Meduson to die:

The defection and subsequent death of the Horus Triumphant destroyed both the Morlock and the Enduring Tenth. In turn, their death throes crippled the Sturmdrang and the Strength of Iron.
Meduson’s advantage, like his composure, dwindled to smoke.
Sensing weakness, Marr’s fleet pressed their attack but the battle’s outcome still rested on a knife’s edge.
‘This is reckless.’ Aug’s words crackled through Meduson’s helm vox as he made haste to the launch bays.
‘It’s vengeance,’ he snarled. ‘For Lumak and Nuros, and every one of our sworn brothers who died on that ship. Marr dies. I won’t run from him anymore.’ He passed through the spinal corridor, a train of Iron Hands in tow.
‘To stand and fight now sees us in a losing position.’
‘Does logic tell you that, Aug?’
‘Must I answer that?’
The doors parted with a soft hiss. Light and sound briefly flooded the corridor before the doors sealed shut again behind Meduson and his warriors.
‘Asked and answered, I’d say. I defy your logic – it has brought us nothing but pain.’
‘It is the Iron Creed,’ said Aug. ‘It is the reason we still survive and shall go on to survive after this. I implore you, Shadrak, turn back. Retreat and salve our wounds. Honour Lumak and the others.’
Mechosa went on ahead, hailing the enginseers and ensuring every boarding torpedo was ready for imminent launch.
‘There is no honour in retreat, Jebez. Bring the Iron Heart within minimum range of our boarding craft. As soon as our forces have breached the Lupercal Pursuivant, engage the rest of Marr’s fleet hard. Borgus and Jakkus are poised to commit every asset they have to this. Make sure their launches are simultaneous with ours. I will need the aid of their warriors once aboard. After I cut the head from this snake, the renegades’ stomach for a fight will diminish.’
‘You will not be dissuaded?’
‘I will not.’

...

A ferocious barrage of weapons fire had them pinned behind their boarding shields, an ever-diminishing ring of iron.
‘Aug,’ Meduson bellowed down the vox. ‘Send reinforcements. Every reserve we’ve got. Concentrate on this position. And where are Jakkus and Borgus’ squads, damn it?’
Aug gave no response.
Meduson tried again, but still got the same result. Static. Dead air.
He exchanged a grim look with Mechosa, their eyes just visible behind the glow of retinal lenses.
‘We are on our own,’ said Meduson.

...

The other officers fell into line quickly, or were placed under guard. Aug would convince them of the necessity for extreme measures later. He would convince them it was done for the right reasons, for logical reasons. The Legion must survive.
If only Meduson had realised that and what it meant, instead of pursuing his vengeful and ultimately self-destructive vendetta against Tybalt Marr.
‘It is done?’ asked Rawt, speaking for the newly arrayed Iron Council.
Aug nodded. ‘We shall endure, Iron Fathers. It is the will of the Gorgon.’

• Old Earth

After Meduson's death the Iron hands returned to Medusa where they saught to determine a new course of action to take them into the future

While many Imperial factions bayed for blood and rushed to vent their fury upon those who had betrayed them, the Iron Hands gathered their strength on Medusa and convened the entire Iron Council in a conclave that would be known forever after as the Tempering. It went without saying that vengeance would be their first and greatest motivator, for their Legion had suffered more than any other during the bloodbath of the Heresy. Yet anger could not be allowed to rule, for by following such a path the mistakes of the Primarch would be repeated. Instead, the Iron Hands would have to calculate the most logical, measured course of action and follow it without remorse or division.
The debate ran long, days turning to weeks as all possible theories, doctrines and philosophies were discussed and dissected to an obsessive degree. Occasional outbursts of frustration or angry recriminations punctuated the discussion, each being met with universal disapproval and swift repression. The Primarch had bound the Iron Hands’ wellspring of wrath in chains of discipline and expectation, and though his own emotions might have slipped their leash at the end, the Iron Hands could little afford to allow the same thing to happen to them. Eventually, as the 86th Medusan day-cycle came to a close, the rulings of the Iron Council were announced and put into immediate effect. The Iron Fathers of the council had determined that it was the human race itself that was to blame for the Heresy. The Warmaster’s rebellion had gained such traction only because the Space Marine Legions, the Primarchs, even the Emperor himself, were unable to eliminate human inconsistency from their decisions. Jealousy, avarice, fear – all were suppurating sores upon the human soul that must be seared clean in the fires of war. Trust, too, had played its part, for it was the Primarchs’ trust in one another that had left the Imperium open to the abuses it had suffered. Those guilty of such weakness, the traitors and renegades who had fallen into rebellion, could not be allowed to spread their corruption to others. Humanity must be purged of its flaws in a war unending, lest that same weakness be allowed to take root once more.

However during The Tempering the Mechanicus approached the Iron Hands who were now without a leader and still arguing on the way forward. The Martians offered the Iron Hands secret insights and technology in return for a permanent seat on their council and a say in how they were ran:

Unbeknownst to the wider Imperium, the Tempering also played host to several Adeptus Mechanicus envoys – with their Primarch lost, the Iron Fathers sought new strength to add to their own. The Priesthood of Mars and their Titan Legions had long fought beside the Iron Hands during the days of the Great Crusade and the Heresy alike, forging ever stronger bonds as they did so. In the devotees of the Omnissiah, the Iron Hands saw a mirror of their own doctrine of steel over flesh, a reliable ally who would not fall prey to hubris and pride as had the preening braggarts of the Emperor’s Children. The Iron Council thus deemed it logical to offer the Adeptus Mechanicus closer military ties than ever before. In exchange for the Iron Hands’ alliance and protection, the Martian Priesthood would grant them unprecedented access to the sacred mysteries of the Omnissiah, augmenting their Techmarines’ knowledge far beyond that possessed by their counterparts in the other Legions of the Adeptus Astartes. By the Tempering’s end, the Voice of Mars would be ratified as an official position upon the Iron Council itself, and would be occupied evermore by a triad of senior Tech-Adepts.

• Codex Supplement: Clan Raukaan

While this may seem relatively minor the book Eye of Medusa shows how the Martians came to effectively control the Iron Hands: with the Iron Hands always needed somewhere it was very rare for the Iron Council to actually meet at full strength and with the Chapter riven by factionalism (as we'll get to) the Mechanicus controlled the deciding votes on the council by determining how absent Iron Fathers would have voted:

By an anachronistic mechanism of signalling assent, those in favour raised their hands. Raan and Ares both had theirs up. Stronos counted, his hearts calm, already planning how the loosening of their restrictions would bring the war on Thennos to a swift close. Stronos could see that Verrox and Ares had the backing of the majority, just as the Clan Vurgaan Iron Father had claimed he would. Twenty hands out of the twenty-seven were showing.
‘Those against?’ said the magos, out of ritual completeness.
Eight hands went up, including that of Iron Father Kristos. Stronos was irritated to see that Raan’s other hand had risen, and recalled that the captain was here as proxy to both Iron Fathers Breeka and Siilvus.
‘The Voice of Mars places its vote against, and in accordance with tradition will speak for those who cannot be present.’
The two magi shared a twittering conference. Chiralias Tarl appeared to gesture to the vacant thrones. Talos Epsili nodded and struck his staff upon the metal ground. ‘The votes against have it, twenty-two to twenty. Clan Vurgaan’s request for an alteration to the battle calculus is denied.’
Stronos stared at the podium in shock.
Every one of the absentee votes placed against? How could that be?

[At the end of the book the Voice of Mars Nicco Palpus shows his hand]

‘The vote on Kardan Stronos’ submission to join the Iron Council is scheduled for the next lunar transit. Arrange it to be held tomorrow. He and Yolanis can share a transport. That would be efficient.’
The adept dipped his head, a habit born of repetition, but looked troubled. ‘Will the Iron Fathers not need to be present?’
Palpus’ mask shifted to become one of reassurance, his smile quite genuine though not, he could objectively state, his best. It would be useful to be rid of the would-be Iron Father for a decade or two.
‘Do not concern yourself with that, Danneil. I believe I know how they would intend to vote.’

• Eye of Medusa

While the Iron Council rules the Chapter collectively they do appoint a War Leader who is in de-facto command of the Chapter. In M.41 this eventually led to a massive scandal as Iron Father Kristos was nearly elected, and led the Iron hands to the brink of destruction.
Kristos was an Iron Father seen as bereft of any emotion and brutally committed to logic who had been placed in charge of Clan Raukaan and committed to changing the eclan mentally:

Iron Father Kristos was charged with running a full program of ‘analytical redemption’, working from Raukaan’s command structure downward. Kristos, a Techmarine of some one hundred and eighty years and a long-standing Iron Father, embodied the inhumanity that so many of his Chapter had now embraced. A looming warrior-engineer whose armour concealed a body more than eighty percent augmetic, Kristos had made numerous pilgrimages to the forges of Mars during his life. He was a creature of the Omnissiah’s doctrines through and through, seemingly bereft of emotion, compassion or empathy. On his recommendation, the fallen Iron Captain Maklon was replaced by the relentlessly logical Iron Captain Graevaar, who immediately instigated a regime of additional psycho-conditioning throughout Clan Raukaan. Squad by squad, the clan company’s battle-brothers marched to the conditioning decks, there to submit to long, painful months of cerebral recohesion – this was intended to smother any lingering traces of emotional attachment to the company’s previous Iron Fathers and their questionable methods

But Kristos became mired in controversy after abandoning the Imperial Guard when he found some cool technology to take back to Medusa instead, and straight up slaughtering the Raven Guard:

However, outraged calls for assistance from the Catachan soldiery continued to fall on deaf ears as the Iron Fathers went about their business. For long days, patrols of Iron Hands swept the broken wasteland that surrounded the dig site, armoured columns that travelled in force and crushed any foe they encountered. Though the Eldar made several more attempts to dislodge the Space Marines, these attacks lacked for numbers and conviction. They were swiftly crushed. Meanwhile, under the icy glare of massive lumen-fonts, heavy duty Servitors worked tirelessly. They expanded upon the excavations started by the civilian dig-teams, widening the shafts and ponderously dragging their prize to the surface, one segment at a time. Thunderhawk Transporters ferried shrouded cargoes into space, working day and night to complete their work. In all this time, however, the Iron Hands never strayed from the dig site. The Catachans’ calls for aid went unanswered. Civilian vox-hails were ignored. The Iron Fathers who led the expedition had no interest in aiding their supposed allies, and wasted neither time or resource intervening in their plight.
As the Catachans began to realise these Space Marines were not quite the reinforcements they had hoped for, morale in the ranks plunged. The Eldar were still performing hit and run raids across the planet, instigating savage battles that now had the character of revenge attacks. Suddenly, one morning, the Iron Hands were simply gone. General Dortmund raged over the vox-link as recovery craft descended to ferry the mighty Iron Hands force back to orbit and the Space Marine fleet made ready to depart. Even when a fleet suspected to be made up of Eldar ships appeared on outsystem augurs – coming to rescue their remaining comrades and avenge their leader’s death – the Iron Hands proceeded regardless and the Catachan shouts turned to desperate pleas for rescue. As the Iron Hands ships burned retros and set a course for home, Dortmund received a single vox-response from Iron Captain Graevaar.
‘If you are strong you will survive. If you are weak you will not. Fight hard, General, and prove your worth.’

[Later Kristos went to fight against an Ork Waagh which was being harassed by the Raven Guard]

As the warriors of Clan Raukaan began moving to their posts within the labyrinthine factorysprawl of Urdri, Shadow Captain Stenn of the Raven Guard approached them. Accompanied by his command squad, Stenn extended the Iron Hands’ commanders a greeting and offer of brotherhood. He explained that his force had been effecting a fighting retreat before the oncoming Orks to slow their advance, giving the defenders of Columnus time to prepare. Now Stenn’s men were ready to fight in earnest, and he possessed important information regarding the peculiar strengths of the foe. In response, Kristos’ silence stretched long, growing ever more uncomfortable as his augmetics hissed and whirred. Finally the Techmarine replied.
‘The Raven Guard cannot be relied upon,’ he announced in buzzing tones. ‘You fight like smoke, drifting away in the slightest breeze. Additional: Orks are no new foe to the Iron Hands, you know nothing that our battle simulations have not already told us. We will not fight alongside you, Shadow Captain Stenn, for it is in all we do as Iron Hands to avoid the fate suffered by our Primarch.’ The Iron Father and his men swept past the bristling Raven Guard, the crash of their boots receding as they made for their command-post.

...

Superior systems meant the Iron Fathers had retained contact with one another where the other defenders had not, and they swiftly confirmed that all three primary fortress factories were within hours of being besieged. Already there were isolated warbands of greenskins loose within Kemlos, and millions more were on their way. It was agreed that, with so many of the lesser defenders removed from the equation, even the might of the Iron Hands and Titans present on Columnus could not hope to face the greenskins out in the open. While Iron Father Kristos reported that the Raven Guard had departed Urdri in order to harry the advancing Orks and gather survivors, the Iron Hands saw no valid reason to do the same. Thus it was decided – the three great fortress factories would be islands against which the Orks would break. All Iron Hands would remain within the bounds of the cities, and exterminate the Ork forces as they advanced into engagement range. All Imperial assets beyond the walls would be considered lost and no effort wasted in attempting to rescue those too weak to save themselves. Only when the greenskins had exhausted their strength by hurling wave after wave against the defences would the Iron Hands sally forth and crush what remained of the greenskin threat. It was a logical, pragmatic course of action and the Iron Fathers dispersed to prepare their forces.
Iron Hands battle-brothers marched to take positions on the fortress factories’ walls, or mustered around pre-plotted kill-zones ready to repulse those xenos who broke through. Squadron upon squadron of black armoured battle tanks rumbled into position at key intersections, their crews communing directly with their machine spirits and ready for battle. Deep within the towering bastions at each city’s heart, Chapter servitors lumbered across launch decks and skyshield pads, loading fuel and ordnance into waiting Stormtalon and Stormraven Gunships. Devastators and Centurions of Clans Raukaan and Vurgaan took up positions, synched their minds with their targeting augmetics, and readied their weapons for the arrival of the innumerable horde

...

In both cases, the Orks were close on the defenders’ heels, threatening to overrun them at any moment, yet the Iron Hands had set their plans and combat protocols and they would not deviate. The desperate Imperial forces glanced up at the fortress walls as they pushed towards them, to see only an implacable line of silent black armour topping each.

[The Raven Guard are finally pushed back into the fortress and killed]

As the last Raven Guard fell, Kristos sent a single blip of confirmation through his squads’ vox-network. Seconds later, the entire breach was awash with flame. Land Raider Redeemers played their firestorm cannons back and forth, bathing the bellowing Orks in white hot fire while bolters thundered and plasma guns howled. Warpboss Zagdakka and his entire retinue were annihilated in a single, perfectly coordinated firestorm.

• Codex Supplement: Clan Raukaan

In Eye of Medusa however we actually see them fire upon the Raven Guard:

Stenn gave a grunt of pain as psychic fingers tightened around him and squeezed. ‘Damn you >> RESTRICTED DATA >> Just kill me yourself.’ His armour cracked like a sea-crustacean’s shell, blood spurting from ruptured seals as his body was crushed. He screamed, genhanced anatomy fighting a battle with pain that had been stacked well against it from the outset. ‘Emperor forgive you!’
With every scrap of conscious thought locked away in hardened centres of his brain structure he cursed the Iron Hands. He cursed the casual brutality, the bare calculation of risk versus reward. His last thoughts before those final redoubts succumbed to braindeath were not of the pain, nor of his brother Raven Guard that fell to the mind-blasts of the warpboss’ retinue, nor even of the Iron Hands themselves as they finally descended on the fray. With the enemy leaders bottled up with the last of the Raven Guard, the Iron Hands opened fire. Tactical Marines, Centurions, Land Raiders, each warrior a cog in a war machine that sprayed fire to a perfectly choreographed maelstrom that consumed Warpboss Zagdakka, his retinue, the Raven Guard, and Stenn himself.

While the Iron Hands records show the battle they censor any reference to Kristos and their records are being rewritten to cover up his involvement. The Dreadnaught Ares who was alive during the Heresy comments upon the Martians after showing a Sargeant called Stronos these events via simulation

Perhaps the priesthood of Mars welcome such a trajectory towards the hardness of the machine, but we are crafted in the Father’s likeness. We are gifted with the Emperor’s flesh, and with it comes a burden of responsibility that the machine cannot embrace. Stronos sees. Simulus breeds reliance. It embeds the tried and the tested over the innovative. It becomes a blinker. He sees how our brothers freeze in the face of the unprecedented.’
Not for the first time, Ares’ misuse of the present tense for events centuries past left Stronos momentarily confused. ‘You do not trust the Mechanicus. Why?’
‘We do not distrust, but Mars has its interests as we have ours. To think that they align in all things is irrational, and yet we do so anyway.’

After the battle Kristos was considered the logical choice for next leader of the Iron Hands but many within the Chapter despised what he'd done and a conclave was called:

While the destruction of the Ork threat as a whole might have justified the sacrifice of the Raven Guard force – who, after all, were amongst the Imperium’s finest – their deaths were too high a price for simply blunting the momentum of the Ork offensive. Second was the interference with the Raven Guard vox-links, which was confirmed to have originated from an augmetic signal-shroud upon Iron Father Kristos’ person. Kristos’ supporters, including the respected Iron Captain Graevaar, pointed out that the loss of signal had ensured relations with remaining Raven Guard forces on Columnus were not stretched past breaking point.
Yet Kristos’ detractors on the Council suggested a premeditated intent to ensure the demise of Stenn and his warriors, stemming from an emotional weakness rather than the merciless strength of logic. Finally, there was the most damning evidence of all – Iron Father Kristos had deliberately and wilfully refused inload of information from Shadow Captain Stenn, despite the possibility that this intelligence would have favourably impacted the performance of the Iron Hands. In the face of these allegations, Iron Father Kristos remained unrepentant. He soon drew the support of other Iron Fathers who believed his impeccable record and unquestioning adherence to the doctrines of the Tempering still made Kristos the logical choice for the Chapter’s overall war leader. Yet there was sufficient dissent that it seemed only a conclave of the entire Iron Council could resolve the wider issues raised

...

Though a fair and logical process, it was not a swift one; the years turned to decades as the Kristosian Conclave ground on. What began as an investigation into Kristos’ conduct on Columnus soon escalated into the greatest discussion of Chapter philosophy and doctrine since the Tempering. Were certain Iron Fathers more emotionally compromised than they liked to think, and were overt displays of strength and logic being used to veil this weakness? Should all matters be examined from all viewpoints, as seemed only logical? Alternatively, was allowing points of view contradictory to those laid down since time immemorial a flight into whimsy that would compromise the Chapter’s strength? Even the true purity of continued technological augmentation was called into question, a matter that quickly became known as the question of the soul. Iron Father Kristos refused to change his stance as the years wound on for, as he claimed, he approached all matters from a position of pure and perfect logic. His supporters – the so-called Kristosians – gained leverage as the debate continued

In Eye of Medusa we see some of this conflict and an old man falling over:

Debates blazed over the noosphere, at times simultaneously, conducted in a hyper-dense data-cant that even once removed from the network boggled Stronos’ processors. Periodically, every few minutes or so dependent on the complexity of the matter in hand, one of the Iron Fathers would stir from his stupor and make a verbal pronouncement in such an archaic form of old Medusan that Stronos could decipher one word in six. It was enough to tax even the formidable boredom threshold of an Iron Hand. The cycle of debate and declaration ran without remission for several hours, during which time Stronos slowly began to recognise the divisions between, for want of a better nomenclature, the Kristosian and Verroxian factions. He could not elaborate the content of the debates, but the vehemence of the metadata and the directionality of its movement were impossible to miss.
Verrox’s face was drawn, as though he had performed the equivalent of ten days at peak performance over the last ten hours. He began to deliver a diatribe in the terse, consonant-rich expletive of ancient Medusan. Something about the battle calculus, the undying spirit – the word for ‘escalation’ cropped up numerous times. With a flutter of what might, earlier in proceedings, have been recognised as excitement, Stronos leaned forward to listen. This, at last, was what he was here for.
Kristos responded to Verrox’s oratory with a mocking blurt of cant. Verrox then made to rise out of his throne, only to find himself in an inglorious struggle with the hardline tethers and connective cabling that bonded him to his seat, a few of the Iron Fathers that Stronos had already marked as Kristosians laughing at the intemperate display. Kristos himself gave in to no such reaction. He held his throne with an aura of machine aloofness that damned with far greater potency than mere words ever could.

• Eye of Medusa

A lot of this debate surrounded the nature of strength and logic, with the anti-Kristos faction wanting to embrace being more human, individuality and adaptability, while Kristos wanted to embrace following pure logic no matter what.
With the Iron Hands split the Mechanicus was able to take control of their activities, but when the Martians told the Iron Hands of a Slaaneshi incursion Kristos took 800 Marines to go solve the issue, however he also ended up damning himself with his obsession with strength and machine logic.

As the auto-divination shrines chattered out reams of parchment, the Iron Fathers puzzled over the readings from the planet below. Gaudinia Prime was a factory world, its entire landmass given over to the processing of raw materials and the manufacture of weapons for use by the Imperial Guard. It was registered as possessing a labour population of approximately 362 billion souls, spread out across the huge planet’s surface. Now, however, the world’s biomass appeared both to exceed that sum and, impossibly, to be less than zero, the figure fluctuating madly even as the scans came in. Stranger still, from the oceanic algae farms of the coasts to the mountaintop spaceports and their cargo-thrall townships, there was no sign of any life whatsoever, and no trace of the Emperor’s Children. Instead, all signs of life now appeared to be concentrated in one small map-segment of the primary manufactorum, a nation-sized industrial sprawl in the planet’s southern hemisphere. Iron Fathers Stronos and Verrox counselled caution – the twisted machinations of Chaos were impossible to predict, and logic dictated that they gather further data before launching their attack. Iron Father Kristos was inflexible as ever, driven by his determination to destroy any surviving Emperor’s Children forces before they could escape. Hesitation was for the weak, he announced, before ordering a drop assault in full force upon the primary manufactorum.

The Iron hands would discover horrific flesh engines created by the fusion of the civilian population and machinery done by Slaaneshi daemons:

Billions of Imperial citizens had been crammed into this ten-mile space, their flesh and bones melded with the steel, circuits and pipes of the machines. Pistons rose and fell with manic speed, driven by great tangles of bulging human limbs. Melted masses of flesh formed twisted gantries where faces writhed and moaned. Human torsos, skin seared and impossibly bloated, jutted from boiler-stacks. They shrieked endlessly as steaming blood vented from their eyes. Here, cogs of bone and raw, bloodied nerves rotated at breakneck speed. There, daemonic weapons were thrust along fleshy conveyor belts by the peristaltic motion of a billion disembodied tongues. Worst of all was the din, a discordant industrial thunder of jarring voices that tore at the air until the Iron Hands were forced to dampen their audioreceptors.

...

The insult was obvious, for here was steel and flesh combined to create something greater than either

this corrupted Kristos:

Suddenly Kristos stumbled to a stop, his whirring limbs stuttering as he missed a step. Graevaar cocked his head quizzically, flexing his powerfist and scanning the machines around him. There was frantic movement everywhere but nothing to indicate the reason for the Iron Father’s sudden hesitation. Kristos gazed around in a daze, sweeping his augmetic eyes across the flesh machines and muttering. ‘Can you not see it, Graevaar? Do you not hear its song? The perfect utility... the efficiency... the strength...’ Suddenly, before anyone could react, Iron Father Kristos plunged a nest of his mechadendrites into the fleshwet receptors of the machines around him. Graevaar’s living eye widened and Squad Neim raised their weapons in shock as Kristos convulsed, jaws stretching wide to emit a strangled whine of scrapcode

the Kristonians were overcome by this need for perfection:

Everywhere, Kristosian Iron Fathers were being overcome by the twisted perfection of the flesh engines – the harder they attempted to repress their urges with logic, the faster they succumbed. The effect was already spreading to the most heavily augmetic members of Clan Raukaan. Dozens of battle-brothers lunged helplessly for the hellish machines, many gunned down by their horrified brethren as their weakness revealed itself. The rest jammed augmetics into the fleshy flanks of the machines, cramming foetid tubes into their eyes and mouths as they surrendered to the scrap-code’s siren song. Even as the machine-spawn bloated and twisted, turning upon their revolted squad-mates, reality began to shudder and buckle.

The Iron Hands were being attacked by a Daemon born from their own repression and the death of Ferrus:

It was at the precise moment that Ferrus Manus’ head was scythed from his shoulders by the traitor Fulgrim that the Sapphire King came into being. Spawned from the psychic bow wave of Manus’ death, this Daemon was forged from the Primarch’s frustrated pride, his boiling anger and sorrow, and from his shame.
From the moment of its birth, the Sapphire King fed on the repressed emotions of the soul-scarred Iron Hands. It basked in their chained desperation, bound to their fate by the emotions they felt but would not express. The Daemon bedevilled them across the centuries, offering opportunities for damnation disguised as steps away from the weakness they so feared. It nudged the minds of Imperial officials and potential foes, forever seeking to goad the Iron Hands into spending away their humanity like coin. The Chapter bent their every effort to purging the weaknesses of the flesh, never realising that the more they demonised their wants and needs, the greater the hold the spectre of their repressed emotions gained upon them.
As the Kristosian Conclave reached its zenith, the Sapphire King judged the Iron Hands ripe to fall and set its trap in motion. Each Iron Hand carried within his heart a rancid seed, a bomb of repressed passions that could erupt to destroy him at any moment. The Daemon would simply provide the spark to light the flame and watch the Chapter burn upon a pyre of their own emotions.

The Daemon was defeated however when the IH embraced their emotions:

‘Release your anger brothers, let it out before the foe destroys you with it!’ Slowly at first, then faster in a spreading wave, the battle-brothers began to disengage their inhibitor protocols and loose furious battle cries. Emotional floodgates burst open and the Sapphire King shrieked its rage as the repressed energies that had fuelled its spell were vented like steam from a boiler.

Due to this victory Stronos came to the forefront and ushered in a new direction for the Iron hands:

Nearly a third of the Iron Council had fallen into the Daemon’s trap and been lost to corruption, along with many of their battle-brothers. Should this revelation ever reach the Inquisition, it would be disastrous. The Iron Hands found themselves forced to question the very principles upon which they based their existence. The Kristosians had held absolutely to the tenets of the Tempering, their literal interpretation but an expression of the direction in which the Chapter had been moving for thousands of years. Iron over flesh; logic over emotion; the merciless, relentless purge of those weaknesses that threatened ruin. Yet what if this very obsession with emotional excision and the perfection of the machine was a weakness in its own right?
Much reduced, reeling in the wake of the revelations they had been forced to confront, the Iron Council threatened to disintegrate. In an emergency session of the council, panic bubbled beneath the surface as dozens of theories, arguments and proposals were aired and dismissed. How could the Chapter continue, voices asked, if everything they did, everything they stood for, was tainted by the very weakness they had striven against for so long?
It was in this moment that Kardan Stronos came to the fore. Rising from his throne, Stronos unplugged himself and addressed his brothers with his unalloyed, natural voice. The Chapter had been given a gift, he announced. Though their foes tried to lay them low and corrupt their purpose, the Iron Hands had instead seen the potential for darkness within themselves, and had overcome it.
‘Our Chapter was driven to the very lip of the precipice. We were forced to stare over its edge into the stygian depths, into the darkness that awaits us should ever we fall. Yet fall we did not! What saved us from this terrible plunge, brothers? What has proved our redemption? Not logic. Not the desperate, dogmatic purge of all things perceived as weak. It was our souls that saved us, and the strength we hold within ourselves. Our courage. Our choler. It was the qualities which make us more than just unthinking steel that pulled us back from the brink.’
It was at the booming culmination of this speech that he delivered his immortal words, a quote that would be enshrined upon Ironglass plaques across Medusa and beyond from that day forth. ‘With steel we are stronger, but without a soul we are nothing.’
This would be the first day in ten thousand years that the Eye of Medusa had rung to the sound of applause. Despite disquiet from the few remaining Kristosians and the Voice of Mars, Kardan Stronos was elected war leader that same day, and has been reelected at every opportunity since.

The Mechanicus however have begun withdrawing support from their former puppets:

should support be offered by the Voice of Mars – thus far noticeably silent in the conclave – then a mighty weapon indeed would be forged

• Codex Supplement: Clan Raukaan

In the realm of trichology, treatments for alopecia (hair loss) have spanned an extensive gamut, from herbal concoctions to state-of-the-art pharmaceutical interventions. Minoxidil, a vasoactive drug originally intended for hypertension management, has firmly entrenched its position as a front-line treatment for hair loss. Meanwhile, the advent of dermarolling, a procedure premised on microneedling, offers a complementary method to enhance minoxidil’s therapeutic impact. This piece furnishes a meticulous scientific discourse on the interplay between minoxidil and dermarolling, dissecting their synergistic benefits for hair regrowth.

WHAT IS MINOXIDIL AND DERMAROLLING (MICRONEEDLING)?

Minoxidil and dermarolling (microneedling) can complement each other effectively in addressing hair loss. Minoxidil promotes hair growth by increasing blood flow to the follicles and extending the hair growth phase, while dermarolling creates micro-injuries in the scalp, stimulating collagen production and improving the absorption of minoxidil. When used together, they can enhance the effectiveness of minoxidil by facilitating its deeper penetration into the scalp, promoting a healthier environment for hair follicles, and leading to more robust hair growth. This synergistic approach can be a valuable part of a comprehensive hair loss treatment regimen for individuals seeking to improve hair density and thickness.

HISTORY OF MINOXIDIL AND DERMAROLLING

The combination of minoxidil and dermarolling for synergistic benefits in hair loss treatment is a relatively recent development and doesn’t have a long-established historical background. Instead, it has emerged as a result of ongoing research and experimentation in the field of hair restoration and dermatology over the past few decades.
The idea of using dermarolling alongside minoxidil gained traction as medical professionals and researchers sought ways to enhance the effectiveness of minoxidil in promoting hair growth. Dermarolling, or microneedling, was found to have the potential to improve the absorption of topically applied medications like minoxidil by creating microchannels in the scalp, which allow for better penetration of the active ingredients.
This combination approach has been explored in more recent years through clinical studies and anecdotal evidence. It is often recommended by dermatologists and hair restoration specialists as part of a comprehensive treatment plan for individuals experiencing hair loss.
While there may not be a long historical record of using minoxidil and dermarolling together, their synergistic benefits are based on scientific principles and ongoing research. As more studies are conducted and advancements are made in the field, this combination therapy may continue to evolve and become more refined.

HOW MINOXIDIL AND DERMAROLLING TREATS HAIR LOSS

Minoxidil and dermarolling, when used in combination, can potentially treat hair loss by addressing multiple aspects of the condition. Here’s how they work together to promote hair growth:

Minoxidil:

• Promoting Blood Flow: Minoxidil is a vasodilator, meaning it widens blood vessels. When applied topically to the scalp, it can increase blood flow to the hair follicles. This enhanced circulation delivers more oxygen and nutrients to the hair follicles, which can promote their health and function.
• Prolonging the Anagen Phase: Minoxidil is believed to prolong the anagen (growth) phase of the hair follicle’s growth cycle. This means that it encourages hair follicles to stay in the active growth phase for a longer duration, potentially leading to longer and thicker hair.
• Hair Follicle Protection: Minoxidil may help protect hair follicles from the damaging effects of dihydrotestosterone (DHT), a hormone associated with hair miniaturization and male pattern baldness. By extending the anagen phase and increasing the size of hair follicles, minoxidil can counteract the impact of DHT.

Dermarolling (Microneedling):

• Stimulation of Collagen Production: Dermarolling involves rolling a device with fine needles over the scalp, creating controlled micro-injuries. These micro-injuries stimulate the production of collagen, a protein that plays a crucial role in the health of hair follicles.
• Microchannel Creation: Dermarolling creates microchannels in the scalp, which can enhance the absorption of topically applied medications like minoxidil. This allows minoxidil to penetrate deeper into the skin and reach the hair follicles more effectively.
• Improved Blood Flow: The micro-injuries induced by dermarolling can also increase blood flow to the treated areas, further supporting the delivery of oxygen and nutrients to hair follicles.
• Wnt/β-catenin signaling: Intriguingly, microneedling might modulate the Wnt/β-catenin pathway, a crucial signaling cascade implicated in hair follicle development and cycling. By potentiating this pathway, microneedling can further amplify anagen (growth phase) prolongation.
• Stem Cell Activation: The hair follicle bulge houses stem cells vital for hair regeneration. Microneedling, through its inflammatory mediators, might activate these quiescent stem cells, ushering them into the anagen phase.

When used in combination, minoxidil and dermarolling can complement each other. Minoxidil helps to stimulate hair growth, protect hair follicles, and improve overall hair health, while dermarolling enhances the absorption of minoxidil and further promotes follicle health through collagen production and improved circulation. This combination approach aims to maximize the benefits of both treatments and potentially lead to more robust and effective hair growth.

EMPIRICAL EVIDENCE

The combination of minoxidil and dermarolling for hair loss treatment, while promising, is an area of ongoing research, and the empirical evidence supporting its effectiveness is still evolving. While there isn’t an extensive body of research dedicated specifically to this combination, some studies and anecdotal reports suggest positive outcomes. Here are key points regarding empirical evidence:

Clinical Studies:

• Limited Clinical Studies: There are relatively few clinical studies specifically investigating the combined use of minoxidil and dermarolling. Most research has focused on each treatment separately.
• Positive Findings: Some small-scale studies have reported positive outcomes when combining minoxidil and microneedling (dermarolling). For example, a study published in the International Journal of Trichology in 2013 found that microneedling combined with minoxidil was more effective in promoting hair growth in patients with androgenetic alopecia than minoxidil alone.

Anecdotal Reports:

• User Experiences: Many individuals have reported positive experiences with the combination of minoxidil and dermarolling, particularly in online forums and communities dedicated to hair loss. Users have noted improvements in hair density and thickness.
• Enhanced Absorption: Anecdotal evidence suggests that dermarolling may enhance the absorption of minoxidil, allowing it to penetrate deeper into the scalp, potentially leading to more robust results.

RESULTS

Anecdotal reports from some individuals who have used minoxidil in combination with dermarolling suggest varying degrees of success in addressing hair loss. These reported results should be taken as anecdotal and not as conclusive evidence of the compound’s effectiveness or safety. Here are some of the successful results that have been reported:

• Enhanced Absorption: Microneedling creates microchannels in the scalp, potentially improving the absorption of minoxidil and other topically applied treatments. This can enhance the effectiveness of minoxidil.
• Stimulation of Hair Growth: Microneedling may stimulate hair growth by promoting collagen production and creating a more favorable environment for hair follicles.
• Improved Overall Hair Health: Over time, individuals may notice their hair feeling healthier and stronger due to the effects of collagen production and improved circulation to the scalp.

It’s important to keep in mind that not everyone will experience the same results, and individual responses to these treatments can vary. Additionally, the effectiveness of these treatments may depend on factors such as the stage of hair loss, genetics, age, and overall health.
Consistency and patience are crucial when using minoxidil and dermarolling for hair loss. Results are typically not immediate and may take several months to become noticeable.
The confluence of minoxidil and dermarolling promises a paradigm shift in the therapeutic approach to alopecia. By harnessing minoxidil’s pharmacodynamics with the physiological responses elicited by microneedling, this duo paves the way for more efficacious outcomes. It’s imperative, however, to approach this regimen with due diligence, ensuring optimal techniques and safeguarding against potential adverse effects. The evolving evidence base, enriched by ongoing and future research, will further elucidate the nuances of this synergistic approach.

HOW TO USE

Using minoxidil and dermarolling for hair loss treatment requires careful application and adherence to specific guidelines. Here are the general steps for using minoxidil and dermarolling:

• Choose the Right Microneedling Device: Select a dermaroller with an appropriate needle length for hair loss treatment. Typically, needles in the range of 0.5 mm to 1.5 mm are used for this purpose.
• Sanitize the Dermaroller: Before each use, disinfect the dermaroller by soaking it in alcohol for a few minutes.
• Prepare Your Scalp: Clean your scalp and hair thoroughly. You can use a mild shampoo to remove any dirt, oil, or product residues. Pat your scalp dry.
• Roll the Dermaroller: Roll the dermaroller gently and evenly over the affected areas of your scalp in different directions (vertical, horizontal, and diagonal). Apply light to moderate pressure, and be mindful not to press too hard, which can cause injury.
• Apply Minoxidil: After microneedling, apply minoxidil as described in the previous section. The microchannels created by dermarolling can enhance minoxidil absorption.
• Clean and Store the Dermaroller: After using the dermaroller, clean it again with alcohol and allow it to air dry. Store it in a clean, dry place.
• Frequency: The frequency of dermarolling sessions can vary, but it’s typically done every 1 to 2 weeks. Consult with a dermatologist or healthcare professional for personalized guidance on the frequency and needle length based on your specific condition.

Always follow the instructions provided with your minoxidil and dermaroller products, and consider consulting a healthcare professional or dermatologist before starting these treatments. Additionally, be patient and consistent with your treatment regimen, as results often take time to become noticeable.

SAFETY AND SIDE EFFECTS

Combining minoxidil and dermarolling for hair loss treatment can potentially enhance the effectiveness of both treatments, but it’s important to be aware of potential side effects and safety considerations:

Side Effects of Minoxidil:

• Scalp Irritation: Some people may experience scalp irritation, redness, itching, or dryness when using minoxidil. This is more common with the liquid formulation and can be mitigated by using the foam version or by applying minoxidil to a dry scalp.
• Increased Shedding: Initially, minoxidil may cause increased hair shedding. This is often a sign that weaker hairs are being replaced by stronger ones and is usually temporary.
• Unwanted Hair Growth: Minoxidil may cause the growth of fine, vellus hairs (peach fuzz) in areas where it is applied. This is more likely to occur on the face and other unintended areas.
• Systemic Absorption: While topical minoxidil is primarily applied to the scalp, there is a risk of some systemic absorption, which can lead to side effects such as heart palpitations, dizziness, or chest pain. These are rare but should be reported to a healthcare professional if experienced.

Safety Considerations for Dermarolling:

• Infection Risk: There is a risk of infection when using dermarollers. Ensure that the dermaroller is properly cleaned and sanitized before each use. Additionally, be cautious about using it on a dirty or infected scalp.
• Skin Sensitivity: Dermarolling can temporarily increase skin sensitivity. Avoid exposing the treated areas to direct sunlight immediately after treatment and use sunscreen if necessary.
• Needle Length: Using dermarollers with needles that are too long or applying excessive pressure can cause skin damage and bleeding. Choose an appropriate needle length and follow instructions carefully.
• Frequency: Overusing dermarollers can lead to skin irritation and damage. Follow a recommended schedule, usually every 1 to 2 weeks, depending on the needle length and your skin’s response.

Safety Considerations for the Combination:

• Consultation: It is advisable to consult with a dermatologist or healthcare professional before combining minoxidil and dermarolling. They can assess your individual condition, recommend the most suitable treatment plan, and monitor your progress.
• Patch Test: Before starting the combination treatment, consider conducting a patch test by applying minoxidil and dermarolling to a small area of your scalp to check for any adverse reactions.
• Follow Instructions: Follow the instructions provided with your minoxidil and dermaroller products carefully. Do not exceed recommended doses or frequencies.
• Maintain Hygiene: Keep both the minoxidil application and dermaroller sessions clean and hygienic to reduce the risk of infection.
• Be Patient: Results from these treatments can take time, often several months, to become noticeable. Be patient and consistent with your treatment regimen.

If you experience severe or persistent side effects, discontinue the treatments and seek medical advice. Combining minoxidil and dermarolling should be done cautiously and under professional guidance to ensure safety and effectiveness in addressing hair loss.

CONCLUSION

The confluence of minoxidil and dermarolling promises a paradigm shift in the therapeutic approach to alopecia. By harnessing minoxidil’s pharmacodynamics with the physiological responses elicited by microneedling, this duo paves the way for more efficacious outcomes. It’s imperative, however, to approach this regimen with due diligence, ensuring optimal techniques and safeguarding against potential adverse effects. The evolving evidence base, enriched by ongoing and future research, will further elucidate the nuances of this synergistic approach.
References:

• Dhurat R, Sukesh MS, Avhad G, Dandale A, Pal A, Pund P. A Randomized Evaluator Blinded Study of Effect of Microneedling in Androgenetic Alopecia: A Pilot Study. International Journal of Trichology. 2013;5(1):6-11.

Note: This piece serves as an informative overview. Individual responses may vary, and consultation with a qualified medical professional is indispensable before initiating any therapeutic regimen.

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*Last chapter of the week. Thanks for the support. If you're enjoying the story, let me know in the comments and I'll keep it going.
**Something I'd really like feedback on is if you liked the map in chapter 5 and would be interested to see more. I think they bring a sense of 'flavor' to the battle sequences, but equally I have to devote time to making them which could be spent writing. So, eh, weigh it up.
“He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command.”
- Nicolo Machiavelli
-Grindlefecht, Boss Skegga’s stronghold-
He watched the Kobolds groveling beneath his feet, slathered in the blood of their fallen comrades.
Slowly, he began to understand the words they were yammering at him. These little beasties were even dumber than tadpoles, always bumping and jumping and shouting about something.
He leaned forward, allowing the rolls of his fat, slathered in slime and mucus, to loll over the throne of crushed rats and dwarf they had built for him.
“You are telling me you let those rats beat you?”
The Kobold survivors looked at each other, fear overcoming their tiny frames.
“Where is Gith?” he asked.
“He – he died-died, Boss,” one of them barely squeaks.
He sat back and wiped his greasy, webbed fingers over his moist face.
He nodded at the guards around his throne.
“Take them to the pit of stilled-jumps,” he said. “May their souls be swallowed by Dwarf dung."
“N-no Skegga! No, please, I-“
“What is our name?” he asked.
The timid Kobold who had spoken out nodded frantically.
“Sk-Sk-Skeg-“
“MY FIRST NAME!” he bellowed, his jowls shaking with the force of his voice.
“Boss!” the little creatures yip in unison. “B-Boss Skegga!”
“Hmpf!” he snorted. “Your commander died because he did not teach you proper respect. Let the pit be your teacher!”
“N-no!” they yelped as his honor-guard started to drag them away by force. “It was not our fault!”
“Take them from me,” he said with a weary wave of his flipper.
“We have information, Boss!” a desperate Kobold pleaded as he was dragged away by both his flailing arms.
“You cannot tell us anything that we do not already know,” Skegga replied, rubbing his slimy forehead. Honestly! These cretins could tire even the oldest bullfrog.
“They – they had a humie with them!”
Hold on…
“Stop,” he called out to his subordinate guards. “Let this wretched one speak.”
The Kobold was thrown down at the foot of his throne while his compatriots were trundled off to die. He didn’t spare a look back at them.
“I – we – we saw him, Boss Skegga! He show them how to become big metal column! How to wear shields like hats! He – he reason they lives!”
Skegga rubbed his feathered chin. A human…
“Make yourself useful, wretch,” he snarled. “Tell us where the rats of Skeever-Steelclaw were going.”
The little demon jumped at the chance. “K-Knifegut!” he squeaked, remembering Boss Gith’s speculations. “They – they must be going to Knifegut, Boss! It is small fort behind Gulch. Small, weak-weak. Will crumble if we hits it good, yes-yes!”
“Hmpf,” Skegga replied, moderately amused by the little thing’s audacity. “What is your name, mongrel?”
The wretch pelted it out like he was singing for the surface Gods, “Klega, my Boss! I is Klega!”
“Well, little slime,” he said. “You have indeed brought us some most interesting tidbits. You will lead a detachment of our forces to Knifegut and secure this human. He is pivotal to our ascension.”
“Y…yes-yes holy one!” Klega chirped like a songbird. “It will be done! Rat-rats die-die! Human die-die!”
“NO!” Skegga roared, puffing out his great larynx and shaking the very foundations of the ancient stone stronghold. “Bring this human to me – ALIVE.”
“Y-yes…”
“Yes – WHAT?”
“Yes, Boss Skegga! Yes-yes most holy of holies Boss, yes –“
“Give him a detachment of three Skogs and remove him from our sight. He shall ride out immediately.”
The command was given to a thinly veiled figure that stood to attention beside Boss Skegga. A figure who could have blended into any shadow, even that cast by the great horned toad as he lorded over his kobold subjects.
“It will be done, Sire.”
Skegga slammed a slime-coated fist down on his armrest. “How many times have we told you to refer to our glorious form as ‘Boss’?”
The creature bathed in shadow bowed his hooded head, the dark crimson of his eyes gleaming in the dark.
“Apologies, Boss Skegga,” he said. “Old habits are being hard to kill.”
Skegga wiped spittle from his mouth and commanded his throne to rise, displaying his rolls of lumpy fat and gut to all the kobolds around him.
“What a thing it is to control,” he said to his confident as his throne levitated above them all. “How gratifying it is to be a God. Silas, do you not know what this means? The appearance of a human amongst your former brthern?”
From the darkness of his throne room, Skegga heard the twitching of whiskers and a silent acknowledgement.
“You are thinking it is the Shai-Alud, Boss Skegga?”
“WHO ELSE!?” the great toad thundered, laughter spilling out of his bulging throat. “If the time of prophesy has come, then it can only mean that our cause is a righteous one!”
“If you are saying so, Boss Skegga.”
He ignored the chittering of his advisor and let his great arms fly out to encompass all of his realm – a world of ancient stone plundered from the dwarves, where their arsenal of cannons and powdered weapons would prove sufficient to finish his extermination campaign – wiping the Under-Kingdom clean of filth and ushering in the era of the Horned One – of Boss Skegga.
But first, he would make this human kneel before him. If he truly was the Shai Alud, then Skegga would have his secrets. He would hoard them like a dragon’s golden lair. They would be his ticket to dominating the surface, once all this was over.
Then his ‘benefactors’ would know his vengeance. Those damned snake-fiends who thought they could control the world! His world!
The Great horny toad spun back to face his guards, and opened his massive maw – showing them the jaws that would swallow the entire world, in time.
“Ready our forces!” he called out from his flying throne. “The time of the Kleansing has come!”
***
Even as he trudged through a grim, dank tunnel with a squad of fetid rats, Marcus was in his element.
He wasn’t a hard man to please by any means. Give him a pen and paper and he’d commit himself to it with more gumption than a moth to a naked flame. It is true what they say of humans – they can and will make the best of any situation if they put their minds to it.
Marcus was currently scribbling away his observations under the dim light of Deekius’ Glow-Glob, a low-level spell he had conjured up as they passed through the tunnel sections leading from the Black Gulch to Knifegut fortress. Although, as Marcus had soon realized, the word ‘spell’ didn’t quite sit right with the priest. He had taken offense when Marcus had applied the label to a miracle of the Ratman’s God. The more appropriate term was something Deekius referred to as ‘Gloomraav’. Loosely translated, the word was more akin to ‘Incantation’ or ‘chant’ than spell. It also denoted the Ratman’s priest-caste – the Gloomraava - who were led by this ‘Prime Putrefact’ – a rat who served as a kind of Bishop for each different clan.
Marcus had scribbled down all these details as they made their way towards their destination, stopping only at a few points to feast on their captives or collect more secretions from the tunnel walls. His parchments had become his coping mechanism for the things around him which could have easily got even the bravest of stomachs churning.
Marcus was no stranger to horror. His profession demanded that he come to terms with the great slaughters and barbaric sacrifices of the past – from those committed in the golden halls of Tenochtitlan to the occult inner workings of the Ancient Rome’s Haruspex* – his mind was lined with examples of wanton, obscene destruction that resulted from both warfare and religious necessity. However, to see them firsthand would have given him pause if he did not have Deekius’ papers – those notes had become his real shield.
The journey through the tunnels had been quiet – mostly. The chitterings of the rats might have been considered speech, but Marcus had no chance in understanding the finer nuances of their language. Come to think of it, he was surprised that he was able to understand them at all, let alone the cryings of their Kobold enemies.
“The Shai-Alud is said to speak with a voice that commands respect,” Deekius had told him when he asked about it. He assumed that meant that he was simply able to parse their speech and communicate automatically – like his words were being instantly translated.
But if that were true, was he simply hearing their speech in English or, from their perspective, could they hear him speaking Rat?
He decided such a trivial detail didn’t matter in the long-term, and decided instead to devote himself to questions. This was a whole new world, and he was now convinced that it was his duty to document its denizens – no point being a part of history if you’re too ignorant to make sense of it.
So he prodded Deekius and Skeever with queries throughout their tunnel journey, questions about what the world of the Under-Kingdom looked like, politically, culturally, and socially. Some of these questions took some rephrasing, and some of their answers required parsing, but overall, he was surprised to find a degree of sophistication in the structures that dominated their lives.
Aside from He-Who-Festers, who’s faith dominated Ratman religious worship, the Four great kings of each Clan ruled in their section of the underground – known colloquially as the ‘Warrens’. Each Clan occupied a different, and often contested, territory: Clan Glumrot held the South, Clan Nightstalker had the East, Clan Marrow the West and Clan Red-Eye the North. It was the Northern tunnels that they were currently trudging through, and these same tunnels, Skeever explained, that were currently receiving the brunt of the Kobold’s hostilities.
“They are being tiny,” Skeever told him. “But they breed in thousands. One male to every female.”
The rats shuddered at that thought.
“...Isn’t that normal?” Marcus asked, quill in hand.
“’Normal’?” Skeever scoffed. “Perhaps it is being so where you come from, Marcus, but not for we rats.”
With some trepidation, and more than a few challenging looks from Deekius that Marcus couldn’t help but notice, Skeever then went on to explain the beginnings of the ratman life cycle: from the swollen bellies of their Queens a litter of at least one hundred rats would be born from every conception. Approximately 20% would be lost to disease – the so called ‘weak ones’ whom He-Who-Festers had not blessed with immunity – and another 35% were killed by their brethren, so that only the strongest rats survived in a litter. Their breeding problem was exacerbated by the fact that the birth of a female was something so rare that it was barely considered a possibility: in five centuries, there had only ever been five females in the entire Ratman kingdom.
Five female Queens, servicing five Clans.
A new female meant not only the birth of a new life, but the birth of a whole new nation itself – one which would be sired by the King of each clan and him alone.
Of course, this posed an obvious question: why not expand the list of acceptable partners for each queen? The way Skeever put it, a Queen enjoyed a strictly monogamous relationship with the King of her Clan, and no others were permitted entry to her chambers. If lack of manpower in this war was an issue (and from the looks of this tiny, beleaguered force, Marcus assumed it was) then wouldn’t a polyamorous compromise not make more sense to prolong the bloodline of each clan, not to mention sustain their war effort?
Just as he was about to pose such a question to Skeever, the armored Rat stopped him with a single raised fist.
The whole force immediately stood to attention, those at the rearguard quickly silencing their Kobold prisoners.
Marcus crouched low with them and saw a series of long, lithe shadows play across the tunnel intersection that lay ahead of them.
“Movement,” Skeever whispered.
Marcus kicked himself as he felt his heart lurch. His questions would have to wait. He’d just been thrust back into the real world for what it was.
__________________________________________________________________________________
*Haruspex: a diviner in ancient Rome basing his predictions on inspection of the entrails of sacrificial animals.

Previous
Writer's note: I know I've been absent. I'm working hard on publishing the first story and my computer is not liking the sheer volume of shit in the document so it's slow as hell. Ideally it'll be in print soon. Editing sucks, don't do it.
In the meantime we'll get back to Murphy next chapter. Here's what's going on with Eli and Marina.
Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-this just after the surprisingly deadly gang attack in the suburbs outside of Jakesville in Zone two the other day. Witnesses on scene outside the Quarantine Zone's primary Gate checkpoint say they saw a blur of light- likely magical in nature- followed by a series of increasingly violent spell effects and responding gunfire from the Quarantine Zone Security forces. Estimates put the casualties -amazingly with zero fatalities- at roughly sixty officers. Damages are estima-
"MUTE!" Minara Choi exclaims loudly, causing the nearby television to silence itself as she turns in her chair to face the two trouble makers in front of her desk.
Eli doesn't react to the display. He already knew that she didn't really want them here, and the judgmental look on her face as she turns is mostly just a display.
But Marina isn't as experienced as he is. And even as a criminal herself, he doubts she's ever met anyone high up enough in her field of crime to even be within five degrees of separation of the Dragon.
She's nervous.
"The idea of you owing ME a favor is honestly the only reason I've allowed this meeting Eli." She says flatly. "But holy hell why should I stick my neck out for the two most valuable people in the entire QZ? Do you even know what kind of trouble your partner is in?"
"Speaking of..." Eli begins. "Any news on him?"
Minara takes a deep breath. He's pressing his luck. But she can't blame him.
"Last we heard he was running through the woods like a wild man with some kind of cannon." She admitted. "But that's based on old info. No idea where he is now." She considers how much she should tell him. Then decides to just go for it. "They think there was a Muck Marcher chasing him."
Eli's eyes widen at that. There weren't many of the cyborgs left nowadays, and he couldn't imagine Barcadi leaving her post, especially after the news he'd literally JUST seen on the TV.
If RTI had Muck Marchers on their side.... well that was a whole different level of bad.
"Shit." He said.
"Do you like looking like that?" She asks Marina unexpectedly.
"I... what?" Marina asks in surprise.
"The night sister thing?" Minara specifies. "Do you actually like that, or what?"
"I-" She stammers. "I mean. It's pretty. The Night-kin are cool and all."
"Hmm." Minara replies, unimpressed.
"Lady Choi I don't ask much." Eli interjects, trying to get the meeting back on track. "I simply need somewhere to keep Ms. Smith until this whole thing blows over. All legality aside you and your.... organization are powerful enough and large enough that I doubt even RTI would be willing to try anything if she were in your care."
She turns to him as if looking at something she'd just stepped in.
"As opposed to the entirety of the local PD and QZ-sec?" She asks rhetorically. "And whatever other government agencies are involved at this point."
Eli shrugs awkwardly. It's a fair point.
"They... apparently... have some kind of Muck Marcher variant at their disposal." She says agitatedly as she sips from a mug of coffee on her desk.
"That's... news." Eli admits. "Bad news." He didn't mention how afraid that news made him for his longtime partner.
"So tell me why I should risk going against all of that." She says as she sets the mug back down. "RTI, these thugs, this mystery muck marcher, whatever moles they have in PD and QZ, and who knows what else." She nods at Marina. "Tell me why I should take in this young, wannabe night sister, and protect them from all of THAT."
"Because you knew what it was." Eli said.
Marina AND Minara look at him in confusion at that. Eli just shrugs.
"You knew it was a deity level artifact." He said in explanation. "Maybe not EXACTLY what it was. But you knew enough. And don't try to tell me that a few of your people weren't involved in the smuggling part of it to some level."
Marina's eyebrow rose at that as she looked at the, still rather intimidating, queen of the underground.
Minara, to her credit, just stares at Eli as she takes another deep breath.
"You and yours got her INTO this." Eli said, pressing his luck a bit. "Maybe not intentionally or directly. But you knew what she had. And now you know what it's caused. And your cousin the arch mage is the reason the GATE is gonna be down for a while because HE knew what it was when he saw it." He tilted his head a bit as he remembered the explosive meeting at the precinct. "Damn near blew everyone up getting out of there."
"You knew what I was carrying?" Marina asked, speaking for the first time in a few minutes now.
Minara looks at her, and for the first time since they were escorted into the underground hideout through what Eli now knew was a mage's door, her look softens. Instead of angry judgment, it now looks like pity.
"I did." The elder Choi sibling admitted. "Again, like Eli said, I didn't know EXACTLY... what it was. But I knew that it was big. And the movers who took the commission got a big cut for it."
She left out the part where that meant that SHE got a big cut for it.
"Why'd you pick me?" Marina asked as she realized what all that meant.
Minara shrugged. She may have pitied the young cat. But at the end of the day she still ran a criminal enterprise. Sometimes that meant bad things happening to innocent people to make things happen.
"I... didn't." She admitted. "Personally, I don't handle the smuggling at that level. I have people for that."
Marina was about to say something. She was suddenly angry enough to not care about the older woman's station. But Eli held a hand up and shook his head when she looked at him. She was still angry. But she trusted the detective.
"She's lost everything Minara." He said, using her first name for a change. "And whether you were DIRECTLY responsible or not... you had a hand in it. And you're one of the few people on this side of the gate who can do anything to make up for it." Then in Petravian he added. "[Your family knows more than most what it's like to lose a father.]"
Her jaw clenched as she glared at him. The history of the Choi family was a sore subject regardless of which member you were speaking to. Hell, even unrelated members of governments on both sides disliked being reminded of the follies that had revolved around the controversial "Summoned Hero" nearly a century before. Or the resultant chaos caused by his and his brother's offspring, the least of which was matriarch of the criminal organization he was currently entreating with.
"[Pretty low blow for someone who hides their heritage just to get by with Earth humans.]" She replied icily. "[And who abandoned his family's trade in favor of serving Earth laws.]"
Then Eli switched over to his family's tongue.
"[The path through the forest exists only because it has been trod. But that does not mean you must walk on it.]" He said in Old World Elvish, a language that predated even Petravia.
Marina knew SOME Petravian. Enough to maybe order lunch or ask for directions if she needed while in the inner zone. But not enough to know why the air had seemed to chill from the few exchanged sentences. And she definitely didn't know any Elvish.
Nor did either of them miss the way some of the workers buzzing around the room had halted at the exchange, and seemed to be watching Eli more actively now as the silence between the three of them seemed to stretch on.
"It's the least you could do." Eli said finally. "Give her a couch to crash on and a few hard bodies to keep her safe. Only for a few days. A week or two tops. Then when this is all wrapped up and we've got some people in cuffs, you can send her on her way, and I'll owe you a big favor."
Minara simply stared at him in annoyance for several long seconds.
"Was that that stupid parable of the paths or whatever?" She asked with annoyance in a mocking tone. "I swear, every judgmental Elf I meet recites that shit at some point."
Eli looked over at Marina, who was looking at him with confusion.
"It's a good saying." He said with a shrug.
"It's goddam fortune cookie bullshit." Minara Choi spat back. "But fine. Whatever." She pointed at Marina. "You got spare clothes? Of course you don't." She said before Marina could even answer." Then she looked back at Eli. "Any other EEEEAASSSY favors I can do for you SUSPENDED Detective?"
Eli winced, because somehow she'd known that he was going to ask for more. And... he was going to ask for more.
"Any way your people could get me through one of the Gates and into Petravus?" He asked with a pleading look.
Minara Choi looked at him with silent amazement at the sheer balls on the Half-Elf.
"You're kidding right?" She asked.
Then she waved and a couple of the people moving about came over and began ushering Marina over to a large wall of black scales on the other side of the room.
"I need to follow the artifact." Eli replied easily. "I need answers so I can figure out why RegTek wants it so bad. And it's over there with your cousin and uncle."
"Ancestor!" Minara shouted over her shoulder. A pair of dark voids opened in the wall, causing Marina to halt mid step. "Check her. And if she passes then get that garbage makeup off of her and put her in some clothes that actually fit." She instructed her workers.
"And yes." Eli said before she could. "I know the odds of them letting me anywhere near it are almost zero. But I still gotta try. And if you won't get me over there then my only other option is to break quarantine.... and my orders, find my way into zone one and see if I can track Murphy down." He took a deep breath. "And hope like hell he hasn't been killed by or abducted by a Muck Marcher that apparently works for RTI."
She stared at him for several long moments, her lips pressed into a line as she chewed on the insanity of either notion from someone who was essentially out of resources and in what might as well have been enemy territory.
Slowly, she began to nod as she bit her lower lip and cursed under her breath.
Eli watched as she stood up and began to grow in size. The red robe she'd been wearing tore as she turned into her massive dragon form and stomp away.
"Goddam gen one bullshit." She said in a rumbling basso as she began stomping away.
Behind her, Marina managed to look away from the already terrifying drake that had been sniffing her and her eyes bulged as she saw an actual dragon as well.
Neither of these creatures was even supposed to exist on Earth, much less right here in front of her. The fear was enough that she jumped when the massive black drake licked the side of her face.
"Somebody see if they can get this idiot to the SoCal Gate" Minara Choi yelled from the room she'd stomped off into.
Eli was being swept into another room entirely before he even realized what was happening.
"THANK YOU!" He shouted over his shoulder. "MS. SMITH DO AS YOUR TOLD! SHE'S NICER THAN SHE PRETENDS TO BE!!!"
Marina was still staring, albeit with only one eye, at the massive black drake as it continued to lick her face from chin to forehead.
I really should've never started smuggling again. She thought. What the fuck is happening?
[Next]

Previous / First
Writer's note: I know I've been absent. I'm working hard on publishing the first story and my computer is not liking the sheer volume of shit in the document so it's slow as hell. Ideally it'll be in print soon. Editing sucks, don't do it.
In the meantime we'll get back to Murphy next chapter. Here's what's going on with Eli and Marina.
Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-this just after the surprisingly deadly gang attack in the suburbs outside of Jakesville in Zone two the other day. Witnesses on scene outside the Quarantine Zone's primary Gate checkpoint say they saw a blur of light- likely magical in nature- followed by a series of increasingly violent spell effects and responding gunfire from the Quarantine Zone Security forces. Estimates put the casualties -amazingly with zero fatalities- at roughly sixty officers. Damages are estima-
"MUTE!" Minara Choi exclaims loudly, causing the nearby television to silence itself as she turns in her chair to face the two trouble makers in front of her desk.
Eli doesn't react to the display. He already knew that she didn't really want them here, and the judgmental look on her face as she turns is mostly just a display.
But Marina isn't as experienced as he is. And even as a criminal herself, he doubts she's ever met anyone high up enough in her field of crime to even be within five degrees of separation of the Dragon.
She's nervous.
"The idea of you owing ME a favor is honestly the only reason I've allowed this meeting Eli." She says flatly. "But holy hell why should I stick my neck out for the two most valuable people in the entire QZ? Do you even know what kind of trouble your partner is in?"
"Speaking of..." Eli begins. "Any news on him?"
Minara takes a deep breath. He's pressing his luck. But she can't blame him.
"Last we heard he was running through the woods like a wild man with some kind of cannon." She admitted. "But that's based on old info. No idea where he is now." She considers how much she should tell him. Then decides to just go for it. "They think there was a Muck Marcher chasing him."
Eli's eyes widen at that. There weren't many of the cyborgs left nowadays, and he couldn't imagine Barcadi leaving her post, especially after the news he'd literally JUST seen on the TV.
If RTI had Muck Marchers on their side.... well that was a whole different level of bad.
"Shit." He said.
"Do you like looking like that?" She asks Marina unexpectedly.
"I... what?" Marina asks in surprise.
"The night sister thing?" Minara specifies. "Do you actually like that, or what?"
"I-" She stammers. "I mean. It's pretty. The Night-kin are cool and all."
"Hmm." Minara replies, unimpressed.
"Lady Choi I don't ask much." Eli interjects, trying to get the meeting back on track. "I simply need somewhere to keep Ms. Smith until this whole thing blows over. All legality aside you and your.... organization are powerful enough and large enough that I doubt even RTI would be willing to try anything if she were in your care."
She turns to him as if looking at something she'd just stepped in.
"As opposed to the entirety of the local PD and QZ-sec?" She asks rhetorically. "And whatever other government agencies are involved at this point."
Eli shrugs awkwardly. It's a fair point.
"They... apparently... have some kind of Muck Marcher variant at their disposal." She says agitatedly as she sips from a mug of coffee on her desk.
"That's... news." Eli admits. "Bad news." He didn't mention how afraid that news made him for his longtime partner.
"So tell me why I should risk going against all of that." She says as she sets the mug back down. "RTI, these thugs, this mystery muck marcher, whatever moles they have in PD and QZ, and who knows what else." She nods at Marina. "Tell me why I should take in this young, wannabe night sister, and protect them from all of THAT."
"Because you knew what it was." Eli said.
Marina AND Minara look at him in confusion at that. Eli just shrugs.
"You knew it was a deity level artifact." He said in explanation. "Maybe not EXACTLY what it was. But you knew enough. And don't try to tell me that a few of your people weren't involved in the smuggling part of it to some level."
Marina's eyebrow rose at that as she looked at the, still rather intimidating, queen of the underground.
Minara, to her credit, just stares at Eli as she takes another deep breath.
"You and yours got her INTO this." Eli said, pressing his luck a bit. "Maybe not intentionally or directly. But you knew what she had. And now you know what it's caused. And your cousin the arch mage is the reason the GATE is gonna be down for a while because HE knew what it was when he saw it." He tilted his head a bit as he remembered the explosive meeting at the precinct. "Damn near blew everyone up getting out of there."
"You knew what I was carrying?" Marina asked, speaking for the first time in a few minutes now.
Minara looks at her, and for the first time since they were escorted into the underground hideout through what Eli now knew was a mage's door, her look softens. Instead of angry judgment, it now looks like pity.
"I did." The elder Choi sibling admitted. "Again, like Eli said, I didn't know EXACTLY... what it was. But I knew that it was big. And the movers who took the commission got a big cut for it."
She left out the part where that meant that SHE got a big cut for it.
"Why'd you pick me?" Marina asked as she realized what all that meant.
Minara shrugged. She may have pitied the young cat. But at the end of the day she still ran a criminal enterprise. Sometimes that meant bad things happening to innocent people to make things happen.
"I... didn't." She admitted. "Personally, I don't handle the smuggling at that level. I have people for that."
Marina was about to say something. She was suddenly angry enough to not care about the older woman's station. But Eli held a hand up and shook his head when she looked at him. She was still angry. But she trusted the detective.
"She's lost everything Minara." He said, using her first name for a change. "And whether you were DIRECTLY responsible or not... you had a hand in it. And you're one of the few people on this side of the gate who can do anything to make up for it." Then in Petravian he added. "[Your family knows more than most what it's like to lose a father.]"
Her jaw clenched as she glared at him. The history of the Choi family was a sore subject regardless of which member you were speaking to. Hell, even unrelated members of governments on both sides disliked being reminded of the follies that had revolved around the controversial "Summoned Hero" nearly a century before. Or the resultant chaos caused by his and his brother's offspring, the least of which was matriarch of the criminal organization he was currently entreating with.
"[Pretty low blow for someone who hides their heritage just to get by with Earth humans.]" She replied icily. "[And who abandoned his family's trade in favor of serving Earth laws.]"
Then Eli switched over to his family's tongue.
"[The path through the forest exists only because it has been trod. But that does not mean you must walk on it.]" He said in Old World Elvish, a language that predated even Petravia.
Marina knew SOME Petravian. Enough to maybe order lunch or ask for directions if she needed while in the inner zone. But not enough to know why the air had seemed to chill from the few exchanged sentences. And she definitely didn't know any Elvish.
Nor did either of them miss the way some of the workers buzzing around the room had halted at the exchange, and seemed to be watching Eli more actively now as the silence between the three of them seemed to stretch on.
"It's the least you could do." Eli said finally. "Give her a couch to crash on and a few hard bodies to keep her safe. Only for a few days. A week or two tops. Then when this is all wrapped up and we've got some people in cuffs, you can send her on her way, and I'll owe you a big favor."
Minara simply stared at him in annoyance for several long seconds.
"Was that that stupid parable of the paths or whatever?" She asked with annoyance in a mocking tone. "I swear, every judgmental Elf I meet recites that shit at some point."
Eli looked over at Marina, who was looking at him with confusion.
"It's a good saying." He said with a shrug.
"It's goddam fortune cookie bullshit." Minara Choi spat back. "But fine. Whatever." She pointed at Marina. "You got spare clothes? Of course you don't." She said before Marina could even answer." Then she looked back at Eli. "Any other EEEEAASSSY favors I can do for you SUSPENDED Detective?"
Eli winced, because somehow she'd known that he was going to ask for more. And... he was going to ask for more.
"Any way your people could get me through one of the Gates and into Petravus?" He asked with a pleading look.
Minara Choi looked at him with silent amazement at the sheer balls on the Half-Elf.
"You're kidding right?" She asked.
Then she waved and a couple of the people moving about came over and began ushering Marina over to a large wall of black scales on the other side of the room.
"I need to follow the artifact." Eli replied easily. "I need answers so I can figure out why RegTek wants it so bad. And it's over there with your cousin and uncle."
"Ancestor!" Minara shouted over her shoulder. A pair of dark voids opened in the wall, causing Marina to halt mid step. "Check her. And if she passes then get that garbage makeup off of her and put her in some clothes that actually fit." She instructed her workers.
"And yes." Eli said before she could. "I know the odds of them letting me anywhere near it are almost zero. But I still gotta try. And if you won't get me over there then my only other option is to break quarantine.... and my orders, find my way into zone one and see if I can track Murphy down." He took a deep breath. "And hope like hell he hasn't been killed by or abducted by a Muck Marcher that apparently works for RTI."
She stared at him for several long moments, her lips pressed into a line as she chewed on the insanity of either notion from someone who was essentially out of resources and in what might as well have been enemy territory.
Slowly, she began to nod as she bit her lower lip and cursed under her breath.
Eli watched as she stood up and began to grow in size. The red robe she'd been wearing tore as she turned into her massive dragon form and stomp away.
"Goddam gen one bullshit." She said in a rumbling basso as she began stomping away.
Behind her, Marina managed to look away from the already terrifying drake that had been sniffing her and her eyes bulged as she saw an actual dragon as well.
Neither of these creatures was even supposed to exist on Earth, much less right here in front of her. The fear was enough that she jumped when the massive black drake licked the side of her face.
"Somebody see if they can get this idiot to the SoCal Gate" Minara Choi yelled from the room she'd stomped off into.
Eli was being swept into another room entirely before he even realized what was happening.
"THANK YOU!" He shouted over his shoulder. "MS. SMITH DO AS YOUR TOLD! SHE'S NICER THAN SHE PRETENDS TO BE!!!"
Marina was still staring, albeit with only one eye, at the massive black drake as it continued to lick her face from chin to forehead.
I really should've never started smuggling again. She thought. What the fuck is happening?
[Next]

Author’s Note: been some time, hasn’t it? Been working on other projects and left this one sitting in the dust too long. Anyway, here’s some more space pirates!
_____
Liam and his fellow Rats made their way down the last corridor between them and the ongoing firefight swiftly, being cautious of the downed security forces scattered through the hallways and the smoldering wreck of a defensive turret hanging by wires from the ceiling. The sounds of the battle were getting difficult to hear as the atmosphere was becoming too thin to carry sound, but even so they could feel the explosions of both the onboard pirate’s bombs and the repeated volleys of cannon fire from the Korraine. Around the last corner ahead of them was the entrance corridor to the bridge section, and knowing the tactics the Rats employed Liam slowed the group until they came to a halt and flashed his headlamp at the darkened area of the turn six times. A reply came with a matching six blinks, and from around the corner came the darkened silhouette of one of the Gunners rounding the corner with their heavy rifle aimed at them. No radio signal, no scanner signature, if he had carelessly approached they would have shot him in a heartbeat. From the broad essence of their shoulders and the way their biceps bulged unnaturally Liam guessed that this dark operative was Chance, a former deck hand on a luxury yacht the Rats had robbed a few years back. He gave them the “go ahead” signal before shrinking back into the shadows, his rifle peeking down the hall at a near imperceptible point between a pair of oxygen mask boxes.
The breachers all continued forth to the site of the skirmish where they were greeted with silent nods. Red dots were appearing all across the corridor as the defenders fired millions of watts worth of laser beams at them in the silent void, with piles of rivets and rebar joining them lodged into the wall as well as in piles on the floor. Liam could see across from the deadly doorway that Excalibur had parked him shell beside the seated form of the leader of the Gunners, Glen, who was clutching at his neck where a hole had been made in both his suit and his skin that was now covered by a patch to keep any air from leaking. Pushing the communication toggle switch on the underside of his helmet, Liam connected to the local frequency of the pirates only to have the muffled thumps of gunfire nearby drowned out by angry shouting from the seemingly mute pirates nearby. Such a sudden change in volume was disorienting, but with deft fingers he was able to adjust the volume as well as set his broadcast channel to the command frequency.
Excalibur's cold voice echoed over the line in anticipation of Liam connecting to the network. “Yielding command to the field leader. Situation facing unexpected delay, enemy resistance remains strong. Awaiting orders.”
Liam surveyed what he could of the battle from his position, taking note of the scars burned into the armor plates of the pirates and the bouncing brass casings dancing at his feet. “What's the status of the enemy captain? They realize they're gonna be bags of lead if they don't give up?” He waved his weaponized appendage about, half cycling the gun a few times to flash the bright green cartridge in the chamber.
A dry chuckle came from the AI as it turned the blocky optic lined head to look down at Glen. “Negotiations ended with a large caliber round making a new entrance into Gunner leader Glendale's neck. As of ten minutes prior the enemy command structure was seen firing upon us from behind their barricade with an improvised weapon. I do not suggest attempting a similar strategy of going into their line of sight and broadcasting on an open channel.”
Liam looked to the Gunners that were around him and the Breachers who had begun breaking into the sealed compartments in hallways adjacent to the command section. He knew the bulkhead between the flight deck and the section they were in was much thicker than the flimsy corridor plating they had blown through to counter the ambush earlier, and on most freighters the life support systems negated the need for vents into the room so the entire brain of the ship was in its own ironclad shell apart from the body. A thought crossed his mind, and with a sudden turn he looked for the bubblegum pink helmet of their closest thing to a technician they had on the assault team. “Bon-Bon, I need code monkey skills over here now!”
The grossly visible helmet of the software engineer peered from out of a maintenance duct in the floor with a submachine gun ready. “Who? What? Liam? Hi! What do you need?” A portable data-jack just under the floor casted an eerie green glow over the tech-girl’s suit, her jerky motions and the blinking connection lights making her look like a malfunctioning custodian droid from a cheesy horror movie.
Liam jerked his head to the side towards the hallway with sizzling red scars lining its walls. “I need you to patch me into their PA and shipboard comms, and if they’re trying to set off any scuttling charges keep the signal from going out.”
“Already been jamming them, they tried to blow us all up when we turned the first officer into confetti. Gimme a sec, I’ll getcha in. her, have a data-link!” She tossed a small silver card towards him, one that would allow her computer to interface with his generations old suit and give him control over the enemy radios. She vanished into the floor for almost exactly sixty seconds before reappearing with her thumbs raised. “You’re in! I’ll keep them from locking you out.” With that she ducked back into the hole in the floor, the hatch sliding most of the way closed behind her.
Before pressing the transmit button Liam sent of a cease fire ping to the Rats nearby to prevent them from accidentally hitting whoever picked up on the other end. He changed his channel and listened in for a moment at the angry yet bewildered soldiers on the line, then setting himself in the command frequency broadcast for all of them to hear. “Attention all crew of the PHI Killjoy vessel…” He paused for a moment, realizing that he hadn’t actually seen a name put on the ship registry or one painted on the outside of the ship, but couldn’t just cancel the broadcast now. “...whatever this ship is called. Not that it matters anymore, because it’s our ship now. I’m the de-facto leader of this raiding party, Liam, and I’m calling you to let you know that there’s a one time offer of mercy and maybe even a ride home for you corporate shlumps. Put your captain on the line and we can go over the details, otherwise things are going to get much messier than they already have.”
A moment passed in anxious silence as the private security forces conferred with their leader, then a pop as one voice set themself in the same jurisdiction as Liam. A young man’s voice, one held together with pride and confidence, joined him on the line but was heard by all. “This is Captain Daniel Ford of the PHI Dire Arrow, and we will not be surrendering this vessel. We will hold out until our escort cruisers arrive and destroy you. Do yourself a favor and flee while you can.”
Liam clicked his tongue against his teeth, “See, that’s not going to work. Not only are those cruisers you mentioned not coming, but they don’t even know you’re in danger or where you’re at thanks to our scrambling. Even if they did arrive they’d be too late and not strong enough to back the Korraine into a corner, so your plan is shit either way. Just so you know I don’t have orders to keep any of you alive, and this offer is me being nice to you. You and your crew have the choice-”
There was a burst of impacts and sparks as small caliber bullets impacted the far wall, along with a stream of insults hurled over the line by one of the other soldiers. “Choice? Fuck you! You sons of bitches came aboard our ship and killed our friends!” We’ll kill every last one of y-” His words were cut off as Teddy darted out from cover and put a bullet into the man’s head, blowing a hole clean through to the other side of his head. The body fell silently to the floor, the only sound being the shaky breathing of the cornered soldiers.
Liam let the weight of the execution set in before he continued. “As you can see, this is not a hollow threat. The Rats have been astoundingly patient with you up until this point and have restrained themselves from simply firing a breaching missile in through the viewport screen, but this patience ends in thirty seconds. Either you all recognize that your lives mean jack shit to us and we’re willing to do you a massive fucking favor, or you all get to taste the vacuum and die like that dumbass. Don’t believe me? Let’s clear that up.”
With another change in challens Liam was patched through to Rime aboard the Lamprey, who answered his hail with a grunt. “Rime, put the message through to the Hounds, have them park those fighters right outside the viewport of this crippled whale.”
In a matter of seconds there came a bright stream of light from beyond the parted doors of the command room as the two fighters of the Korraine came into view, their battle-hardened armor visible in perfect detail and the ominous red glow of their overheated guns outlined menacingly in the pitch black void behind them. Each of the fighters put on a display of power by revealing their heavily modified weapons that were hidden from view under concealed plating, with everything from heavy laser cannons to anti-ship missiles ready to plow through the room where the resisting crew was holed up in. Liam used this moment to tune back into their channel and make his declaration. “Thirty seconds, Captain Ford, before I drop off the line and let the dogs have their fun.
Silence fell over the line, though Liam could hear what they were saying in perfect detail. These officers on the bridge sounded young and inexperienced, and from the way their voices quavered this must be the first time they had faced an enemy that was both stronger and more ruthless than themselves. He listened to them as they argued back and forth with the captain about giving up, about how their fearless leader wouldn’t allow any more deaths to happen on his ship, then with one final dismissal of the man trying to scuttle the ship he ordered both the life support back online and the blast doors to be opened. Through the bullet-marked doors strode the captain of the ship, hands empty and raised high for the pirates to see as he sank to his knees. “We surrender. Please, spare what is left of my crew.”
Liam stepped forth and pointed his gun right at the capitain much to the shock and horror of the rest of the security forces, but put it away once he had done a check to make sure their captain was unarmed. He ushered the captain to his feet with the tip of his bayonet to his back and ordered him to restrain himself, commenting that Captain Ford had made the right choice and would be treated well. With a single ping on his HUD Liam sent the order for the Rats to swarm the now unguarded bridge and capture all of the crew still inside, which happened to be mainly officers wearing minimal protection EVA suits not designed for combat and only four armored guards. A ragged sigh escaped Liam as he realized that he’d done it and taken the bridge, his hand beckoning Excalibur over to him. “Let the captain know we’re done over here.”
There was a moment of pause as the robot silently transmitted and received signals from the pirate ship, then with the same impassive voice told Liam his new directive. “The captain commends you for your success. Head for the main docking ring and prepare for connection procedures. Once all captives are prepared for transit we shall join you.”
With a nod the tired armorer turned and left the bridge, his Breachers following behind him and talking on their squad channel. He tried to tune them out and move quickly to the cargo bay, but for safety’s sake he kept the volume up in case one of them spotted something.
“God Damn!” came from Louie, “Been a long ass time since they put up a fight like that. If it were my outfit on this ship the Rats would have been screwed.”
Sam interjected with a shoulder to the other man’s pauldron. “Eh shuddup, you say that any time we face the corporate troops. Just because you held rank with ‘em doesn’t mean you’re some kinda super-soldier”
Mabel joined in as she came back from checking down a corridor with her light. “That’s because he’s a wannabe, Sam. He’s delusional and thinks one day he’ll magically get back in the service and get selected to have all his meaty bits given an overhaul and go pro.” Her sarcasm made Sam cackle and Louie growl over the mic, though all of them knew she had a smug look on her face.
Liam shook his head to Teddy and got a response of the same, both of them not wanting to be part of the noise behind them. Their group proceeded back down the passageway where the Gunners had wreaked unholy mayhem on the dozens of security forces that appeared to have used the thin metal walls as cover in an attempt to slow them, not knowing that most of the Gunners brought along big guns as part of their namesake. As they went by more corridors the level of destruction decreased until they reached the first intersection where the three groups of Rats had split off from before, the burnt out hallway beside them being the scene of the explosion with the bodies of dead guards they had slain on the far side. Heading even further aft along the ship they came into view of the main shield generator of the freighter, the circular hole of the Lamprey still visible with the copilot of the dropship dragging out the kit used for closing the breach behind them as they detached from their parasitic host.
Eventually the large open space of the cargo hangar floor opened up before them, with cranes and lifts on every side with the Looters operating them in order to crack open the goodie bags this whole mission had been for. Ammo, guns, targeting computers, combat drones and atmospheric aircraft, this ship has been hauling everything that the company catalog featured and more that was considered custom order. The Rats loved new guns, and it was in Liam’s future that some of the shipments would undoubtedly lose a few weapons while aboard the Korraine, and those very same guns would be on his workbench being refitted and custom engineered to match the peculiar tastes of the pirate who snatched it. This didn’t bother him, though he prayed that they would at least ask the captain before helping themselves.
Liam and company rode the main hangar lift down to the main floor and approached a colossal doorway approximately three hundred feet tall and twice that wide, secured with a double bulkhead and its own separate security booth for access to the controls. Liam tried the door and found it to be locked, but bullets sometimes worked better than keys for stubborn doors. Sam took control of the doorway and prepared it for the arrival of the pirate vessel, which from the vibrations caused by large ion engines meant that it was right outside of the thick reinforced bulkhead. A series of angry klaxons cried out as the reinforced barrier between them and the vacuum of space began to slide away, revealing the comparatively barren cargo bay of the Korraine already latched into place.
Forklifts, loaders, ferriers and pirates who didn’t participate in the boarding party began to rush inside picking up everything that wasn’t nailed down and securing the hangar with extra barricades in case some stragglers still wished for a fight. Liam let out a relieved sigh, feeling that he had finally reached the end of the mission he was sent on, until his comms beeped with a message from the captain. She wanted him to report to the armory immediately, and he was to be there on the double. An exasperated groan escaped him as he stepped across the threshold of the two ships, and casting a look back over his shoulder he saw a conga line of prisoners being led down the flights of stairs towards the same passage he was taking, Captain Ford at the front and the now stripped of armor security forces in the rear. He mused that he could mitigate any further ire from the captain if he told her he had managed to negotiate for some possible new recruits, though he doubted his own optimism.
Before going anywhere near the lift that led to the midship layer he dismissed the other Breachers, sending them off to go and assist with cargo or go tend to their injuries and damaged equipment. In truth he didn’t want to share an elevator ride with any of them at the moment and would prefer to have a minute to himself as he walked willingly to his doom. He used his one hand to detach his helmet from the pressure cuff around his neck and placed his helm under his prosthetic arm, rolling his neck to remove a lingering soreness from the blast he was caught in. He took in a deep breath as he reached his stop, readying himself for whatever the captain had ready for him. The hard part of the mission was over, now it was time for the real danger.
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Hello! First time posting here, as this is my first book! It is based off the very first screenplay I wrote years ago (I've since written several more screenplays, some of which have placed high in international competitions) and it is inspired by true stories from where I'm from (Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada).
A story blurb - Aly O'Brennan is an intelligent, but too curious twelve year old boy who lives in the quiet town of Coffey Harbour, where nothing ever changes and nothing goes wrong. It's cozy, folks are happy, the priest, Father Nicholas knows everyone and the local Sheriff hasn't had to deal with more than a DUI for most of his career. That is until a young boy from Aly's class is found murdered in a field with no suspect in sight. While the town is in high alert, Aly's trouble making friend Patrick convinces him to venture into the woods to look for the 'little' people his big brother told him about, saying they're supernatural beings that haven't been spotted in decades. As usual, curiosity gets the best of Aly and their adventure leads them to some strange things in the woods, whereby Aly ends up taking something that doesn't belong to him. When terrible things start happening to his friends and family, and family histories and secrets bubble to the surface, Aly and some folks around him realize their lives are in terrible danger, whether from something mysterious in the woods or a murderer on the loose. Can his deputy Father, the Sheriff, Father Nicholas, and half the town figure out what's happening before it's too late?
A short excerpt. First chapter below.
Any content warnings. Themes/references of violence against children, alcohol and tobacco use, suicide, some blood and gore (I would say very light).
The type of feedback you’re looking for. Definitely interested in general reader reaction. If you bought this book off a shelf and read it, what did you think? I really went for supernatural/atmospheric horror with themes of family and home sprinkled in there. Did that shine through? Also did the plot make sense? Anything weird stand out? Doesn't need to be extremely detailed, just really want to know if it was good and made sense. Ideally I would like someone who's familiar with horror to review, but I'm assuming people beta read in genres they enjoy?
Your preferred timeline. Really hoping to have feedback by April 1st. Critique swap availability. Would certainly love to critique someone else's work if it was a similar length and genre. I don't think I'm qualified to read a historical fiction, romance, or fantasy book! But up for horror, dark fiction, scifi, thriller.
Thank you!
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First chapter:
Her face was terribly different from the way Aly had remembered it. He had seen her only a couple of weeks ago and now her cheekbones looked sharper and her skin seemed more yellow, bordering on green, which stood out more thanks to the white plush fabric cushioning her eighty something year old head in that giant coffin. It also could have been the lights. The room was quite dark and gave Aly the heebie jeebies. There was a tall lamp in one corner and then some light pouring in from the hallway but that was it. It was dark and smelly in here, not a spot for kids. People said she looked peaceful, but Aly didn’t agree. For a woman who was usually smiling, smoking, or spreading gossip, she was currently doing neither. Her lips were tight, almost in a straight line, covered with a layer of light red lipstick which she never would have worn and her eyes looked forced closed, perhaps even glued shut, not peacefully dreaming closed. Aly looked at her, his twelve year old brain reeling, trying to figure out where she went. Aunt Abigail was in there a few days ago. He had spoken to her not long ago. Hell, she even cut him a sliver of carrot cake, his favorite. But now she was an empty shell, filling space inside a locally made wooden box, which stood on a weird looking table in her own living room. Aly wondered if souls were like hermit crabs, and when the time came they left one shell for another. Where was Abigail now? Perhaps she was that kitten Aly saw down by Gerald’s Store in town or one of the hundred birds he saw each morning in his yard. Or maybe her soul had gone down the drain to never return again. Except for the ugly dark purple couch with the brown flowers, the one that reeked of a thousand cigarettes, the living room had been cleared out and the curtains had been replaced with shiny new black ones, which was a bonus because Aly immediately noticed they smelled less like smoke than the others. Luckily during a wake you weren’t supposed to smoke, so for the first time in his life Aly could actually see all four walls of this room. “Move along now,” Aly’s mother Emma said quietly, ushering him along. When Emma stopped to talk to one of her cousins, Lloyd or maybe Floyd, she had a lot and Aly lost track of them easily, he decided to swing by the sandwich table in the kitchen. All of the ladies in the family got together to make sandwiches, cookies, and cakes for the wake, which was to last 3 days. This wasn’t Aly’s first wake but it was the strangest. A few years ago he was at a proper funeral home and when he was younger again he did attend a wake in a house, but now he was old enough to kind of understand what was happening, and to pick up on moods and feelings. And ask questions while staring at a gaunt, lifeless, figure. “How are you doing, Aly boy?” Aly’s uncle Frank entered the kitchen and patted Aly on the shoulders. “Good,” Aly said through a mouthful of peanut butter and jam. Frank scooped up two egg salad sandwiches and downed them in a minute, almost making Aly gag. Little bits of egg and bread landed on his plaid shirt, joining the rest of the stains and rips. “You’ve got some PB on your chin,” Frank said, nodding towards Aly’s chin. Aly wiped his chin with the small, white, square napkin. “Still there,” Frank said, chewing quickly. “Bathroom’s upstairs.” “Right,” Aly said and he left the kitchen and headed for the stairs. People had begun to leave so the dull drone of adult conversation was getting quieter by the minute. Emma was a seamstress, part time. Mostly does it for a hobby now and to keep the three kids’ clothes in shape, but still does a job or two a week for people in town. This evening she was trying to finish up Katie’s dress. Katie was Aly’s older sister, and she hadn’t worn her black dress in a couple of years, at least not since she started growing those boobs on her chest. So her dress needed some alterations and ‘wiggle room’, Emma jokingly called it. As a result, the family was a little late attending the wake and Seamus, Aly’s father was working the next night, so they really wanted to get out together tonight to pay their respects. Aly started up the stairs. Each one creaked under his weight and some even seemed to bow a little. What would happen if Uncle Frank or even dad climbed these, he thought to himself. When he got to the top landing, the lights were off and since they were pushing 6 o'clock on a mid October day, there wasn’t much sun coming through the hallway’s East facing windows, so it was nearly dark up there. The straight hallway lay before Aly, the bathroom being the second door on the left. There was thick gray carpet on the floor and a wallpaper that contained several different sized stripes, all varying shades of blue. The place was hideous, even Aly knew it and he was a kid. The first room on the right was Beatty’s old room, she was Abigail’s daughter making her Aly’s second or third cousin he thought. He called her Aunt Abigail but she was really his mother’s aunt, so her kids were like cousins. Aly once mapped out his entire family tree out of curiosity, to see how big he could get it but after having about fifty people mapped out, he got bored and learned that, like his mother and father said, there were more branches to the family than the forest behind their house. The next room on the right was Edwin’s. Much like Beatty, he had moved out years before and their rooms now sat dark and vacant. Aly walked past these rooms, along with the first door on the left which was always closed and locked. The kids of the family joked that it was the torture chamber, but apparently it was a very very small bedroom, infant sized that was used for storage, including cleaning supplies, a sewing machine, odds and ends, and was quite dangerous, so always off limits. When Aly was about seven years old, he was so curious that he used a hairpin he found and started to jimmy the lock and as soon as the door opened and he just caught a glimpse of the mess of shelves and random stacks of things, Abigail caught him and closed it so fast he could only tell the room had yellow walls. She never really scolded him for it, but his heart raced so fast he never tried it again. His curiosity was usually overruled by the threat of an elderly family member. As he approached the bathroom, he heard a sound from one of the rooms beyond. A faint beeping. By now, he also really had to pee because in addition to sandwiches there were bottles of juice and cans of pop, of which Ay had multiple. So he was really focussed on getting to the bathroom, but the beeping got a little louder. A beeping, Aly thought to himself. What could be beeping? He just made it to the bathroom door, which was partially closed when something beeped again, louder. Then Aly remembered, unfortunately, that Abigail died in that very room at the end of the hall on the right. Almost across from the bathroom door. She was discharged from the hospital a few days ago, sent home with some medical supplies, and ended up dying in her bed. Right across the hall. That sound was some kind of medical device. But why was it on? Had it been on since she died, Aly wondered. Or perhaps someone accidentally turned it on. Either way, the beeping was fairly rhythmic and stable, and Aly knew it wasn’t an alarm clock or television. Aly was curious. Too curious, as usual. So he approached the bedroom door which hung half open. Aly could just see the foot of the bed and Abigail's large dresser against the wall. The beeping was louder here. It reminded Aly of the machine at the old age home, where he recently visited his nan. The machine was on a wheelie rack by her side, hanging by a wire, and beeping every few seconds. “My juice,” his nan would say. “It’s pumping me full of juice.” So Aly figured he should probably turn it off, no one up here needs it. So he gently pushed the door open. As it opened and gave way to the room, Aly realized there was someone in the room. He first saw the feet in the bed, then pale, skinny legs, then a dress down to the knees. His Adam’s Apple bulged in his throat and he nearly choked. Goosebumps ran from his shins to his ears, causing his blood to get icy cold. He knew who it was without even looking above the waist. Abigail had a certain shape to her that Aly recognized. She was tall and slender, and always wore a dress down to her knees, almost long enough to cover her bony kneecaps. Aly turned, terrified, and ran toward the top of the steps. He bumped into uncle Frank who was also going for the bathroom. “Yikes, take it easy Aly.” For a few seconds Aly debated telling him what he saw, but he soon realized that obviously Abigail is downstairs, in her living room, in a box, and not up here on her old bed hooked up to a machine. And Aly was smart enough not to tell anyone that he was snooping, even if it was for good reason. Without taking a leak or washing the streak of peanut butter off his chin, Aly went back downstairs and found his family. Within minutes, they were headed home. Back to where Aly was safe. Where there were no dead bodies, no ominous beeping of medical devices, and certainly no ghosts lying on beds.
END
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XII

He comes to his senses and looks around. He can't tell where he is. All around him is illimitable darkness, darkness that is blacker than black. It is dead silent. Hello? he calls out. Where am I? Hey! He hears nothing, not even the echo of his voice, as if the darkness has swallowed the words as soon as they had travelled from his mouth.
He tries to move and finds that he cannot. he looks down. He has been stripped naked and lies spread eagle upon a bed - the only thing that seems to exists, seems to hang suspended in the nothingness that surrounds him. The bed is illuminated by a yellowish-white light that seems to have no apparent source. His arms and legs have been bound to the bed with rope. He struggles to free himself, but his bindings hold fast. He becomes agitated. Angry. Hey! Whatever sorry sumbitch did this, you better untie me real fast or you are in a serious fuckin world a hurt! I ain't kiddin! There is nothing but silence. Let me go, goddammit! Let me go, motherfucker! Let me go or there is gonna be hell to pay.
There already is hell to pay, a man's voice speaks softly, almost sadly, from the black void. He turns his head in the direction the voice came from. Who the fuck said that? Who's there?
A figure slowly materializes out of the blackness into the light. It is not the she-creature from the hotel. It is a thin, solemn-faced man who looks to be in his early thirties. His eyes are sorrowful, haunted, and full of fury. He stands beside the bed, looking down at the bound, nude man with the shaved head and the tattoo of the crucified nude woman wearing a crown of thorns on his left bicep. It takes the bound man a moment to place him. Recognition hits him like the strike of a dagger. You! You sick sumbitch! I knew it was you! You done this! You killed my boys!
You killed my wife, the man replies quietly.
Hey, man, that was an accident!
Did you accidentally rape her too?
We was just havin some fun! I was gonna let her go! She pushed me to it!
Well, you pushed me to do this, answers the man, and looks up, giving a nod to someone.
The bound man looks. The old hag stands before him, nude, its body wasted and repulsive. It is leering at him, its oversized mouth lined with its long fangs seeming to take up the entire bottom portion of its face.
He looks at it, his eyes wide, his fear returning. He thrashes against the ropes that hold him. His efforts are fruitless. Keep the fuck away from me, he stammers weakly.
It climbs onto the bed, on top of him, straddling him. Its face is above his. He winces away from it as it leans in close, as if to kiss him, and licks his cheek with its repulsive long black tongue. The stench from its mouth is beyond description. You know, you're kinda cute, it whispers to him. Even cuter than your friends were. I think I'm going to enjoy you most of all.
He digs deep and finds some lingering scrap of defiance. He faces it boldly, looking it in the eye. You are without doubt the ugliest skank bitch I ever seen in my life, he tells it.
An expression of mock hurt comes over its face. Such cruel words. Don't you know beauty is in the eye of the beholder? It extends its hands, holding them over his eyes. It turns its thumbs down. Each ends in a sharp talon. He realizes what's about to happen. He starts to scream.
It jams its claws deep into his eyes. The man, standing beside the bed, can hear them pop wetly. Blood and a milky white fluid burst from the sockets. The bound man is wailing. The hag licks the bloody fluid from the tips of its thumbs. Mmmm! Just like mama used to make!
Oh Jesus, no, the bound man moans.
He can't help you here, it hisses in response. In fact, he can't help you anywhere. That was the appetizer. I think I'll follow that up with some finger food. It seizes one of his bound hands and thrusts its head down. Its maw engulfs it, biting all four digits off at once. He screams anew. It chews the severed fingers like a mouthful of pretzels. The man can hear bones crunching. It swallows and sighs. I love having breakfast in bed, it purrs. It repeats the process with the other hand. The bound man turns his tortured face in the direction of the man standing beside him, looking at him blindly. His expression is beseeching. Blood runs from the sockets of his eyes like tears.
Please make it stop, he whimpers. Please, man. I didn't mean to kill her. I swear to God I didn't. Please.
The man feels momentarily uncertain. He forces himself to remember her frightened face, silently pleading with him. He remembers how the life drained from her face as this man satisfied himself between her thighs. He remembers her lying there in her own blood. He remembers most of all the secret she had so nervously confessed to him earlier that evening, on the drive to the theater. Before the parking lot and harsh sodium streetlight and the switchblade. Two words that had changed everything.
He looks down at the man lying before him. His face is pained. His voice might have the faintest hint of pity, but no mercy. I can't. Even if I wanted to, I can't. And I don't. You raped my wife. You killed her. And my unborn child. You took everything from me. You destroyed my life and condemned me to hell. Now I'm doing the same to you. He looks to the thing on top of him. Make him suffer like she did.
As you wish, it seethes. It reaches down between the bound man's legs. It finds what he has there. It grasps it. Time for the main course! And rips it off. The bound man screams like never before. Howls of pure agony. It chomps it down bite by bite like a sausage. Then slices open his severed scrotum and takes out the testicles. It pops them in its mouth one after the other, crushing them like grapes before swallowing.
Fuck you! he shrieks.
Actually, you're the one who's getting fucked, it titters sadistically. By me. It adjusts its stance over him, crouching above the raw bleeding socket between his legs. The bound man can't see what's happening, but the other man can. He sees how its body is changing. The shape taking form between its legs, extending, growing larger. An obscene phallus enormous beyond human proportions. It extends to its fully erect state, at least three feet long, maybe four inches wide. It is irregularly shaped, scaled like the skin of a reptile. He can see it is cover with sharp, hooked barbs. It aligns its monstrous extension between the bound man's thighs.
It's showtime, folks! it announces with savage glee, and thrusts itself forward, plunging into the ragged bloody hole in his crotch. He can feel it scraping over his pelvic bone, entering his intestines, tearing them asunder. It ruptures his stomach, pushing through, further inward. He is beyond agony, beyond hell, beyond human endurance or experience. The sounds he emits are unlike anything the other man has heard before.
The thing retracts itself a few inches, and the man beside the bed can see bits of shredded flesh and organ tissue adhered to the barbs on its member. It pushes itself in again, then out, then in, moving rhythmically in a travesty of copulation. Blood bursts from between the bound man's lips.
The other man can hear it moaning, can hear its ragged breathing increasing as it approaches its peak. It throws back its head as it climaxes, roaring in its pleasure. Its ejaculate burns inside the bound man like acid, eating him from within. He arches his back against the bed, head thrown back, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth crack. He is beyond making sound.
A hole appears in his midsection, growing wider as the thing's unholy sperm burns its way through him. Smoke arises from within.
The bound man falls back upon the bed, his body going limp. His last tortured breath escapes in a sigh. At last he is dead.
Nothing like a good fuck after a good meal, it sighs. And now for dessert... It places its mouth an inch above the dead man's parted lips and inhales with impossible force. The other man can see a white vapor being sucked from the dead man's mouth, being drawn into the thing's mouth and down into its gullet. For a brief second, the vapor takes the form of the dead man's screaming face before it is vacuumed away. It takes it all deep into itself until there is none left. It licks its lips, sated. That was the best meal I've had in millennia.
It turns to face the other man for the first time. Its red eyes burn into his own. He stands stoically, seemingly unmoved by the whole ordeal. He awaits its proclamation.
It is finished, it whispers.
The man closes his eyes. Thank you, he says.
The leader had advanced on her, the switchblade trembling in his hand. His face was tensed with insane rage, tears still wet in his eyes, his nose bleeding. You don't fuckin hurt me or this is what you get! he had screamed.
The man struggled to free himself like never before. It had been futile. He could only watch as the nightmare moved toward its inexorable conclusion.
At the last second she had bitten down hard on the hand of the obese man with the goatee who was holding her from behind. He cried out and withdrew it from over her mouth and she had screamed, a brief but piercing sound that seemed to reverberate endlessly in the corridors of the man's mind and soul. It was a sound that would haunt both his dreams and his lonely waking world for months to come. For him, that short scream never ended, it only resonated, grew steadily louder, a sound that signaled the end of life and love and sanity.
The leader thrusted the switchblade forward, slamming it into her stomach. Her scream was cut short, transformed into a shocked grunt that trailed to a gasp as the last of the air escaped her lungs.
No! he had screamed.
The leader stabbed her again, and again, and again, her body bucking forward with each impact, her eyes bulging. This! Is! What! You! Get! he snarled, punctuating each thrust of the of the blade with a word.
The man watched as she went slack in the fat man's arms. The leader stepped back and she tumbled to the ground, a motionless heap on the pavement. There had been a moment of stunned silence as the five men had looked at her. Holy shit! the man had heard the one holding his left arm, a sunken-faced man with a mullet and a teardrop tattoo under one eye, mutter softly.
Oh, Christ, Dale, you fuckin killed her! the fat man had exclaimed in shock.
She had it comin! he had shouted, and the man, even in the extremity of his unbelieving horror could tell from his trembling voice he was trying to justify this as much to himself as to the other three. The bitch broke my fuckin nose! She hurt me! And there ain't no one who hurts Dale Thorton an gets away with it!
They had fixed their attention to him, on his knees between them, held on either side by one of them. We better get rid of him, too, the man holding his right arm stated grimly. He was a young, wiry, thin man with stringy long hair and one eye that kept drifting involuntarily to one side. He can identify us.
The leader nodded and approached him. The man looked at him, held his gaze steadily and unblinkingly. The expression on the leader's face had almost been apologetic. Wrong time, wrong place, ol hoss, he said before raising the switchblade.
Hey! What's going on here? a voice had shouted suddenly, taking them all by surprise. They looked in the direction of the theater, where an acne-faced teenage boy in an usher's vest was standing by the entrance, a ring of keys in hand. A teenage boy who would fail to show up to testify at the trial, only to be found weeks later in an abandoned auto body shop with his throat cut and eyes gouged out. I'm calling the police! he had announced, and disappeared back inside.
Shit! the obese man said. Dale, we gotta get the fuck outta here, now!
Yeah, muttered the leader with the shaved head and turned one last look to the man on his knees before him. You're getting off lucky, asshole, he had said before savagely kicking the man in the jaw, breaking it. The other two had released him and the four of them scattered. See you around, hoss, was the last thing the man heard the leader say before disappearing into the night.
He lay there, hardly feeling the pain of his shattered jaw, looking at her. She lay there in a widening pool of blood, unmoving. Her eyes were half open, already glazed in death. They looked back at him and seemed to accuse him. He crawled painfully to her side, speaking her name, knowing she was beyond answering. He sat up, closed her shirt over her cruelly exposed breasts and gently lifted her head into his lap, cradling her. I'm so sorry, he whispered to her as he held her head and rocked gently, back and forth mindlessly, stroking her hair. And even though his soul was wailing, his eyes had remained dry, staring distantly into the lifeless, barren void that was the rest of his life laying before him. I'm so sorry, he had repeated as he held her head and stroked her hair, rocking back and forth, dimly aware of the sound of approaching sirens.
He had kissed her gently on one cheek. The last time he would ever kiss her.
I love you, he whispered.

XIII (EPILOGUE)

The blackness surrounding the bed diminishes. The void dissipates. The motel room returns to its normal lighted dimensions.
The man stands motionless, looking at the mutilated body that lies bound to the bed. He supposes he should feel satisfaction, but instead he just feels more lost, more empty, more dead than ever before. He knows he is irrevocably damned. You took everything from me, he whispers to the dead man, but the words feel meaningless, and he realizes he no longer feels the hatred that burned inside of him for so long, that was his sole motivation for existing all these cold months and that drove him on and led him here to this moment, standing beside the bed looking at the corpse upon it. A voice sings faintly in his mind, a voice from out of time, from a past life.
You make me feel like I am free again...
It stands regarding him. He turns to face it. Its red eyes burn into his own. I have honored our bargain, it intones. I have done as you desired. Now it is time for you to pay what you owe me.
He doesn't feel terror or fear even though he knows what awaits him, unending. He is resigned to it. It feels to him then as if this moment had been preordained and that he had felt it coming for his whole life, as if his path had been laid before him right from the start, leading to this inevitable end, and he had never had a choice. He nods and forces the words out. What do you want me to do?
I think you already know. Here, take this.
He extends his open palm to it and it places an object within. He recognizes it instantly. A switchblade. The switchblade that ended three lives that night. He looks up into its eyes.
Yes, it answers the question he hadn't ask, it was his. Now give me what I was promised.
He hesitates in spite of himself.
Do it, it commands both forcefully and patiently. He can almost believe he detects a note of compassion in its voice. You know you can't deny me. Not now. If you don't, I shall do it myself, and my death will be slow and painful.
He pushes the button on the handle and the blade snaps out. He raises it and presses it firmly to the left side of his throat. He closes his eyes.
For one last moment he thinks of her. Images overlap before his mind's eye, each passing in a millisecond. Her dimpled smile contrasting sharply with her sad, downcast eyes. Them younger and dancing in his dorm room. Her sitting on the recessed bedroom window sill naked, looking out, reaching out to touch the glass. Her laughter. The way she would sing along to the radio in the kitchen, nodding her head to the music as she worked. The way she had kissed him on the cheek in the car that night after she had told him, the near future with the movie theater parking lot and the harsh white sodium street light glaring off his shaved head and the blade of the switchblade he now holds to his own throat still blissfully unknown. Her pleading eyes. Her screaming face. Her accusing dead eyes.
I love you, he thinks, and draws the blade forcefully across his throat to the right.
The man still standing, now incorporeal and invisible to the world, watching his own body crumple to the floor, his life gushing from his throat. Behind him, he hears a thud and turns. It stands there, the body of the redheaded girl with freckles lying before it, her body pale, eyes closed, the wound from the butcher knife back in her throat. It is in its true form now, the form that lay beyond the old hag, the form his mortal mind would not permit him to see. Even as hardened and jaded as he has become to the horror, he still flinches back at the sight of it, averting his eyes.
Now you must come with me, it says.
Where? he asks.
There. It gestures to one wall. The wall becomes hazy, becomes translucent, becomes transparent, fades away completely, giving the man a picture window view of what lies beyond. A blasted, blackened, jagged landscape that stretches to infinity, illuminated by the harsh, cloudless red-glowing sky overhead, a red the same shade as the monstrosity's eyes. He can see a vast multitude of writhing, gaunt, soot-covered, wraith-like figures, humanity beyond number, writhing and wailing upon the scorched earth as they are subjugated by a legion of creatures of its own ilk. The air is thick with smoke.
Even this does not move him.
Come, the thing says and extends its claw to him, beckoning. Don't be afraid. I'm not as cruel as some of the others. I can be quite kind to my pets.
He doesn't resist, nor can he. He goes to it and allows it to close its claw around his wrist. Only then does he realize that he has truly and irreversibly lost her forever; that whatever distant reunion there might have been between them in whatever faraway ethereal other domain that lies beyond the pale of human existence or understanding, it will never come to pass. He envisions her looking down upon him from on high, face laden with sorrow, watching as he crosses over into his eternity so far removed from hers--
The thing, reading his mind, is laughing scornfully. He looks at it questioningly. What? he demands.
You fool, it sneers at him. You think she is watching you from Heaven, mourning you? After all this you suddenly believe Paradise exists?
What do you mean? he asks fearfully.
Don't you understand? You were right all along. There is no Heaven. No God. They never existed to begin with. Goodness is meaningless. Love is pointless. Forgiveness, redemption, selflessness are futile. Salvation doesn't exist. What you see is what awaits all of Mankind, without exception. What you see is all that will ever be, all that you all will ever have. But if it's any consolation to you, you will soon be reunited with your beloved. She is already there waiting for you.
No! he screams, feeling horror surge through him for the first time. It's not true! You lie!
Am I? See for yourself. It points and he looks, taking in again the terrible vista before him. He sees amongst the limitless masses of the damned the ravaged faces of the four he had come to hate so much. And amidst them, he sees her face, her eyes closed, face contorted in a rictus of anguish, her screams drowned out in the din of cries from the millions that surround her.
No! he screams again in despair and tries to pull free, but its grip on his wrist is like iron. It pulls him forward, toward the gateway. He struggles, but the thing is implacable. It steps through the portal, dragging him in after it, his skin burning as he passes the threshold. The second they pass through to the other side, the portal vanishes, the wall becoming solid and unmarked.
The room is back to normal. Empty except for the three bodies - one on the bed, two on the floor.
All that remains is a faint trace of smoke and the accompanying odor of sulfur, both of which quickly dissipate. Then there is nothing.
The room is silent.
Driving into town to see a movie, already dark on that early evening in winter. She had kept casting furtive glances his way as he was driving. He kept looking over at her quizzically, but each time she was already looking straight ahead, trying to affect a casual air.
What is it? he had asked her.
She looked at him, feigning puzzlement. What do you mean?
Why do you keep looking at me like that?
She shrugged. I don't know what you mean.
He had let it go for a few minutes, but when they were about halfway to the theater she had done it again and this time he had turned his head quickly enough to catch her doing it. She sighed, knowing she was caught.
All right, give. What's going on?
She sighed again, preparing herself. Well, I've been keeping a little secret from you the past couple weeks. I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but I guess now's as good a time as any.
What secret? he had asked, suddenly worried.
Well, I went to the doctor a while back because I'd missed my last period. And he told me...
No way...
Oh yes way. I'm pregnant, Dan.
He had looked at her, stunned, continued driving for a few moments longer, then pulled to the side of the road and put the car in park. He stared at her. You're pregnant?
Yep.
For a moment he hadn't been capable of reacting. Then he had laughed and leaned across the car to embrace her. He felt her wrap her own arms around his waist. He realized he was also crying even as he was laughing. When he looked into her face he had seen the tears in her own eyes as well as the nervousness. So you want me to keep it? she had asked.
Well, hell yes! Why wouldn't I? Don't you?
Well, I guess I'm not getting any younger. She had wiped her tears and smiled at him uncertainly. It's going be a hell of an adjustment to get used to.
You mean being pregnant?
I mean being a mother. Being a family instead of just a couple. The tears had returned. I want to have the baby, Dan, but I've got to tell you, I'm pretty damn scared about it.
Don't be. We'll be great parents. We're both making good money, we sure as hell can afford it.
It's not just money, Dan. I'm worried what if something goes wrong? What if something happens?
Nothing is going to happen. I won't let it. He had kissed her then, and stroked her face, wiping away her tears. He looked into her glistening eyes. You know I won't let anything happen to you, right?
She had smiled back, reassured, and squeezed his hand. I know, she said, and kissed him sweetly on the cheek.
He pulled back onto the road, heading for town and the theater. He was thinking of their lives together, and the baby. Thinking of what the future might have in store for them. A couple minutes passed in silence before she asked: Dan?
What, babe?
What would you do if something happened to me and the baby?
Don't ask me that.
No, tell me. I want to know. What would you do?
He thought about it. He sighed and told her the truth. If anything happened to you, I'd follow right behind you, wherever you went. I wouldn't be able to go on living without you. Life wouldn't have any meaning for me anymore. He reached over and placed his hand gently on her stomach. Life without you would be unbearable. It would be hell.
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