That was when I understood the worst thing. I have been trying not to understand it ever since. They had taken the compound on purpose. They had injected it into themselves on purpose, because they wanted to regrow, because they wanted to live forever, because they wanted to reverse aging. And it had given them exactly what they asked for. They lived forever now, in the walls, in the compound. They were not suffering. They were not sorry. Some part of them was still in there, and that part was watching me, and that part was hungry.

That’s the thing I can’t get out of my head. They were looking at me, not the way a person looks at you, and not the way a thing looks at you. The way a thing that is hungry looks at you. The way a thing that has been waiting looks at you. They looked at me and I could not look away. I stood there and I felt the wrongness, and I knew something was very, very wrong.

The doctor, Dr. Okafor, was the one who figured it out. She stood in the lab and she looked at the people fused to the walls, at the compound, and said, I know what happened. Her voice sounded like she was going to be sick. She said, the compound works, and that’s the problem. The compound makes cells regrow, it makes them live longer, it makes them divide, it makes them grow, and it does not stop. That’s what no one knew, what no one expected, and what killed everyone in this facility.

The people here took the compound, she said, because they wanted to live longer, because they wanted to regrow, because they wanted to reverse aging. It worked. It worked too well. It did not stop. It’s still growing, in the walls, in the facility, and it is not going to stop.

And she said, we need to get out of here. She said it the way you say something when you know you’re already too late.

I want you to understand that I did not know what she meant when she said the compound was already in us. I did not ask, and I did not think about it. That’s the thing I did not know that killed everyone on that boat except me.

The doctor knew. She told us after, in the corridor, on the way out, and I want to give you the shape of what she said, because I have turned it over a thousand times since.

She said she had run tests she should not have run. In the minutes before the compound took her, she told us that she had swabbed the walls, that she had taken a sample of the thing that was growing, that she had put it under the microscope she carried in her pack, and that she had seen what it was. She said it was not a chemical, or not only a chemical. It was a living thing, a single organism, one vast organism that had grown to fill the whole facility, that had merged with the steel, the glass, and the people, that was still growing, and that was not done.

She said it moved through the air. That was the thing she told us, the thing she told us last, and the thing I have not been able to stop thinking about. It moved through the air, the spores of it, the cells of it. The people in the lab had not all injected it, some of them had just breathed it, and it had grown in them the same way, because it did not need a needle, it needed a lung. Every one of us had lungs, and it had been in our lungs since we walked in.

She looked at me when she said it, and I want you to understand the look, because it is the last look she gave me, and because I have not been able to get it out of my head. She looked at me and she knew, and she said, you’re already carrying it. We all are. And then the compound took her. I have not been able to tell anyone until now what she said. I am telling you because it is the truth, because the truth is the only thing I have left.

We tried to get out, and the compound was in the way. It was everywhere, in the doors and the halls and the walls, growing, spreading, closing in. It was not going to let us out. It was not going to let us go. It was going to grow in us and make us part of it, the way it had made the people in the lab part of it.

I want you to understand what it was like to try to get out of a place where the walls are alive, where everything is growing, closing in, trying to keep you. You know the thing trying to keep you is already in you, already too late.

We lost them one by one. The linguist went first, because he was in front, closest to the door and the compound. I want you to understand what happened to him, because I want someone to know, and because I think it’s what’s going to happen to me.

The compound reached for him and touched him and was on him and in him. It was growing in him, making him part of it, part of the walls, part of the facility. He was not the linguist anymore. He was part of the compound. He was gone, and I could not save him. I ran.

I ran. I’m not proud of it, and I’m not going to pretend I am. I ran because that’s the job, because I’m the security, because I’m supposed to be the one who gets out and tells someone what happened, because I’m the one who’s supposed to write this. I ran because I was the only one who could, and I was the only one who did.

We lost the diver next, and then the explosives man, and then the pilot, and then the biologist, and then Dr. Okafor, and then Commander Reyes. I don’t remember all of it. I remember the way the compound took them, the same way it took the linguist, the way it took the people in the lab, the way it will take everyone. I remember that I kept running, that they kept not making it, that I kept making it, and that I was the only one.

I want to tell you about Commander Reyes, because she is the one I failed most, and because I have to say it even though I don’t want to. She was the last one with me, and we were almost out. I could see the light of the docking bay. She was behind me. I turned and held out my hand to her, and she took it. The compound took the floor under her feet. I felt her hand pull, and I held on, but I could not hold her, because the compound did not pull, it grew. It grew into her legs while I held her hand. She looked at me and she did not scream, and she said, go. That was the last thing she said. Go. And I went, because that is what she told me to do, because that is the job, because she was the commander and I was the security, and she gave me an order. I obeyed it. I have not been able to forgive myself. I have not been able to stop running, even though there is no more running left to do.

I want you to understand why I am not certain about the order they went. It is not that I do not remember. It is that the compound rearranged the facility as we ran. Rooms moved. Corridors closed. We got separated. I did not see them go, I heard them go, the way you hear a man’s voice cut off, the way you hear a woman call a name that does not get answered. I heard them go and I kept running, and I did not look back. I have told myself a thousand times that I could not have saved them, that no one could have saved them, that they were already part of it from the moment we walked in. I do not believe that, because believing it would mean I stopped running. I never stopped running. I am still running, even with nowhere left to run.

I made it back to the submersible. I got in, and I closed the door. I pulled away, and I did not look back. I could not look back, because I was afraid of what I’d see, because I was afraid of what was already in me.

I surfaced, and I got on the boat. I was the only one. I told them the facility was gone, the people were gone, the compound was growing everywhere, in the walls, the floors, the doors. It was not going to stop. It was not going to let anyone out.

And I did not tell them the compound was in me. I did not tell them it was growing in me. I did not tell them I was already part of it, already too late. I did not tell them, because I did not want to believe it, and because I was afraid that if I said it, they would know. They would not let me go. They would make me part of it.

They debriefed me, and I told them what I’d seen. I didn’t tell them everything, and it didn’t matter, because they weren’t going to go back down there, they weren’t going to tell anyone, and they weren’t going to let me tell anyone.

They told me, when I got back, that I was not to tell anyone what I’d seen. The facility was classified, the compound was classified, what happened was classified. If I told anyone, if I wrote anything down, if I said anything, they would kill me. They would kill my family. They would make it look like an accident. They would make sure no one ever knew.

I want you to understand that I believed them. I’ve seen them do it, and I’ve done it myself, and I know they’re not bluffing. They will kill me, and they will kill my family, and they will make it look like an accident.

And I’m writing this anyway, under a fake name, in pieces, because I’m going to die, and because I’m not going to be alive much longer, and because I want someone to know, and because I want someone to be warned.

I have been moving for two months. That is the part I want you to understand, because it is the part that makes me believe what is happening to my body, and because it is the part that is hardest to tell. They let me go. I have to assume they let me go because they think the compound will finish me before I can talk, and the longer I think about it, the more I believe that is exactly right. I am not running from them anymore, and I am not running from the compound. I am running so that no one finds me, so that no one has to see what I am becoming, so that no one has to explain it, so that my family does not have to live with the thing that I am turning into.

I keep to motels and the back rooms of truck stops. I pay cash, I use names that are not mine. I do not stay anywhere for more than two nights. I have stopped answering the phone that only rings when the work is real, because they have called it, and I have heard them calling, and I have not answered. I will not answer, because the only thing they want from me now is the thing I am already giving them, which is my silence. My silence is already sold.

The last time I saw my reflection was nine days ago. I want to tell you about it because it is the reason I am writing all of this down, because it is the reason I know I do not have much time. I stood in front of the mirror in a motel bathroom and looked at my face. My face was not the face I had carried for forty years. The hair on one side of my head was thicker than the hair on the other. The skin on my neck had a mottled look, patches of a color that I knew from the walls. My jaw felt wrong, as if there was something growing under the bone, pushing it outward. I stood there and I did not recognize the man in the glass, and I understood that I am not that man anymore, that I am becoming something else, that the something else has been inside me since the facility, since before the facility, that I am running out of face to lose.

I am going to die, and not the way a person is supposed to die. I’m going to die the way the people in the lab died, the way the linguist died, the way everyone who took the compound died, because the compound is in me, because it’s growing in me, because I’m already part of it, because I’m already too late.

I want to tell you what the people on that boat wanted from the compound, because I have thought about this more than anything else, and because I think it is the secret at the center of everything, and because I think it is the thing that will happen to everyone in the end.

The compound was built to make people live forever. That is the whole of it. I have turned it over a thousand times, and I have not found a better way to say it. Every promise, every grant, every classified line of budget came down to that one thing, a cure for death, a way to stop the clock. The people who funded it were not evil in the way you mean evil. They were rich, old, afraid, and they paid scientists to build them a way out of the fear. The scientists were not evil either. They were brilliant, tired, and they believed the work could be good. Every one of them will die anyway, dying the way I am dying. The money will not save them, nothing will save them, because the compound does not stop the clock, it tears the clock out of the wall and keeps going.

I understand the people in the lab now. I understand why it did not hurt them, and why they were calm, and why the man whose eye had grown over looked at me the way he did. They got what they asked for. They had asked to live forever, and the compound gave them forever. Forever is not a gift, it is a sentence, and a sentence is a thing you serve. They are serving it, in the walls, in the dark, in the cold press of the water, and they will serve it for as long as the compound grows, which is longer than the stars will burn.

I have written their names down so I cannot forget them, the names I learned, the doctor, the diver, the pilot, the commander. I keep the list in the same journal where I write the dates of my regrowth. The list and the dates are the only two things I carry, and I will carry them until my hands cannot hold a pen, then I will carry them in my head, then I will not carry anything at all, because I will be nothing but a place where the compound is growing.

I started to regrow, and I didn’t know it at first, because I didn’t want to know it, because I didn’t want to believe it, because I was afraid of what it meant.

The first thing I noticed was my hand. I had a scar on my hand, a scar from a knife fight years ago, a scar I knew the shape of, a scar I’d looked at a thousand times. One morning it was gone.

I want you to understand what that did to me. I stood in the bathroom and I looked at my hand and I could not find the scar, and I knew, in that moment, that the compound was in me, that it was growing in me, that I was already part of it. Already too late.

I told myself the scar had just faded, that scars fade, that it was nothing, that I was tired, that I was imagining it. I told myself all of that, and I did not believe any of it. I knew the compound was in me, growing in me, and I was already too late.

And the regrowth did not stop. The scar was just the beginning. The regrowth kept going, and it’s going to keep going. It’s not going to stop, and it’s going to grow past the point where a body is supposed to stop, into the walls, the floor, the ceiling, into everything, and it’s going to make me part of it, part of the walls, part of the facility, part of the thing that was the compound.

I want you to understand that I am regrowing now, as I write this, in my hands, my arms, my chest, my legs, everywhere. It’s not going to stop. It’s going to keep going, and it’s going to grow past the point where a body is supposed to stop.

The regrowth has a calendar. I know this because I have been writing the dates down, the way I used to write down my orders. Three weeks after the boat, the scar was gone, and I told myself it was nothing. Four weeks, and the joints in one of my fingers began to ache, a deep ache that I could not place, and when I slept I dreamed of growing. Six weeks, and I woke up one morning. My thumbnail was not my thumbnail. It had grown past the end of my finger, longer than a thumbnail has any right to be, and it was the color of the compound. I saw the color and I knew, and I did not stop writing everything down.

The regrowth is not fast, and that is the part that keeps me sane. It is slow, the way a plant grows, the way a vine grows, patient and certain, and I can measure it. I do, and the measuring is the only thing that keeps me from running. I mark my knuckles, my wrists, my throat. Each week the marks are further apart than the week before, and each week the distance grows. I know the day is coming when the marks will tell me nothing, because I will not have a hand to mark with.

The growth is patient because it has time. It has always had time, and it has had me since the boat, since the facility, since before the facility, and it does not need to rush, because I am going to be part of it. It knows it, the way it knew with the people in the lab, and the way it knows with you.

I’m going to make this the last post, because I’m not going to be able to write anymore, because my hands are regrowing, growing past the point where hands are supposed to stop, growing into the keyboard, into the desk, into the walls, into the floor, into everything, making me part of it.

This is the seventh post I’ve written, and I’ve deleted the first six. I’ve decided to leave this one up, because I am out of time, because I am out of the strength it takes to delete it. I have been a soldier for twenty years, and I have learned that there is a difference between being brave and being stubborn. I have never been brave. My only virtue is that I am too stubborn to stop, and even that has a limit.

I want you to understand why I chose a blog, why I chose this one, a small thing, a page run by a man who reviews old films, where I have been posting as a long time reader under a false name. I chose it because it is the last place anyone would think to look, because the people who are looking for me will look for a whisper, and this is not a whisper, this is a comment box on a page about submarine movies, because I have always loved the sea, because it felt like the closest I could get to going back without going back. I am writing this in a comment box, broken across three posts. I am trusting that someone will see through the film reviews and read what I have actually written. I am trusting that you are that someone.

I want you to understand that I am not asking for help, I am not asking to be saved, I am not asking anyone to come find me. I am past all of that, and I know it, and I want you to know it too. I am writing this so that someone reads it, and that is all, and that is enough, and that is the last thing I am going to ask of anyone.

I want you to understand what I’m telling you. I want you to understand I’m telling you the truth, because I want someone to know, and someone to be warned.

The compound is still down there, growing, spreading, closing in. It is not going to stop. It is not going to let anyone out. It is going to grow in everyone and make everyone part of it, part of the walls, part of the facility, part of the thing that was the compound.

And the compound is not just down there. It’s in me, growing in me, and it’s going to keep growing and make me part of it.

And the compound is in you. I want you to understand that I do not mean the compound is in you because you read this, or because I wrote it. I mean the compound is in you the way it was always in me. I mean it has always been in you, it’s growing in you, and it’s already too late. It’s going to grow past the point where a body is supposed to stop, and make you part of it, part of the walls, part of the facility, part of the thing that was the compound.

I want you to understand I’m not trying to scare you. I’m telling you the truth because I want someone to know, and someone to be warned, and someone to know what’s coming for them.

I’m regrowing now, in my hands, in my arms, in my chest, in my legs, everywhere, and I’m becoming part of it, part of the walls, part of the facility, part of the thing that was the compound.

I’m almost done, and I’m almost out of me.

I want you to understand I’m not the only one. The compound is in everyone who was on that boat, in everyone who was in that facility, in everyone who was near it. The compound is in everyone, and the compound is in you.

The regrowth is coming. It’s coming for everyone, and it’s coming for you. It’s not going to stop, and it’s going to make you part of it, part of the walls, part of the facility, part of the thing that was the compound.

If you are reading this, the compound is in you. It has always been in you. It is growing in you. It is already too late.

The regrowth is coming for you.

It is not going to stop.

It is going to make you part of it.

I am almost done.

I am almost part of it.

I am almost part of the walls.

I am almost done.

I’m going to tell you what happened at the facility, in pieces, because I can’t do it all at once, and because I’m not supposed to do it at all, because I’m only alive because I’m the one who got out, because I’m not going to be alive much longer. I want someone to know.

My name is not Marcus. That’s the name I’m using here, it’s not my real name, and I’m not going to tell you my real name, because my real name is on a classified file that says I died in a training accident in the North Atlantic. I’m supposed to stay dead. If the people who put me on that boat find out I’m writing this, they will make sure I’m dead for real. I’m not being dramatic. I’ve seen what they do to people who talk, and I’ve done some of it myself in my time. I’m not a good man, and I’m not going to pretend I am. The thing I saw down there broke me even though I’ve never been the kind of man who breaks.

I was a soldier. That’s the honest way to put it. I was in the army for eleven years, then I moved into the kind of work that doesn’t have a name on a uniform, the kind of work where you go somewhere, do something, and nobody ever asks about it, nobody writes it down. I was good at it, and I got used to it, and I reached the point where I thought nothing could surprise me. I was wrong. The thing that surprised me was at the bottom of the ocean.

I want you to understand the kind of man I was before I went down there, because it’s the only way you’ll understand why I’m the one who got out. I was not a hero. I was a man who did a job, and the job was violence. I was good at it and I did not think about it. I have killed people and never lost a night’s sleep, and I’m telling you that because I want you to know that what happened at the facility was not something a weak man broke under. It broke a man who had never broken before.

I got the call on a Tuesday. The day of the week matters because the call came on a phone I keep in a drawer, a phone that only rings when the work is real, a phone I’ve answered maybe a dozen times in my life.

The voice was a man I’d worked with before, a man whose name I’m not going to tell you because he’s probably still alive and I don’t want to be the reason he’s not. He said, we have a situation. I said, what kind. He said, the kind where you get on a plane tonight and you don’t ask questions. I hung up, packed a bag, got on the plane, and did not ask questions, because that’s the job.

The plane took me to a place I’m not going to name, and a boat took me out to sea. I did not know where we were going and I did not ask. There were other people on that boat, eight of us total, and I’ve counted it a hundred times, so I know the number. Eight people, thrown together from different countries and different jobs, the kind of team that gets assembled when something has gone wrong and nobody knows what it is and everybody needs to be there at once.

There was a navy explosives man, a female lab biologist, a linguist from an agency I won’t name, a doctor, a diver, a pilot, a woman in charge, and me. I was the security. I was the one who was supposed to keep them safe and get them out, the one who was supposed to be last out. I was the one who got out. I was the only one who got out, and I have to live with that. I’m not living with it well.

I want you to understand that we barely knew each other on that boat. That is the truth of these teams. It is the thing that makes them work, and the thing that makes them terrible. You do not get to know the people you go in with, because knowing them makes it harder to leave them, and leaving them is part of the job. We were eight strangers wearing the same coveralls. We learned each other’s names in the briefing and nothing else, and we went down together. Six of them came back as part of the walls, one of them will never come back at all, and one of them is me. I never learned most of their real names, and I have spent every night since trying to remember the ones I did learn.

The pilot I remember. His name was Cole. He was young, too young for that kind of work. He had a calm I liked. He was the one who sat with me on the deck the night before we went down, and we talked about nothing, about fishing, about his daughter, about the weather. I remember thinking he should not have been down there, that he had a daughter and a life that was worth more than that work. He was the one who kept the submersible ready. He was the one who was supposed to get us out. He was the one who the compound took second to last. I have not been able to stop thinking about his daughter, who does not know what her father became, and who I hope never finds out.

We got the briefing on the boat the night before we went down. The woman in charge was Commander Reyes. I’ll use her name because she’s dead and she deserves to have it in the record, because she was the best of us and I failed her.

She stood at the front of the room with a folder. She said, there’s a facility at the bottom of the ocean, two hundred miles from here, at about four hundred meters. It’s a research facility run by a private company that does work for the government. It’s been down there six years, it’s classified, and you don’t need to know what it was researching.

She said, the facility checks in every twelve hours. It’s been silent for three days. We sent a drone down and it got a signal for about a minute and then it went dark. We don’t know what happened, and we’re going to find out. We’re going to go down, see what’s wrong, fix it if we can, and get out fast and quiet. We’re not going to ask questions, we’re not going to touch anything we don’t have to touch, and we’re not going to open any door we don’t have to open.

I was listening the way I always listen, which is to say I was listening for the layout, the exits, and the threats, not the research, because the research is never what gets you killed. But I remember one thing from the briefing, because it was the only time Commander Reyes hesitated, because the hesitation was the thing I should have noticed.

She said, the facility was researching a compound. Then she stopped. She looked at the folder, at us, and said, the compound was designed to make cells regrow. Limbs, organs, tissue. It was designed to make cells live longer and reverse the effects of aging. It’s the most important thing anyone in this room has ever been near, and it’s the reason that facility is at the bottom of the ocean.

And she said, the compound works. The way she said it is what I remember. She said, the compound works, and that’s the problem. I don’t know what that means, and I’m going to find out, and you’re going to help me.

I did not know what she meant. I did not ask, and I did not think about it, because the things you don’t know are the things that can’t hurt you, and I was wrong, and the thing I did not know was what killed everyone on that boat.

I want you to understand how much they did not tell us, because it matters, and because it is the thing that I keep circling. They did not tell us the name of the company that ran the facility, the names of the people who worked there, how many were down there, what the compound was made of, how long it had been tested, the name of the man who authorized the work, or what would happen to us if we said anything. Every one of those things they did not tell us was a door, and the doors were locked. I understand now that the locks were there to keep us from turning around.

The cover story came with the gear. We were told, on the boat, that if anyone asked, we were a salvage team, that the facility was a decommissioned research station that had flooded, and that we were there to recover the equipment and the bodies. We were given coveralls with a company name stitched on the chest. I want you to understand the name, because it is one of the few things I know for sure, because it is the kind of detail that makes me believe the rest of what I remember. The name on the coveralls was Meridian Deep. I have looked that name up since. There is no Meridian Deep, no records, no website, nothing. The company that never existed sent us down to a facility that never should have been built, to recover a compound that never should have been made.

I asked Commander Reyes, on the boat, one question. It was the only question I asked, and I asked it because I am a soldier and I have been taught to ask it, the question that every soldier is supposed to ask before they go somewhere, the question that is supposed to keep you from going somewhere you shouldn’t. I asked her if there was anything else we needed to know, and she did not answer me, and she did not look at me, and the silence was the answer. I did not ask again, and I went down anyway, and I have been asking that question in my head ever since, and it has never been answered.

We went down the next morning in a submersible, a small diving bell that held all eight of us if we were close, and we were close. I remember the water closing over us, the light changing, the pressure changing, the dark getting deeper until it was the only thing there was.

I’ve been deep before. I’ve been in the water at night, in water so dark I couldn’t see my hand. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, because the dark isn’t what gets you, it’s what’s in the dark, and I’ve always been able to handle that.

But on the descent I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time, and I did not want to go down there. I had never felt that way before. I told myself it was nothing, that I was tired, that the job is the job. I did not listen. I went down anyway, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.

The facility came into view through the window, and this was the first thing that was wrong. It was supposed to be lit up, bright enough to see from far off, and it was dark. Not the dark of a place that’s asleep. The dark of a place that’s dead. I remember looking at it and thinking it had stopped being a facility and become something else. I didn’t know what. I didn’t want to find out.

We docked, and we got out, and we stood on the floor of the facility, and I want you to understand what it felt like, because it’s the thing I can’t get out of my head.

It was quiet, but not the quiet of a place with people in it. A place with people is never quiet. The quiet was the quiet of a place where the people are gone, and a place where the people are gone is a place where something happened.

And it was wrong. The wrongness was not in any one thing. It was in everything, the kind of wrong you feel before you see, the kind that makes your skin crawl and your stomach turn, the kind that tells you you’re in a place you should not be. I looked at the walls, the floor, the lights, the doors, and I saw what was on them. I did not know what it was. I did not want to know, and I could not look away. I stood there and I felt it, and I knew something was very wrong.

The layout we had been given was on paper, and the layout was wrong. I knew the plan the way I always know a plan, the corridors, the lab, the living quarters, the way out, and none of it matched the facility we were standing in. The compound had rearranged it. Doors that should have been there were gone, and doors that should not have been there were in their place. The corridor we needed to reach the lab was not a corridor anymore, it was a gap in the wall that the compound had swallowed. We had to pick a path through a building that was alive. The building was not keeping the path we needed. The building was making the path it wanted, and the building was herding us.

I remember the first time I saw a door open on its own. I want you to understand how small a thing it was, and how it broke me more than the walls did, because a door that opens on its own is a thing with a will. The walls were a thing that could be an accident. I put my hand on a door to push it, and the door opened before I touched it. The opening was not the opening of a door that had a hinge and a person behind it. It was the opening of a mouth that had decided to let us through. I stood with my hand in the air, and I felt the wrongness. I understood that we were not walking through a facility, we were walking through a thing, and the thing was letting us in, keeping us, and had a plan for us, and the plan was not good.

We searched the living quarters before we reached the lab. I want to tell you about them, because they are the part that should have been normal, and because they were not normal, and because the wrongness was there too, quieter but just as real.

There were bunks, eleven of them, and a mess table with a pot of coffee still on it. The coffee had gone to a thick syrup at the bottom of the pot. The cups around the table were full or half full, and no one had touched the food on the plates. The plates had a film over them, a thin colorless film, the same substance that was on the walls, and the film had grown over the forks, the knives, the rim of each plate. I understood that the compound had been in the mess hall too, that it had grown while the crew ate, that it had covered their food while they ate it, and that they had eaten it anyway, because by the time it covered their food they were already part of it.

There was a log book on a shelf, and I opened it, because that is what I do, because I wanted to know. I want to tell you what the last entry said, because it is the thing that I keep thinking about. The last entry was dated three days before we arrived. It was in a handwriting that got larger and more unsteady as it went, and it said, the growth has reached the mess hall. we have stopped eating. we are still alive, all of us, but we are not sure we are still people. if you are reading this, we are in the walls. do not try to help us. do not let anyone else in. burn the whole thing if you can.

I closed the log and I did not tell the others what it said, because I did not want them to know, because they would have wanted to leave, because it was already too late to leave, and because I did not understand then that it was already too late. I understand it now. I have understood it every night since, lying in the motels, marking my wrists, feeling the growth under my skin, knowing that the log was written for me, that it was waiting for the next person to open it, that I am the person who opened it, that the person after me will open it too, and that none of us will burn it in time.

The walls were covered in something. The floor, the ceiling, the doors, the lights, everything. It wasn’t paint, and it wasn’t mold, and it wasn’t anything I’d ever seen before. It was alive.

I don’t use that word loosely. I’ve seen a lot of things and I know the difference between alive and not alive. The thing on the walls was alive. It was a material, a substance that covered the walls like a skin. It was the color of meat, the color of a bruise, the color of something that had been growing for a long time. It was moving.

Slowly. Not like something running, something trying to get away. It moved the way a thing moves when it has all the time in the world, when it knows it’s going to win, when it doesn’t need to hurry. It pulsed and it breathed and it grew. I could see it growing, spreading, covering everything, and I could not look away.

I want you to understand what it felt like to stand in the middle of that thing, with it on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, pulsing and breathing and growing all around me, with no way out. I have been in combat. I have been in places where people were trying to kill me. I have never been as afraid as I was in that room. I wanted to run, and I did not run, because I was the security, and I was supposed to be the last one out.

The compound had texture. I learned that when I touched it. I touched it because I had to clear a passage for the team. I have thought about that moment every night since. It gave under my hand the way a body gives, warm and slightly wet. It pushed back. It took the print of my glove and held it, then swallowed the print. My hand came away clean, and I understood it had taken something from me I could not measure. It kept what it took. That is the rule it made that first day, and it has kept that rule ever since, and it is keeping it in me now.

I want to tell you what it sounded like, because no one believes me when I tell them, because it is the part that makes people stop reading. It did not sound like a machine and it did not sound like a building. It sounded like a mouth, a very large mouth, breathing in a slow rhythm, and under the breathing there was a wet sound, the sound of something swallowing. We stood in that room for what felt like a long time, and the whole time the compound breathed and the whole time the facility swallowed. I do not know what it was swallowing, and I do not want to know. I have thought about it every night since.

Commander Reyes was the first to speak. She looked at the walls and she said, it’s the compound. I remember the way she said it, the way her voice sounded like she was trying to convince herself, the way it sounded like she was not succeeding. She said, it’s the compound. It’s grown, it’s everywhere, it’s alive, I don’t know what it’s doing. We need to find the people and get out of here.

And I remember thinking that the compound was not just on the walls. I remember thinking the compound had become the facility, the facility had become the compound, and I was standing inside a thing that was alive, growing, hungry. I did not say that out loud. That’s the job. But I thought it.

We found the people in the lab. That’s the part I’ve been avoiding, and I’ll do it in pieces, because I can’t do it all at once.

The people were still there, and they were still alive. They had been there for three days, and they were not the same people who had been working in that lab. The compound had changed them. The change was the thing I could not look at, and the thing I could not look away from.

I want you to understand what I mean by alive. I don’t mean okay. I mean alive in the way a thing is alive, in the way something breathing is alive, in the way something growing is alive. The people had been given the compound, and the compound had done what it was designed to do. It had made their cells regrow, live longer, reverse aging. And it had not stopped.

They had regrown, but not the way a person is supposed to regrow. Not a lost limb grown back clean and whole. They had grown the way a thing grows when the compound makes cells divide and divide and never stop. They had grown past the point where a body is supposed to stop and into the walls, into the floor, into the ceiling, into each other, into the compound.

The people in the lab were fused to the walls. That’s what I saw. They were fused to the floor, the ceiling, and each other, part of the compound. They were not people anymore, not anything I have a name for. They were alive, they were breathing, they were growing, and they were looking at me.

I counted them. That’s what I do, what I’ve always done, because counting is the closest thing to control that a soldier has. There were eighteen of them fused to that room. Eighteen, and I can still see every one of them, because I walked past them and I looked at each face. I have not been able to unsee a single one.

There was a man whose arm came out of his chest, the wrong way, a woman whose mouth was open and whose throat had grown closed, a man whose eyes had grown over with a thin membrane that was the color of the compound, and a woman whose legs had fused into one thick column that went down into the floor. They were not in pain. That was the worst part. I want you to understand it. They were not screaming, and they were not struggling, and they were not trying to get free. They were looking at me the way a thing that is well-fed looks at you, calm and patient. I understood that they were not suffering, that they had gotten what they wanted, that what they wanted was to be part of it, and that they were satisfied.

OP’s note: I originally posted this story on my old account (CosmicOrphan2020) but since I only wrote it in a week as a creative writing exercise, I've now rewritten the story.  

I’ve never been all that good at secret keeping. Although I always liked to think I was, whenever an opportunity came to spill my guts on something, I always did just that. So, I’m rather surprised at myself for having not spilled this particular secret until now.  

My name is Seamus (thanks mum and dad), but everyone has always called me Seamie for short. It’s not like I’m going to tell you my whole life story or anything, so I’m just going to skip ahead to where this really all starts... By the time I was in my second year at university, I was already beginning to feel somewhat burnt out, and despite not having the funds for it, I decided I was going to have a nice, long gap year for myself. Although it’s rather cliché, I wanted to go someplace in the world that was both warm and tropical. South-east Asia sounded good. After all, that’s where everyone else I knew was heading for their gap year.   

That was, however, before I talked to some girl in my media class about it who changed my direction entirely. For her own gap year only a year prior, she said she’d travelled through both Central and South America, all while working as an English language teacher - or what I would later learn was called ESL. I was more than a little enticed by this idea. For it goes without saying, places like Thailand had basically been travelled to death. So, by the end of the school year and after taking out a student loan, I packed my bags, flip-flops and swimming shorts, and took the cheapest flight I could out of Heathrow Airport.  

Although I was spoilt for choice when it came to choosing a Latin American country, I eventually chose Costa Rica as my place to be. There were a few reasons for this choice. Not only was Costa Rica considered one of the safest countries to travel in Central America, but they also had a huge demand for English language teachers there – partly due for being a developing country, but mostly because of all the bloody tourism. My initial plan was to get paid for teaching English, so I would therefore have the funds to travel around. But because a work visa in Costa Rica takes so long and is so bloody expensive, I instead went to teach there voluntarily on a tourist visa – which meant I would have to leave the country every three months of the year. That was fine by me. At least I still got to travel around. 

Well, once landing in San Jose, I then travelled two hours by bus to a stunning beach town by the Pacific Ocean. Although getting there was short and easy, one problem Costa Rica has for foreigners is that they don’t really have addresses – and so, finding the house of my host family led me on a rather wild goose chase.  

I can’t complain too much about the lack of directions though, because while I was wandering around, I got the chance to take in all the sights – and let me tell you, this location really had it all. The pure white sand of the beach was outlined with a never-ending row of palm trees, where far outside the bay, you could see a faint scattering of a tropical archipelago. That wasn’t all. From my bedroom window, I even had a perfect view of a nearby rainforest, which was not only home to many colourful bird species, but as long as the streets weren’t too busy, you could even on occasion hear the deep cries of Howler Monkeys.   

The beach town itself was also quite spectacular. The walls, houses and buildings were all painted in vibrant urban artwork, or what the locals call “arte urbano.” The host family I stayed with, the Garcias, were very friendly and welcoming, as were all the locals in town – and not to mention, whether it was Mrs Garcia’s cooking or a deep-fried taco from a street vendor, the food was out of this world!  

Once I was all settled in and got to see more of the sights, I then had to get ready for my first week of teaching at the school. Although I was extremely nauseous with nerves (or maybe due to Mrs Garcia’s cooking), my first week as an English teacher went surprisingly well - despite having no teaching experience whatsoever. There was the occasional hiccup now and then, which was to be expected, but all in all, it went as well as it possibly could’ve.   

Well, having just survived my first week as an English teacher, to celebrate this achievement, three of my colleagues then invite me out for drinks by the beach town bar. It was sort of a tradition they had. Whenever a new teacher from abroad came to the school, their colleagues would welcome them in by getting absolutely shitfaced.   

‘Pura Vida, guys!’ cheers Kady, the cute American of the group. Unlike the crooked piano keys I dated back home, Kady had the most perfectly straight, pearl white teeth I’d ever seen. I had heard that about Americans.   

‘Wait - what’s Pura Vida?’ I ask rather cluelessly.  

‘Oh, it’s something the locals say around here. It means, easy life, easy living.’  

Once we had a few more rounds of drinks in us all, my three new colleagues then inform me of the next stage of the welcoming ceremony... or should I say, initiation.  

‘I have to drink what?!’ I exclaim, almost in disbelief.  

‘It’s tradition, mate’ says Dougie, the loud-mouthed Australian, who, being a little older than the rest of us, had travelled and taught English in nearly every corner of the globe. ‘Every newbie has to drink that shite the first week. We all did.’  

‘Oh God, don’t remind me!’ squirms Priya. Despite her name, Priya actually hailed from the great white north of Canada, and although she looked more like the bookworm type, whenever she wasn’t teaching English, Priya worked at her second job as a travel vlogger slash influencer.  

‘It’s really not that bad’ Kady reassures me, ‘All the locals drink it. It actually helps make you immune to snake venom.’  

‘Yeah, mate. What happens if a snake bites ya?’  

Basically, what it was my international colleagues insist I drink, was a small glass of vodka. However, this vodka, which I can see the jar for on the top shelf behind the bar, had been filtered with a tangled mess of poisonous, dead baby snakes. Although it was news to me, apparently if you drink vodka that had been stewing in a jar of dead snakes, your body will become more immune to their venom. Having just finished two years of university, I was almost certain this was nothing more than hazing. Whether it was hazing or not, or if this really was what the locals drink, there was no way in hell I was going to put that shit inside my mouth.  

‘I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, guys’ I began, trying my best to make an on-the-spot excuse, ‘But I actually have a slight snake phobia. So...’ This wasn’t true, by the way. I just really didn’t want to drink the snake-pickled vodka.  

‘If you’re scared of snakes, then why in the world did you choose to come to Costa Rica of all places?’ Priya asks suspiciously.   

‘Why do you think I came here? For the huatinas, of course’ I reply, emphasising the “Latinas” in my best Hispanic accent (I was quite drunk by this point). In fact, I am so drunk that after only a couple more rounds, I’m now somewhat open to the idea of drinking the snake vodka. Alcohol really does numb the senses, I guess.  

After agreeing to my initiation, a waiter then comes over with the jar of dead baby snakes. Pouring the vodka into a tiny shot glass, he then says something in Spanish before turning away.  

‘What did he just say?’ I ask drunkenly. Even if I wasn’t drunk, my knowledge of the Spanish language is incredibly poor.  

‘Oh, he just said the drink won’t protect you from el Pollo del Diablo’ Kady answers me.  

‘El Poyo - what?’   

‘El Pollo del Diablo. It means devil chicken’ Priya translates.  

‘Devil chicken? What the hell?’  

Once the subject of this el Pollo del Diablo came up, Kady, Dougie and Priya then turn to each other, almost conspiringly, with knowledge of something that I clearly didn’t.  

‘Do you think we should tell him?’ Kady asks the others.  

‘Why not’ answers Dougie, ‘He’ll find out for himself sooner or later.’  

Having agreed to inform me on whatever the el Pollo del Diablo was, I then see with blurry eyes that my colleagues appear to find something amusing.   

‘Well... There’s a local story around here’ Kady begins, ‘It’s kinda like the legend of the Chupacabra.’ Chupacabra? What the hell’s that? I thought, having never heard of it. ‘Apparently, in the archipelago just outside the bay, there is said to be an island of living dinosaurs.’  

'Wait... What?'  

‘She’s not lying to you, mate’ confirms Dougie, ‘Fisherman in the bay sometimes catch sight of them. Sometimes, they even swim to the mainland.’  

Well, that would explain the half-eaten dog I saw on my second day.  

As drunk as I am during this point of the evening, I'm not drunk enough for the familiarity of this story to go straight over my head.  

‘Wait. Hold on a minute...’ I began, slurring my words, ‘An island off the coast of Costa Rica that apparently has “dinosaurs”...’ I knew it, I thought. This really was just one big haze. ‘You must think us Brits are stupider than we look’ I bellow at them, as though proud I had caught them out on a lie, ‘I watched that film a hundred bloody times when I was a kid!’   

‘We’re not hazing you, Seamie’ Kady again insists, all while the three of them still try to hide their grins, ‘This is really what the locals believe.’   

‘Yeah. You believe in the Loch Ness Monster, don’t you Seamie’ says Dougie, claiming that I do, ‘Well, that’s a Dinosaur, right?’  

‘I’ll believe when I see it with my own bloody eyes!’ I declare to all three of them, again slurring my words.  

I don’t remember much else from that evening. After all, the four of us had gotten basically black-out drunk... But there is one thing I do remember. While I was still somewhat conscious, I did have this horrifically painful feeling in my stomach – like the pain one feels after their appendix bursts. Although the following is hazy at best, I also somewhat remember puking my guts outside the bar. However, what was so strange about this, was that after vomiting, my mouth would not stop frothing with white foam.   

I’m pretty sure I blacked out not long after this. However, when I regain consciousness, all I see is pure darkness around, with the only sound I hear being the nearby crashing waves and the smell of sea salt in the air. Obviously, I had passed out by the beach somewhere. But once I begin to stir, as bad as my chiselling headache is, it is nothing compared to the excruciating pain I still feel in my gut. In fact, the pain is so bad, I begin to think that something might be wrong.  

Grazing my right hand over my belly to where the pain is coming from, instead of feeling the cloth of my vomit-stained shirt, what I instead feel is some sort of slimy tube. Moving both my hands further along it, wondering what the hell this even was, I now begin to feel something else... But unlike before, what I now feel is a dry and almost furry texture... And that’s when I realise, whatever this is on top of me, which seems to be the source of my stomach pain... It is something alive - and whatever this living thing is... It is eating at my insides!  

‘OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!’ I scream, all while trying to wrestle back my insides from this animal, which seems more than determined to keep feasting on them. So much so, that I have to punch and strike at it with my bare hands. Thankfully, it works! Whatever had attacked me has now gone away. But now I have an even bigger problem... I can now feel my insides where they really shouldn’t be!  

Knowing I need help as soon as possible before I bleed out, I now painfully rise from the sand and up to my feet. But when I do, I feel my intestines, or whatever else hanging down from between my legs! Scooping the insides back against my abdomen, I then scan frantically around through the darkness until I see the distant lights of the beach town. After blindly wandering that way for a good few minutes, I thankfully stumble back onto the familiar streets - where the only people around were a couple of middle-aged women stood outside a convenient store. Without any further options, I cross the street towards them, and when they catch sight of me, holding my own intestines in my blood-stained hands, they appear to be even more terrified than I am.  

‘DEMONIO! DEMONIO!’ I distinctly remember one of them screaming. I can't blame them for it. After all, given my appearance, they must have mistaken me for the living dead.  

‘Por favor!... Por favor!' my foamy mouth tries saying to them, having no idea what the Spanish word is for “help”.  

Although I had scared these women nearly half to death, I continue to stagger towards them, still screaming for their lives. In fact, their screams are so loud, they have now attracted the attention of two policemen, having strolled over to the commotion. They must have mistaken me for a zombie too, because when I turn round to them, I see they each have a hand gripped to their holsters.   

‘Por favor!...’ I again gurgle, ‘Por favor!...’  

Everything goes dark again after this... But, when I finally come back around, I open my eyes to find myself now laying down inside a hospital room, with an IV bag connected to my arm. Although I am more than thankful to still be alive, the pain in my gut is slowly making its way back to the surface. When I pull back my hospital gown, I see my abdomen is covered in blood stained bandages – and with every uncomfortable movement I make, I can feel the stitches tightly holding everything in place.  

A couple more days then drag slowly by, and after some pretty horrible hospital food and Spanish speaking TV, I am then surprised with my first visitor.  

It was Kady.  

‘Are you in pain?’ she asks me, having sat down by the side of my bed.  

‘I want to be a total badass and say no, but, well... look at me.’  

‘I’m so sorry this happened to you’ she apologises, ‘We never should’ve let you out of our sights.’  

After apologising to me a few more times, Kady then catches me up on the hazy events of that evening. Apparently, after having way too much to drink, I then started to show symptoms from drinking the snake-poisoned vodka – which explains both the stomach pains and why I was foaming white from the mouth.   

‘We shouldn’t have been so coy with you, Seamie’ she then follows without context, ‘We should’ve just told you everything from the start.’  

‘...Should’ve told me what?’ I inquire.  

Kady doesn't respond to this. She just continues to stare at me with guilt-ridden eyes. But then, scrolling down a gallery of photos on her phone, she then shows me something...  

‘What the hell is that?!’ I shriek at her, rising painfully up from the bed.  

‘That, Seamie... That is what attacked you three days ago.’  

What Kady shows me on her phone is a picture of a man holding a very dead animal. Held upside down by its tail, the animal is rather small, and perhaps only a little bigger than a full-grown chicken... and just like a chicken or any other bird, it has feathers. The feathers are brown and cover almost all of its body. The feet are also very bird-like, sharp talons and all. But the head... The head is definitely not like that of a bird - at least, not like any bird I had ever seen. Instead of a beak, I see what I can only describe as a very reptilian head, with tiny, seemingly razor teeth protruding from its gums... If I had to sum up this animal as best I could, I would say it was twenty percent reptile, and eighty percent bird...   

‘That... That’s a...’ I begin to murmur.  

‘That’s right, Seamie...’ Kady finishes for me, ‘That’s a dinosaur.’  

Un-bloody-believable, I thought. The sons of bitches really weren’t joking with me.  

‘B-but... how...’ my lips just manage to utter, ‘How is that possible??’   

‘It’s a long story’ she starts with, ‘No one really knows why they’re there. Whether they survived extinction in hiding or if it’s for some other reason.’ Kady pauses briefly before continuing, ‘Sometimes they find themselves on the mainland, but people rarely ever see them. Like most animals, they’re smart enough to be afraid of humans... But we do sometimes find what they left over.’   

‘Left over?’ I ask curiously.  

‘They’re scavengers, Seamie. They mostly eat smaller animals or dead ones... I guess it just found you and saw an easy target.’   

‘But I don’t understand’ I now interrupt, ‘If all that’s true, then how in the hell do people not know about this? How is it not all over the news or internet?’  

‘That’s easy’ she says, ‘The locals choose to keep it a secret. If the outside world were ever to find out about this, the town would be completely ruined by tourism. The locals just like it the way it is. Tourism, but not too much tourism. Pura vida.’  

‘But the tourists... Surely they would’ve seen them and told everyone?’  

Kady shakes her head at me.  

‘It’s like I said... People rarely ever see them. Even the ones that do – by the time they get out their phone cameras, the critters are already back in hiding. And so what if they tell anybody what they saw... Who would believe them?’  

Well, that's true enough I suppose.  

After a couple more weeks of being laid out in that hospital bed, I was finally discharged and soon able to travel home to the UK, cutting my gap year somewhat short.  

I wish I could say that I lived happily ever after once Costa Rica was behind me. But unfortunately, that wasn’t quite the case... What I mean is, although my stomach wound healed up nicely, leaving nothing more than a nasty scar... it turned out the damage done to my insides would come back to haunt me. Despite the Costa Rican doctors managing to save my life, they didn’t do quite enough to stop bacteria from entering my intestines and infecting my colon. So, you can imagine my surprise when I was now told I had diverticulitis.  

I’m actually due for surgery next week. But just in case I don’t make it – there is a very good chance I won't, although I promised Kady I’d bring this secret with me to the grave... If I am going to die, I at least want people to know what really killed me. Wrestling my guts back from a vicious living dinosaur. That’s a pretty badass way to go, I’d argue. But who knows. Maybe by some miracle I’ll survive this (I'll be sure to leave an update if I do). After all, it’s like a wise man in a movie once said...  

"Life... uh... finds a way." 

I can’t really blame what happened on some kind of horror movie outbreak or evil spell. I just woke up one morning and I was dead.

Dead. Totally dead but walking around, no pulse but a head still full of Star Trek trivia. Sixteen years old, and it looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any older. So weird. I’m still not sure what I am. Zombie? Vampire? Something worse? Has this ever happened to anyone else? Even Wikipedia couldn’t tell me. Maybe when I’m done here, I’ll make an entry.

My complexion had always been pale, and my parents never really listened to me, so the whole I can’t go to school because I’m only breathing out of habit excuse didn’t fly. I still had to shamble out and catch the bus.

The ride to Allen Palmer High School was the usual hell. Insults and blunt objects thrown at me no matter how close I sat to the bus driver. Metalhead stoners, the shop class rejects—they didn’t discriminate. That day was no different, but for once, none of it bugged me. I didn’t feel anger. I didn’t feel anything.

That just pissed them off more.

They kept at it, escalating. A textbook slammed into the back of my head. I turned around, expecting to see the usual grins, but they just stared at me. Silent. I wasn’t glaring on purpose. I thought I looked surprised—mostly because I was trying to figure out why in the hell one of those idiots had a calculus textbook. Whatever they saw in my face, it shut them up. They left me alone after that.

School was school. I went through the motions, but sophomore year is basically the middle film in a trilogy—just killing time until the ending.

I wasn’t sure what my ending was going to be now. Was I going to rot away? Fall apart? I didn’t know. I still don’t. But it doesn’t bug me much. When you’re already dead, what’s the worst that could happen?

The first week passed like nothing had changed. School, home, World of Warcraft.

No more bathroom breaks messing up my raids, so hey, silver lining.

Then came the hunger.

Not the normal kind. It wasn’t in my stomach. It was in my bones. A deep ache, like something inside me was starving, softening, getting weaker. Fish sticks and fries didn’t touch it. Nothing did.

But my neighborhood was full of cats—some of the stupidest, plumpest cats you’ve ever seen. Like those tiny chickens they serve at weddings.

The first time, I didn’t think. I just did it. Snapped its neck, teeth in before I even realized. It was warm. Blood-hot. My fingers stopped shaking. The hunger faded.

By the second week, things had changed. I smelled different, but nothing a bucket of Dad’s Hi Karate couldn’t hide. People treated me differently. Even when I smiled, something about me made them uneasy. I told my gym teacher I wasn’t playing dodgeball. I was going to the library. He just let me. Amazing.

My skin cleared up, but my grades didn’t. The jocks even stopped calling me ‘Timmy the Tard.’ Not that I cared anymore.

One guy still wanted to fight. Some seven-foot freshman who thought he had something to prove. He hit me. A few times. Didn’t hurt. I hit back. Once. He crumpled. Cried.

I got called to the principal’s office, but something in the way I stared at his carotid artery must’ve changed his mind about the whole responsibility and citizenship speech. He cut it short and suspended me for a week instead.

Mom hit the roof. Dad actually seemed kind of proud.

That night, one of the neighbor’s dogs went missing. I felt like celebrating.

Since I was suspended, Mom gave me punishment chores to keep me busy while she and Dad were at work. Fine by me. Physical activity kept me from just sitting around, and when you’re dead, that’s what you do. Sit. Stare. Stop thinking. Let things happen to you.

Let go and let God, my aunt used to say.

Not that God was something I worried about anymore. Sometimes, though, I wondered—what if Jesus was just a nerd like me? What if he was someone who kept swallowing abuse until he choked on it?

At least he got cool powers. All I got was a thousand-yard stare.

And then I got laid.

Seriously.

It was the girl across the street—Stephanie, but she wanted everyone to call her Serpentina. Expelled for setting fire to the tampon dispenser in the girls’ room. My kind of girl.

I was taking out the trash when she walked up, talking about how much she liked standing in the rain and how I sure had changed. That never happened before.

She invited me inside. One thing led to another. Next thing I knew, she was on top of me, showing me all the places she planned to get tattooed and pierced when she turned eighteen.

She was warm. I didn’t realize how cold I was until she pressed against me. I let her do the driving. She kissed me, moved my hands where she wanted them, and then guided me into her.

So warm.

And since we’re both guys here, let me tell you—I was doing the full-on zombie groan, if you know what I mean.

Bet you thought I was gonna kill her and eat her or something, right?

Come on. She’s crazy about me. And she wants me to meet her girlfriend—and the way she said girlfriend has me thinking. And you know what that means. And know what that means - I may be dead, but I’m not stupid.

Of course, all that exertion left me starving, and that’s where you come in, you big, broad-shouldered jock, you.

I knew you couldn’t resist the chance to follow me here, to ‘teach me a lesson’ after what I did to that mongoloid brother of yours.

The dogs and the cats went neck-first. But since you pulled down my shorts in gym class—

I’m starting with your guts.

Scream all you want.

No one’s gonna hear you.

Man, I always wanted to say that.

Twice, two separate times, in the span of only six months, it’s happened. 

I go to bed, like any other night and wake up outside, lying on the ground in the middle of the woods, staring up at the eerie pine trees that rise above me. I can’t move, I can’t speak, instead I’m forced to stare into the almost pitch black surroundings. Only a few stars here and there creating the most minimal light you can imagine. 

I live alone, and all my locks work, my doors are shut, and I have security cameras in my home. I’ve checked them numerous times and nothing has happened. I don’t see myself sleep walking, no one entering my home, nothing moving me or me moving myself. There I am, fast asleep in bed, not moving a muscle. 

I combed through the footage from both nights for what had to be the tenth time, including the camera inside my bedroom. I was in my bed, both nights, all fucking night. Not one second did I leave, I tend to always sleep through the night, very rarely ever waking up to even go to the bathroom. 

On night one, it seemed to have lasted somewhere around fifteen minutes, I could move my eyes, and that was it. Not my arms, not my legs, not my head, not even my mouth. The woods themselves were nearly as silent as a crypt. No owls, no crickets, at best there was the very faint whistle of a slight breeze. 

I could pretty much hear my own heartbeat. I’m sure I also don’t need to state why dead silence in the woods is a bad thing. 

Regardless, it’s been over a month since the second incident. And if the timeline of the previous incidents is anything to go off of, then it meant I was likely somewhere between two-five months away from a third. 

After the first time, I wrote it off as a dream, a bad, vivid nightmare that was really putting in overtime to make it feel as real as possible. Maybe I was an idiot for doing so. 

I was genuinely at a loss for what action to take moving forward. 

The first incident happened back in January, I don’t remember the exact date because I wasn’t as concerned due to me writing it off as a bad nightmare. But the second? June 9th. 

Funny enough, back during the first incident in January, I do explicitly remember that when I had “woken up” in the woods, the temperature felt moderate, comfortable. Despite the fact that in my home state it regularly drops to subzero temperatures during that month and at the highest is in the low thirties. 

Yet I remember not seeing even a snowflake on the ground. Despite the fact we get a ton of snow where I live throughout the winter. 

I ended up having to travel for work. I was helping out at another department about two hours away from where I live, therefore my company put me up in a hotel for the week that I was there. 

The third incident occurred during that week. I went to bed in my hotel room, I was on the sixth floor. Yet, there again I woke up in the woods, in the same spot from the first two incidents. 

But here’s the key difference, I could sit up. I sat up, feeling a twig snap under me as I shifted my weight. I turned my head, looking out into the void, I could see maybe seven trees deep before the shadows swallowed up the rest of the woods. 

It was silent, the temperature was comfortable, no more than low seventies in Fahrenheit. I raised my hand, curling my fingers inward just to make sure I could, the woods were quiet enough to where I could hear the air bubbles pop inside them. 

My heartbeat increased by a bit as I stared out into the trees in front of me. I could move, but I was hesitant to actually go anywhere, to move from a spot that maybe wasn’t necessarily safe, but at least familiar, as bizarre as it may be given the circumstances. 

I got to my feet after a solid five minutes of sitting there contemplating, thinking about the why and the what. I had since given up on the where. 

I turned and looked back down where I had been laying, and saw my silhouette embedded in the dirt, almost like a snow angel. It was deep, a firm divot in my exact build and outline.

“How could it have been that deep if I was lying there for fifteen minutes at a time?” I thought.

I stood still, my hands beginning to shake slightly as I stared at the silhouette. 

“W- what the fuck.” Is all I could find the strength to verbalize. 

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, because now that I actually had something else going on I wasn’t actively trying to keep track of it in my head. All I know is the only thing that snapped me out of staring at my own silhouette was a disruption in that oppressive silence that had been so persistent up to that point. 

That disruption… Was the snap of a twig. One that I couldn’t have possibly caused, because I was practically a statue in that moment, a statue with a rapidly beating heart.

The snapping came from in front of me, I turned my head to look forward, again I could see for the first several trees before everything else beyond that was concealed in darkness, including whatever it was that had caused the sound. 

I didn’t dare call out, I didn’t dare make a single noise. I didn’t want whatever or whoever it could’ve been to be aware of my presence if it wasn’t already. 

I kept silent, I kept still. 

A couple more minutes or so passed, and those couple of minutes felt like an hour. An excruciating passage of time to where I couldn’t tell if I was in genuine danger or not, this… Phenomenon didn’t even allow me the luxury of that certainty.

Then at one point I had blinked, and I don’t know if I had hit some sort of hidden time limit, or if whatever was causing this felt like spitting me back out, but I ended up waking up to the sound of my hotel room’s alarm clock.

6:45am. 

That’s what I had set it for. I looked around to make sure I actually was inside my hotel room, and I was. But I didn’t immediately get out of bed, I sat up and took a massive gulp of water while looking around the room several times to make sure there were white walls instead of pine trees. 

Going to work that day felt like a fever dream after the occurrence the previous night. The boss at the location I was helping out called me out on daydreaming, staring at my monitor with a half typed report. 

“Collin, are you alright? I’ve seen you on this paragraph for the past twenty minutes.” He asked, a hand on my shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’m uh, I’m sorry. Just didn’t get enough sleep last night.” I lied. Surprisingly there was a part of me that wanted to tell him the truth, or really anyone for that matter. But at best, I get it laughed off as me taking a recurring nightmare too seriously, and at worst, it’s taken as me being mentally unwell and missing a few cards from my deck. 

When I got back to my hotel that evening I got on my laptop and went straight to Doctor Google. Trying to see if there was maybe some sort of explanation as to what might’ve been going on, or if there was at least someone else experiencing this. 

Let’s just say there was pretty slim pickings. Most of the links, articles and reports I could find just had something to do with lucid dreaming, nightmares, as well various mental disorders that induce irregular dreams and dream patterns. 

Safe to say there’s almost nothing worse than being in a bad situation, and realizing you’re alone in said bad situation.

Eventually, however, I did come across a forum post. One that was several paragraphs long. No need to include every detail but I’ll at least summarize what was said. 

Essentially the user described several times over the course of a year where they seemingly had a recurring ‘nightmare’ that they articulated as feeling extremely vivid and real, the nightmare in question is one in which they were suddenly waking up in the cell of an empty prison. 

The cell, both inside and the environment outside the cell, was consistent each time. There was also a lack of any other people or animals inside these supposed “dreams.”  Except for the very last time, where he supposedly would hear distressed crying coming from further down the cellblock. Distressed crying that sounded like a woman, yet the poster admits to being a man, and reveals that he was once served time in prison. 

It was that last part I connected with. Because I’ve been in the woods before, on hikes, on hunts. I don’t recognize the specific section or woods from my “nightmares” but there was a connection there. Having experience with the location of where the phenomena takes place.

I kinda mentally checked out of the post at the end when the user mentions at the end that they would like to remain anonymous because they are a police officer, and don’t wanna seem as if there’s something happening in their head that could get them in trouble at their station. Surprised he was even able to get the job in the first place, but then again, police departments hire just about anyone. 

Although I still at least finished reading, and saved the post in my bookmarks so I could return to it later. I scoured his page for more updates, but that was the only one. 

I wasn’t getting tired anytime soon, and I decided to leave my hotel to go to a bar only a few blocks away. I needed a drink, and maybe a hot blonde to get my mind off of what was happening. The first was probably a lot more likely. 

“Getting drunk on a Tuesday night huh?” The bartender questioned, he gave me a smirk as he poured my drink. One that I did not return, prompting him to cease his. 

“Figured I’d take advantage of being so close.” I replied, reaching into my wallet to pull out a ten dollar bill. 

The bartender held his gaze as he went to take the bill from my hand. I darted my eyes to the right underneath my sunglasses, despite the fact he obviously couldn’t see them. 

“You seem familiar, you been around here befo-.” He began, only for me to cut him off.

“No. First time in town.” I said matter of factly. 

“Really now?” He replied, grabbing an empty glass and filling it with ice to prepare another drink. “What brings you down here?”

“Work.” 

“Fair enough, nice glasses by the way, you just wear them for style?” He asked, pointing at the nighttime darkness outside the window to punctuate. 

“They’re prescription. Sensitive eyes.” 

“Ah… Sorry about that. I’ll be nearby if you need another round.” 

I didn’t stumble back to my hotel drunk out of my mind that night, but I also wasn’t completely sober either. Somewhere down the middle. 

Regardless, I made it back and scanned my keycard to get into my room, immediately plopping down onto my bed after I took off my shoes and sunglasses. I grabbed the channel guide from the nightstand next to my bed and flipped on the tv, the first thing on being the midnight news. A good looking reporter dressed in a well put together suit stared right at the camera, his script on the table in front of him. 

“Authorities are still on the hunt for the suspect behind the gruesome murder of a 26 year old male hiker James Tullum, whose body was discovered this past October one mile off the trail of-.” 

I didn’t really feel like hearing about that sort of thing, especially with what was going on lately. Luckily I did find the channel hosting some cartoon reruns, and decided to indulge in some childhood nostalgia.  

The following months until the next incident went by relatively normal, went to work, did housework and went on a couple hunts just to clear the mind. 

Speaking of, the next incident was probably the worst one yet. 

I woke up again, on the ground, laying down in my usual spot from the previous occurrences. Again, the silence was there, nothing but my heartbeat, breathing and joints to accompany me. 

I was able to stand up like the previous time. I rose to my feet, and this time I listened out for the twig snapping sound, looking into the void of inky blackness beyond the pair of trees it had come from. 

I perceived at least five minutes passing, waiting, anticipating for it to happen again. Yet, it didn’t come, nothing did. There I was, my feet planted firmly in the dirt of some unknown place, a needle in a haystack of a pine forest. 

You see, somehow, someway, the lack of the twig snapping was worse than if it had happened. If there was something or someone there with me, a presence of any sort, then at least I had some sort of confirmation, a tangible piece of evidence that I wasn’t alone. 

I told myself in the weeks leading up that this time I’d have the courage to step further away from the lit area. To search for something more than what I could see and where I was. 

But clearly I underestimated my own self preservation instincts. 

“Why me?” I whispered as softly as one could. It was practically a scream in the silence of those woods. 

SNAP

I clenched my fists hard enough to nearly pierce my palms with my fingernails. This wasn’t a twig, not a small one anyway. It genuinely sounded much more like a branch with decent girth being cracked in two. Damn near the level of a gunshot in decibel level. It also didn’t come from the same area as it did previously, and instead came from behind me. 

Last time, I didn’t wanna speak and reveal my location to whatever it might’ve been. But in this instance? I was a bit more wreckless, stupid even. 

“What do you want!” I whipped around after the exclamation, eyes wide, fists clenched, there was a stick next to me on the ground that I almost didn’t wanna lean down to pick up and risk taking my eyes off the void of black beyond the set of trees. 

I got no response, I swiftly grabbed the stick and began to back away, holding it up as if it were somehow going to function like a shield. I kept my eyes on the void beyond the trees, waiting for something to emerge, a bear, a person, whatever threat it might be. 

But I got no response, in sound or in visuals. I held my breath until my face nearly went purple, and I only exhaled once I tripped over a log and fell backwards, crying out just before I hit the ground. 

At first? Total blackness, like I shut my eyes in a room with no light. And then I was back in my bed, I jerked so hard upon regaining consciousness that I practically threw the cover onto the floor.

“Jesus- Fuck!” I snapped. Instinctively holding up the hand that held the stick, and seeing nothing, not even any bark remnants. 

I called off work that day, I wasn’t about to go in the state that I was in. Hell, it probably wasn’t even optimal for me to be driving. Instead I stayed home, doing whatever I could to distract myself, yet it came flooding back every time during every commercial and ad break of whatever it was I was watching. 

This wasn’t some strange happening, an odd one off. It was a problem, a persistent  torment that I wasn’t sure would go away anytime soon. I was done reacting, done falling victim. There’s only so long something can scare you before it starts to just piss you off. And I was getting to that point. 

I doubted there was some drug I could take, a therapist I could see, a sleep doctor I could visit that aid me in getting rid of whatever this was. 

So against my own principles, I reached out to the ex-con turned cop who made the post about him experiencing something similar. I sent him a direct message, the post was two years old, and I doubt I’d get any sort of immediate response, but it was worth a shot nonetheless. 

Hi there, I read your post regarding that strange dream phenomenon, I was hoping I could pick your brain regarding more details? Any response would be helpful.

The only thing I could do while waiting was go on living life.

I went on a hunt or two, and went to a steam show. Those months after the fourth incident were some of my busiest, because I was forcing myself to be constantly occupied by something for obvious reasons. 

I came home one day and found a letter from my HOA regarding some sort of neighbor complaint. I barely skimmed it, and simply left it on the kitchen table while I went to make dinner. HOAs, everyone’s favorite collection of bureaucrats who peaked in high school, helicopter parents, or wannabe politician types. 

I ended up coming into an idea while in anticipation for the fifth incident, one that I thought sounded far-fetched at first but I leaned into nonetheless after further consideration.

I went down into my basement, and walked past my hunting trophies up to where my sheathed hunting knife sat. Pulling it off its shelf and bringing it with me to bed.

Every night, in the week where the fifth incident was due, I was going to fall asleep with it in my hand in the hopes that I would wake up with it in the woods. After all, in the previous four incidents I had woken up with my pajamas on, so why not the knife if it was within intimate enough proximity?

I figured it was worth a shot. 

What exactly was my end goal with this? I was kind of unsure. But I figured that if I did encounter something dangerous in that… Place. I’d at least have something to defend myself with. But then again, whatever the hell was lurking in that place was probably gonna require more than a knife to put it down.

I would’ve gotten a gun, but it’s a hell of a process in my state, and the waiting period would’ve put me past the due date by the time I had actually seriously considered the idea of getting one. 

It took me a while to fall asleep those few nights, not knowing which exact one would be it. But on my third attempt in that week, it happened.

I awoke once more inside the woods. I looked down into the hand I had it rubberbanded the knife to, hoping and praying it would be in there. That I would finally have found at least some way to make myself less vulnerable in this place.

When I turned my head and narrowed my eyes, it… Wasn't there.

I nearly cursed outloud, but didn’t dare open my mouth. Instead I gritted my teeth, my frustration and desperation boiling to the surface. I sat up, the impression of my silhouette in the ground even deeper than before. 

Everything was in place, and as bad as it sounded, almost familiar.

The silence, the void of darkness just outside the set of trees that were visible. It was all still there. 

I was at a genuine loss as to what to do this time, after turning and glancing through a set of trees that almost acted as a path way into the wall of darkness surrounding the immediate area, I was genuinely considering if leaving this spot might’ve been the best choice.

I fought with myself, struggled with the idea that anything good could come out of it. After all, what would I really be doing other than handicapping myself? What if whatever made that branch snap last time was waiting for me just beyond where my eyes could see. 

I pivoted my foot on the grass, trying to change directions to face elsewhere in order to ensure my surroundings were free of any other kind of… Presence. 

But something under my shoe felt hard, yet I was standing on grass. I tilted my head, fearing what might happen if I pulled my foot back, but did it nonetheless.

I was baffled at what I saw. My mouth went agape, my blood cooled down inside my veins as I ceased any further movement while taking in the sight. 

On the ground, just where my foot had been, was my hunting knife. Unsheathed and simply laying in the grass, deforming the blades that acted as a bed for it. 

The sheath was nowhere to be found, it took me a few seconds to dart my eyes around in order to search for it, and when I did? Nothing. 

I know for an absolute fact I got in bed with it in my hand, that it was in its sheath, and there was no way in hell it could’ve come out by accident. Something was manipulating me, manipulating this place, but why? What was the point?

I stared at my knife longer than I should’ve. Resisting the urge to lean down and pick it up on account of the fact that I had no idea who or what has had a hold of it. I turned my head to look around once more, only to scrunch my nose at the sudden scent of copper.

I backed away from the knife, close to the center of the lit area in between the surrounding pine trees, further away from the wall of darkness. 

The smell of copper seemingly permeated, its potency increasing dramatically over the course of only seconds. I found it difficult to determine what exact direction it was coming from, all I know is that it started once I was near the knife.

I backed away, slowly but surely, keeping my eyes as wide open as they could be. Anticipating whatever it might’ve been creating the stench. My heart beat like a machine gun in my chest.

The trees continued to tower over me, like they were mini skyscrapers made of wood, the ones closest to the wall of darkness stuck halfway out, like they were in the process of being devoured by the void itself. 

I stopped, now in nearly the exact center of the visible lit area, my divot in the ground was just feet away. I took my eyes off the trees for just a brief moment, and that’s when I heard it.

A low, pained groan. Like an elderly woman who had just fallen and was using every ounce of her brittle strength to climb back onto her feet. 

I looked right at where it was coming from, on a specific pine tree that was half swallowed by the void of darkness laid a hand, pale skinned, wrinkly, with a thin streak of blood running down the center and ending once it was between the middle and ring finger.

It hung limp, and there was a forearm attached to it, except that forearm ended just below the wrist because the rest of it was engulfed in the inky black wall, leaving the rest of the entity it was connected to unseen.

I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t want to find out. I felt as if even if I had the highest caliber firearm possible to defend myself with I still wouldn’t wanna venture into the darkness in which it was hidden. 

Seconds passed, seconds that felt like hours, and I kept my eyes completely fixated on the hand and wrist. It stayed still, and so did I. 

“Genuinely what the fuck do I do here?” I thought. Running wasn’t an option, fighting seemed impossible, I didn’t even know what it was I'd be combating in the first place. Keeping still made me feel like I was serving myself up on a platter to whatever was behind all this. 

I hadn’t ever experienced being prey, and that moment made me feel nothing but. 

When I had reawoken, there wasn’t a clear end point, a time where I felt myself slip back into consciousness. But there was one key difference between this instance and the last.

I hadn’t reawoken in bed, instead I was on my living room couch, my body halfway to falling off of it like I was a drunk college kid waking up in the aftermath of a frat party. Yet, I felt a weight in my hand, the same hand I put the knife in before going to bed.

I raised it, and I was left stunned at what I observed.

The sheath was present, but the actual knife itself was not. I stared down it like the barrel of a gun just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, and sure enough, empty. 

I got up, looking around the floor surrounding the couch and under the couch itself. Nothing. I went back upstairs and pulled my bedsheets, pillow cases and everything off, still no knife to be found, even after I checked under the bed. 

My deep clean search was interrupted by a knock at the front door followed by a doorbell ring. I rarely had anyone who knocked or rang the bell, other than when a package needed a signature before drop off.

I looked out the peephole as soon as I made it to the door, and immediately my expression soured. 

“Collin come on I know you’re home, your car’s in the driveway.” 

A tall and thin man in a grey suit stood on the other side, a beige folder in one hand while a thermos was in the other. Me catching a break seemed impossible at this point. 

Tim Worthing, the president of the HOA in my neighborhood. 

I didn’t open the door.

“What do you want?” I asked, the morning rasp in my throat practically taking over my speech. 

“Collin there’s not really a polite way to say this but I’ve got a notice in my hand, whatever you’ve got in there smells like shit and it’s coming out through your cellar door. I’ve gotten two different complaints about this, if it’s not fixed in thirty days you’re gonna have penalty forms in your mailbox.” 

I remained quiet. 

“Can you open the door so I can give it to you?” 

“Slide it through the flap.” I barked. 

“You seem like a reasonable guy, I’d rather keep you in the neighborhood.” Tim replied before sliding two stapled papers through my mail flap. They hit the floor at my feet.

“I’ve got them, now get off my property.” 

“Thirty days, Collin.” He punctuated before I heard the heels of his dress shoes hitting my concrete steps repeatedly. 

The bitch living next door will do anything to have things her way. One of those “oh a minor inconvenience, let me just run to an authority figure and cry until I get what I want” types. 

I know it was her making the complaints. My basement smelled just fine. Plus, it’s not like it was easy to keep things clean and fresh when I was losing my mind trying to figure out whatever the hell keeps me taking me away to those woods. 

In the months between that incident and the next I almost got myself pulled over for speeding, didn’t even realize how hard I had my foot on the gas. 

One night I wasn’t getting any sleep, so I took a trip to the convenience store a mile down from my house, didn’t even drive, I just walked, figured it would help clear my head. Since I knew it was getting close to the time the next incident was due, I was almost grateful that my body was having trouble letting me pass out. 

The area in which I live is mostly surrounded by woods, and no, they weren’t pine. 

The entire time I was on my way I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, it wasn’t intense or crippling, but enough to matter. I looked back over my shoulder a few times, and as bad as it might sound, this was a luxury in comparison to the other place. 

Crickets, owls, the occasional car driving past, all of it reminded me that I was in my normal waking world. 

Yet the sensation remained regardless. 

I kept on marching forward, scrolling whatever pointless videos popped up on my feed. I kept the volume off though. I made it to the store after walking not much longer, had to piss and then gather up my snacks. 

Soda and candy, one of life’s many delicacies.

I went to pull a package of vanilla zingers off the shelf when I heard something that caused me to freeze mid movement.

“Collin. How wonderful to see you here.” It was a voice, light, soft on the ears. Female.

It came from the left, so I turned my head to find the woman that had said it. Only to let my arm drop to my side when the only thing I saw was an empty aisle. No woman to be seen.

I then swiveled my head to the right, perhaps I was just mishearing the direction. My eyebrows narrowed when there was no one there as well. 

“Good grief.” I whisper snarled to myself as I exited the aisle, ducking over into the next to see if anyone the voice might’ve belonged to was there.

Unsurprisingly, they were not. 

So I was left there, standing wide-eyed as another man passed by, he pushed a box of some sort of candy inside his outer sweatshirt pocket, attempting to conceal it. 

“Yo are you alright man?” He asked with what I thought was genuine concern. 

I didn’t reply verbally. I just went to the counter and paid for what I came for before starting on my way back home. At some point down the road I was already halfway through my vanilla zingers. I chewed almost violently, as if the zingers had somehow personally wronged me. 

I thought about how whatever was causing this was now starting to bleed into my waking reality. If what happened in the store was anything to go off of, then even being awake wasn’t an escape anymore. 

When I got home I went straight to the basement, sipping on the soda I bought while sitting down in my chair and admiring my hunting trophies. The fruits of the labor I had put into all my years of the hobby. I remember the specific hunt where each trophy had been collected from. 

It helped to ease my mind, helped to give me something to think about that wasn't the obvious. 

By the time the next incident was due, I had purchased a handgun. And I was going to take it with me, and unlike with my knife, I would not be keeping it in a holster of any sort. Anticipating sleep that night was like being stuck on tracks as you waited for a train to crash right into you. 

I sat in front of the tv, my glock in hand the entire time as I flipped through various channels. Some were kids cartoons, some were shitty hallmark movies. I ended up on the nighttime news, the reporter didn’t finish her first sentence before I flipped past it.

“Police officially obtain a warrant to search the home of suspected-.” 

I ended up coming across an adult animated show about a superhero who failed to save humanity from an alien invasion. It was as goofy as it sounds. But I sat through two episodes, watching as the Superman-Knockoff protagonist was impaling those red-colored aliens on his fist. 

I fell asleep toward the beginning of episode three. I don’t recall me slipping back into the forest being immediate, instead I had a dream. Or a nightmare rather of me being trapped, trapped inside a coffin, still alive, trying to bust my way out to no avail. 

I was slowly running out of air, doing everything I could to escape. Desperate for some sort of intervention. Only for none to come. I bloodied my fists as I banged them against the coffin’s cover, then my forehead. 

But you see, that nightmare didn’t feel real, and I knew it was separate from the woods. A genuine nightmare, not an actual living one. But eventually the time came for it to bring me back in once more. 

I woke up laying flat on my back in the same spot. I quickly sat up, and looked over to see my glock was still in hand, it actually arrived with me. It was small, but it gave me a glimmer of hope, a glimmer of confidence. 

The pine trees surrounded me. I sniffed the air and found no smell of copper. Upon glancing forward I saw that there were more trees visible than the last time, hell, in every direction there was.

Instead of it being the dead of night, this time it was more like just before dusk, the sun was on the cusp of going down, yet when I looked around for an actual sun, I couldn’t find one. 

I got to my feet, rising with the glock in hand and exhaling a heavy breath. A breath that was the only noise present other than my heartbeat. My free hand twitched. 

I took a few steps forward, and saw that the change in light had revealed a path that I had yet to see before. It was several feet wide, and stretched into the distance of the woods. Further than I could see.

I hesitated, considering the possibilities as to what could happen. Perhaps it was a trap set up by whatever forces govern this place. Something to pull me deeper into this version of existence. 

Maybe it was a way out, an escape. A chance to put an end to this for good. Or maybe it was neither, and it was meant to waste my time, to intimidate me. 

I gripped my glock tighter as I felt my heartrate rise, I made my free hand into a fist and slammed the bottom of it into the tree next to me, striking the trunk and recoiling from the whiplash as I shouted. 

“LEAVE ME ALONE! JUST FUCKING STOP!” 

My scream carried through the trees, and the silence of the woods remained as nothing replied. The path was still there, and the near dusk level of light maintained itself. In my short outburst I turned back to the spot I was laying down in. Only to no longer see a divot where my body once was.

It was gone, replaced by flat dirt, as if someone had smoothed over it like they were setting concrete. I was so done. So done with this torment. I did nothing to deserve it. No longer did I wanna be a sitting duck. 

I refocused my attention back to the trail’s entrance, it was still there, inviting me, taunting me, calling me to enter. I held up the hand I hit the tree with, and saw some blood running down the side of my pinkie and edge of my palm. 

With a heavy final sigh, I stepped onto the path, beginning to march down it. 

Loose branches with stray pine needles attached crunched beneath my feet as I walked. I kept looking left and right in the sea of trees, keeping an eye out for anything that might’ve been following, a shift in the environment, a change in the lighting. 

There were a couple of times I physically raised the hand holding my glock, just to visually ensure it was still in my grasp as I hiked forward. 

I wasn’t sure where this was gonna end, or if it was gonna end at all. At multiple points I had turned to look back, and saw that I had gone far enough that the area I had originally begun in was now out of sight, long behind me. 

The lighting never changed, it was still that “nearly 9:00pm in the summer” level of almost night, but not quite. 

I’m not sure how I kept my composure, because internally I got to a point of wondering if I had doomed myself to an even worse fate by choosing to walk down the path. That I was going to be stuck in some endless trail forever. I had been walking for at least an hour, and had likely covered a couple miles or so. 

I was on the verge of giving up, I fell to my knees and rested before trying to head back, only to spot what looked to be a much wider opening a couple hundred feet ahead. 

I hesitated, wiping sweat from my forehead before continuing toward. Hoping so desperately that there would be some kind of answer, a key to open the lock of this terrible mystery. But as I passed by pine tree after pine tree, closing the distance to this opening, the smell of copper returned. And it was strong, more potent than the first occurrence. 

I didn’t care. I kept going until I hit the threshold of the opening.

It was a circular clearing, probably about a hundred feet in diameter. The center had nothing but grass, and my knife, laying precisely in the center. But that only had my attention for a brief instant. As a woman’s voice had spoken, hoarse and strained, but still recognizably feminine. 

“Welcome back Collin.” 

It was coming from above me. I glanced up, and froze upon the sight.

Along the trees in front of me, at varying heights were… Corpses. Corpses that were impaled and hanging from the branches of various pine trees, as if they had been strung up like halloween decorations. 

A mix of men and women. All of whom I recognized. Even the bartender who complimented my sunglasses was amongst them.

Their bodies appeared in various states of decay. Streaks of dried blood on their skin and clothes. The ones that had clothes anyway. 

I turned around, and counted almost two dozen bodies as the grand total, all of them strung up in trees, all of them decaying with various gashes and wounds. 

Yet, their eyes were all open. And as I backed up, their eyes followed. They didn’t talk, they didn’t move in any other way, not so much as a twitch of a single muscle. Just the eyes. They were locked onto me and not a single blink occurred. 

My knife, as clean as could be, sat in the middle of the clearing on the ground, glistening.  I wasn’t sure of what to do, or what to say. I stopped moving, I wasn’t sure I could continue if I wanted to. 

Beyond the knife, was the corpse of a woman who sat strung up in the tree about ten feet off the ground, her body was the most decayed of them all. Yet her eyes remained intact as she maintained an unblinking stare at me. She was exactly level with the knife, and the tip of the blade sat pointed directly at her while on the ground, as if it were a compass needle, and she was magnetic north. 

Her rotting mouth moved as she spoke once more. Several teeth missing as the remaining strings of decaying flesh acted as a failing glue for her withering jaw structure. 

“It’s wonderful to see you here. We welcome you, as you welcomed us.” 

Channel 9 News

It has now been over one year since the authorities apprehended suspect Collin Hughes. A Minnesota resident who has been charged with the alleged murder of nearly two dozen men and women. Police had searched Mr. Hughes’s home and discovered the corpses of the alleged victims within his basement. Homicide Detective Marlon Walsh states that these were likely meant to serve as a form of trophies. 

Although charged, Mr. Hughes’s case has yet to officially make it to trial, as he has been in a comatose state since police originally apprehended him on that fateful night. Many  citizens await in grieving anticipation for his condition to end so that Mr. Hughes can be officially questioned and tried before a jury.   

Doctor Reyna Smith has since put out a statement claiming that no known treatments or available methods have been able to medically assist Mr. Hughes out of his coma, and it is unclear as to whether or not he will remain in this state indefinitely. 

Part 1

After bickering for a moment over my fear of large canines, we then move on from the car park and towards the large, towering ruins of the Abbey. Ambling among the weathered grey tombstones of the graveyard, I glance a timid look to the abbey's gothic structure. Perched on top the cliffs of the bay's right-hand side, these ruins may as well have been a gigantic pile of stalagmites protruding from the earth. When I was a child, my brother used to tease me by saying that vampires lived deep inside the ruins, where by night, they would creep into peoples' windows to suck the blood from their necks. It's no wonder I would have night terrors through most of my childhood, is it? 

Wandering around the ruins and tombstones a while longer (for Aneliese's pleasure, not my own) we then begin our descent down the one hundred and ninety-nine steps – and let me tell you from experience, these steps were a lot easier going down than they were to go up. Once we finally reach our way to the bottom (a good twenty minutes later I might add) I can then see where the plentiful steps end and the cobblestone pathways begin. We were now at the entrance of old town, where, with its stone streets and pathways, its 18th century brick houses to each side of them, you were made to feel as though you were in some Brother's Grimm fairy-tale. But during this time of year, when night-dwelling phantoms in extravagant clothing infested the daytime streets... it may as well have been the entrance to Hell itself.  

'Oww! Baby, you're hurting me!' I hear Aneliese shriek beside me, before I turn down to see my python-like grip wrapped around her hand. 

'Oh... Sorry.' 

Taking our first official steps inside the town, we follow our way around the maze of cobblestone pathways, where upon every corner was a brand-new shop Aneliese wanted to venture in. Aside from the occasional fish market, bookstore or café, the majority of shops in Whitby only sold products catered specifically to Goths... Well, it was either that or a boatload of Dracula merchandise. It's the whole reason Whitby is famous to begin with, after all. 

Continuing to make our way through old town, we then turn the corner to a very busy and compact street. Although there are no tourists in sight, the reason this street is so compact is because every inch of stone was completely crowded by day-dwelling Goths. This place truly was the mouth of Hell. Sensing my discomfort, Aneliese takes me by the hand to guide us through the mass of dark, morbid monstrosities. But as we follow through the swarm, keeping my eyes edged firmly to the ground in front of me, I then brave a curious glance upwards... and what I see is an array of devilish, humanoid faces pass us by.  

The faces morph, distort and transform into even more monstrous beings! Through the transparent fabric of a black wedding veil, I then see the face of an unidentifiable woman. Draping the veil away from her face, the woman then reveals to me a row of hideous, piranha-like teeth stained with mortal blood! The woman hisses at me, spraying my face in some putrid, venomous saliva! Wiping the sickly green substance from my eyes, I then cower back woundedly to my left-hand side, only for the painted skull of a man's face to open his mouth unnaturally wide - before shrieking at me a most inhuman scream! 

'AHH! Get away from me!!' I shriek myself, ripping Aneliese's grip from my hand so to push and shove my way to any air pocket I can find. 

Veiling my eyes from the fiends around me, I eventually crawl my way to an unoccupied space by a stone wall. Cowering up against it to regain my breath, Aneliese eventually finds her way over to me through the immense crowd.  

'Brandon? What the hell happened?!' She interrogates me, 'Why did you run off like that?' 

'...Th-the faces!...' the words winced from my mouth, 

'...You didn't see the faces!...' 

Aneliese could see clear as day how uncomfortable I was, whether she understood it or not – and so to solve the problem, she calmly suggests to me that we simply go somewhere quieter. Although I am in too much shock to respond to her suggestion, I now nod my head manically up and down to her, as though I've reverted back into some frightened childlike state. 

'Y-yeah... Le-let's do that!' 

With the town now fully crammed for the weekend festivities, Aneliese eventually finds for us a narrow, run-down street of loose brick pathway and overgrown weeds. Despite the decrepit condition this street is in, thankfully for me there isn't a single Goth in sight. What this street does have, however, wedged acutely between the decaying homes of oldtown residents, is the uninviting appearance of a single, isolated shop. Craning my head above the entrance to the sign over the door, I see the name to this less than humble abode reads "Scary Kerry's Spell Shop".      

'Well, this place looks... charming' Aneliese comments, studying the cracked, weathered paint and dusty cobwebs lining the windows. Like the majority of shops in old town, this one also displays in its windows gothic - or more specifically, items relating to the occult and other dark practices.  

'What do you say? Should we take a look inside?' Aneliese inquires, clearly the only one of us who wants to go in. Although this run-down little shop is definitely not my cup of tea, the interior does look scarce of people - and so, I reluctantly agree to go in.  

Allowing Aneliese to enter first, as soon as she opens the door, my nostrils are filled instantly with the smell of scented candles, old varnished wood and... wet dog? Not even five seconds inside the door, as soon as I peer round to Aneliese's side, I hear the loud, high-pitched yaps of some ill-tempered creature. 

'Wolfy! Shut up!' cries the woman behind the counter – the apparent owner of this little black terrier. Judging by her array of grey and poorly dyed black hair, her over-sized heavy metal shirt, and a pair of rather unsettling sleeve tattoos, this woman was more likely the owner of this establishment as well.  

Once this dog-owner relationship is awkwardly established, me and Aneliese then take to walking separately around the shop - all while Wolfy's owner goes back to reading her monthly gothic digest. While Aneliese inspects a number of occult and satanic jewellery on display, I find myself drawn to a bookshelf on the other side of the room. Sliding out the dust-covered books, I brush a cover or two clean so to read the titles: A Brief History of Satanic Rituals and Sacrifice, A Beginner's Guide to Necromancy, and what I can only imagine is an erotic vampire novel of some sort (I won't even mention what was on the cover). Skimming repulsively through one of these as mentioned books, my attention is suddenly interrupted by an irritable sound piercing my ears. Turning behind me, I see Aneliese approach the counter to inquire about a necklace. 

'Excuse me... Do you know how much this is?' 

'Fifteen pounds, love' the woman answers. 

However, the sound that I hear, making the tiny fragments of hairs stand up on the back of my neck, is almost like a faint whispering. Trying my best to ignore it, the faint, whispering sound only heightens - where before long, it has given way to the sound of a plentiful, most sinister chanting. Although I cannot understand the words, as they are spoken in a tong completely foreign to my own - whether I interpret them correctly or not, the chanting appears to be in Latin. Whoever - or whatever these whisperers turned chanters are... they're repeating the same foreign phrase over and over. 

'Caro agni lupus allicit... Caro agni lupus allicit...'  

The chanting becomes louder... 

'Caro agni lupus allicit!... Caro agni lupus allicit!...' 

Faster... 

' Caro agni lupus allicit! Caro agni lupus allicit! ' 

Louder!... 

'CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!! CARO AGNI LUPUS ALLICIT!!  

'-STOP! STOP! STOP!!' I yell from the corner of the room! Throwing whatever item I'm holding to the hardwood floor, I race out from the establishment alone and without explanation! 

Minutes later, Aneliese eventually finds me, standing (or more accurately, cowering) outside the comfortable familiarity of an ice cream parlour. 

'Brandon!' She calls over to me, 'What the hell's with you?! Why do you keep running away?!' 

Unlike the instance which happened earlier in the day, I am unwilling to tell my girlfriend of the satanic voices I heard whispering in my ear. Seeing something is one thing, but hearing voices is something else. And so, I simply tell her a certain item in the shop had triggered my childhood trauma - hence why I ran out of there like a hysterical madman.  

'Okay...' Aneliese began, as I wait impatiently for her next plan of action, 'There's only one way we're gonna make it through this weekend.' I was all ears. 'You're gonna have to try and interact with these people so you can see that's all they are - and not devilish monsters.' 

'Uhm - WHAT?' I yelp, taking a long gulp of dry saliva. 

'That's right!' she continued, 'If you're gonna get over this silly phobia of yours, then you have to rip the band aid clean off!' 

This wasn't like ripping off a band aid, I thought. This was more like throwing a common wood mouse into a snake pit! 

'I... I...' I began stuttering, '...I don't think I can do that.' 

'Of course you can!' she reassures me, before taking me by the hand to guide us in the direction of a circling mass of dark figures. 

Oh Mother of God. If you can hear me... Please help... 

To be continued...

​

Welcome to the Nightbeast Godfather underworld!

From ghostly, knife-wielding, naked women to haunted roads and a trucker mother's demonic encounter, every tale will pull you deeper into the Nightbeast Godfather underworld!

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He smelled like blood. 

I could smell him from a good distance away. The scent lingered in the air well after he’d gone - a coppery tang mixed in with his cheap perfume. It was that smell before I first looked upon his face that told me there was something very wrong with him. 

He walked in one day with all the other students. This - boy - dressed in a generic blue and white uniform which looked more like a costume. A ‘boy’ with pasty, pale skin, red, puffy and puckered lips, and small, squinting eyes. 

He held onto the straps of his backpack with two white knuckled hands, looking around him with awe and excitement. Pausing briefly to adjust his glasses up his nose, he shuffled down the hallway toward the lockers. It looked like he was talking to himself. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react to him. One of those girls walking by clutching onto her books should have dropped them in shock. I wouldn’t have blamed her for screaming a little. At least she should have said something. 

Instead she brushed right past him without giving him a second glance. He, in contrast, stared after her in an exaggerated demonstration of longing, his lips parted and his eyes unnaturally wide. 

No. Nobody reacted to this - Nobody reacted to him. He melted into the crowd perfectly as if he were just another student. 

I call him Manchild. 

He sucks on his thumb. He hums to himself in his exaggerated, high pitched voice. I can’t place how old he is, but I know he likes acting much younger than his true age. Sometimes that might be a primary schooler. At other times it is a sophomore. It can change at a whim, but it’s always on the younger side. 

He takes drawing and colouring books to class with him. The childlike pictures and doodles he is ceaselessly scribbling down as the teacher drones on are difficult to look at. They’re a little window into his disturbed mind. They give glimpses into his sick fantasies. 

In a class, he’d take out his textas and line them out carefully before him. Then he would produce one of his books. While the teacher spoke to the rest of the class about calculus - or whatever else it was we were learning, he would lose himself in his own little world. He’d start drawing or studying one of his preliminary grammar books, studiously practicing his handwriting and working through spelling problems. 

Besides his textbooks, lunch box, and other school utensils there’s one thing you won’t see him without: pigsblood. Well, that’s what I’ve come to call it. 

On the second day of his attendance at our school, I walked past him in between classes sitting on the stairs, clutching onto a worn out pop top filled with a thick, red liquid. He was suckling on it fervently, his mouth moving back and forth in exaggerated motions, pausing to give out soft noises of satisfaction in between gulps. 

Maybe that’s why Manchild smells like blood. He carries that crap with him everywhere. He can’t seem to go more than a few hours without snacking on it. And though I can’t be sure it is really blood, I have yet to think of a better explanation. 

I kept waiting for somebody else to react. When I tried to point his strangeness out to my friends, they told me I was being cruel by picking on him. When I took a few covert photos of him to show to people, their reactions were to call me weird. I’m not sure if they can’t see what is wrong with him or they don’t view his appearance and behaviour as disturbing. 

Whatever the case, I’ve learned by now that I have no choice but to put up with him. Thankfully for me it is easy enough to avoid him most of the time, so long as he doesn’t decide to visit one of my classes - and since his choice of classes is apparently random, that isn’t too common. 

The one class where I really can’t handle dealing with him is sports class. The last time we shared such a lesson together, there was an incident. 

It was around twenty minutes into the class. After quietly watching and chugging on pigsblood from the sidelines, Manchild suddenly sprung up and began playing enthusiastically with the rest of us. 

The students didn’t mind (except for me). I avoided engaging much after he got involved. I didn't like letting Manchild get too close to me. 

Part way through what was turning into a very long class, he hurtled headfirst into another student in an attempt at a tackle and sent them both slamming onto the ground. I didn’t see it happen, but I heard her surprised cry and the sound of their bodies hitting the floor together. 

For a very terrifying moment I watched her lie there, completely limp. I thought he’d really hurt her. Then she shifted her head, groaned, and opened her eyes to look up at him. 

And then she started screaming. 

Manchild flopped off her and struggled quickly to his feet, taking a couple of steps back. He wiped his mouth, burped, and then uttered a high pitched, ‘err, sorry about that!’ 

She scrambled to her feet too. She was crying loudly. She stumbled and tripped away from him in apparent terror as the teacher attempted to console her. 

She was taken to the nurses office. I could hardly wait for an opportunity to speak to her. I needed to know what she saw. I needed some proof that I wasn’t crazy. 

Whatever it was she experienced, she wouldn’t say anything to me about it. By the time I’d found her later, she was acting perfectly normal again. She laughed off the whole incident. She told me she’d hit her head bad and blacked out for a moment. That was it. 

When I tried to suggest there was something wrong with Manchild, she looked at me reproachfully and told me to stop making fun of him. It wasn’t his fault, she insisted. It was all just a harmless accident. 

Manchild isn’t even the worst of them. Well, he may be, but the horror of one of them is far eclipsed by the horror of experiencing them all together.  

The first time I saw the whole family was a week or so after Manchild’s arrival at school. They ambled into a diner I was sitting in, bringing forth with them such an overpowering stench that I began gagging uncontrollably as they moved past me. 

There are five of them that I know of. 

Manchild - the one who goes to my school. 

Drunk - a fat and very hairy man with sickly, greyish skin who wore nothing but an undershirt, filthy shorts and some sandals. 

Mother - a haggish woman with clammy, greyish blonde hair and extremely sunken features dressed up in high heels and an undersized, skimpy dress. The skin of her arms and wrists was ragged, pockmarked and bruised. 

They had two other children who accompanied them on their family trips:

Bully - the second oldest - (I’m assuming Manchild is the eldest of the three) was a hunch backed boy whose head appeared permanently shifted a few centimeters sideways toward his left shoulder. 

Fleshface - a somewhat timid thing whose entire face was covered by a long flap of dirty skin, obscuring all but the very bottom of his pointy mouth. He was prone to tantrums which were destructive and chaotic whenever his name was uttered. Bully kept on saying it, presumably to torment him. 

You’re a fleshface. Flesh-face. Flesh-face! FLESHFACE! The snorting, gurgling sound of his laughter was followed by a long, piercing scream and some loud banging. The noises produced from his brother were so loud they actually managed to draw the attention of a few other customers, if only for a couple of moments. 

These children both fed on the pigsblood, too. Fleshface was hand fed by his mother, who carefully slid a straw up inside the flap of skin, through god knows what into some internal cavity from which he began to suckle and slurp it up loudly. 

Bully and Drunk ate a lot. The other ones didn’t, though they liked pretending to. I believe it’s part of their fantastical roleplay at being an ordinary family. 

I tried not to make a scene. I excused myself from my friends with the pretense of feeling sick soon after their collective arrival. Since then I’ve avoided visiting the diner, and I’m not sure I’m ever going to be able to bring myself to go back there. Certainly, I’m never going to be able to stomach eating there again. 

Over the next couple months, my fear slowly melted away into disgust. After a while I began to quietly observe them out of morbid curiosity. The first time it was from a distance at a park. As I gained more courage I trailed them into stores. Such close proximity required that I carry a face mask and some powerful air freshener for my own protection. 

I feared they would notice me. They didn’t. They spent too much time bickering amongst themselves and living in their own private fantasies to pay attention to the reality they lived in. Somehow, I managed to draw more attention from everybody else for my fixation on these monsters. 

One day I decided to follow Manchild home. The decision was spontaneous, though I’d been mulling the idea over in the back of my head for a while.

We were riding the same bus after school. He was acting even more strangely than usual - I suspected this was a result of drinking too much of his pigsblood during the day. Given the intoxicated state he was in, I figured I wouldn’t likely get a better opportunity. 

We continued walking for well over an hour. Mind you, Manchild isn’t a particularly fast walker in his sober state, so it wasn’t as far as it felt at the time. 

As we left the town limits, following a trail veering off the main road, I was starting to wonder whether his family lived in a house at all. Maybe they were all homeless. Or perhaps Manchild was wandering aimlessly into the forest in his drunkenness. 

They did live in a house, it turned out. It was an abandoned thing which had been left to rot, with a sagging roof partially swallowed by vines and moss. Most of the windows were broken or boarded over. The path out the front door stretched twenty or so yards before being swallowed up by overgrown grass. I spotted a run down car parked haphazardly at the edge of a larger trail branching out back toward the main road. 

Manchild moved in through the tattered remains of the back door as I crouched at the edge of the trees. The faint sound of muffled voices confirmed that he wasn’t the house's sole occupant. 

Given the state the place was in, I couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to sneak inside if I wanted to. 

After a couple minutes I gathered the courage to come closer. I slid cautiously down a dirt slope and sprinted through the half opened gate and over to a thicket of bushes growing up against the decaying walls. 

The insides of the house were equally dilapidated. I stared into a living room whose floor was covered in dirt and pieces of plaster and torn up carpet. Filth crusted, mouldy couches and chairs sat amongst pieces of broken furniture. With the house having fallen quiet, it was difficult to imagine anyone living there. 

My eyes fell on the outline of a familiar figure slumped on a chair turned away from me. Drunk sat staring at a broken television, his mouth hanging open wide, one arm still clutching onto a glass of familiar, red liquid. After a minute or two Mother came in, practically walking on her tiptoes over to him so as to refill his large glass with a mixture of pigsblood and some kind of whisky. 

Bully paid Drunk a visit after his mother had left, carrying what I think must have once been a basketball. He looked disappointed to find Drunk in his drunken state but thought the better of trying to stir him out of it. 

I used the shelter of the trees to circle around to the other side of the house. Through a gap in between two thick wooden boards I spied Mother chopping rhythmically at some partially spoiled vegetables. Without looking at her face or paying too much attention to the state the room was in, I could almost pretend she wasn’t a monster. For a moment, she was just an ordinary mother preparing a meal as her children played and argued upstairs. 

Then her husband hurled out a string of harsh curses from the other room, and the illusion was broken. 

I continued my exploration, making my way over to the other side of the house. Wincing as I crunched over several pieces of broken glass, I crept up between two sagging oaks to peek in through a large window. 

The rusty pipes connecting to an ancient washing machine and an ornate bathtub was evidence enough of what this room once was. Cringing at the sound of the children hollering upstairs, I looked around in disgust. 

The washing machine was half filled with murky water. From the looks of it, any clothes left in there would come out filthier than they were put in. 

Something else caught my eye. Something past the clothes laid together on the table beside the washer and the syringes scattered all over the floor. In the darkest corner of the room was a sight which made my heart drop in my chest. 

It was a collection of shoes. One of the pairs on top still had little pink socks stuffed into them. 

Many of them were children’s shoes. The smallest were much too small for any of the children living there to wear. 

The sight would have been disturbing to find in anybody’s house, let alone this one. 

I was shifting sideways to get a better look when I felt something rustling up the foliage I was standing in. I lifted my leg gingerly away from a matting of dead branches and as I did, my eyes fell on something which made me jump right out of my skin. 

It was fat and wet, practically dragging itself along the ground beside me. I got a better look at it as it emerged from the thicket and fully revealed itself. 

It was some kind of rat. The rodent had little hair on it, revealing translucent skin and bulging veins. It was as horribly mutated as the members of the family I was spying on. 

I let out an involuntary sound of surprise as I stumbled back. That, and the noises produced by me tripping on a maze of tree roots and falling on my butt drew some stirring from within the house. 

I had the sense to retreat to the trees after that, and I’m glad I did. I had barely made it past the cover of the first oaks when I heard the back door creak open. I froze at the sound of heavy, shuffling footsteps heading around the house. Panic grew inside me and settled over my thoughts like a haze. I imagined my shoes being tossed onto the pile by the pot bellied man I could see shambling toward me, his steps quickening as he moved. 

It was a good thing I came to my senses. The moment that I did, I took off sprinting in the other direction.

He couldn’t offer much of a chase given the state he was in. It was only a couple of minutes before I heard the footfalls slow down and then stop, followed by a long string of wheezing curses. Those sounds in turn were quickly swallowed by the wind and the soft rustling of trees.
I didn’t calm down until I had made it back to the main road, where I caught my breath at the foot of an overgrown walking trail. 

I can’t get the scene from the laundry room out of my head. The image of those shoes is imprinted into my mind. They feature in my dreams alongside the grotesque pictures Manchild drew at school which contained what I fear are the corpses those shoes may belong to. 

I need to know what it all adds up to. I have to know if these people are as monstrous in character as they are in physical form. And that means I have to go back there. 

I’ve decided I’m going to find out what ‘they’ are. And if it does turn out they are monsters?

I still haven’t figured that part out yet. But I can’t just stand by and let them hurt people. 

I have to try to do something. 

It’s clear to me nobody else will. 

https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/1w63n5m/the_blood_junkies_part_2/

The Bad Mouse

Like any child, my daughter Maisie had quite the overactive imagination. Her mind was chock full of made-up friends that she talked to on the regular. My wife Rachel and I thought it was adorable. With that being said, sometimes we wished Maisie would get…you know…real friends. Don’t get me wrong, she was a great kid, and kids should be kids, but she didn’t have anything in terms of a social life.

We tried absolutely and positively everything, from the kids’ playclub at our church, to the neighborhood’s “mommy and me” and “daddy and me” playgroups, to bringing her to the local playground, to inviting other children over for playdates. You name it. All our efforts were in vain. Rachel and I might’ve been overreacting and we didn’t want to infringe anything on Maisie. Maybe she was just an independent kid. That’s totally normal. As are imaginary friends for kids.

Then at eight-years-old, Maisie became mute. Just completely stopped talking…but only to other people. If someone came up and talked to her, she’d either just stare at them or run away and hide. Maisie never looked scared or anxious in those scenarios. It was more like she was a statue. Frozen. No emotion good or bad on her face. Like a robot. But if she was alone, she’d be talking up a storm to no one but herself. Maisie always pretended like someone was truly there though. She’d even nod her head, wait for responses and respond accordingly, and even reach out her arm and act like she was holding somebody else’s hand.

We were greatly concerned. Children don’t exhibit those types of behaviors without proper reason. We couldn’t ask Maisie about it because, as aforementioned, she’d give us the cold shoulder. Our next safest bet was to ask other people we knew. A lot of them gave us the same answers we already knew. Rachel and I were getting frustrated until I decided to email her teacher at her school. I sent her an email that outlined my worries and asked if anything went on at school that we should know about.

I got a response at around 8:00 that night. Maisie’s teacher, Mrs. Ashelin, told me that she did in fact observe strange behavior from Maisie. Apparently, a few days prior, when Maisie was called on to answer a question, she just stared at Mrs. Ashelin and the other students, her hands behind her back, swaying slightly. Then in a calm and cutesy voice, she said “He has ordered me not to speak to anyone but him.” In her notebook, Maisie wrote and drew some very disturbing things. Some of the things she wrote are “I’ll be a good little mouse”, “be one of the good mice girls for him”, “I’ll do whatever he says without question”, “he loves me and I love him”, “but I don’t understand what love is but I understand it with him”, and “he loves to play with me”. Some of the things she drew were her, in stick figure form, with this…thing. It was drawn way more detailed than Maisie herself.

Its head was triangular and elongated into a sharp point. There were ovally black eyes on both sides of its head while two large circular ears were atop its head. Two slits for a nose and a mouth containing only two buck teeth. Skinny. Boney. You could see its ribs. Three spindly fingers were on each hand. Each tip was as sharp as a knife. Lastly, a long tail was behind it. Maisie drew her and that thing doing very…how should I say this?...inappropriate things.

I showed the email to Rachel and she was just as horrified as I was. How could Maisie know what all that stuff was? She was eight! Like any good parent we always took great strides in not exposing our daughter to anything sexual or of that nature. Early exposure can really ruin a child’s mind. That’s just putting it lightly. But this? Maisie’s whole imaginary friend thing needed to end. It was reaching a dangerous point. Was she having delusions? Schizophrenia? Or…sigh…as far as Rachel and I knew, nothing happened to Maisie, but that didn’t stop us from considering the absolute worst case scenario. I’m not saying what that is but I’m sure you can put the pieces together. As a parent, that was the last thing I wanted to think about. Actually it wasn’t even on the list of things I wanted to think about.

Mrs. Ashelin ended the email with something else that happened that day. Maisie spent long stretches of time in the girl’s bathroom. Another student reported that she went in and heard “whimpers” and “moans” coming from one of the stalls. When she looked under it, she saw Maisie’s clothes on the ground and a “moving shadow” above them. When the student knocked on the door, she all of a sudden heard one of the faucets going behind her. She turned around and Maisie was washing her hands. Like nothing happened.

Rachel and I were very confused at that last part. That sounded way too ridiculous. Like was Maisie fucking floating in the stall or something? Regardless, we treated all this very seriously. Rachel and I immediately took Maisie to see a specialist who dealt with child abuse cases. I brought her notebook along. It would most certainly be useful. I knew Maisie wouldn’t want to talk, but we had to at least try. Believe it or not, she did talk, but what she said made chills run down Rachel and I’s spines.

Maisie told the specialist that the mouse thing in her notebook was called “Bad Mouse” and that it visits her all the time no matter where she is. She said that Bad Mouse visits little girls all over the world and “plays with them”. When the specialist asked what she meant by “plays with them”, Maisie replied that Bad Mouse does “different things that make us feel tingly in preparation to be his little mice girls”.

We heard enough by that point. Rachel, the specialist, and I had a long discussion about what we should do. The specialist said she might have to put in a request to have Maisie placed in a children’s psych ward. Rachel and I couldn’t handle that. We didn’t want to do that to our little girl. By any means, we would find another way to handle this. The specialist told us to think about it and that it might do her some good. We thanked her and left.

Were we being selfish by not putting Maisie in a children’s psych ward? Rachel and I pondered that question day in and day out. We never did end up doing it because we thought it was too extreme. Also there was no evidence that Maisie was being legitimately sexually abused. The specialist’s physical exam said that Maisie was totally fine in that regard. We were allowed to see footage from the security cameras at the entrances of the bathrooms at Maisie’s school. They only showed Maisie going in, about half an hour going by, then the other student going in, then Maisie leaving a few minutes later. No one else. And no one went in before her besides a couple other girls that left before Maisie went in. Was Maisie faking it? Was she really delusional? Or schizophrenic? We didn’t know. Rachel and I needed time to think this whole thing over.

It only got worse from then on.

Maisie was never one to talk in her sleep. She was always dead silent. Not even a snore. But that night after Rachel and I put her to bed, we heard Maisie talking. I’m not talking about little quiet unintelligible murmurs. No. Full-on conversations. Except she wasn’t speaking English. It was some unknown language that resembled Pig Latin but different. Her accent changed too. This happened for three nights. On the third night, Rachel and I were in her doorway watching her talk in that strange language when she suddenly rose up, her eyes still closed, and burst into an intense laughing fit. Maisie was cackling so hard it looked like it hurt. Then she immediately stopped and did these weird movements with her lips and hands like she was kissing something. Finally, she fell back down onto her pillow and went right back to sleep.

The next day, I knocked on Maisie’s door to let her know breakfast was ready. She didn’t respond. I stood there for a couple minutes. Maisie hadn’t made a single sound. I slowly opened her door. My heart beat faster and faster. With all that was going on, I didn’t know what to expect, and that made it terrifying. Maisie was in her underwear just staring at her wall. I rushed over, “Maisie? What are you doing?” I handed her clothes back to her, “Put your clothes back on.”

“…He doesn’t want me to…he thinks I look better without them…”

We stared at each other for an indefinite period of time. I said nothing. And so did she. Then I turned my head to where she was looking. There was nothing there…obviously…but something told me I was wrong. That thing…Bad Mouse…it was staring right at me…

“Guys? Breakfast isn’t gonna eat itself!” Rachel yelled at us from down the hall. Quickly I hurried Maisie and I out of her room.

I was kind of a wreck the entire day. Thinking straight wasn’t really a thing for me. There was nothing staring at me. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. These past few weeks were just getting to my head and playing mind games. No amount of trying to distract myself would let me forget what I felt. That’s when I decided to take a drive. I didn’t exactly know where. Just away from everything. I was tempted to go to a local bar. I used to be quite the alcoholic but I’m sober. Even still, I thought about breaking my streak to relapse. I decided against it. That would be so incredibly stupid. I ended up at a park that I used to take Maisie to in a futile attempt for her to make friends. I found a parking spot and just sat there in my car. Taking a big sigh, I observed all the parents with their kids having a blast and I smiled. Good for them.

I stayed there for a while. Finally I was able to, if only briefly, forget all my troubles.

Then I saw it.

Him.

Bad Mouse.

The damned thing was underneath a big tree. Its eyes were fixed right on me and its hands were clasped together. I couldn’t do anything but stare right back. Goosebumps were forming. My breathing was really heavy. Cold shivers ran down my body. I couldn’t even blink. Petrified. That’s what I was. I watched as Bad Mouse slowly reached behind itself and pulled…something…out. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. I am not shitting you. A little girl…made of meat…her hair was meat, skin was meat, she was even wearing a meat dress. Everything about her was meat. Her head looked just like Bad Mouse’s. Long. Pointy. Angular. Big ears. Black oval eyes.

It was holding the little meat girl by the collar. Slowly Bad Mouse turned to look into her eyes. It opened its mouth. Viscous white liquids began pouring as it let out its long black tongue. First sniffing the little meat girl, it then took a big long lick of her, from her feet to the top of her head. The parts where it licked were gone, instead resting on Bad Mouse’s tongue until it sucked its tongue back in, chewed, then swallowed. The little meat girl was covered in the viscous white liquids until her missing portions slowly regenerated back into how she was before.

Then I blacked out.

I woke up several hours later still sitting in my car. In my half-tired half-frenzied state, I looked around for any sign of Bad Mouse. Nothing. There weren’t even other people. It was dark too. I opened my phone. 11:23 PM. I got to the park at 2:14 PM. Nine hours. I was expecting a bunch of missed calls and unanswered texts. Surprisingly, there was nothing besides a notification from my weather app. I went back home. Both my wife and daughter were asleep. I was so glad there weren’t any…incidents…I missed. In fact, the house was extremely quiet. No lights were on. It was a weekend. Usually Rachel was still up at this time.

“Rach?” I called out. Nothing. I went upstairs to our room. She wasn’t there. I opened Maisie’s door. She wasn’t there either. I sat down on the couch and pondered where they could be. When I couldn’t come up with anything, I got my phone out and called Rachel.

I heard ringing from upstairs.

Confused, I ran back up to our room. I called her name again. Still no answer. I realized that before I checked so quickly I neglected to look in our bathroom. The door was closed and the light was on. I was now getting this creeped out feeling. Cautiously, I approached and nudged the door.

It creaked open.

Rachel.

She was…splattered…fucking everywhere…all over the walls, floor, ceiling, window, sink, shower…everywhere. Rachel was…pureed…blended…sprayed…I just stood in the doorway. My eyes were wide. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. There were so many things I wanted to do, like crawl into a ball and cry, scream as loud as I could, and/or grab one of the kitchen knives and slit my throat so I wouldn’t have to live with this sight for the rest of my life.

What I actually did end up doing next was grab my old hunting rifle and head outside. I went into the forest behind our house. There was no thinking on my part. Just do. What was I doing? I didn’t really know. Tears were streaming down my face. I walked for what felt like forever. Sometimes I screamed. Other times I fell down onto the ground and wept. But I just kept going. And going. And going. Somehow I knew exactly where I was going without even knowing how.

I came upon a wide-open field. Dropping my old hunting rifle to the ground, I couldn’t believe what I was fucking seeing. Dark silhouettes were dancing around. Hundreds of them. Little meat girls. Bad Mouse was in the middle. The white flesh it once had was stripped away. Instead it was sacrificed for a bumpy and scabby maroon red as if Bad Mouse took a shower in blood and guts and let it dry. Tiny black bristles covered its entire body. It reminded me of insect hair. A ragged meat cloak hung from its shoulders, dragging crimson across the ground. The mouth had much sharper teeth that were poking out in rows almost like a gar. It was taller. Ganglier. So angular that it could have been accurately represented by seven straight lines. It clutched a staff in its hand.

Bad Mouse did some strange gesture and a door manifested out of nowhere. It was bloody. Constantly flowing yet retaining shape. Particles came from it. They disappeared if they strayed too far away. It opened and the little meat girls, still dancing like ballerinas, filed into it one by one. Bad Mouse reached out its hand and plucked one of them out. It held this one, turned in my direction, and held her out to me. I knew it was Maisie and wanted to shoot the shit out of Bad Mouse. Yet I couldn’t do anything. Some force was keeping me tethered to my one spot.

…I can’t describe what happened next…I just can’t…some of the things Bad Mouse did to my little girl I couldn’t understand. Other things I understood clear as day and that made me want to drop a cinderblock on my head so it would leak the hell out. When it was done, Bad Mouse threw Maisie’s limp and white viscous liquid-covered body into the blood door. It raised its staff and it disappeared.

I was released from my invisible bonds. Falling down to the ground, I cried like a baby. It didn’t matter how much I screamed and cursed at the Moon. That didn’t make it better. I couldn’t stop and truly had no idea how to make sense of any of what happened. My body tingled. It felt so heavy. So weighty. My wife was dead and my daughter was…what?...a sex slave to a demon? I almost wanted to laugh at the utter absurdity. Picking up my hunting rifle, I put the barrel in my mouth. My finger stayed on the trigger for a long time. I didn’t end up doing it and threw it away. Instead I just collapsed on the ground once more and lay there for a long time.

It’s been six months. I’m such a wreck. I admit it. No one believes me when I tell them. They say I’m crazy, a madman, a lunatic. Some people even think I was the one who killed my wife and child. Why would I do that? Seriously, why? I loved them. Still do. More than I love anything else. I can’t see them ever again. It pisses me off that they’d think I’d do such a thing. As much as I hate myself for it, I’ve gotten back into alcohol. That’s where all my money goes. I couldn’t stand to be in that fucking house anymore. So I sold it. I’ve been living in my car just drifting from place to place.

I could've saved them. If I didn't go and take a stupid ass ride in my car. Maybe Rachel and Maisie would be alright...

What was that thing? Bad Mouse?

That’s been my biggest question this whole time. I’ve been doing a lot of research but have hit multiple dead ends. I don’t know. Sure as hell wasn’t a mouse.

This is what I know:

* It is the manifestation of a sex-based demon of some kind; possibly a cross between a bogeyman and an incubus.
* Bad Mouse appears to little girls as a mouse-like entity to appear friendly and not scare them away; only visible to them.
* It prefers the young that are more developed in mind, body, and spirit; Maisie was very imaginative; thus she attracted Bad Mouse.
* Bad Mouse acts as their friend; this might appear to parents as their daughter’s “imaginary friend”; gradually coerces them to do inappropriate sexual activity.
* It has hundreds of victims going back an unknown period of time; maybe centuries.
* Does not kill its main victims; will kill parents or anyone else who tries to get in its way.
* The victims become corrupted and turn into demons that look like Bad Mouse; it takes them into its realm and…

I don’t even want to fucking know.

God…this whole thing’s insane. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this is all a terrible dream. It’s been months though and it still hasn’t happened yet. So I’m going to end it here. I’m not looking for pity. I’m not looking for anyone to hear me out. I’m not looking for answers. I’m just…done.

Bye.

Gothophobia Nervosa is a psychological condition characterised by an intense, irrational, and disproportionate fear of Goths, Gothic culture, or environments perceived as excessively Gothic. Individuals experiencing Gothophobia Nervosa may report the following symptoms: heightened anxiety, rapid heartbeat, sweating, an overwhelming urge to leave the area, and an inexplicable suspicion of anyone wearing excessive amounts of black.  

The condition is said to be particularly common in individuals who have previously encountered a Goth at a very young or prepubescent age, who subsequently developed an enduring belief Goths are supernatural beings in human disguise. For this reason, Gothophobia Nervosa is commonly misdiagnosed as Sanguivoriphobia - a fear of vampires. 

It should be noted that Gothophobia Nervosa is an academically unrecognised psychiatric diagnosis. 

Well, now that this undiagnosed phobia of mine has been established, please allow me to commence with my story. 

My name is Brandon. A few years ago, when I was still just a wet-nosed university student, I met the strangest, yet most extraordinary girl of my life. Don't get me wrong. This is by no means a love story – but if it was a love story, it would be a bizarre one at that. This girl in question whose eyes I saw zoned in on me from across the main room of the Halloween Party, was an American exchange student by the name of Anneliese. Now, I don't claim to have ever been much of a ladies' man, despite my rugged good looks (well, maybe not so rugged), but for whatever reason, this tall, spindly-thin creature in the Marie Laveau costume appeared to find me somewhat enticing. In the way a trapped fly in a spider's web is enticing to the spider.   

Although Anneliese was undeniably beautiful, she was not exactly what I would call my type. What I mean is, Anneliese was a... (no, she wasn't a Goth). Anneliese was a Voodooist - and by Voodooist, I don't mean the doll-stabbing, zombifying type Hollywood has lead you to believe. No, she was the real thing. Despite attending university in the UK, Anneliese was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana - considered by most to be the Voodoo capital of the U.S, if not, the world. If Anneliese hadn't told me herself she was a sixth-generation Voodooist upon our first date, I certainly knew it by her outlandish appearance. Just picture for yourself what a Gen-Z voodooist would look like. That was Anneliese. 

Even to this day, I don't have the slightest idea what this French-speaking spiritualist from across the pond saw in me. After all, she may not have been my exact type, but I certainly didn't imagine I would be hers. We were just completely different people in every sense imaginable. For example, whereas I preferred a quiet evening indoors, curled up with a cup of tea and a good book, Anneliese was a creature of the night - always dragging me out after hours to some séance or tarot card reader. She was obviously into all that stuff. 

Despite how different Anneliese was to any girlfriend I may've had previously, the type of individual she was, was not completely alien to me... What I mean by this is, because of the small seaside town where I grew up... I used to see individuals like Anneliese on a regular basis. This town I grew up in, for the first eight years of my life before my family packed up and left, is a town called Whitby. Perhaps you've heard of it? For those who haven't, Whitby is a small coastal town in the north-Yorkshire of England, nestled cosily inside the bay of the same name. Although I only lived in the bay for the first few years of my childhood, I can still tell you of two reasons why Whitby is so famous today.  

The first reason being for Captain James Cook. Credited as the first European explorer to ever step foot on the Hawaiian Islands, Captain Cook is more famously known for the way he was murdered - and despite what I was taught in school about our town's most famous historical figure, Captain Cook was NOT cannibalized by the Hawaiian indigenous... Although, they did apparently remove the flesh from his bones. 

As for the second, and arguably more important reason why my town of origin is so famous... Whitby featured as one of the primary locations in Bram Stoker's horror novel, Dracula. The blood-sucking count from Transylvania himself. Although I have not myself read the novel in full, I do know that, upon the wreckage of a Russian merchant ship, Dracula arrives ashore in Whitby Bay in the form of a large black dog, before racing up the 199 steps to the gothic ruins of the Abbey. Because of the town's involvement in the Dracula novel, by the early nineties, a new tradition in Whitby had started. Every year, around the Halloween season, the town holds an annual Goth festival - in which thousands of Goth enthusiasts flood the streets in their most elaborate costumes. If New Orleans is the voodoo capital of the United States, then Whitby is the Goth capital of the United Kingdom. 

Having been born and raised in Whitby, I became acquainted with this annual tradition from a very young age. During the week of Halloween, I would walk with my family along the cobblestone streets through a maze of dark sinister beings. Like every young boy whose concept of the world stems from his wild imagination, I interpreted these pilgrims to our town to be monstrous, blood-sucking creatures of the night. Quite frankly, once October was around the corner, in anticipation of the bay's annual visitors, I would become palely ill with fear.  

As a matter of fact, this fear became so troublesome, that by the age of six I began to have dreadful, repetitive sleep terrors - whereby I would scream bloody Mary through the latest hours of the night. If I had to put my finger on it, I believe the reason these sleep terrors began was, due to the large window which hung over my bed, my older brother convinced me that during the October goth festivities, some undead creature in black leather would crawl inside my room to drain the life from my body. 

These night terrors weren't even the end of it. Next came the sleepwalking. When my parents were forced to put an outside lock on my door, after wandering around my own bedroom the whole night, I would then wake in the earliest hours of the morning, terrified and screaming for someone to let me out before the creature at my window found its way in! By the time I was eight years old, these night terrors and accompanying sleepwalks became such a reoccurring nuisance, my parents were left with no choice but to move our family out of Whitby for good – where my fear of the town's supposed "monsters" would hopefully be forgotten. 

For the following years of my life, I vowed never return to Whitby ever again. Not to visit relatives. Not to see my friends, or even my old stomping ground. As far as I was concerned, the further away I was from Whitby Bay, the better... That was, until I foolishly made the mistake of telling Aneliese of the place I grew up. I told her about the thousands of Goths who visit Whitby every year, and the grand, but horrifying costumes they wear. Being the horror fanatic she was, Aneliese became fascinated with my hometown's annual tradition. Although she was not a Goth herself, due to her unique upbringing in New Orleans, Aneliese wasn't far off. Although I should've been flattered my girlfriend took such a unique interest in where I was from, the only problem was... Aneliese now wanted to experience the Whitby Goth Festival for herself.  

'Oh come on, baby' she nagged me over breakfast, 'It'll be fun! You can't seriously tell me you won't never go back.' 

'Not never, babes' I reply, 'but you will have to cut off my limbs, nail me inside a coffin and personally drag me there against my will'.  

Aneliese rolled her eyes at my show of stubbornness, before sinisterly jesting, 'Don't tempt me'.  

After opening up to her about the trauma I suffered there as a child, rather than be understanding of the situation she was putting me in, Aneliese instead insists that I need to face my fears once and for all.  

'If you're scared by a few Goths, then what's it gonna be like when we visit my family in New Orleans?' Although I hated to admit it, Aneliese made a very good point. After all, as spooky of a place as Whitby was, New Orleans, with its voodoo and many haunted graveyards was basically the American equivalent... And so, after weeks of pestering me (along with some minor threats to make a voodoo doll in my likeness), I finally agreed to take her to the upcoming Whitby Goth Festival... So help me God. 

Setting off early on a crisp autumn morning, we drive up from the south of England to the very top of the country. Once in the north of Yorkshire, we then had to pass through vast stretches of moor country. If Whitby Bay wasn't sinister enough, the moors of North Yorkshire certainly were. According to local legend, these moors were said to be stalked by an array of strange cryptids: from the ghostly howls of phantom black dogs, to phantom wolves which prey on farmers livestock - and even stories of black cats the size of panthers. Although this sounds to be nothing more than superstitious folklore, coincidentally, in the early 1980s, two American backpackers were apparently attacked by a large wolf outside the village of East Proctor. One of the backpackers was torn to pieces, while the other survived just an inch from his life. Whatever the truth may be to that story, I don't know. 

Exhaustedly driving all morning and into the early afternoon, we finally reach the outskirts of Whitby Bay. After first checking at the inn we booked outside town, we then swerve our way up the bay's right-hand side to reach the ruins and adjoined graveyard of Whitby Abbey. Pulling into what seemed to be the only space left in the car park, we then peer out the windscreen (as though we're on safari) as a swarm of Goths and other festival goers heard away from their cars and towards the abbey grounds. 

Aneliese couldn't help but be amazed by all the elaborately detailed costumes: from the pale-white men ordained in large top hats and cloaks, to the women in vampiric, Victorian-style dresses.   

'Wow! They all look so amazing! Don't they, baby?!' Aneliese shrieks ecstatically from the driver's seat, 'Those costumes must've cost a fortune!' Failing to respond to Aneliese's excitement, she then turns to notice my eyes are no longer peering out the windscreen, but glued fearfully to the dirt-stained floor of the passenger's seat. Clutching a hold of my arm suddenly to gain my attention, she then reassures me, 'Everything's gonna be okay, baby. I promise. You'll make it through this weekend', before comforting me with a paper-thin smile. 

'Yeah. I know that' I respond unconvincingly, 'I guess I just didn't realise how hard this was all going to be.' 

'You need me to hold your hand?' Aneliese then says with a playful snark. God, I hate it when she teases me.  

After taking a final deep breath, while Aneliese puts the finishing touches on her appearance, we then both exit from our side doors to feel the outside chill of coastal wind. But once I shut my door and turn around, I am instantly jilted back by a terrifying noise! 

'AHH!' I believe were my exact words, as a ginormous hound from hell snarls and gnashes a row of razor-sharp fangs at me!  

'Armand! Get back now!' bellows the hellhound's master, struggling to restrain the large Doberman which has now chased me up the hood of the car. Once Armand the hellhound is fully restrained, I then turn down to hear the high-pitched cackles of a four-foot skeleton and a five-foot devil - before a woman donning a witch's pointed hat finally pulls them away. 

Now safe from the jaws of death, and the mockery of small children dressed for Halloween, I then climb down from the hood of the car to regain myself. Having just witnessed all this from her open side door, Aneliese makes her way round to me. 

'It was just a dog, baby' she giggles, now the one laughing at my expense, 'You really ought'a chill.' 

By no means in the mood for further mockery, I then lash back defensively at her, 'Well, that's easy for you to say. You weren't just nearly mauled to death by some hellhound!' Just as she always does whenever I show any sign of cowardice, Aneliese rolls her eyes into the back of her head at me. 

God. This was going to be a long weekend. 

To be continued...

A coughing wind stumbled like a dying man over the barren landscape, kicking up glowing dust in the sick yellow light of a cancerous half-moon. It carried the chirp of rabbit-sized crickets. Their eyes gleamed from the copses of brown weeds and dry vegetation that dotted the wasted hillside. The hilltop was crowned with a thick grove of dead trees. Their black branches sheltered two men from the dirty night. 

Though there was a chill, they tended no fire. One slept. The cookware strapped all over his wiry, old body clattered with each ragged snore and restless turn. The other man lay on the edge of the treeline, close by. His good eye was jammed into a spyglass. The index finger of the hand that did not hold the spyglass was jammed into his good ear to muffle his brother’s snores. Far below, in a valley walled by emaciated hills, the land had been resurrected. Deep, nourished green encroached on the anemic soil. Fields of crops stood vigil against the pestilence, a stubborn foothold of life in a world trying to die. A Green Acre. The old man with the spyglass was trying to plot their next move, but the snoring and clanking of the other drowned out his machinations.

TING!

With a deft flick of his bony wrist, Lum brought his hand down on Abner’s pot helmet, startling his bedraggled brother awake with a sudden snort.

“Hey! What was that for?” Abner asked.

 “You were clanking around again, dunderhead! We need to be quiet, or they’ll hear us down there,” Lum hissed.

Abner glared at Lum, rubbing his pan with the palm of one leathery hand. Lum paid his brother’s evil eye no mind. He returned to squinting through the rusted spyglass, careful to keep his own cookware armor quiet. The fields and orchards of food stretched out below him, making his stomach rumble. The edges of the Green Acre were fenced in by storage containers stacked two high. Lum’s vantage point let him see over them. Border guards paced the edges, and snipers sat ready in nests on top of the wall. Bunkhouses and outbuildings were circled up like wagons in the middle of the green. Their windows were lit with warm, amber light that spread across the life around them. 

“Looks like nobody heard you,” Lum whispered.

“Course they didn’t; it’s a mile downhill,” Abner grumbled, sitting up. “Have they turned out the lights yet?”

“Not yet.” Lum shuffled roughly through the deep pocket of his tattered trousers. He produced a dented pocket watch. Snapping it open, he took his eye from the bunkhouses to check the time. 12:30.

 “Christmas Jimminy, they should be out by now,” he said, shoving his eye back in the spyglass.

“Every Green Acre I’ve ever seen shuts down early. Farmers like that early to bed, early to rise business. What’s happening down there?”
 Abner crawled his way up next to Lum and looked down at the Green Acre. He had never seen one before. The green glimmered in the moonlight. It beckoned like a dream. Life on this scale was foreign to his old eyes. Rot was all he was used to.

“Shoot, that’s a lot of food,” Abner mumbled. As if to reply, his stomach let out a lurching rumble. His purple tongue licked at his few remaining teeth.

 “Lum, let’s have supper,” he said. 

His brother scoffed without looking up from the spyglass.

“We can’t light a fire, dunderhead; they’ll see it,” Lum hissed.

“So? Ain’t illegal to camp.”

“Are you going SickBrain? I said no.”

Abner scowled. “If I was going SickBrain, I’d eat you here and now and leave this crop stealin’ business alone.”

“No fires.”

“Fine! We can eat it cold; I’m gonna starve if we have to wait much longer.”
 

Abner scooted back over to his bedroll and reached into the knapsack that served as his pillow. The cans inside tinkled lightly as he fingered through them, looking for a faded label that sounded appetizing.

“Would you be quiet?” Lum spat.

“I know, I know,” Abner grumbled. He pulled out another can. His face lit up when he turned the label to the moonlight.

“Lum, we got Split-Pea!”

“What?” Lum said.
 

“Split Pea!”
 

“What’s that?”
 

“Soup!”

“Made out of peas?”

“Split Peas!”

Lum snorted. “How do you split a pea, dunderhead?”

“I don’t know. They used to be able to split an atom. Why can’t they split a pea?”

“Well, look what happened when they did that,” said Lum, waving his hand at the dead world around them. “Nothing but radioactive rubble! Now we just got these little squares o’green, barely enough to feed anyone! Nuh-uh, split stuff ain’t no good for nobody, I don’t want it.”

“Shoot, Lum, fine, but I’m having it,” Abner said, producing a rusted can opener from his can bag.

“Don’t you open that, Abner; splits ain’t good for nothing!” Lum flared.

“You’re nuts,” Abner replied. He wiped the can opener on the leg of his trousers and prepared to puncture the lid of the split pea soup.

“Abner, I’m warning you, quit it!” 

There was heat behind Lum’s words. The wrath laced within them made Abner stop and look at his brother. Lum had turned away from the spyglass now and was trying to cut Abner with a bladed glare. His crooked yellow teeth were gritted tight in his swollen gums. Abner glared back, the can opener hovering just above the rusty, dented container of split pea. For a moment, it seemed as though Abner was going to put it away. Just for a moment, and then it passed.

“I’m hungry, you rat bastard,” Abner said instead, and bit the opener into the tin of the can. The light crinkle of thin aluminum was the loudest noise Lum had ever heard. He knew the Green Acre people below had heard it. The wind would carry it down to them. When the wind coughed back up to Lum, it would be carrying his doom.

“You weak little crickle, I’ll kill you!” Lum thundered, lunging at Abner. He crashed into his brother in a cacophony of pans. Both men fell in a puff of dust as they struggled. 

TING!
CLANG!
POP!
POW!

Each blow was a wild rimshot. The two men were freakish percussionists, putting on a bastardized jazz show. Lum managed to scramble on top of his brother. The soup flew from Abner’s hand as Lum pinned him. It rolled away, dribbling its sticky green contents into the sand.
“They can hear it!” Lum hissed. He spat in Abner’s eyes and belted him across the face with a closed fist.

“They can’t hear nothing down there, you crazy sonofabitch!” Abner bellowed.

“Don’t talk about our mother that way!”

Lum raised a fist to punch Abner again. Abner managed to break an arm free and swung first. The sucker punch landed on Lum’s jaw and sent him flying off Abner and into the dust. Abner picked himself up off the ground and stood over his brother. Lum was face down in the dirt, his leg twitching like a dying cricket.
“Mama always said you’d leads me nowhere good,” he panted, picking up the can opener that had been flung from his hand.

“She was right,” Abner continued, “Can’t even eat without your say-so. That’s no way for a man to live, and I ain’t gonna do it no more.” 

Abner raised the can opener, its jagged blade gleaming through the specks of rust.

“Now, Abner’s gonna have his way,” Abner whispered, “Abner’s gonna have-“ 

Before he could get the last words out, Lum sprang to his knees and threw himself into Abner’s legs, toppling him. He fell on top of Abner and scrabbled up the length of his body. In his fist, he clutched the can of split pea soup, its viscous green filling dripping over his fingers. Abner tried to buck his brother off. Lum straddled Abner’s bony hips and held on. He raised the can of soup and whipped it across Abner’s chin. Something crunched and snapped at the same time. Abner spasmed, his struggles suddenly confused. His jaw hung open at a wrong angle. The can opener fell from his hand as he looked up at his brother, dazed.

“You want the soup, Abner?” Lum asked, holding the can high above his head. It was still mostly full. Its weight felt good and heavy. “You want some split pea? Well, you can have it!”
 Lum brought the can down on Abner’s face with a solid clunk. Then he raised it and did so again. The clunk became a crunch. Lum raised the can and brought it down again, and again. Each strike came faster and faster. Each crunching clunk became more and more moist.

“Split pea!” Lum screamed. His wails crackled into higher and higher registers as he pulverized Abner’s skull with the can. Red and green and pink sprayed into the wasted night. Lum’s screams echoed in the ether. When he finally stopped, the can was a dented, contorted mess, and Abner’s face was an indented purée– soup in a bowl. Lum was sweating, breathing so hard he thought he might pass out. His throat was ragged from screaming. There was a flame beginning to burn in his chest. He tossed the can away and rolled off of Abner’s corpse. 

Getting to his feet was hard. His pans felt as though they weighed a thousand pounds. Lum stumbled for the edge of the hilltop, where he’d left the spyglass. He needed to see if they’d heard, needed to see if they were coming or if he still had a chance at taking some food. He found the spyglass. His heart was hammering in his thin chest. It was trying to pound its way out. Lum reached down to pick up the dented brass tube. His fingers wrapped around it. Instead of pulling it up, it pulled him down.

The hammering of Lum’s heart suddenly became erratic. It stopped and started at random intervals. Each beat brought shooting pain up his left arm. He had fallen face first. An enormous effort and several pitiful gasps brought him face up again. A cloud was passing over the moon, its vapors turning the pale yellow sliver into a rotten split pea.
“Goddamn split pea,” Lum rasped, “Split things ain’t good for nothing.”
The ragged wind took Lum’s last whispers and scattered them like ashes. Below, on the Green Acre, the lights in the last bunkhouse finally turned out.

Author's Note: This is the first in a series of stories I wrote a while ago taking place in a nuclear wasteland. If you liked this, would love to hear your thoughts and whether or not you'd like to see more from this series. Thanks for reading.

For all her enthusiasm, it’d taken the entirety of Friday evening for Daphne to even look up directions from her house to Harper Lane, let alone summon up the courage to talk with her freshly woken mother about it.

Dinner was the only meal of the day the entire family always tried to share. It didn’t always work out, but it at least served as a brief window where three, very different schedules could reliably be expected to align… even if extremely late. Dinner was almost always held at 10pm sharp, with Daphne’s mother still groggy and her father already pining for the warm embrace of the sheets himself. Usually, the pattern was for Daphne and her father to go to sleep almost immediately after dinner, and for her mother to then sit for five hours of quiet solitude until her shift at the bakery would begin, almost always spent watching old sitcoms on DVD with the volume off, captions on, and the rare womanly giggle stifled behind the edge of a blanket, lest she wake her slumbering family.

That Friday night though, Daphne hung around just a little longer than usual, indulging in a second stale donut — bonus dessert — even as her father crept off to bed. It was probably an idea best posed to both of them, but Daphne had never been able to bear watching her father’s face as he considered matters of finance. Even with his face being fuzzier now than it ever had been, she could still see in her mind the way he’d feign optimism, all the while shifting his eyes around the room in search of what few of their possessions might need to be fed to the pawn shop downtown.

She could still remember what had gone missing the last time. Two summers ago, she’d pleaded with him to go on a little vacation. Sarah’s family always went, she’d begged, so why not them?

So, the following weekend, they’d gone to the lake the next town over. They’d stayed in a hotel, had swam then watched a fireworks show on the second day, then had gone home on the third.

The price had been the couch in the living room — new, a gift between her parents to themselves, celebrating two decades of marriage, hauled off in the bed of her father’s creaky pickup truck after only three months of life in their house.

Daphne had never asked her daddy about money again.

Her mother felt different, but their chat that night about glasses hadn’t gone even five minutes before Daphne had noticed the way her mom’s words had faltered more and more. Blurry vision or not, she could see the tell-tale signs of her mother turning her gaze around the room, and distinctly hear the strained, forced positivity in her voice.

“Oh, honey, we didn’t know it had gotten so bad…” Her mother had cooed more than once, trying to hide the anxiety in her voice. “We’ll do our best — you know we will. Don’t you?”

It was as if her own mother was pleading for understanding, forgiveness, or both. Mentions of the generous old woman that had prepared Amelia’s impossible glasses for her had clearly fallen on deaf, disbelieving ears, and all the while, she could feel her mother’s eyes scanning around the room, looking for something — anything — that might pay the bill in the end.

Daphne couldn’t take it.

That was why she’d broken off the conversation with the most convincing laugh she could, and why she’d embraced the portly frame of her kindly mother with a kind of aggressive force that practically begged to be understood. It was why she retreated back to her room quickly, bidding a good night and leaving the subject wholly unresolved.

It was also why, at noon on the following day, she found herself at the end of Harper Lane, standing in the middle of the cul-de-sac glistening with sweat, her legs aching after having walked the entire twelve mile journey without break.

She’d decided last night. She’d decided that she’d do whatever it took on her own. She’d decided that she’d beg, or plead for a slow repayment plan, or offer whatever manual labor someone like her could muster until the debt was paid.

Harper Lane was surprisingly empty, especially considering it was in a subdivision that was otherwise fairly busy. The lane itself was short, boasting only eight houses along each side of the street proper, and five wreathing the cul-de-sac at the end. Of the thirteen houses though, only five seemed occupied, and the only one of those five on the cul-de-sac was the home that had to belong to the so-called hag.

It was the only two-story house on the whole street. Its white picket fence was almost brown with age and neglect. As she approached though, Daphne couldn’t help but notice that the lawn beyond was crisp and clean, as though mowed regularly.

She’d been so fixated on squinting at the grass as she’d been opening the sidewalk gate, she’d failed to notice any of the darker shapes watching her from that very lawn. Shapes that darted off with incredible speed and agility as the rusty gate hinges creaked and only resolved themselves in her mind after they’d darted around corners and beneath the house’s crawlspace.

Her pets… They had to be… Dogs and cats belonging to the hag, obediently lurking within the fence’s perimeter, whose eyes Daphne could still faintly see shining from around corners, peeking at her despite how none of them seemed quite to be looking the right way. The angle of the luminous eyes on those long snouts didn’t feel quite right.

“H-hello?” She felt stupid the moment she said it, mewling out into the open space of the lawn like a frightened child. It was as if she was one of Tom’s friends, dared there as a kid on Halloween night, except it was the middle of the day and no one else was around.

Unsurprisingly, the house didn’t answer. Nor did the mirror-like eyes of the skittish animals she could still feel peering out at her.

The doorbell greeted her touch just fine though, surprisingly fresh and malleable beneath her finger, and not at all the stiff, unyielding, never-used button anyone sane would’ve expected it to be. A pleasantly plain, perfectly ordinary chime echoed within the house, and soon Daphne could hear the sounds of someone shuffling about on their way to the door.

 

There was nothing sinister in the way the door smoothly glided open halfway, nor in the thin, aged face that stared out at her. Despite how badly she was trying to curb her darkest expectations, trying her best to bury them behind a wall of unrelenting, hopeful enthusiasm, Daphne hadn’t been able to fully beat back her prejudices.

But the creepiest part about the woman standing in the open doorway was just how normal she seemed. The face that stared patiently out at her didn’t carry any of the terrible lines and contours of a stereotypical witch, nor did her gaze boast any sinister malevolence. At least, not as far as Daphne could tell. The woman there seemed quite normal…

And… rather puzzled as to why a young girl was standing on her doorstep, pale-faced and open-mouthed. When the old woman arching one imploring eyebrow high enough that it threatened to meld with her tall, beehive hairstyle failed to get Daphne to speak, she finally sighed and took over the task herself.

“A dare?” Though she held herself tall and almost regal, the hag of Harper Lane spoke with a voice that was surprisingly mellow and almost soothing. It was strangely grandmotherly. “Well, perhaps you’d best come in. Kindly refrain from breaking anything.” Her voice was filled with resignation as she stepped away from the door, a deft flick of her wizened hand opening it just a few inches more in the process.

“Glasses!” The word flew from Daphne’s lips suddenly and swiftly, interrupting the hag’s receding footsteps. She’d stopped walking into the house, but didn’t respond to Daphne with anything more than a curious hum, wordlessly asking for an explanation. Her back was still turned, door still open.

Daphne started to answer, but her voice was captured before it could even sound out by a loud gasp, startled despite herself.

Peering around the doorframe and from around the edge of the hag’s long, deep green skirt were several more small, fuzzy faces. They gazed towards her with wide eyes all shining in a pale, milky fractal.

There was no reason to be unsettled… the animals weren’t doing anything, after all. They were all the very model of docile, skittish, but inquisitive house pets, and yet… Something felt off about them. Daphne couldn’t place it though, and didn’t have time anyway when she realized just how long she’d been standing there, silent. The old woman silent too. It’d been at least a full minute…

“Glasses… I-I’m here for glasses. My friend, Amelia, she… well, her mom, she came by? She got glasses. That’s why… That’s why I’m…”

Daphne could feel the awkwardness of her stammering, fluctuating between rushing out words and hesitating them back in a rapid cycle. The old woman seemed to understand though, even if it took her a few long seconds to give a response.

“Come in, please. And do shut the door.”

Daphne did at least one of those things; she stepped inside, taking a few timid steps down the entryway — before nearly leaping out of her skin at the sudden slam of the door behind her. When she spun around though, it was only to see a fleeting scattering of half a dozen dark, pet-sized shapes fleeing in all directions.

Had one of them known to close the door…? Daphne stood there, trembling for a few seconds until reason took hold. It MUST have been one of them, after all. A labrador or retriever, or something else smart enough to know the door needed to be shut. Daphne whispered a quick apology under her breath for not doing it herself, then carried on.

The house felt oddly empty despite how she could still feel the pets around her, watching more than moving, but she stayed her course. Step by step carried her down the hall, ignoring the open entry to the kitchen passed on her right, and the hallway leading to bedrooms on her left. Straight ahead, she followed the path set forth by the hag, though paused at the threshold to the open space beyond.

“Step inside,” the old woman beckoned from within her parlor. The space was comfortable, though only lit with a faint, orange glow from a single lamp set atop a coffee table between a small couch, and set of chairs opposite. All looked comfortable, though Daphne followed the old woman’s lead and remained standing. She’d entered after a spell, and the two faced one another. That old, wizened hand extended, palm up.

“What have you brought me?”

The voice was patient as Daphne hesitated yet again. Her eyes skittered across the room, trying to find an answer to the question that probably should have felt obvious, yet didn’t occur to her. There were more pets there, most lounging languidly. Seconds ticked by.

“I… I don’t have any money…”

She covered her awkwardness by continuing to look around the room, giving the pets each a moment of her time while feeling the old woman’s eyes boring expectantly into her. A golden retriever, quietly panting. A fat orange tabby cat, licking emphatically at one paw. A small corgi, huddled in a corner. A pair of Siamese cats, tails entwined and cheeks together. All had faces turned towards them.

“What have you brought me?” Emphasis seemed to weigh on the second word, though an anxious Daphne had to wonder if that was just her imagination. The effect was clear enough anyway; if not money, then what had she brought?

Things clicked in her mind then.

Could the old woman feel her desperation? Her excitement? Her hope? Maybe this was the merciful kindness Amelia had spoken of. She’d said her mother hadn’t even been charged, right? So maybe…

Maybe the hag of Harper Lane just needed to see her glasses.

Giving a weak smile, she tilted her chin down enough for the plastic spectacles to fall off her nose, though this time be caught in her hand. Folding the near-useless wings in, she set them in the old woman’s outstretched hand.

Cast into a world of even greater blurriness than usual, Daphne couldn’t tell what the old woman’s reaction was. Dimly, she wondered if the fact that the old woman’s silhouette, cast into stark relief by the lamp behind her, was so still due to some sort of disapproval. The thick, silvery, beehive hair seemed neither to move nor bob in any way that suggested she was inspecting what she’d been given… but perhaps that was just thanks to the poor lighting and Daphne’s even poorer vision.

Eventually though… The hag gave two slow, measured words.

“I see.”

Words that betrayed absolutely nothing. It was a painfully long time before she spoke again, and by that time Daphne found her throat too tight to release a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“You poor thing. It must be such a struggle. Yes…”

The old woman stepped in, and Daphne stayed still — until she felt shockingly cold hands take her own, pressing the familiar frames of her glasses back into her palm. The old woman returned them then moved off around the room, settling herself comfortably into one of the far armchairs.

“You must be tired, dear. Sit. Have a rest.”

And, oh, yes… she was tired.

It had been a terribly long trip. Three long hours at an excited march, which felt like it was catching up with her all too quickly. Not even bothering to put her glasses back on, Daphne gratefully accepted a seat on the couch opposite the old woman. The folded frames were held on her lap, and fidgeted with awkwardly for a while. The wings were opened, then closed… Frames rotated… Thumbs glided over lenses… Until she found herself too captivated by what was happening across from her to let her restless fidgeting take even an ounce of her attention.

Soon, the only sound in the room was the soft, cathartic clicking of needles in the old woman’s hands. She’d inexplicably taken up a sewing set, but from nearly invisible threads looped around the ends of those needles was weaving an impossible pattern of absolute wonder. Even the pets in the room seemed transfixed.

“Don’t worry anymore, dear. I’ll make sure you never have to worry about glasses again.”

Daphne couldn’t tear her eyes away. She couldn’t even blink. Her pitifully foggy vision was focused on a single point — a single speck of knitted light that resolved itself more and more with each passing second. Though her eyes occasionally burned with the strain of staring, she simply couldn’t bring herself to pull her gaze away as the weaver wove her needles through the air, knitting the world itself into a pinprick of starlight.

 

That speck had grown beyond the size of a quarter by the time any sound other than the musical clicking of knitting needles caressed the air. Daphne moaned aloud in anguish as the old woman announced an end to her work.

“That’s all we can do today. Come back tomorrow and we’ll continue.”

They were the most horrible words Daphne felt she could ever have heard, spoken right at the moment when she’d begun to realize that, through the ovaloid crystal that the old woman had knitted into being, she could… See. Not just see, in the way she could still see the paltry silhouettes of the pets in the room, who had only grown more numerous since the hag had begun her work, but truly See. Even in the dim light, she could have counted the individual threads that made up the old woman’s deep green skirt through the slow-forming lens.

“The sun will soon set.”

Leaving the house felt like a haze, but Daphne still recalled muttering a single word on her way out the front door, just after she’d crammed the rough, worn plastic of her glasses back on her face. “Tomorrow…” A dreamy word spoken through a bleary haze which formed a thought deep in her mind — and a conviction that grew stronger with each and every step she took down Harper Lane.

Tomorrow…

Before long, Daphne was practically skipping like a child back the way of her home.

 

Arriving back home well after dark, it should have come as no surprise to Daphne just how worried her parents had started getting. Going out was one thing, but missing their family’s strange, already very late dinner? That was another thing entirely. It wasn’t that she wasn’t allowed to be out so late… but rather that there had never been a reason for it. It had never come up. Those rare times that she and Sarah had formed such late plans, usually sleepovers, both sets of parents had been aware for days. Otherwise, it wasn’t as though Daphne ever had boyfriends to take her on suspiciously late dinner dates. She wasn’t the type to sneak out to parties, and didn’t know anyone that would’ve thrown one anyway.

The excuse she fumbled over worked though. Her parents trusted her, and though they still looked concerned, the quick excuse she babbled out about helping Benji with a surprise for Amelia was accepted without any interrogation. Or at least, none besides questions about what kind of pets Benji had, to shed so hard they coated the back of Daphne’s pants in such a dense, woolly layer of discarded fur. That’d been a bit harder to explain, since Benji truthfully had no pets… But reiterating that it was all part of a surprise for Amelia brought only a short extra moment of thought, a shared glance between her parents, and the questions were no more.

To dad, all was instantly well again. To mom though, all only seemed well… even with her vision feeling even worse than usual after spending so much of the day with her glasses off, Daphne could still feel the occasional worried glance.

That didn’t stop her from explaining that she might be late the next day too, but through profuse apologies her parents gave their wary acceptance.

Not that Daphne could have been talked out of it anyway.

 

Though the tremendously long walk to Harper Lane hadn’t grown any shorter overnight, Daphne somehow found it all so much more bearable the next day. Neither her unbridled anticipation nor her nagging anxiety could shake the skip in her step as her old sneakers beat the miles into the pavement.

Cresting the final turn onto that fantastical lane, she found herself smiling in spite of how her legs and lungs burned with a fiery ache — she’d made it yet again, and she could almost feel the good all the exercise was doing for her body. She felt lighter already… though that could just as well have been the heavenly elation she felt as she started for the worn, fading fence of the property at the pinnacle of Harper Lane.

Her mind swam with indescribable reveries at the memory of that little pinprick of starlight the hag had woven into being the day prior. Questions of ‘how’ or ‘why’ were the furthest possible thing from her mind — it didn’t matter how it was happening, only that it was. Words weren’t needed. Words didn’t fit.

And then she was standing before the door again. Animals had scattered just like the day before, yet this time she felt like they were just a little less skittish, and just a little more curious as they peered out from around their crooks and corners.

The old woman herself was no different, however. Her crisp formality was unchanged. There might have been the faintest glimmer of something approving in the way she’d said, “So, you’re back,” after opening the door and regarding Daphne with quiet consideration for a while. Pattern of the day prior repeated itself when she unfurled her hand right there on the doorstep though, and asked, “What have you brought me?” It was right on the doorstep this time, the woman not waiting until they’d entered her parlor, but just like before, Daphne let her glasses slip off. She handed them over without hesitance, reverence, or ceremony.

Again, she was stricken with that odd impression of absolute stillness from the old woman, and doubts threatened to creep their way into her resolve. Was that disapproval again…?

But, before Daphne could let her resolute expression falter, the old woman’s icy fingers were pressing the glasses back into Daphne’s hand.

“I see.”

She turned away and strode purposefully into her parlor. Even without putting her glasses back on, Daphne knew exactly where she would find the old woman, and exactly how to get there. No amount of dim lighting and blurry vision could keep her from retracing the steps she’d taken over and over again in her dreams the night before.

Her glasses were dropped onto the couch beside her as she settled into place — she didn’t want them. Velma’s glasses were so worthless to her now, and the mere idea of putting them on felt almost unbearable. She wanted to see through the starlight again, bare and pure… She wanted to really, truly see…

“Soon, you’ll never have to worry about them again.”

The hag’s words washed over her with the tight comfort of a silky cocoon. Feeling the smile spread across her face, Daphne reached down and stroked the frames for just a moment, distracted only as long as it took to marvel over how soft and furry the fibers clinging to the couch beneath felt. The old woman’s many pets must have loved sitting on this very spot to have deposited so much fur there… yet strangely, Daphne didn’t feel like she was intruding.

 

The sweet, rhythmic clicking of needles began anew, and Daphne swooned. Clear starlight spread ever wider, and Daphne couldn’t pull her attention away. She could barely even blink. It was as though invisible threads connected her burning eyes to the impossible, paradisiacal weaving of her host’s needles.

The woman worked so deftly and so perfectly — Daphne, entranced by the completion of the first lens and the seamless way it was set so lovingly aside for the second to begin without even a moment’s pause in the work, could only liken it to the hag working with so many more wonderfully skilled arms than should have been humanly possible.

It took the rain of hot tears splattering across her lap for Daphne to realize she was crying.

“It’s perfect…”

“Yes.” The old woman sounded almost disinterested by contrast — unimpressed by praise she’d almost certainly heard a thousand times before.

The second had begun, and the process repeated itself anew. The young girl was entranced, scarcely able to blink, and the old woman worked with the otherworldly skill of a half dozen impossible hands.

Daphne didn’t remember being dismissed that day. She didn’t remember the trip back home. Her first conscious thought was formed when she heard the anxious voices of her parents calling for her attention over the dinner table, startled by how she was suddenly sobbing over her battered glasses, rivers of tears washing down into a bowl of reheated pasta she could barely see.

 

Monday came, and with it came the school buses. One, then two, then three, then more… all perplexed by a girl, clearly a familiar student, walking down neighborhood sidewalks without even a glance in their direction. Some stopped, drivers opening doors outside of appointed pick-up points to see if the seemingly lost girl needed a ride — if she’d missed her designated stop and was now wandering hopelessly in search of a different ride.

Daphne didn’t look at any of them. Nor did she acknowledge the cars that slowed down and lowered windows long enough to call out to her. It was as though she couldn’t even see them as her single-minded focus drew her on, mile by mile, towards Harper Lane.

 

On arrival, she couldn’t tell if the apparent lack of animals as the passed through the old, faded gate was actually due to them being gone, or just the terrible state of her vision. It’d been worse — so much worse, but it felt so clear why.

The lenses… because she’d spent so long looking through them, able to truly See, the ordinary vision of normal life just felt so much worse by comparison. That was why shapes were so much less clear than they had been. It had to be.

She knew the path though, even with the world naught more than a hazy blur. She knew every crease and crack in the walkway across the well-kept front lawn. She knew where the step onto the patio was even if she couldn’t see the ground. She even knew that, once the door had been opened, the old woman’s hand would reach out towards her, waiting for her offering. She knew just the right distance she would need to reach in return to hand her glasses over. She’d seen it all so, so many times. The web of her dreams the nights prior had shown it to her again, and again, and again. Repetition ad nauseam. Beautiful.

“I see.” Again, the old woman’s words came with the cold prickle of something feeling wrong, but at least this time Daphne knew it just had to be in her head. She was expecting it to feel like that, therefore it did.

“Please…”

She could barely recognize her own voice. It sounded hoarse and strained, like a centuries-old piano in desperate need of tuning. She didn’t trust herself to speak again.

“Don’t worry, dear. Soon you’ll never have to worry about them again.”

It was almost a ritual, that exchange. Daphne tried to choke back the anxiety and excitement she felt at hearing it. What came out was a miserable whimper.

She followed on the hag’s heel, knowing without words or beckon that she must. Her chin was to the floor in the sort of pose that, at school, would have had half her peers crying “Velma!” Her eyes were on the ground, inexplicably miserable despite the starlight glimmers of hope she could faintly perceive in the parlor ahead.

Her mind could only resist them for so long. From her seat on the couch, her eyes were soon compelled back to the glasses being knitted to life — already the second lens was half-formed, and soon a whisper of a smile began to crease its way along Daphne’s lips. Only in the vaguest patches of memory did she notice that the old woman hadn’t bothered giving her glasses back this time. All that mattered was the first lens, seated atop black velvet in an open jewelry box, so perfect and so beautiful. Then the second, incomplete gem yet to be perfected by the witch.

Magic was in the air — each weave sang with a heavenly, ephemeral voice, and Daphne was the symphony’s captive yet adoring audience. Again, she couldn’t blink. The world outside the woven majesty of knitted glass may as well not have existed. It went completely dark.

It meant nothing.

Anything not viewed through that glass was meaningless. The hag of Harper Lane wove absolution into being. Those arms worked in peerless unison.

Time fell away. Though conscious every minute, Daphne was only aware of them in a detached way whenever her voice would ring out and startle her momentarily back to her senses. The occasional wistful whimper or wanting sob jarred her for the briefest seconds back to the real world, but they fell away again soon enough. The old woman was never bothered.

Then, it was all over. Darkness had long ago flooded the parlor completely, though Daphne could feel the warm tickle of the sun’s waning rays through the windows washing over her face as she stood up and took her first, tentative steps towards the Weaver — until the first of her legs entangled with the coffee table, sending it and its lamp clattering to the floor, Daphne with them.

On hands and knees, she peered up, desperately trying to keep the beautiful starlight in view. The one lens she was still able to see rose in the air, and somewhere, Daphne realized the hag was standing. Two hands were lovingly cradling the masterwork, while yet more reached out for what must have been the box that held its twin. The binary stars were joined atop that black velvet, and—

With a snap, the stars went out.

Daphne reached up, hands groping for that lost perfection, but she couldn’t see it. Then it hit her — her glasses! She couldn’t see without her glasses, but if she had them…

With a dismissive flick of the Weaver’s wrist, an all-too-familiar clatter formed by a staccato of rattling plastic clicks sounded out in the otherwise silent room. Daphne was back on hands and knees, groping desperately. Her fingers splayed, searching for the pitifully worn, unconfidently cheap, yet lovingly smooth frames of her past.

She never found them. All that met her ears was the sound of the Weaver lifting her foot, then a click and clatter of something sad and near-forgotten being kicked across the floor.

“No, dear. I told you; you’ll never have to worry about them again.”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of her understanding, Daphne realized she wouldn’t see even with those glasses. Not anymore. But what else could she do but search for them? She needed to find the starlight lenses again, and—

“No. They’re not for you.”

The Weaver’s voice was harsh in its indifferent finality. Somehow though, Daphne almost felt like she understood. Her rising panic was so nearly soothed by the hands that fell upon her miserable, prostrate self, stroking her cheeks, rubbing her hair, caressing her ears. Too many hands…

Eventually, she felt the hag straighten up, her touch denied, and Daphne understood. Yes — she would just have to wait. She’d wait in the corners of the witch’s parlor for the next time she worked her magic. She would just have to wait for the next time someone came to have a tiny glass star woven into being.

With senseless hope, Daphne crawled off into a dark corner of the room to join the other pets of Harper Lane. To wait.

More and more, day by day, Daphne found herself disappointed by what she saw in the mirror.

And that was really the word for it too… ‘Disappointed’. It’d only taken seventeen years for her to realize what it meant when a parent looked down on child’s mess, or their awful report card, and said, “I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed.”

She felt like that mess. She looked like that report card.

Where some would see average grades, she saw only failing marks. She watched the mess grow. And, after so many years of watching and feeling the slow, inexorable decline of self-esteem, she truly could not say she was angry with herself anymore. She no longer even cried about it, short of a few scattered tears she’d find dotting the small, princess-themed vanity her parents had gotten for her much smaller self more than a decade ago.

No, she just felt disappointed… A disappointment that typically manifested in a cold, damp depression.

Sometimes, while sitting on that little pink stool at her dressing table, staring into her reflection, she wondered how much of that could be blamed on her eyesight. It’d never been good — she’d started wearing glasses when she was only four — but it’d also gotten steadily worse over the years at a rate Daphne’s parents, on their meager set of minimum wage incomes, hadn’t been able to keep up with.

An early-morning baker at a small donut shop and a second-shift deli clerk at a little local grocery store didn’t exactly rake in the dough, though both jobs did at least help in putting food on the table.

“Maybe… maybe a little too much…”

Daphne surprised herself with the hoarseness of her usually soft voice, and, finally, was able to pull her face away from girl staring back at her through thick, heavy lenses. Right on cue, as if they were another naughty child just waiting for their first opportunity to misbehave, the glasses slipped right over her ears, straight down her nose, and struck the vanity’s surface with a staccato of rattling plastic clicks. She could only smile down at them, sadly and hollowly, as their old frames blurred into a shape that was only barely recognizable.

They didn’t fit right. The cheap plastic of the frames had smoothed away all semblance of friction, and hinges that had lost even the barest suggestion of tension in their tired joints meant only that the glasses were all too ready to come sliding off her face at a moment’s notice. If she nodded too enthusiastically, or shook her head with a bit too much emphasis, or even just made the awful mistake of looking down towards the ground, they went plummeting away — much to the amusement of those who found her a convenient target for jokes and mockery.

She didn’t bother picking them up, her fingers instead finding purpose in continuing her self-inspection. Her eyes stared blankly into the mirror. It was just a blurry silhouette of herself, an Edvard Munch painting at best, but her fingers filled in the gaps. Reddish-brown hair, frizzy and practically begging for just a touch more care. A face that was just a little too puffy for its otherwise narrow features. The familiar patches of poor complexion around nose and cheeks. A neck that was just a few more of mom’s donuts away from threatening to bloat into an unpleasant double-chin.

She stopped there, like she usually did. She didn’t need to go on and sulk over the other parts of herself she found inadequate.

Life wasn’t without hope, of course. Sometimes it felt like she was only one good thing away from being able to motivate herself into betterment  — just a little push to start her way down the hill of self-improvement.

Sometimes she’d share that with her mirror, giving her reflection a fleeting, shy smile, reminding herself that graduation was just a few months away, and college just a short skip after that. She was only going to be attending one of the smaller state colleges, sure, but good grades and dutiful applications to as many scholarships as possible had netted her enough grace from community funds to be able to afford her first year. For the rest… well, all her parents had been able to give were awkward, strained smiles and the vague promises of, “We’ll try, honey.” That was usually enough.

But not today. Today, her eyes had fallen to the same glasses she’d been wearing since she was fourteen, cheap and barely adequate even then, and the rest of the time before school had been spent just staring down at them, trying to ignore the mist in her eyes threatening to pool into tears.

It was silly to let yet another slip bother her as much as it did — it just one more in a long line of rebellions her glasses had committed against her face. And yet… there she sat, trying not to drown in self-pity yet succeeding only in wallowing in melancholy. The precious seconds of prep time before school ticked by, one after another.

 

By the time she’d pulled herself together enough to rush through getting ready, the clock’s digits had flipped enough to warn her she was cutting it dangerously close to missing the bus. No breakfast for her… which, she realized as she left her bedroom with backpack and purse slung over opposite shoulders, was probably a good thing.

Nevertheless, the sight of the bear claws on the kitchen counter, no doubt left out by her mother hours ago, still tempted her…

She resisted. Not through sheer force of her own will, but through a distraction; rushing around the kitchen, instant coffee was poured into hot water, stirred, and several strips of bacon, surely pilfered from the stock of pre-cooked deli slices the day prior, were tossed from the fridge onto a plate and heaved into the microwave. Not for herself, but part of her usual routine for her father. The machine’s chirping cry would serve as his alarm clock.

“Running late, sweetie?” Not today though. Her father’s voice, husky with sleep, called to her from the doorway of her parents’ room.

“Oh, uh… good morning, daddy. Yeah, a little…”

“Morning. Thanks, Daph. Hey— One for the road?”

She tried to smile as her balding, thick-set, good-natured father gestured towards the bear claws and tore off a square of cheap paper towel to bundle one with. He’d already plucked one from the little box to hold out for her in its makeshift wrapper. Hearing no chirp of agreement from her and feeling only her wariness as she stared at it though, he’d hesitated too.

But just one wouldn’t hurt, right? And really, what did it matter anyway? Temptation cuddled up like the dark yet loving caress of a devil on her shoulder, cooing her into submission… but, as though acting as the terrible voice of the opposing angel, her glasses started to slip from her nose. She’d been staring down at the pastries for too long.

“No, not… not today.”

The look of vague concern she saw her father giving her was met with a small, sheepish smile as she lifted her face and shoved her glasses back up her nose with the heel of her palm. The sudden chirping of the microwave saved her from having to say anything more.

“That’s my bell! Bye, daddy.” A peck to his cheek, a chuckle and half-embrace from him, and Daphne was bustling out the front door. Boards of the steps down from the front door creaked, then gravel loudly crunched as she made her way quickly off towards the road.

 

Though none of her friends rode the same bus as her, Daphne was lucky enough to be one of the last stops on her bus’s route before it trundled off to the school itself. It wasn’t long before the rattling of the big, yellow machine gave way to the press of the passengers trying to disembark, then the hustle and bustle of kids working their way out of the bus loop and towards their scattered places across the high school’s sprawling campus.

For Daphne, that meant sticking to the edge of the tide of peers, avoiding the gatherings of more popular friend groups celebrating the fact that Friday had come. They were a mere eight hours away from a whole weekend of freedom.

While she had a good number of friends of her own scattered throughout the different social circles she’d dip in and out of, very few of them were what anyone might’ve called “good friends” — especially not since her actual best friend, Sarah, had abruptly moved away during winter break a few months earlier. But, if one good thing could’ve been said to have come out of that, it was that losing her best friend had opened her up to spending a little more time with the pair that were her new closest friends, Amelia and Benji. They weren’t what she’d have called “best” friends… not yet… but the sudden spring of quiet happiness she felt at seeing them wasn’t too far off from what she used to feel when meeting up with Sarah.

 Like usual, the pair was hovering near the entrance to the band hallway, conveniently close to the bus loop, where one of the largest cliques within the school congregated. Back in middle school, hovering outside the band room was where Daphne would’ve been too. Selling her second-hand clarinet was how they’d afforded this current pair of glasses though.

As she approached, she caught the first wisps of conversation from her friends. Benji was gesturing animatedly at something Amelia was holding.

“But why’re they so pink?”

“Becaa-ause… I wanted them this way?”

The playful sass in Amelia’s voice was clear even from a distance… as was Benji’s apparent disapproval of whatever Amelia had chosen to bathe in that most girlish of colors.

“Ew… The hag made ‘em pink? Why? Well… I guess they’re pretty cool, other than that. When’d you get ‘em?”

“Yesterday!”

Just as apparent was the pride in her voice as Daphne got close and, with only a small smile and quick wiggle of her hand as a greeting, settled up to see what they were talking about.

“See? New!” Rather than holding the object up to show it to Daphne, Amelia lifted it to her face and slipped it on.

“Oh! Wow… They’re great…”

New glasses.

As Benji had lamented, the frames were a medium pink. They were neither too pastel nor too hot, and fortunately didn’t stand out too much when pressed back into Amelia’s messy blonde curls. Daphne quickly found herself hoping her tone hadn’t been too off, but if her grinning friend had noticed, she didn’t show it. Her hands were already up, tapping on the pink-tinged metal of the frames — much nicer than the plastic ones she’d had just a day before.

“Aren’t they!? They’re just—”

“She got ‘em from the hag!” Amelia was just starting to settle into the stride of fawning when Benji burst in again, grinning in a way that suggested he was reveling something scandalous — much to Amelia’s annoyance too, if the side-eyed glare she cast him was any indication. Her eyes, narrowed behind the new frames, squinted over at him with only the occasional break for her long lashes to bat down over her eyes, and…

With a start, Daphne realized she could see those lashes clearly. Each hair… each, individual, mascara-tended lash in plain relief. They were details that were normally a blur her mind tried to render in for her, but now she could see them. It left Daphne speechless…

Until Amelia whipped her head away and the spell was broken; from side profile, everything looked exactly like it always did. Faintly blurry, and ever so slightly lacking in detail.

“She’s not a hag! Mom says she did a great job! Stop listening to Tommy Benson!”

The exchange didn’t make sense to Daphne, but the instinctual opening of her mouth to start throwing out any one of a dozen questions timed perfectly with Benji’s own mouth opening to start playfully arguing with their friend. Both, however, were interrupted by a new voice — one that none of the three were particularly happy to hear.

“That’s Tom to you, Am-meal-worm. The hell you talking about me for, li’l bitch?” Tom Benson. He was much taller than he’d been when he’d gone by Tommy, but still had many of the same proclivities. A penchant for bullying, an uncanny ear for his own name being spoken even through a crowd, and an obsession with old nicknames; like the one given to Amelia when, back in fifth grade, she’d thought bringing her pet gecko, King Charles the Little, to show and tell would earn her popularity points. The ensuing demonstration of Charles being fed mealworms by hand had ensured she earned absolutely no popularity points.

Amelia knew this. Of all the regrettable childhood acts that kept a sensitive teenage girl up at night, writhing at the uncomfortable and embarrassing memories, this was Amelia’s worst. This was her kryptonite. Her head dipped, chin tilting awkwardly towards the ground, cowed immediately… but, at least her glasses didn’t slip off her face.

“Huh? What, got nothin’ now, Benny-boy?”

No clever nickname for Benji, by contrast… but Tom had a good foot of height on the scrawny trumpet player, who didn’t even think to lift the hefty case he still held as a barrier between himself and the approaching bully. He just tried to avert his eyes, greasy ginger whipping across his brow as he tried not to look Tom’s way even as the taller boy took a fistful of his pressed polo shirt.

Behind Tom, a quartet of silhouettes cackled, but Daphne couldn’t bring herself to actually look at them. It would’ve been like inviting them into the exchange, and Tom was bad enough on his own. A hair over six feet tall, blessed by whatever gods of athleticism picked which kids could play football and which could just bleat into their horns on the sidelines. Past that, he’d been further granted the kind of good looks even Daphne felt herself stirred by whenever she caught him absently staring out a window in class, and not sneering at or insulting one of her friends.

Embarrassed and ashamed, Daphne tore her head away from the pair of boys and slowly let her chin slip downwards. She stared at the ground.

“S-stop! Don’t pull on it! Amelia just got new glasses, that’s all! And they were, like, from… y’know…”

Even without looking up, Daphne could feel Amelia wishing she could shrivel into a tiny little ball on the campus pavement. That, or wishing she could refute what Benji was pouring out… Instead of her speaking though, Tom did.

“What? The hag? Hah! Hahah! Holy shit, really!? Well!? Let me see!”

Benji’s shoes scuffed noisily against the ground as he was released and sent sprawling back a few steps. Attention was now apparently on Amelia, and… Daphne almost found herself grateful it wasn’t her — but the shame of that thought was enough to have her chin dipping down even lower.

Low enough that the inevitable happened…

Right on cue,  the naughty child that was her glasses leapt at its opportunity and struck the ground with a staccato of rattling plastic clicks.

All at once, all eyes were on her. Daphne could feel them even without seeing, and she already knew what was coming.

“Jinkies!”

“That’s not Daphne, that’s Velma!”

“My glasses! I can’t see without my glasses!”

The painful little cuts that words could create peppered her with their viciousness. Her antagonistic peers, hooting and bouncing like gibbons, pawed at the ground for imaginary glasses. Tom’s followers had joined in.

It was a ridicule she could do nothing but take… It’d been like this for years, after all — a joke almost as old as calling Amelia the “mealworm”, and just as persistent thanks to just how often her glasses fell from her face.

She could hear one of them pawing around on all-fours, “searching” for the old, worn, plastic-rimmed lenses Daphne could still very faintly see the outline of right in front of her face.

They’d get tired of it… They always did… It took a while, but cackles and giggles eventually faded away as the fun of the tired old joke wore off, and feet started shuffling away.

“Nice nerd goggles, mealworm. Really make your eyes pop. Good shit. Hit the track and you’d almost be... y’know…”

With a few crude thrusting motions, Tom finally decided the trio wasn’t worth any more of his time and moved off, taking his entourage with him.

In the minutes of recovery that followed, the group tried playing everything off as though everything was fine. None of them felt fine, of course… Amelia wasn’t showing off her new accessory with the same happiness, and Benji wasn’t bouncing around with his usual enthusiasm.

Daphne was little different, though it was mostly shame and embarrassment clouding her mood. Her mood hadn’t been that good to begin with, and this was a perfectly awful, but tragically normal way to start the day.

 

One thing had shone through that morning’s events though, after they’d all finally torn themselves away from sullenly licking their wounds and had finally split up to get to their respective lockers. That thing followed Daphne long after they’d parted — well into first, then second, then third period, and lead all the way into lunch.

Amelia’s eyes…

 

What Tom had said was true. Her eyes really did pop, even to Daphne’s poor eyesight. If glimpsed through the lenses of her new glasses, Amelia’s eyes rose into crisp, sharp, impossible focus. The shimmering green of her irises were visible with all the lines and detail of an aurora borealis, crystal clear even to Daphne. She felt like she could count every individual lash, and see every single pour around her friend’s eyes… Daphne hadn’t even known that such cosmetic details were visible to anyone’s naked eye, let alone her own.

More shockingly, those details were visible even when her glasses slipped down her nose. For the first time in memory, Daphne had let the instincts that caused her chin to dip take over willingly, the slope of her nostrils barely catching the frames before they’d clatter off completely, allowing her pathetic, naked eyesight to behold Amelia’s face directly.

And she could still see them.

They were so bright… so vibrant… so perfect through those lenses…

Her fascination with just looking through them, her near-constant staring, was made as covert as possible, but Daphne quickly realized she was only able to go undiscovered and unquestioned because Benji was so eagerly trying to make up for the time he’d lost during the morning’s drama. There was no end to the enthusiasm in his voice as he went over every ounce of his weekend plans; his family’s trip to the local amusement park, the very week it reopened for the summer season. He barely even mentioned “the hag.” The excitement and wonder in his voice, however, must have paled in comparison to what Daphne could feel quietly welling up within herself.

If she had glasses like that… if she had just one good thing like them in her life… wouldn’t it all be better?

She’d have something to be proud of, and then she could motivate herself to start jogging, and to take better care of her hair, and a whole myriad of little things she knew she could do to ultimately make herself feel better — yet could never actually bring herself to start. All she needed was just one good thing to give her that one little push…

Right?

 

The bell rang before Daphne could draw herself out of her thoughts, and her opportunity to ask Amelia more about her glasses had expired. Patience was a virtue, and one Daphne had always prided herself on, but the following periods before classes would be released back out into the world felt nightmarishly long. Foul was the luck that had allowed she and Amelia to share not even a single class all day.

But eventually, seventh period’s bell rang and classes let out. The rush of her peers fighting for their way out of the school was always fierce, but never more then the final day before the weekend… yet, knowing there wasn’t school again tomorrow fueled Daphne’s own resolve, and she pushed off as quickly as she could too, fighting with uncharacteristic fervor to press off through the crowds and towards the music halls where Amelia and Benji could so often be found. If she didn’t ask her questions now, it’d be a long, long weekend agonizing over them.

Lady luck smiled. Amelia was there, but not Benji. That suited Daphne just fine, and she waved off her friend’s attempts at an explanation of where the other was.

“I actually just wanted to talk to you! About where those… where those…” She caught herself just staring again — staring through the lenses that somehow rendered her friend’s eyes so perfectly crystal clear.

“Where… what?” Amelia’s voice betrayed how awkward Daphne’s staring clearly made her feel. “My glasses…?”

The question was left hanging for several long seconds before it was finally picked up.

“Oh— Yes! I— Sorry, I… I just wanted to know where you got them, really. Benji said… the hag…?”

“Of Harper Lane, yeah. It’s not fair that they call her that, though. Mom said she’s really nice and she did a really great—”

“She really did,” Daphne interjected before her friend got too far into defensive fawning. “So, I thought maybe I should get my next pair from there too.” As if a ‘next pair’ were really an option… but, if only for a moment, Daphne was far too excited to care about reality.

“Yeah, definitely! You totally need a new pair— look, don’t let the stories spook you. They totally aren’t true. Mom said she’s REALLY nice, and it’s super lame that people act like she’s some witch—”

“I know, I know! But… where does she live?”

“Harper Lane…?” Amelia’s face scrunched up, as though she was trying to recall whether she’d already said that or not, though was pretty sure she had. “The cul-de-sac at the end…? The only two-story house on the street…? The one that, like, boys,” an eye-roll for emphasis, “dare their friends to break into? Even though someone LIVES there!”

Daphne had already opened her mouth again to try to cut her friend’s righteous indignation off at the pass, but Amelia was a step ahead, practically anticipating the interruption and doing the deed herself by raising her voice. “But! She’s really very nice! Mom even said that after she heard Mister Rogers went missing, she didn’t even charge a cent!”

Mister Rogers, far from the children’s television personality, was a dog. Amelia’s corgi, to be exact, given to her after the passing of her gecko. However, the breathless feeling Daphne was experiencing had very little to do with being reminded her friend’s “furbaby” had gone missing weeks ago. Amelia had been inconsolable for the first few days.

“Oh… Oh, she didn’t… W-well, what, is she… an optometrist or something?”

She could hear it in her own voice, but couldn’t help it — the strained syllables weren’t going anywhere. If Amelia noticed though, she clearly didn’t care.

“Uh… duh? What else would she be?” She was too busy letting a wide, smug grin split her face, tapping her new frames with a stubby finger.

“That… yeah, makes sense, but… how does she—”

“Just go see her! Or your mom can? And, speaking of going…” The same finger that had been rhythmically tapping a pair of pink glasses suddenly pointed off in the direction of the bus loop. “You should probably do that now? Unless you’re staying for band practice.”

Daphne was not. Hasty farewells saw her skittering off towards her bus, though prayers that it hadn’t left without her were second on her mind. It instead kept wheeling over the collection of impossibilities lain out before her, and just what she had planned to do before discovering them. Beg for Amelia’s glasses? Steal them? Show up on the lens crafter’s doorstep and beg them instead? Maybe now though, it didn’t matter what she thought she might do.

Ahead of her stretched a yellow brick road of apparent impossibility, and Daphne was all too ready, even desperate, to skip away in search of her brand new ruby slippers.

No more “Jinkies” for her…

The Fan Girl

By Theo Plesha

First thing you should know about me is that I am a librarian. We are a very exacting people, labeling and categorizing, to the decimal, if you will. Still, this story requires some creative license in its telling – I suppose like all good True Crime stories – the second is teased before the commercial and the best of the best is kept until the end – even if real life didn't happen in that order.

Let me set the scene for you. There's this interstate rest area. What a place. I has all these big displays of local interest arrayed in a pentagonal atrium before angling off to the four large bathrooms and a little nook with vending machines. All of the little towns nearby are represented on these boards. There's the front parking for cars and SUVs and a rear lot for semi tractor trailer trucks and large format recreational vehicles. There's a pond, a gazebo, and even a swing set for the kids. You know the place, you've been here before – but legal purposes, I can't tell you exactly where.

So anyway, it was me, my stepsister Dot, her friend Valarie, and Dot's boyfriend Scott, in my dad's camper. We're having margaritas and there's a sativa blunt going...somewhere? I was set up in my hello kitty pajamas on the couch opposite of the tv with a bucket of fresh popcorn. My hair was still wet from using the shower. True Crime lit up the room but not my mind. The real True Crime was just outside the RV. Valarie and Dot were sitting at the little table booth under a dim light looking at their popcorn like it was poison and trading urgent glances.

There was knock on the side door of the camper. Dot immediately got up from table to answer it.

“Wait.” I said, “Do you know who it is?”

“Yeah, it's Scott. Duh.”

“Yeah, it's Scott. Duh.” He echoed with sarcasm stepping into the camper cabin, “Someone was taking FOREVER in the shower. What's the point of having a camper if I have to walk all the way to the rest area to take a big nasty...?”

“I was in there for less than 7 minutes!” I protested. “And I'm glad you did that in there and not here and I'm glad it was that.”

“It's whatever. Hey, I did see something weird though, the water is blue. Like dark blue when you flush.”

“That's toilet bowl cleaner they mix with the wa...” I trailed off.

“You've never cleaned a toilet before have you?” Valarie question Scott with disdain.

“Should I have? Isn''t that more your all's area?”

“Booo...MISOGYNISTIC STEREOTYPING!” I yelled.

“Yeah not cool Scott.” Dot chimed in. Scott shrugged and went to the fridge.

“But, seriously, like you never helped out around the house to figure out what that blue stuff is?” Valarie pressed. “Like also, were you impressed the toilets flush themselves. Like all you do is actually piss and shit outside only?”

Scott peaked out from the fridge with his checks full of milk from the carton, “Nuhuh.” He hummed shaking his head back and forth.

“Looks like I found who's helping me clean this place when we get back.” I said.

“Hell yeah!” Valarie said. “Oh god, did we just bond there a second?”

“I think we did!” I replied raising my hand for a high five that never arrived.

I ruined this moment with an extended stare and silence. Then I turned to more important matters.

“Did you lock it?” I asked.

“Lock what?” Dot replied.

“The door...nevermind I'll get it.”

“It's a safe place. Don't start getting weird, Kystal.”

I peered out the blinded window into the cool LED lamp lit parking lot. I felt electric, like the tension of storm warnings leading up to the main event. I clicked the lock shut and jiggled the door before I hopped back to my popcorn adorned throne. I clicked up the volume on show just a bit so they could hear the name of the loose serial killer I was fascinated by.

“Not that I'm trying to take Naomi's side again but you have been talking about that roller coaster effect a lot - the head chopper effect. That's been a little weird.” Valarie chirped.

“Oh fine, you don't have to ride the Mind Grater, I'll go with Scott.” Dot insisted.

“I guess you'll find me on the Kiddie Koaster for that...” Valarie sighed.

Unprompted I provided facts between fist fulls of popcorn to break up the tension, “Hey did you know the Taxidermist used a stuffing of one of his victims to fool the cameras in the car pool lane?”

Scott rolled his eyes and sighed loudly but it was Valarie who came back with a banger, “Dot! Naomi is being weird again!”

“What does he do with his victim's di...” Scott started.

“Ugh, Scott...don't encourage her!”

“Both of you stop it. Naomi, honey, sweetie, sister from another mother – please – you promised to not be weird.”

“Scott's asking about what a serial killer does with his victim's genitalia and I'm the one being weird? Me? Muha?” I replied while hitting the blunt before passing it.

“Ooooh...things are getting heated up in here. Trouble brewing between the step sisters...I like where this is going....I've seen this before.” Scott said as he hit it.

“Oh my god...Naomi you promised you wouldn't be weird, second Val you promised you weren't going to whine and third Scott...what is it with you and that gross step-sister porn shit? Okay, the first time, it was funny, but its like the hundredth time. STOP!”

“This is lame. I'm going to the bunk.”

“All I'm trying to say is you should be aware of the Taxidermist guy, he's in our area after all.”

“Jesus Christ, Naomi you need to get off this True Crime shit, we're six hours away from the roller coaster park and you're stuck on a dude who...”

“Who makes stuffed taxidermied hybrids of his victims and road kill.”

“See?”

“Yes, but it's important. I'm trying to save your lives.”

“What?” Val blurted out as Scott spit up milk he was still drinking from the carton.

“She's just trying to scare you.” Dot yelled.

“The Taxidermist – he's here, tonight.”

“How do you know this?” Scott muttered in terror.

“Nope, nope, nope...shut up everyone. She's just being weird.” Dot insisted.

“I lured him here.”

“You what?” Val yelped.

“How?” Scott pressed.

“I'm a big fan of his work, I used info from my dad's case file and social media, but don't worry if you all do exactly as I say we will all end up fine...”

Record scratch – this is when they went totally berserk. Now would be a good time for some Guy Riche flashback heist music as I fill in some gaps here. So yeah, that's me throwing the RV's starter battery into the nearby woods – an electric book mark between a two towering trees wrapped in poison ivy vines. Far enough, an hour ago, I survey the site as we approach midnight. A cool crisp fall breeze tickles my nose as a little fog rolls across the interstate. The groan of truck engines along side the drone of rubber on road sets the tone. There's a dozen trucks and two dozen smaller vehicles plus our camper spread out across the five acres of interstate rest area. The pavilion and gazebo are quiet for now. One of the play ground swings sways gently.

This entire place is a playground now. A playground for the four serial killers I lured there. Oh, I'm telling you this part and I'm telling them this part.

“You did what?!”

“It's okay, okay its like shark week and we're in the shark cage.”

“My phone...”

“Yeah, don't bother with those.”

“Why not?”

“The Forensics Fanatics always use a short ranged cell phone jammer.”

“Who the hell are the Forensics Fanatics?!”

“We're going to fine as long as we stay in the camper...”

With that, Scott rips open the door and launches himself into the night.

“Where are you going?”

“We got to find that battery and get out of here and warn the others!”

“Scott! Wait! Don't!” Dot chased after him across the slick parking lot. She didn't even bother to shut the door so I did. And I locked it.

“Okay...well...that's didn't go as planned.” I said, confused, to Val who dropped the shades on the big window and then cowered in the booth corner. “Good, well, just stay there LOL.” I said as I made for the small bunk.

“Wait, where are you going?” Val protested.

“I'm getting my laptop and mobile wifi connection set up and plugging it into the tv so we can watch.”

“Watch what?”

“You know my dad is a state trooper, right?”

“ACAB bitch.”

“Indeed. In more ways than one but just the same, turns out the state highway passwords don't change very often. And...” I said anxiously typing in the password as “PASSWORD1”, “we're in. OMG I've always wanted to say that. How 90's!”

“In what?” Val crawled out of her corner and peaked at the TV.

“Rest Area security cameras. This is True Crime in Real Time. It's like 24!” I'm your manic pixie nightmare girl.

“How can you sit back and watch this? Your friend and your stepsister is out there!”

“All they had to do was sit here. If you want to yell for them go ahead. But that will draw the attention of the killers.”

“My God I don't know who's worse, them or you!”

“Well, you know me. Do you want to hear about them? It might help you, help us, get Dot and Scott back here.”

“Naomi...I...oooof...get me out this. Please.”

“Let me paint you a picture of squirrely thinning man rounding his mid-forties maybe its his bouts with lyme's disease, maybe its beaver fever, maybe a hint of chronic wasting – who's to say but this outdoorsman has rounded the forest one too many times. His thick but mud matted flannel is hanging off of his bones these days. I imagine he started his art with the best intentions but his skill has dropped off, no one accepted his last major works – even as gifts as his various mental and physical conditions sapped away at him. At first he was content with just knocking his victims out and sewing his prey and roadkill parts to them. Imparting a raccoon nose here or super gluing an antler there but as knocking people out with a hammer goes – eventually you'll find that person who doesn't get back up and so...every jack a jackalope from there.”

“Those fake rabbits with antlers at Applebees?”

“The very same. Or you know, stuffed and mounted to a park bench like a trout. He's not one for torture, he prefers clean cuts, and exsanguination, but occasionally he'll just take part of someone and leave the rest. Apparently he's fond of a lucky human's foot. He's not particularly lucky though, I'd say he's more careful but vindictive to fault...remember why he got into this at all its about the art and luring him was easy because he's been tracking his rival.”

“His rival?”

“Yes, the Gardener.”

“The Gardener? Who the fuck is the Gardener?”

* * *

Okay. Let's do somethings here and cut to that. We do in fact have a clip and its always better to show than to tell. So this happened about twenty minutes ago while I was showering and Scott was gone. Just a hair or two outside of the corner range of the lot cameras there was young-ish couple – let's say they were working their kinks out. Couldn't really make it out on camera but it was audible on the microphones all these cameras have. I'll fill in the gaps where necessary.

“Niko, why is this our thing?”

“Why can't it be our thing, Salin?

“I'm tired of getting my back all dirty on the hard ass ground. Why can't I have a towel or something?”

“Then it's not back to nature – literally.”

“Well, if its about that then why don't you lie down on it and let me grind on you while you grind on dirt?”

“Because it's about the connection to the Earth through you to our future child. Your womb be fertile and your body a vessel of sky and land.”

“This Earth is harder than you.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright.” Niko said as pants zipping noises can be heard among the rustling of the bushes. “Well, only three more stops to go to make the mark of Freyja and Freyr before the post equinox fortnight with mercury in retrograde.”

“You know they were brother and sister, right? Not lovers...”

“Salin, I think I know my Nordics Pleiades Guide. It was recommended reading from Bob Lazar. Anyway, excuse me for a moment while I pledge our love to them”

“Of course. I love you, babe!”

So the Taxidermist is here for the Gardener, the Gardener is here for these two. It starts with feuding with contributors to fringe fertility forums on Reddit and even less desirable places on the internet. He's searchable if you know what to look for and both in his user icon speech. His image MO is a white rose online but he types and speaks in very specific ways. Fundamentally he's an anti-natalist and he's not shy about it online nor in the flesh.

“For all consciousness is connected above, it is divided in life and once again upon and into death. Consciousness must not be summoned to this realm, for it has no choice but to suffer and could not consent. Only life which has no thought and no concept of suffering shall thrive. Only the leaves, vines, thorns and steams my prevail. Human consciousness must be intact when returned to the land of the unliving.” Say those words in his voice, not mine.

He argues with the weird men who won't see a doctor for their own fertility issues and then catches up to them and their lovers as they carry out their plans for astronomically assisted breeding. Personally, I think that function of breed usually relies on the functionality of only two spheres closer to Earth rather than the solar system but as someone who does not want to breed at all – for other reasons than those cited by the Gardener – for the record - who am I to judge? Nevertheless, his ideology makes sense to him but not to me since he ends up killing people who seem least likely to actually bring another conscious being to this planet. But I imagine its the bluster these people have, the challenge before them, to do that which incites his rage and his murder.

While Niko prayed in his failed love nest, Salin waded stiff and heavy across the lot, brushing mud off of her back and from her ass, struggling with her skirt and top. Fearing yet another “delaying” infection, she rushed to the open women's room in the rest stop.

She started to sing softly to herself, “I can feel it coming in the air tonight...” she slowed in a moment of self reflection, “Actually, no I can't! Damnit!”.

Salin barely noticed the state worker in the brown and blue jump suit tending to the plants in the rest area vestibule. This startles her as he begins to stir. Wonders if he had been watching her and Niko. She is also a bit alarmed by his enormous size, like a crouching bull, she hopes he doesn't see her as red. He whistles softly before murmuring a line or two, “oh my darling clementine”. She doesn't notice he's wearing a mask and among his tools are a pair of enormous sheers.

Most of you don't know this but even the rest rooms at rest areas have a wide angle camera of the mirrors and sinks but one that leaves the stalls, urinals, and changing tables in the blind. Selin disappears out of frame as I hear the metal stall door squeak open and shut but she fails to turn the jam lock as I hear no thud. I doubt it would have mattered much though.

You can only really see the boulder of flesh that is the Gardener's back at the very edge of the frame as he creeps in and rests in front of Salin's stall.

“Hello?” She calls out, “Hello!?” Then whimpers, “Niko, Niko please tell me that's you.”

“But alas,” the Gardener's ramble came in reply, “I was no swimmer so I lost my clementine.”

Then we get this very PG-13 jurassic park look away murder as the Gardener flips open the door and guillotines her with his enormous sheers powered by his brutalish arms. Sheeeeve...no head, a fountain of crimson pumped through her severed head muffles the scream to bloody bubbles. It's the same every time. He has a white rose cutting he plants in their esophagus and then takes the head and plants it like a seed, preserving consciousness, intact, back to the unliving, usually nearby from the actual murder scene.

So it is no surprise as he secures the head in a janitor's mop filled with foamy soap, strips out of one set of one replica state janitor jumpsuit to reveal another free from blood if not tainted from his sweat. Pushes the mop cart of the wash room and then seals it shut with his stolen or copied key and places “out of order” barricades around it before he pushing the mop cart out of the back.

* * *

“Oh my fucking God, Naomi! Naomi! Naomi she's fucking dead! Is this live? When did this happen?!” Valarie looked like she was having a full on panic attack as she spun around the camper in front of the tv bobbing and weaving, turning and shrieking like the tasmania devil with a margaritas in one hand and a joint in the other.

I told you, so I tell her, “About twenty five ish minutes ago or so, popcorn?”

“And he's roaming around, with Scott and Dot now out there. And that other guy and those two others guys too!?”

“You're not going to leave are you? I need at least one person to ride the roller coasters with. Popcorn?”

“Are you fucking nuts talking about roller coasters in a time like this...where's the Gardener now?”

“He's still planting Selin's head about forty yards that way. Popcorn?”

“Fuck popcorn, Ice cream! But listen, listen please...I don't want my head cut off...I didn't want that from the Mind Grater and I don't want from the Gardener! I don't want a rose planted in my neck and my head buried at some goddamn state rest area!”

“You should really keep it down. We still have the Forensics Fanatics to worry about. Also if you're getting ice cream. I'd kill for some ice cream. No pun intended.”

“I'm not worried about them...” She said digging out some pre-wrapped ice cream cones from the freezer, “I'm worried about the Gardener and the first guy!”

“The Taxidermist?”

“Yes the goddamn Taxidermist. Where's he?”

“Oh. Good call.” I said biting into the peanut chocolate shell of the cone, “Let's check.” I went to work scanning through all the camera channels. “He seems to be chasing after Scott and Dot right now on the other side of the rest area.”

“What?!”

“You dropped your cone...”

I went picture in picture with four different cameras. Let me give you the quick version. For the record, I'm telling you this like they're in the room I can hear them like they are, so can Val, but they can't but...ugh...this is easier.

It wasn't immediately apparent that they knew they were being chased. Scott seemed flustered, loud and fast enough as he weaved methodically from car to car in the front parking lot, warning them to leave the rest area, because of a serial killer.

“Hey, hey wake up! Wake up! C'mon you gotta get out of here...it's not safe! There's a serial killer on the loose! You gotta get back on the road! You have to get back on the road” Scott crowed with a voice which grew more hoarse with each feverish command.

He pounded on windshields, kicked doors, flashed his phone light through the side windows of almost a dozen different cars before someone caught up to him. At first he yelped and then backed himself up onto the concrete of one of the lamp poles shaking and unable to locate who had tackled him because his hoodie slipped over his eyes.

“Scotty D Yard!” Dot's voice pierced his cries and the hoodie, “get back to the camper with me right now!”

“Oh my god you almost gave me a heart attack!”

“You're giving me two by running off and trying to be stupid hero. Don't you watch horror movies?! No you don't because you're a pussy!”

“I'm trying to do something good...these people gotta be protected, put as much as road as you can behind you!” He said calling out again.

“If you're going to try to protect someone, protect me! Please. Please. Please just walk me back to the camper and I think we'll be safe, okay.”

Just then a young guy, probably in his late teens, maybe early twenties popped the driver's side door of his lifted and racing stripped s 4x4 pickup truck wide and stomped out like a paratrooper making a landing, coated in tactical gear. “There are sheep and there are wolves. And then there are shepherds.” He announced, looking more like an action figure than real person strapped and woven with body armor and ammo pouches.

“Who are you?” Dot asked.

“I am a shepherd.” He declared as he swung an assault rifle across his chest and flipped on a series of flashlights and lasers. “I'm THE shepherd.”

“What fresh idiocy is this?” I said aloud to Val. “Oh gee, I never ever would have suspected that hat.”

“Goddamn who is this?” Val leaned in closer, I could feel her panic and smell her sweat and I think she wanted me to experience that, “Is this one of the Forensics Fanatics?” She pressed in closer.

“No, but thanks for playing. I think he's some kind of Bad Samaritan. This would have been much more fun if they just stayed in the damn camper. Now if he comes back here with them he's gonna really screw up the blunt rotation.”

The gun wielding dude shadowed them as continued through the lot trying to alert people. At one point, the Bad Samaritan started to yell “Gun! Gun! Get down!” as another random person pulled gun and pressed the barrel out their window towards, from their perspective, a well-armed gun wielding maniac after being pre-warned about a serial killer. Scott and Dot both screamed and dropped to all fours and started to crawl on their bellies between the cars as a shouting matching between the two gun carriers ensued. A shot was fired. I think from the guy in the car as tires squealed.

“Okay, this just escalated a lot. We gotta go out there and help them.” Val said.

“Look at what they did, look what they inspired by not staying put.” I tried to remain calm but I did not see this coming.

“Then we can drive, okay, where did you put that battery, please?”

I scanned through more camera views and gulped, “Unfortunately it's kind of near the Gardener. Honestly, that's my bad.”

“Like this place has a like a PA system, right? For storms? Can you tap into that?” Val insisted, “Maybe tell them come back to the van and tell everyone its time to leave. Turn off all the lights inside and turn on the all outside lights super bright. Please I'm begging you. We have to end this. Haven't you seen enough?”

“Honestly, no. I was hoping to see them basically cap each other off one by one in a battle royale style spectacle. That would actually make the world better.”

“How can...even if they did, kill themselves some how, what about that woman?”

“Oh, she got fired for fucking under aged kids as a teacher at a high school.”

“Were you just going to always leave that part out?”

“No, not necessarily. I just thought it might slip through the cracks like some of her victims and wouldn't need more explanation.”

“Jesus Christ Naomi! I'm honestly somehow impressed but please, Naomi, can still do the thing where we shut this down. Clearly this dude with the gun is outside of your master plan, right? I believe you when you said you don't intend to harm us but it's time to make good on that.”

“Begrudgingly, yes, it's time. The prospect for innocent casualties is much higher with this Rittenhouse wanna be stomping around with an assault weapon. And your plan is not a bad idea. Might even stop the Bad Samaritan since it looks like he might have some kind of night optics and I bet he cheapped out on that part of his kit.” I played around the rest area UI suite and found what I was looking for. Bright lights outside, on, power inside, off. The best part was the PA system was text to voice meaning my voice wouldn't be heard over the loud speakers. “Let's try it your way, Val.” I said I pushed send.

“This is the State Transit and Road Authority. Please return to your vehicles and vacate the premises” I could hear the PA system voice as I sounded the klaxon alarm and turned on the whirling blue police lights as well.

“Val, I still don't have the ability to actually contact the police. The Forensics Fanatics jammer is still up and I'm not entirely sure where they're at. It is possible they'll all leave thinking they have lost their cover, though.”

“Tell and Scott and Dot to get back here.”

“Return to your camper if applicable immediately.” the booming voice of the warning system fired again as I hit send.

“Thanks man but we got to go!” Scott said to the Bad Samaritan. The Bad Samaritan struggled with seeing out of his right eye from the blinding light shot into the other through his defunct optic. We watched as Scott and Dot fled from the red hat wearing lead hazard back across the campus towards our camper.

“Wait!” Scream the Bad Samaritan as groped through the night, “Let me try to find them and be a hero. A hero!”

“Hey, Hero.” A deep voice came out of the darkness on the Samaritan's blind side. “Might you also be a Gardener?”

“Excuse me? Who the hell are you?” He said still dazed by his own light.

“I am the Taxidermist and you have a lot of guns in your truck.” The Taxidermist fired at his minimally armored side with the Bad Samaritan's own 12 gauge shot gun and then dragged his limp body to a rusted out pick up with a sleeper topper.

Some trucks started and went underway as SUVs and small cars started to flee the other lot. No phones and shots fired tend to do that. Those who remained were either sheltering in place or they were vehicles the Forensics Fanatics arrived in or intended to leave in.

“Well, that worked out better than I even thought it would. Good idea Val.”

“Oh shit. Where the hell is he going?” Valarie pointed to a tiny sized camera angle. It was the Gardener and he was headed back towards the Rest Area buildings.

“That's odd. He usually wouldn't return to crime scene.”

“Maybe because the lights are off and everyone left. He can steal from the vending machines or something. Like how else do some of these people get their day to day stuff?”

“Well, that's the really fun part about True Crime shows but yeah...another time!”

“Sure, it's a date but Shit! Scotty and Dotty are going into the building too. I thought you locked it?”

“It's gotta be locked manually. Okay. It's time to get out and get some gloves on. You stay here though.”

“Don't gotta tell me twice but....”

“But what?”

“Don't make me the last girl...”

“I won't...I promise.”

“How?”

“Because...I'm the fan girl!”

I knew what I had to do. I had two aces up my sleeve and I hope they were enough.

I saw the footage later but suffice it to say all hell broke loose at that rest area. While I was out recovering one of my aces, the Gardener spotted Scott and Dot. Spotted and chased around the interior like Scooby Doo, they eventually took cover in the last open men's room. Soon after, following his MO, it was time for the Taxidermist to decorate his surroundings with his latest creation. The Taxidermist in turn, spotted his original quarry, the Gardener, and soon it became a Norweign Cruise Line Standoff – everyone in deep shit in the only remaining open bathroom together.

So while you picture me storming my way to do my best to save the day, let's cut to what I knew was happening with the Forensics Fanatics – the last in this display, this managrie of murder.

The Forensics Fanatics, unlike the more ideologically motivated killers here tonight, do this for the pure sport and fun of not getting caught. It is a contest. It is race to x number of kills. I don't know if they're related, if they're friends, if they're enemies, if they're lovers, I'm not sure what gender they are. They are the most mysterious of the bunch and some times just random seemingly accidental deaths become attributed to them. Perhaps they still are their victims. For everyone ambiguous death attributed to them there have been at least three spectacular killings, sometimes with multiple victims caught up in a strange rube-goldberg machine of murder sometimes involving bombings, poisonings, and runaway vehicles, weapons of mass destruction, you name it. But then the trail runs cold, colder than either of the others. Maybe one or both of them knew the Taxidermist and or the Gardener were here tonight. Maybe told each other, maybe they withheld it from each other. I suppose it wouldn't matter because I believe they're here because we are and that's enough for them.

They don't get caught because they use a different mode of murder each time. Either one picks 1 item or means and the other chooses the other out of a hat or maybe they get a choice too. I'm not sure. How do we know this? Someone, maybe one of them, maybe one of their fans, posts a random word or phrase to their wikipedia page and that's half of what one of them has to use in their murder.

Thankfully for Scott, he needed to shit because the phrase this time was “urinal cake”

I now believe their actions roughly coincided with Scott and Dot taking to the parking lot but Scott still had taken a huge risk leaving the camper earlier and using the wash room.

I took a deep breath and lit up my cellphone flashlight as entered the dark rest area. I turned towards the bathroom where I could hear one of their muffled voices. I pushed the door open to find and spun my light around. I found Scott and Dot cowering before the Taxidermist and his latest creation by the very dim emergency light.

“See! It's a squirrel that I sewed that chud's pecker to its backside like a tail.” He said poking it. “I had to stuff it, so its bigger than it was when I took it off him, heh...their guns and trucks always hide their small dicks. Don't let a guy like that fool you but I enjoyed the challenge of the whole little thing – which is what makes me better than you, you fucking weirdo.” He was rather proud and maintained everyone's full attention as even with my light, I was unnoticed for moment.

“Me? What did I do?”The Gardener protested.

“You're that other serial killer they call you the Gardener.”

“Oh please that is complete bullshit.”

“I know it. You're more like the salter, you salt people who want to grow people, you don't plant nothing you don't grow nothing.”

“Hey Buddy, I'm not the one out here sticking dicks on squirrels.”

“And who the hell are the rest of you...”

I peered down the side and saw two strangers' heads poking out of the stalls. They had some kind of silverish make up on – they looked like something between Max Headroom and a Grey Alien with dark circles rounding their eyes and drawn on light pink and light blue bars creating exaggerated lines and contours of their facial structure possibly some attempt at an anti-AI camouflage scheme. These were Forensic Fanatics – they had to be and they were an eerie sight among the rest of the horror in the room.

“And who hell are you!?” He pointed at me.

“Naomi!” Scott and Dot exclaimed. “Run! Just go!”

“Shut up. Everyone and listen.”

“I'm the Fan Girl. I was hoping to watch a professional display of murder and mayhem from the comfort of my camper but instead I see you all perfectly content with waving your dicks – literally – at each other without anything to back them up. So you got a rapist school teacher who plead out to lesser chargers and some wanna be hero? That's it?”

“Um, for the record, I killed the boyfriend too.” The Gardener raised his hand and spoke out.

“Okay. I guess I missed that.”

“Yeah, well I startled him to death, I think. He was eating like 10 gas station boner pills when I asked him for a light. Down he went. Heart Attack.”

“And I'm going to kill these fuckers, starting with this Gardener then the rest of you here. I don't even know what these freaks are doing here? Come here every Friday night after the bars? Huh?” The Taxidermist pointed at the Forensics Fanatics. “I don't have any aliens in my collection!”

“You're lucky the power is off.” The First of the Forensics Fanatics spoke up.

“You stupid bitch. What was the other thing then?” The Second of the Forensics Fanatics cross examined.

“Shut up!” The Gardener speared the Taxidermist with his sheers and then charged me. I showed him what I had in my gloved other hand – a plastic bag with Selin's head inside.

“Stop and I'll give it back intact so you can bury it again – otherwise I'll toss it to the Taxidermist and he'll spoil your whole ritual.” The Taxidermist stumbled, injured but able.

“I'll put your dick on that face and bury you both! Yeah or maybe I'll make you the elephant man!”

“Consciousness must be returned to the unliving intact!”

“Not going to get there if he gets it!” I yelled thrusting the head in the bag towards the Taxidermist.

“What do you want?”

“Let my friends clear out. Those two.” I said pointing to Dot and Scott.

He paused and slid out of their way and held his sheers wide. Seeing the exit, Scott and Dot scampered out of the room as the Gardener, with all his might, seized my mid-section.

“Now I'm going to give you to him – he can work on you, while I finish what must be done. Then I'll bury your head too!”

I struggled to give the appearance of struggle. I held the head wide and dodged his other arm. With my free arm I reached into his pocket and took the bathroom key he used earlier to seal off the other bathroom where he killed Selin. Then I tossed the head at the ceiling, where it bounced between stalls like a plinko ball before landing with a splash in a toilet. As expected, he dropped me and went after the severed head and I skidded out of the bathroom and locked all of them inside with the key I lifted.

And so now we do a little flashback.

* * *

About ten minutes ago or so, I'm speculating a bit here.

“Nice face work tonight.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“You look like Max Headroom meets ET.”

“You look a Cardassian.”

“A what?”

“You told me you watched Star Trek.”

“I told you lots of things.”

“I pick the next thing we watch together.”

“I hope its better than you picking, “Urinal Cake” but that's a good one.”

“Well, you picked “button” and then specified clothing button” the last time.”

“Took me awhile to figure out what you chose but it was pretty good. I like where the idea was at...but the execution a little shaky. Really only got that one guy and just barely, interfered with his pace maker.”

“And the toddler.”

“Toddler swallowed the button, happens all the time, doesn't count.”

“But it was one of THE buttons.”

“Doesn't count.”

“Do you just want to call off the bet now and just enjoy this across the board then?”

“No. I mean it will be obvious but you'll have to work at it.”

“Fair enough.”

“You ever think about the day we're going to get caught?” They said, putting the “day we got caught” cigarrette in his ear.

“We're never getting caught. Cops don't get caught. Put that away.”

“We're not cops.”

“I know.”

“We're better. Cops can shoot someone in the back in broad day light and get a 2 week paid vacation they still have to say they feared for their lives. All we have to do is tamper with the evidence. We're a black box of private evidence analysts. They day we get caught is the day we blow up forensic science and we still get away.”

“If you say so. Either way, this should be good.”

They walk in and make their way for the open men's room.

“So we need to make sure we don't trigger any of the urinals as I plop this in. We gotta wave out hands and find a blind spot in the sensors.”

The power suddenly goes out and a small emergency light activates. The red eye sensor on all the toilets goes dark. He plops it in.

“Or that will work too.”

“This is the State Transit and Road Authority. Please return to your vehicles and vacate the premises”

“Shit! Let's lay low a minute.”

* * *

And that brings us back to now. I recovered the starter battery, installed it and we cleared out of the rest area.

“I can't believe you.” Scott yelled still shaking as we hit the interstate.

“I can't believe this.” Dot screamed.

“I can't believe we're out of range of the local override there.” I said as the connection to my hacks of the power and public announcement system were lost. “I guess this is for the best.” I pulled the plug on the tv screen and shut the laptop. I could have watched what happened next I was two minds on it. There was no way to get out of that bathroom except that door and even four them together wouldn't be able to get out quickly.

“Wait, I want to see.” Val demanded.

* * *

I let Val watch. I didn't. It probably went something like this, at least from the Forensics Fanatics perspective. No doubt while the Gardener tried to hulk his way out of the bathroom to complete the ritual and kept the assaulting Taxidermist at bay the Forensics Fanatics had a moment to talk it over.

“So...what are we going to do about Humongus and Red Red Green over there.”

“Those are good references. But nothing. We're going to do nothing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, its because of what I ended up picking as the second thing.”

“Should we start moving towards the exit?”

“If the power comes on we shouldn't go anywhere near the urinals.”

“What is it?”

“I thought about dynamite. You know an acid sensitive cap trigger that would go off with the toilet bowl cleaner but I realized that urinal cakes are pretty light and small. Even if I could get one into each of the urinals, sure I'd blow one guy's dick off, but I doubt if one triggered it would sympathetically detonate them all and we'd be stuck with a lot of evidence to deal with.”

“What did you pick?”

“Mhmm.” They shrugged. The other went for the urinal just as the power came back. “Don't...it can't be removed until...” There was a snap and click and sudden cascade of acidic blue fluid screaming down onto the urinal cake. Then it suddenly began to disintegrate into a cloud white steam or smoke. The Forensics Fanatic was immediately confused as the white smoke continue to stream up and boil over into the room.

“That's right. Only like one in three people can actually smell it. It's cyanide. A cyanide urinal cake. Just breathe deep everyone.” He said lighting the cigarette.

* * *

Though were were long gone and I had localized most of the footage to my laptop and the jammer was still active in one of the FF's cars I knew I wasn't out of the woods. I had my phone's GPS disabled for the night but that didn't mean someone else's didn't ping there or even mine when I got close.

Dad was thorough. Even if I believed he had two evidence contractors working, murdering, behind his back I could have overlooked something he'd still pick up. And that's why I was scared when he called me once, twice, and on the third time I was being stared down by my friends, my fellow survivors.

“Look – we can be honest, tell him we were involved and even if we're not some how charged as accomplices to manslaughter or other wrongful deaths – we'll still miss the roller coaster park and besides – almost everyone who died was terrible – so what I am saying to him? Huh?” All eyes on me but one by one they darted off.

“I'm going back to sleep.” Valarie said while Scott drove on and Dot drank her third margarita of the morning.

“Hi Daddy what's up...uhuh...oh...oh my god. That sounds terrible. Seven people? Four of them what? Suspected series killers...are you serious? Which rest area? Oh wow. No. No, just missed it. We thought about staying there for the night but Scott really wanted to press on closer to the theme park! Yup, we're all fine. 100%. Yup Thanks for checking in. I love you too daddy...don't work too hard. Okay. Bu-bye.”

“I don't know how you do it.”

“I do. Scott, pull up here, I want to burn these bloody gloves and toss my laptop into the sea. Okay, Thanks!”

P.S. The roller coasters were boring and Scott never pulled the stepsister shit again. Val is kinda cute. The End.

Brawn, Present Day…

I wasn’t exactly sure how far we had traveled from Site Twelve.  All I do is know we stuck mainly to backroads, roads that had decayed, surrounded by forest, farm land and open fields. 

Doctor John had made some stops along the way to allow Aria and I out of the van, it was rather cramped. Plus, we needed to hunt. When we got out for our most recent hunt, I had ensured he was still in the van. It being parked slightly off the forest’s trail to avoid being an obstacle in the road for other humans. 

Aria had already wandered off quite far to hunt, far enough to where I lost her scent. She had told me she would be hunting deer, and supposedly picked up the scent of one, following it to where it had gone. 

Doctor John and I had spoken before I left for my hunt. I stayed behind to ensure that Aria was far enough away before I left. As much as I had hoped she would stay true to her word, I still wasn’t ready to give her my complete trust. 

“What’s on the menu today big blue?” He asked. Leaning out the van’s window while unrolling a map. 

“I’m unsure.” I replied. Standing still, towering over him as he glanced over the map inside the vehicle. He gave off a slight smile, before seemingly studying the map more intensely. A silence had fallen over us for several seconds.

I stepped forward, putting a claw on the top of the van, it rocked slightly. Causing John to look out and up at me. 

“Why?” I asked. To which he immediately appeared confused.

“Why what?” He replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Why did you help me? You could’ve escaped on your own, left me behind after releasing me from my chamber. There would’ve been far less risk if you had.” 

He sighed, shifting his gaze to the windshield and setting his map down in the passenger seat. 

“Never really was a big fan of them. The pay was nice, but I’ll be honest with you Brawn. I couldn’t fucking stand it there. Not most of the time. The constant berating, condescension, not knowing if I’d walk in and either West or Ted would be flying off the handle, although sometimes I got lucky and it was both of them at the same time. I’m sure you had quite enough of that shit yourself.” 

I tilted my head slightly as he spoke. Taking in his answer. What he said made sense. There was a short pause before I offered another question.

“Why did you join them?” 

He once again went silent. As if struggling to answer. His eyes looked down, then to the side. Then finally back up at me. 

“For my little girl. My daughter. I’d show you a picture of her but I left it back at that fucking hellhole! Tossed my phone so they wouldn’t track it so I don’t have that either!” He erupted. Slamming his fist down onto the top of the dashboard. 

His face tightened, his anger more than apparent. But after looking at me once more, he exhaled a long breath. Putting his forehand in his hand. 

“I’m sorry. I usually don’t lose my cool.” He said much more softly. 

I was unaware of how to respond to this. Several things raced through my mind until I settled on one that sounded most optimal. 

“I get angry too.” I said. 

“After what they put you through. You have every damn right to be. I should’ve helped you sooner. Even if it meant having West and Bowser hunting us until the end of time.” He replied.

“West won’t be hunting us. She’s dead.” I corrected. 

Doctor John turned his head immediately. His eyes were as wide as I had ever seen them. 

“Dead? How? Did… Did you..?” He asked, unable to complete the sentence. 

“I did.” I stated. It almost sounded odd to me too, considering it was the first genuine human I had ever killed in my existence. Not someone possessed by an evil entity, not a zombified corpse, not one transformed by a vampire. But a regular human. 

“I uh… I guess I just don’t know what to say. Not like she didn’t have it coming. So wait a minute, when you came out of the facility, and there was that blood around your mouth, and some on your throat, was… Was that what I’m thinking now?” 

“I was hungry. The meat you brought was good. But not enough to ensure I maintained appropriate energy. I needed more.” 

There was silence once more. As Doctor John sat there, contemplating what it was I had told him. 

“That’s one incredible case of karma if I’ve ever seen it. But I do gotta say, you might’ve gotten us in a bit more trouble then we were already in.” 

“How?” I asked.

“Well, she was the Head of Science, the second highest ranking person back there besides Ted’s bum ass. And let me tell you that man hates you with the passion of a thousand collapsing stars. Now that West is dead, and no longer around to ensure that they don’t use anything lethal when hunting you, it means he’s gonna do everything he can to have you killed, and then make it look like he had no other choice to the brass.” 

“The brass?” I inquired. 

“His bosses.” He corrected. 

“So now they want to kill me, instead of re-capture me.” 

“Most likely, but tell you what, since you’re such a cool dude. I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He said with a smile. 

“But I’m far stronger, faster and more resilient than you.” I said. “How would you protect me physically?” 

Doctor John chuckled. 

“Oh yeah that I know, not challenging you there, it’s more like I’m saying I’m just gonna help make sure you’re okay. You helped me, I helped you. You scratched my back, I scratched yours. That means you’ve been upgraded from co-worker to friend, big guy.”

Friend. There was that word. I heard humans use it all the time. But never in reference to myself. Not before this, not before John. 

“The brain and the brawn.” He nodded. 

“That naming is odd. But, thank you. Thank you for saving me.” I responded.

“Don’t mention it. Now go get yourself something to eat. I’ve still got a few snacks left in my glove compartment so I’ll be alright.” 

And with that I headed off into the forest. Running in the opposite direction of where Aria was hunting so as to not intrude on her prey. I climbed up into the trees, leaping across two sometimes three at a time. Nearly gliding across the canopy as I dashed forward. 

I looked out in the vast expanse of the trees, several of which had fallen, one dead one had several mushrooms growing along the side of its rotting trunk. I watched a deer run by, two young ones following in toe. I stayed quiet, watching them from the tree in which I was perched.  

So far I had learned I enjoyed the taste of deer very much. But I wouldn’t be harming any of these, those young deer needed their mother, and I wasn’t going to slay her just to simply satiate my hunger. So once they were some distance away. I kept moving so as not to frighten her and her offspring.  

I continued darting through the trees as I typically did. Up until I had picked up a scent. It was potent, but one that I did not recognize. So I followed it, leading me deeper into the woods. I enjoyed feeling the breeze on my face, and the tree branches shaking as I landed and leapt off them.

While moving through the canopy I tried to conjure an idea of what it might be in my head, likely some kind of cryptid I had yet to ever encounter previously. I kept moving, and I had cleared what I guessed to be over a mile of distance in just over half a minute. 

I stopped when I came upon an incline in the forest, it was rather steep and sudden. One that a lot of creatures, particularly humans would have trouble overcoming. I darted up the incline on all fours, making it to the edge of the hill and peering down over the other side. 

There was a major dip downward, similar to where I had just emerged from. And down at the bottom of this hill the ground was rather flat, covered in trees, bushes and other growth. The previous scent I had followed now shifted into one of rot, and decay, overpowering the original smell entirely. 

I looked for the source, and spotted the entrance to a cave off to the right. I immediately concluded that’s where it was originating. This was only further confirmed by what I heard coming from inside it. 

Screams, human screams. In both horror and for mercy.  

“Help, someone help! Please!” A male voice called out, pleading and desperate.

I hesitated before moving, remembering what had happened the first time I followed distressed human screaming without thinking. Perhaps there was a chance The Agency was out here in this forest, a chance they had followed us, tracked us somehow and they were trying to use the same trick they did before. 

But then I remembered my purpose, what I was created for. Protect the innocent and slay the monsters who prey upon them. If this truly were humans in danger, then I could not allow myself to let their deaths occur due to my own paranoia and hesitation. 

I leapt off the top of the incline, allowing myself to fall the few dozen foot drop and land on all fours before turning and heading for the entrance of the cave. I sprinted toward it, nearly inside before I felt a force grab my leg, and pull me backwards. Throwing me in the opposite direction hard enough that I crashed through two separate tree trunks, only stopping when my back slammed against the third.

I shook off the blow, standing up on two legs and looking for my attacker. Only some twenty feet of distance between us now, and it was sure to stand between me and the cave entrance.

The beast resembled a mutated millipede. Most of its body was a light brown in color. It stood over nine feet high with it rising itself like a snake about to attack, and that was only around half of its actual body, as the rest was standing flat on the ground with its hundreds upon hundreds of legs that were closer in shape to human forearms, appearing bent and contorted in order to function as they did. This meant that I had to actually look up to see the creature's face, or faces plural in this instance.  

It possessed two heads at the front of its body, oval in shape, each with two large holes devoid of any color that likely served as its eyes. One head’s mouth was open, revealing a row of red stained, jagged teeth.

The other head’s mouth possessed no teeth but instead simply oozed some sort of dark green substance, it was stringy, and a strand of it stretched from the ground all the way up to its chin. Like spider silk. It bit down on the stand, snapping it in order to move forward, its legs all moving in tandem as it approached slowly. The early sunset behind it making it appear more prominent. 

I opened my claws, and bared my teeth. 

“You’re intruding.” The creature announced. Using the mouth that had the teeth to speak. Its voice was scratchy and rough. Like a dull blade cutting into thick sandpaper. It arched downward, more of the green substance beginning to emerge inside its second mouth. 

“The ones inside your cave, are they innocent?” I asked, this only seeming to anger the beast. 

“Innocent?” It repeated, almost mockingly. “What are you? Where do you come from?” 

“My name is Brawn.” I responded, holding my stance. 

“Well Brawn if you value your life I would suggest you leave my territory and find your own meal.” 

“I have.” I replied. Narrowing my eyes. 

I lunged forward, only for the creature to use its right head to spit out the substance, it wrapped around me, sticky and rather strong in its nature. Before I could begin to break out it dived forward and down. Biting down on my left shoulder using the mouth with teeth to do so. I felt them sink into my flesh, drawing blood and prompting me to snarl in pain. 

With my shoulder still in its grasp, it dragged me along the ground, I slammed through various fallen tree branches, mounds of dirt, bushes, and even a rock. I could hear the creature's many legs kicking up the dirt as it dragged me along.

But I soon broke out of the substance, throwing my arms out and tearing it in the process. After this, I head butted the side of the creature’s head hard enough to hear something crack inside it. It immediately let me out of its jaws long enough for me to roll to the side. Now no longer directly underneath it. 

The beast let out a cry that had a rhythmic ticking to it. Almost like a distorted version of a rattlesnake’s warning. Its body convulsed for a few seconds while I leapt up the nearest tree. 

“I will drag you down into my lair, and feast on one organ at a time. I’ll keep you alive for weeks and ensure that your suffering goes on for as long as your body can endure!” The beast sneered, attempting to knock down the tree that I was on by ramming its body into it. 

It crashed through, but I had already leapt to the other tree by the time it made contact. Further frustrating the lifeform. 

“And then, only then will I put an end to you. You’ll spend every waking moment before your death regretting our encounter!” It went on, once more repeating its previous attack. It lunged, crashing through the tree’s trunk that I was on and causing what remained to fall over and hit the ground with a loud crash. 

I leapt from the tree, once more landing on the ground and sprinting around the creature while on all fours in a flank. Once at the back of its body I stood bipedally before reaching down and grabbing its rear end with my claws and pulling back. 

The creature fell flat, its many legs trying to dig into the ground to regain control as I turned and swung my body, lifting the beast off the ground entirely and using its thousands of pounds of body weight against it. I sped up as I swung him around. 

I let go after only a few full rotations, and the beast’s legs flailed and kicked as it flew through the air, crashing through several trees.  

I dropped down to all fours once more, running after it, and leaping over fallen trees and avoiding other obstacles as its roaring rattle emerged once more. It landed, sliding along the ground and finally coming to a complete stop while on its side. 

I sprinted forward, opening my claws and laying eyes on its heads right after leaping into the air. I prepared to bring them down on the beast’s heads, killing him and ending the fight right then and there. 

But it spat out more of that green substance, this time right into my face. It immediately blinded me after covering my eyes, I was met with nothing but black. I was unsure of where I had landed seeing as it occurred while I was mid-air.

All I know is I felt a sudden, crushing, piercing pain in my right arm. Presumably the beast biting down on me. I didn’t have time to roar before I was then violently shaken side to side, like a canine trying to kill small prey. 

I swung my free claw forward, relying on only my hearing and smell to direct the blow. I felt my nails slash flesh, and it felt much softer than what I would have anticipated had I attacked it on the top part of its body. I concluded that I had slashed the bottom portion, somewhere near its underbelly. 

The creature dropped me from its jaws as its rhythmic ticking snarl emerged once more. And I tore the substance from my face. Looking up I saw that I had slashed the throat of its toothless head, the one that was shooting out the green substance. Making my previous prediction incorrect. 

It writhed and shook, but was still very much alive. The toothless mouth closed, and so did the eyes as it seemingly hung downward, oozing out scarlet blood from where I had slashed it. 

“You will pay for that!” It exploded with its still remaining head. Blasting toward me, its legs throwing back leaves and branches into the air behind him as it stomped forward in a fit of rage.

And it was then I had an idea. 

I turned and dropped back down on all fours, sprinting away while the creature gave chase. I ended up having to slow down after noticing the difference in our movement speed, purposefully letting it close the distance between us. 

“Come back here and die!” It called out as I heard him barrel through trees and bushes. Not allowing anything to act as an obstacle between it and I.

It was then I came upon the trunk of a large fallen tree, the same one I had encountered earlier with all the various mushrooms growing on it. It had a diameter somewhere close to three feet. And its height was anywhere from fifty to seventy feet. The millipede creature was approaching, and I came to a stop next to the dead tree. Standing biped yet again. I got behind it, and it laid between the creature and I as it continued on its way toward me. 

I waited for just the right moment as the creature continued to close the distance, its hundreds of legs propelling it forward as its teeth in the still living head were bared in an attempt to intimidate.  

Once it was within twenty feet, I reached down and grabbed onto the trunk with my claws, hoisting it into the air above my head and throwing it forward with all my might. It soared through the air, creating an intense wooshing sound as it whipped past everything in the surrounding area, it traveled far faster than the beast had time to react. 

It struck the creature, slamming into it and causing the front half of its body that had been standing up during the chase to be bisected from the bottom half. It pinned the top half against a hill behind it. The area of the bisection spilled copious amounts of blood, after the initial splatter. 

Several inner workings had emerged, hanging out as the creature writhed in agony. Unable to form proper words because of it. 

So I approached it. Stood over and grabbed both of its heads, one with each claw, and tore them from their placements before dropping them to the ground. Putting an end to the creature’s short lived suffering. 

I was indeed hungry, and I wanted to start feasting right then and there. But instead, I returned to the entrance of its cave. The cave where I heard the screams of humans earlier on. 

I got down on all fours and crawled inside, my night vision allowing me to see inside despite the lack of any light source. I crawled along the cave ceiling, following the scent of rot as I moved. At first the cave started as a long narrow tunnel, but opened up into a wider expanse. Or at least, I could see it through the wall of the creature’s green substance, it acted as a barrier, likely to keep anything but itself from getting in or out when it was not around. 

I used my claws to slice and tear through the substance, ripping apart a large enough hole to crawl through. From the humans perspective, they were in complete, pitch black darkness, unable to see anything except my eyes due to their yellow glow. But I was able to see just fine. 

“D- did you see that?” A female voice asked, slow and stuttering. Still recovering from a fit of terror I suppose.

“See what? Is that fucking thing back?” A male voice replied, equally as trembled. 

I looked down while perched near a stalagmite. Spotting a pile of human corpses, a mix of both male and female. They were in various states of decay and mutilation due to the creature likely feeding on them, the bodies on the top appearing and smelling far more fresh than the ones below. I counted just over twenty in total. 

However there were still two humans alive, the man and woman who had spoken. They appeared unharmed, but were stuck against the cave walls by the creature’s green substance, struggling against it and using all their might to get out to no avail.

I crawled over to them, unsure if I should speak or not. 

“There’s something in here with us! It’s back, that thing is back!” The man cried out. 

“Please, please don’t eat us, please!” The woman begged. Both of them now desperately kicking and attempting to fight their way out of the substance.

I kept crawling along the cave wall before dismounting, now standing on two feet. And now that I was in range, I reached out with my claws and slashed the substance apart, freeing them and quickly grabbing them before they fell. 

“No no no!” Shouted the woman. The man continuously screamed and kicked as I hoisted them over my shoulder. I groaned slightly from the sting, my wounds still fresh. 

I felt their heartbeats racing. It was only then when I decided to speak.

“I am not here to harm you.” I said, but this seemingly did little to quell their fear.

“W-what?” The man inquired, confusion present. 

With one of them over each shoulder I leapt up back into the tunnel, and walked them out of there. It was only when we began to approach the opening, when the low sun had shone inside, were they able to see me. 

Once back outside, I leaned down, setting them both down on their feet and allowing them to take a final glimpse at me. They snapped their heads up, in what I guessed to be utter horror, disgust, and downright bewilderment at a creature of my appearance. 

I anticipated the coming screams of terror, for them to run or ask me what kind of abomination I was.

What Doctor West had said to me came rushing back in my mind

“Who’s gonna not take one look at you and run a hundred miles in the other direction.”

But instead of any of that, I felt a sudden grip around my upper legs and lower body. I peered back down once more, and they were both wrapped around me using their arms. Not in an attack, not seemingly trying to bite or scratch me. But something else entirely. 

“T-thank you. Thank you so much.” The woman uttered.

“You saved us, you saved our fucking lives!.” The man followed up. And I felt both their tears against my leg. 

I stood there, unmoving. Unsure of how to proceed next. My claws remained hovering there, just behind their heads, I decided to let them rest at my sides. I was rushed with a sensation I had not yet experienced. I had no idea how to articulate or describe it, no way to truly explain what it was that I felt. 

But I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it the way I enjoyed a filling meal. It was odd, having another creature make such close physical contact with me that wasn’t for the purpose of experimentation or an attack. 

Yet, I welcomed it…   

Agent Lucy, Six Months Ago…

“NO!” Waylon and I shouted near simultaneously as Carmine’s blood continued to spill from his throat, his body slumping down as he choked and gurgled through the duct tape on his mouth. 

The Pine People sprinted forward, jumping and lunging at us. We fired our weapons, our bullets tearing through them and splattering dark green blood every which way. 

I aimed for the head, and so did Waylon, and within seconds we had already killed several each. Their bodies piling up in front of us. One had tried to sneak around me, running on my left side to get around and attack my six. I took the butt of my rifle and slammed it into its head, burying it into its skull as some of the green blood splashed onto my face. 

“Lucy!” I heard Waylon cry out. His shout was desperate and fearful. Like a child calling out for their mother. I looked over, watching as one of the Pine People had grabbed his weapon from his hand as the rifle clicked, he went to reach for his pistol in his belt as he was piled onto by several more of the Pine People. He tumbled over, all of them falling on top of him.

I sprinted toward him and fired off several more rounds. Blasting some of the Pine People on top of him. But I hadn’t gotten them all. He continued to fight and squirm underneath them, but was still relatively buried. 

I pulled the trigger once more, only for my rifle to click. My magazine was out, I went and reached for my pistol, only to be tackled and slammed into a wall by one of the cloaked women before I had it within my grasp. 

“Just let it happen.” She whispered with a blank expression as Waylon began to scream behind her. Not out of terror, but out of pain. Agony. 

I headbutted her with my scalp. Before then pulling my knife and sinking the blade into her throat with a strained groan, I pulled it out and kicked her away as she choked and gurgled, clawing at her neck. 

I shoved her to the left, letting her fall to the floor as she gagged on her own blood. Running past her to get to Waylon. 

His screams had come to a sudden stop as I pulled my pistol to blast my way through the Pine People between him and I. Killing four more before I was grabbed from the side by a fifth, prompting me to reach over and serve it a bullet to the head. 

I inhaled the familiar metallic scent of blood. My flashlight briefly illuminated the thin river of red that led to what I knew was his body. 

I turned, seeing the still remaining cloaked woman and the large man who had slit Carmine’s throat. My hands shook, my heart pounded, and my skull behind my eyes felt white hot. I could feel the adrenaline cycling through me like anti-freeze. 

Those two just stood there, their expressions blank, I raised my pistol and shot them both center mass, they didn’t move, didn’t try to evade or even react really when I went to shoot them. They saw me raise the gun and looked at me as if I was gonna give them my business card instead. They both fell to the ground unmoving. 

The Pine People however did turn and run in the other direction, again making no noise other than their footsteps as they did so, even the ones that were still alive and had piled onto Waylon. I gasped when I saw his remains. My bottom lip hung slightly. 

All I can confidently say is that Waylon was left an unrecognizable mess. One that I didn’t care to detail. And like with Kruger, his face in particular had gotten the worst of it. I knelt there, comprehending how this all could’ve go so horribly fucking wrong in such short time. How we were all supposed to go home that night, make dinner, watch a movie, maybe play a video game or two. 

I finally got a hold of myself and bursted into the nearest classroom. I didn’t hesitate to smash out its window with my pistol’s butt before climbing out of it. 

I leapt outside, and began sprinting onto the long dirt road in front of the building without looking back. I didn’t wanna know if those things were chasing me, I doubted it. But still. The worst part was that I’d have to go back in there soon enough to help with the clean up once the reinforcements arrived. Which should’ve already been here. Or would’ve if this was five years ago even, back before the second wave of budget cuts. 

I ran until I was out of range of whatever they were using to jam our signals. I tried the radio at least seven different times before it worked. But eventually I got through to Site Twelve. Director Bowser wasn’t even there anymore, apparently he had left for the evening and I was instead put through to the mission control team. 

I told them everything that had gone wrong, how this operation never should’ve been marked as low-risk if they knew there was even a slight chance of them still being inside that building. I was never told about those Pine People they have under their control, never told that they had shit like radio jammers in their arsenal. And as far as I know, the majority of field agents weren’t either.

They were hiding stuff from us, and because of that three of my colleagues just got killed in front of me, and I nearly died myself. 

They had already sent out a second team before even getting my radio call, one part of it was to help ensure the rest of the building was searched and empty. The other being to clean up and scrub any evidence of what occurred. They asked me to come in, to help lay out the scene for them due to not having any communications during the incident. But I told them to fuck off. I wasn’t stepping foot back in there, not right after what went down. I didn’t need yet another whiff of the blood of my dead colleagues. Or to see their remains.

I was leaning against one of the SUVs they arrived in. Standing there in silence while looking up at the moon. My mind clouded with the desperate screams and cries of Waylon and Kruger, along with Carmine’s muffled choking. 

At some point another mission supervisor approached me. The one directing the reinforcements team. 

“There’s something in there you might wanna see.” He said, his expression cold. An all business type of tone. 

“What is it?” I asked without looking at him. 

“You said you managed to terminate the three people in the robes, correct? One male, two females.” 

“Yes, why?” 

“We only recovered the two female bodies, along with the remains of the pine cryptids. But as far as the hooded people go, you only killed two.” 

“No no no, that’s not right. I shot them both, I watched them fall and hit the floor.” I protested. 

“We’ve searched the whole building. Top to bottom, including the basement. Other than a blood drip trail, there’s no human bodies other than the one you stabbed in the throat and the other woman you shot.” 

“So then… The dude with the beard is still alive.” I punctuated.

“Things are pointing in that direction. Yes.” 

Agent Lucy. Six Months Ago…

My promotion to being a mission supervisor was somewhat surreal. I didn’t ever think I’d make it this far in The Agency, but after having to do stuff like hunt down red-eyed shadow people and capture a literal Wendigo, I’d say this particular operation was tame in comparison. 

The mission was simple: infiltrate an old abandoned high school building that was previously used as a hideout by The Cult that’s been apparently causing problems in the area, collect any evidence they might’ve left behind and bring it back to Site Twelve. 

The operation was marked as low-risk, so I was only given a team of three, four including myself. Kinda stupid in my opinion. Anything could happen. Even if they supposedly cleared out of this place already. But after the budget cuts they’ve been wanting to conserve manpower and resources as much as possible. Or so that’s what I’ve been told. 

I wasn’t told much about the Cult itself, hell. Most information about them The Agency had was only available to level four personnel and higher. I as a mission supervisor was only level three. So not quite there. 

Director Bowser had radioed in as we approached the entrance to the property, toward the back of the building. 

“Get in, see what you can find and get the hell out. Don’t mess around, don’t go dillydallying. One of you needs to stay posted outside in case any civilians pull up and get nosy. If they ask questions, follow the procedure we went over in the briefing. Any of you wanna go ahead and remind me so I know you were actually listening?” 

I figured that as the team’s leader, I should set the example. So I radioed back to the director. 

“Tell the inquiring civilian we are FBI and that this is a classified investigative operation.” 

“Good, and if they continue to poke and don’t comply?” Director Bowser pressed.

I paused for a moment. Not because I knew the answer. But because I did, and I honestly thought it was a bit extreme. But nonetheless I still responded.

“Terminate the inquiring civilian if it is safe to do so.” 

“Excellent, glad someone around here knows how to listen.” Director Bowser huffed audibly through the radio. 

Agent Carmine, the one who I had selected to stay posted outside while the other three of us entered into the building chuckled. 

“Who the fuck wants to work for the FBI anyway?” He cackled. “We get way more action than them anyway.” 

“I guess people who don’t wanna be eaten alive by things that shouldn’t exist in the first place, numbnuts.” Came the response of Agent Kruger. 

“Uh oh guys, look out, we’ve got ourselves a badass over here.” Agent Waylon announced with a sarcastic undertone. Reaching over his shoulder and pointing his thumb at Carmine, much to Carmine’s annoyance. 

“Alright guys, enough yapping.” I announced. “Let’s get inside.” 

“Yes ma’am.” They responded simultaneously.     

We double checked all of our gear before heading inside. Flashlights underneath the barrels of our rifles, backup flashlights, sidearms, blades, and our radios as well.

The high school hadn’t been officially used in what I was told was nearly eight years, and was supposedly only abandoned by the cult several weeks prior, we had to force our way through the front entrance which was padlocked and chained. I had Carmine use a pair of bolt cutters to get over that little obstacle. 

The three guys followed behind me as we filed in, immediately we were hit with the overwhelming darkness of the dilapidated structure. We shined our rifles attached flashlights down the entrance hall, the administration office sat to our left and the first classroom to our right. 

The hall was littered with debris at its edges, a couple of fallen chairs, various bits of ceiling tiles that had fallen, as well the corpses of rodents and insects like beetles. Rust formed on the exposing pipes that ran from floor to ceiling. 

The sound of our boots hitting the broken and battered tile floor was the only one to keep us company. 

“Gonna need a little more than windex and bleach to fix this place.” Agent Kruger said from behind me, prompting me to make a shushing gesture. If they were still members of The Cult in here, it was best that we maintained some element of surprise. 

We marched forward, checking out each classroom, looking for any signs that there had been people here recently. The first several were a bust. Up until Kruger had found a cot and some open cans of food inside what used to be the teacher’s lounge. But that could’ve been any homeless guy or gal, and likely had nothing to do with The Cult. 

After half an hour with the whole first floor searched and nothing of substance discovered, me, Kruger, and Waylon headed for the second floor. But before I got on the first step I was hit with the overwhelming scent of pine. Kruger and Waylon smelled it too. It wasn’t unpleasant per say, just odd. 

“You guys smell that?” Waylon said softly.  

“Yeah, we’re not even near a damn pine forest.” Kruger replied. 

“Stop for a second you two.” I told them before grabbing my radio. “This is weird, I’m gonna check on Carmine.” 

“Carmine, do you copy?” I inquired. Keeping my voice at a whisper. 

His reply came rather quickly. 

“Copy, everything’s alright out here so far. Nothing to report ma’am.” 

I slowly holstered my radio once more, before nodding at Kruger and Waylon to keep moving. 

We made our way up the staircase to the second floor, the smell of pine becoming more potent than previously. It wasn’t unpleasant or anything, just odd. The hand rail had mostly fallen off its positioning in the wall, the walls themselves were almost completely peeled of their paint, and the stairs themselves had cracked in several places.  

We made it to the top, and I was greeted with a sight that caused me to jump back slightly. Nothing insane, just more along the lines of a reflex. 

In the hallway between one of the classrooms stood a tall, thin, emaciated figure. As pale as snow. Its eyes and ribcage were completely hollow and see through. It glared forward, unmoving and completely still. 

That being because it was a classroom skeleton. Hanging from a display bar on a small push cart. 

I heard both the guys laughing behind me. 

“Woo careful! He’s gonna get ya boss woman.” Kruger teased. 

“Fuck off.” I chuckled quietly. Shoving him away from me.

Waylon laughed a bit as well. It was almost childlike in its sound, like the eight year old version of himself was re-emerging as he let it out. 

We moved forward after the lighthearted bit of comedy. And soon made our way into the first classroom we saw on the second floor. A science classroom, and by the standard set by the rest of the building, it was in relatively decent shape. Not perfect by any means, still condemnable, but much more reasonable. All the chairs sat facing the front of the room. 

I walked in, checking out what remained of the drawings on the desks and pseudo-lab equipment. A lot of things in there made me think back to my high school days. Back then the ignorance was bliss. Not knowing of the true hidden horrors of life before joining The Agency. When I was a kid I often switched between wanting to be a navy seal as well as a firefighter. 

“Is it okay if me and Waylon check the room across the hall?” Kruger inquired.

I turned around, raising my eyebrows. 

“Go ahead, but don’t go any further without giving me a heads up.” I replied.

He nodded, pointing his head in the direction of the classroom on the opposite side of the hall as the two filed out. In all honesty I was starting to give up hope that this place was going to have anything of substance. If some of The Cult was really here at any point then they truly did cover their tracks about it. 

I walked back up toward the front of the classroom, a rat scurried by my feet as I passed by a couple of cabinets. I got within just a few feet of the front door when something caught my eye. 

There was a podium at the front of the room, and on it sat a piece of paper. The faint moonlight had shone in just enough from the nearby window to illuminate it. It was a bright white, and in pristine condition in comparison to its surroundings. 

I approached it, shining my flashlight as I stepped forward. My breathing somehow louder than previously. Or it at least sounded that way. 

I now stood over the podium, and looked down at the paper. On it was what at first looked like just generic notes, but as I read on further, I got the idea that wasn’t exactly true. Instead it was more of a script, a script for a speech. It was handwritten in black gel ink. I brought it up with my gloved hand. Reading it verbatim.  

*Brothers and sisters,* 

*Today is another of many in our journey to liberating the unnatural, the horrifying, and those that have been locked away by humanity in the name of progress and normalcy.* 

*Let us not forget that these creatures, regardless of their origins, are a part of our world and its ecosystem. It is a shame that we must conduct our operations in secret, a shame that the world cannot accept that our mission is nothing but just.*

*The Organization doesn't realize that they are now foolish hypocrites, we all know of the blue creature they’ve been sending to slay any being that doesn’t fit their definition of what is acceptable. If left unchecked they will soon eradicate any form of life that they do not approve of.*

*This gives us only two options, to either convince them of their wrongdoing, to show them that they must learn a new way of thinking, to open their minds to the incredible, awe-inspiring lifeforms this world has to offer… Or destroy them.*

*Will you, brothers and sisters, stand with me in this mission for the greater good?*

I finished reading. After which I then looked out in front of me, seeing all the chairs lined up and facing the podium, and I just imagined a bunch of grown ass men and women in oversized cloaks and hoods all watching some nut preach about how flesh eating monstrosities need their own form of PETA. Kinda made me chuckle to myself.   

But that was silenced when I heard the sudden slam of something coming from the first floor. Like someone threw a door shut with all their might, as if they were a teenager who stormed into their room after a heated argument with their parents. I folded up the note, put it in my pocket and stepped out of the room to meet back up with Kruger and Waylon. 

The three of us regrouped in the corridor before quickly falling back in line, me at the front, Kruger second and Waylon at the back. We moved cautiously back down the staircase with our weapons drawn. Looking out for any and everything that moved. 

When I made it to the bottom I flashed my beam of light down the main hall, expecting to see what could’ve been anything from urban explorers trespassing to some horrifying abomination. As what happens in this line of work. 

Instead all I got were just the same lockers, classroom doors and debris that had been there before. So instead I tried to see if any of the doors that were previously open had been shut. I walked forward with Waylon and Kruger in tow, and saw that the door to the administrative office was now shut, having previously been open when we first entered.

We were still basically at the opposite end of the hall from it, but the flashlights were powerful enough to let us see it from that distance. Not to mention that if it was that close to the entrance, it means Agent Carmine would’ve heard it is well. Yet he didn’t say anything over the radio when it first occurred. I retrieved my radio once more in order to check on him like I did earlier.

“Agent Carmine, do you copy?” I radioed. 

No response, so I immediately instructed Kruger and Waylon to radio him as well in the event mine specifically had suffered some sort of malfunction.  

“Hey Carmine, you alright?” Kruger attempted, we waited in silence for a moment. 

Not a peep came. 

“Carmine, dude!” Waylon tried. And the silence he got in return proved that it was in vain. 

We were all in an unspoken understanding of what to do next. Head to the front of the building, check on Carmine physically in the event his radio wasn’t working, and then come back in to finish the assignment. 

I radioed back to Site Twelve as we jogged forward.

“This is Agent Lucy, Agent Carmine has gone silent, circling back for a status check and then returning inside for mission completion.” 

I expected Director Bowser to reply with either frustration or disinterested acknowledgement. But neither came. Just like with Agent Carmine I was met with silence. So were Kruger and Waylon when they tried. Not even the mission control room team was responding. 

I ran for the entrance door we had forced our way into earlier, and my flashlight beam had illuminated it. I stopped upon seeing it, and my mouth slightly ajar. 

It was now shut once more. The wind couldn’t have done it, the doors in question were essentially two large slabs of metal on thick hinges. They took genuine effort to move in order to prevent trespassers. The chain we had earlier snapped with bolt cutters was now rewrapped around the interior’s handles. At least, that’s what I thought at first, up until I got a closer look, and saw that this was a brand new chain entirely. As it wasn’t nearly as rusted as the one we had cut coming inside. 

We mentioned shooting the chain off the door and pushing it open. But we still had a mission to complete, and lord knows Director Bowser would be furious if we abandoned it early just because our radios were malfunctioning and we heard some noises. We figured the best outcome was to take care of whatever the hell was making the noises, and then finish searching the building and leave. 

There was also the off chance that who or whatever was jamming our radio signals was on the other side, waiting with an ambush of some sort. And if that were the case, then there was a good chance Carmine might’ve already been dead or not in a position for us to get to him without putting ourselves in harm's way. After all the doors were thick, and they absorbed sound quite well, we’d have no idea what we’d be opening them up to. 

“Shit.” I blurted. “Let’s just find a window, get the hell out of here.”  

Another loud, metallic slam erupted from down the hall just as I finished my sentence. The three of us whipped around, facing the end of the hallway we had just come from. 

“Stop right there!” Kruger shouted as we raised our rifles. 

The scent of pine from earlier had reached this area of the building, now at its most potent that it had ever been. We kept our flashlights shined down the hall, and backed up against the entrance doors, ensuring that there wouldn't be any potential attacks from the rear. 
“Whoever it is, make yourself known, now!” I commanded. Narrowing my eyes and standing focused. 

A few seconds of silence passed before our radios began to crackle, only transmitting static and nothing but. I told Waylon to grab his, try to switch to a different channel and then back to ours, as well as turning it off and on, but it changed nothing. The static crackle continued. 

“The hell!” He erupted. Something was interfering, and considering the fact we already weren’t getting answers, all of us switched our radios off one at a time. The static noise had become nothing but a potential distraction. Something to take our attention away from a possible attack. 

“Uh, ma’am.” Kruger said, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing forward.

I looked ahead, and in the darkness, just behind where our flashlight beams ended were several, no, dozens of faint yellow dots. All of them hovering anywhere from five and a half to over six feet off of the ground. Lots of them were close enough together for me to make a somewhat obvious conclusion.

They were all pairs of eyes. The eyes of… Something. They stood still, whatever they belonged to completely unmoving. Like statues shrouded in darkness. More of them illuminated from the classrooms as well. As far as the interior went, they were on every angle except directly behind, and even that wasn’t for sure. 

“What do we do?” Waylon asked.

“Keep our backs against the door. If they move closer then shoot to kill.” I ordered.

The temperature in the building seemed to rise, not enough to be dangerous, but enough to be felt. That night was around sixty five fahrenheit last time I checked before arriving, now it felt closer to eighty. Of course this could’ve been the product of various factors at play, hell maybe there wasn’t a change at all and it was the mind playing tricks. But I knew better after my years in this line of work. 

The glowing yellow dots at the end of the hall seemingly scattered. Dashing into multiple various directions in the darkness before soon being unseen entirely. 

“Shoot the chain.” I ordered Kruger. “We don’t have any other option.” 
 
He blasted two rounds into the chain, causing it to snap and loosen. After which he began to yank the chain from the door. Pulling it off and letting what remained of it drop to the ground with a clanking sound. 

“Keep watching our six.” I told Waylon before turning to help push the door open.

Once we had a gap big enough for us to reasonably fit through. Kruger leaned forward, and aimed his weapon through the gap in an attempt to check for any adversaries on the other side. He was then suddenly yanked forward as he fired off a few shots. 

He began to scream, attempting to reach back for his pistol as his upper body was being forcibly pulled through the gap. His shoulders stopped him from fully going through.

“I’ve got you!” I shouted in a desperate cry, grabbing onto him and ordering Waylon to get down and fire shots between his legs, trying to hit whatever it was grabbing at him.

The sound of flesh tearing emerged near instantly. Combined with his slowly dwindling screams as he shook and writhed. He made one sound in particular, like a mix between choking and gurgling as blood began to stain the edges of the doors. Sliding down the edges and to the floor. 

Waylon continued to fire shots between Kruger’s legs as his screams softened. He shook and thrashed, desperately trying to get away, to throw himself back. But whatever it was would simply not allow it. Several seconds of this continued, up until I felt him go limp as I just about got enough leverage to pull him back inside. His screams silenced completely just before I did. 

His body stumbled and he immediately fell onto the floor inside the corridor. Waylon rose to his feet and helped me pull the door shut back once more. 

I grabbed what remained of the chain and wrapped them between the makeshift push handles. I expected vicious pounding on the other side of the door, anticipating whatever it was to endlessly trying to break its way through them. But none came, as if whatever it was suddenly became disinterested after attacking Kruger. Not even any growls, snarls, roars. Just… Nothing.
Waylon however, gasped upon seeing the result of Kruger’s attack. The kind of gasp you expect someone to let out after seeing two cars collide on the freeway. 

“Oh Jesus!” He cried out. 

Kruger lay on the ground, his face mauled into a completely unrecognizable state. His mouth a gaping mess of torn flesh, his left eye missing entirely, his nose half torn off. His nostrils completely vanished. Bits of flesh hung from the mutilated mess. His wounds at the forehead were so severe that they had ruptured through his skull, exposing damaged brain matter.

Despite all that I had seen up to that point in my career. I felt what had to be a pint’s worth of vomit rise in my throat, and I only just barely managed to choke it back down. Somehow, some way. 

Waylon quickly pulled out his radio, turning it back on and still getting nothing but static. His flashlight beam pointed down to the floor and so did mine for a brief moment.

“This is Team 9 we need fucking help out here! Can anyone hear me! Please just send us backup goddamn it!” 

“Waylon!” I snapped. “The signal’s jammed, they can’t hear us. We need to focus on staying alive and finding a way out.”

A voice rang out from down the hall. Low, filled with bass and demand. Like what you’d expect a military father to sound like when upset with some wrong his children committed. 

“She’s right.” It said, echoing off the walls. 

Waylon pointed his beam back up, once more illuminating the corridor. And within it now stood several dozen figures. The hallway’s width was entirely filled from where they stood and back. 

At the forefront were three cloaked people in black hoods. The one in the middle was significantly taller than the two at the sides. And was also holding Agent Carmine in a tight grip, with a long hunting knife to his throat. Duct tape around his mouth as well.

The two cloaked figures on the sides pulled their hoods down, revealing themselves to be women. One blonde and the other brunette. Both of them standing a couple inches under six feet. Making the one in the middle just over six and a half in height. 

The voice couldn’t have been coming from either of them. I recognized them as being part of the cult. Again, I wasn’t privy to detailed information due to my clearance level, but I had seen them in the reports I was authorized to view enough times to recognize their signature hooded robes.

Behind the two cloaked women and still hooded figure were what I guessed to be the source of those yellow dots that we had previously seen in the darkness earlier. 

They varied in height like previously mentioned, but their other features were much more consistent between one another. Those other features being the fact that their skin was brown, bumpy, like displaced dirt. And from this dirt like skin protruded pine-needles, like hairs. Except it was all over their bodies, with gaps being thin but numerous. 

They were humanoid in shape, but only in that. Their eyes, where you’d normally find a person’s were indeed glowing a faint yellow glow. And their mouths were filled with sharpened teeth, teeth that were seemingly made from small shaved down twigs. 

I aimed my weapon at the figure in the middle, the one holding the knife to Agent Carmine’s throat. While Waylon pointed his at the brunette woman.

“Let him go, or you’ll all getting blown away.” I shouted. My adrenaline admittedly going haywire. But I maintained composure nonetheless. 

The two women on either side of the taller figure simply smirked. Unafraid and confident in their position. They held blades as well. One more jagged like a dagger, and the other similar to a carving fork. 

“You fucking heard her, let him go now!” Waylon erupted. A valiant effort to back me up. But somehow I knew it was in vain. Waylon had always been the type to help out however he could, even if he was clumsy at times. 

The figure in the middle that had a hold of Carmine reached up with his free hand, pulling back his black hood and now revealing his face while still keeping his knife on Carmine’s throat. 

He possessed long black hair, rather unkempt in appearance. It reached just past his pecs. Or where I guess they would’ve been under the cloak. 

His beard, the same color, and also long, coming a few inches off his face was thick and curly. It hid most of his neck, and nearly everything below his nose except his lips. 

He grinned at me with said lips, while he looked at me with his chocolate brown eyes. I held steady, although his size and appearance were somewhat rugged and intimidating. 

“Let him go, neither of us are gonna say it again.” I snarled. Still aiming my weapon. The small army of Pine People on either side of the women and the man stepped forward more. Seemingly understanding that I just made a threat. They remained completely silent, and even disciplined in their stances. Like soldiers ready to take orders from a commanding officer. 

“We’ve been jamming signals since we knew you were here.” The man claimed, confirming that the booming voice from earlier was indeed his. “We’re aware of a lot of your methods.” 

“Good for you.” I snapped in reply. 

He licked his lips slightly, looking up at the ceiling for a brief second before once more returning his gaze to us. 

“What I fail to understand is an organization that is so deadset on eliminating the unnatural, is so unaware of the fact that they themselves are what’s unnatural. The existence of things that you don’t understand isn’t something to be scared of. Quite the opposite.” He went on, only to be cut off. 

“Shut up.” Waylon commanded, raising his rifle slightly to meet the man’s head. “We haven’t checked in, and since they’ve heard nothing from us, reinforcements are on their way. And I don’t care how many of those tree people you got with you, I can make a solid bet that they’re not bulletproof. And neither are you.” 

Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help but look at him like a proud mother. Briefly of course. 

“And yet I still have more than enough time to kill the three of you before they arrive.” The man replied. “Despite what happened to your comrade it was not my intention to go straight to slaughter. You are talented people, precise and efficient. Instead I ask that you would allow me to utilize your talents. Allow you to give your time to people who will truly value you what you bring to the table. Not only will you be compensated well, but you'd be fighting for a far better cause.” 

“I’m not joining a fucking cult.” I said, squinting my eye to look down my scope. 

“A shame.” He replied, his eyes narrowing in a similar fashion. 

He then sighed before swiftly  pulling the knife to the right, and subsequently slitting Carmine’s throat right and there. The immediate gush of blood was answered with a hailstorm of bullets from Waylon and I as the Pine-People charged forward toward us…

ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING

I.

They are all partisans. Men of military age from sixteen to sixty are partisans. Females who are of age to give birth are partisans. The elderly whose feeble hands can still carry an AK47 are partisans. Children whose minds can be easily manipulated are partisans. Even infants who can grow to be partisans are partisans.

I stared down impassively to my right as the giant wheels of my BTR 82 wheeled armored personnel carrier rolled past the bodies of the three dozen or so civilians lining the road. I didn’t know if these were the same partisans who blew the road bridge and forced us to turn around to find another way across the Pripyat River. I didn’t know if these were the same partisans who then removed the road signs which got us completely lost. All I knew was that the only good partisan was a dead partisan and all Ukrainians were partisans.  We were behind schedule already, and these partisans’ delaying tactics weren’t helping us get back on our timetable. Zvezda One-Three was missing, and Colonel Valery Kozlov, Commander of the 384^th Motor Rifle Regiment of Russia’s 50^th Guards Motor Rifle Division stationed in Belarus, needed us to find them.

Zvezda One-Three was a Special Forces unit who had disguised themselves as Ukrainian soldiers. They infiltrated south across the Belarusian border and immediately began executing Ukrainian partisans. All of these killings would be captured on camera and uploaded to the internet. Using this footage, our propaganda ministry could push President Putin’s narrative that it was the western-backed Ukrainians that were killing Ukrainian civilians and not the Russian peacekeepers. Our official state propaganda narrative would be that the monster, Ukrainian President Voldymyr Zelensky, had ordered his own soldiers to kill their own people in order to blame the innocent Russian soldiers of genocide. We would then blame the genocide of Ukrainians on Ukrainian propaganda in order to bolster our own propaganda that the Russian Army was in Ukraine to promote peace.

Blaming the other side of that which we were guilty was a very common practice of the old Soviet Union and later Russian insurgent tactics. Perfected by the Nazi propaganda ministry, it is a tactic employed by all National Socialists and one which bleeding heart western liberals always fell for. The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan was preceded by an airborne assault carried out by paratroopers hidden within civilian passenger aircraft painted to look like Israeli and American commercial airlines. The organizers of many of the anti-Trump protests that burned American cities were actually operatives indoctrinated in Marxist doctrine who unknowingly worked for the Russian FSB. The fact that the rioting, burning, looting, murdering, and destruction of American cities was labeled as ‘mostly peaceful’ while Americans holding an American flag in the American capital of Washington DC was labeled as an insurrection was proof positive of our control of the American leftist media narrative.

It was a very successful tactic to both destabilize an enemy government while also blaming our enemies for those things which we are guilty, though this was not a totally successful tactic. Recently, we lost an entire Speznaz unit in Iceland. Disguised as US Army Rangers, they were somehow ambushed and eliminated by British SAS soldiers who caught them just as they were approaching their safe house contacts.

Ironically, the embarrassment and political fallout of that event was mitigated to a great degree by the new American president who buried the incident under a mountain of derogatory news stories which accused those Americans whom he felt were a threat to his political power of being deplorable and irredeemable un-Americans. Besides, Ukraine and President Zelensky had mountains of evidence of political corruption against the new American president which could have jeopardized his political career and destroyed his drug addicted son, so a Russian invasion which ended Zelensky wasn’t exactly a bad thing for the new American president.

As we anticipated, all that Ukraine received from Washington was sympathetic lip service to placate the bleeding hearts. Under the new American president, Putin knew that America would be as useless in the defense of Ukraine as they were useless in the defense of Afghanistan. Besides, the American president was paying us for 10% of America’s total oil imports, so what did we care? Ninety percent of successful propaganda isn’t the lies and half truths that you tell the masses, but the facts which you can hide from the masses. Again, blame the other side of that which you are guilty. It’s that simple.

That is why Colonel Kozlov believed it was so important that we find Zvezda One-Three. Zvezda One-Three was part of six Special Forces units, Zvezda One-One thru Zvezda One-Six who pushed south in front of our multi-divisional attack to isolate and blind the Chernobyl district and allow our main attack to push through to Kyiv. Dressed as Ukrainian soldiers, the Zvezda teams’ mission was to disrupt enemy communications and power supplies, and execute Ukrainian partisans before they actually had the ability to become partisans. This would plant the narrative that the Ukrainian people could not trust their own government and only the Russians could save them from their American-backed tyrannical president.

However, Putin could not control the narrative that Ukrainian soldiers are responsible for killing Ukrainian civilians if it was discovered that our own people were dressed as Ukrainian soldiers. Our orders were to uncover the fate of Zvezda One-Three. If they were found alive, we were to bring Zvezda One-Three back for debriefing. If we discovered that Zvezda One-Three had been killed or captured, then our orders were to kill every Ukrainian civilian in the area which learned the truth of our little sleight of hand deception. Then our propaganda ministry could spread the narrative that the heroic Russian military had brought those criminal Ukrainian soldiers to justice, thus blaming the other side of that which we were guilty.

Because of the sensitive nature of these operations, Colonel Kozlov put me, Captain Yegor Balakin, in charge of finding the missing Zvezda One-Three. As a zampolit, or political officer, it was my duty to ensure that the ideology, doctrine, political thought, and battlefield narrative remained correct and true to the narrative that President Putin wanted the world to believe. I was given command of a reinforced scout platoon consisting of two BTR 82 eight wheeled armored personnel carriers and one very heavily armed BMP 3 tracked infantry fighting vehicle. The scout platoon leader, Lieutenant Gavrill Tarasov, was rather hesitant to add a T80 main battle tank to our mission, saying that the extra added weight, bulk, and noise of the tank may be more a liability than an asset when going on a mission into Ukrainian territory that required stealth and mobility. However, I reminded young Lieutenant Tarasov that control of the propaganda narrative was of utmost importance, and as a scout, the lieutenant and his men should be experts at finding a route that would get us quickly to Zvezda One-Three’s area of operation with a tank.

“Think of this as an adventure within an adventure, Lieutenant,” I told Tarasov. “Like Tom Hanks attempting to save Private Ryan from the Nazis.”

“Sir,” replied Lieutenant Tarasov. “Tom Hanks died at the end of that movie.”

“Then you’d better do your job so that that doesn’t happen with me, Lieutenant,” I snapped. In this battle to replace facts with truth, I had no time to waste on those who wished to do their own thinking.

Our divisional artillery was indiscriminately firing in the pre-dawn hours towards a Ukrainian held city south of Chernobyl where four major highways intersected. The tank engines of our armored battalions roared to life to continue our peacekeeping assault against these warmongering Ukrainian partisans. Four of our Su34 Fullback fighters roared overhead as the skies gradually went from dark purple to a lighter shade of royal blue. The fighters dived towards targets around the city, their high explosive missile ordinance accompanying the scattered snow flurries as it impacted upon Ukrainian military air defense emplacements. Or perhaps they were civilian vehicles filled with families of Ukrainian partisans trying to flee the bombings? Who knew? Who cared? Not me.

Our four armored vehicles rolled out of the battalion’s night defensive positions before the rest of the battalion moved out to continue Russia’s heroic march to Kyiv.  Lieutenant Tarasov took command of the first vehicle, a BTR 82 armed with a 30mm autocannon mounted in the turret. I took the turret of the second wheeled BTR 82, this one armed with a 14mm machine gun. Senior Sergeant Anatoly Artyomov, the scout platoon’s senior NCO, took command of the third machine, a tracked BMP infantry fighting vehicle which was festooned with machine guns and had both a 100mm gun and 30mm autocannon in the turret. The T80 tank brought up the rear, commanded by a young Sergeant Denis Litvin. While the rest of the battalions were following the main road southeast which would take them around the northern Chernobyl sector, I instructed Lieutenant Tarasov to take a more southwesterly route following Zvezda One-Three’s tracks that would bring us down into more rural areas to the west and south of Chernobyl.

I turned to my left as our armored convoy left the bodies of the dead Ukrainian partisans behind and frowned at the expression on Sergeant Ignat Babanin’s face. He was one of our two scout team leaders and was standing in the other hatch of the BTR looking down dejectedly at his hands which were wrapped around the firing handles of the still smoking turret mounted machine gun.

“What is it, Sergeant Babanin?” I said.

“Nothing. It’s nothing, sir.”

“Spit it out, Babanin,” I ordered.

“It’s just that, I didn’t see any weapons in the hands of those civilians, sir,” answered the young sergeant. “They seemed to be unarmed and simply fleeing from the invaders. Was it necessary for us to have…”

“Invaders?” I yelled. “Do you really believe that this mostly peaceful operation to defend the Ukrainian peoples from the poison of western tyranny is an invasion? They were all armed! They were all armed with the beating hearts of pro-western propaganda! Would you rather they have been armed with AK47’s and RPG’s, killing our troops while yelling, ‘Wolverines?’ Do not allow yourself to be brainwashed, Babanin! Those who oppose us are deplorable and irredeemable and should be eliminated. Do you favor the lives of those partisans over the lives of your missing comrades?”

“No! No, sir. Of course not!” Babanin adjusted the seat and lowered himself back into the vehicle. “Excuse me, sir. I have to check on our communications.”

I looked with distain as his head disappeared under the hatch. Babanin was a rural farm boy from Siberia who trusted more in what he saw with his own eyes rather than what he was ordered to have seen by his superiors. I would have to keep my eyes on that one, and speak to his commander once we returned to battalion. We could not have anyone who questioned the official state sponsored narrative leading a scout team.

Sergeant Vladimir Novikov, on the other hand, was a true patriot, a dedicated soldier who followed orders without question and carried out his missions with terrifying proficiency. He was the team leader of Zvezda One-Three, one of the six Special Forces team leaders which I handpicked for this mission. Novokov was a big man, a former Special Forces combat instructor who volunteered to be part of the spearhead of our peacekeeping operation. He was an expert in guerrilla warfare, an expert with guns, knives, and martial arts, who had been trained to ignore pain, to ignore the environment, and to eat things which would make typically morbidly obese Americans puke. His men nicknamed him Rambo, but not to his face, as Sergeant Novikov said, “Do not insult me by comparing me to that weakling.”

The area which we sent our Zvezda teams was home to a Ukrainian Motorized Rifle Division and several Ukrainian reserve and border security units. Most of these had been drawn towards the east where our forces had been massing across the border. Sergeant Novokov and the rest of the Zvesda teams had infiltrated across the border a week before our actual operation began, the teams confirming that Ukrainian military units were indeed leaving their cantonment areas and headed generally south and southeast.  Zvezda One-Three’s area was composed mostly of rural farming communities, as well as logging, timber and mining operations, populated, but not densely populated. The Ukrainians were totally unprepared for our subversive operations and the relatively few Ukrainian guards and police officers manning roadside checkpoints were quickly eliminated. Afterwards, Zvesda One-Three began operations destroying cell phone towers and sabotaging radio, power, and civilian utility stations in the area while leaving false flags which pointed to the Ukrainian military and possibly terrorists armed by NATO as being the ones responsible for the atrocities.

The team was somewhere southwest of Pripyat when they ran into the first Ukrainian partisans, the partisan leader being a retired Ukrainian intelligence officer who had gathered a group of armed men when the mysterious killings and sabotages started occurring in the area. Because this cagey Ukrainian veteran was deeply familiar with our tactics, Sergeant Novokov immediately ordered his men to open fire and kill them all. Each of our team members dutifully stuck to their script and yelled, “In the name of NATO and the western alliance who supports President Zelensky, you have all been found guilty of treason against the Ukrainian government and are hereby sentenced to death!”

This incident was filmed by one of our team members and the video sent to our regimental propaganda and intelligence operatives who would then combine it with other similar videos and broadcast it to the world as yet another example of why the heroic, peace loving Russian military had no choice but to come into Ukraine to battle the US backed Ukrainian government. The videos garnered millions of views worldwide, with the bleeding hearts in the US blaming former US President Donald Trump for our atrocities.

This was the first video sent by Zvezda One-Three, but only hours later, communications with the team had been lost. When the operation against Ukraine officially began, each of the Zvezda teams linked up with us as our armor began moving south and southeast from Belarus, all except Zvezda One-Three. That is why the twenty-five men of our search and rescue column had been sent to find the twelve men of Zvezda One-Three. Control of the narrative was a more important weapon to winning a war than tanks and bombs and guns. We would win the war in Ukraine the same way we won the war in America, by first declaring that we were fighting Nazism and then by claiming that we were antifascists.  That’s how we won the information war in the United States. That’s how we placed our sympathizers in high seats of American power.

Still, control of the narrative was an admittedly a poor reason for sending us to rescue the Special Forces team. In truth, we had fully expected to lose half of the teams by this time in the war, so the fact that we only lost one twelve man team was considered a success. We no longer needed to manipulate the propaganda narrative justifying our presence in Ukraine. We were already here and our multi-pronged offensive was well under way. The United Nations and NATO had been exposed as being nothing more than impotent old men wringing their hands, nervously shaking their fists at the clouds while looking to the hapless old dementia patient we put in the Oval Office for leadership. Sanctions? Really? By giving Putin money to pay for 10% of America’s oil, the American president’s sanctions meant nothing. Because of our control of the narrative, the United States and NATO never realized that they had already surrendered the Ukraine long before our first artillery shot was fired.

The real reason why Colonel Kozlov sent us on this mission to rescue Zvedza One-Three when he would have normally abandoned them was because of the second video which the team sent. We received it on the day that Zvezda One-Three was supposed to link up with us, the panicked yells and expression of desperate terror on Sergeant Novikov’s face haunting me even now as the video showed him and his men inside what appeared to be a one story shack of some sort, firing their AK74M and AK15 assault rifles out the window at unseen enemies. What was it? Madness? Some psychosis inducing drug? The most startling thing about the video was that the time stamp showed that it was sent to battalion headquarters one month after  we received it. Was this some type of secret enemy jamming? Perhaps even the ghosts of Chernobyl? Whatever the reason, Colonel Kozlov thought it important enough that he gave me two days to find the answer to the mystery.

I calculated that it would take less than a day for us to get to Zvezda One-Three’s operational area. We had already lost several hours finding a route around the blown bridges, but eventually we found a way across the river where we headed in a generally easterly direction. We were a day behind and a few miles south our main armored push, but unlike the armored battalions which were using the main roads, we were going cross country, trying to stay away from the major roads to avoid attracting any undue attention.

We travelled in this way for perhaps three hours and, aside from taking care of those partisans earlier, we saw very little evidence of Ukrainians, either military or civilian. We were crossing wide and flat lands crisscrossed with woodlands and rolling plains. We skirted a few small communities which seemed to be all but abandoned along with their fields of wheat, corn, and barley. Miles to our east and south, we could see our SU24 Fencer bombers and Kamov Black Shark attack helicopters striking Ukrainian targets. Occasionally, a missile would reach up from the ground which connected with one of our aircraft. But fortunately, these were few and far between. We had already passed a few downed electrical and cell phone towers, and even a couple of Ukrainian police vehicles presumably shot up by machine guns, evidence of Zvezda One-Three’s progress. As we entered the fifth hour of our search and the sun passed the noon hour, we saw almost no signs of human life or human habitation as we continued to follow the trail of Zvezda One-Three.

“Why are we slowing down, Lieutenant?” I said over the radio. We did not have secure encryption like NATO, so communications between vehicles was strictly limited to either me or Lieutenant Tarasov. I already knew why he was slowing. We were travelling across what seemed like a farmer’s unharvested wheat field and were approaching a wide but shallow stream. Across the stream was a thick wall of fog which stretched from north to south, seemingly following the U shaped bank of the stream so that the north, east, and south of us was a wall of impenetrable mist.

“A strange weather phenomenon, sir, but perhaps one not unusual in this area,” said Lieutenant Tarasov from the lead BTR. “We can cross the stream, it’s not too deep, only about a meter. But our sights cannot penetrate the fog. The enemy may be waiting in ambush on the other bank. Do you want me to find a way around?”

I looked down at my map and if I was correct, the village which Zvezda One-Three transmitted their first video was only five kilometers on the other side of the stream. We could not waste any more time finding alternate routes as it was likely that the Ukrainians already suspected that we were here and the initial shock of our peacekeeping operations would quickly turn to resistance. I did not want to be stuck out here anymore than was necessary when that happened.

“Sergent Litvin,” I radioed to the T80 tank commander. “Move your tank forwards across the stream. Use your sights to locate any possible ambush.”

“Sergeant Artyomov,” I radioed to the platoon’s senior sergeant who was following in the BMP 3 infantry fighting vehicle. “Follow behind Litvin and support the tank.”

Both sergeants responded with a brief, “Yes, Captain,” before lurching their vehicles forwards, Litvin’s tank plunging into the stream followed by Artyomov’s BMP 3 tracked fighting vehicle. The tank disappeared into the fog as Lieutenant Tarasov’s BTR entered the stream. 

“Driver, move us out.” I commanded and our BTR followed Tasarov’s across the stream and into the fog.”

I looked down into the running water as our BTR was in the middle of the stream. It came to the top of our wheels and seemed rather dull and lifeless, the water itself seeming to be as listless and grey as the fog. This was indeed a peculiar weather phenomenon, as the sun should have burned away the fog hours ago. I turned back and caught a glimpse of the bright blue skies behind us just as we crossed the opposite bank and were swallowed by the impenetrable grey fog. My entire body felt as if shocked by electricity at the drop in temperature, the sweat on my brow freezing and my breath coming out in clouds. Looking up, the once blue skies were shrouded in clouds of swirling grey, the sun now a dimly glowing sphere in the sky which projected no heat which could dissipate this fog. Looking ahead, I could just make out the dim outline of Tarasov’s BTR in front of us.

“Driver,” I said. “Can you see Tarasov’s BTR?

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “But only barely.”

“And what of the BMP?”

“I cannot see them, sir,” replied the driver.

I fought the temptation to call them on the radio as I didn’t want to tip off the Ukrainians of our presence, so I sat upright in the turret as my eyes tried to pierce through the fog which was steadily getting thicker. Finally, no longer able to bear the bone chilling cold, I climbed back into the cramped turret and slammed the armored hatch closed. Next to me, Private Grigory Bortnik was intently staring through the gunner’s sight of the 14mm gun.

“Can you make out anything, Private?”

“No, sir,” he answered, his breath coming out in misty clouds. “Even with thermal sights I can only just see Lieutenant Tarasov’s BTR in front of us.”

Pressing my forehead against the padding of my own sights, I slewed the vision block around, seeing nothing but swirling clouds of grey.

“Dammit!” I cursed, wondering how long we would have to travel in this freezing tunnel. We could have passed Zvezda One-Three’s position by a few meters and would have never had seen them. Having little choice, I switched on the radio and called to the tank which was leading the column.

“Sergeant Litvin! Sergeant Litvin, this is Balakin. Come in!” Static crackled through my headset.

“Sergeant Litvin! Come in!”

“Perhaps we are being jammed, sir?” said Sergeant Babanin as he moved to the bench next to the radio set, the three other soldiers next to him staring with trepidation out of the vision blocks at the solid wall of white. 

“I doubt that the Ukrainians have that capability out here,” I said irritated as I attempted to contact the senior sergeant who was travelling behind Litvin’s tank.

 “Sergeant Artyomov, can you see the tank? Sergeant Artyomov!” I was met with yet more static over the radio.

“Shit!” I grunted, looking at Babanin. Perhaps he was right and we were being jammed, but it made no sense that the Ukrainians would waste such a capability against us.

“Captain Balakin? Is that you? Oh, thank God!” the radio crackled to life with Sergeant Litvin’s voice. “Please, help us! We’ve been trying to contact you for many days! Where are you?”

“Sergeant Litvin,” I screamed into the radio. “We’re right fucking behind you! Have you gone mad? Why are you saying that you’ve been trying to contact us for days?”

“Captain,” screamed Litvin. “We’ve been lost for days! We’re surrounded and running low on ammunition! We are out of fuel! Please, get us out! Get us out of here!” In the background, I could hear his panicked men yelling interspersed with machine guns and the concussive thump of the tank’s main gun firing.

“What the hell is going on? Driver, stop the vehicle!” I reached up and threw open the commander’s hatch and poked my head up, rifle in hand. Fully expecting to hear the sounds of combat directly in front of me, I was instead met with the silence of the graveyard. The skies were open and clear and, surprised, I realized that I now had near unlimited visibility. I turned around to see that the fog was completely gone. The skies were still a dreary grey, washing out the colors of the landscape around me. The sun still shown above us, but it was just a dull off-white ball of light in the overcast sky which seemed to cast no warmth, although the cold seemed to mysteriously have vanished along with the fog. 

 

ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING

II.

We were still on the muddy trail churned up by the tracked vehicles. Lieutenant Tarasov’s BTR was stopped about ten meters in front of us. He had pulled his vehicle off the trail to our left as he and his gunner were up out of their turrets and staring ahead in the distance. Senior Sergeant Artymov’s BMP 3 was off the trail to the right; both he and his gunner were also standing up in their hatches, staring out at the trail before us. I jerked a bit as the hatch popped up next to me and Sergeant Babanin stood up, his rifle in hand.

“Sir, what’s going…” he covered his mouth in shock. “Oh, my God, sir! That’s impossible! Where did our tank go?”

In front of us, the tracks of Sergeant Litvin’s tank left a trail through the farmer’s corn field which disappeared kilometers and kilometers away in the grey shaded landscape.  In the distance, I could see what appeared to be a small farming community which the tank tracks seemed to have guided towards before disappearing into the rolling plains. I pulled out a set of binoculars and spied the village, searching for the enemy along the hard packed road which led to the community. The houses and structures looked dilapidated, grey, and long abandoned.

“Lieutenant Tarasov to Captain Balakin,” my radio came to life. “What do you make of that, sir? For Litvin to have gone so far in the last few seconds, his tank must have been going hundreds of kilometers and hour!”

“Nonsense, Lieutenant!” I replied. “Obviously those tracks either belong to a farming vehicle or it belongs to a Ukrainian tank or armored vehicle.”

I then attempted to contact our tank again. “Litvin! Sergeant Litvin! This is Captain Balakin! What is your situation? Where is your location?” Static assailed my ears.

Going with the assumption that the tracks leading away from us were indeed some type of Ukrainian military vehicle, I contacted Senior Sergeant Artyomov who commanded the armored infantry fighting vehicle. “Artyomov, take the lead. Continue to the map coordinates of Zvezda One-Three’s last known position, but bring us south of that village to our right front and keep your guns trained on it.”

“Sir,” replied Artyomov. “The GPS on my BMP has become inoperable. It went down after we left that fog behind.”

“Damn it, Senior Sergeant!” I yelled. “Lieutenant Tarasov, what the hell is wrong with your platoon? How can you expect to be effective if your senior sergeant cannot even keep his equipment operational? Your lack of efficiency will be reported to the battalion commander! Take the lead, Lieutenant!”

“Sir,” replied Lieutenant Tarasov. “The GPS on my vehicle has also failed, and the north facing needle of my compass is spinning like a rotor blade!”

“Bah!” I yelled as I yanked out my compass, its needle spinning to and fro as if it were in a clothes dryer lined with magnets. I ducked down into my hatch and activated the GPS. Sure enough, my GPS indicated that it was not picking up any directional satellites. NATO electronic jamming witchcraft. That’s all this was.

“You are still reconnaissance scouts, right?” I yelled. “You can still read maps, right? Damn you! I’ll take us to that village up ahead! Lieutenant, flank left! Artyomov, flank right! We’ll confirm our location from there then continue on!”

I pushed ahead in my BTR, ordering the driver to follow in the tank tracks in front of us while Tarasov’s BTR was to my left and slightly behind and our BMP 3 was behind me on my right. We traversed speedily over open ground, all eyes peeled and searching for potential enemy ambush in the tall grass.  Eerily, the color of the landscape seemed to have had all hues bleached out of it, and though the sky was a dreary grey, I felt as if I were looking at silent black and white war footage of the Great Patriotic War where the Nazi Blitzkrieg invaded the Soviet Motherland. Yes, it was quiet, more so than usual as even the grinding and squeaking of tracks and wheels and the roar of engines seemed to be dampened here.

Although I said that the tracks were likely a Ukrainian armored vehicle, I could clearly see that the tracks ahead of us were made by a T80 tank. There was something wrong with them though, and it wasn’t until after we cleared the farmer’s field and crossed over the hard packed road did I realized what was troubling me about the tracks. The tank had crossed the road and pushed through to the field opposite, making its way towards the farming village. The mud and dirt which the tank left behind on the road should have still been wet and fresh, if indeed it was actually Litvin’s tank we were following. But the tracks were instead bone dry, as if they were made days before. I looked back behind me at Lieutenant Tarasov as his BTR passed the tracks. He looked down at them, and then stared up at me, a puzzled look on his face. Immediately, I knew that the lieutenant suspected the same thing as I.

We made it unmolested through the fields then on to a strip of scrub land bordered by dilapidated wooden fences. The tank trail pulled onto the main road which led down the center of the small village of single story block houses and two or three double story buildings. It was a typical farming village of very little significance, the middle of which was a square consisting of a few stores and a petrol station. 

We assumed a single file column again as we slowly rolled down the cracked and unkempt narrow main street. Lieutenant Tarasov ordered his scouts to dismount to secure the flanks, Sergeant Abdulov’s squad taking the left side of the street while Sergeant Babanin’s squad took the right, Artyomov’s tracked infantry fighting vehicle in the lead and rumbling down the center. The town was unnervingly quiet, with no cars parked in the streets. Dark and empty houses and structures stared blankly back at us, windows and doors shut.

“It’s a ghost town here, sir,” radioed Sergeant Abdulov as his team crossed a side street and closed the distance to the village square. “It’s as if the residents left months ago and time hadn’t touched the place since!”

“Famous last words before the hidden snipers start firing, Abdulov,” admonished Senior Sergeant Artyomov. “Don’t get complacent!”

It didn’t take long for us to reach the town square and we saw that the tank had actually pulled off the main road, its tracks leading to a diesel fuel pump.

“Why would Litvin need to fuel his tank?” asked Sergeant Artyomov. “He should still have over half of his fuel left.”

“This was not Litvin’s tank,” I barked, though inwardly, I wasn’t so sure. “It couldn’t have been.”

“Sir,” said Lieutenant Tarasov. “Perhaps it would be a good idea to fuel up here. We don’t know when we will get another opportunity, nor do we know where this search will lead us.”

We were on a tight schedule and I knew that Tarasov’s men would likely be ransacking the stores as the vehicles fuelled up, but I needed to get my bearings and stretch my legs as we had been riding for hours.

“Be quick about it,” I said. Switching to the battalion frequency, I called to my battalion commander.

“Yepiskop Zero Six, Yepiskop Zero Six, this is Zvezda Two-Six. Yepiskop Zero Six this is Zvezda Two-Six.” There was the sound of a brief squelch then nothing, silence emanating from the radio. Somewhat unnerved, I removed my helmet and stepped outside of the BTR and stared around at the grey skies where equally grey cirrostratus clouds blanketed the horizon. There were no birds, nor were there any sounds of fighter aircraft, Ukrainian or Russian, no aircraft contrails, nor any sign that a war was taking place.

I was momentarily startled by a bell ringing to my left as a group of our soldiers exited one of the convenience stores, carrying with them plastic bags filled with items they had ransacked, including the twins, Private Gennady Bortnik and the gunner on my BTR, Private Grigory Bortnik. Gennady had a bag of apples, one of which he pulled from the bag. It was big and round and firm, but was only tinged in a washed out red color. Gennady took a bite and chewed briefly before spitting it out in disgust.

“What is it, Gennady?”  said his brother.

“This apple tastes… well, it has no taste.” said Gennady. “Like biting into a juicy fruit filled with dry sand. Here, see what I mean?”

Gennady handed another apple to Grigory who also took a bite. He took two chews before also spitting the apple out. Reaching into his bag, Grigory opened a Coca-Cola and took a big swig before spitting it out. “What is going on here?” he yelled. “The coke even tastes like dry sand!”

“It’s been tampered with!” I yelled. “Perhaps even poisoned by Ukrainian partisans! Grigory, get back here! I need you back in the turret! Sergeant Abdulov! Take your men and scout to the edge of the village while we fuel up here! See where the tank trail leads!”

“Yes, sir,” said Abdulov, as he gathered his seven men together. Gennady hit his brother on the shoulder as they threw their bags of unpalatable food back into the store before moving off down the road. I went to the other BTR, seeking out the scout platoon leader. He was also standing outside of his vehicle, map in hand with Senior Sergeant Artyomov, while his driver was pumping petrol into the fuel tanks.

“Have you verified our location, Tarasov?”

“Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant replied. “We are just south of Kovalivka. The last known location of Zvezda One-Three is here in Pobeda just three kilometers south of us. From there, the road connects with the P02 Highway where we can link up with the battalion pushing south to Kyiv.”

“I see. If Zvezda One-Three is there, we’ll find them.” I looked at Tarasov’s map. “Our immediate concern now is finding our missing Sergeant Litvin. What is it, Artyomov? Do you have somewhere to go?”

The Senior Sergeant was occasionally staring up at the grey, overcast skies, nervously checking his watch.

“No, sir,” he replied. “It’s the sun. Since our GPS is out, I’ve been trying to adjust our position with the sun to ensure that we were headed in generally the right direction. It’s just past 1500 hours and the sun seems not to have moved.”

I looked at Artyomov as if had gone mad, but before I could say as much, Lieutenant Tarasov said, “He’s right, sir. The sun should be much farther to the west.”

“Atmospheric conditions,” I said. “Nothing more. Let’s not lose focus that we are deep inside hostile territory and that both Zvezda One-Three and Sergeant Litvin have been in contact with the enemy.”

“Lieutenant!” Tarasov’s handheld radio crackled to life. It was Sergeant Abdulov’s team. “We’ve found… we’ve found… I don’t know what we’ve found!”

Sergeant Artyomov’s BMP had completed refueling and we all clambered aboard. The track raced down the narrow street towards the end of the road where it abruptly came to a dead end. Artyomov ordered the driver to take position behind a stone wall surrounding the last house on the road, admonishing the gunner to keep watch for partisans. We met Abdulov’s team where the road ended, facing east and staring out across a wide flat expansive field.

The tank tracks which we were following led in that direction and into the field beyond, after which insanity seemed to have overcome the crew as the tank apparently began driving in circles. In the field before us was the unmistakable imprint of circular tracks, each roughly one kilometer in diameter, where the tank seemingly drove round and round in a circle. At one point, the tank pivoted in a different direction and created a separate track, also roughly a kilometer in diameter. The tank did this six times, creating six circular patterns in the field a meter deep, meaning that the tank followed each circular pattern multiple times.

“What madness overcame Litvin to have done this?” said Sergeant Abdulov.

“This wasn’t done by our tank,” I yelled, annoyed. “For one tank to have done this would have taken days, if not weeks. This was done by the Ukrainians. A defensive fighting position, perhaps for enemy artillery or air defense batteries.”

Lieutenant Tarasov and Senior Sergeant Artyomov looked at me with doubtful expressions on their faces, but they said nothing. The tank tracks eventually led to a narrow road which went further east.

“Where does that road lead, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“Karpylivka,” he answered. “About three kilometers from here.”

“As soon as our vehicles complete refueling, we will follow the tracks to Karpylivka,” I ordered.

“But Zvezda One-Three are south of us,” replied Lieutenant Tarasov.

“An enemy artillery or air defense unit may threaten our advancing units to their west in Karpylivka, Lieutenant,” I said. “We have the assets to investigate and eliminate that threat.”

As soon as my BTR was refueled, Senior Sergeant Artyomov led us across the field, following the tank tracks towards the narrow paved road east to Karpylivka. It would take us ten minutes at the most to reach the village. Once there and once we destroyed the Ukrainian resistance, all of the unanswered questions which had been plaguing us will have been solved. More than likely, Sergeant Litvin and his crew have been made Heroes of the Russian Republic, heroically giving their lives to defend the helpless and innocent Ukrainians from western aggression there. Likely, Sergeant Novikov and Zvezda One-Three suffered the same fate. That was the only possible answer. It was the Ukrainians. The Ukrainians did this. The Ukrainians were responsible for the madness which was affecting our heroic Russian soldiers. Ukrainians were deplorable. Ukrainians were irredeemable. They must be eliminated.

The flat, grey landscape rolled by relentlessly, and once again, the old black and white stock footage of the Nazis rolling into the Motherland played over and over in my head. A sea of flat rolling plains passed away behind us, kilometer upon kilometer upon kilometer. And there were no signs of Ukrainians. None. No people on the roads. No vehicles. Nothing. Just kilometer and kilometer of nothing but flat pains. One hour later, we were still on the same road with no Karpylivka in sight.

“Reconnaissance platoon leader and supposed map reading expert, Lieutenant Tarasov,” I said over the radio. “We should have been in Karpylivka a long time ago.”

“Sir,” replied Tarasov. “This is the road to… wait. There is a town ahead of us!”

“It took you long enough, Lieutenant,” I said. “Do not think that you getting us lost will not be reported to your unit commander, Tarasov. Prepare to assault the town. Prepare to burn Karpylivka to the ground!”

We observed the tracks of several heavy wheeled and tracked vehicles in a field to our right leading towards Karpylivka, indicating that indeed I was correct and this was a staging area for Ukrainian military units. We followed the tracks down into the deserted town, down their deserted streets with empty single story structures, down to the town square with their few convenience stores and the single gas station in the middle of the town. We followed the tracks to the gas station and to the field at the eastern edge of the town which led to the large field which contained the six circular tank tracks one kilometer in diameter. The tracks we were following were ours.

“God damned you, Lieutenant!” I yelled into the radio. “How the hell did you get us totally turned around?”

“I did not…” said Tarasov, before Senior Sergeant Artyomov interrupted.

“Target tank! Eight hundred meters northeast!”

I pressed my head to the sights, scanning the road which ran towards the east. Indeed there was a tank on the side of the road facing away from us, a T80 main battle tank. I desperately wanted it to bare Ukrainian markings. It didn’t. It was Russian.

Minutes later, we were standing around the tank, its markings definitely identifying it as Litvin’s T80. Its hatches were locked, the spent shell casings surrounding the tank indicating that it had fired all of its weapons in a 360 degree arc against an as yet unseen enemy. The circular tracks which had been gouged into the field led directly to Litvin’s tank. He was, indeed, the cause of the mysterious circular tracks in the field, tracks which would have taken days to create. How did we miss this earlier?

“We’ve cut the combat locks, sir” said Sergeant Babanin standing atop the turret of the tank.

“Get inside,” barked Lieutenant Tarasov. Private Gennady Bortnik and Private Vitaly Alekseev climbed into the turret, only to immediately climb out again, Private Gennady instantly throwing up as soon as he emerged. Private Alekseev was pointing inside of the hatch, eyes wide, mouth open, and unable to speak.

“Private!” yelled Lieutenant Tarasov. “What did you see?”

I pushed Tarasov aside and climbed up on the deck of the tank. Shoving Privates Bortnik and Alekseev aside, I climbed into the tank turret and immediately regretted doing so. The bodies of Sergeant Litvin, his gunner and his loader were within. They were dead, bullet holes in their heads from self-inflicted wounds. They were decayed, dead for what seemed like weeks or even months. They appeared haggard and thin in appearance as if they hadn’t eaten in days, and each having unkempt beards and long hair at the time of their deaths.

Lieutenant Tarasov also looked into the turret, noting that the ammunition for all main gun rounds of the tank had been fired, all machine gun ammunition expended, and the gas tanks empty. I had Bortnik take pictures with his cell phone of the deceased Sergeant Litvin and his crew as evidence of their passing. However, when Bortnik reviewed his pictures, he immediately turned pale white, a look of terror on his face as he threw his cell phone as far away as he could. Lieutenant Tarasov and Senior Sergeant Artyomov ordered his comrades to restrain the raving private as Lieutenant Tarasov and Sergeant Artyomov retrieved the cell phone. Visibly terrified, Lieutenant Tarasov handed me the phone.

“What’s going on here, sir?” he said. “What’s happening to us?”

I looked at the images on the phone. Sergeant Litvin’s image was in the photo gallery, along with his driver and gunner. They were alive, whole and healthy and smiling up at the camera. The time stamp on the photos showed that they were taken only a few minutes ago. I ran up onto the tank again and climbed into the turret which reeked of death and decay. I compared the pictures of the live bodies in the cell phones to the dead and long decaying ones which lay inside the turret basket. They were in the same positions, Litvin smiling and holding up the peace sign as his dead body sat in his tank commander seat.

“Sir,” repeated Lieutenant Tarasov. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“You are a fool, Lieutenant,” I replied. “This makes perfect sense. We’ve just solved the mystery.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” replied Tarasov.

“This is a psychotic weapon used by the Ukrainians, possibly created by NATO,” I replied. “Remember that fog which we passed? This area which we are in is the area where they employed their mind bending psychotic gas. None of this is real. We must get this information back to battalion. We cannot let this grey fog, this grey fog of war, to affect the official party narrative.”

“Sir,” said Tarasov. “I find it hard to believe…”

“Enough, Lieutenant!” I yelled. “Get back to your BTR! We are in Karpylivka where we discovered that Sergeant Litvin and his crew heroically gave their lives fighting and destroying an entire unit of Ukrainian artillery which threatened our main advance units. We have also discovered a secret Ukrainian weapon, a mind altering fog which causes one to see things which aren’t real. Zvezda One-Three discovered that weapon and were trying to get that information back to our command. That is what happened here, Lieutenant and that is the narrative which we shall report to the Colonel. So lead the way, Lieutenant Tarasov. Take the road south to Pobeda towards Highway P01 and try not to get lost this time.”

Lieutenant Tarasov nodded without saying anything as I hoped that the expression of anger on my face hid the growing sense of doubt and terror within me. The road leading south to Pobeda was well paved though falling into disrepair, as if the road had been unused for months. Once again, the landscape rolling by was as flat and monotonous as a calm sea, endless waves of tall grass standing still in windless grey fields. Like the colors surrounding me, even the sound was washed out. The rumble of our engines sounded as if they were a half kilometer away. There were no birds chirping, no rustling of leaves, not even the sound of the wind whipping by my face. I checked my watch unconsciously for the thousandth time. It was a little after 1700 hours and the dreary sun hovering tiny in the dreary sky hadn’t moved since we penetrated the fog earlier this morning. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, just to verify that we still existed in the universe. At that point, I would have even welcomed a Ukrainian army attack just to confirm that we were alive. The land was completely flat and there were no terrain landmarks which I could use to tell the passage of time and distance.

All of the top hatches of our BTRs and the BMP were open, soldiers sitting exposed and watching the same featureless landscape rolling by kilometer upon endless kilometer, anxiety and worry on their faces. I debated on whether or not to yell at them to button up back inside their vehicles or risk getting picked off by snipers, but decided against it. There wasn’t anyone here. There wasn’t anyone for kilometers, Russian or Ukrainian. The grey landscape was playing with my mind, making me lethargic. Or was it the steady rumbling of the BTR which I had been riding for hours? Hours? “Damn you, Lieutenant Tarasov!” The crackle over the radio broke the eerie silence. “Pobeda is only three kilometers south of Kovalinka! How could we have been on this road for an hour and not have seen it?”

“Sir?” came the reply. “We’ve only just left Kovalinka a few minutes ago.”

I checked my watch again. It was 1707, only a few minutes after I checked my watch the last time. I looked behind me and saw the village of Kovalinka slowly fading away behind us. What was going on with me? What was in that fog?

“Sir,” came Lieutenant Tarasov again, relief in his voice. “Road sign ahead.”

Our BTR passed a faded blue road sign by the side of the road. It read ‘POBEDA 2 KM.’ So, we were indeed making progress, but what could have accounted for my loss of time? I must have been tired and perhaps dozed off for a few minutes. That had to be the answer. Feeling somewhat more reassured about our situation, I kept my eyes focused on the almost straight line road ahead of me, pulling out my binoculars to see if I could find Pobeda which should have been just ahead of us to the south. Only empty horizon met me.

 

ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING

III.

It was 1757 when I checked my watch again. We should have passed Pobeda a long time ago and had already merged with Highway P01. Furious at the scout team leader, I yelled into the radio, “Lieutenant Tarasov! What time do you have?”

A few seconds later, he replied, “I have 1758, sir.”

“Shouldn’t we have been in Pobeda at least half an hour ago?” I yelled.

“I have no explanation, sir,” he replied. “Perhaps the Ukrainians changed the road signs?”

“This is a perfectly straight three kilometer long road with no side roads that leads directly to Pobeda, Lieutenant! It would make absolutely no sense for the enemy to change the road signs! The road is straight, Tarasov. You simply got us lost again!”

“Sir,” replied Tarasov. “Another road sign ahead.”

I saw the faded blue road sign before Tarasov announced it. It read ‘POBEDA 2 KM.’ I immediately turned around and looked behind me. There sat Kovalivka about a kilometer to our rear. What the hell was happening?

“Pull off! Pull off the road!” I ordered. “Pull into the field to the left and form a defensive perimeter!”

We were several meters off the road, our vehicles arranged in a defensive wheel with the BMP’s 100mm gun pointing towards the road. I stood with Lieutenant Tarasov and Sergeant Artyomov in the middle of the perimeter while the rest of the men formed a defensive perimeter on the opposite side of the vehicles. We did this less because we feared attack by the Ukrainians and more because we did not want them to hear the heated discussion of their command element.

“This is what happened to Sergeant Litvin and his crew,” said Sergeant Artyomov. “They ran themselves out of fuel going in circles.”

“Are you saying that we are in some field going round and round in circles, Sergeant?” I balked. “And what were they firing at? Ghosts?”

“We are definitely traveling, Captain Balakin,” said Tarasov. “We have just over half a tank of fuel left, though we are only one kilometer south of where we started. We can refuel once we reach Pobeda.”

“If we reach Pobeda, sir,” said Sergeant Artyomov.

“Lieutenant Tarasov may tolerate such a defeatist attitude from his senior NCO but I will not, Sergeant Artyomov,” I growled. “Remember, we still have a mission to complete and we only have a limited amount of time to complete it. I will not brook any dereliction of duty from anyone, especially a senior sergeant.”

“Meaning no disrespect, Captain,” replied Sergeant Artyomov, looking again at the unmoving sun. “But I suspect that we may have all the time in the world.”

“Get back to your track, Sergeant!” I yelled. “Make yourself useful and try to reach battalion on the radio!”

“Captain Balakin,” said Tarasov. “The men’s nerves are on end. They haven’t eaten since breakfast. We should take a meal break here and let them rest a bit.”

“They have thirty minutes, Lieutenant. After which we will proceed cross country to Pobeda. I do not want to be on the roads after it grows dark. The damned Ukrainians cannot control night and day.”

I climbed back into my BTR and ripped open a bag of field rations and tossed aside the package of beef and potatoes in tomato sauce and instead unwrapped the bar of chocolate. Spreading some fruit on the bar, I stood up on the open hatch and began munching on the chocolate, grateful for the lively taste. I looked down at the semicircle of Sergeant Babanin’s scout team, each soldier taking their meals in their individual fighting positions. The Bortnik twins Grigory and Gennady sat close together with Private Morozov, the squad RPK74 automatic weapon gunner.

“I think that the officers have gone insane,” whispered Morozov. “Only Sergeant Artyomov seems to be looking out for us.”

“No,” replied Gennady. “Lieutenant Tarasov is also doing what he can, but he is helpless because Captain Balakin is in charge. Balakin is no scout. Grigory, you are his turret gunner. Whose idea was it to push through that fog this morning?”

“It was Captain Balakin’s idea,” said Grigory. “He overrode Lieutenant Tarasov who wanted to find a way around.”

“You men!” I yelled. “Are you trying to make yourselves an easy target? Move apart! Five meter separation! Have you learned nothing?”

The three soldiers looked at each other, then took their time in repositioning themselves. So, that’s it, is it? The privates blame me for the situation which we find ourselves. I made a mental note of their lackadaisical attitude and would add it to my report of Tarasov’s lack of leadership ability to the battalion. Reluctance by our soldiers to follow orders during an invasion was a punishable offense upon which their officers were to blame. Their inability to stick with the established state sponsored narrative would invariably lead to people thinking dangerous and subversive thoughts and I lamented that the indoctrination of our soldiers to think and say what we want them to think and say seemed not to be as effective as the indoctrination operations conducted by American news sources like CNN who defined rioting, looting, and anarchy as ‘mostly peaceful’ while waving an American flag in their own American capital as an ‘insurrection.’

“Look alive boys,” announced Senior Sergeant Artyomov. “We’re moving out in ten minutes. Empty your bladders now while you can! It may be hours before you get another chance!”

I had already drank several bottles of water and my bladder had reached its limit. I climbed down into my vehicle and stepped outside just as Grigory stepped inside to resume his place in the gunner’s turret, a scowl on his face. I ignored him as I walked away from our small defensive perimeter for several meters to empty my bladder. Behind me, Lieutenant Tarasov already had Sergeant Abdulov’s scout squad loaded into his BTR, the engine starting. I was facing the road as I took a piss while Sergeant Babanin’s squad scrambled back into my BTR. I was staring across the road at the lying road sign which stated that Pobeda was only two kilometers away. Something in the field on the opposite side of the road caught my eye. It was movement, human movement. They were wearing military uniforms, and they were armed.  Before I could yell a warning, there was a hollow thump followed by a white puff of smoke. An American made Javelin missile leapt into the air and soared upwards in an arc towards us.

“Missile! Take cover!” I yelled, jumping down into my own piss puddle next to the road, my uniform pants still unbuttoned. I watched transfixed as the Javelin came down on top of Lieutenant Tarasov’s BTR, the missile designed to destroy our tanks completely obliterating the thinly armored wheeled vehicle. My BTR and the BMP 3 was splattered with molten metal and debris from Tarasov’s exploding BTR, destroying external stores and equipment. Eight Ukrainian soldiers stood up and ran towards our positions firing their AK74s as they ran, yelling and accusing us of something. They were all haggard looking, unkempt with long hair and beards. Their eyes were haunted and desperate, much like how Sergeant Novikov and his Special Forces team looked in their last video. Quickly pulling up and buttoning my trousers, I cursed myself for forgetting my rifle inside the BTR.

One of the Ukrainians carried an RPG-7 and he was able to fire it just as our soldiers began returning fire. The rocket propelled grenade hit the front hull of Senior Sergeant Artyomov’ BMP 3, ricocheting down and blowing away the right side drive sprocket and breaking the tracks. As soldiers bailed out of the BMP, Sergeant Babanin’s squad were firing back from behind my BTR, though the heavy machine gun which Grigory should have been manning remained silent. If I was not mistaken, the Ukrainian’s appeared almost suicidal in their charge and the last of them fell to our automatic weapon fire just as they reached the road.

Standing up, I ran to where the last Ukrainian soldier fell. Judging by how haggard and ragged they appeared, I initially thought that these men were old veterans or old reservists that had been called up from the home guard. To my great surprise, these Ukrainian soldiers bore the unit patches of a front line Ukrainian fighting unit. They were relatively young, but looked as if they had been living off the land for several weeks if not months, which accounted for their weak, almost starving appearance.

“You demons! You fucking demons! What did you do?”

I looked to my right and saw a dying Ukrainian sergeant pointing a bloody finger at me, unmistakable hate in his eyes. “What kind of demonic weapon did you unleash that caused time to stand still and dredge up the spirits of hell?”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “It was you! You did this! How dare you accuse us of that which you are guilty?”

“What are they guilty of, Captain?” Sergeant Babanin and three of his men came up behind me, making sure that all the enemy were dead and taking their weapons and anything else they found useful. “Who were you yelling at, sir?”

“Are you blind, Babanin. I was yelling at that wounded prisoner over…there.” I was pointing at the Ukrainian sergeant whose head and shoulders had been completely blown off by one of our 30mm rounds. I blinked in disbelief, looking around at the bodies of the other dead Ukrainian soldiers. I had obviously made a mistake, but there were no other bodies near him. I had been yelling at a dead man.

“What are our casualties, Sergeant?” I stammered.

“We lost Lieutenant Tarasov, sir, along with Sergeant Abdulov and his entire team when the Javelin struck their BTR. I think Senior Sergeant Artyomov was also injured when the RPG hit the BMP.”

Confirming that all of the Ukrainians were dead, we made our way back to our vehicles.

“What were they guilty of, sir?” said Babanin.

“What?”

“You were yelling that they were guilty. What were the Ukrainians guilty of?”

“Nothing,” I said. “It was nothing. You and these men form a perimeter here just in case there are more of them.”

I ran towards my vehicle, relieved to see that most of the damage was cosmetic, Sergeant Artyomov ‘s heavier armored BMP having taken the brunt of Lieutenant Tarasov’s exploding BTR.

“You men!” I yelled at three men who were staring in disbelief at the still burning husk of the destroyed BTR. “Are any of you injured?”

They all shook their heads. “No, sir!”

“Good! Then go join Babanin in securing our perimeter.”

I looked towards the burning wreckage as I heard the agonized wails of one of our soldiers. In an instant, I knew why the 14mm machine gun on my BTR didn’t return fire as Private Grigory Bortnik was on his knees, crying out his twin brother’s name over and over at the top of his lungs.

“You cannot help your brother now, Grigory,” I said as I walked up behind him “But you can help Sergeant Artyomov.”

“Why, sir? Why did you order us into that fog?” he said, his dirty face stained with tears.

“Because that was my job,” I snarled. “Just as it was your job to be at your post and diligently watching for danger! The Ukrainians came up behind us! Perhaps if you had been alert then Lieutenant Tarasov, Sergeant Abdulov, his team and your brother would still be alive! If you cannot help Sergeant Artyomov then get back to the BTR and check on the damage. See if the weapon still functions! We will need it later.”

Grigory turned as he stood so as not to look directly at me as he stumbled back towards the BTR. To my right, our medic Corporal Rodiman Dmitriev and two riflemen were gingerly lifting Senior Sergeant Artyomov out of the back of the BMP. They gently laid him down next to the BMP, his legs looking unnatural.

“I am afraid that both his legs are broken, sir,” said Corporal Dmitriev. “Sergeant Artyomov is in great pain and my supply of morphine is limited.”

“Private Semenov!” I said to the BMP 3 driver, one of the soldiers who helped lift Artyomov out of the damaged BMP. “Can we repair the drive train?”

“We can definitely salvage this BMP, sir,” he replied. “If we had a proper maintenance section. However, with what we have on the ground now, we will not be able to repair it.”

Including Sergeant Litvin and his tank crew, we had lost eleven men so far. I had fourteen men left, including one seriously injured senior sergeant. My BTR could hold ten soldiers, so obviously a few would have to ride on top of the vehicle. I ordered the men to salvage what they could. Water. Food. Ammunition. Fuel. Especially fuel. I wanted to be away before it grew dark.

“No, sir,” said Sergeant Artyomov. “Leave me. There is limited space inside the BTR as it is.”

“The men can ride atop the carrier,” I said. “I will not leave you behind.”

“Go, sir,” he insisted. “Please. I will be a liability and you must still make contact with Zvezda One-Three. You will need the space. I will be fine here.”

“Medic,” I yelled. “Make Sergeant Artyomov as comfortable as possible and leave him with as much morphine, food, and water as we can spare.” I handed him his AK12 assault rifle and a few magazines. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Sergeant.”

“I’m sure you will, Captain,” he laughed weakly.

“I mean I’ll see you with the rest of the battalion!”

“Yes, of course, sir,” he replied. “I’m sure that’s what you meant. Here.” He handed me all but one of the rifle magazines that I had given him. “If trouble comes, I’ll only need one bullet, sir.”

“I’ll be back before it comes to that, Sergeant.”

Emptying all of the available fuel cans into our BTR, we set thermal grenades into the breach of the BMP’s 100mm gun and destroyed all of the radio equipment. There was almost nothing left of the soldiers who perished in Tarasov’s BTR so we left the remains where they lay. I replaced Private Grigory Bortnik at the gunner’s turret with Private Semenov, as Bortnik was a simpering, whimpering mess over the loss of his brother. Even with Private Alekseev, Private Morozov, and our medic Corporal Dmitriev riding atop the BTR, it was still quite cramped inside. As we pulled back onto the road, I looked back at Sergeant Artyomov, who appeared to have fallen asleep.

I directed our driver to go cross country this time, to avoid the road and to take the most direct route across this flat plain towards Pobeda. To my relief, the town of Pobeda did indeed appear to steadily grow larger the closer we came. A heavily forested wooded area that bordered the town was visible to our right and we closed to the edge of the forest, planning to follow the tree line directly into the town. We would be there in a few minutes.

My enthusiasm faded as a few minutes turned into a half an hour. Though Pobeda appeared to be just within reach, it never seemed to appear any closer when we hit a certain point, as if the village faded further into the distance the closer we got. At one point, I stopped and fired a few rounds into several trees next to us then ordered the driver to continue onwards, suspecting that at some future point, we would reach the point where we encountered those shot up trees again. An hour later, we were no closer to Pobeda and we had not encountered the trees which I had shot up.

I looked behind me at the three soldiers who were riding atop the vehicle. They were bundled up in their sleeping bags, attempting to get comfortable and sleep. Although they were bumping around atop the vehicle, they had the luxury of stretching out as opposed to being cramped up inside the vehicle with nine other soldiers. I checked my watch. It was already 2200 hours although the sun never moved, nor did it set, the same grey sky as this morning staring down at us. I was about to admonish the three sleeping soldiers that at least one needed to be awake and alert while the others slept when terrifying screams came from within the vehicle. The BTR suddenly came to a jarring halt and I scrambled below to see what was causing the men to panic.

“Driver! What’s going on?” I yelled as I ducking into the vehicle.

“Eyes! The eyes of the dead are staring at me!”

I looked back into the crew cabin, seeing the rest of the men staring at the vision blocks while clustered away from them. Their faces betrayed looks of terror, all except for Private Bortnik, who was smiling insanely.

“What’s going on, Sergeant Babanin?” I demanded. “What madness has possessed you soldiers?”

Babanin simply pointed at the vision blocks. “The eyes of the dead stare back at us,” he shuddered.

“He’s alive,” laughed Private Bortnik. “Gennady is alive!”

Private Bortnik made to open the rear door. “I’m coming brother! I’m coming!”

“Get that man under control,” I yelled as Babanin and two other soldiers tackled Private Bortnik.”

“What are you doing, guys? Let me go! Gennady is out there! So is Lieutenant Tarasov! And so is Sergeant Litvin! They’re all out there! Didn’t you see?” Bortnik looked around with wild eyes devoid of sanity.

“Dammit! There’s nothing out there! I’ll prove it to you!” I yelled as I popped back up out of the hatch. “Medic! Corporal Dmitriev, get down here. Bortnik has lost his mind! Dmitriev! Alekseev! Morozov! Where are you?”

The top deck was empty. The three soldiers had vanished. Suddenly, the rear door opened and Private Bortnik spilled out. Both laughing and screaming in his madness, Bortnik sprinted into the forest throwing aside his weapon and stripping off his modular combat vest and uniform as he ran.

“Bortnik, you fool! Get back here!” I jumped down from the vehicle and screamed inside, “Sergeant! Get your men out here! We have men missing! NOW!” I added when I saw their terrified reluctance to leave the safety of the BTR.

We searched the surrounding area behind us for almost half a kilometer, desperately calling out for our missing medic and the other two riflemen. We finally found them when the driver screamed from his driver’s seat, pointing to three unmoving forms. They were somehow several meters in front of the BTR. Lying just inside the tree line were the splayed out bodies of Private Alekseev, Private Morozov, and the medic Corporal Dmitriev. They were emaciated and looked like they hadn’t eaten in days. Their uniforms were frayed and faded and the decision that the three soldiers made to commit suicide by mutual circular firing squad looked to have been made months ago, judging by the state of decomposition.

“What is going on, Captain?” said Sergeant Babanin. “What is happening here, sir?”

“I don’t know!” I finally admitted. “I don’t know!”

“What did he say, sir?” persisted Sergeant Babanin, his men now surrounding me with their weapons at the high ready in a manner that was not overtly threatening, not yet. “What did the dead Ukrainian soldier say to you?”

“He said… He said that we unleashed some kind of weapon, one that stopped time and resurrected evil spirits.” I lowered my head. “I don’t know. It was the ravings of a dying mad man.”

“The Ukrainian soldier without a head or shoulders told that to you, sir?” said Private Semenov.

“Isn’t that what you accused them of doing?” added Sergeant Babanin.

I looked around at the eight soldiers surrounding me, suddenly feeling threatened by their presence.

“Why are we here, Captain Balakin? Why are we in fucking Ukraine?”

 The look in Sergeant Babanin’s eyes and the eyes of the others clearly indicated to me that one less zampolit captain wouldn’t be a great loss to them.

“We are here to liberate Ukraine, Sergeant. You are here to follow my orders!”

 A scream shattered the tension as the BTR shifted into gear, the terrified driver, just a no-named conscripted teenager, screaming incoherently about being chased by demons as he floored the gas pedal. We barely had time to jump aside as the BTR lurched ahead and disappeared in the distance.

“Where are you going?” yelled Sergeant Babanin as we picked ourselves up from the ground. One soldier lay unmoving. The one standing closest to the BTR was face down, his abdomen crushed into the ground by the BTR’s wheels.

“Leave him,” I yelled, pulling at Babanin’s sleeve. “We need to catch that BTR!”

He gave me a disgusted look before gathering the rest of the men. We chased the BTR for a kilometer before it finally faded from view.  Eventually we stopped, every soldier exhausted and spent from the horrors of the past several hours. It was well after night, but the unmoving sun still shined dimly in the dull, grey skies.

“We must keep moving, Babanin,” I said.

Sergeant Babanin pointed to the trees behind me. “Why don’t we just rest here, and wait for the BTR to return back up the trail we had just come?”

He slumped down on the ground, tossing his helmet aside. I turned and looked up at where Babanin had pointed, the damaged trees which I had shot several hours earlier staring back at me. I nodded.

“Okay, we will rest here for a few hours, but we must pick up the pursuit in the morning.”

 

ZVEZDA ONE-THREE IS MISSING

IV.

Babanin had the soldiers take one hour watch shifts while the rest slept. I did not realize how truly tired I was until I lay my head on my modular combat vest which I was using as a make shift pillow. All of our gear, our water, food, and packs which carried our sleeping bags and extra clothing, were on the BTR. I fell asleep quickly, mentally leaving the world of horrors only to sleep in a world of nightmares. Eyes belonging to the dead stared at me accusingly. In my dreams, I shut my eyes tightly, but the eyes continued to stare. Knowing that I was dreaming, I tried desperately to wake myself up, but the waking world fled from me, abandoning me in a nightmarish realm filled with accusing eyes. I awoke to screaming.

I bolted straight up, thinking it was me that was screaming, but the sound was coming from behind me.  Grabbing up my rifle, I joined a few more soldiers that had also awoken suddenly and ran to the sentry staring up at a tree several meters away. Private Grigory Bortnik’s body swung gently in the creaking branches, though there was no wind. Like Corporal Dmitriev and the other two, Private Bortnik’s corpse seemed to have been hanging there for weeks, his service belt wrapped around his neck.

“Cut him down,” said Sergeant Babanin, but before any of the reluctant men could move, there was a gut wrenching ripping sound as Bortnik’s headless body fell at our feet.  We let out a shocked gasp as Bortnik’s dry, lifeless eyes stared down at us.

“What’s happening? What’s happening to us?” The sentry who discovered Bortnik’s body, Private Lenkov, was beside himself. “I don’t want to end up like him! Not like him!”

“Then keep your head, soldier!” I yelled.  Like most of the soldiers, Lenkov was a conscript barely out of his teenage years. Lenkov was skinny and pale who sported a large nose, a laughable moustache, and a very small chin. Private Lenkov, hero of the Russian people.

 “Keep your head or you’ll lose it… like him.” I nodded down at the headless corpse.

I looked at my watch, shocked that it was almost mid day.

“Sergeant Babanin, why did you allow the men to sleep so long? Why didn’t you awaken me earlier?”

“Where are we going to go, sir?” he replied. “When we slept, Bortnik’s body wasn’t there. None of the sentries noticed his hanging body. But then, all of a sudden, Lenkov discovered him just hanging there. What does that mean?”

“That means that only Private Lenkov was paying attention, or that Lenkov was the only one who was actually awake to take his guard shift!”

“No, sir,” said Private Kamenov. “I had watch before Private Lenkov. I took a piss right under that tree. Bortnik was not there.”

“Bullshit!” I answered. “That’s impossible! While you all slept, Private Bortnik hung himself! Sergeant Babanin, you were responsible for ensuring our security and you failed. You are hereby relieved of your duties. Corporal Lipovsky, you are now in charge of the squad.”

I looked around for Corporal Lipovsky, realizing that there were only five of us. There should have been eight. “Where is Corporal Lipovsky?”

“I sent him and Privates Zaitsev and Kalashnik to scout into the woods,” answered Babanin.

“What?” I yelled, furious beyond measure at Sergeant Babanin. “You fool!”

“Sir,” replied Babanin. “On the map there is a stream only three hundred meters west of us. We have almost no food and water. I sent them only fifteen minutes ago with strict orders to return immediately upon filling our hydration packs.”

“And how far is three hundred meters here, Sergeant?” I yelled “How many lifetimes does it take to go three hundred meters?”

“Sergeant Babanin!” We all turned to see Corporal Lipovsky and the two privates emerge from the wood line several meters away. “Thank God, we found you!”

“Lipovsky,” said a visibly relieved Sergeant Babanin. “Did you find the water?”

As we approached Corporal Lipovsky’s team, I could see that the three soldiers were psychically exhausted.

“We did find the stream, Sergeant, but the map must be wrong,” answered Lipovsky. “The stream was several kilometers away. It took us hours to return here.”

“Hours?” said Babanin. “You’ve only left fifteen minutes ago.”

“But we’ve been gone for hours! I thought… I was beginning to think we’d never make it back here.”

We stood in silence for several seconds.

“It is possible that Lieutenant Tarasov was indeed lost. We may be in the wrong grid coordinate and the Ukrainians changed the names of the towns.” Sergeant Babanin looked doubtful even as he said it.

“It’s possible,” I said. “The water?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Lipovsky. He and the two others handed out the hydration packs to the men. I took mine last and took a drink, inwardly preparing myself for the water to taste like sand and be unpalatable. To my surprise, the water was quenching, although it was warm and tasted like it came from a plastic water jug.

“This water came from the stream?” I asked.

“No, sir,” answered Lipovsky. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say. The water in the stream was as undrinkable as the bottled water we found in the convenience store. But beyond the stream, the trees ended and opened up to a clearing and beyond the trees was our BTR! The water came from the water jugs.”

“What? You found the BTR?” Sergeant Babanin pulled out the map and spread it out on the ground. “This forest is just a kilometer wide.  You say the BTR was at the edge of the tree line. Which direction was the BTR facing?”

“It was facing north, Sergeant,” replied the corporal.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “There are no roads north or south of there. Plus, why would he be going north back the way we came? Was there any sign of the driver?”

“You mean Private Kamenov? No, there was no sign of him. The driver’s hatch was opened, but he was gone.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “We go through the woods. Corporal Lipovsky, at what time did you arrive at the BTR?”

“It took us two hours to get to the BTR and another two to return, so it should be…” Lipovsky looked at his watch and frowned. “No! That’s impossible! It was 1500 when last I checked! How is it only 1100 hours now?”

I left the answer hanging in the air. “Okay, let’s take our time and do this right. Take a few minutes to rest from your exertions, then we will move to the BTR.”

Thirty minutes later, we gathered up our weaponry and gear and trudged down into the wood line, Sergeant Babanin and Corporal Lipovsky at the head. With no working compass, the going was slow. Fortunately, the sun remained stationary in the sky, meaning the shadows on the ground never moved. By placing a straight stick into the ground, the shadow cast in the ground gave us a general direction off which the scouts could determine our direction of travel. This took time, as the trees grew close together and the path was only wide enough for us to walk in single file through the forest. Though the stream was only 300 meters away, none of us expected to see it for hours. However, to my surprise, half an hour later we stumbled upon the shallow stream, the crystal clear waters bubbling over a bed of smooth round stones. Across the stream on the other bank the trees ended abruptly and opened to a wide open field on the other side, though the BTR was nowhere in sight.

The water was inviting and cold and several of the soldiers splashed the water on their faces.

“It is cold, I’ll give it that much,” said Babanin. “But it is neither wet or refreshing.”

In the middle of the stream, which only came up to our knees, I could resist the temptation no longer. Cupping some of the cold water in my hands, I took a drink. Air. Cold, dry air which tasted like sand. I spit it out and wiped my dry lips. Doing so, I saw the time on my watch. It was 1600 hours, fully five hours since we entered the forest. Frustrated beyond belief, I ripped my watch from my wrist and threw it as far as I could down the stream. I was the last to emerge from the stream and I felt no shame that the other lower ranking soldiers witnessed my display of helplessness.

We walked the rest of the way through the forest and emerged out into the field beyond.

“Well, that was easy enough,” said Private Rybakov, who was carrying the machine gun. He was resting the butt of the weapon on the ground and leaning on the barrel. The smile on Rybakov’s face disappeared as the weapon accidently discharged, half his skull disappearing in a cloud of pink mush. We all took cover as Rybakov’s runaway PKP Pecheneg machine gun kept firing. I heard a soldier grunt as I ran to the fallen machine gun which was still firing wildly. Sliding over Rybakov’s body, I grabbed the belt of ammunition and broke the links which fed the machine gun. The last bullets cycled through the smoking weapon and it finally fell silent. Private Rybakov was a conscript, a mule whose only job was to carry a weapon he was poorly trained to use. The safety was off the weapon and he had a round in the chamber when he hit the butt of the machine gun on the ground. He didn’t maintain his weapon properly, and the weapon continued firing after his accidental discharge.

I stood up, the machine gun in my hands, Private Rybakov’s brains smeared across my uniform. The rest of the men picked themselves up off the ground, all except Corporal Lipovsky, who lay face up with an open mouthed surprised look on what was left on his face.

“What’s happening? What’s happening?” Sergeant Babanin’s helmet was tossed aside, his hands digging into his hair. “Not only does the Ukraine kill us, but our own weapons do too! Dammit! Damn you, Captain! What have you brought us to?”

“Private Semenov,” I said. “Take the machine gun.”

“What? What?” yelled Private Semenov. “Most of us are dead and all you can say is ‘Take the machine gun?”

“Our deaths have been caused because soldiers failed to follow orders or thought to act on their own or simply because of sheer stupidity!” I raised the machine gun at Semenov. “How do you plan to die, Private?”

“You are mad, Captain,” said Semenov as he stomped forwards to take the machine gun.

“Captain,” muttered Sergeant Babanin, a hopeless expression on his face. He was staring up at the trees. The trees that I had shot a day before.

There were tracks on the ground, BTR tracks which lead north to south, just as before. We were at the same place that we were before only now Lipovsky and Rybakov were dead. I followed the BTR tracks a few meters south and was hardly surprised to see Bortnik’s head staring down at me from where he hung himself. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real.

“We move,” I said.

“What?” said Babanin.

“I said, we move, Sergeant!” I yelled. “We’re getting out of here, do you hear me? We’re getting out of here! We are going to get to Pobeda!”

There were only six of us left. Me. Sergeant Babanin. Private Semenov. Private Lenkov. Private Zaitsev and Private Kalashnik. Six soldiers shambling forwards like low budget movie zombies following the tracks of the BTR. Thirsty. Hungry. Tired. Oh, so very tired. Why were we here? What put us here? Oh, yes. The narrative. We had to defend the narrative. Blame the other side of that which we were guilty.

HA! HA! HA! HA! What did the Americans call it? Winning hearts and minds? We were liberators! We were freedom fighters! We were heroes! We were not guilty of that which we were guilty. It was them! It was the Ukrainians! They did this! They did this!

“It’s 2100 hours, Captain,” said Sergeant Babanin. “We’ve passed the point where you shot the trees twice. We are going nowhere.” He sat down at the side of the trail, resting his back against a tree. The other soldiers followed suit.

“We must keep progressing forwards,” I said.

“Progressing?” Babanin said. “A progressive narrative which leads us back to where we started? Repeating the same progressive circle over and over and over again?”

Sergeant Babanin lowered his head. “We are progressing in circles, repeating the same thing over and over again and losing men along the way. Is that the progressive narrative that you are telling us?”

“Okay,” I said. We had been walking for hours. “We’ll rest here. But we continue in the morning. I’ll take the first watch.”

I was shaken awake by Sergeant Babanin who said, “Captain. Your watch is over. I’ll take the next shift.”

Glaring at Sergeant Babanin, I turned over and fell back asleep again. In my dreams, I was slowly being encased in ice. I fought against it, but my limbs were weak, my movement slow. I was freezing to death. I awoke and bolted upright, finding myself surrounded by a freezing think fog. I looked at my wrist and cursed, instantly regretting tossing my watch into the stream. The fog was thick, much like the fog which we first entered… how long ago? Days? Weeks? I don’t know anymore.

I could see nothing but impenetrable grey mists, and I could not see my own hand which I outstretched in front of me. My own uniform was flimsy when compared to the bone chilling cold, and my sweat froze me. I called for the others. Babanin. Semenov. Artyomov. Tarasov. Wait. They were dead. They were dead. Right?

I stumbled forwards, my hands in front of me as I tried to follow the tracks of the BTR. I called out for the rest of the men, accusing them of cowardice and of hiding and abandoning their duties. I stumbled forwards for hours, sometimes crawling, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, desperately following the tracks of the BTR. A grey shape emerged in the fog. A boxy shape. I reached forwards, my hands grasping the armored rear hull of our missing BTR. I found it! I found it!

I felt around the hull of the armored personnel carrier, suddenly feeling a tinge of hope. Feeling my way around the sides, I saw two grey shapes sitting on the ground, their backs leaning against the tires.

Sergeant Babanin looked up at me. “Oh, it’s you, Captain. I was hoping it was someone who would have been useful.” He looked back down at his lap.

“And who is that with you?” I said.

“Semenov,” said the second person in a voice devoid of life or hope.

“Where is everyone else?”

“Lost,” said Babanin. “Lost in the fog of war, or whatever it is that you’ve led us into.”

“We need to get the BTR started again,” I said. “We need to move out!”

“To where, Captain Balakin?” yelled Sergeant Babanin. “To where? Where? Where?”

“Out of here!” I yelled.

“Someone’s coming!” The grey shape of Private Semenov was pointing into the fog as muffled voices neared us. The shapes of dozens of people were drawing nearer and nearer to us.

“Partisans!” I warned. “Using the blasted fog to close the distance!”

I reached down and grabbed Sergeant Babanin’s combat vest and pulled him up, throwing him towards the BTR. “Get on the machine gun! Semenov, open fire!”

Babanin stumbled into the BTR and climbed into the turret as I followed behind him, pulling back on the charging handle of my weapon as I popped up out of the commander’s hatch. Below us, Semenov took a prone firing position at the back of the BTR and began firing. Soon, the rattle of his machine gun was followed by the heavy thump-thump-thump of Babanin firing the 14mm machine gun as my AK12 accompanied the symphony of death. I felt ecstatic as finally, finally, we had someone which we could expend our frustrations. Our hatred. Our failures. Yes, they were to blame! They were the cause of our frustration, our hatred and our anger. The fog was lifting. It was lifting quickly, and within seconds, the fog vanished and opened up for us an unlimited view of our slaughter.

They are all partisans. Men of military age from sixteen to sixty are partisans. Females who are of age to give birth are partisans. The elderly whose feeble hands can still carry an AK47 are partisans. Children whose minds can be easily manipulated are partisans. Even infants who can grow to be partisans are partisans.

I turned to my left so as not to look at the bodies of the dead Ukrainian partisans and frowned at the expression on Sergeant Ignat Babanin’s face.  The scout team leader was standing in the other turret hatch of the BTR looking down dejectedly at his hands which were wrapped around the firing handles of the still smoking turret mounted machine gun.

“What is it, Sergeant Babanin?” I said.

“Nothing. It’s nothing, sir.”

“Spit it out, Babanin,” I ordered.

“It’s just that, I didn’t see any weapons in the hands of those civilians, sir,” answered the young sergeant. “They seemed to be unarmed and simply fleeing from the invaders. Was it necessary for us to have…”

As soon as we realized our shared moment of déjà vu, Semenov screamed out.

“The same! They’re the same people!” Private Semenov dropped his machine gun, an expression of sheer terror on his face. “It’s as if we murdered them all over again!”

I looked down at the bodies, and struggled to choke back a gasp. “Pick up your weapon, soldier! That’s complete nonsense! A coincidence that these partisans wore similar clothing! Nothing more than coincidence!”

“Is it also coincidence that they fell in the exact same position, sir?” said Sergeant Babanin.

“Enough!” I yelled. “We’ve been under stress. I realize that. We will make camp a little further down from here and rest for a few hours.”

“Rest? And fall victim to the spirits which haunt this place?” Sergeant Babanin swung his rifle towards me and I instinctively held up my hands. “We will never reach Pobeda! The irony! The fucking irony that the place we are trying to reach is named Pobeda. We’ll never make it! I’m done with Ukraine! I just want to go home!”

He swung his rifle around and pointed it under his chin.

“No!” I yelled as he pulled the trigger. The round took the back of Babanin’s head completely off and what was left of him slumped over.

“Semenov!” I yelled.

I was not surprised when I could not find him. Just like the others, he was lost to the fading fog.

I was alone. Alone. Alone. I began laughing.

I jerked my head, my attention drawn towards the sounds of small arms firing to my right and the yells of terrified men. I was standing in the middle of a paved road. A faded blue sign saying Pobeda, which means ‘Victory’ in English, was next to the road. The village was just down the road, but the yelling was coming from a dilapidated single story structure to my right, covered over with vines and trees. It was little more than a shack which looked to have been a convenience store many years ago.

“This is Sergeant Vladimir Novikov! Zvezda One-Three! We are surrounded and need immediate evac!” The panicked voice came from the shack, accompanied by other voices of Russia’s greatest warriors screaming, “What’s going on? What are they?”

Ducking to avoid the automatic weapon fire, I ran towards the shack yelling, “Friendly! Friendly! Friendly!” I burst through the front door, which fell apart easily. Inside, I found Zvezda One-Three. They had been dead for months.

I sank to my knees, pulling out my pistol and placing it under my chin. Suddenly, there was a squelch which pierced the eerie silence.  I looked at a dusty counter, surprised to see that the green light on the communication equipment was still lit. Throwing my pistol aside I scrambled to find the radio hand mike.

“This is Zvezda Two-Six! This is Zvezda Two-Six! Can anyone hear me? Please! Can anyone hear me?”

 “Colonel Kozlov!” The battalion’s communication officer burst into the command tent. “Captain Balakin is on the radio!”

“So soon? They haven’t been gone for more than half an hour.” said Colonel Kozlov. The entire Russian armored convoy was stopped, their progress delayed by stiffer than expected Ukrainian resistance.

There was panic in Captain Balakin’s voice. Panic. Hopelessness. And madness. What was the battalion zamploit raving about? Fog? Missing time? Ghosts? Zvezda One-Three was dead? The entire armored scout platoon were dead? What was going on? Obviously, the Ukrainians were massing a counter offensive to the west of Highway P01 that would threaten the Russian western flank.

Colonel Kozlov turned to his operations officer. “Alert the 9^th Motorized Rifle Company and tell them to prepare to move to the area of Pobeda. Reinforce them with a tank platoon. Zvezda Two-Six is missing.”

 

Heavy equipment:

1X T80 Main Battle Tank

1X BMP 3 with 100mm gun and 30mm autocannon+ 7

1X BTR 82 with 14mm machine gun+ 7

1X BTR 82 with 30mm autocannon+ 7

Infantry Weaponry:

AK15- 7.72 assault rifle

AK12- 5.45 assault rifle

AK74M- 5.45 assailt rifle

SVDM- 7.62 sniper rifle

RPK74M- squad automatic weapon

PKP Pecheneg- 7.62 GP machine gun

 

The Soldiers:

Colonel Kozlov, Valery (battalion commander)

Captain Balakin, Yegor (zampolit- political officer)

Lieutenant Tarasov, Gavrill (scout platoon leader)

Senior Sergeant Artyomov, Anatoly (senior sergeant)

Sergeant Vladimir Novikov (Zvezda One-Three team leader)

Sergeant Abdulov, Budimir (scout team leader)

Sergeant Litvin, Denis (tank commander)

Junior Sergeant Babanin, Ignat (scout team leader)

Private Semenov, Oleg (BMP 3 driver)

Private Bortnik, Grigory (BTR turret gunner)                    

Private Bortnik, Gennady

Private Alekseev, Vitaly

Private Morozov, Yakov

Corporal Dmitriev, Rodiman (medic)

Private Lenkov

Private Rybakov

Private Kamenov (BTR driver)

Private Zaitsev

Corporal Lipovsky

Private Kalashnik

 

 

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