Circular sore -dog -cat -pets foot

Hiya all
Just looking for thoughts/ opinions on some Petechiae on both tops of my feet (M35) - see link https://imgur.com/a/Hls5OYk
I first noticed them around 3 weeks ago when I was on holiday in Denmark and it was the day before i was due to fly back I noticed a circular patch of pinprick marks around an inch long on my left foot that wasn't itchy sore or raised, I put it down to walking alot and rubbing on my trainers / socks ( my trainers aren't new, but the socks were, I did wash them before taking them on holiday )
Come back from holiday and it hasn't gone and there's a couple more patches appeared but on both feet now and still not sore / raised and some are bigger than others
I went to the Dr around a week ago who wasnt particularly concerned but said if they continued to get worse come back, I am planning on booking another appt tomorrow
I am pretty sure they are Petechiae as I've done the tumbler test and they aren't blanching, I don't have any other particular symptoms other than being generally more breathy / tired but I put that down mainly to working from home and not getting out and enough exercise as what I once did
Just after others input / thoughts. Thanks for reading

“It seems that the Blightswell is beginning to come out of hibernation. Decide who will be going and meet me at the cottage gate in two hours. I’ll bring you the usual supplies and tell the others.” - Mabel
The task of settling the Blightswell down is reserved for the more senior members of the ranger team, those who’ve been here more than two years. Unfortunately, aside from Bea and Arata, there are very few experienced rangers who’ll be able to go out and handle it this year. For the ceremony to be performed safely, five rangers are needed: Aside from Bea, Arata and myself, we’ll need two others to read the guide in detail before we all head out.
The Blightswell resides at the southernmost point of Raifee Wood, in a cave which faces the misty border of the territory. The Blightswell hibernates there for the majority of the year but begins to stir in the spring. At this time of year, Mabel will be keeping a close eye on it, and alert us when she believes that it will be emerging soon. It is one of the few times she breaks from her usual routine, since if we are too late, the Blightswell will leave Raifee Wood- this mustn't allowed to happen.
Collect the following items from the equipment cupboard: The crystal bowl, the sack of dried flower petals (a mixture of poppies, rose petals, lavender and mint), the gas lighter, a jar of sap, the black-ribboned scroll, two spears and three censers (check they’re filled). Bring enough rations for two days. Mabel will meet us at the cottage gate and provide a pitcher filled with dark liquid. She will also provide a large wrapped parcel and a folded tent.

Before you leave, every ranger should put on one of the oilskin uniforms (a hooded cape, trousers and gloves) that are stored under the living room sofa, as well as the leather masks which are kept in the same box. Best to leave wearing the oilskin uniforms, but you only need to wear the masks for the ceremony.
Reaching the cave should take about three hours on foot at a steady pace. You many notice the woods are quieter than usual but this shouldn’t be a concern. Double check the inventory as you walk- returning for a missing item at the last moment could prove disastrous.
As you approach the cave, you may notice red eyes in the bushes or trees. Do not worry about them for now, but don’t approach them either. They are wary of humans and the last thing we want is to scare them off.
When you have reached the mouth of the cave, listen to the noise coming from inside- it is a valuable indicator of approximately when the Blightswell will emerge. If only rustling can be heard within the cave, the Blightswell is in Stage 1. It is awake but will not emerge for at least a day. If chittering and squeaking can be heard, the Blightswell is in Stage 2. It is becoming more active and will emerge within the next 24 hours (but no sooner than 4). Human cries signal that the Blightswell is in Stage 3: It is fully awake and on the move within the next few hours. During my time here, Mabel has never been late enough for us to arrive during Stage 3, but if it does happen, set up the ceremony as quickly as possible. Hopefully, this scenario will remain theoretical.
It is best to prepare for the ceremony, even if the Blightswell is still in Stage 1. Using the jar of sap, create a semi-circular border that starts and ends at each edge of the cave mouth- ensure there is no gap where something could slip through. There should be a stain on the ground from the previous year, which you can use as a guide. When the sap has been spread, press the dried petals into the border. Reserve a few handfuls but there should be more than enough to create a thick layer. Directly opposite the cave entrance and just on the cusp of the border is a stone plinth- place the crystal bowl on it, and fill it with the contents of the pitcher.
Erect the tent in the clearing next to the cave, close enough that you can hear what is going on inside. It is made of a silver fabric and has been soaked in a floral substance, giving it a strong scent. Make sure to set up the tent at least two meters away from the fog border- it can ripple slightly if it is windy and the last thing you want is to wake up with a melted shoulder or foot. Scatter the rest of the dried petal mix within the tent and keep it tightly sealed unless you are entering or exiting it.
The air within a 100-metre radius around the Blightswell’s cave is warm and smells terrible, somewhere between vinegar and rotten meat. More concerningly, it has a deadly effect on rangers if exposed to it for long periods- headaches, followed by a powerful urge to walk into the cave. Needless to say, if you end up entering the cave, you will not be coming out of it. To stay safe while remaining close enough to the cave to monitor the Blightswell, use the tent. Stay inside it whenever possible, and avoid being out in the open air for more than 6 hours at a time. However, if you do get a headache at any point, go into the tent immediately. It may just be a regular one, but it is not worth the risk. Obviously, if you spot a ranger walking towards the cave, restrain them and seal them in the tent until they stop struggling.
Once Mabel realises that the Blightswell is waking up, she will inform as many inhabitants as possible and request that we are left to our own devices to complete the ceremony. Fortunately, the inhabitants reliably honour this request. The reasons for this seem to vary: Fear or respect for Mabel, a favour to leverage for ranger services or just a desire to preserve their pool of prey outside the Wood. Whatever the case, we usually have minimal interactions with other inhabitants before and during the ceremony. However, a few curious ones may visit the edge of the clearing to see what is happening. Ignore them. I suspect that if they don’t think you are taking your task seriously, they would see it as justification to break their agreement with Mabel. We almost had a disaster eight years ago, when something picked off a ranger who wandered away from the cave just before Stage 3 began- we’re still not sure to this day who or what it was. Thankfully, a replacement was able to get out to the cave on time, but it was close. Much too close.
During Stage 2 spend as much time as possible in the tent to avoid the air’s effects from taking hold during Stage 3 or (god forbid) the ceremony itself.
Between yourselves, memorise the contents of the scroll- a short prayer to Saint Sebastian. If you anticipate that memorising is going to be a problem, memorise a line or two each and agree to speak them in sequence during the ceremony. However you choose to go about it, it must be recited consistently and accurately throughout the ritual.
When Stage 3 begins, put on the leather masks, and secure them firmly. Check your clothing to ensure that you are fully covered. Agree upon your roles- three rangers will need to hold the censers, and two will use the spears. Have them on hand.
At the end of Stage 3, the crying and screaming will subside. You will have a few minutes to light the censers and surround the border. Begin to chant the prayer. The combination of smoke and prayer will weaken the Blightswell, slowing its reactions and giving you essential time.
The Blightswell will spill out of the cave, its black, viscous body only stopping when it touches the sap border. You will see the petals of the border begin to slowly darken and turn to sludge- it will fully dissolve the border in approximately 40 minutes. Being restrained by the border agitates the Blightswell and it will begin to pulse, the black skin of its body bubbling with buboes. The rangers with spears should lance these lumps with small cuts. Relieving the pressure from these growths placates the Blightswell and will help it settle. Avoid being hit with the pus- your uniform will protect you from a small amount but if any gets underneath, it infects the skin with similar sores. If left untreated, they will spread, begin to bleed and then kill you within a few days. If you do develop any sores, go to Mabel straight after the ceremony- she has a tincture that will prevent the buboes from spreading and give you a decent chance of survival. Unfortunately, the scarring is permanent.
When the Blightswell stops producing new buboes, it will begin to calm down. This is usually when it takes notice of us properly. Straining, it can warp its body to form small tendrils that reach approximately a foot over the border, if only for a short time. It will try to touch you- thankfully the smoke will slow its reflexes and help you avoid its grasp. If it touches you directly, even through the oilskin, you will experience an accelerated version of the sickness caused by its pus. We will not be able to save you, but if this happens, please try to hold out until the end of the ceremony. For the sake of everyone you cared about before you arrived here.
Eventually, the Blightswell will stop moving. Once it has determined that it cannot contaminate a ranger, it will look for something else to occupy itself while its decay eats away at the border. We are incredibly fortunate that the Blightswell is impatient and animalistic enough to succumb to the same tactic every year. In this phase avoid providing any distractions. Do not speak or move unless absolutely vital. Don’t make eye contact. Well, it doesn’t have eyes, just avoid looking at its head. We’re not sure what it’s supposed to resemble, but the general consensus is a cross between the skull of a rat and the head of a flea. In any case, the Blightswell seems to be able to see out of the empty sockets and becomes agitated if you meet its gaze.
Without any distractions, the bowl should catch the Blightswell’s attention. From what Mabel has told us, it is a combination of beer, blood and laudanum, although there is an unknown silver powder mixed in too. The combination seems rather enticing for the Blightswell, and it will use its tendrils to soak up the bowl's contents. When the Blightswell has finished drinking, it will slump and fall unconscious. Just before it is fully down, it usually tries to reach us as a last-ditch effort. Stay together, and use the smoke from the censers to keep it at bay. Keep chanting the prayer. Some rangers have reported feeling sympathy for it in this stage, especially as the sobbing from Stage 3 starts up again. Just remember that those are stolen voices.
When the Blightswell is fully unconscious, leave the three censers burning around the border. Put Mabel’s package next to the plinth and unwrap it. The contents differ a bit every year, but there are always portions of dried meat and dried herbs alongside a few miscellaneous items. The contents vary a bit every year, but share a common theme: In my years, I’ve seen jade figures of Bastet, postcards with Louis Wain illustrations and a Battersea adoption form. Reminders perhaps, of the more positive aspects of our relationship. Step back and go into the tent as a group- zip it up completely.
Eventually, the red eyed creatures you may have noticed around the clearing will step out and surround the Blightswell, to push its body back into the cave. We are very fortunate that they are willing to do this for us, seeing as we are unable to touch the Blightswell directly. Judging by the hissing, we suspect they dislike it just as much as we do. As I mentioned before, these creatures are very skittish around humans so do not come out of the tent while they are in the clearing- you will be able to see the glow of their eyes through the tent fabric so stay put until they're gone. They will take the contents of the parcel with them.

After the Blightswell has been returned to its cave, return to the cottage as soon as possible- the temporary agreement with the inhabitants will wear off pretty quickly so it is best not to hang around. Check yourself for buboes as soon as you return home- use the bathroom mirror to be 100% certain. Seek immediate treatment if needed and give all of the oilskin uniforms to Mabel for disinfection. Apparently, our usual laundry routine won’t be sufficient. Monitor your health for the next few days but you should be in the clear. Until next year, at least.
Previous Entry: Entry 31, Madam Cotton
Introduction and basic guide to surviving in Raifee Wood

Obizuth grinned like a corpse as hundreds of candles and oil lamps burned all throughout the mansion’s massive basement. I quickly flicked off my flashlight, not wanting to draw any attention to myself. Both Big George and Obizuth had been totally consumed by whatever foul black magic ritual they were performing and, thank God, hadn’t noticed me.
The black, twitching appendages ascending out of her scalp started to whip through the air as Big George pushed the dying boy’s body forwards. The boy’s legs buckled. He fell forwards, smacking his head against the concrete floor with a dull cracking sound.
The demonic female knelt forwards, the chains rattling and clanking together. The skull she wore around her neck grinned up at me as it swung in wide arcs. She reached forwards with an inhumanly long arm. I could see the white bones of her hands peeking out through deep sores eaten into her flesh.
The boy continued to choke on his own blood, gurgling as his breathing slowed. His final breaths started to come erratically. Obizuth flipped him over. His dilated, sightless eyes stared up into her obsidian ones as his heart furiously pumped his remaining life’s essence onto the cold, gray concrete below.
The strange spiked appendages growing out of her head reached down and stroked the boy’s corpse-white cheek lovingly. She grinned, showing off a mouth filled with needles. Thousands of them gleamed like metal. Her gray lips pulled back, revealing blackened gums.
“Oh, what a beautiful tribute,” she croaked in a voice that sounded like she had been gargling with razor blades. “So young and innocent. So sinless…” Her voice stretched out the last word, hissing like a snake. The boy’s final death gasp came after a long period of him not breathing. I heard a shuddering exhale, wet with the slick blood that bubbled from the deep slash across his neck.
As that hissing sound continued, the spider leg appendages twisting out of her head tightened around the boy’s face and body. Obizuth’s eyes seemed to glow with an inner light as the hissing grew louder and more insistent. It escalated into a deafening cacophony. I put my hands over my ears. I think I might have screamed, but I couldn’t hear anything above the demonic roar coming from this eldritch abomination.
The boy’s dilated pupils began to bubble with an interior white light. Like a stream overflowing its banks, I saw the light pulse and rise before falling into his eyes again. Obizuth’s demonic eyes streamed a dark purple effulgence that made everything in the room look like it was illuminated by a black light. Her appendages had begun to bite deeply into the dead boy’s skin, causing rivulets of blood to stream down from dozens of wounds.
Like a viper rising out of a basket, the light formed into a thread. Slowly, almost lazily, it rose towards Obizuth’s open, grinning mouth. She kept hissing as the boy’s consciousness or soul or whatever it was disappeared behind her mouthful of needles and into her enormous body. Then the demonic sound abruptly cut off. Her mouth snapped shut with a faint metallic clang.
“Your tribute is worthy,” Obizuth growled in a deep voice filled with pleasure and satisfaction. “Step forward and accept your ascension to divinity, Acolyte. You are now a master of the Left-Hand Path.” With an arrogant half-smile, Big George drew nearer the abomination. She wrapped her spider-like appendages around his face. The pointed ends caressed his cheek lightly. He didn’t flinch or draw away. Instead, he only continued to emanate his cryptic smile.
Then the pointed tips bit deeply into his skin. His mouth opened in a silent scream. I watched in horror as the appendages pulsed with peristalsis. They looked like intestines moving food. Big George’s body started to glow as some dark, fetid liquid gushed from the hollow ends of the demonic appendages into his flesh. Some of it flowed from his bleeding wounds, mixing with his bright red blood as it dripped onto the floor below.
His face lit up like a jack-o-lantern as his eyes shone with the same purplish light that Obizuth had emanated during the tribute ritual. I noticed with horror that the skull with the black dagger shoved through its crown had also started to glow, sending out cascades of blinding violet beams.
Something gripped my heart like a clenching fist. I felt a suffocating sense of rising panic and dread. I knew I needed to stop this Satanic ritual before completion. If Big George truly became immortal and had demons and countless enormous monsters at his disposal…
I shuddered at the very thought of what that could mean for my town, my state or even the world.
Without stopping to think about what I was doing, I reached for the pistol holstered around my waist. I had loaded it with real bullets, not the salt and iron ones Big George had given me. I didn’t know if that would turn out to be a wise decision or a fatal one.
With sweaty hands, I raised the gun, pointed at Big George and fired.
***
The next thing I remember, the room seemed to be exploding with light. Blinding white mixed with twisting violet as it strobed violently. I ran back up the stairs as a whooshing sound followed me and then a deafening, inhuman shriek.
“You killed him!” Obizuth screamed in a voice like thunder. “You worm, I’ll strip the meat from your bones.” The house shook. Xavier and Katrina ran towards me, their faces chalk-white and their mouths open. They screamed something, but I couldn’t hear it over the roaring of the demon below. Xavier had his gun out. I saw Katrina holding something in her hand, clenched tightly in her fist, but I didn’t know it was.
Finally, the roaring from below stopped. I heard with dread and horror what Xavier had screamed at me.
“We’re surrounded!” he said. “The doors are all blocked.” As if to emphasize his point, I heard a window smashing followed by a sound of splintering wood coming from both the front and back of the house. Heavy footsteps started to ascend the basement stairs. The boards of the stairs screamed with a shriek of tortured wood under the weight of the behemoth. My heart felt like it would explode in my chest. I had killed Big George before he could complete the final ritual apparently, but I still felt like I had gone from the frying pan into the fire.
Obizuth reached the top of the stairs. Her massive frame tried to squeeze through the threshold of the door like a trapdoor spider emerging from its tunnel. She gave a twisted, lunatic laugh.
“I’ll rip you limb from limb,” she screamed as she ripped one arm out of the door. The appendages writhing on the top of her head slid through behind her. We met eyes for a brief moment. She had eyes like a snake, slitted and predatory. The irises shone with a silvery gleam.
We had all started to run without needing to say anything. Xavier and Katrina tore through the kitchen and towards the elegant stairway in the front chamber. I followed close behind, the gun still clenched in my hand. I kept looking back, ready to shoot, but Obizuth was still pulling herself through the solid framework of the threshold. I heard boards snapping and walls shaking, and I figured we only had seconds to hide.
***
The mansion’s hallways loomed before us. We ran down a hall randomly, up a set of spiraling side steps to the third floor and looked for somewhere to barricade ourselves in and come up with a plan. I needed time to think. Big George was dead, so I certainly wasn’t getting any more information from him. I wondered why he had wanted us to bring a witch when her powers might be used against him and the horde of demons he had brought to this place. I would find the answer soon enough.
We found a room with old oak tables and chairs piled up on one wall. A giant oval window looked out onto the floating pyramid nearby. We quietly closed and locked the door before starting to stack tables and chairs in front of it, wedging one chair under the handle to try to add some support to the ersatz barricade.
***
We gathered close, all of us in a high state of excitement. I saw death flashing before my eyes. I looked out the window and saw more dark red abominations streaming out of the pyramid. It was the first moment of peace we had. Katrina quickly started speaking, vomiting out the words as fast as she could as if she feared attack at any moment.
“We need to stop the ritual as soon as possible,” she said. “He has opened a gateway to Naraka, but the door is still mostly closed. I have seen references to this ritual in an ancient medieval book on the black arts written by the Mad Arab. They say he sold his soul and wrote a ten-thousand page volume called ‘The Eldritch Tome’ in a single night with all of the foulest rites and rituals poured into it. I have never actually seen a copy of it, but I’ve seen it referenced in other books. Big George must have somehow gotten hold of it.
“The ritual to open the doorway to Naraka usually ends up with the blood of a witch being poured into the pit below the pyramid. Once the last of her blood gets drained from her body, then the door will be permanently opened, and demons will flood into this world at will.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Xavier asked. “We’re just three people, and only two of us even have guns.”
“I have some things that may be useful in my satchel, if we need to…” she started to say when a slamming boom shook the wall. I walked over to the window, not seeing anything nearby that could have made the noise. Then I looked straight down and saw it.
The creature had dangling clumps of rotted black hair over its face. It climbed up the wooden wall like a mountaineer, punching its skeletal claws into the wood over and over, each crater making a splintering crack echo through the room. Its face didn’t look up at us, which somehow made it even worse. The top of its head had split open with squirming larvae eating their way through its skin. It seemed to shiver with nervous energy, a pale, white abomination from an acid fiend’s worst nightmare rising up to meet us.
“Oh God,” Xavier said, stumbling back from the window. He looked like he was about to pass out.
“Listen to me!” Katrina whisper shouted. “We need to get to the basement and take the sacrificial dagger out of the skull. That is the nexus of power holding all of this together.” She shook her head. “Big George must have been working on something like this for many years. I can’t imagine the amount of people he would have had to kill to…”
A shattering cacophony interrupted her. Looking back towards the window, I saw the demonic figure hovering outside the window it had just broken. It tried to slither through, tearing chunks of its decaying flesh off on the sharp tips of broken glass.
Its hair, black and squirming with larvae, reached down to its waist and covered its face and chest. But as it pressed its bleeding body into the broken window, its hair pulled back from its face for a moment, and I saw a female visage straight from Hell.
She had garish dark stitches running across her face like intersecting railroad tracks. They held the wet, squirming flesh loosely to the dark red metallic bones gleaming underneath. She grinned, showing a mouthful of dark crimson needles the same color as the pyramid.
She pulled herself through the window like a tick burrowing into skin, ripping off pieces of pale, naked flesh on the jagged pieces of glass. Dark blood streamed from many wounds, but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest.
“Give… me… the witch…” she hissed, pulling herself up straight. She looked at us with eyes as empty as an abyss. “I… smell… her blood…” Katrina grabbed her chest, hyperventilating and gasping as a panicked, anxious expression overtook her features.
The demon’s head ratcheted as if she had gears in her neck, moving in a blur of movement before stopping to look at each of us in turn. Her grin spread across her face as her mouth fell open. Like a snake unhinging its jaw, I watched her mandible fall down below her neck. There was a rending sound as the stitched-up flesh across her cheeks tore from ear to ear. The thousands of sharp needles in that gaping, grinning maw glistened as she ran forward toward Katrina.
Xavier took the Weaver stance, raising his pistol and straightening his arms. With a booming crack like a shout from God, he fired over and over, first hitting the abomination’s right leg. Her kneecap exploded in a shower of bone fragments and rotten, gray flesh. Her leg collapsed underneath its weight, snapping with a sound like a ceramic pot shattering.
She continued to crawl forward without any sign of pain, leaving streaks of cold, clotted blood squirming with countless worms on the hardwood floor behind her as she went. She gnashed her needle-sharp teeth together, giving a metallic clattering as she advanced, her eyes still fixed on the witch with a supernatural intensity. She started to gnash her teeth so fast that I saw needles breaking off.
“Your blood…” she hissed again, spitting needles and dark blood. She swiped at Katrina’s leg with a clawed hand, wrapping it tight around her calf. Pieces of sharp bone poked out through the rotted tips of her fingers. With a squeal of pain, Katrina jumped back, but the hand held on.
I walked forward, pressing the barrel of the gun directly to the back of the abomination’s head. I stepped on her back, pushing her to the floor then emptied the entire clip into her skull.
Her head exploded in a splash of rotting gore. Sharp needles and fragments of red bone splattered back on me. Her throat gurgled in a dying explosion of breath, her claws still tightly wrapped around Katrina’s leg, the fingers curled up like a dead spider. Rivulets of blood streamed down Katrina’s leg.
“Oh God, she’s still got me,” Katrina shrieked, panic marring her face. She looked like she might pass out at any moment. She looked down at the mutilated nightmarish monstrosity still clutching her flesh and wavered on her feet. I ran over to help. Xavier circled around the other side, examining the hand. We tried prying the fingers open, but the hand held tightly shut like the fingers of a marble statue.
“Shit man,” he said, sweating heavily. He nervously tried prying off one finger at a time. With a sound like bones shattering, he finally worked one finger loose. After a few more seconds, he cracked another open and, finger by finger, eventually loosened the whole hand. The tips had been embedded deeply in the layers of fat and muscle of Katrina’s leg, but luckily they hadn’t gone deep enough to puncture any major blood vessels. They pulled out of her skin with a wet, sucking sound.
“We need to get out of here. Big George is dead. I can’t believe the whole time he was leading us here as sacrifices,” Xavier said.
“Especially me,” Katrina said, and as if the universe had a sense of humor, at that moment the windows went dark. I looked outside to see swarms of the flying monstrosities who had earlier emerged from the pyramid hovering right outside the window. Like a cross between a spider, a dragonfly and a scorpion, they pressed against the glass with their eerily human faces at us, their iridescent, insectile wings furiously beating and blocking out the light. With faces like those of hairless mutated children, they examined us, their heads all twisting eerily towards Katrina like predators smelling prey. Their mouths opened, revealing countless needle teeth that gnashed furiously.
Their large stingers flexed with enormous bulging muscles, the sharp balls ending in curving, needle-like points. I saw with some consternation that the tips of their stingers constantly emitted drops of ruby-red venom. Like drops of blood dripping down, the crimson poison ran down their hard red exoskeletons.
I had loaded some of the bullets Big George had given us into the pistol, deciding to see if they would work. If he had wanted us alive as extra tributes, then he might have given us an actually effective means of repelling these demons so that we could survive long enough to fulfill his evil plan.
I heard an angry, predatory roaring from the floor below us. It was the voice of Obizuth, a choked, predatory growl that made her sound as if she had been gargling with sulfuric acid. Her voice came out like a slowed-down recording, stretching out and vibrating the floor.
“The witch… give me the witch, you worthless vermin… I can smell her blood… it smells sweet… so close…”
Without warning, one of the creatures took advantage of the distraction and flew in through the window. Its head ratcheted towards Katrina, its body twitching with excitement. Then it wrapped its muscular tail around her, keeping the writhing, dripping stinger away from her skin. She screamed, beating her fists against its hard crimson shell. Before I could even raise the gun, it flitted back toward the window in a blur of motion.
“Oh shit!” Xavier screamed, running after Katrina. I felt frozen solid for an endless moment as the abomination jumped, Katrina’s face still looking backwards towards me with a pleading expression in her terror-stricken eyes. Its wings fluttered with a sound like helicopter blades slicing the air. In a graceful, curving arc, it flew through the room and escaped outside the shattered window with Katrina still wrapped tightly in its tail. Her panicked shrieks quickly faded into the distance.
“We can’t let it get away!” he continued yelling, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. I shook my head.
“You need to go to the basement and dismantle the skull holding this ritual together,” I said quickly. Another one of the freakish flying scorpions had begun to crawl through the window like some kind of demented vole emerging from its burrow. I shot at it with the salt-and-iron bullet. It gave a very human scream, its face and exoskeleton starting to melt as if it had been sprayed with a corrosive acid. It fell to the ground, seizing and kicking, rolling on its back with its sharp, spidery legs kicking out. Xavier reloaded, running over and blowing the top of its fleshy, hairless head apart with a few point-blank shots from his pistol.
“I can’t believe the salt-and-iron shit actually works somewhat,” Xavier said as more flying beasts smashed through windows. He reloaded and tried to keep them at bay. I ran to the barricade and began throwing chairs and tables aside.
“I’m going to try to get Katrina back before she gets sacrificed,” I said. “You need to get to the basement and take the dagger out of the skull and stop all of this. At any cost. We’re all counting on you.” He nodded grimly. I ran out into the hallway, turning left. Xavier ran out behind me and headed towards the servant’s stairs. I glanced back, wondering if I would ever see him alive again.
I fled towards the front door of the house and the massive stairway in the entrance chamber. I got as far as the end of the hallway and started turning when I ran into the first of the crawling abominations that swarmed all over the mansion.
It looked like a giant centipede with thousands of long bristles that formed skittering legs the color of pale straw. Waves of motion rippled through the legs, propelling the abomination forwards in a blur. It had a mouth like a leech, a sucking, slimy circular hole with hundreds of triangular teeth spiraling in towards the center. Its enormous, black compound eyes glistened with a colorful sheen. There was no recognizable emotion in those eyes, no glint of compassion or understanding or anything human. They looked as blank and empty as the eyes of a mannequin.
I had filled the pistol’s chamber with salt-and-iron bullets. With uncertainty in my heart as to how effective this would be, I raised the gun. The beast, nearly ten feet long and coming at me like a runaway train, gave a deep, throaty growl that vibrated the floor. As fast as I could, I pulled the trigger, emptying the entire chamber.
The first bullets hit it in the face. Its flesh immediately began to drip and melt like candle wax, its insectile eyes bursting apart in a stream of blue blood the color of antifreeze. And yet its legs continued to skitter towards me even as it gave a long, bubbling hiss. Its mouth continued to suck at the air as if it could already sense the tasty human blood that would flow into its alien mouth.
I tried to sideswipe it as its heavy body thudded to the ground and skidded across the hallway towards me. Even without eyes, its dying body seemed to sense my presence, perhaps feeling the vibrations or smelling me. Its body slid into an S-shape, its sucker coming straight for my chest. I was out of bullets and cringed back.
Inches away, it exhaled a long, shuddering breath and finally collapsed.
***
I sprinted through the opening, savoring the few moments of peace. I heard crashing and shattering coming from all around the house. There was a scream of tortured wood on the first floor, and I heard glass smashing. Something laughed like a hyena, an inhuman, high-pitched cackle that sent shivers down my spine. For a moment, I wondered who drew the short straw on this one- me or Xavier.
I reached the sprawling, elegant staircase, standing on the top. It was wide enough to drive two cars down it with room to spare. The front door stood, one door hanging off its hinges at a 45 degree angle, the other splayed out on the floor.
From the kitchen on the first floor, I heard rapid gunfire. Xavier screamed. He sounded like he was either laughing or crying, or maybe both.
“Come get it, fuckers!” he shrieked in a lunatic voice. “Come fucking get it! I’m not afraid to die!”
I ran out the door, the blinding sun staring down at me like a burning eye. As my vision adjusted, I looked over at the pyramid. Only a few hundred feet away now, but a few hundred feet had never seemed so far.
***
I sprinted across the garden, seeing strange, burrowing trails of piled dirt running in random curving lines under the earth. Something about that caused me to shiver. Creatures flew over the trees and mansion by the dozen, circling and howling with inhuman cries.
I heard Katrina’s terrified voice. Looking through the trees, I saw her, still held tightly in the flying abomination’s thick tail. Obizuth walked calmly along the dirt trail towards Katrina, giving her a motherly smile.
“Do not feel bad, girl,” Obizuth hissed in a serpentine voice. “Your blood will forever join Naraka and Earth together as one. You are the most important living person on this world right now. You will bring the ancient ones out, and we will take our rightful places as the rulers of these worthless masses of life.”
Ozibuth walked towards Katrina and the surrounding creatures. I saw a long sacrificial dagger held in her hand. The handle looked like it had been carved from bone. The finely-honed obsidian blade gleamed black in the ruby-red glow of the light emanating from under the pyramid.
“Please, don’t do this,” Katrina pleaded. “So many people will die.” Obizuth laughed, a sound like the tortured grinding of metal. Obizuth only grinned wider, raising the dagger and walking forward.
I sprinted towards them as silently as I could. I had put a new magazine in the pistol already, this time with real bullets. I fired at Obizuth’s arm holding the dagger.
The shot went wild, hitting a tree next to her head and causing splinters and smoke to rain down on Obizuth. Without surprise, she turned, the gray, dead flesh of her face stretching tight as her expression formed into a scowl.
“You will join her in eternal agony for that,” Obizuth shrieked as a torrent of creatures poured towards me. Something reached down from under the soil and grabbed my ankle. I looked down, seeing the clotted black hair of another one of those things that had attacked us in the mansion. Her hands were skeletal, the flesh worn down to the bone in most spots. They were smeared with blood and covered in dirt and grime.
I shot into the ground and felt the hand release me. But as I looked up, a massive tail wrapped around my body. I felt myself being lifted up. The flying scorpion creature jumped into the air with a shrill flutter of its wings. My stomach dropped as we rose a dozen stories and then fell back to the ground in a graceful arc. It brought me down in front of Obizuth’s pleased face.
I still had a few shots left. I raised the pistol and fired at the leader of this nightmare.
The first bullet shattered her ankle. She fell with a grunt, her lips pulling apart in a predatory growl, the chains wrapped around her body tinkling like wind chimes. I aimed the second shot at the creature holding Katrina. It burst through its face with a shower of blue blood.
As rapidly as I could, I turned the pistol to the one holding me and fired. It smashed into its back along the length of its spine. Its tail began twitching and seizing. I fell hard as it dropped me. I saw the vicious stinger swinging inches in front of my face. Crawling away, I knew I was a goner. I tried to reload as I crawled, but more cold hands reached up from the earth and grabbed me. The clip fell from my numb fingers.
I reached where Katrina lay on the ground, shocked and gasping. She had fallen hard when the beast released her and it had apparently knocked the wind out of her.
“I’m here,” I said, grabbing her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m here, Katrina. At least you won’t die alone. I’ll stay with you until the end.” She nodded, her face pale and sad.
I noticed the pyramid floated above a bottomless pit in the earth that slowly belched thin wisps of smoke. I looked down for a moment and saw a scene that will give me nightmares for as long as I live.
It was like looking down through a telescope into another world. Rocky cliffs dozens of stories high towered over flat, lifeless stone roads. Everything burned with a violent intensity. Blue flames shot out of the ground and black smoke rushed up into the air. The smell of scorched flesh and smoke was overwhelming.
Thousands of people rushed in different directions, burning and screaming. Their skin fell off in strips and their bodies blackened, but by the time they had taken the next step, they would be fully healed.
Countless creatures from a nightmare surrounded them, ripping into their flesh, grabbing them from the air and dragging them under the ground. Yet no matter how many disappeared or got taken away, more of these naked, emaciated people would come in to fill their place, sprinting for their lives in every possible direction yet finding no solace. I saw some people trampled underfoot, their crying, screaming faces pressed hard against the flaming ground as thousands of bare feet ran over them.
“It’s Hell,” I whispered, knowing the truth. “Naraka is Hell.” Katrina only nodded.
***
Obizuth rose to her feet, her shattered leg already healing. More of the creatures swarmed around her. Dozens of the women with the skull faces and clotted, black hair climbed out of the pit, their grinning skulls showing off their sharp needle teeth.
They grabbed at us with cold hands, the loose skin of their hands nearly falling off the bones. I cringed, my skin shivering. They pinned our arms behind our backs and pulled our heads back as Obizuth came over in a fury.
“You will die slowly,” she said. “I will skin you alive before I cut your throats. So much the better for the ritual. The pyramid feeds on agony. Know only that all the ones you know and love will follow you soon. Perhaps that will give you some solace.” She gave us a twisted grin, the needles in her mouth glistening.
Obizuth’s hand shot out like a snake grabbing a mouse. With a quick slice, she took off Katrina’s left pinky finger in the space of a moment. Katrina didn’t even cry out, simply looking down with a stunned expression. Bright red blood spurted from the wound.
Then Obizuth put the knife to Katrina’s chest, deciding to start the skinning.
In an adrenaline-fueled spike, Katrina ripped her right arm free. I saw she still had her hand clenched tightly. In a blur, she threw a shower of something at Obizuth’s face. Obizuth screamed, pulling back. The knife fell out of her skeletal hands. Her mouth opened inhumanly wide, her scream shrieking across the forest like a steam-whistle.
She looked up at us. I saw her face melting, pieces of the loose, gray skin sliding off to show the metallic, red bones underneath. But Katrina had used her one shot. Obizuth shook with outrage, one of her eyes dripping out of its sockets. I saw thick granules of salt, dull shreds of iron and sharp pieces of silver embedded in her skin.
Her other eye focused on Katrina with a cold fury.
“You will pay for that, witch,” she said, breathing hard. She started to come forwards again, looking even more nightmarish than before. But she was cut off by a deep, roaring sound that vibrated the earth under my feet.
Then the earth trembled as in an earthquake, sending the creatures falling over. Obizuth stayed on her feet, wavering like a sailor on a ship. Her eyes went wide. The creatures all around us began howling and shrieking in tones of fear and panic. They started rushing back towards into the pyramid or fleeing to the pit beneath it. The pyramid had started to descend with a deafening cacophony. As it lowered into the pit of fire and smoke and tortured souls, the hands released me.
“No…” Obizuth said, falling to her knees. She began to crawl towards the pyramid. She reached the edge and pulled herself over, tumbling down into the void below. With a jumble of inhumanly long, rotted legs and arms, she fell and was gone.
Within the space of a minute, we found ourselves alone. The earth continued to shake as the tip of the pyramid disappeared beneath the surface. The soil started to fill in the hole on its own, as if an imaginary hourglass had been overturned.
Soon, the spot where Hell had been unleashed looked like nothing more than a massive dirt square. We were alone.
“Are… are we dead?” I asked, hyperventilating and stuttering. “What is this?”
“No!” Katrina said enthusiastically. “No, someone must have stopped the ritual.” Her eyes widened. “Xavier.”
We sprinted towards the house. Panic and relief fought in my chest. What about Xavier? If he had stopped it, he must still be alive, right?
***
I found Xavier’s swollen, green body in the basement. A nightmarish, fifteen-foot long snake had wrapped around his torso and sunk its giant fangs into his leg. At his feet lay the skull, the jaw bone broken off and teeth scattered across the floor like litter on a sidewalk.
In his right hand, he still held the black ritual dagger tightly. Its blade had bit deeply through the snake’s eye and into its brain.
They had died together, hugging like two lovers who just carried out a suicide pact.
***
As I left his funeral later that month, I had the Grateful Dead blasting on my car. I listened to the lyrics with sadness. They reminded me of Xavier.
“Nine mile skid on a ten mile ride, Hot as a pistol but cool inside. Going where the wind don’t blow so strange, Maybe off on some high cold mountain chain. Lost one round but the price wasn’t anything. A knife in the back and more of the same.
“Like a steam locomotive, Rolling down the track, He’s gone, He’s gone, And nothing’s going to bring him back.”
I thought of his swollen body, the expression of purpose eternally frozen on his dying face.
And I knew that he was undoubtedly the best trainer a man could ever wish to have.

Casper knew there was something wrong straight away, albeit he didn't know what exactly had just happened. He had felt a flare of pain and suddenly his entire chest felt heavy, it didn't feel right. That alone was enough to set his mind racing.
His mind, supported by the software, warned him of the horrific damaged caused by the over-penetrating strike. There was shock, his brain dumped as many chemicals as it thought would help immediately into his own system, but the software listed his problems very neatly, allowing him to prioritise.
His optics clicked as he struggled, it was as if someone had strapped a thick, unyielding, belt across and around his torso, before heaving it as tight as they could possibly make it. His arm lowered, still holding the sword aloft in his victory pose, it's spout of intense heat dying and going out. His hand, still grasping the hilt, touched at his chest, he was still intact, he could see the metal, it's paint was scratched and marred, but he wasn't destroyed.
He wanted to sigh in relief, to breathe, to take in a steadying breath and clear this tightness.
Casper did what he had always done, and breathed deep, only for the vents across his chest, to remain closed. They twitched and sparked, but unlike every time before, where they had opened and flooded his heart with the rich oxygen of the training fields, this time they stayed closed. If Casper's face could contort, show worry, or perhaps fear, it would have. Instead, his optics clicked and whirred, the camera apertures dilating in panic.
He stumbled forward and tried again. 'Steady. Breathe in through the nose.'
The giant pair of intake turbines that sat within his chest, sputtered, and sparked. The connection to the main unit meant they received the order to spin up, to feed the furnace that was sat at the centre of his chest, but they couldn't comply. One of the turbines was outright gone. The majority of it was now scattered in a straight line leading away from the rig, following the path of the super dense round.
The other turbine tried it's best and the blades began to move, but they were sluggish. The metal blades caught and screeched as they scratched debris into the housing of the intake. The devastation of the round hadn't just destroyed internal systems, it had peppered the untouched areas with super-heated fragments that melted and burn holes in a sea of critical parts.
Qik's shot was perfectly landed, exactly right, to cause the whole machine to shutdown safely and eject the pilot. A kill shot. The average machine would be completely disabled. The machine that had just taken her shot, weeks before, was a mere object. It was inert as a rock, simply complicated in makeup. It too, would have fallen over with any other pilot.
But the spirit that drove this thing, that worked as the masterful conductor that led the collection of lifeless parts into movement and action had willed his mind and personality into all things. The amps in the wires pulsed like a heartbeat. The ones and zeros that may have made up the many layers of software may have begun as cold, unfeeling systems, now in fact; desired to work as intended. Emotion drove this machine as much as logic did.
The batteries sprung awake, switching from charging to output; the reactor was without O2! 'Turbines! To life!' They screamed.
Turbine Two was KIA and remained silent. The machine would mourn its loss later.
Turbine One was severely wounded, but it's fans could move. It could do its job. The turbine added as much torque to its fans as it could to push past the debris and get the airflow back!
The batteries, working in tandem, broke protocol and devoted more power than normal to the last remaining lifeline. The computerised systems, guided by the pilot's will to live, instantly stepped in and disconnected all the hard locked safety features, overclocking its systems beyond any recommended redline. Dying was not merely turning off, it was the great oblivion. The machine had no desire to turn to off for the final time. It wasn't ready to go yet.
Geckin engineers would be baffled later reading the reports. This machine should have seen the danger in still going and ejected the pilot to safety; away from the potential explosion of a reactor that was online, but without oxygen. But unbeknownst to them, the software was faced with a millennia of survival instincts of the pilot's layered mind. A thousand computer specialists, backed by an army of wet work AIs; couldn't have resisted the sheer force of will from Casper as his mind, dropping into survival instincts and, the lizard, the mammal, and the ape, all demanding his body to live.
His body was the machine, the machine would comply. It would live.
Turbine One's fan blades completed a rotation, then a second, and a third before it's RPM began to sore once more! One fan blade was sparking as it caught the casing, but it didn't matter; the 02 intake was climbing!
The vents across the mech's chest slapped open and the exhausts at the back belched an unhealthy-looking plume of black smoke. Casper had power, one lung was collapsed, but he could breathe. He could fight. He turned to the threat he felt like heat across the side of his face. His sensor suite was untouched and knew the exact point of danger.
Qik rose her rig's 'head' up to observe the human's rig stumble forward after taking the hit, just like he was supposed to. But then he straightened, black smoke rising from him, and looked her way. He wasn't supposed to do that. Qik's rig ducked its head and lined up another shot. She'd taken out hundreds of geckin pilots with that exact same shot, the pilot's will to go on didn't matter; the mech should have deactivated and ejected him away. This was the final lesson, this was supposed to be routine.
'Tough bastard.' But Qik kept that thought to herself.
Casper wasn't even thinking at this point, all he could see was red. He was hurt! Injured! There was danger! Run! Fight! Hide! Run! Fight! Hide!
The optics instantly clicked, focusing, and seeing the former ally crouched in the mouth of the hangers, with a giant weapon pointed his way. Red targeting highlights marked her.
Unbidden, the software told his animalistic mind that Qik was pointing a Maestrik 120mm/L61 cannon his way. Despite never seeing this weapon before, Casper knew it was unwieldy, unsuitable for active warzones, with the exception of fortified positions and overwatch operations. She had advantage, side to side movement wouldn't help. It was fully capable of destroying him with a single round, regardless of the ammunition loaded. There was no hiding, not even going to ground could protect him from what was pointed at him. There was no retreat. There was no hiding.
All this information was instantly provided and understood by the three layers of the human's brain before the lopeljack could prepare the next shot.
"Fight!" The Ape, The Mammal and The Lizard, all screamed in unison. The machine obeyed.
His mech launched forwards at the threat.
Turbine One on its own couldn't feed enough O2 into the boosters to bring him closer to the danger in time, the calculations all declared he would fail. With the safeguards gone however, the software whispered that he had a chance... The reactor was willed into overdrive, spinning it up to maximum output, damning the consequences. The rods inside would eventually melt through the metal housing, but it would give him the edge! The boosters on Casper's back, usually gave off a lovey blue and white jet that burnt clean when it activated, but the flames that spewed out now, pushing his speed past what was possible on his own, was a dirty yellow, smoke and smog billowing out as a trail before it began to slowly change to blue in colour as the core temperature began to cascade upwards.
Qik was ready now, as Casper closed the distance. His rig raised the metal shield still bolted to his arm up, to protect his body, all the while the top of his recon unit's casing poked over the top; his optics never once leaving her.
'A good hunter's eyes never wander...' She mused.
The barrel roared and the entire atmosphere in the hanger warped and hiccupped as the force and concussive blast of the gun sent anything not firmly nailed down, flying. The round travelled the short distance in less than a blink. The world was moving in slow motion for Casper, so his optics saw the point of the spinning round as it destroyed one half of his reconnaissance unit. The round whistled into the distance, destroying several banks of dirt before eventually burying itself into the dirt. The rig flinched with the force of the shot, turning with the resulting air vortex of the round, but it was only a moment's distraction before the tiny red dot in the centre of the optic's aperture locked onto to Qik once more.
Cold. Dispassionate. Casper kept going.
Catastrophic damage was registered across his face, he'd lost radio, sensors and lidar, but the enemy was in front of him, he had committed and considered nothing else now. He cocked his arm, aligning the sword's hilt over the top of his shield to plunge it into the enemy's chest as soon as she was in range. He just needed a few more seconds.
The third and final shell tore Casper in half.
The vortex the shell created, added to the damage done by the round to the mech's midsection, disconnected both legs and sent the torso falling forwards, rolling into the dirt. A moment later, a small armoured circular aperture opened, and a tiny, human sized sarcophagus was fired into the sky, away from the unit's corpse. The reactor ignited and the mech began to burn and melt. It would continue to do so for several hours before it eventually laid there as a ruined husk into the night.
To Casper, he didn't feel the damage that 'killed' him, but he felt what it was like for his soul to be torn from his body. Like a crustation or arachnid, he felt his arms and legs be pulled from within the mech's limbs, shedding them like an old moult. He was pulled up, gathered into a tiny pathetic ball, and thrown from the back of the mech into the sky before he was deadened to the sensations of the world once more and thrust into the void. It was a mental trauma unlike anything else, Casper knew what it was like to die in violence now and for his very soul to be ripped from its home.
In the void, Casper wailed. Screaming into the nothingness at the awful sensations that he had just been forced through. He only stopped when he felt the exhaustion of the recent events catch up to him.
== 0 ==
Wren watched the pilot sarcophagus with disconnected professionalism. The engineering crew were well trained and moved with purpose and fluidity. The seal popped and the biological team stepped up. One of theirs stepped down into the casket and hooked two fabric loops under something out of Wren's sight. The geckin doctor knew it would be the human's arms.
At a curt hand signal to the crane operator, the human was lifted from the coffin-like structure, limp and unmoving. His body was slick with sweat and the room stank of his odour. It always did. Wren had hidden her disgust the first few times, but once she realised that the human was barely even conscious when he was retrieved from the mech, she'd stopped trying. He was lowered and gracelessly placed onto a gurney next to her. At least he hadn't vomited on himself this time. It wasn't that she cared for him, it just smelt even worse.
Wren knew other species felt emotions differently to geckins, she was a biologist after all, knowing how they thought was how they were winning the ongoing war with the ssypno. So, with 'Casper', she had adopted the persona of a care giver. It was a fairly easy act to pull off, she 'cooed' and 'fussed' over the human to ensure his cooperation, but that was no longer needed. He was obviously addicted to the Full Submersion Control, but its effects were lasting for the human. It took him time to recover where he was disoriented. Not to mention he was no longer property under the control of the geckin people. Damn that lopel for poisoning her hard work. Zeet had genuinely cared for the creature, thrilled to have found a worthy pilot for his life's work. Wren just wanted to peel back his skull and see how to recreate his strengths.
Now she was frustratingly obligated to tick the boxes to protect the geckin people. Mostly from the ire of the GC, should they ask what welfare checks they had put in place and attempt to accuse them of damaging the rarest species if all this went the way they expected. For all their faults, they would claim their tails should the geckins be found wanting in this regard. Falling out of their graces would do no good for keeping ssypno aggression in check.
"Sit him up." She ordered, stepping up the creature. Her research had come on leaps and bounds. The idea of near zero drift was unheard of and very, very interesting to the geckin private sector that paid for Wren's research. The geckin government had stepped away and had stopped protecting him now that the human was destined to no longer be their problem.
Wren sneered in uncovered disgust as she looked him over. Its flesh was clammy and pale, lacking the protection or brilliance of scales. When it had arrived, its flesh was pinkish brown. There were sections and areas where he was outright pale, obviously the skin was always covered by clothing in these areas, but now his skin was uniformly ashen, nearly grey throughout.
"Touch your fingers." She ordered curtly, raising her voice and getting a reaction from the creature. More of a flinch than acknowledgment. He didn't comply at first, his eyes, dull now, searching the room before finding her. She raised her arms and effortlessly touched her fingertips to her thumbs in a series, prompting him. She didn't like how his lips looked damaged, as if he'd been chewing them. Normal? Or a side effect?
"Touch your fingers." She instructed again, bored of this already. Her claws clacked against each other, giving a 'tik, tik, tik' sound that felt loud in the hanger bay.
The human complied, slowly raising his hands which both shook violently, as if he were shivering. It was slow at first. The task was to touch his thumb to the tips of each of his fingertips in a row, then back. He missed or made a fist at first before slowly coming back to his real body. It was as if they were training a pilot inside a mech, but the other way around. After a minute or so, he succeeded, Wren wasted no time.
"Touch your toes."
This one he did right away. She used to make him stand up and stretch, without bending his knees to touch his toes. Now he merely folded them at the knee while he sat there and brushed his hand against any part of his foot that he could reach. Good enough to her; instructions didn't say not to bend his knees.
"You're fine, get food and rest. No piloting tomorrow." More than enough medical care to appease a board. How 'kind' of her to prevent him from piloting for his welfare.
The human nodded, before shuffling towards the edge of the gurney and gingerly touching his toes to the floor. As he left, his gait was like a corpse that had come back to life, shuffling and lurching from one leg to the other. He wrapped his arms around himself and almost fell forwards, away from the geckins. He now walked as the geckin biological community had expected his gait when they had heard there was a biped species without a tail. Wren had turned back to her notes before Casper had left the hanger, before eventually disappearing from sight.
Wren merely sighed, already dismissing him from her mind. She'd like to get access to his brain before any long-term damage or even sudden damage occurred to it. But she'd settle for the plan offered by her benefactors. Either way, she'd get to play with that brain once it was in her lab, she often won these games if she just remained patient.
== 0 ==
"Casper?" Asked a voice, causing the formley lone occupant of the corridor to blink. He had been slumped against a wall, still standing, but gathering his strength. The haggard young man turned and looked back the way he had come, to now find the lopel mercenary, Qik standing there. He frowned, unsure if she was actually in the corridor with him, and reached out a hand to ensure she was real. She raised her own hand and caught his with ease.
"Hey Qik, sorry, I was daydreaming." Casper murmured before pulling his hand back before she caught the tremor that wouldn't stop. His skin physically ached where the soft pads of her hands had touched him.
"Sounds fun. Shall we get you to your quarters?" She asked, tilting her head, and watching him curiously. Casper merely nodded and made a concerted effort to walk with his back straight and steady rhythm to where his door waited for him. He touched the back of his hand to the sensor and the door slid aside with a hiss.
He stepped in, holding back a sigh until he was alone but was surprised when Qik followed without waiting for an invitation. He released his sigh and merely keyed the door shut behind her, too tired to protest. Ignoring her, he began to walk over to his bed, fully intending on falling into it until he woke up again. Qik's words caused him to pause and turn to look at her.
"I'm sorry I shot you." Qik started, feeling oddly guilty. "I'm sorry I shot you multiple times..." She added after a moment's consideration. She was a mercenary; he was hardly the first person she had shot. She hadn't even hurt him. But she felt... guilt. She knew that he felt truly connected to his rigs, whatever configuration they were. She didn't like to think whether he felt anything more than damage reports.
The human shrugged, his eyes were sunken, darkened and bruised as if he'd been hit in the face. He looked bone tired, smelt ill and his clothes, the human made tshirt he had arrived in that he wore now, hung off him. He'd lost weight. More then that, he'd stopped caring for himself and the geckin were obviously not offering that support either. They wouldn't now he'd played his hand and burnt bridges to leave.
"You're not having something to eat?" She asked, noting the pile of mess in his kitchen area.
"I'm not hungry." Casper explained simply, before going silent. With nothing more to say, he merely turned, shuffled again towards the oversized bed and physically collapsed into it. Clothes and all.
Qik blinked.
She was a mercenary of renown. The only reason she'd been stuck here for so long was because she was a lopel of her word, she'd signed a contract and would not leave until she completed that. It was a lifetime of work to gain a reputation of professionalism, but all it took was one bad contract and all that could be shaken. For her to be free once more, she just needed the next fight. She didn't need the human.
However.
In all her time as a mercenary, she'd seen many different types of pilots. Some were disconnected and professional about their work. Others were passionate, taking each contract as a bet against their own pride or skill. Not to mention the whole spectrum between.
So Qik had seen pilots like Casper before, they were the ones who had got into the trade for the wrong reasons. Money, Fear, Fleeing justice. It didn't matter, they were without hope and slowly wasted away. The lopel wasn't blind, she could see and hear just how animated the human became inside his rig. How withdrawn he was without it. He was addicted. It was obvious and should be obvious to him too.
But no one had explained about the seduction of the machine to him. No one had taken them under their wing, to explain that he had to care for himself. To know there was more than just the machine or eventually he wouldn't be able to pilot anything again. She was training him, yes, but did that mean that he was her responsibility? She didn't want an apprentice. She had just needed a way of salvaging her reputation from when he had first piloted a mech and fluked a draw.
She closed her eyes and sighed, turning her arm over and running two fingers over the bald circle on her inner forearm. It was one of the ports where she connected to her own rig. No one had taught her anything, she'd learnt it all the hard way.
But... she had to admit... She would have liked it if someone to have given a shit about her when she had started out...
Without a word, she left the main room to find the bathroom unit off to one side. As she fiddled with the dials, the large tub began to fill with hot water that steamed in the cold air of the living space. The console would handle the filling and dispensing of cleaning products into the fresh water.
As she watched the water rise, Qik considered how ace pilots often felt powerful inside a mech. They felt invincible. It was addictive. With their low drift, it meant there were very few reminders that the machine was not the ace's body. It was only the hiccups and delayed orders that brought pilots back to reality. The rigs were as dangerous to the enemy as they were to themselves.
As the tub filled, Qik strode over to the kitchen, where a pile of half-eaten high-nutrient slurry trays lay discarded. It only took her a few minutes, but she binned it all and filled a fresh bowl, warming it until it was piping hot. The slurry wasn't great, the appearance was of a lumpy mush and the taste was about the same. But if Casper ate two trays per day, he'd maintain his weight. If she could get three in him, he might actually gain something back onto his bones. The human was far too thin, no way was he an example of a 'healthy' human right now.
The bathroom unit pinged and one of the lopeljack's ears twitched. The bath was ready and an appropriate temperature.
Casper was so far gone that he barely woke as Qik rolled him gently onto his back. She removed his clothes with careful, respectful hands before slipping her arms beneath his knees and around his shoulders. He weighed nothing to her. He wasn't as small as a geckin, far from it, but even with her limited knowledge, he shouldn't be this light.
Walking the short distance, without his shirt, she paid attention to his body. She analysed it, like a doctor or field medic, dispassionate to his nudity. His ribs were well defined through the skin, and his collarbone stretched the thin looking skin taut. He looked like a refugee.
She shook her head as she gently lowered him into the steaming water, careful not to shock him or jostle him too much. His body jerked at the touch of water, and pale blue eyes cracked open, his head lolling limply against her arm as she settled him in the water. One hand never left him as she grabbed a washcloth and applied soap, before beginning to gently wash his body.
"...What... What are you doing?"
"I'm looking after you." She explained carefully. She used short, clear sentences, loud and curt enough to hear him, but softened the usual edge to her voice.
"I'm.. f-fine." He mumbled, trying to assure her he didn't need effort on his part.
"You don't look fine Casper, does anything hurt?" She asked, paying attention to dark splotches that created odd patches on his back. It could be bruising from when the pilot sarcophagus came back down to earth after being ejected from the rig. She asked her question and deliberately ran the cloth over these patches, noticing the flinch in the human's body.
"That... that uh..." He murmured, still very much confused and muddled, his voice went up an octave, wincing again. If Qik didn't miss her guess, she suspected he was in shock.
"A bit tender?" She asked softly.
"Uh huh." He mumbled, nodding his head jerkily. She let him sit back against the edge of the bath and began washing down his arms.
"Is there anything else that's bothering you? Anything else you can tell me about Casper?" She asked again, using his name to bring him back.
"My skin... hurts..." He admitted, blinking back tears, his eyes, already bloodshot, now swimming.
"It's the Nerve-Suit, the water will help it pass Casper, you're doing great. We just need to get you clean, okay?" She assured him, gently wiping over his chest, then continuing down his other arm.
"I'm sorry..." He whispered.
"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"
"You shot me... I... Don't... Didn't..." He was confused, in shock, did he think she had hit him because he had angered her?
"It's okay Casper. It wasn't your fault; you did everything correctly. It was just the final lesson, to teach you the limits of your mech, to know that you can't let your guard down. To know..." She looked into his eyes before she finished her sentence. She was gladdened to see that his eyes were awake... and aware. She blinked and gave him a rueful smile.
"To know you're not invincible." She finished, touching a warm, wet paw to his cheek. Touching him, reminding him that he could feel things. Casper sighed and closed his eyes, his hand reaching up and gingerly hold the back of her hand. They stayed there for a moment, Qik not rushing him in any way.
Eventually, he reached for the cloth.
"I'll... finish..." He explained, before adding "I needed this I think."
Qik just gave a knowing smirk.
"'You think'?" She snorted. "Don't doubt me if I tell you to do something. Deal?" Demanded the lopel as she relinquished the cloth to the human's hands. In the brief moment that they touched her hand, she felt the warmth in his skin again. The cold clammy feeling of his skin, no more. He still looked sickly however, and the cheekbones that dominated his face told her of what else he needed.
"Deal." The human said, squeezing the cloth and began washing himself, seemingly losing the self-conscious taboo that had held sway over him whenever they got changed together. Qik stood and left the bathroom, striding over to the kitchen and retrieving the slurry bowl. She picked up a spoon and returned. The human glanced up, his eyes flicking to the bowl and grimaced.
"Oh, come o-..." He began, but the merc was having none of it.
"You will eat." Qik declared. The young man's shoulders sagged, and he nodded, briefly running the wash cloth down his legs.
Qik folded herself down, dipping the spoon into the white and pinkish goop, before offering it to him.
"This is embarrassing." Casper bemoaned before having the spoon ladle the mixture onto his tongue where he didn't need to chew before swallowing. They repeated these three or four times whilst Qik replied.
"Then it's a lesson. Feed yourself after each deployment and I don't need to do this. Every time you don't; either me or someone from our company will do it." She grinned wickedly. "Can't wait to see some of the guys playing 'here comes the draconian' with you." She teased, knowing that it was not an idle threat, even if he didn't know yet.
"I'll eat. I promise I'll eat." Casper swore around a mouthful before swallowing again. "How come I've... wasted away like this?" His hands gestured to himself, the tendons standing proud. She considered her words before explaining.
"Ignoring you not eating, FSC is intensive. Your brain is working full time to control every single subsystem of the rig. Brains are hungry. Lack of any food and it'll eat away at you instead." Qik pointed out succinctly.
"How come you don't look like this then?" Casper asked, while Qik noticed his wandering eyes. She wasn't annoyed.
"I'm a career girl. I look after myself. I exercise, I eat, I get sunlight. All mechs, all the time? That's a fast track to being a husk. Plus, it's a shallower slope for us lopels to slip down." She added at the end, spoon finally hitting the bottom of the bowl as she continued to feed Casper, despite him having both hands free again. The water was a different colour now... The filth and grime finally removed from him.
"How do you mean?" He asked.
"It's all about your drift. You could out manoeuvre me, quite easily. Sure, my training might give me an edge, but you've got that beginner's chaos, trained pilots won't know how to handle you, you make choices that aren't normal. The lack of drift means your brain is handling more, however. Less drift, more intense the usage. I have about one, maybe two percent drift. As long as I take breaks, look after myself, eat my veggies; I'll keep myself looking fine." She said, putting the empty bowl to one side. It was only mild, but she felt that he had gained a bit of colour in his cheeks.
Casper sloshed the water as he brought his hand up to look at his fingers. The water was beginning to prune them. He touched his thumb to his fingertips in series, then did it the other way. Perfect each time.
He felt... human again.
"Since you're pretty much done with training now, we need to think of your callsign." The lopel who was still crouched next to him said nonchalantly. She was currently resting her arms on the edge of the bath, still sat on the floor, with her chin resting on her arms as she watched him.
"My callsign?"
"New Guy doesn't really inspire 'fear', does it?" She asked. Casper blinked and realised that she was talking sense, again. He'd need something, a name that connects to him personally. He thought of what he knew of callsigns and decided he needed a 'cool' one.
"Maverick?" He offered.
"No." The rabbit-like alien snapped. "There's like a million 'Mavericks' and they're all assholes." Qik immediately retorted, shooting that idea down rather rapidly. Casper sighed and grimaced at the water again, it was actually gross, now that he thought about it.
"I think I need to get out."
"Mm, water's gone bad." Qik agreed, standing and grabbing a towel. The large cut of fabric was designed for larger species than the geckins, the whole living quarters were, but seemingly for something just a bit bigger than a human. Like a lopeljack. The lopel grinned and looked away, holding the towel out as a makeshift curtain as the human stepped from the bath, intending on grabbing the towel from her.
Instead, the lopel grabbed the human into the towel, covering him briefly, spinning him in place, before escaping into the living area, laughing at the human's indignant squawk.
Casper freed himself and glared at the retreating short, stumpy, white fluffy tail of the lopel and had to consider it was a nice view. Turning to the bathroom counter, above the sinks was a mirror that reflected everything. There was a pale monster in the room with him.
Casper, blinking, focused and realised the creature was him. He was truly pale and gaunt. He'd known that he'd lost weight over his training, but this was dramatic. He looked sick. He looked dead.
"I really do look like a ghost..." He agreed to no one.
"What's a 'ghost'?" Called Qik, doing something in the other room. Running water and clinking gave the man hints.
"Uh.. A ghost, a spectre. The dead with unfinished business. They're usually really pale; you can't always see them. They can be friendly, or they can be pretty nasty. We got kid's tales and horror stories of all kinds with ghosts." He explained, leaning forwards and pulling the darkened flesh around his eyes taut, feeling how thin it felt.
Qik's head appeared around the doorframe in the mirror, pulling his attention.
"Perfect. You're 'Spectre' then." The head disappeared immediately, leaving Casper frowning before whipping his around to stare at the empty space incredulously.
"Excuse me?" The young man demanded, feeling energy diffuse him like no meal or sleep could.
"Would you prefer the callsign; Ghost?"
"Aw man, that's too on the nose! My name is Casper for Christ's sake!"
"And 'Maverick' the single most overused callsign was a better idea? Nah, I'm your sponsor into the company, I'm registering you as either 'Spectre' or 'Ghost'."
"For fucks sake." Casper groaned, leaving the bathroom to find the lopel had tided the kitchen very neatly, and was now flicking the heavy blanket out, neatening it and preparing the bed.
"Come on. Bed. I don't know about you, but I'm tired." She ordered, merely tilting her head..
"Together?" The young man asked, glancing from the bed to the merc.
"Yes. My place is on the other side of the complex because they didn't trust that I wouldn't kill you in your sleep for breaking my mech first time round." She explained as if explaining something simple or obvious. Casper merely blinked and stared.
"Is that true?" He asked quietly.
"Yeah, I got bored when they were building your second rig and broke into the offices." She remembered with a grin, placing a fist on her hip. "Read their comments that they were worried I'd end you, but those files prove that they got their dirty little claws into all sorts of devious shit." Qik explained in a false hushed whisper.
Casper walked over and at her urging clambered into the bed first as she continued.
"Honestly, I can't wait to get out of here, I think you'll do better away as well. We just gotta' play smart." She explained, crowding him by swinging a leg under the covers and using her wide hips to bounce him further into the covers. The lopeljack was certainly bottom heavy, whilst her top half was muscled, her hips and thighs were exaggerated, but not unpleasant to look at from Casper's perspective.
Now they shared his bed.
He lay there for a time as the lights winked out and stayed dead still, facing the ceiling with his hands resting on his stomach, over the covers. He wasn't expecting a visitor, nor for the lopel to ever enter his bed. Whilst the young man felt a thousand times better than he did before getting home, he was now more confused than when he had been freshly pulled from the pilot's casket.
There was the sound of movement to his left and he felt the mattress warp as Qik turned over.
"Turn away from me." She instructed. Unthinking, he complied, turning to his right and facing the wall, more confused than embarrassed now.
A silky soft, muscular furry arm, snaked underneath his head, whilst a large warm body shuffled and pressed into his back. A lopeljack was taller than a human, reaching nine feet with ease, and hitting ten or even eleven if one included the ears. Her knees easily pressed into the back of his own as he was scooped into her hug and her other arm came round and over to hold him in place.
"What are-" He started, but Qik was ready.
"I can't sleep unless im hugging a pillow. Yours are too small, and I left mine at mine, so you'll have to do." She explained, her short muzzle working its way in and against the short, buzz cut of his head. She gently rubbed her face against him before settling.
"We're..." Casper began, but didn't know where the sentence was going. Noticing his hesitance, Qik settled matters.
"We're all snuggled, like two rounds in a mag. Don't think about it... just relax..." She whispered, gently squeezing his middle into her.
He laid there for a time, blinking, feeling her chest rise and fall as she laid there. He wanted to panic, to perhaps ask if she was sure? But... he was tired. His eyelids drooped and despite himself jerking awake once or twice, eventually he settled into a sleep that as so deep, even when Qik unintentionally turned over an hour later, dragging him with her; Casper never stirred even once.
Qik placed a finger under his nose to ensure he was still breathing in that moment, but relaxed when her fur ruffled under his breath and then she too, fell asleep.
WolvensStories
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First Prev Next ToC
- 2669, 1st Lt. O'Brian-
Fox was first to lead the group down from the roof with dare already having departed towards the central part of the city. Ryder took to the rear, accompanying the Sellian female with O’Brian at the center. Ryder was displeased with watching over the Sellian, and made known her displeasure.
“Sir, are you sure we have to watch over her? How do we know she’s not a spy? I say we put her down, and save us the trouble,” spoke Ryder. Her tone was one of disgust and plain disregard.
“That’s enough,” he ordered. “You and Fox will secure the entrance while I secure our friend so that no harm comes to her. It wouldn’t be right to send her off into a war zone.”
Ryder was silenced at his call, and moved quietly for the remainder of their transit toward the first floor. When they reached it, Dare left toward the street.
“Sir, I'm picking up an ammo cache just outside. I’ll go on ahead,” he said. Once I'm full, I’ll recon the target.”
Just outside the entrance, a cache of ammo was embedded into the asphalt, in the shape of a rounded cylinder. A tube designed for low orbit drops. Within it, ammo for their suppressed rifles and Sidearms were supplied; enough for a squad. Dare took what he needed for his Anti-Material Rifle, as well as his suppressed Marksman Rifle, respectively, and departed south-east, toward a collection of taller buildings that overlooked a large area. Even O’Brian knew it to be a decent vantage point, but trusted his subordinate’s decision.
“Stand guard, and be on the lookout for the rest of the platoon,” he said. The Sellian then took over, leading him down a flight of stairs and finally into a dark hallway that had no power, thus no light to assist in their travel. Vorta used her personal device to light her way, but O’Brian had no need to. His vision was clear, and the outline of objects was made apparent by his helmet’s inborn function, highlighting everyday options as yellow, interactive items as blue, teammates green, and enemies red.
As they approached closer, Vorta stopped. At the end of the hall, there was a circular door that acted as her entrance, and it wasn’t fastened by electronic locks, instead, it was mechanical in nature. A series of steel pistons protruded from the sides, connected to a latch that when turned, extended the pistons into the walls. The door was two inches thick, not much against bombs, but enough for small arms.
“I don’t remember leaving it open like this,” she said softly. O’Brian then grabbed her, forcing her to the wall to hide her device, as well as shield her from possible incoming fire. He pulled his rifle up and peered into the room, revealing two beds on the left, some furniture in the center and some desks and drawers on the right. But beyond them, two pillars were constructed in the center of the room, and his helmet tried to reach beyond it, to no avail.
“Stay here and be quiet. I’ll check it out, and you’d best use this door as cover,” he said as he readied his weapon.
In pure darkness, the helmet operated by passive sonar technology that aided in providing a highlight to objects, but its range was limited to about fifteen meters. His active radar module could detect up to twenty-five meters, simply by showing a red dot on a mini-map in the top-left corner of his HUD.
As he moved forward, to secure one side of the room, he swept in a wide angle to the left side of the room then did the same to the right. The room was wide, but fell within the parameters of his night visor. His concern, however, was the part beyond the pillars, and as he inched closer, the part of the room he couldn’t see earlier slowly revealed itself to him, as well as two individuals using the pillars as cover.
They had noticed his movements by his muffled steps, but it was too late as he fired into them. The one closest to him was fast to react, charging him, but O’Brian planted his rear foot into the ground behind him and delivered a kick to the chest of the attacking Sellian. The kick was explosive, as it caused him to recoil from the kick, leaving it gasping for air. With his rifle still up, he fired into the second, with the sound of thick plastic cracking until it no longer moved. Then he turned his attention to the grounded Sellian, as it writhed.
“What are you doing here,” inquired O’Brian. He found it odd that they would target the home of a stranded civilian for a search. It didn’t add up. It continued to squirm, holding its chest and gasping for air.
“It doesn't concern you, Terran,” it said in disgust. It wasn’t willing to reveal much, and it had tried to reach for its weapon when it spoke to him, and he wasn’t in the mood to interrogate. As a mercy, he fired into the chest of the Sellian male with three shots. With the body now still, he called to the entrance of the room.
“Pack your essentials. You’re coming with me,” he said, dismissing the two corpses that now lie behind the structural pillars of Vorta’s room.
She did as he said, taking care to move throughout her home as she stuffed what she claimed to be essential; extra clothes, family ornaments and heirlooms, along with memorabilia of her family and friends. She would come to miss her home, but for now, she heeded the words of the man who silently and effortlessly felled two Warriors of Sellia.
“Where will we go?” she then asked as she continued to stuff her personal bag of belongings.
“Might be best to have you vacate the town. I can arrange for transport, and you can be in orbit in less than an hour,” he said. He motioned through his wrist mounted display, ready to issue the request when she denied.
“No, not yet,” she said. “I… need to find my sister, Tola. I’m not leaving the city without her!” Her tone emanated conviction, and he was going to be hard-pressed to say no. He raised his hands, conceding to her statement.
“Very well, but you’ll listen to my orders. I’m not going to risk having a civilian on the front lines, you’d only risk the safety of my troopers. ‘Got it?” he said in a stern voice.
He didn’t want to bring her, but it was likely that she was going to trail them anyway. So he thought it's best to tag with them, as they would a field reporter of the Republic News Network. Their presence irritated him, usually by getting in the way during a firefight, with him having to divert man power to their protection. It wasted their combat effectiveness, but if he kept her to the protection of a Rhino, then he could get away with taking her along. After they left the room, he stopped just after going up the stairs to the first floor of the building, and Fox and Ryder remained on guard near the entrance.
“I don’t think we’ve properly introduced ourselves,” he began. He outstretched his hand, with the light from outside lighting up their surroundings.
Taking a closer look, she was unnerved by the sinister markings on his helmet, mimicking a laughing face with a mouth wide open, lined with razor-like teeth. She was reluctant, but met his hand in a similar fashion. It was large and sturdy compared to hers, and the rough exterior of his suit added to the coarseness of his hands, similar to a feeling from an older partner, who's face had already begun to face. Instead of a metal jaw, the visage of predatory eyes and a wide maw were all that began to fill her head, and she wondered who they looked like behind the mask. However, when he spoke, his presence alleviated her mind enough that she had nearly forgotten she was in a war zone, let alone the two soldiers who entered her home. But with him, she felt safe.
“Vorta,” she said. “Vorta Volkala. A pleasure,” she bowed in customary Sellian tradition.
“Lieutenant O’Brian,” he replied. He gave a bow, similar to Vorta, when she gave a small chuckle. “What’s so funny? Did I do it wrong?”
“No, it’s just that my greeting is usually done by the women in our culture. The men’s is quite different, but perhaps I can show you another time,” she replied, offering now a less formal reserved greeting.
“Perhaps,” he added, when a call from Ryder came from the entrance.
“Sir, the rest of the platoon is here,” she reported, snapping Vorta back to reality and causing O’Brian’s demeanor to shift to the warrior she was first met with.
“Set up a perimeter while I gather the squad leads,” he ordered. Fox and Ryder did as he requested, relaying to the others in the platoon to do the same.
When he departed the entrance, with Vorta close behind him, he was met with the ragged appearance of his platoon. Those under Strega were hit the hardest, with much of her platoon holding each other up from their injuries, with more being loaded up in their APC and a pair of Pumas if storage allowed. Their armor was scarred, and some were missing parts of their armor plating, namely from their shins and shoulders. O’Clair’s second squad was hit the same, suffering from many of the same injuries and the corpsman working overtime to alleviate their injuries, with their medical supplies quickly running out. However, Jericho and Blythe’s squads were nearly untouched, telling how little resistance they went through.
“Squad leads, sitrep!” he ordered. Jericho and Blythe were first to meet him, with O’Clair and Strega following not long after. Both had sustained injuries, like many of their subordinates, with Strega applying pressure to her abdomen with the stain of blood present. O’Clair had her arm wrapped with tightly bound gauze, having taken less damage than the former. After regrouping, Jericho was the first to report.
“As you ordered, we were able to re-target the cannons. After comms had cleared, Minerva took over. We had little resistance, so we took a few losses, just some scrapes and bruises,” he said. Blythe was silent, but nodded to Jericho’s report.
“We hit ‘em fast, and took the cannon, but their soldiers don't seem like much,” he added. “You can probably take their city with a division of the Orbital Troopers, they’re that much of a push over.” Blythe turned to Strega and O’Clair who only glared at him, when the lead of Bravo squad began her report.
“Unlike those two, the north was heavily guarded. They had some armor, and to top it off, sniper support. From the looks of it, I think another set of troopers rolled through. Luckily, Minerva took over and blew it, enough to cover our escape,” replied O’Clair. Strega looked around O’Brian, noticing the lack of a certain individual.
”By the way, where’s Dare?” she asked. “I wanna say thanks for the cover. They would have had us, if not for him.”
“He’s setting up to cover our advance. But why don’t you tell him yourself,” replied O’Brian.
“I would,” she replied, pointing to the right side of her helmet, “Took a graze by a sniper. Knocked my comms. Even my Night Vision is starting to act up…” she tapped against the side of her helmet to manually ease the supposed glitches happening to her HUD. He pulled out a device on his hip, bringing it to chest level.
“Athena, think you can rework her HUD and comms?” inquired O’Brian.
“I can do nothing for her comms, and her visor array has taken light physical strain. I can do little for her systems, the same goes for the Raiders who suffer similar symptoms,” replied the AI.
“What systems do you have up?” he asked, gauging what remained of his combat effectiveness.
“Reticle and compass. The bare minimum, and my map is too glitched out to read,” replied Strega. O’Brian asked the same of O’Clair, who replied with more up systems compared to her comrade.
“What of our reinforcements? I saw pods drops. Loads of them,” inquired Strega, grimacing at the pain to her side.
“All of Raven, Cobra, and most of Viper. Then us,” replied her commanding officer. “Our platoon is the only one remaining out of Raptor company. Echo and Foxtrot are assisting the fleet in boarding parties. Can either of your squads continue?”
The two in question looked at one another, then to their soldiers in question. Several were wrapped in bandages and gauze as they held the perimeter, with others barely holding themselves up from the pain they were enduring.
“We’ve got some resting in the Rhinos, but they need med-evac,” added O’Clair.
This would reduce their effectiveness, but he had an obligation to their safety and well-being. He could very-well push them beyond their limits, but they weren’t in a position where he could ask that of them. They had aerial support, and a fleet commander who knew very little losses. It was the least he could do.
“I’ll radio in. Get your men ready to depart, you’re leaving,” ordered O’Brian. The two reluctantly agreed, and returned to their men by the Rhinos, leaving the leads of third and fourth squads. “Jericho, Blythe. Get your men set to advance, we’re losing Alpha and Bravo squads, so get ready to pick up the slack,” he said, turning his attention to the two previous Raiders in his detail.
“Fox, Ryder. On me,” they arrived, prompt in their step. “Your squad’s out of commission, so you’re with me. Regroup with Sergeant Grayson after you resupply.” The two affirmed their orders, departing for the large man mingling with red marked Raiders beside the lead Rhino.
With nearly all of first and second squads being relieved, it left O’Brian with only two complete squads, and a fireteam, which consisted of Dare, Grayson, Fox, Ryder, and himself, with Badger’s and Hunter away for the moment. He then turned to the silent Sellian to address her.
“You’re taking a ride with the other Raiders,” he said sternly, leaving little room for Vorta to interject. “It’s too dangerous, even if I leave you in a Rhino. There’s no guarantee it won’t get blown to hell.” He could tell she wanted to object, as the only thing she could think of is her sister.
“I-I have to see if Tola is safe, if anything, I’ll be safe, I promise!” she begged, holding on to the fabric of his blotted clothing, but he didn’t yield.
“Denied. It’s far too dangerous, and I have an out for you. And if you were to hide, there’s no guarantee that your people or mine won't level this place. Sorry, but I’m not taking that risk.”
The building they gathered in front of was connected to another four-way street with the center large enough for a medium-sized drop-ship or shuttles to take what survivors they can. He had already called it in, with the operator issuing their arrival in a little over thirty minutes.
The skies above were chaotic, with fighters darting across it as they chased one another, firing all manner of ordnance at one another. It wouldn’t be long until the main force arrives to occupy the skies, effectively closing off Artray from any external help. But he would have to wait for that. As for the med-evac, within thirty minutes, a single ship descended onto the landing zone, kicking up dust and minor debris that impacted against their armor, causing minor scuffs and dents from the engine wash.
The ship was a twin engine, situated on two extended support wings near the center of the frame that was variable in function. Its cockpit was sleek, with the pilot in the front and the co-pilot in a raised seat behind them. Both seats were accessible through the main troop cabin with large vacuum sealed doors that opened on the side, or a smaller ramp that opened in the rear. It was known as the Mk. 7 Hawk Transport.
Its space was large enough for two squads to cram together, and they did just that, with Jericho and Blythe’s squads taking security on the open sides of the roads, including their mechanized armor as added support.
O’Brian met Strega at the side of the craft, as she rested against the frame, “I just got word that the Arm of Sol is in medium orbit, away from the fight. You’re being sent there for the remainder of the battle. So rest easy,” he said, trying not to be overshadowed by the ship’s engine.
“I won’t be able to rest when we still have a fight to win,” replied Strega, disappointment apparent in her voice.
“I know, but it’s better than losing you all in a fire fight. So go, rest up,” he said. “And you too. Find a seat,” he then said to Vorta.
“But-” she began.
“No buts,” he turned, his visor’s eyes peering into hers, “I’ll look for your sister, but I can’t do that if I have to look behind myself for your well-being. Don’t worry, I’ll find her. Strega,” he turned to the sergeant, “Look after her for me.” She nodded with a nonchalant salute.
“First the wife, now a bachelorette? You scoundrel,” she voiced with a smirk as the doors to the Hawk folded to its side, sealing it.
It began to lift off, kicking up more dust and debris until the force of the engine’s exhaust dissipated, leaving only the remainder of his platoon. It was a miracle he still had his vehicles, with those utilized by first and second squads riddled by holes from the enemy. He ordered that they be filled by either Jericho’s or Blythe’s troopers. The Rhino and Grizzly crews were still operational, operating with the minimum required crew.
Earlier, he was notified that they had regained map awareness and surveillance, and so he opened up his map’s display in the comfort of a Rhino. The routes leading to the Council’s Buildings were not far, with a checkpoint one-and-a-half miles into town from where they were stationed. The number of red indicators were heavy beyond the checkpoint, with many of their forces engaged with familiar tagged icons.
The letters of ‘CBRA’, ‘VIPR’, and ‘RAVN’ were seen above them, with their numerical designations more apparent if he zoomed in. Most Raiders dropped in the heart of the city, most notably in the outermost perimeter of the inner city, and had been fighting since then, whittling the large enemy force down, but were still outnumbered. He needed to know their situation before he could finalize his assault, and switched to a band exclusive to the leading officers of each company. Even though the actual frequency was a turn away from standard radio with their own soldiers, he called out over their officer band for their status.
“Fourth Battalion, this is Raptor Actual. Radio Check!” silence followed, but broken calls filtered through static made their way to him.
“Cobra to Raptor, Good radio! We’re giving ‘em hell, but we can appreciate some air support,” replied a gruff, and experienced individual through the radio.
“This is Raven, I hear you! I could ask for the same. We’ve got too many to deal with, and they keep replacing each other. Get the Pilots to assist, while we’re at it!” another sounded, this time younger. O’Brian thought that perhaps their commanding officer had perished, and the nearest one with the highest rank took over.
The calls of affirmation were a pleasant one, after being secluded from them for so long, he felt a sense of relief at their calls. Except for Viper. They had yet to report in, so he feared the worst for them, but he had a duty to those who can hear, so he began his new issuance of orders.
“All Companies, This is Raptor. I have mission authority, so I’m updating your tac-map with waypoints for likely targets and platoon advances. Stand by, and execute your orders when received,” affirmation was sent through his comms as he implemented his assault, as most of the other companies were engaged in continuous firefights.
Each Raider battalion was broken down into four companies, which were further broken down into three platoons; each consisting of four squads with thirteen soldiers in each squad; then broken into three fire teams with a minimum of four individuals per team. But even if he wanted the entirety of the Fourth Battalion in the fight, some spots were utilized elsewhere. Like with Raptor Company’s Echo and Foxtrot platoons in use by the fleets above, or with a squad from Kilo platoon from Viper Company escorting a High-Value Target. And with the recent troop exodus of two of his squads in Delta Platoon, his own force was now only half the size, so he appreciated the armor that was gifted to him. For the assault strategy, O’Brian organized each fireteam to link with the nearest team in combat, ignoring their home companies, as right now, they were the only force engaged with the enemy.
“Raptors, load up, it's time to move,” he ordered his platoon as he continued organizing troop placements. When he was done, he looked one final time at their routes. He organized all smaller fire teams to disengage, and regroup with the nearest squad towards their objective. And continued that exponential growth towards the direction of the central city.
“Athena,” he called out. “Monitor friendly tags, and update waypoints for value targets. Weapon systems, batteries, commanders, doesn’t matter. Keep IFF tags updated, I’ll leave their command to you.”
“Of course, Sir. I’ll do my best,” she replied. “ I’ll keep you updated on any developments of Sellian tactics.”
“Do that,” replied O’Brian, now keeping his eye on his Tactical Map Display. “Let’s see what you can do…”
If not for their air superiority, he would have found it difficult to mount an organized offensive if they lacked proper intelligence. But before a drop, they were normally briefed on their drop zone, and broken down to the fireteam, on who would go where, hours before their drop. So each person would know what to do and where to go if they were separated from a commanding authority.
Luckily, due to their training, they were taught such things as small unit leadership, since large unit leadership generally fell apart shortly after a drop, resulting in chaos, but also added to their effectiveness. Their organized chaos aided in their attacks because on a tactical display, their forces would look disorganized and ineffective, but their training capitalized on that; allowing small groups to exercise their training to the fullest, to do the most with less.
This was evidenced with clusters of teams ranging from four to eight against an enemy numerically superior, but he noticed it took a well executed flanking maneuver to ruin the Sellian advance. When the enemy group fired back, they had used most of their troops to attack the sudden foe, inadvertently lowering their focus on the larger team, allowing them to move in swiftly. One-by-one, enemy tags disappeared as the team moved in, with the enemy dancing to and from their flanks. They were boxed in, and there was nothing they could do, except fight.
“Sir, we see the checkpoint, twelve-hundred meters. How copy?” called the Rhino’s operator, his voice reverberating through his comm system. O’Brian looked on his tac-map for enemy indicators, finding nothing.
“It was suspicious, but it's possible they diverted troops from the checkpoints after the Drop. Advance, but check for anti-armor. All Raiders, step off, we’re going on foot!” he ordered. His words received a hearty ‘Oo-rah’ or ‘Aye Sir’ from his soldiers as their boots met the ground.
Their formation was one used in standard mechanized patrol. The Raiders placed themselves on the outsides of the road, with the armor driving through the center with their weapons facing opposite directions. The Grizzlies took the front and rear portions of the patrol, with the Rhinos in the center with the Pumas spaced out, so as not to be parallel with each other.
He peeked at his tac-map once more for enemy tags that might have popped up. As far as its capability went, it depended on their source. For his tactical map display to be useful, he would need it constantly updated, which meant constant surveillance from a third party.
They had four forms for this to work; The first was by ship scans from a specific module that could detect precise movement, thermals, and electromagnetic, but it was an item that was relegated to very few ships simply for its cost. The next was a feed by satellite. It offered a stable feed for the map if they had access to it, but it was difficult in areas where covert was a must and even attempting to access it would trip alarms; a situation he had come across before. The third option worked best, but it was just as expensive as the first, which was a stealth drone that would flow overhead. It was easy to notice at day, so it was best used at night, but not every operation allowed them that luxury. But their final, and current, form of surveillance was the use of an overhead manned ship. It was one outfitted to fight, but offered assistance in momentary map awareness if fuel and lacking enemy presence allowed. Which is why air superiority was a key ingredient in their missions. And as fate would have it, their advantage would flee.
“Raptor, this is Hostess. I can’t be your eyes, we got bogies incoming, too much for current air defense. RTB for refuel. Be back soon,” stated the pilot.
“Damn it. Give us one last ping,” requested O’Brian of the pilot. She did as he asked, lighting up his map with enemy targets when he noticed a group that wasn’t present last time. The pings couldn’t be relied on too much for an aircraft feed, since it was poor at penetrating layers of buildings.
They were further down the road where the road made only a left and right turn, with a large building at the end that faced them. It wasn’t far from the checkpoint, roughly two-hundred meters to his company. His hairs stood up on the ends of his neck; they were in their sights, and they had entered a kill-zone. He noticed a flash from one of the windows, followed by others, and he fell to the ground by instinct. However, instead of falling forward to enter the prone position, he felt the left portion of his chest sting followed by a dull pain that recoiled his body to his rear, landing him on his back. He gasped for air as his chest struggled to regulate his breathing and he clenched his chest with reflex.
“OFFICER DOWN!!!” The sound originated near him, but his vision had blurred from the impact and a ringing sound filtered through his ears. He felt a pressure from his upper back and the ground beneath him rode against his clothing; he was being dragged, and by Fox and Ryder, no less.
Dulled cracks of gunfire erupted around him, with his helmet working overtime to muffle their sharp tones. Traces of gunfire were delivered from the axial guns mounted on the Rhinos, with lines of tracers trailing to where the shot came from, peppering the outer walls. His body also shook with every shot fired from their main cannon, firing in bursts of five to eight, decimating the building.
The two had taken him into a recess of a building, shielding him from bullets from the surviving enemy. Fox had taken to be their security while Ryder began her triage of his body, feeling it up and down for any extra wounds not made by the initial shot. She removed his helmet and the sounds of combat began to deafen him, but she spoke with clarity through her helmet amidst the chaos.
“Sir! Stick with me!” she began prodding round the entry of the bullet as she continued to treat for any shock, “Do you have anywhere that hurts? A sharp pain in the chest?”
He shook his head, “Chest… numb. Feels warm,” his words were short as he tried to manage his breathing.
By clicking on some quick release mechanisms, Ryder was able to detach the armor that was hit. It had some weight to it, but was lighter than it looked, even for an armored plate designed to cover his heart and upper chest, with a lesser plated version beneath to cover the rest of his torso. She examined it closely, then to the area beneath the impact zone.
“Looks good Sir. UA plate is intact, for the most part, and the ballistics gel isn’t leaking. We can patch it, and you’d be good to go. No exit, so they weren’t using AP. But it's enough to leave a bruise,” reported Ryder.
The entry was deep, with the tail end of a bullet barely sticking out. As she said, The round had entered, but did little to deform the backing of the plate, even though the entry wound looked grievous. That was a feature all current Raider Armor utilized on the central upper-chest plating. It was an alloy with a hollowed center, filled with a non-Newtonian gel that hardens to physical trauma.
He placed his hand on the round that protruded from his chest armor, feeling its heat bleed through his suit and plucked it from his chest, at the dismay of Ryder.
“Sir, I’m not done yet, you can't just-“ she began before her superior cut her off, tossing aside the previously lodged round. It clanged with each impact against the ground, adding to the countless spent casings and slangs of rifles firing.
“We got any more plates?” He asked, and he steadied himself, using the nearest cover as support. Compared to the previous two squads, led by O’Clair and Strega, they were in worse condition than he was, and he had no one he could send home for a medical evac. He had no choice but to commit to their assault.
“No Sir, we’re all out. Best I can do is a sealant, hold still,” she ordered. She then took a small canister from a pouch and began to spray into the entry. It filled until it was near flush with the rest of the armor, and she placed the can back into her pouch, assisting O’Brian as he stood up. “It won’t have as much protection with a round of that size, but it’ll hold against small arms.”
“Thanks, Ryder. Regroup with the rest, and prepare to advance,” he said, stabilizing himself. He felt sore in his upper chest, but with the application of adrenaline-based medication, he was now awake and aware, and the sounds of gunfire put him at alert. He checked his magazines and his weapon, both of which were sufficient for combat.
- Continued -
First Prev Next ToC

I hope this reaches the right audience. I need people to understand that my security job is not like any you have heard of before. I am currently in the break room as I write this during my fourth week on the job. I thought I was signing up for a work from home role but it turned out to be work from hell. You're probably wondering why I am still here giving my predicament and if you thought it was just for the money you would be correct. Money was what brought me here but as I tell you my story, you will come to learn that there are ways to keep someone under your control. I haven’t had so much disposable income in my life but some things money can’t buy. I hear the screams of a colleague from the med room as his eyes and face melt from the acidic saliva he came in contact with out on duty. With the dangers of the job and the other worldly working conditions I feel like I have some stories that will help you think twice before chasing dollar signs. Just be aware, these may stop at any time due to my untimely demise.
My name is Thomas, I have been known as Tommy for as long as I can remember. I had the usual childhood in my hometown. Two hard working parents who provided what they could while I took everything for granted. I coasted through school and was lucky to get out without repeating too many classes. I spent some time in the army once I left high school. Went through basic training, was never top of any class but I got by. I had some great instructors, who pushed me further than anything I have ever done before. I enjoyed my time there and the people in my company were supportive, but on my second tour things went wild. For the purpose of the story we will leave it with an honorary discharge with a recommendation to spend some time getting some therapy and a slow reintegration to society. The things I saw over there would change a man. Once I could gather my thoughts into some form of coherence. I decided I was going to live the American dream and I started my own construction business. I was going to sub-contract the work and retire by 45. That failed miserably. I spent the next few years just existing, doing odd security jobs here and there. Working the door at nightclubs on the weekend. Not the existence I had imagined for myself.
One busy weekend in the middle of July I was working the door of a nightclub called Club Rouge. An extremely disturbing place but that’s a story for another day, Tony was on with me that night, a big burly man from Australia. He had shoulders like bowling balls and a nose that had met too many solid objects. He said he played rugby back home, although the scars on his face had more resemblance to knife wounds. We were doing our usual routine as instructed by the owners, keeping the ratio of two women to one man, but young brunettes were giving priority. Like I said, that place had bad intentions.
“ Did I tell you about the ad on the radio I heard the other night going home ?” Tony asked .“ This new place is looking for security guards to work remotely, pay sounded too good to be true though.”
“It always is,” I laughed. “That's how they lure you in.
“You're probably right but have a listen on your way home. What could be worse than working these doors.” Tony grinned
After our shift finished, I headed to my car to start my commute. The roads at this time of night were always quiet. I needed something to keep my mind focused so I turned on the radio. I usually listen to some podcasts but Tony had sparked my curiosity. The station came to life as the late night DJ was closing out the last song.
“That was our first local submission of the week, a young band called Parmesan Wasps. I’ll be back after this short break and then we are straight into the weekly dilemma
“I have been ghosted by the last 5 girls I met at the club. Is it me or is there something else going on ?.”
“ I don’t know about you folks but I think the texter might need to take a look in the mirror.” The ads came on, the usual for this time of night.
Keith Stephenson Divorce attorney. Getting itchy feet, call Keith…
Wild west builders. We might be cowboys but we build it to code.” These continued in the same vein until a professional voice announced
“Divinity Incorporated: We fuel the future. Remote security jobs available with a controlled audience. Majority of the role consist of W.F.H. Please call in to attend your induction day at DIV InC, Minimum pay of 500 dollars per earth day worked.”
I could tell why this caught Tony’s attention. The role sounded perfect, I expected to be watching some warehouses on my laptop and making easy money. The term earth days threw me off a little but the language the kids used these days was something I couldn’t keep up with. I decided as I rounded the corner to my house that I would stop by in the morning and see if they have anything for me.
“Your destination is on the left” the SatNav called out.
I turned down the lane towards the brilliant white building. The lane was shrouded by trees. Beautiful autumnal leaves scattered the ground. I already had a good feeling about this place. As I approached the car park it struck me with how many people were working here. There were hundreds of cars and I had never heard of divinity incorporated before. I parked and made my way across to the entrance. The building seemed to glisten in the low rising sun. The steps up the entrance looked like marble. The double doors opened by sensor as I approached and entered. The reception area was a vaste room with high ceilings. Glass bowl lights hung down to illuminate the floor. There was a long reception desk to the left of the entrance, behind was a wood panelled wall accentuated with pictures of smiling people in suits. A voice called out from the reception desk.
“Welcome to divinity Inc, are you here for the induction day.” The voice came from a beautiful brunette barely visible behind the giant desk.
“I am.” I manage to stutter out.
She grinned My names Annie, it's nice to meet you..? She paused waiting for me to introduce myself.
“Tommy.” I managed
That Irish accent had caught me off guard along with her striking appearance.
“Man of few words Tommy.” she laughed. I’ll need you to sign this before you head in. Nothing major, just a quick non disclosure agreement. We deal with private documents and data protection is a big thing nowadays.”
I knew I had to pull this back, I had come across as a stuttering buffoon. I put on my best smile and signed the page as I looked her in the eyes.
“You'd definitely make it easier to come into work everyday.” I said as I attempted a laid back approach of leaning against the desk.
she smiled at me with flirtatious eyes until she noticed I had finished signing the page. She grabbed the sheet and filed it away in the drawer with one precise movement. Only then I realised I didn’t even read it.
“This way please.” She said with her back to me, already heading down the hall.
She led me through a maze of corridors, each door showed offices full of people monitoring screens with great intent. I couldn’t see what the few closest to the doors were watching but they were all as focused. We went down a set of stairs and into a large circular room. The wall of the room was littered with outlines of doors. Each one with a bronze placard above the outline. I could read the closest 2 on my left. One said city suburbs, the other said Waste drill site 3. In the middle of the room there was a huge double sided screen that displayed what looked like a task board like that you would find in any call centre. The top task said:
Look for the paladin(town hall) – 5 hours £15K and 40k bonus if found.
The bottom of the list had 10 or so duplicates of shift security “Waste” drill site 2 – $500 5 hours.
Below the screen was what you'd expect to see in a secret armoury of a hero in the movies. Racks of rifles, rows of shotguns, handguns of all makes and blades of all lengths. A broad man with a stiff posture stood beside the armour. He had the air of a military general. A Stiff ironed collar and spit shined boots. His black hair, flecked with grey, gave him the appearance of a man who has seen many seasons.
“Good morning Mr. Armstrong. Annie called out as we approached.
Mr. Arstrong was the main guy here at Divinity incorporated. He extended his hand and shook mine with one powerful shake that nearly put my shoulder out of my socket.
“Gerald” he said as I mentally assessed the damage to my unsuspecting joints. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Tommy” He said giving me a once over.
I realised I hadn’t told him my name yet but let the thought slide.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” I replied trying my best to put on a professional front to my potential employer.
We had the usual formalities of a job interview. I told him about my previous experience in security and time in the military. He was interested in my combat experience, which judging by the arsenal behind us wasn’t too much of a surprise.
”I’m going to give it to you straight Tommy, this job isn’t your usual security role. These gateways here lead to “Hell”. He said as casually as if he was discussing the weather.
He went on to describe how scientists were accelerating particles in the large hadron collider and a miscalculation led to a gateway being opened to “Hell”. Hadron emitted linear location. He described how the have been travelling here for the best part of five years. Building research sites across the explored regions of this place where they can extract resources and data.
“However all this research needs to be funded.” He said gesturing to the monitors. We have a very exclusive client base who pay very generously to watch the daily shift. We have body cams, which live stream from each person in Hell.
“So what’s that about the paladin ?” I asked,unsure how i was taking this conversation serious.
“Those are tasks you can elect to follow to earn some additional income. A little to risky for a rookie of the company. He said
I later found out the “Paladin” is a religious fanatic who entered Hell to preach the gospel to the non believers as he calls them. He jumped with a bible in one hand and a 12 gauge in the other. He took off his camera as soon as he got through and hasn’t returned topside since. The ever watching eyes are obsessed with his crusade across the land of the damned and pay handsomely for any content including him.
“Look, I appreciate you taking the time to see me today but this all sounds a bit crazy I said.”
As I turned to leave Gerald announced that I wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. When I questioned him on this he informed me that the cute little receptionist is a qualified psychiatric doctor and I had signed a form to admit myself into her care for my own safety.
“ It’s always the short ones.” I cursed as I realised this man wasn’t going to let me go spilling the beans on there operation..
“It’s best if you just get your induction started.” He said as he pressed a button on a keyboard which burst one of the outlines on the wall to life. “I’d grab something from the rack if I were you”
As I stepped through the gateway shapes began to materialise in front of me. I could see two men standing over some maps spread out along a wooden desk. The edges were held down by a stapler and a handgun. Bullets were lying loose along the map. One of the men was pointing towards a spot with several red x’s in close proximity. I cleared my throat to let them know I was there.
“Do you think I’m fucking blind rookie ?” The man on the right yelled.
“No sir!” I snapped.
His tone brought me straight back to my days in service. This balding, scrawny man who was barely 5 foot 6 on his toes had the air of authority that demanded respect.
“Do you see me cutting fucking ribbons or kissing babies on the forehead ? I earn a living just as much as the next guy. You can call me Mark.” Mark taunted.He gave a slight grin towards the others
Mark was a decent guy once you got to know him, bit rough around the edges. He introduced me to the guys i would be working with. They went by Rosco, a tall man with a buzz cut that made him look quite formidable, Ian a young man who looked fresh out of high school, and Evan. He had a warm smile which was a contrast to his features. He had burn scars to the left side of his face down to his hands. His skin looked tender and sore.
Nice to meet you Rookie. Evan said as he shook my hand. If you make it through the job until the next guy comes along, you can let us know your real name.”
I laughed but deep down I knew he wasn’t joking.
Our tour of the building was same as any work space walkthrough. They showed me the work space, kitchen, bathrooms and where the extra supplies where for the security staff. Once we went outside that’s where everything changed. The sceneries was indescribable.
“Welcome to hell” Rosco announced.
We stepped out through the doors of the watch tower which over looked the research labs. The land scape was barron other than our compound. The area we were located in looked like a desert of burnt red sand, the skyline looked to be ablaze and an ominous wind swept across the vaste open space. I noticed an obelisk like structure 200 feet from the main gate.
“What’s that ? I asked. Pointing in the direction of the misshapen structure.
Transport stones Ian said. There’s hundreds of them spread across this place. They can open portals for the natives to travel through. Only stay active for a short time so only a hand full of the locals can make a break on us.
“Why don’t we just destroy it then” I asked, unnerved.
I hoped they didn’t hear the tremble in my voice. Mark put his hand on my shoulder a bit too forcefully.
“ We know exactly where they will come from, besides if we close their portals that will just bring the attention of the generals on us and you really don’t want to have a run in with one of them.Not to many can say they came across a general and made it back topside.” Mark informed me.
I spent the first half of my shift with Evan, he introduced me to the workers on site and told me some of the history of this location. Waste drill site 3 was founded 6 months ago. They are currently excavating minerals and a form of energy which is 10 times more powerful than the fossil fuels on earth. He also told me more about the people watching our shifts.
“Most important thing is to keep away from any bodily fluid from the locals. It can infect you and turn you into one of them.” Evan said
He poured me a cup of coffee from the pot he had freshly brewed.
“It’s an infection we call the “rot”. Those that fully transform are called “Remnants”. Tough sons of bitches. If any of us perish out there, you toss one on these on us. He continued.
He passed me a small container which he told me would light a body up real good. Apparently the rot could be treated but the medicine was extremely expensive. Employees of the company got it for a fraction of the price. The infected’s skin and bones would melt and fuse together in a demonic form. They gained extreme strength and powers still vastly unknown. They seemed to have a high standing in the local poplation and there were often task forces sent to take out any that didn’t get burned before they turned. As i began to ask Evan more about the Remnants, the room erupted in a blaring of sirens. A voice announced over the intercom of a level 2 treat with potential to breach. The team rushed out the the watch tower as I followed behind. I’m not ashamed to admit it here but the terror was building inside of me.
As I looked out at the fragment of reality that had split not 200 feat in front of me, I felt my blood turn cold. The world seemed to quiver as an impossible large ape like creature with sharp pointed spikes protruding from obtuse angles march towards our electrified gate. Demonic looking humanoids encircled it like an unholy procession of carnage.
“look alive rookie, we have a date with the devil.” Mark roared over the commotion
The enormous monstrosity reached the gate and barreled into it. It crumpled under his weight but the extreme voltage flowing through its body made it blister and smoke.
“Heads down!” someone shouted from behind.
I couldn’t move, these things were about to get in and I couldn’t move any fibre of my body. The giant creature exploded sending the spikes hurling in all directions. One exploded through the wall to my left and struck a worker in the gut. His entrails leaked out around the edges of the spike and his skin started to bubble and turn a sickly grey. His screams engulfed my thoughts and the darkness overtook me.
I woke up to Mark standing over me as I lay in a bed in the staff living quarters. He looked battered and bruised but very much alive. Take it easy Rookie, you have had a lot to process on your first day” I sat up in the bed and noticed I didn’t have any clothes on..
“What happened to my clothes?” I asked, very much aware that someone had removed them when I passed out.
”You pissed yourself Rookie we couldn’t leave you marinating in it. Don’t worry it’s like a rite of passage for us here at Div Inc. Get dressed and head home, you had an eventful first day.” he said with a smile.
As i tried to get up from the bed I noticed a sharp pain piercing my side. As i looked to the source of the pain i noticed a patch of my skin was grey and withered. Mark noticed the panic on my face.
“ Not to worry, the rot won’t kill you. Well not as long as you keep coming back to work.” he said with a devilish grin.

[Part 24]
[Part 26]
“That’s weird.”
I crouched on the edge of a large, grassy area, the chest-high vegetation over our heads in this position, with various trails blazed through it by passing animals. The rest of the children waited behind me, hunched low on the balls of their feet, eyes to the clouds like wary rabbits watching for a hawk. The sky was clear and bright at noon, the temperature high enough to make me wish I could shrug off my jacket.
Lucille squatted next to my left, having attached herself to me so that she’d become my default shadow at this point. She eyed the lensatic compass in my hand, and the two of us frowned at it in hushed concern.
Swallowing a nervous gulp, I nodded in agreement with her statement, watching the needle of the compass twitch, spin, and change polarity every few seconds as if it were alive. “Must be a ton of electromagnetic radiation here. Better keep our eyes open. There could be freaks around.”
Today had proven to be gentler, the rain stopping sometime in the night. We’d all woken up close to nine the previous evening, sore, blister-ridden from our march, and hungry. I’d taken a small crew of six with some camping pots a few hundred yards off site and managed to heat up enough stewed beans to feed everyone before withdrawing to the factory. Our dinner hadn’t been a cheery affair, however; true to Chris’s words, the cookfire drew a small pack of Birch Crawlers, four juveniles from what I could tell, who prowled around outside for a long time. We had to sit in silence, bunched around our fire, and wait until the beasts gave up trying to find a way inside. Even after the predators left, Puppets clicked and chittered through the forest for hours, the white-eyed fiends scampering around the swamps to scoop out crayfish with their grimy hands. At one point, I spotted a lone Bengal Tiger by the western edge of the waterline, one of our old Carnivore Cove residents, with a new coat of thick brown-and-tan striped fur, and two long saber-like teeth protruding from its mouth. Speaker Crabs played their ghostly tunes late into the night, and Bone-Faced Whitetail bugled from somewhere further south, a symphony of the new world all blended in a sound both terrifying and fascinating to the wide-eyed urbanite kids.
All this had made the departure from our dusty old sanctuary that much harder for my wards to accept, but they followed me into the orange, red, and gold embrace of the autumn wilderness with resolute faith. They’d seen too much not to trust me, and I didn’t have to argue with the more stubborn members of the group anymore. Together we’d tramped to the green blot on the topographical map, and now that we sat on the edge of the grassy expanse, I found myself as the one having doubts.
I have no way to measure any background radiation. It might take a hot minute to search for whatever is supposed to be here, and who knows how many rads we’ll take in that time frame? Not to mention what kind of stuff might be living in this grass, mutated leeches, giant ticks, some kind of super-mosquito . . .
Shuddering at the skin-crawling idea of Breach-born parasites wriggling up my pant legs, I slipped the compass back into my pocket. We would just have to be quick. If Rodney Carter could make it in here, then the radiation couldn’t be lethal . . . or at least, I hoped so.
Turning, I raised a hand, and made a silent wave at the others.
Let’s go.
Deeper into the grass we went, weapons at the ready. I forced myself to breathe slow, let the focus slide over me, and crept along with primal caution. On the back of my tongue, I tasted the starchy blades of the grass, and the wet mud at the roots. My ears picked up the slight crunch of gravel particulates under the surface of the muck, remnants of whatever mining company had laid a gravel pad here decades prior. I caught the buzz of a fly a few yards to my left, and the muffled whirr of my compass spasming in my pocket, the needle in constant motion. Every color became more pronounced, the brown rush grass dried in the breeze, the turquoise blue sky, the chocolate-colored mud that squelched under my boots. Cool fall humidity lay heavy on my skin, and plants tickled my arms as I slid by them.
At the opposite end of the field, we came up on nothing.
I had the group make a wide loop around the outside of the clearing, searched the ground, the grass, the surrounding embankments.
Nothing.
Down the center we went in a crisscross pattern, spread out at arm’s length in a long row to comb through the area like a search-and-rescue team.
Still nothing.
In the roughly 20-acre stretch of ground, there were no buildings, no marks, only grass, a few dead tree stumps, and mud. It made no sense, and my frustration mounted as the anxious thought in the back of my head reminded me that we could be catching all sorts of poisonous radiation.
Stopping in the center of the field, I stood upright, and rested my hands on both hips in an angry huff.
So, was this some kind of stupid joke? No one’s been here in a while, Jamie couldn’t have gotten to it first without leaving something behind for me to spot. Unless she pointed me in the wrong direction to cover her tracks, especially if she was working for ELSAR from the beginning.
Aware of the puzzled looks thrown my way from the others, I pulled my map out again, and tried to make sense of the erratic compass.
Whirrr.
It spun like a propellor, and I shook the little plastic gadget with my teeth gritted in ire.
Whirrrr.
As if to spite me, the needle spun in faster pulsations, and I paced back and forth, ready to blow my cool at the inanimate chunk of hardened petroleum. “Stupid dollar store piece of—”
Whiiirrr.
Crackle.
I froze, and stared at the compass, the needle now spinning constantly without hesitation. Something under my boot had shifted, the sound oddly plastic to my heightened eardrums, and my angst melted into stunned realization.
The compass wasn’t pointing north . . . it was trying to point down.
With bated breath, I back up a few steps, and sank down on my haunches to peer at the grass.
Oh, very clever Mr. Carter.
A smile crawled over my face at a slight tinge of blue under the mud, the old tarp well-concealed under the thick mat of soil, roots, and grass. We’d walked right over it half a dozen times, and I’d been standing on top of the woven nylon flap while I fumed at my poor compass. From the air, it was invisible, from the ground undetectable; only magnetism could reveal it.
Pulling a cheap camping knife that I’d been given at the Castle from my belt, I gripped the stems of the wet grass and tugged upward, using the blade to dig at the roots. With a wet snap of plant-life giving way, the sod came free, and the children crowded around me in an excited cluster as I pulled the tarp aside.
A square metal cover sat underneath, painted slate-gray, with spots of rust here and there. It swung open on creaky hinges to reveal a hatch further recessed into poured concrete. This one was made from heavy steel, and smeared with a thin film of protective grease, a central hand-wheel in its core to open it like some kind of bunker door. Even with all this, it was a set of blocky, white painted letters on the door, that made my mind whirl like the compass needle.
Silo 48.
Daring to hope, I reached down, and yanked on the hand-wheel.
Clunk.
It turned in a smooth, well-oiled motion, and the sound of locks retracting echoed through the expanse beneath as the thick steel hatch rose upward on pneumatic struts. Stale air wafted up from inside, the cold scent of concrete and iron, and a metal ladder bolted to the interior wall led down into the shadows. It had a metal safety cage around it to prevent workers from falling through the already claustrophobic entry tube, and there wasn’t a visible bottom from where we sat on the surface. Even for my eyes it was dark, and something about the strange hole in the ground felt off, unnatural, misplaced.
I borrowed a flashlight from one of the boys and stuck my legs into the shaft to rest both feet on the first rung. “I’ll go first. If it’s safe, I’ll call up to you, and the rest of you come down to meet me. I don’t want anyone waiting around outside, just in case.”
“What if something grabs you?” A younger member of the group looked with nervous dread at the shadows beneath me.
Meeting the eyes of the older ones, who waited in silent expectation, I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “Close the hatch and run.”
Their worried faces drifted further and further away as I descended, the flashlight tucked into my jacket pocket, both shaky hands clinging to the ladder. It seemed like the seconds dragged on into hours, the climb downward never ending, and the square of sunlight became a golden postage-stamp high overhead. I had no idea how far down I would have to go, and my stomach churned at the haunting prospect that perhaps this was one of the Breach’s cruel tricks, that I would end up climbing forever, that there was no bottom to this hidden pit. What if I had crawled down inside it like an unsuspecting fly to a carnivorous plant in the Amazon, unaware the tunnel waited to gulp me down, smother me in darkness, and digest my bones?
You’re psyching yourself out over nothing. It’s a freaking tunnel, Hannah, made of concrete just like a sidewalk. Someone had to have built it, and Carter made it out, so you can too.
In that spirit, I put one foot out to take the next rung and jolted with surprise at the sensation of a hard floor under my heel.
Clicking on my flashlight, I swept the weak yellow beam over my surroundings, and curiosity overwhelmed my fear.
I stood in a circular tunnel, spacious and industrial, with metal supports on the walls, and diamond-plate steel on the floor It was cooler down here, and I guessed that I had to be at least sixty feet underground or more, the walls behind the I-beams molded from poured concrete. Electric lights hung from the ceiling, encased in protective wire cages, skinny round conduit bolted along the ceiling like bundles of shiny snakes. Unlike the abandoned brick factory, this place didn’t lay under a thick curtain of dust, but almost seemed brand-new, as if someone had been through to clean it just yesterday. Everything remained dark, however; the lights didn’t flicker to life, no machinery hummed, the air as still as a tomb.
A sign screwed to the wall caught my eye, white metal and square, with the words ‘escape hatch’ painted on it in black, an arrow pointing back the way I’d come. Another in similar style pointed forward, and my blood went cold with the words illuminated in my flashlight beam.
Launch Control Center.
In my head, Carter’s raspy voice echoed like the tolls of a bell, sinister for the desperation in his death rattle.
More important than the beacon . . . don’t trust anyone . . .
Sucking in a breath, I forced myself to walk on, one hand on my pistol, though something in my brain told me I wouldn’t need it. The mysterious notion gave me little comfort, the absence of any mutated life forms all the more foreboding. A place like this couldn’t be part of any mining operation. No, this was too technical, too clean, too militaristic for coal or minerals. Someone had designed this place for something more secretive, something horrible, something dangerous.
Dangerous enough for Rodney Carter to give his life to defend it.
Thirty yards in, the tunnel opened up into a larger, circular room, and I stopped dead in my tracks.
Holy mother of God.
An array of big metal boxes stood along one wall, covered in dials, switches, and indicators from an era before touch screens. In the center of the floor sat a metal desk with two chairs behind a set of ancient-looking computer monitors, a few binders and folders stacked between them. Radio equipment lined another workstation by the back wall, and headsets at each retro-styled swivel chair gave the space a distinctly governmental air. Several round analog clocks on the wall were labeled for various locations, London, Berlin, Moscow, and Washington D.C, among others. A stairwell at the back of the room had more signs, pointing up to ‘Crew Quarters’ and down to ‘Secondary Command Systems’. Off to my right, a single tunnel led deeper into the complex, with a lone sign that read, ‘Blast Boor 8’.
Shutting my eyes, I held my breath to slow my racing heart, and focused as hard as I could on the stillness around me. Everything came back strange, stunted, numb, like my new abilities struggled to claw through the low hiss of static that I hadn’t notice in my ears up until now. From what I could tell, nothing lived down here, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel secure.
A brief search of the stairwell revealed a lower level with a similar setup to the first, and an upper floor of rooms with cramped bunks, and a tiny bathroom. No one appeared in either, and there wasn’t any blood, signs of struggle, or even scraps of torn clothing. It was as if the crew of this facility had just got up and walked out not five minutes ago.
At the base of the escape ladder, I called up to the tiny yellow square of light. “Okay, come on down.”
Somewhat comforted by the echoes of their eager feet on the iron ladder rungs, I ducked back into the control room, and walked to the central desk.
A newspaper had been tucked into the folders on one side, and I sat down in the right-hand swivel chair to tug it free.
“What on earth . . .” My brow knit together, and I blinked in confusion.
The first newspaper was dated 1953, far too old for a facility that seemed to have passed inspection only last week, and the headlines were crammed with strange text. I hadn’t always paid the best attention in history class, but I knew enough to understand that the words printed on the oddball paper shouldn’t have been correct. The more I read, the more my spine tingled with a bizarre wonder that I didn’t fully comprehend.
Disaster averted! Whistleblower reveals atomic strike narrowly called off after U.S.S Seraphim vanishes during naval exercise. Washington and Moscow agree to hold de-escalation talks.
Stalin dead from stroke! Massive protests rock USSR in demand for change. Marshal Zhukov seizes power in Moscow, abolishes gulags, and vows drastic reforms.
An era for a change? Kremlin agrees to open trade deals with the west as Zhukov drafts new Russian constitution guaranteeing civil rights. Eisenhower leads charge to end racial segregation in US with widespread Congressional support.
From bombs to space-rockets: U.S and Russia form joint moon exploration taskforce in historic alliance treaty. NATO and WARSAW Pact dissolved, while Mao surrenders to Chiang Kai-shek at Nanking. Former Communist bloc to open their economies to free market reforms.
Bewildered, I scanned the pages over and over again, waiting to see a political watermark, a gag label, something to let me know these were fake papers made for a joke. But the more I read, the more I sat there in stunned amazement.
They were real.
I remembered my conversation with Mr. Koranti, about other places, holes in reality, and interdimensional crossovers. Could it be true? Had there been a timeline where the Cold War didn’t drag on for decades, where the arms race withered out, and where the authoritarian regimes of the world toppled under the will of their own people? Just the thought had me both excited and heartbroken; excited that such a better place had been possible after all, and crushed that we, in our reality, hadn’t seen such times. What if our version of earth was the wrong one, a defective one, a nightmare for other dimensions that had done things right where we had erred? What if we were the Chaos-driven version of human history, a blood-soaked tale of endless violence that we never managed to shake? If this was evidence of Order succeeding in other timelines, then what did that mean for ours?
Desperate for answers, I shuffled to the next paper, and read on.
Rural Tennessee communities evacuated after mysterious power outages cause havoc: bystanders say military weapons test released ‘monsters’.
Operation ‘Olympic Hammer’ exposed! CIA heads indited on testing electromagnetic superweapons in plot to attack former Soviet Union. Global support pours in to assist with biological cleanup of Polk County.
‘Worse than we thought’ International teams urge calm as contaminated zone in Tennessee widens. Russia pledges aid, reports similar ‘hot spots’ in Irkutsk. China unable to maintain order in remote regions as anomaly phenomenon spreads.
State of emergency declared in Washington as mutant attacks rise across nation. Moscow reportedly dark. Beijing in chaos. Military preps for experimental ‘containment’ strikes within continental US.
Icy terror sank through me as I reached the last headline, no further papers on the desk, as if these had been the last to be delivered. The Breach. They’d found one too, or perhaps created one from the sounds of it, their covert superweapon enough to open a rift just like Koranti had spoken of. In their quest to restart the Cold War, the conspirators in the CIA had ripped open a doorway to Chaos, and unleashed mutants all over the world. Despite all the treaties, all the peace deals, one wrong step had doomed them to a cosmic apocalypse that looked eerily familiar from the grainy black and white photos on the front page.
Fools. They could have reached for the stars, and they threw it all away. Stupid, proud fools.
“What is this place?” Lucille stepped out from the dark behind me, and the rest of the children emerged one-by-one from the tunnel, examining the room with curious eyes.
“Not sure yet.” Pulling one of the technical binders out, I flipped it open and started to read. “Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
With all my concentration, I dove into the pages, devoured the complicated pamphlets in record time I would have been amazed at how fast my reading comprehension had improved, if it weren’t for the words that jumped off the pages at me.
Automated self-loading silo . . . XM91 Multiple Individual Reentry Vehicle . . . Peacekeeper Two delivery system . . .
My eyes rose to the console in front of me, and I noticed two sets of keyholes, with one holding a little metal key.
The other keyhole was empty.
Wait a second.
Horrified, I dropped the binder and leapt to my feet. Now it made sense why Carter had guarded this place with his life, and why ELSAR wanted the key coordinates. Somehow, in some way, this place had slipped through the veil of time and space to land in our reality and had brought its deadly secret with it.
A weapon so powerful, so dangerous, that even the deep pockets of ELSAR couldn’t get hold of one.
“What’s wrong?” An older boy cast around with his eyes in suspicion, but I ignored them all, and took off toward the tunnel marked ‘Blast Door 8’.
As if running in a nightmare, I couldn’t move fast enough, and the others sprinted after me in fear. I spun the hand-wheel, let the hydraulic springs crank it open, and raced on through more flights of metal stairways, more blast doors that counted down from eight, until I stumbled out into a massive shadowy chasm.
Stopping dead in my tracks at the safety railing, I stared out at a half-dozen white-painted tubes that rose from the gargantuan shaft toward the closed double blast doors above. They were huge, easily as tall as two school buses parked end-to-end, six of them held in a turnstile-like system of brackets that reminded me of a rotisserie rack at a gas station. The compass in my pocket cranked with a hysterical whirr, and the letters painted on the aluminum skin of the objects made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
XM91.
The children thundered into the launch shaft after me, and their eyes bulged at the deadly giants that stood in quiet mechanical slumber within the hidden bunker.
“Is that . . ?” Lucille squeaked, her jaw slack as she sidled closer in timid uncertainty.
“Uh huh.” I gripped the cold railing with white-knuckled hands, my stomach tied in sick knots. “Those are nukes.”

[Part 24]
[Part 26]
“That’s weird.”
I crouched on the edge of a large, grassy area, the chest-high vegetation over our heads in this position, with various trails blazed through it by passing animals. The rest of the children waited behind me, hunched low on the balls of their feet, eyes to the clouds like wary rabbits watching for a hawk. The sky was clear and bright at noon, the temperature high enough to make me wish I could shrug off my jacket.
Lucille squatted next to my left, having attached herself to me so that she’d become my default shadow at this point. She eyed the lensatic compass in my hand, and the two of us frowned at it in hushed concern.
Swallowing a nervous gulp, I nodded in agreement with her statement, watching the needle of the compass twitch, spin, and change polarity every few seconds as if it were alive. “Must be a ton of electromagnetic radiation here. Better keep our eyes open. There could be freaks around.”
Today had proven to be gentler, the rain stopping sometime in the night. We’d all woken up close to nine the previous evening, sore, blister-ridden from our march, and hungry. I’d taken a small crew of six with some camping pots a few hundred yards off site and managed to heat up enough stewed beans to feed everyone before withdrawing to the factory. Our dinner hadn’t been a cheery affair, however; true to Chris’s words, the cookfire drew a small pack of Birch Crawlers, four juveniles from what I could tell, who prowled around outside for a long time. We had to sit in silence, bunched around our fire, and wait until the beasts gave up trying to find a way inside. Even after the predators left, Puppets clicked and chittered through the forest for hours, the white-eyed fiends scampering around the swamps to scoop out crayfish with their grimy hands. At one point, I spotted a lone Bengal Tiger by the western edge of the waterline, one of our old Carnivore Cove residents, with a new coat of thick brown-and-tan striped fur, and two long saber-like teeth protruding from its mouth. Speaker Crabs played their ghostly tunes late into the night, and Bone-Faced Whitetail bugled from somewhere further south, a symphony of the new world all blended in a sound both terrifying and fascinating to the wide-eyed urbanite kids.
All this had made the departure from our dusty old sanctuary that much harder for my wards to accept, but they followed me into the orange, red, and gold embrace of the autumn wilderness with resolute faith. They’d seen too much not to trust me, and I didn’t have to argue with the more stubborn members of the group anymore. Together we’d tramped to the green blot on the topographical map, and now that we sat on the edge of the grassy expanse, I found myself as the one having doubts.
I have no way to measure any background radiation. It might take a hot minute to search for whatever is supposed to be here, and who knows how many rads we’ll take in that time frame? Not to mention what kind of stuff might be living in this grass, mutated leeches, giant ticks, some kind of super-mosquito . . .
Shuddering at the skin-crawling idea of Breach-born parasites wriggling up my pant legs, I slipped the compass back into my pocket. We would just have to be quick. If Rodney Carter could make it in here, then the radiation couldn’t be lethal . . . or at least, I hoped so.
Turning, I raised a hand, and made a silent wave at the others.
Let’s go.
Deeper into the grass we went, weapons at the ready. I forced myself to breathe slow, let the focus slide over me, and crept along with primal caution. On the back of my tongue, I tasted the starchy blades of the grass, and the wet mud at the roots. My ears picked up the slight crunch of gravel particulates under the surface of the muck, remnants of whatever mining company had laid a gravel pad here decades prior. I caught the buzz of a fly a few yards to my left, and the muffled whirr of my compass spasming in my pocket, the needle in constant motion. Every color became more pronounced, the brown rush grass dried in the breeze, the turquoise blue sky, the chocolate-colored mud that squelched under my boots. Cool fall humidity lay heavy on my skin, and plants tickled my arms as I slid by them.
At the opposite end of the field, we came up on nothing.
I had the group make a wide loop around the outside of the clearing, searched the ground, the grass, the surrounding embankments.
Nothing.
Down the center we went in a crisscross pattern, spread out at arm’s length in a long row to comb through the area like a search-and-rescue team.
Still nothing.
In the roughly 20-acre stretch of ground, there were no buildings, no marks, only grass, a few dead tree stumps, and mud. It made no sense, and my frustration mounted as the anxious thought in the back of my head reminded me that we could be catching all sorts of poisonous radiation.
Stopping in the center of the field, I stood upright, and rested my hands on both hips in an angry huff.
So, was this some kind of stupid joke? No one’s been here in a while, Jamie couldn’t have gotten to it first without leaving something behind for me to spot. Unless she pointed me in the wrong direction to cover her tracks, especially if she was working for ELSAR from the beginning.
Aware of the puzzled looks thrown my way from the others, I pulled my map out again, and tried to make sense of the erratic compass.
Whirrr.
It spun like a propellor, and I shook the little plastic gadget with my teeth gritted in ire.
Whirrrr.
As if to spite me, the needle spun in faster pulsations, and I paced back and forth, ready to blow my cool at the inanimate chunk of hardened petroleum. “Stupid dollar store piece of—”
Whiiirrr.
Crackle.
I froze, and stared at the compass, the needle now spinning constantly without hesitation. Something under my boot had shifted, the sound oddly plastic to my heightened eardrums, and my angst melted into stunned realization.
The compass wasn’t pointing north . . . it was trying to point down.
With bated breath, I back up a few steps, and sank down on my haunches to peer at the grass.
Oh, very clever Mr. Carter.
A smile crawled over my face at a slight tinge of blue under the mud, the old tarp well-concealed under the thick mat of soil, roots, and grass. We’d walked right over it half a dozen times, and I’d been standing on top of the woven nylon flap while I fumed at my poor compass. From the air, it was invisible, from the ground undetectable; only magnetism could reveal it.
Pulling a cheap camping knife that I’d been given at the Castle from my belt, I gripped the stems of the wet grass and tugged upward, using the blade to dig at the roots. With a wet snap of plant-life giving way, the sod came free, and the children crowded around me in an excited cluster as I pulled the tarp aside.
A square metal cover sat underneath, painted slate-gray, with spots of rust here and there. It swung open on creaky hinges to reveal a hatch further recessed into poured concrete. This one was made from heavy steel, and smeared with a thin film of protective grease, a central hand-wheel in its core to open it like some kind of bunker door. Even with all this, it was a set of blocky, white painted letters on the door, that made my mind whirl like the compass needle.
Silo 48.
Daring to hope, I reached down, and yanked on the hand-wheel.
Clunk.
It turned in a smooth, well-oiled motion, and the sound of locks retracting echoed through the expanse beneath as the thick steel hatch rose upward on pneumatic struts. Stale air wafted up from inside, the cold scent of concrete and iron, and a metal ladder bolted to the interior wall led down into the shadows. It had a metal safety cage around it to prevent workers from falling through the already claustrophobic entry tube, and there wasn’t a visible bottom from where we sat on the surface. Even for my eyes it was dark, and something about the strange hole in the ground felt off, unnatural, misplaced.
I borrowed a flashlight from one of the boys and stuck my legs into the shaft to rest both feet on the first rung. “I’ll go first. If it’s safe, I’ll call up to you, and the rest of you come down to meet me. I don’t want anyone waiting around outside, just in case.”
“What if something grabs you?” A younger member of the group looked with nervous dread at the shadows beneath me.
Meeting the eyes of the older ones, who waited in silent expectation, I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “Close the hatch and run.”
Their worried faces drifted further and further away as I descended, the flashlight tucked into my jacket pocket, both shaky hands clinging to the ladder. It seemed like the seconds dragged on into hours, the climb downward never ending, and the square of sunlight became a golden postage-stamp high overhead. I had no idea how far down I would have to go, and my stomach churned at the haunting prospect that perhaps this was one of the Breach’s cruel tricks, that I would end up climbing forever, that there was no bottom to this hidden pit. What if I had crawled down inside it like an unsuspecting fly to a carnivorous plant in the Amazon, unaware the tunnel waited to gulp me down, smother me in darkness, and digest my bones?
You’re psyching yourself out over nothing. It’s a freaking tunnel, Hannah, made of concrete just like a sidewalk. Someone had to have built it, and Carter made it out, so you can too.
In that spirit, I put one foot out to take the next rung and jolted with surprise at the sensation of a hard floor under my heel.
Clicking on my flashlight, I swept the weak yellow beam over my surroundings, and curiosity overwhelmed my fear.
I stood in a circular tunnel, spacious and industrial, with metal supports on the walls, and diamond-plate steel on the floor It was cooler down here, and I guessed that I had to be at least sixty feet underground or more, the walls behind the I-beams molded from poured concrete. Electric lights hung from the ceiling, encased in protective wire cages, skinny round conduit bolted along the ceiling like bundles of shiny snakes. Unlike the abandoned brick factory, this place didn’t lay under a thick curtain of dust, but almost seemed brand-new, as if someone had been through to clean it just yesterday. Everything remained dark, however; the lights didn’t flicker to life, no machinery hummed, the air as still as a tomb.
A sign screwed to the wall caught my eye, white metal and square, with the words ‘escape hatch’ painted on it in black, an arrow pointing back the way I’d come. Another in similar style pointed forward, and my blood went cold with the words illuminated in my flashlight beam.
Launch Control Center.
In my head, Carter’s raspy voice echoed like the tolls of a bell, sinister for the desperation in his death rattle.
More important than the beacon . . . don’t trust anyone . . .
Sucking in a breath, I forced myself to walk on, one hand on my pistol, though something in my brain told me I wouldn’t need it. The mysterious notion gave me little comfort, the absence of any mutated life forms all the more foreboding. A place like this couldn’t be part of any mining operation. No, this was too technical, too clean, too militaristic for coal or minerals. Someone had designed this place for something more secretive, something horrible, something dangerous.
Dangerous enough for Rodney Carter to give his life to defend it.
Thirty yards in, the tunnel opened up into a larger, circular room, and I stopped dead in my tracks.
Holy mother of God.
An array of big metal boxes stood along one wall, covered in dials, switches, and indicators from an era before touch screens. In the center of the floor sat a metal desk with two chairs behind a set of ancient-looking computer monitors, a few binders and folders stacked between them. Radio equipment lined another workstation by the back wall, and headsets at each retro-styled swivel chair gave the space a distinctly governmental air. Several round analog clocks on the wall were labeled for various locations, London, Berlin, Moscow, and Washington D.C, among others. A stairwell at the back of the room had more signs, pointing up to ‘Crew Quarters’ and down to ‘Secondary Command Systems’. Off to my right, a single tunnel led deeper into the complex, with a lone sign that read, ‘Blast Boor 8’.
Shutting my eyes, I held my breath to slow my racing heart, and focused as hard as I could on the stillness around me. Everything came back strange, stunted, numb, like my new abilities struggled to claw through the low hiss of static that I hadn’t notice in my ears up until now. From what I could tell, nothing lived down here, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel secure.
A brief search of the stairwell revealed a lower level with a similar setup to the first, and an upper floor of rooms with cramped bunks, and a tiny bathroom. No one appeared in either, and there wasn’t any blood, signs of struggle, or even scraps of torn clothing. It was as if the crew of this facility had just got up and walked out not five minutes ago.
At the base of the escape ladder, I called up to the tiny yellow square of light. “Okay, come on down.”
Somewhat comforted by the echoes of their eager feet on the iron ladder rungs, I ducked back into the control room, and walked to the central desk.
A newspaper had been tucked into the folders on one side, and I sat down in the right-hand swivel chair to tug it free.
“What on earth . . .” My brow knit together, and I blinked in confusion.
The first newspaper was dated 1953, far too old for a facility that seemed to have passed inspection only last week, and the headlines were crammed with strange text. I hadn’t always paid the best attention in history class, but I knew enough to understand that the words printed on the oddball paper shouldn’t have been correct. The more I read, the more my spine tingled with a bizarre wonder that I didn’t fully comprehend.
Disaster averted! Whistleblower reveals atomic strike narrowly called off after U.S.S Seraphim vanishes during naval exercise. Washington and Moscow agree to hold de-escalation talks.
Stalin dead from stroke! Massive protests rock USSR in demand for change. Marshal Zhukov seizes power in Moscow, abolishes gulags, and vows drastic reforms.
An era for a change? Kremlin agrees to open trade deals with the west as Zhukov drafts new Russian constitution guaranteeing civil rights. Eisenhower leads charge to end racial segregation in US with widespread Congressional support.
From bombs to space-rockets: U.S and Russia form joint moon exploration taskforce in historic alliance treaty. NATO and WARSAW Pact dissolved, while Mao surrenders to Chiang Kai-shek at Nanking. Former Communist bloc to open their economies to free market reforms.
Bewildered, I scanned the pages over and over again, waiting to see a political watermark, a gag label, something to let me know these were fake papers made for a joke. But the more I read, the more I sat there in stunned amazement.
They were real.
I remembered my conversation with Mr. Koranti, about other places, holes in reality, and interdimensional crossovers. Could it be true? Had there been a timeline where the Cold War didn’t drag on for decades, where the arms race withered out, and where the authoritarian regimes of the world toppled under the will of their own people? Just the thought had me both excited and heartbroken; excited that such a better place had been possible after all, and crushed that we, in our reality, hadn’t seen such times. What if our version of earth was the wrong one, a defective one, a nightmare for other dimensions that had done things right where we had erred? What if we were the Chaos-driven version of human history, a blood-soaked tale of endless violence that we never managed to shake? If this was evidence of Order succeeding in other timelines, then what did that mean for ours?
Desperate for answers, I shuffled to the next paper, and read on.
Rural Tennessee communities evacuated after mysterious power outages cause havoc: bystanders say military weapons test released ‘monsters’.
Operation ‘Olympic Hammer’ exposed! CIA heads indited on testing electromagnetic superweapons in plot to attack former Soviet Union. Global support pours in to assist with biological cleanup of Polk County.
‘Worse than we thought’ International teams urge calm as contaminated zone in Tennessee widens. Russia pledges aid, reports similar ‘hot spots’ in Irkutsk. China unable to maintain order in remote regions as anomaly phenomenon spreads.
State of emergency declared in Washington as mutant attacks rise across nation. Moscow reportedly dark. Beijing in chaos. Military preps for experimental ‘containment’ strikes within continental US.
Icy terror sank through me as I reached the last headline, no further papers on the desk, as if these had been the last to be delivered. The Breach. They’d found one too, or perhaps created one from the sounds of it, their covert superweapon enough to open a rift just like Koranti had spoken of. In their quest to restart the Cold War, the conspirators in the CIA had ripped open a doorway to Chaos, and unleashed mutants all over the world. Despite all the treaties, all the peace deals, one wrong step had doomed them to a cosmic apocalypse that looked eerily familiar from the grainy black and white photos on the front page.
Fools. They could have reached for the stars, and they threw it all away. Stupid, proud fools.
“What is this place?” Lucille stepped out from the dark behind me, and the rest of the children emerged one-by-one from the tunnel, examining the room with curious eyes.
“Not sure yet.” Pulling one of the technical binders out, I flipped it open and started to read. “Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
With all my concentration, I dove into the pages, devoured the complicated pamphlets in record time I would have been amazed at how fast my reading comprehension had improved, if it weren’t for the words that jumped off the pages at me.
Automated self-loading silo . . . XM91 Multiple Individual Reentry Vehicle . . . Peacekeeper Two delivery system . . .
My eyes rose to the console in front of me, and I noticed two sets of keyholes, with one holding a little metal key.
The other keyhole was empty.
Wait a second.
Horrified, I dropped the binder and leapt to my feet. Now it made sense why Carter had guarded this place with his life, and why ELSAR wanted the key coordinates. Somehow, in some way, this place had slipped through the veil of time and space to land in our reality and had brought its deadly secret with it.
A weapon so powerful, so dangerous, that even the deep pockets of ELSAR couldn’t get hold of one.
“What’s wrong?” An older boy cast around with his eyes in suspicion, but I ignored them all, and took off toward the tunnel marked ‘Blast Door 8’.
As if running in a nightmare, I couldn’t move fast enough, and the others sprinted after me in fear. I spun the hand-wheel, let the hydraulic springs crank it open, and raced on through more flights of metal stairways, more blast doors that counted down from eight, until I stumbled out into a massive shadowy chasm.
Stopping dead in my tracks at the safety railing, I stared out at a half-dozen white-painted tubes that rose from the gargantuan shaft toward the closed double blast doors above. They were huge, easily as tall as two school buses parked end-to-end, six of them held in a turnstile-like system of brackets that reminded me of a rotisserie rack at a gas station. The compass in my pocket cranked with a hysterical whirr, and the letters painted on the aluminum skin of the objects made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
XM91.
The children thundered into the launch shaft after me, and their eyes bulged at the deadly giants that stood in quiet mechanical slumber within the hidden bunker.
“Is that . . ?” Lucille squeaked, her jaw slack as she sidled closer in timid uncertainty.
“Uh huh.” I gripped the cold railing with white-knuckled hands, my stomach tied in sick knots. “Those are nukes.”

[Part 24]
[Part 26]
“That’s weird.”
I crouched on the edge of a large, grassy area, the chest-high vegetation over our heads in this position, with various trails blazed through it by passing animals. The rest of the children waited behind me, hunched low on the balls of their feet, eyes to the clouds like wary rabbits watching for a hawk. The sky was clear and bright at noon, the temperature high enough to make me wish I could shrug off my jacket.
Lucille squatted next to my left, having attached herself to me so that she’d become my default shadow at this point. She eyed the lensatic compass in my hand, and the two of us frowned at it in hushed concern.
Swallowing a nervous gulp, I nodded in agreement with her statement, watching the needle of the compass twitch, spin, and change polarity every few seconds as if it were alive. “Must be a ton of electromagnetic radiation here. Better keep our eyes open. There could be freaks around.”
Today had proven to be gentler, the rain stopping sometime in the night. We’d all woken up close to nine the previous evening, sore, blister-ridden from our march, and hungry. I’d taken a small crew of six with some camping pots a few hundred yards off site and managed to heat up enough stewed beans to feed everyone before withdrawing to the factory. Our dinner hadn’t been a cheery affair, however; true to Chris’s words, the cookfire drew a small pack of Birch Crawlers, four juveniles from what I could tell, who prowled around outside for a long time. We had to sit in silence, bunched around our fire, and wait until the beasts gave up trying to find a way inside. Even after the predators left, Puppets clicked and chittered through the forest for hours, the white-eyed fiends scampering around the swamps to scoop out crayfish with their grimy hands. At one point, I spotted a lone Bengal Tiger by the western edge of the waterline, one of our old Carnivore Cove residents, with a new coat of thick brown-and-tan striped fur, and two long saber-like teeth protruding from its mouth. Speaker Crabs played their ghostly tunes late into the night, and Bone-Faced Whitetail bugled from somewhere further south, a symphony of the new world all blended in a sound both terrifying and fascinating to the wide-eyed urbanite kids.
All this had made the departure from our dusty old sanctuary that much harder for my wards to accept, but they followed me into the orange, red, and gold embrace of the autumn wilderness with resolute faith. They’d seen too much not to trust me, and I didn’t have to argue with the more stubborn members of the group anymore. Together we’d tramped to the green blot on the topographical map, and now that we sat on the edge of the grassy expanse, I found myself as the one having doubts.
I have no way to measure any background radiation. It might take a hot minute to search for whatever is supposed to be here, and who knows how many rads we’ll take in that time frame? Not to mention what kind of stuff might be living in this grass, mutated leeches, giant ticks, some kind of super-mosquito . . .
Shuddering at the skin-crawling idea of Breach-born parasites wriggling up my pant legs, I slipped the compass back into my pocket. We would just have to be quick. If Rodney Carter could make it in here, then the radiation couldn’t be lethal . . . or at least, I hoped so.
Turning, I raised a hand, and made a silent wave at the others.
Let’s go.
Deeper into the grass we went, weapons at the ready. I forced myself to breathe slow, let the focus slide over me, and crept along with primal caution. On the back of my tongue, I tasted the starchy blades of the grass, and the wet mud at the roots. My ears picked up the slight crunch of gravel particulates under the surface of the muck, remnants of whatever mining company had laid a gravel pad here decades prior. I caught the buzz of a fly a few yards to my left, and the muffled whirr of my compass spasming in my pocket, the needle in constant motion. Every color became more pronounced, the brown rush grass dried in the breeze, the turquoise blue sky, the chocolate-colored mud that squelched under my boots. Cool fall humidity lay heavy on my skin, and plants tickled my arms as I slid by them.
At the opposite end of the field, we came up on nothing.
I had the group make a wide loop around the outside of the clearing, searched the ground, the grass, the surrounding embankments.
Nothing.
Down the center we went in a crisscross pattern, spread out at arm’s length in a long row to comb through the area like a search-and-rescue team.
Still nothing.
In the roughly 20-acre stretch of ground, there were no buildings, no marks, only grass, a few dead tree stumps, and mud. It made no sense, and my frustration mounted as the anxious thought in the back of my head reminded me that we could be catching all sorts of poisonous radiation.
Stopping in the center of the field, I stood upright, and rested my hands on both hips in an angry huff.
So, was this some kind of stupid joke? No one’s been here in a while, Jamie couldn’t have gotten to it first without leaving something behind for me to spot. Unless she pointed me in the wrong direction to cover her tracks, especially if she was working for ELSAR from the beginning.
Aware of the puzzled looks thrown my way from the others, I pulled my map out again, and tried to make sense of the erratic compass.
Whirrr.
It spun like a propellor, and I shook the little plastic gadget with my teeth gritted in ire.
Whirrrr.
As if to spite me, the needle spun in faster pulsations, and I paced back and forth, ready to blow my cool at the inanimate chunk of hardened petroleum. “Stupid dollar store piece of—”
Whiiirrr.
Crackle.
I froze, and stared at the compass, the needle now spinning constantly without hesitation. Something under my boot had shifted, the sound oddly plastic to my heightened eardrums, and my angst melted into stunned realization.
The compass wasn’t pointing north . . . it was trying to point down.
With bated breath, I back up a few steps, and sank down on my haunches to peer at the grass.
Oh, very clever Mr. Carter.
A smile crawled over my face at a slight tinge of blue under the mud, the old tarp well-concealed under the thick mat of soil, roots, and grass. We’d walked right over it half a dozen times, and I’d been standing on top of the woven nylon flap while I fumed at my poor compass. From the air, it was invisible, from the ground undetectable; only magnetism could reveal it.
Pulling a cheap camping knife that I’d been given at the Castle from my belt, I gripped the stems of the wet grass and tugged upward, using the blade to dig at the roots. With a wet snap of plant-life giving way, the sod came free, and the children crowded around me in an excited cluster as I pulled the tarp aside.
A square metal cover sat underneath, painted slate-gray, with spots of rust here and there. It swung open on creaky hinges to reveal a hatch further recessed into poured concrete. This one was made from heavy steel, and smeared with a thin film of protective grease, a central hand-wheel in its core to open it like some kind of bunker door. Even with all this, it was a set of blocky, white painted letters on the door, that made my mind whirl like the compass needle.
Silo 48.
Daring to hope, I reached down, and yanked on the hand-wheel.
Clunk.
It turned in a smooth, well-oiled motion, and the sound of locks retracting echoed through the expanse beneath as the thick steel hatch rose upward on pneumatic struts. Stale air wafted up from inside, the cold scent of concrete and iron, and a metal ladder bolted to the interior wall led down into the shadows. It had a metal safety cage around it to prevent workers from falling through the already claustrophobic entry tube, and there wasn’t a visible bottom from where we sat on the surface. Even for my eyes it was dark, and something about the strange hole in the ground felt off, unnatural, misplaced.
I borrowed a flashlight from one of the boys and stuck my legs into the shaft to rest both feet on the first rung. “I’ll go first. If it’s safe, I’ll call up to you, and the rest of you come down to meet me. I don’t want anyone waiting around outside, just in case.”
“What if something grabs you?” A younger member of the group looked with nervous dread at the shadows beneath me.
Meeting the eyes of the older ones, who waited in silent expectation, I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “Close the hatch and run.”
Their worried faces drifted further and further away as I descended, the flashlight tucked into my jacket pocket, both shaky hands clinging to the ladder. It seemed like the seconds dragged on into hours, the climb downward never ending, and the square of sunlight became a golden postage-stamp high overhead. I had no idea how far down I would have to go, and my stomach churned at the haunting prospect that perhaps this was one of the Breach’s cruel tricks, that I would end up climbing forever, that there was no bottom to this hidden pit. What if I had crawled down inside it like an unsuspecting fly to a carnivorous plant in the Amazon, unaware the tunnel waited to gulp me down, smother me in darkness, and digest my bones?
You’re psyching yourself out over nothing. It’s a freaking tunnel, Hannah, made of concrete just like a sidewalk. Someone had to have built it, and Carter made it out, so you can too.
In that spirit, I put one foot out to take the next rung and jolted with surprise at the sensation of a hard floor under my heel.
Clicking on my flashlight, I swept the weak yellow beam over my surroundings, and curiosity overwhelmed my fear.
I stood in a circular tunnel, spacious and industrial, with metal supports on the walls, and diamond-plate steel on the floor It was cooler down here, and I guessed that I had to be at least sixty feet underground or more, the walls behind the I-beams molded from poured concrete. Electric lights hung from the ceiling, encased in protective wire cages, skinny round conduit bolted along the ceiling like bundles of shiny snakes. Unlike the abandoned brick factory, this place didn’t lay under a thick curtain of dust, but almost seemed brand-new, as if someone had been through to clean it just yesterday. Everything remained dark, however; the lights didn’t flicker to life, no machinery hummed, the air as still as a tomb.
A sign screwed to the wall caught my eye, white metal and square, with the words ‘escape hatch’ painted on it in black, an arrow pointing back the way I’d come. Another in similar style pointed forward, and my blood went cold with the words illuminated in my flashlight beam.
Launch Control Center.
In my head, Carter’s raspy voice echoed like the tolls of a bell, sinister for the desperation in his death rattle.
More important than the beacon . . . don’t trust anyone . . .
Sucking in a breath, I forced myself to walk on, one hand on my pistol, though something in my brain told me I wouldn’t need it. The mysterious notion gave me little comfort, the absence of any mutated life forms all the more foreboding. A place like this couldn’t be part of any mining operation. No, this was too technical, too clean, too militaristic for coal or minerals. Someone had designed this place for something more secretive, something horrible, something dangerous.
Dangerous enough for Rodney Carter to give his life to defend it.
Thirty yards in, the tunnel opened up into a larger, circular room, and I stopped dead in my tracks.
Holy mother of God.
An array of big metal boxes stood along one wall, covered in dials, switches, and indicators from an era before touch screens. In the center of the floor sat a metal desk with two chairs behind a set of ancient-looking computer monitors, a few binders and folders stacked between them. Radio equipment lined another workstation by the back wall, and headsets at each retro-styled swivel chair gave the space a distinctly governmental air. Several round analog clocks on the wall were labeled for various locations, London, Berlin, Moscow, and Washington D.C, among others. A stairwell at the back of the room had more signs, pointing up to ‘Crew Quarters’ and down to ‘Secondary Command Systems’. Off to my right, a single tunnel led deeper into the complex, with a lone sign that read, ‘Blast Boor 8’.
Shutting my eyes, I held my breath to slow my racing heart, and focused as hard as I could on the stillness around me. Everything came back strange, stunted, numb, like my new abilities struggled to claw through the low hiss of static that I hadn’t notice in my ears up until now. From what I could tell, nothing lived down here, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel secure.
A brief search of the stairwell revealed a lower level with a similar setup to the first, and an upper floor of rooms with cramped bunks, and a tiny bathroom. No one appeared in either, and there wasn’t any blood, signs of struggle, or even scraps of torn clothing. It was as if the crew of this facility had just got up and walked out not five minutes ago.
At the base of the escape ladder, I called up to the tiny yellow square of light. “Okay, come on down.”
Somewhat comforted by the echoes of their eager feet on the iron ladder rungs, I ducked back into the control room, and walked to the central desk.
A newspaper had been tucked into the folders on one side, and I sat down in the right-hand swivel chair to tug it free.
“What on earth . . .” My brow knit together, and I blinked in confusion.
The first newspaper was dated 1953, far too old for a facility that seemed to have passed inspection only last week, and the headlines were crammed with strange text. I hadn’t always paid the best attention in history class, but I knew enough to understand that the words printed on the oddball paper shouldn’t have been correct. The more I read, the more my spine tingled with a bizarre wonder that I didn’t fully comprehend.
Disaster averted! Whistleblower reveals atomic strike narrowly called off after U.S.S Seraphim vanishes during naval exercise. Washington and Moscow agree to hold de-escalation talks.
Stalin dead from stroke! Massive protests rock USSR in demand for change. Marshal Zhukov seizes power in Moscow, abolishes gulags, and vows drastic reforms.
An era for a change? Kremlin agrees to open trade deals with the west as Zhukov drafts new Russian constitution guaranteeing civil rights. Eisenhower leads charge to end racial segregation in US with widespread Congressional support.
From bombs to space-rockets: U.S and Russia form joint moon exploration taskforce in historic alliance treaty. NATO and WARSAW Pact dissolved, while Mao surrenders to Chiang Kai-shek at Nanking. Former Communist bloc to open their economies to free market reforms.
Bewildered, I scanned the pages over and over again, waiting to see a political watermark, a gag label, something to let me know these were fake papers made for a joke. But the more I read, the more I sat there in stunned amazement.
They were real.
I remembered my conversation with Mr. Koranti, about other places, holes in reality, and interdimensional crossovers. Could it be true? Had there been a timeline where the Cold War didn’t drag on for decades, where the arms race withered out, and where the authoritarian regimes of the world toppled under the will of their own people? Just the thought had me both excited and heartbroken; excited that such a better place had been possible after all, and crushed that we, in our reality, hadn’t seen such times. What if our version of earth was the wrong one, a defective one, a nightmare for other dimensions that had done things right where we had erred? What if we were the Chaos-driven version of human history, a blood-soaked tale of endless violence that we never managed to shake? If this was evidence of Order succeeding in other timelines, then what did that mean for ours?
Desperate for answers, I shuffled to the next paper, and read on.
Rural Tennessee communities evacuated after mysterious power outages cause havoc: bystanders say military weapons test released ‘monsters’.
Operation ‘Olympic Hammer’ exposed! CIA heads indited on testing electromagnetic superweapons in plot to attack former Soviet Union. Global support pours in to assist with biological cleanup of Polk County.
‘Worse than we thought’ International teams urge calm as contaminated zone in Tennessee widens. Russia pledges aid, reports similar ‘hot spots’ in Irkutsk. China unable to maintain order in remote regions as anomaly phenomenon spreads.
State of emergency declared in Washington as mutant attacks rise across nation. Moscow reportedly dark. Beijing in chaos. Military preps for experimental ‘containment’ strikes within continental US.
Icy terror sank through me as I reached the last headline, no further papers on the desk, as if these had been the last to be delivered. The Breach. They’d found one too, or perhaps created one from the sounds of it, their covert superweapon enough to open a rift just like Koranti had spoken of. In their quest to restart the Cold War, the conspirators in the CIA had ripped open a doorway to Chaos, and unleashed mutants all over the world. Despite all the treaties, all the peace deals, one wrong step had doomed them to a cosmic apocalypse that looked eerily familiar from the grainy black and white photos on the front page.
Fools. They could have reached for the stars, and they threw it all away. Stupid, proud fools.
“What is this place?” Lucille stepped out from the dark behind me, and the rest of the children emerged one-by-one from the tunnel, examining the room with curious eyes.
“Not sure yet.” Pulling one of the technical binders out, I flipped it open and started to read. “Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
With all my concentration, I dove into the pages, devoured the complicated pamphlets in record time I would have been amazed at how fast my reading comprehension had improved, if it weren’t for the words that jumped off the pages at me.
Automated self-loading silo . . . XM91 Multiple Individual Reentry Vehicle . . . Peacekeeper Two delivery system . . .
My eyes rose to the console in front of me, and I noticed two sets of keyholes, with one holding a little metal key.
The other keyhole was empty.
Wait a second.
Horrified, I dropped the binder and leapt to my feet. Now it made sense why Carter had guarded this place with his life, and why ELSAR wanted the key coordinates. Somehow, in some way, this place had slipped through the veil of time and space to land in our reality and had brought its deadly secret with it.
A weapon so powerful, so dangerous, that even the deep pockets of ELSAR couldn’t get hold of one.
“What’s wrong?” An older boy cast around with his eyes in suspicion, but I ignored them all, and took off toward the tunnel marked ‘Blast Door 8’.
As if running in a nightmare, I couldn’t move fast enough, and the others sprinted after me in fear. I spun the hand-wheel, let the hydraulic springs crank it open, and raced on through more flights of metal stairways, more blast doors that counted down from eight, until I stumbled out into a massive shadowy chasm.
Stopping dead in my tracks at the safety railing, I stared out at a half-dozen white-painted tubes that rose from the gargantuan shaft toward the closed double blast doors above. They were huge, easily as tall as two school buses parked end-to-end, six of them held in a turnstile-like system of brackets that reminded me of a rotisserie rack at a gas station. The compass in my pocket cranked with a hysterical whirr, and the letters painted on the aluminum skin of the objects made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
XM91.
The children thundered into the launch shaft after me, and their eyes bulged at the deadly giants that stood in quiet mechanical slumber within the hidden bunker.
“Is that . . ?” Lucille squeaked, her jaw slack as she sidled closer in timid uncertainty.
“Uh huh.” I gripped the cold railing with white-knuckled hands, my stomach tied in sick knots. “Those are nukes.”

[Part 24]
[Part 26]
“That’s weird.”
I crouched on the edge of a large, grassy area, the chest-high vegetation over our heads in this position, with various trails blazed through it by passing animals. The rest of the children waited behind me, hunched low on the balls of their feet, eyes to the clouds like wary rabbits watching for a hawk. The sky was clear and bright at noon, the temperature high enough to make me wish I could shrug off my jacket.
Lucille squatted next to my left, having attached herself to me so that she’d become my default shadow at this point. She eyed the lensatic compass in my hand, and the two of us frowned at it in hushed concern.
Swallowing a nervous gulp, I nodded in agreement with her statement, watching the needle of the compass twitch, spin, and change polarity every few seconds as if it were alive. “Must be a ton of electromagnetic radiation here. Better keep our eyes open. There could be freaks around.”
Today had proven to be gentler, the rain stopping sometime in the night. We’d all woken up close to nine the previous evening, sore, blister-ridden from our march, and hungry. I’d taken a small crew of six with some camping pots a few hundred yards off site and managed to heat up enough stewed beans to feed everyone before withdrawing to the factory. Our dinner hadn’t been a cheery affair, however; true to Chris’s words, the cookfire drew a small pack of Birch Crawlers, four juveniles from what I could tell, who prowled around outside for a long time. We had to sit in silence, bunched around our fire, and wait until the beasts gave up trying to find a way inside. Even after the predators left, Puppets clicked and chittered through the forest for hours, the white-eyed fiends scampering around the swamps to scoop out crayfish with their grimy hands. At one point, I spotted a lone Bengal Tiger by the western edge of the waterline, one of our old Carnivore Cove residents, with a new coat of thick brown-and-tan striped fur, and two long saber-like teeth protruding from its mouth. Speaker Crabs played their ghostly tunes late into the night, and Bone-Faced Whitetail bugled from somewhere further south, a symphony of the new world all blended in a sound both terrifying and fascinating to the wide-eyed urbanite kids.
All this had made the departure from our dusty old sanctuary that much harder for my wards to accept, but they followed me into the orange, red, and gold embrace of the autumn wilderness with resolute faith. They’d seen too much not to trust me, and I didn’t have to argue with the more stubborn members of the group anymore. Together we’d tramped to the green blot on the topographical map, and now that we sat on the edge of the grassy expanse, I found myself as the one having doubts.
I have no way to measure any background radiation. It might take a hot minute to search for whatever is supposed to be here, and who knows how many rads we’ll take in that time frame? Not to mention what kind of stuff might be living in this grass, mutated leeches, giant ticks, some kind of super-mosquito . . .
Shuddering at the skin-crawling idea of Breach-born parasites wriggling up my pant legs, I slipped the compass back into my pocket. We would just have to be quick. If Rodney Carter could make it in here, then the radiation couldn’t be lethal . . . or at least, I hoped so.
Turning, I raised a hand, and made a silent wave at the others.
Let’s go.
Deeper into the grass we went, weapons at the ready. I forced myself to breathe slow, let the focus slide over me, and crept along with primal caution. On the back of my tongue, I tasted the starchy blades of the grass, and the wet mud at the roots. My ears picked up the slight crunch of gravel particulates under the surface of the muck, remnants of whatever mining company had laid a gravel pad here decades prior. I caught the buzz of a fly a few yards to my left, and the muffled whirr of my compass spasming in my pocket, the needle in constant motion. Every color became more pronounced, the brown rush grass dried in the breeze, the turquoise blue sky, the chocolate-colored mud that squelched under my boots. Cool fall humidity lay heavy on my skin, and plants tickled my arms as I slid by them.
At the opposite end of the field, we came up on nothing.
I had the group make a wide loop around the outside of the clearing, searched the ground, the grass, the surrounding embankments.
Nothing.
Down the center we went in a crisscross pattern, spread out at arm’s length in a long row to comb through the area like a search-and-rescue team.
Still nothing.
In the roughly 20-acre stretch of ground, there were no buildings, no marks, only grass, a few dead tree stumps, and mud. It made no sense, and my frustration mounted as the anxious thought in the back of my head reminded me that we could be catching all sorts of poisonous radiation.
Stopping in the center of the field, I stood upright, and rested my hands on both hips in an angry huff.
So, was this some kind of stupid joke? No one’s been here in a while, Jamie couldn’t have gotten to it first without leaving something behind for me to spot. Unless she pointed me in the wrong direction to cover her tracks, especially if she was working for ELSAR from the beginning.
Aware of the puzzled looks thrown my way from the others, I pulled my map out again, and tried to make sense of the erratic compass.
Whirrr.
It spun like a propellor, and I shook the little plastic gadget with my teeth gritted in ire.
Whirrrr.
As if to spite me, the needle spun in faster pulsations, and I paced back and forth, ready to blow my cool at the inanimate chunk of hardened petroleum. “Stupid dollar store piece of—”
Whiiirrr.
Crackle.
I froze, and stared at the compass, the needle now spinning constantly without hesitation. Something under my boot had shifted, the sound oddly plastic to my heightened eardrums, and my angst melted into stunned realization.
The compass wasn’t pointing north . . . it was trying to point down.
With bated breath, I back up a few steps, and sank down on my haunches to peer at the grass.
Oh, very clever Mr. Carter.
A smile crawled over my face at a slight tinge of blue under the mud, the old tarp well-concealed under the thick mat of soil, roots, and grass. We’d walked right over it half a dozen times, and I’d been standing on top of the woven nylon flap while I fumed at my poor compass. From the air, it was invisible, from the ground undetectable; only magnetism could reveal it.
Pulling a cheap camping knife that I’d been given at the Castle from my belt, I gripped the stems of the wet grass and tugged upward, using the blade to dig at the roots. With a wet snap of plant-life giving way, the sod came free, and the children crowded around me in an excited cluster as I pulled the tarp aside.
A square metal cover sat underneath, painted slate-gray, with spots of rust here and there. It swung open on creaky hinges to reveal a hatch further recessed into poured concrete. This one was made from heavy steel, and smeared with a thin film of protective grease, a central hand-wheel in its core to open it like some kind of bunker door. Even with all this, it was a set of blocky, white painted letters on the door, that made my mind whirl like the compass needle.
Silo 48.
Daring to hope, I reached down, and yanked on the hand-wheel.
Clunk.
It turned in a smooth, well-oiled motion, and the sound of locks retracting echoed through the expanse beneath as the thick steel hatch rose upward on pneumatic struts. Stale air wafted up from inside, the cold scent of concrete and iron, and a metal ladder bolted to the interior wall led down into the shadows. It had a metal safety cage around it to prevent workers from falling through the already claustrophobic entry tube, and there wasn’t a visible bottom from where we sat on the surface. Even for my eyes it was dark, and something about the strange hole in the ground felt off, unnatural, misplaced.
I borrowed a flashlight from one of the boys and stuck my legs into the shaft to rest both feet on the first rung. “I’ll go first. If it’s safe, I’ll call up to you, and the rest of you come down to meet me. I don’t want anyone waiting around outside, just in case.”
“What if something grabs you?” A younger member of the group looked with nervous dread at the shadows beneath me.
Meeting the eyes of the older ones, who waited in silent expectation, I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “Close the hatch and run.”
Their worried faces drifted further and further away as I descended, the flashlight tucked into my jacket pocket, both shaky hands clinging to the ladder. It seemed like the seconds dragged on into hours, the climb downward never ending, and the square of sunlight became a golden postage-stamp high overhead. I had no idea how far down I would have to go, and my stomach churned at the haunting prospect that perhaps this was one of the Breach’s cruel tricks, that I would end up climbing forever, that there was no bottom to this hidden pit. What if I had crawled down inside it like an unsuspecting fly to a carnivorous plant in the Amazon, unaware the tunnel waited to gulp me down, smother me in darkness, and digest my bones?
You’re psyching yourself out over nothing. It’s a freaking tunnel, Hannah, made of concrete just like a sidewalk. Someone had to have built it, and Carter made it out, so you can too.
In that spirit, I put one foot out to take the next rung and jolted with surprise at the sensation of a hard floor under my heel.
Clicking on my flashlight, I swept the weak yellow beam over my surroundings, and curiosity overwhelmed my fear.
I stood in a circular tunnel, spacious and industrial, with metal supports on the walls, and diamond-plate steel on the floor It was cooler down here, and I guessed that I had to be at least sixty feet underground or more, the walls behind the I-beams molded from poured concrete. Electric lights hung from the ceiling, encased in protective wire cages, skinny round conduit bolted along the ceiling like bundles of shiny snakes. Unlike the abandoned brick factory, this place didn’t lay under a thick curtain of dust, but almost seemed brand-new, as if someone had been through to clean it just yesterday. Everything remained dark, however; the lights didn’t flicker to life, no machinery hummed, the air as still as a tomb.
A sign screwed to the wall caught my eye, white metal and square, with the words ‘escape hatch’ painted on it in black, an arrow pointing back the way I’d come. Another in similar style pointed forward, and my blood went cold with the words illuminated in my flashlight beam.
Launch Control Center.
In my head, Carter’s raspy voice echoed like the tolls of a bell, sinister for the desperation in his death rattle.
More important than the beacon . . . don’t trust anyone . . .
Sucking in a breath, I forced myself to walk on, one hand on my pistol, though something in my brain told me I wouldn’t need it. The mysterious notion gave me little comfort, the absence of any mutated life forms all the more foreboding. A place like this couldn’t be part of any mining operation. No, this was too technical, too clean, too militaristic for coal or minerals. Someone had designed this place for something more secretive, something horrible, something dangerous.
Dangerous enough for Rodney Carter to give his life to defend it.
Thirty yards in, the tunnel opened up into a larger, circular room, and I stopped dead in my tracks.
Holy mother of God.
An array of big metal boxes stood along one wall, covered in dials, switches, and indicators from an era before touch screens. In the center of the floor sat a metal desk with two chairs behind a set of ancient-looking computer monitors, a few binders and folders stacked between them. Radio equipment lined another workstation by the back wall, and headsets at each retro-styled swivel chair gave the space a distinctly governmental air. Several round analog clocks on the wall were labeled for various locations, London, Berlin, Moscow, and Washington D.C, among others. A stairwell at the back of the room had more signs, pointing up to ‘Crew Quarters’ and down to ‘Secondary Command Systems’. Off to my right, a single tunnel led deeper into the complex, with a lone sign that read, ‘Blast Boor 8’.
Shutting my eyes, I held my breath to slow my racing heart, and focused as hard as I could on the stillness around me. Everything came back strange, stunted, numb, like my new abilities struggled to claw through the low hiss of static that I hadn’t notice in my ears up until now. From what I could tell, nothing lived down here, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel secure.
A brief search of the stairwell revealed a lower level with a similar setup to the first, and an upper floor of rooms with cramped bunks, and a tiny bathroom. No one appeared in either, and there wasn’t any blood, signs of struggle, or even scraps of torn clothing. It was as if the crew of this facility had just got up and walked out not five minutes ago.
At the base of the escape ladder, I called up to the tiny yellow square of light. “Okay, come on down.”
Somewhat comforted by the echoes of their eager feet on the iron ladder rungs, I ducked back into the control room, and walked to the central desk.
A newspaper had been tucked into the folders on one side, and I sat down in the right-hand swivel chair to tug it free.
“What on earth . . .” My brow knit together, and I blinked in confusion.
The first newspaper was dated 1953, far too old for a facility that seemed to have passed inspection only last week, and the headlines were crammed with strange text. I hadn’t always paid the best attention in history class, but I knew enough to understand that the words printed on the oddball paper shouldn’t have been correct. The more I read, the more my spine tingled with a bizarre wonder that I didn’t fully comprehend.
Disaster averted! Whistleblower reveals atomic strike narrowly called off after U.S.S Seraphim vanishes during naval exercise. Washington and Moscow agree to hold de-escalation talks.
Stalin dead from stroke! Massive protests rock USSR in demand for change. Marshal Zhukov seizes power in Moscow, abolishes gulags, and vows drastic reforms.
An era for a change? Kremlin agrees to open trade deals with the west as Zhukov drafts new Russian constitution guaranteeing civil rights. Eisenhower leads charge to end racial segregation in US with widespread Congressional support.
From bombs to space-rockets: U.S and Russia form joint moon exploration taskforce in historic alliance treaty. NATO and WARSAW Pact dissolved, while Mao surrenders to Chiang Kai-shek at Nanking. Former Communist bloc to open their economies to free market reforms.
Bewildered, I scanned the pages over and over again, waiting to see a political watermark, a gag label, something to let me know these were fake papers made for a joke. But the more I read, the more I sat there in stunned amazement.
They were real.
I remembered my conversation with Mr. Koranti, about other places, holes in reality, and interdimensional crossovers. Could it be true? Had there been a timeline where the Cold War didn’t drag on for decades, where the arms race withered out, and where the authoritarian regimes of the world toppled under the will of their own people? Just the thought had me both excited and heartbroken; excited that such a better place had been possible after all, and crushed that we, in our reality, hadn’t seen such times. What if our version of earth was the wrong one, a defective one, a nightmare for other dimensions that had done things right where we had erred? What if we were the Chaos-driven version of human history, a blood-soaked tale of endless violence that we never managed to shake? If this was evidence of Order succeeding in other timelines, then what did that mean for ours?
Desperate for answers, I shuffled to the next paper, and read on.
Rural Tennessee communities evacuated after mysterious power outages cause havoc: bystanders say military weapons test released ‘monsters’.
Operation ‘Olympic Hammer’ exposed! CIA heads indited on testing electromagnetic superweapons in plot to attack former Soviet Union. Global support pours in to assist with biological cleanup of Polk County.
‘Worse than we thought’ International teams urge calm as contaminated zone in Tennessee widens. Russia pledges aid, reports similar ‘hot spots’ in Irkutsk. China unable to maintain order in remote regions as anomaly phenomenon spreads.
State of emergency declared in Washington as mutant attacks rise across nation. Moscow reportedly dark. Beijing in chaos. Military preps for experimental ‘containment’ strikes within continental US.
Icy terror sank through me as I reached the last headline, no further papers on the desk, as if these had been the last to be delivered. The Breach. They’d found one too, or perhaps created one from the sounds of it, their covert superweapon enough to open a rift just like Koranti had spoken of. In their quest to restart the Cold War, the conspirators in the CIA had ripped open a doorway to Chaos, and unleashed mutants all over the world. Despite all the treaties, all the peace deals, one wrong step had doomed them to a cosmic apocalypse that looked eerily familiar from the grainy black and white photos on the front page.
Fools. They could have reached for the stars, and they threw it all away. Stupid, proud fools.
“What is this place?” Lucille stepped out from the dark behind me, and the rest of the children emerged one-by-one from the tunnel, examining the room with curious eyes.
“Not sure yet.” Pulling one of the technical binders out, I flipped it open and started to read. “Just don’t touch anything, okay?”
With all my concentration, I dove into the pages, devoured the complicated pamphlets in record time I would have been amazed at how fast my reading comprehension had improved, if it weren’t for the words that jumped off the pages at me.
Automated self-loading silo . . . XM91 Multiple Individual Reentry Vehicle . . . Peacekeeper Two delivery system . . .
My eyes rose to the console in front of me, and I noticed two sets of keyholes, with one holding a little metal key.
The other keyhole was empty.
Wait a second.
Horrified, I dropped the binder and leapt to my feet. Now it made sense why Carter had guarded this place with his life, and why ELSAR wanted the key coordinates. Somehow, in some way, this place had slipped through the veil of time and space to land in our reality and had brought its deadly secret with it.
A weapon so powerful, so dangerous, that even the deep pockets of ELSAR couldn’t get hold of one.
“What’s wrong?” An older boy cast around with his eyes in suspicion, but I ignored them all, and took off toward the tunnel marked ‘Blast Door 8’.
As if running in a nightmare, I couldn’t move fast enough, and the others sprinted after me in fear. I spun the hand-wheel, let the hydraulic springs crank it open, and raced on through more flights of metal stairways, more blast doors that counted down from eight, until I stumbled out into a massive shadowy chasm.
Stopping dead in my tracks at the safety railing, I stared out at a half-dozen white-painted tubes that rose from the gargantuan shaft toward the closed double blast doors above. They were huge, easily as tall as two school buses parked end-to-end, six of them held in a turnstile-like system of brackets that reminded me of a rotisserie rack at a gas station. The compass in my pocket cranked with a hysterical whirr, and the letters painted on the aluminum skin of the objects made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
XM91.
The children thundered into the launch shaft after me, and their eyes bulged at the deadly giants that stood in quiet mechanical slumber within the hidden bunker.
“Is that . . ?” Lucille squeaked, her jaw slack as she sidled closer in timid uncertainty.
“Uh huh.” I gripped the cold railing with white-knuckled hands, my stomach tied in sick knots. “Those are nukes.”

I hope this reaches the right audience. I need people to understand that my security job is not like any you have heard of before. I am currently in the break room as I write this during my fourth week on the job. I thought I was signing up for a work from home role but it turned out to be work from hell. You're probably wondering why I am still here giving my predicament and if you thought it was just for the money you would be correct. Money was what brought me here but as I tell you my story, you will come to learn that there are ways to keep someone under your control. I haven’t had so much disposable income in my life but some things money can’t buy. I hear the screams of a colleague from the med room as his eyes and face melt from the acidic saliva he came in contact with out on duty. With the dangers of the job and the other worldly working conditions I feel like I have some stories that will help you think twice before chasing dollar signs. Just be aware, these may stop at any time due to my untimely demise.
My name is Thomas, I have been known as Tommy for as long as I can remember. I had the usual childhood in my hometown. Two hard working parents who provided what they could while I took everything for granted. I coasted through school and was lucky to get out without repeating too many classes. I spent some time in the army once I left high school. Went through basic training, was never top of any class but I got by. I had some great instructors, who pushed me further than anything I have ever done before. I enjoyed my time there and the people in my company were supportive, but on my second tour things went wild. For the purpose of the story we will leave it with an honorary discharge with a recommendation to spend some time getting some therapy and a slow reintegration to society. The things I saw over there would change a man. Once I could gather my thoughts into some form of coherence. I decided I was going to live the American dream and I started my own construction business. I was going to sub-contract the work and retire by 45. That failed miserably. I spent the next few years just existing, doing odd security jobs here and there. Working the door at nightclubs on the weekend. Not the existence I had imagined for myself.
One busy weekend in the middle of July I was working the door of a nightclub called Club Rouge. An extremely disturbing place but that’s a story for another day, Tony was on with me that night, a big burly man from Australia. He had shoulders like bowling balls and a nose that had met too many solid objects. He said he played rugby back home, although the scars on his face had more resemblance to knife wounds. We were doing our usual routine as instructed by the owners, keeping the ratio of two women to one man, but young brunettes were giving priority. Like I said, that place had bad intentions.
“ Did I tell you about the ad on the radio I heard the other night going home ?” Tony asked .“ This new place is looking for security guards to work remotely, pay sounded too good to be true though.”
“It always is,” I laughed. “That's how they lure you in.
“You're probably right but have a listen on your way home. What could be worse than working these doors.” Tony grinned
After our shift finished, I headed to my car to start my commute. The roads at this time of night were always quiet. I needed something to keep my mind focused so I turned on the radio. I usually listen to some podcasts but Tony had sparked my curiosity. The station came to life as the late night DJ was closing out the last song.
“That was our first local submission of the week, a young band called Parmesan Wasps. I’ll be back after this short break and then we are straight into the weekly dilemma
“I have been ghosted by the last 5 girls I met at the club. Is it me or is there something else going on ?.”
“ I don’t know about you folks but I think the texter might need to take a look in the mirror.” The ads came on, the usual for this time of night.
Keith Stephenson Divorce attorney. Getting itchy feet, call Keith…
Wild west builders. We might be cowboys but we build it to code.” These continued in the same vein until a professional voice announced
“Divinity Incorporated: We fuel the future. Remote security jobs available with a controlled audience. Majority of the role consist of W.F.H. Please call in to attend your induction day at DIV InC, Minimum pay of 500 dollars per earth day worked.”
I could tell why this caught Tony’s attention. The role sounded perfect, I expected to be watching some warehouses on my laptop and making easy money. The term earth days threw me off a little but the language the kids used these days was something I couldn’t keep up with. I decided as I rounded the corner to my house that I would stop by in the morning and see if they have anything for me.
“Your destination is on the left” the SatNav called out.
I turned down the lane towards the brilliant white building. The lane was shrouded by trees. Beautiful autumnal leaves scattered the ground. I already had a good feeling about this place. As I approached the car park it struck me with how many people were working here. There were hundreds of cars and I had never heard of divinity incorporated before. I parked and made my way across to the entrance. The building seemed to glisten in the low rising sun. The steps up the entrance looked like marble. The double doors opened by sensor as I approached and entered. The reception area was a vaste room with high ceilings. Glass bowl lights hung down to illuminate the floor. There was a long reception desk to the left of the entrance, behind was a wood panelled wall accentuated with pictures of smiling people in suits. A voice called out from the reception desk.
“Welcome to divinity Inc, are you here for the induction day.” The voice came from a beautiful brunette barely visible behind the giant desk.
“I am.” I manage to stutter out.
She grinned My names Annie, it's nice to meet you..? She paused waiting for me to introduce myself.
“Tommy.” I managed
That Irish accent had caught me off guard along with her striking appearance.
“Man of few words Tommy.” she laughed. I’ll need you to sign this before you head in. Nothing major, just a quick non disclosure agreement. We deal with private documents and data protection is a big thing nowadays.”
I knew I had to pull this back, I had come across as a stuttering buffoon. I put on my best smile and signed the page as I looked her in the eyes.
“You'd definitely make it easier to come into work everyday.” I said as I attempted a laid back approach of leaning against the desk.
she smiled at me with flirtatious eyes until she noticed I had finished signing the page. She grabbed the sheet and filed it away in the drawer with one precise movement. Only then I realised I didn’t even read it.
“This way please.” She said with her back to me, already heading down the hall.
She led me through a maze of corridors, each door showed offices full of people monitoring screens with great intent. I couldn’t see what the few closest to the doors were watching but they were all as focused. We went down a set of stairs and into a large circular room. The wall of the room was littered with outlines of doors. Each one with a bronze placard above the outline. I could read the closest 2 on my left. One said city suburbs, the other said Waste drill site 3. In the middle of the room there was a huge double sided screen that displayed what looked like a task board like that you would find in any call centre. The top task said:
Look for the paladin(town hall) – 5 hours £15K and 40k bonus if found.
The bottom of the list had 10 or so duplicates of shift security “Waste” drill site 2 – $500 5 hours.
Below the screen was what you'd expect to see in a secret armoury of a hero in the movies. Racks of rifles, rows of shotguns, handguns of all makes and blades of all lengths. A broad man with a stiff posture stood beside the armour. He had the air of a military general. A Stiff ironed collar and spit shined boots. His black hair, flecked with grey, gave him the appearance of a man who has seen many seasons.
“Good morning Mr. Armstrong. Annie called out as we approached.
Mr. Arstrong was the main guy here at Divinity incorporated. He extended his hand and shook mine with one powerful shake that nearly put my shoulder out of my socket.
“Gerald” he said as I mentally assessed the damage to my unsuspecting joints. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Tommy” He said giving me a once over.
I realised I hadn’t told him my name yet but let the thought slide.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” I replied trying my best to put on a professional front to my potential employer.
We had the usual formalities of a job interview. I told him about my previous experience in security and time in the military. He was interested in my combat experience, which judging by the arsenal behind us wasn’t too much of a surprise.
”I’m going to give it to you straight Tommy, this job isn’t your usual security role. These gateways here lead to “Hell”. He said as casually as if he was discussing the weather.
He went on to describe how scientists were accelerating particles in the large hadron collider and a miscalculation led to a gateway being opened to “Hell”. Hadron emitted linear location. He described how the have been travelling here for the best part of five years. Building research sites across the explored regions of this place where they can extract resources and data.
“However all this research needs to be funded.” He said gesturing to the monitors. We have a very exclusive client base who pay very generously to watch the daily shift. We have body cams, which live stream from each person in Hell.
“So what’s that about the paladin ?” I asked,unsure how i was taking this conversation serious.
“Those are tasks you can elect to follow to earn some additional income. A little to risky for a rookie of the company. He said
I later found out the “Paladin” is a religious fanatic who entered Hell to preach the gospel to the non believers as he calls them. He jumped with a bible in one hand and a 12 gauge in the other. He took off his camera as soon as he got through and hasn’t returned topside since. The ever watching eyes are obsessed with his crusade across the land of the damned and pay handsomely for any content including him.
“Look, I appreciate you taking the time to see me today but this all sounds a bit crazy I said.”
As I turned to leave Gerald announced that I wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. When I questioned him on this he informed me that the cute little receptionist is a qualified psychiatric doctor and I had signed a form to admit myself into her care for my own safety.
“ It’s always the short ones.” I cursed as I realised this man wasn’t going to let me go spilling the beans on there operation..
“It’s best if you just get your induction started.” He said as he pressed a button on a keyboard which burst one of the outlines on the wall to life. “I’d grab something from the rack if I were you”
As I stepped through the gateway shapes began to materialise in front of me. I could see two men standing over some maps spread out along a wooden desk. The edges were held down by a stapler and a handgun. Bullets were lying loose along the map. One of the men was pointing towards a spot with several red x’s in close proximity. I cleared my throat to let them know I was there.
“Do you think I’m fucking blind rookie ?” The man on the right yelled.
“No sir!” I snapped.
His tone brought me straight back to my days in service. This balding, scrawny man who was barely 5 foot 6 on his toes had the air of authority that demanded respect.
“Do you see me cutting fucking ribbons or kissing babies on the forehead ? I earn a living just as much as the next guy. You can call me Mark.” Mark taunted.He gave a slight grin towards the others
Mark was a decent guy once you got to know him, bit rough around the edges. He introduced me to the guys i would be working with. They went by Rosco, a tall man with a buzz cut that made him look quite formidable, Ian a young man who looked fresh out of high school, and Evan. He had a warm smile which was a contrast to his features. He had burn scars to the left side of his face down to his hands. His skin looked tender and sore.
Nice to meet you Rookie. Evan said as he shook my hand. If you make it through the job until the next guy comes along, you can let us know your real name.”
I laughed but deep down I knew he wasn’t joking.
Our tour of the building was same as any work space walkthrough. They showed me the work space, kitchen, bathrooms and where the extra supplies where for the security staff. Once we went outside that’s where everything changed. The sceneries was indescribable.
“Welcome to hell” Rosco announced.
We stepped out through the doors of the watch tower which over looked the research labs. The land scape was barron other than our compound. The area we were located in looked like a desert of burnt red sand, the skyline looked to be ablaze and an ominous wind swept across the vaste open space. I noticed an obelisk like structure 200 feet from the main gate.
“What’s that ? I asked. Pointing in the direction of the misshapen structure.
Transport stones Ian said. There’s hundreds of them spread across this place. They can open portals for the natives to travel through. Only stay active for a short time so only a hand full of the locals can make a break on us.
“Why don’t we just destroy it then” I asked, unnerved.
I hoped they didn’t hear the tremble in my voice. Mark put his hand on my shoulder a bit too forcefully.
“ We know exactly where they will come from, besides if we close their portals that will just bring the attention of the generals on us and you really don’t want to have a run in with one of them.Not to many can say they came across a general and made it back topside.” Mark informed me.
I spent the first half of my shift with Evan, he introduced me to the workers on site and told me some of the history of this location. Waste drill site 3 was founded 6 months ago. They are currently excavating minerals and a form of energy which is 10 times more powerful than the fossil fuels on earth. He also told me more about the people watching our shifts.
“Most important thing is to keep away from any bodily fluid from the locals. It can infect you and turn you into one of them.” Evan said
He poured me a cup of coffee from the pot he had freshly brewed.
“It’s an infection we call the “rot”. Those that fully transform are called “Remnants”. Tough sons of bitches. If any of us perish out there, you toss one on these on us. He continued.
He passed me a small container which he told me would light a body up real good. Apparently the rot could be treated but the medicine was extremely expensive. Employees of the company got it for a fraction of the price. The infected’s skin and bones would melt and fuse together in a demonic form. They gained extreme strength and powers still vastly unknown. They seemed to have a high standing in the local poplation and there were often task forces sent to take out any that didn’t get burned before they turned. As i began to ask Evan more about the Remnants, the room erupted in a blaring of sirens. A voice announced over the intercom of a level 2 treat with potential to breach. The team rushed out the the watch tower as I followed behind. I’m not ashamed to admit it here but the terror was building inside of me.
As I looked out at the fragment of reality that had split not 200 feat in front of me, I felt my blood turn cold. The world seemed to quiver as an impossible large ape like creature with sharp pointed spikes protruding from obtuse angles march towards our electrified gate. Demonic looking humanoids encircled it like an unholy procession of carnage.
“look alive rookie, we have a date with the devil.” Mark roared over the commotion
The enormous monstrosity reached the gate and barreled into it. It crumpled under his weight but the extreme voltage flowing through its body made it blister and smoke.
“Heads down!” someone shouted from behind.
I couldn’t move, these things were about to get in and I couldn’t move any fibre of my body. The giant creature exploded sending the spikes hurling in all directions. One exploded through the wall to my left and struck a worker in the gut. His entrails leaked out around the edges of the spike and his skin started to bubble and turn a sickly grey. His screams engulfed my thoughts and the darkness overtook me.
I woke up to Mark standing over me as I lay in a bed in the staff living quarters. He looked battered and bruised but very much alive. Take it easy Rookie, you have had a lot to process on your first day” I sat up in the bed and noticed I didn’t have any clothes on..
“What happened to my clothes?” I asked, very much aware that someone had removed them when I passed out.
”You pissed yourself Rookie we couldn’t leave you marinating in it. Don’t worry it’s like a rite of passage for us here at Div Inc. Get dressed and head home, you had an eventful first day.” he said with a smile.
As i tried to get up from the bed I noticed a sharp pain piercing my side. As i looked to the source of the pain i noticed a patch of my skin was grey and withered. Mark noticed the panic on my face.
“ Not to worry, the rot won’t kill you. Well not as long as you keep coming back to work.” he said with a devilish grin.

‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’. These are the ominous words which Dante claims were engraved upon the Gates of Hell, as told in his seminal work – Inferno. If you’ve read my previous accounts charting my own journey through Hell, you’ll realise that my experience was somewhat different to that of the famous 14th century Florentine poet.
I never saw this sign or read the inscription, and the stark warning wasn’t exactly accurate in my case. Dante and I have little in common. We both were unfortunate enough to find ourselves trapped in Hell and needed to be guided through all nine circles in order to escape. That’s where the similarities end however.
By most accounts, Dante was a respected figure – a famed poet and righteous man. None of these descriptions apply to me. After hearing my story you’ll realise that I didn’t have a good start in life. My childhood was chaotic and early tragedies nearly broke me, resulting in my descent into violent crime. On each level of Hell I visited, I was confronted by a ghost from my past, all bringing back painful memories of loss and shame.
It’s debatable whether I was to blame for some of the tragedies during my childhood, particularly given the lack of any responsible adult role models in my early years. However, the sins I committed in my later life are inexcusable, and sadly, my worst crimes did come back to haunt me during my descent through the eighth and ninth levels.
You will learn my worst secrets during this fourth and final part of my hellish odyssey. You may well judge me, and I won’t blame you. Perhaps I did deserve to suffer the fates of the damned and share the suffering I was forced to witness. And, when the Devil taunted me on level 7, I’ll confess that I did just about lose all hope. The protection offered by my enigmatic guide had faded and now I was at Satan’s mercy. I felt certain there would be a final confrontation once we reached the lowest circle of Hell, and we would surely lose.
But my bleak assessment wasn’t entirely accurate. There is always a glimmer of hope, even in the darkest corners of the underworld. And I am one of the lucky ones who got a second chance. I may not be fully redeemed in the eyes of God, but at least I’ve been granted the opportunity to make amends, and there will be a meaning to my eternal existence that was so lacking in my mortal life. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Let me begin where I left off, at the end of level 7. You’ll recall that my guide and I were sucked into a vortex, pulled down to an uncertain fate as we were forced to listen to the Devil’s hateful laughter and taunts. There was a swirl of chaos before everything went black, and the next thing I remember was being shaken awake by the long-suffering attendant.
I felt groggy as I glanced up at the old man, noting how the spark in his eyes hadn’t quite extinguished. He’d been on death’s door during our arduous trek through level 7 but appeared to have summoned an inner strength. He helped me to my feet as I got myself together and surveyed our surroundings. We stood in front of what I can only describe as a massive crater in the desert floor – a gaping hole in the ground that must have been several miles in diameter.
We were at the very edge of the precipice, facing a steep drop. I didn’t want to look into that hellish void because I knew whatever was down there wouldn’t be good, but the attendant guided me to the very edge and prompted me to see what lay below. What I saw was a vast cavern, many hundreds of feet deep and shaped like a funnel, with circular ledges descending down to what looked like a body of water or ice at the bottom.
The cavern was dark and deep, but I could observe people or beings moving on each ledge, and I heard God-awful screams, as thousands of damned souls cried out in pain and fear.
“Level 8, Fraud.” my guide explained, his voice weary and croaky, “Also known as Malebolge. It consists of ten bolgias or ditches, each holding a separate class of sinner and administering a unique form of punishment. As the very bottom is level 9, our final destination.”
I shuddered as I tried to come to terms with what I’d been told. We’d come so far but still had a huge distance to cover, and I feared our destination was a hellscape beyond my worst nightmares.
“How do we get down there?” I asked, part of me not wishing to know the answer.
“Alas, we must climb down through each of the ten ledges.” the attendant answered solemnly, “there were once bridges and walkways one could use, but these were destroyed long ago. The deeper one descends into Hell, the greater the decay and desolation.”
To my surprise, the attendant reached into his jacket and withdrew what looked like an oil lantern, using it to illuminate the ground ahead of us. He then descended into the darkness, finding a rough and narrow pathway cut into the side of the cavern. I followed in his wake, watching my step carefully and praying I would not fall.
The blood-curdling screams grew worse as we descended, and it became quite impossible to drown them out. We soon reached a substantial ledge about the width of a football pitch, which I assumed was the first sub-level of Malebolge. At this point I could hear pained cries and footsteps emanating from the darkness, the sounds interspersed with lashes from a whip and the roar of something hideous.
As if by magic, the attendant was able to increase the light emanating from his lantern, thus revealing the appalling scene before us. What I witnessed was a line of naked wretches chained together – their bodies emaciated, and backs scarred by many lashes. They kept their heads down as they marched single file in a circle, forced to walk the circumference for all eternity.
These poor wretches were overseen by a monstrous beast – a horned demon with burning red eyes and hooves instead of feet. The demon was easily twenty foot tall, and he roared like a lion as he stomped down the line, using a huge, barbed whip to mercilessly beat his victims and force them to keep moving.
The beast noticed our presence, briefly halting his torture of the damned to glare down upon us, his eyes burning with a pure hatred as he lifted his whip and appeared ready to attack. In a panic I searched for an escape but noted my guide was standing tall, seemingly unafraid of the monstrous brute standing before us.
The demon roared, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. I noted how his breath stank of raw meat, a foul stench which made me retch. I felt sure he would attack, but at the last moment the demon withdrew his whip and stepped back, grunting loudly before returning to the line, where he proceeded to whip his victims with added anger and vigour. I breathed a sigh of relief as my guide offered an explanation.
“That is Malacoda, leader of the thirteen demons who patrol level 8. These beasts will harass and threaten, but they will not harm us, if only because our souls are promised to their master.”
I shuddered upon hearing this, not knowing whether to feel relief or terror. It seemed clear that the Devil had special plans for us, and that couldn’t be good.
We soon left Malacoda and his victims behind as my guide sought out and found the pathway leading down. I had time to think during our descent and asked him a question.
“You say Level 8 is Fraud. This seems like a pretty tame sin compared to what we’ve seen before…” I winced upon remembering the twisted horrors of Dis and the burning sands of Violence, not to mention the sickening revelations the Devil had revealed to me. “How can they justify such harsh punishments for this crime?”
The attendant nodded his head and appeared deep in thought for a moment, before he answered.
“In Hell, it is rare for the punishment to be proportionate to the mortal sin. The Devil has a twisted sense of justice after all. But you think of fraud in a literal or legal sense. Think instead of those who peddle poisonous substances or ideas, and the thousands of lives they destroy. These are the type of people you find on level 8. This will become clear to you before we leave.”
I nodded my head in acknowledgement. He hadn’t exactly answered my question, but I knew this was as much information as I would get from him. And, based on previous experience, I expected to encounter a ghost from my past somewhere here on level 8.
When we reached the next ledge, the smell was almost unbearable, the fumes so toxic that I could hardly breathe. The attendant seemed unaffected by the foul stench as he lit up the scene, revealing a literal river of shit which flowed in a circle. To my horror I saw many damned souls trapped in this foul stream, desperately crying out in disgust before they sank underneath, their bodies consumed in human excrement.
Thankfully we didn’t stay long on this gross sub-level, as my guide led us downwards, although the stench remained in my nostrils until we reached the next circle. But the horrors inevitably grew worse as we made our slow path downwards, ledge by ledge. I wished we could proceed in darkness and at least be spared the appalling sights of torture and suffering, but the attendant insisted on lighting up each and every sub-level. It was as if he wanted me to witness all the horrors in their entirety, to soak in the brutal cruelty inflicted by the minions of Hell and the vile and twisted worlds they’d created.
The third ledge contained a circle of prisoners chained upside down against the rocks, the bare soles of their feet burnt by hot oils carried and poured by a team of cackling harpies. They clearly took joy in the suffering of their victims.
Number four was populated by people with their necks twisted unnaturally by 180 degrees, so their heads faced backwards. They struggled to walk the ledge, wandering aimlessly in circles as they searched in vain for some respite. Occasionally, a disorientated victim would stumble over the edge, falling to an uncertain fate.
One woman staggered over to me, her bloodshot eyes full of pain and fear. She tried to speak but her vocal cords must have been twisted beyond use, and so she could only mouth her plea for help. To my shame I pushed her away and kept on moving.
Once we descended to the fifth ledge, the attendant put a firm hand on my shoulder, warning me to stand back. What we witnessed was another river flowing in a circle, this one filled with what appeared to be burning tar. There were people inside, their bodies melting as they struggled to keep their heads above the surface. This was horrific enough, but what concerned me more were the hideous creatures patrolling the riverbanks – demons of a similar shape and size to Malacoda, stomping along on their mighty hooves and swinging grappling hooks as they mocked the burning victims.
Somehow, one of the damned made it to the shoreline and climbed out from the tar, but he didn’t make it far, soon being set upon by a trio of ravenous demons. I watched on in horror as they affixed hooks to his body and pulled in opposite directions, ripping the poor bastard into three parts. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, they proceeded to feast upon his raw flesh, greedily stuffing their mouths with his limbs, head and torso until there was nothing left.
“Malacoda’s underlings.” the attendant explained dispassionately, “They are under orders not to harm us, but sometimes their enthusiasm gets the better of them. We should leave before we draw too much attention.”
“Yep.” I agreed, not wishing to witness any more of this sickening spectacle. But of course, it only got worse.
At first glance, the sixth ledge appeared almost identical to the first, with a single file line of chained prisoners slowly marching in a circle, as they were ‘encouraged’ by a huge demon, similar to Malacoda. But, on closer inspection, I spotted several differences in how the damned were punished. While the sinners on the first ledge were naked and emaciated, those on this sub-level all wore heavy, body length coats adorned with heavy metal weights.
Clearly, they struggled to perform the forced march given the heavy burden they were forced to carry. From what I could see, some of the victims could hardly stand let alone march. I thought that at least their heavy robes would afford them some protection from the constant beatings. But then I realised something. The demon overseeing this ledge wasn’t armed with a whip but rather a long metal pole. I wondered what function this implement was used for, but I soon found out.
When a prisoner faltered, the demon struck out with the pole, and a surge of electricity shot through it, operating much like a cattle prod. The weights proved to be the perfect conductor for the electrical current, and the victim yelped out in agony as the electricity shot through him. The demon cackled cruelly before moving on to its next victim, pausing briefly to cast us a hateful glare, snarling aggressively before continuing his grim task. We didn’t linger and soon re-joined the path through the cavern.
The seventh bolgia turned out to be the most bizarre and twisted yet. It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. While the previous levels were violent but ordered, this ledge appeared to be in anarchy, as victims ran amok in a blind panic. I soon realised why.
Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of bright red snakes were slithering across the rocks, attacking every damned soul they could reach, leaping up and biting exposed skin, their venomous fangs plunging deep into their victims’ flesh. The damned screamed out in pain as they were bitten, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Because within seconds of being bitten, these wretches began to physically transform – their flabby skin turning into hard scales, their limbs inexplicably disappearing, and their heads transforming into those of serpents.
Before long, all had morphed into grotesque monstrosities – half human and half snake. And so, they joined their former attackers, slithering aimlessly across the rocks. There was no escape for the victims other than to jump off the edge. I’d seen this happen before on the previous ledges and wondered what happened to those who fell. I suspected it was nothing good.
I was so transfixed with watching the horrific scene that I almost missed the coming attack. I heard an ominous hissing and looked down to see a snake rapidly approaching, its dark eyes focussed upon me, and its fangs extended, ready to bite. I found myself frozen in fear, unable to shift from the spot as the assault played out in slow motion. But thankfully my guide and protector was on the ball, as he leaped forward and trampled the snake under his boot, before reaching out and snapping its spine with a single movement.
“Foul creatures.” he said, while briefly examining the body before tossing it away, “Treacherous and full of venom. Much like the souls condemned to this ledge. We should go.”
I was impressed by the attendant’s swift actions, particularly given how weak he’d seemed back in the seventh circle. Still, I couldn’t shake my concerns about my enigmatic guide. He didn’t seem to have inherited a new burst of life but had rather tapped into a last reserve of strength, one that would surely run out. Then there were the seeds of doubt planted in my head by the Devil. Who was the attendant really? What was his story and motivation? I really didn’t know anything about him – not even his name. But, on the other hand, I had no idea what lay ahead and so didn’t think it was an option to go solo. Therefore, I continued to follow the path he led me down.
There was no need for the lantern on the eighth bolgia as the entire ledge was lit up by bright flames. Initially the scenes on this sub-level reminded me of the sixth circle, Heresy. As before, the victims were encased in coffins built into the rock walls, chained up so they could not escape. On Heresy, the damned were incinerated by a fire-breathing dragon. This was not the case here, as the flames emerged from inside the individual coffins, like a form of spontaneous combustion.
But the punishment seemed far worse than before, because the victims’ agony was extended well beyond what should have been physically possible. They burnt like lumps of coal, their bodies taking an eternity to disintegrate into ash…And the poor bastards were conscious through it all – their awful screams filling the air as my nostrils were filled with the foul stench of burning flesh.
I didn’t even ask what these people had done to deserve such a terrible fate. Frankly, I didn’t want to know.
We’d been lucky up to this point, observing the punishments and tortures inflicted upon others whilst escaping unscathed. But our luck ran out on the ninth bolgia. When we walked out onto the ledge we witnessed a familiar sight – a line of down-trodden and beaten sinners, chained together and walking in an endless circle around the precipice. The difference on this sub-level was that the sinners all had terrible wounds – deep cuts in their skin and chunks of their flesh cut off.
I soon saw the beast who’d inflicted these grievous wounds – yet another horned and hooved demon, standing at over 15 feet in height and brandishing a flaming sword at least the length of a man, which he used to inflict terrible injuries upon his victims, striking out and slicing them like they were slabs of meat. But no matter how hard a victim was hit and how severe their wounds, they kept on moving, at most emitting a pained cry and stumbling before re-joining the circle and continuing their futile march.
At first the scene appeared to be nothing more than another sickening sight to add to the menagerie of torture and suffering we’d already witnessed, but the situation soon took a turn for the worse. The sword-wielding demon soon spotted us and reacted with rage to our presence in his realm. I watched with concern as his eyes burned with fury and he roared, advancing upon us with his sword raised.
I remembered what the attendant had said - that the demons on this level wouldn’t harm us, because we were promised to their master. But clearly this son-of-a-bitch hadn’t gotten the memo. He charged at us, roaring louder as he swung his mighty sword. As always, the attendant stepped forward, showing no fear as he stood his ground and confronted his attacker. I was sure he’d pull something out of the bag at the last moment and produce some magic trick to halt the demon’s attack, but his luck ran out.
The demon sliced downwards with his sword, seeking to cut his victim in half. Fortunately, the attendant moved at the last possible second, falling backwards as the sword came down. I don’t know what came over me in that moment, but I experienced a surge of adrenaline as I rushed forward, putting myself between the attacker and his victim.
I glared up at the beast, meeting his hateful gaze and screaming out in defiant anger.
“Leave him alone, you ugly motherfucker!”
I didn’t expect my rash words to do any good but surprisingly the demon seemed shaken by them. His eyes widened and his sword dropped, and he snarled at me before retreating, returning to his work in tormenting the trapped souls. I couldn’t believe my ruse had worked and so stood there in astonishment for a moment, before the attendant’s pained groans brought me back to reality.
Running back, I kneeled down to be by his side and examine his wounds. The demon hadn’t succeeded in chopping my friend in half, but he had inflicted a nasty wound from his chin to his abdomen, a cut not so deep to be immediately fatal, but certainly serious enough to disable the old man. But to my surprise, the attendant actually smiled as he looked up at me and whispered words of encouragement.
“You did well my friend,” he said, “Your choice of language was rather crude, but it had the desired effect.”
I didn’t dwell on what he said, instead examining the man’s wound.
“You can’t go on like this.” I stated.
“But I must.” the attendant replied, “We are so close, and soon my burden will be lifted. Now please, help me to my feet.”
I didn’t like it but could see no other choice but to comply with his wishes, and so I helped him to his feet and supported him as he directed me towards the path leading to the final sub-level of the eighth circle. I held the attendant up, supporting his frame as we struggled onto the final ledge. I really didn’t know what to do at this point and suppose I was just on autopilot, having no other option but to trudge on.
I do think there was already a change in me. The old me might well have abandoned the wounded attendant as a burden, but I didn’t even consider this. The old man had taken me so far and I felt obligated to help him through to the end.
The last ledge didn’t appear to contain any vengeful demons to torment and abuse its victims, but only because this wasn’t necessary. All of the damned on his sub-level appeared to be suffering from a wasting disease, as their naked bodies were covered with unsightly sores and lesions. They struggled to stand or walk the rocks as the mysterious disease slowly ate away at their flesh, and they rotted from the inside out.
In many ways, this sight of thousands of afflicted souls was the worst yet, and the smell was also terrible.
We walked through the suffering masses for a time before I suddenly stopped, seeing a face I recognised that was staring fearfully back at me. I was so shocked by his appearance that I inadvertently allowed the attendant’s frail body to fall to the rocks, as I stumbled to confront an old enemy.
Now, observant readers will notice how this is the first familiar soul I have mentioned encountering on level 8. However, there may have been others on the sub-levels above. There were times during our hellish descent through the ledges when I thought I recognised a face in the crowd. It’s very possible that there were damned souls on each and every sub-level that I’d known in my life. I’d encountered so many nasty pieces of work during my long association with the criminal underworld.
Nevertheless, none of these brief encounters stood out – not until I reached this final bolgia and found Zak. This was an individual I was very familiar with, because I was the one who’d ended his life.
Let me explain. You’ll remember that my drug-addicted mother died of an overdose and I was the one who found her body. Well, that wasn’t quite the end of the story. I didn’t go out looking for vengeance straight away. The way I saw it, my mother had done this to herself. But then I started hearing stories on the streets, rumours of a series of overdose deaths, all linking back to the same dealer.
This was Zak, who’d been my mother’s regular supplier. It seemed he’d been selling a bad batch – poison that killed a dozen of his customers. I didn’t know whether the deed was intentional or not, but it didn’t sit right with me, and so I decided to pay Zak a visit.
I confronted him at a crack den where he dealt out of, and the conversation soon turned ugly. What happened next was a blur in my memory. I remember him going for a gun and I went for him, initially acting in self-defence. What followed was a brief but violent struggle which ended with Zak dead. It hadn’t been my intention to kill him but that’s how it turned out, and I was left with a corpse to dispose of.
Zak had been punished in life but was still suffering in the afterlife, with his body diseased and his skin covered in bleeding sores, as he looked up at me with pitiful eyes. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for him but couldn’t dismiss the role I’d played in his untimely death. This was the first time I’d killed anyone, and that’s something you can never take back.
He opened his bone-dry lips in an attempt to speak, but the only sound which came out was a pained groan. I overcame my disgust and reached out to touch him, hoping his body would disintegrate into ash, as had been the case in my previous encounters, but instead something very strange happened.
Suddenly, I was transported to another place – a location I remembered from many years before. The squalid, dirty apartment was exactly how I recalled, right down to the stench of decay and desperation. I was in my body but didn’t have control of it, instead merely playing out actions as if I were on autopilot. Zak was there of course. His reaction upon seeing me was one of fear and panic, as he ran back into the apartment to retrieve a pistol.
I moved instinctively, diving and tackling him to the ground before he reached the gun. A desperate struggle followed, but I soon triumphed, pinning Zak down on the filthy floor with my hands wrapped around his throat. I didn’t want to repeat my past mistake and would have done anything to stop the savage attack, but I no longer had control and could only watch as my rough hands applied immense pressure against Zak’s throat, slowly strangling the life out of him until he stop breathing and the light behind his eyes extinguished.
Next came a moment of panic as I realised what I had done, but soon I formulated a plan, dragging Zak’s limp body into the bathtub and using a hacksaw to chop him up into pieces which were easier to dispose of.
When the foul deed was done, I found myself transported back to the eighth circle, my hands covered in blood as I looked down upon Zak’s dismembered corpse. To my horror, I saw his decapitated head sitting upon a blood-stained rock and noted how his eyes continued to blink and his mouth opened and closed, as he made a futile attempt to speak.
I turned away in disgust and shame, only to find myself confronted by our nemesis – the Devil, once again taking on a vaguely human form, as he glared down on me with malicious and almost lustful eyes.
“This is the moment when I knew I had you.” he exclaimed gleefully, “The point of no return. You lost your soul the moment you throttled that bastard, condemning yourself to an eternity in my kingdom.”
I lowered my head as tears welled up in my eyes. Surely he was correct. But the attendant still had something to say.
“You’ve jumped the gun, Lucifer.” he proclaimed, “This isn’t over, and you haven’t won yet…”
The Devil laughed sarcastically before he replied.
“Yes indeed, my old friend. Traditions are important and the rules must be followed. Still one level to go. I shall wait a little longer to claim my prize. Gentlemen, I look forward to seeing you both real soon, on level 9.”
With that, the Devil suddenly vanished, and an elevator appeared in his place. There was only one place left to go – down…down to meet my destiny.
A lot of emotions went through my head during that short descent down to the final level. Fear, anger, shame…but also a strange feeling of calm resignation. I had a good idea of what awaited me in the ninth circle. Zak was the first person I’d killed, but not the last. There was a worse crime from my past that would surely be revealed. And then I would be at the Devil’s mercy.
I looked to my stricken guide as he bled inside the lift, his face turning pale as his life force slowly drained away. The poor man could hardly walk let alone protect me. And perhaps this was the way it should be…maybe I deserved the fate which awaited me. One thing was for sure. By this stage in my hellish journey, I was both physically and mentally drained and felt resigned to whatever lay ahead.
To be continued...

37f white US 180lb 5’6”. Lexapro 10mg daily. No other medications or conditions, do not drink/smoke/drugs.
I’m pretty sure I have a pilonidal cyst. The same thing happened to me some 15 years ago — at the time I didn’t know what it was, was broke and in grad school, so I ignored it thinking it was tailbone pain from bad posture. After a couple weeks it burst (much to me surprise and slight disgust) and it resolved on its own.
Thing is, now I DO know what these are, and I know they can be quite serious/troublesome and the treatment painful, so as much as in my younger years I’d probably ride it out and ignore it and see if it went away on its own again now I’m a bit more nervous about it.
The symptoms started a day or two ago, minor pain and soreness localized to a small spot just at the top of my gluteal cleft, which looks a little red. I can feel a quite small bump (actually, it feels like a horizontal tube rather than a circular bump; it’s definitely small, smaller than a pea by a good measure). It is not hot to the touch or anything like that, and I’m not showing any systemic symptoms of infection like fever. It feels less bothersome in the morning when I first wake up, I assume because I’ve been laying down and not putting pressure on it. The skin right on the bump feels a bit rough/raw.
Ive been keeping it clean and dry, applying warm compresses, and trying to massage it a bit with clean hands to encourage it to drain on its own (but not like squeezing it or anything) as well as just trying to keep pressure off of it, and taking Tylenol if it’s bugging me/if I remember.
Can I give it some time and see how it does, or does it warrant calling my doc more immediately? I’ve also got some unknown problem with my foot I’m putting off calling about as I JUST saw her like a week ago to follow up after recently starting SSRIs and I feel like I’m falling apart with all these random minor issues/like a needy kid lol. Annnnnd I’m not looking forward to having a cyst on my bum lanced…

Lucky Jack the Rogue Trader stood on top of Sweet William, the Shadowsword he "requisitioned"
The Orks had hit the Imperial lines, yet Jack led the super heavy tank and it's crew away from the battle, Jack had a bigger target in mind. The tank strolled over the hills and through the valley's alone, it's size and noise sticking out like a sore thumb.
He adjusted the hat he had found in the desert, it was already incredibly tattered, but he did not mind. He believed it to be an ancient Terran design, with a large, circular brim, he was becoming a rather large fan.
"Jack! Is that what your after up there?" Tank commander Vallon shouted through the hatch. Jack took out his spyglass, and squinted down the lens.
Over the hill he saw a humongous silhouette. It was impossibly large, eclipsing the sun behind it as it rolled down the hill with hundreds of unbelievably giant guns. Horrifying screeches of metal growing ever closer with it. Jack grinned, for it was an Ork Gargant
"Well?!" Vallon shouted, his irritation growing.
"Damn right! Full ahead driver!" Jack stamped his foot on the hull, thoroughly to the annoyance of Manus, his chauffer for the day.
Jack drew his duel laslock pistols, and began to whistle as he spun them around his fingers. Like usual, Jack did not seem to care less about the situation.
"Where'd we find this guy?" Manus asked quietly, Wulfric, the tanks gunner, shrugged. Whilst Vallon sighed, before grumbling something vague about rogue traders.
There was suddenly rustling in the trees and bushes to he tanks side, the tank stopped, as Jack brought up his pistol in the blink of an eye, cocking the hammer as he closed one eye.
In front of him was an almost ancient looking Kroot. His rifle held close, but not aimed at Jack.
About a dozen of Kroot moved in the trees behind him, stopping dead as their leader did the same.
Jack slowly but surely moved his pistol back, slotting it carefully in it's holsters as he continued to stare the Kroot down. He winked, and the Kroot somehow understood the gesture, moving himself and his company once more through the tree line.
"What was that?" Wulfric shouted from inside. "Just some Carnivores, Kroot to be precise. Proceed driver!" Jack shouted, utterly unfazed still. "Kroot?! Frack! We've gotta-" "There's a truce dear gunner, would be a shame for it to end prematurely wouldn't it?" Jack interrupted, as he pulled out his spyglass, the Ork Gargant drawing ever closer. Jack moved the spyglass down slightly, spotted the horde of hundreds, if not thousands of blood thirsty Orks, with a particularly large one speeding through them. Jack's grin wavered slightly, before he shook it off, and stamped on the hull once more. "Alright stop here" he said politely, the others were inclined to agree.
Jack aligned his spyglass once more, focussing on the largest Ork of the bunch, considerably larger in fact. "Hello you stinking bastard" Jack spat to himself. Vallon's head suddenly popped up from through the hatch, binoculars in hand. "Oh not you the Ork" Jack said quickly, Vallon ignored him, instead focussing on the coming horde. "You know we can't fight something like this I'm sure" Vallon said, Jack nodded. "We don't need to my friend, we just need to kill that one-" He pointed to the Warboss "- And that, thing" He pointed to the Gargant. Vallon grumbled again, something about not being Jack's friend, and went back under, closing the hatch with him.
The tanks titanic gun suddenly fired, rocking the entire vehicle with it. Jack wobbled, regaining his balance quickly, before laughing to himself.
The Volcano Cannons shot flew through the air, almost blinding those who stared. Jack held his breath as it grew closer it impact.
It ricocheted.
Jack's grin wavered slightly once more, the greentide grew ever closer, close enough for their war cry's to be heard.
"Again!" Jack ordered. Wulfric obliged.
Another shot flew through the air, but the Gargants armour seemed to swallow the titanic cannon's shot.
Jack bit his tongue, his mind beginning to race.
But it couldn't for long, a stray slugga whizzed past him, piercing a hole in his hat.
The tanks side guns began to fire, heavy bolters blazing as they began to cut down the ravenous Ork horde.
Jack drew his pistols once more, firing wildly as he continued to duck and dive between the Ork's shots.
"YOU CRAZY BASTARD!" Vallon bellowed so loud from inside the tank that Jack could hear it through the tanks armour, and knew he was talking to him.
The Ork's had reached the tank, their choppa's beginning to hack away at the tanks armour.
A stray shot hit Jack's lower leg. He fell, hitting the tank with a great thud.
The driver took that as the signal that their guest had had enough. He began to reverse rapidly, much to the dismay of the Ork horde, and warboss Wulfraka, who stood in front, staring keenly at Jack, and seemed rather calm for an Ork.
Jack struggled as he rose, eventually getting to his feet. He raised his pistol, and fired once, landing at Wulfraka's feet.
The Warboss roared, as he and his horde charged forward once more, quickly realising they were not faster than the tank.
Jack simply laughed, raising his guns in the air as he bowed dramatically.

"And then I told her if she didn't like it, then she could get the fuck out." Skeeter shouted to the group, recalling the last moments of his latest failed relationship. "If I'm gonna drink. God damnit I'm gonna drink. Ain't nobody tellin me what I can't do." He motioned his hand to his beard that was drenched in beer foam. "Ah. She was getting on my nerves anyway. All I need is my hand." He cackled and the men surrounding him joined in. Skeeter Ducket, local masonry repairman and jack of all trades but master of none. He was born and raised in this small town and his reputation was as large as his tolerance for alcohol. His liver was made of iron and the man drank from morning until night. He frequented the bar that was located roughly two blocks from his run down trailer. Somehow he managed to stay there drinking until he was thrown out around three in the morning and still made it to work on time. Replacing brick and mortar was the main profit of his income for the company that regretfully hired him. Beyond those ten hour shifts, he would sometimes replace drywall or pour concrete, depending on the request but it all depended on his motivation. Local handyman and town drunk all rolled in to one. He was not hired because he was the best or that his work was perfection, he was hired for the price. Cheapest around and often did the side jobs for a few bottles of whiskey or a thirty pack of beer. Whatever he could get to fill his gullet. He was rude, obnoxious and a womanizer. No relationship lasted longer than a week and it was always due to his drinking habits or lack of hygiene. The last victim of his punch drunk love left only after four days. Skeeter cared not for the loss and went about his days continuing to piss away his money. The towns folk humored him simply for the cheap labor and the avoidance of his other side. If he ever got angry then all hell would break lose. He was no stranger to the police stations drunk tank and would periodically spend a weekend sleeping off whatever alcohol fueled rage he suffered from. Blackouts ending with bloodied lips and shattered glass down at Geno's bar happened more frequently than the owner liked. Skeeter was an all out mess and the town dealt with him like you deal with that annoying cousin you're forced to hang out with during Thanksgiving. He didn't really have friends, those who were seen in his company were more like acquaintances that got suckered in to his never ending tales of bullshit. But if anyone stuck around long enough, he would reach a point of intoxication that he would start buying whoever was near him free drinks. However, if they left too early or didn't laugh at his jokes, then the rage would surface and that's when he'd lose control. A big man, almost seven feet tall and a good three hundred pounds. He had a beer belly but underneath it was pure muscle from the decades of hauling brick and mixing mortar. He was not one to toy with and this added to the tolerance of everyone who lived in this small town. The company Skeeter worked for only consisted of six men and was ran by two others. A family owned business that had been around for a good eighty years. Their work was not the greatest and Skeeter was at the bottom of that totem pole but he claimed to be the best mason of them all. His mortar joints were never packed tight which left holes and bricks cracking. When he laid brick, it was always crooked because he refused to use a level and when mixing up mortar, it was always too wet to do shit with. So he was banned from the mixing box for life. He was the second longest running journeyman there but the younger guys could run circles around him. But with his temper they had to pretend to be slow and shitty at their job, only correcting his mistakes when he walked away or was not paying attention. Once again, his reputation was the only thing that kept him on the pay roll. The boss man tried to fire him once and that turned into the man being sent to the hospital with a broken jaw and his company truck being left on blocks. Skeeter was a force to be reckoned with and no one had the balls to go toe to toe with the man. Even when he was caught stealing out of the homes he did repairs on, no one said a damn thing. After finishing the latest job of cutting and re-pointing the brick walls of the local library, Skeeter made a discovery. There was a section of brick that had fallen thanks to his overpowering force while using a chipping hammer. Everyone else used angle grinders to remove the outdated mortar joints but Skeeter refused to ever use them. He would rather bust the shit out with force than be covered in mortar dust, ironic considering his bathing habits. His refusal to use the proper tools and destroying projects was a constant problem and the company would have to do extra work not added to the contract in order to fix Skeeter’s fuck ups. When he hit between the brick too hard, a good section fell and revealed a wooden wall beyond. Bricks tumbled to the ground and a cloud of dust invaded the air. After the haze settled and Skeeter calmed his coughing fit he saw old worn out planks crudely placed within the inner wall. The wood smelled of moss and there was a scent of something dead. The area was very small and crooked, like the wood had been crudely shoved into the old cement section of the inner wall while it was still wet. There was a rusty latch that held a small door closed and he opened it without hesitation. It was a secret cabinet of some sort, resembling a stash spot from the olden days. The library was a renovated building that used to be a speakeasy during the prohibition era, staged as a diner and this looked to be a secret addition made for hiding. Well the evidence was there when Skeeter pulled out a dusty bottle filled to the neck with brackish liquid. There was no label of any kind and it was the only thing in the small crevice. He said nothing to anyone and stashed the bottle in his work bucket, placing it gently inside so to avoid any of his tools cracking the glass. He planned to take it home and drink it after work, no sense in wasting alcohol and if it was truly that old, it would be strong enough to get him shit faced. He re-laid the brick over the spot in such a fucked up manner that unknown to him, the guys came back the next day on Saturday to relay the horribly crooked section. When he made it home he sat down and removed his boots, the stench of his feet made his eyes water a bit but after a while the smell settled and it no longer bothered him. He grabbed the tv remote and pressed the button to turn it on and sat in his slowly rotting leather chair. Nothing happened and he sat looking at his reflection within the black box in front of him. "Oh God Damnit!" He yelled out loud and spit flew from his mouth, falling on to his disheveled beard. He ran outside barefoot towards the generator that sat behind the trailer. He poured gas into it until the hole overflowed. He gripped the makeshift wooden handle and pulled until it growled to life, sending an obnoxious rattling sound that echoed through the trees beyond. He walked back inside and sat down while catching his breath and pushed the button and the tv turned on this time. Skeeter did not pay for electricity but instead ran a generator that was specifically used for the tv, microwave and box fan. There was also no running water which left the man smelling atrocious most of the time but on occasion he would buy a few jugs of water to wash his hair and balls in the anticipation of a conjugal visit. Asides from that, he had a kerosene lamp he used for light and a cooler packed with ice for his beer and lunchmeat. But he would have no problem drinking the beer hot either. Ice cold beer was a fancy delicacy so normally his drink was warm like piss. He put on some college football game and pulled the old bottle from his bucket to further examine it. The glass of the bottle was a foggy white and the liquid inside was dark brown with a tint of gold. He sloshed the contents around and something rose towards the top of the bottle, whirling in the now mini vortex of aged liquor. Skeeter examined it. "What the fuck is that?" A small white form with yellow and green spots swayed within, a worm. "Well Shit fire, we got some tequila for tonight!” He attempted to open the bottle, a rusted metal cap that refused to budge and sliced his hand. In a fit of rage he slammed the bottle down but it didn't break. He rummaged through his tool bucket until he found a pair of vice grips. "I'll get you open you sumbitch." He made quick work of the rusted metal and brought the opening of the bottle to his nose. He took a deep inhale and bile rose from his stomach as the hairs in his nostrils singed. "This ain't no fucking tequila but god damn it's strong." Skeeter was completely out of alcohol in his cooler and was feeling very lazy, refusing to leave the trailer. Finding the bottle was a god send even if it was old and smelled like pure gasoline mixed with rubbing alcohol and a smidge of sewage. He looked at the bottle and watched the small white cylindrical object descend to the bottom. Without thinking he took a long drink from it and when the contents hit his taste buds and flowed through his throat, it burned like the fires of hell and his eyes began to water. "God damn! Holy Shit!" Skeeter began to cough uncontrollably. The taste was like nothing he had ever experienced. There were hints of spiced rum, everclear, whiskey and oddly enough, chilly pepper. Like taking multiple shots and biting into a spicy bowl of canned chilly. After wiping his eyes and blowing his runny nose into a rocket of snot that splattered on the floor, Skeeter took another long drink. The exact same thing happened but this time he could taste copper along with the burn of a ghost pepper. "Did they make this shit with scraps of veggies and left over shots?" Skeeter had a tendency to talk to himself when he was alone. He paused to roll up a cigarette from the left over butts in the ash tray and a rolling paper. After twisting the paper and lighting one end with a match, he looked at the bottle. A burning sensation was stirring in his stomach that caused it to rumble. He had not eaten all day and searched the cooler for something to snack on. Skeeter moved his hand through the luke warm water at the bottom and grabbed a bag. Inside were two slices of warm bologna. Without any consideration of the consequences, he ripped the bag open and inhaled the meat. With something in his stomach, Skeeter brought the bottle back to his lips and took another long drink. Essence of fermented vegetables and the bite of it’s potency left snot running out of his nostrils. More coughing echoed inside the trailer followed by screaming. “God dayum! Every time this shit kicks my ass!” He was both dumbfounded and excited by the reaction his body had with the alcohol. There was no doubt this stuff was old and the age of it had created a concoction strong enough to remove paint. By this time he had already consumed half of the bottle. He gazed inside, looking at the floating white shape that did not move unless the liquid was disturbed. Skeeter remembered hearing about certain Tequila brands that had a small worm in it and there were rumors that if you ingested it, you would hallucinate. “What kind of shit can you make me see?” Skeeter addressed the worm that was spinning in the bottle as he swayed it in his hand. The liquor was kicking in, that warm fuzzy sensation was taking over and the world began to spin. A few more swallows and soon all that was left was a bit of liquor mixed with backwash and the little white shape settled at the bottom. With one eye fixated on the sad creature, Skeeter held it up to the flame of his lantern and spoke in a drunken slur. “Well buttons op, litter fuckle.” He chuckled under his breath, burping a bit with the sting of acid reflux rising from his stomach. He brought the bottle up and in a single gulp, Skeeter finished it off and swallowed the grubby worm whole. The burning of the random peppers sent a fury of fluids expelling from multiple parts of his body and the man ended up pissing himself before falling asleep. Drool and snot leaving a long slimy trail in his beard that became crusty as time passed and the sun rose. Skeeter woke up the next day feeling like pure shit. That entire weekend Skeeter felt the repercussions of drinking an old bottle of alcohol he found stashed in the walls of an old building. Needless to say his side job was canceled. He was sweating non stop and every ten minutes was running outside to shit in the woods. Being that he never paid for water, the plumbing in his trailer was completely useless. He headed to Geno’s bar later that night but his stay there was short lived after he had puked all over a table and shit his pants, forcing the owner to throw him out. His body was weak so there was no fighting the eviction and he just stumbled his way back home. Sunday night was spent with Skeeter staying in his dirty mattress and sweating off the alcohol. He never got a full amount of sleep, every few hours he woke up to either vomit, piss in a bottle or run to the woods to paint a tree with his feces. At one point he had no time to run outside and was forced to use his non functioning toilet. After he finished, Skeeter felt a strange sensation in his right eye. He continued to rub it in order to remove the sensation but it did no good. So he went to the cooler and filled a cup with the warm water and took it to the bathroom. Under the light of a kerosene lamp, he stood in front of the mirror and used the water to ease the weird feeling. It burned but was itchy as if something was digging at it. He took a closer look at his eye and it was blood shot with the bottom lid being swollen. He pressed at it and pus oozed out and fell in to the sink. He looked down at what fell from his eye and the small spot began to shift. “Huh?” Skeeter mumbled as he brought the lamp closer to the sink. At the bottom was a glob of yellow pus and inside something was moving. Looking back at the mirror, he saw more shit oozing out to fall towards the sink. He panicked and splashed water on his face and did his best to flush out the eye. He pressed hard on the swollen lid until every drop of the infected liquid expelled out and into the drain. He looked again and the swelling was gone but the blood vessels in his eye had busted in multiple areas. He rubbed at it to ease the burn but it did nothing. Skeeter became frustrated. “Fuck this. I’m goin to bed.” He dumped the rest of the water in the sink and he watched all the disgusting pus flow down. He stopped when he saw multiple white things wriggling around in the water but they fell to the darkness of the drain before he could get a full examination. He let out a fart and stomped his way back to bed, not looking forward to the first days week of work. Monday morning Skeeter struggled to get up and move. He was groggy as hell and drenched in sweat. The wind from the fan hit his wet and slimy back causing a chill to run up his spine. He jolted up to avoid the cold, standing up and stretching his arms until his palms pushed against the ceiling. He walked towards the kitchen sink and let his bladder loose to flow down the drain, scratching at multiple areas of his body. He scooped up more water from the cooler and dumped it in the sink to avoid the lingering scent of urine. He stumbled back to his room and started to get dressed. He threw a shirt on the bed and searched the floor for his pants. After he put his pants and boots on, Skeeter reached for the shirt on his bed and paused after grabbing it. In the spot where he had slept was a large wet area and in the center was a pile of something white that moved. He crept closer and strained his eyes to see what the white form was. He yelled when he realized what he was looking at. “What in the hell?! Wh-wh-what is that?” Upon closer examination, he knew he was looking at a pile of worms. Shifting and rolling around in his sweat drenched mattress. They were more like maggots, white pulsating forms littered with yellow and green dots. They looked exactly like the one in the bottle that he had swallowed whole. Skeeter stood in silence, unsure of how to process this. The small pile began to expand and spread over the wet spot, small squishing sounds could be heard in the silence. In a panic stricken rage, Skeeter stomped on his bed. His foot bounced up and down with the springs, sending some of the grub like worms to fly in the air while others became a smooshed mash of yellow and black ichor. He continued until nothing remained of their original forms. Afterwards he grabbed a rag and attempted to scoop up the mess and throw it outside. He would deal with the stain later when he came back, he was running late and had to rush to work. The drive there all he could see were those disgusting things moving around in his bed and he began to dry heave. Areas of his arms burned and he had to swap which hand held the steering wheel so he could scratch at it. All day he did his best to not think about the worms and focused on re-pointing the foundation blocks of the municipality building. But the periodic burn of his skin was beginning to piss him off and he kept having to pause his work and dig his disgusting nails into his flesh. That feeling somehow coincided with the shit he saw on his bed and eventually led to him thinking about the bottle he found. Soon his stomach began to act up and he was left jumping off of the scaffolding to run to the porta john.
Skeeter burst into the plastic facility and in haste dropped his pants and let loose. “Shiiiiiit! God damnit!” He yelled as he felt the burn of hot magma shoot out of his ass. The echoes from below caused an uproar of splashing and sweat began to bead off of his forehead. After an eternity of releasing his bowels, Skeeter finally rose and searched for some toilet paper out of the dispenser but found none. “Fuck it.” He spat as he pulled up his pants and zipped up his fly. He returned to his area and continued his work. During lunch break, one of the young bucks came out of the porta john screaming. “Who blew up the shitter? And why the hell are there a bunch of maggots wigglin round the turds?” Skeeter said nothing as he felt the gurgling of his stomach. He panicked inside, thinking that the worms came from him. He felt sick and no longer wanted to be at work. All he wanted to do was leave and drink himself into a blackout. Skeeter was able to push through the ten hours and was finally home. He walked into his bedroom and saw that the spot where he killed the worms was still there, a nasty stain left in the center of the bed. The image resurfaced of the little fuckers rolling in his sweat and he scratched at his arms. He lifted up the mattress and flipped it over so he would no longer have to look at it. He didn’t bother putting any blankets or pillows on the bed, instead walked out and drove towards Geno’s. After a few threats of a beat down, the owner let Skeeter in to drink all night. No one sat near him after what had happened the other night but they also didn’t mention the incident of him spewing chunks and shitting himself. He didn’t mind and preferred to sit alone, trying to drown out the thoughts of the nasty shit he had dealt with. Soon a foggy glaze covered his sight and the warmth of the liquor gave him a bit of comfort. A few hundred dollars later, he made his way back home to watch tv and sit in his chair. He stopped to get a pack of cigarettes and a twelve pack of beer before going home. Making sure he had what he needed to enjoy the rest of the night, he ate wings at Geno's so he didn’t need to worry about food. He stared at the tv that was playing some oddball comedy in the wee hours of the night and he felt his eyes getting heavy. Skeeter contemplated on calling off of work as he scratched at every surface of skin that burned. Sleep began to take over him and eventually he passed out in the chair. The generator ran itself dry, leaving the trailer silent with the flame of his lantern the only thing illuminating the spot where the man slept.
“Fuuuuck!!” Skeeter screamed with immense pain shooting at the bottom of his stomach. He rose up from his chair and ran out of the door towards the woods, sunlight breaking above the tree tops. He knelt down to a squatting position with his pants around his ankles and wailed as he let the content of his stomach exit out of his lower half. The burn from the experience was unbearable and he prayed that it would all stop. After a few minutes the flow of excrement stopped its exit. He stood up, afraid to look but did it anyway. A large puddle of brown and red, at the center was a squirming pile of white things. The pile consisted of those same maggot like worms but this time it was triple in size and the things were spreading faster with some burrowing into the ground. Skeeter could not handle looking at his own filth and ran back to his trailer. He sat at the corner of his living room, his knees pressed against his chest as he rocked back and forth. “What the fuck is going on? What’s wrong with me?” He remained like this for half an hour before he got up to search around for his cigarettes. He lit one up and the sensation of his stomach returned. “No! Not again, please!” The gurgling was painful and his mouth began to water, drool running out and spilling on to his beard. He could feel something in his stomach moving around. Tiny shifting sensations that tickled different areas within his stomach. He wanted to push his hand into his insides and stop the feeling. It made him nauseous as he imagined those creepy crawlers wiggling around inside of him. The movement in his belly caused him to feel like he was going to vomit or shit himself and he scrambled to the cooler in search for a beer. That was his answer to everything, any problem could be solved with alcohol. He cracked open the warm can and chugged the piss warm liquid until there was nothing left. A loud belch erupted from his belly and a burn hit his throat and soon the gurgling got worse along with the internal squirming of his guts. “Oh fuck. No.” He couldn’t stop it now, something was going to exit his body. He ran out and before making it past the door, Skeeter began to vomit the beer he had just chugged. Snot and tears fell from his face to mix with the liquid and bile that hit the ground, regret filled his mind with every heave. White throbbing worms joined in the mixture that expelled from his mouth. The whole experience was gut wrenching and he could feel liquid running down his leg. Soon sharp stings pecked at the wet portions of his legs. Skeeter rushed inside to remove his pants in hopes to stop the pinching. His legs were wet with piss and tiny red spots littered his flesh all over. He looked down at his pants and more of those small little white things were squirming off of the folded denim and dropping on the dingy carpet. “What. The. Fuck.” His words pausing with slow burps in between. He removed the rest of his clothes until he was only in his underwear. Skeeter took his jeans and threw them outside and they landed on the pool of vomit and worms that were spreading and making their way back towards the opening of the trailer. He yelped when he felt more stinging on his unmentionable areas. The center of his underwear was still soaked in his urine and he could feel things moving around. He panicked and ripped the stained garment off and tossed it outside as well. He rushed to his room and pulled out clothing from a pile and dressed in haste. In a few moments he was in his truck and headed to the nearest store. The entire drive all he felt was the burning of his skin that itched like crazy and he almost ran off the road as he tried to scratch at his legs. While at the store he bought four jugs of water, a bottle of whiskey, a six pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes. When he made it back home, he dumped the three jugs into the tub in the bathroom and poured bleach in the water. He poured a bit of dish soap into the mix and used the last jug to dump in it in order to stir up the concoction. He placed the alcohol and cigarettes at the edge of the tub before removing his clothes and slowly descending in the water. As he placed himself at the bottom of the tub, a jolt of electricity hit his body from the cold of the water. He began to take handfuls of liquid and splash it all over his itching body. The bleach in the water started to burn the growing red spots that covered his legs and genitals. After dousing his wounds, Skeeter popped the top of the whiskey and began to drink. The harsh liquid filled his stomach and he felt the comforting burn. He gagged a little as he set the bottle down. He lit up a cigarette and let himself soak for a while. More pain shot in his body and he looked down at his legs. Blood was leaking out from every spot and it seemed that the tiny specks had now become holes the size of a pencil eraser. The pain increased and Skeeter drank more in hopes that it would numb the pain. Soon the bottle was gone and half of the beer had been finished. With a burning cigarette between his fingers, Skeeter began to doze off. The alcohol had done it’s job and left the sensation of pain to lift and fade. Moments later and he was asleep but the slumber merely lasted minutes before he abruptly woke up. A searing ache infected his skin and the unsettling movements in his stomach returned. The cigarette fell into the water and died with a hiss as it became soaked in the tub. He panicked thinking the cherry would burn him and he rushed his hands to grab the butt. He was relieved after realizing the water put it out but he noticed the tub was now filled with a red liquid. The spots on his body now resembled massive zits with pulsating white heads at the surface that were expanding out of his flesh. They burned like hell and he soon began to try and squeeze out the pus. “Fuck fuck fuck.” Skeeter spoke between clenched teeth as he used his fingers to squeeze each end of the nasty acne like whelps. No pus exploded from the spot and he felt movement under the section of skin he was squeezing on. He bit his lip as he took his long and dirt encrusted nail to rip open the stubborn zit. To his horror, when he did so there was a fat wriggling white maggot that was ripped from the open sore. Anxiety riddled his body and he felt vomit rushing to the back of his throat. In a fit of panic and frustration, Skeeter scratched at every inch of his infected body, releasing an army of those white parasites. When they dropped into the water, they began to squirm their way to the surface. Skeeter stood up and continued his fury of self mutilation until every white spot had been removed from the sores. He hopped out to look at a tub filled with a school of white maggots shifting around in the diluted blood pool. The sight was disgusting, the thought of these things coming out of his body made him light headed and his blood ran cold. His stomach churned and he began to retch without any time to stop it. A dark green liquid hurled from his mouth into the tub and mixed, adding even more white forms to join the mass. Hundreds of these nasty little fuckers had taken over the tub and were floating. Skeeter wiped his face and beard before putting his clothes back on, the fabric stinging the open sores of his legs and genitals. He started to walk out and paused to look at himself in the mirror. He was pale and his eyes were completely encased in busted blood vessels. Tears of red began to fall and as he looked closer, his eyeballs were growing out of their sockets. The orbs continued to grow in size, slowly popping out beyond the lids, small holes formed around the cornea. White specs were jutting out of the red and soon small fibers burst outward in a flurry that covered his face. Screams echoed from the trailer as Skeeter clawed at his face. The more he dug, the more blood fell to the sink and with it came slender versions of the white maggots that were floating in the tub. These ones resembled the kind you find when de-worming a puppy, long and thin creatures that rolled around in the crimson puddle that settled in the sink. The pain he was inflicting on himself sent jolts of fire to burn in his skull but the feeling of those things moving around in his eyes was worse. In a sheer force of will, he forced his fingers into his eye sockets and pulled out the hole ridden spheres one at a time. Throwing them down on the floor and blindly stomping on them with his bare feet. He saw only black but could feel the constant flow of blood and worms falling from the vacant holes in his face. The pain radiated and he felt more movement in every portion of his body. Small shifting pulses under his skin that traveled everywhere and he could feel his hair falling from the follicles and replaced with more slender worms that pushed themselves out. He was sweating as he cried and dropped to his knees. As the beads of sweat forced their way through his pores, he could feel small wiggling things push out with the perspiration. He rubbed his hand across his face and when he brought his hand down, in his palm there could be felt a dozen squirming forms moving across his skin. “Fuck! Why?!” Skeeter muttered to himself before falling flat on the floor. Shifting inside his stomach attacked him with severe nausea and greater amounts of pain. It felt like a snake was roaming around inside of his intestines with little babies hatching out of eggs and biting at his insides. The gurgling returned and he began to spew vomit that coated his beard with fluid and things that burrowed under the hair. His bowels let loose and he felt the snake like creature coil inside his gut. Pain radiated on every spot of his body and Skeeter begged any god that was listening to help him but his prayer was not answered as he felt a tear at his belly. The creature was writhing violently and he felt it chew at his guts until a head burst through the skin. Soon another massive form forced itself out of his rectum in a burst of blood and shit. Skeeter screamed in agony but the sound was quickly stifled by another large and bulbous mass shooting from his throat and out of his mouth. His body gave way to a dozen large creatures that emerged from every orifice. Fat corrugated grubs the size of pythons, white with green and yellow spots covering the tops of their restless bodies surrounded Skeeter. During the night, Skeeter’s corpse released a plague of those hideous creatures. Forms of every length and girth escaped and soon the ones in the tub had grown long enough to slide out and shimmy towards the center of the bathroom. Gleaming black fangs protruded out of an open end of the larger ones that had burst out of Skeeter while he was still alive. A set of four at each side of the circular opening, they drove these things into the flesh and consumed the left over fluids before devouring the muscle tissue. Medium sized ones burrowed through the flesh to eat the remnants of the eternal organs. The walls of the trailer were filled with the sickening sound of chewing followed by loud crunching. The man's skin and bones had been broken down to mush by the largest of the white abominations while the smaller maggot sized parasites slurped up the left overs of his body. By morning, nothing remained of the man except for the clothes he was wearing that were torn to shreds. The destroyed fabrics were surrounded by blood, shit, vomit and slender trails of yellow slime. It would be a week before anyone checked on Skeeter, they found his clothes and the tub full of blood but no sign of the man or the disgusting things that his body had incubated. No real investigation was done, no sign of a break in but there was a strange trail of blood that led out of the bathroom towards the front door. The people in town chalked it up to a bad fight or an animal attack but with Skeeter’s reputation, no one went out of their way to find him. In fact most of the people rejoiced with the notion that the dirty monster had finally left them and their town for good.

Petechiae/ leukaemia concerns?

Foot Moisturizing Tips: A Step-by-Step Guide

Step 1: Get the Right Products

Step 2: Cleanse and Exfoliate Your Feet

Step 3: Moisturize Your Feet

Step 4: Protect and Maintain

Elevate Your Skin Care Routine!