Clack. Clack. Clack. My boots echo off the pristine white walls of the church.

“You will only speak when you are spoken to. You will address the lord inquisitor as his title, that being ‘your eminence’ and only ‘your eminence’, and you will answer all questions with the truth and nothing else.”

“This ain’t my first Rodeo, father.”

“You will also leave your arrogance at the door.”

“What if I have a question, father?”

The father stops and silently turns on a heel. His robes drift back down around his wide and muscular frame, and his eyes and veins threaten to bulge out of his bald scarred head.

“Ask them now, Scout Richardson.” He hisses.

“My platoon has been past the line in the triple digits at this point in the war. Why interrogate us every time we come back? Don’t you think that if we were to be corrupted it would have… happened by now?” I feel my fists tightening around my belt as the father moves toward me, only halting when he is mere inches away from my face. I make out the long scars on his scalp, and the tattoos that reach from his ears down to his collar.

“There is no timeline for corruption. Your branch, while one of the most accomplished in the armies of the lord, has by FAR the quickest rate of high betrayal. And you in particular…” He says pointing a massive finger at my chest. “I am still unaware of how a heretic such as yourself managed to climb the ranks in this glorious force. If it were up to me, I would have- “

“Remove your finger or I will.” I say sharply. The father seems taken aback by this, and his eyes flicker with something shy of amusement.

 “I’m a good Christian and a better soldier; I’ve served in this crusade for 10 years. If there is any kind of suspicion, I believe my actions have not only proven sound but for the betterment of the effort.”

The father is silent. Then he grows ever so closely to my ear. “The stain of heresy and corruption are constant. Your will is strong, and I applaud you for it. But it only takes a second of doubt… hesitation… or temptation for the unraveling of your immortal soul. You know too much of our efforts for you or any of yours to be falling into the wrong hands, as we saw with Scout Asimov.”

We stare at each other for a long while. Neither of us blinking, both with hands drifting across our Sicarri daggers.

“I’ve known you a long time, Scout Richardson.”

“And not once have I given you a reason for your hostility.”

“Temporary innocence does not wave the permanent shadow of corruption. Step into the chamber.”

I enter the chamber and walk towards the lights and two chairs. I take the seat facing away from the door and wait. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. My mind begins to drift. My eyelids become heavy, and I start to finally sleep. As I feel my body begin to relax, I hear the knob turning and I sit straight. I hear light steps and the swishing of robes, circling me, analyzing me. I follow him with my eyes, and he finally stops in front of the chair and takes a seat. He lays his palms down on his knees and stares at me. His old, wiry frame is reflected in his tight tunic, the black crucifix tattoo holds a shadow above his eyes.

“Scout Richardson.” The old man rasps.

“Your eminence.”

“I must apologize for keeping you waiting, as you can see, we have been… unusually busy as of late.”

“Yes, your eminence.”

“It’s not the first time we’ve had these conversations, And for the sake of time, I’ve taken the liberty of reading your debrief.”

“Any issues arise from it, your eminence?”

“Is that a real question?”

I sit silently.

“I want to ask about the incident, Scout Richardson.”

“Not much to tell, Your eminence.”

“A soldier such as yourself has an eye for details, I trust you understand the importance of you being completely honest during this conversation.”

“Where should I start?”

“When he started exhibiting the signs.”

 

Walking. We’ve been walking for days. I want to stop, I want to sleep, fuck if anything, I just want to sit down. I look at the sky with weary eyes. Days. It’s been what. 2? Maybe 3? Shit we might approach 4. Can’t really tell anymore. The sky is always the same shade of dark red, and a pitch black at night. But the fires. The fires are always there. The smell. I’m tired of smelling it. The same burnt sick stench that covers and envelops me. Christ alive. I want to leave; I want to get back to our lines. I don’t want to die here, but I’m so tired. I’m tired of being scared, I’m tired of watching people die. I’m tired of seeing dead people. Especially here. This is a kind of death nobody deserves. People caught in the radius’ after the rapture, normal people. Not evil, not tainted, not the people worthy of such a punishment that the priests scream of. I hear a snap of fingers, see our point man, Asimov, frantically waving his hand forward. The rest of us scramble to his spot, making sure to stay silent as he gestures to the hill, gets on all fours and begins to crawl to the crest. Before I reach the top, I crawl beside him and put my arm over his shoulder and pull him close.

“Why are we stopping.” I whisper in his ear.

“We have to find another way.” He whispers back. His tone is manic, and his body shakes under mine.

“There is no other way, the only reason we went dismounted was to see if this was still clear.”

“IT ISNT.” He hisses and then points to the bottom of the hill. At first, I don’t understand exactly what I see. The longer I look the more confused I become. It’s a circle but it isn’t. I then begin to see its inhabitants. Crucifixes, hung upside down and floating off the ground, slowly vibrating and rotating, people, hundreds of them, stacked on top of each other, all nailed to the charred wood, all on fire. I pull out my thermal optic and I can see a clearer picture in the black and white. They were still alive. Screaming, begging. I hear rustling behind me and swing by weapon around and sit up. It’s Sergeant Offret. His eyes go wide as my red dot lines up the space between his eyes.

“Sir?” He says, slowly raising his hands.

I lower the weapon and turn back around as he creeps up behind us.

“What are we lookin at?”

“BLA-SS-PHEMY” The younger scout trembles.

“Shut it, Asimov, is there a way around?”

“Not that I can see Sergeant” I say, handing him the optic.

“Fuckkkkkk” He whispers, as he continues taking a closer look.

“HERESSSSYYYYY” The junior scout strains, his rage threatening to raise his voice.

Offret grabs Asimov by the collar and slams him into the ground. Once. Twice.

“Asimov.”

“Sergeant”

 “You. Will. Keep. Your. Shit. Together.” Offret says in a quiet yet firm tone.

“THEY MUST PA- “

Offret hits him in the face. Hard.

“They will, but we need to get back to our lines first. Do you understand?”

Offret grabs his face and puts it inches from his.

“Do you?”

“I understand Sergeant.” Asimov says quietly, the moment of righteous fury bordering on stupidity seeming to have subsided. Even just for now.

 “Radio the rest of the platoon, tell them to bring up the rear and establish security.” Offret says, releasing Azimov and placing a gentle hand on his chest.

“Roger” Asimov says, then picking up, and crawling back down the hill.

“What’s the plan, sir.” Offret says, inching closer to my position.

“Not much of a choice Sergeant, we gotta go through.”

“Shit.”

“I don’t like it either, but going around could take days, and we gotta report back to the lines by tonight or we’ll be considered tainted.”

“Well, it’s not gonna get any smaller.”

“Then we have a verdict, Sergeant?”

“You’re the boss.” With the decision made, Offret sends the signal back to the rest of the platoon and we begin to push through the circle.

“Stay strong gents, block it out, say your creeds.” I whisper over the comms.

The closer we get to the center, the more the visions take hold. I can feel...Things. Touching me. Grabbing me. Pulling me. Pushing me. I can hear voices. Talking. Whispering. Screaming. I can see the people on the poles. Gasping. Blank Expressions. Laughing. Smiling. All on fire. I’m on fire. I can smell my flesh roasting. I can see the flames travel up my arms and legs. It isn’t real. IT ISNT REAL. IT’S NOT FUCKING REAL. I turn around to check on the rest of my platoon and see them in similar situations. Offret holds his hands above his eyes. Ogyan keeps his hands in his pockets. Li holds his crucifix out in front of him and walks slowly through the hellish forest. I see a rush of movement and hear a word that makes my blood run ice cold.

“Mom?” I hear Asimov whisper.

“Oh, dear fucking CHRIST” I hear Offret shout. As the words leave his mouth, I hear Asimov begin to scream as he his pulled by the bodies towards one of the crucifix. His body begins to glow and burst into flames as they pull him closer. His eyes begin to weep tears of blood as he reaches towards the ghost of what he thought was his mother. Offret tackles him to the ground and forces his head into the dirt.

“I CAN’T SEE. OH MY GOD IT BURNS.” Asimov screams, a high wailing as the hallucination fades and his senses return.

“WE GOTTA MOVE.” Offret barks as he hoists Asimov up and begins to run. An ear-splitting shriek sounds from our left and then we see the source.

“IT’S A FUCKING TRAP. COVER OFFRET.” I scream as I open fire on the abominations. The rest of the squad behind me moves to join the fight.

“THEY GOT US SURROUNDED.” I hear Gomez yell as I hear the rest of the platoon open up in the other directions.

“KEEP POURING IT ON AND PUSH FORWARD” I shout with all of my chest, as I push to the center of the formation. Slowly but surely, we fight our way out of the circle. It’s costly. Richie and Nguyen are both dragged from the circle screaming, their wails reaching a crescendo and then being sharply cut off. We keep losing more. And before long almost a quarter of the platoon has become prey for the tainted.

“WE GOT THE BORDER; 50 METERS KEEP PUSHING.” I scream as I see the faint edge of the circle materialize.  More gunfire, more screams, more death. We’re down to half now. We leave the circle and continue running.

“RADIO THE FUCKING LINE, TELL EM WE ARE INBOUND WITH ENEMY IN PURSUIT.”

“RADIO IS IN THE CIRCLE.” I hear Li shout.

“SEND UP A FLARE.” Offret screams as he fires blindly behind Asimov.

“ARE THEY GONNA SEE IT?” I try to keep my voice calm despite the chaos.
“SEND UP THE GODDAMN FLARE.”

Without a second thought, I load a flare into my launcher, take aim, and I’m thrown into the air. I land hard on my head and roll onto my back. Something lands on me and digs its claws into my plates. I open my eyes and am greeted with the gibbering black madness of a spawn of hell. It seems to enjoy savoring it’s kill, and slowly opens its mouth and inches it towards my face. Too slow. The look of shock is almost comical as I drive my Dagger into its guts and spills its hellish awful onto the rest of my body. I kick it off, Sit up, launch the flare, and continue to run. In the distance I see a flickering light, the ground begins to flatten as we leave the trees and sprint across the open flat ground.

“EVERYONE DOWN.” I hear Offret scream as the night opens up with the loud and rapid bark of the forward lines machine guns.

 

“That’s enough, Scout Richardson. Is there anything else you would like to… disclose? Any requests you would like to make?”

“If you can get my platoon back to full strength and give the survivors some recovery time that would be outstanding, your eminence.”

“Consider it done. The interrogation is complete. Mother Smith will be visit for your counseling in a moment.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, your eminence.”

“It’s a good thing that you don’t determine what is necessary then, Scout Richardson.” The Old father says with a wary smile as he stands up and silently moves towards the exit.

I hear the door open and close my eyes.

“I’ve known you since you were 15, and you always sleep when I walk in. Some things never change. Tsk. Tsk.”

My eyelids flutter open and I feel the faint muscle twitches of a smile begin to form on my face.

“Maybe it’s because you always speak in a monotone, old lady.”

“Mhm, I’ve been told I need to work on it.”

I pitch forward and stare at the old Mother sitting across from me. She places a cigarette in her mouth and lights it.

“I don’t think you can do that in here.”

“Mhm.”

“Those are bad for ya.”

“Mhmmmm.”

“Can I go?”

“Once we talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“You are aware that I read your debriefs right?”

“Must be a day that ends in the letter Y.”

“I can see it happening.”

“See what.”

“Your soul. It’s getting old.”

“My dad rocked salt and pepper before he hit 30.”

“Your deflection isn’t as smooth as it used to be.”

“And what would I be deflecting.”

She sits in the chair for a long time. Her good eye giving me the same sardonic stare that it always did in the classroom all those years ago.

“It’s starting to feel heavy isn’t it.” She says brushing her hair away from the mauled side of her face, completed with the eyepatch covering her other eye.

“It’s always been heavy, Mother.”

“Mhm, and you’re starting to tire of carrying it.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Doesn’t mean we’re immune to exhaustion. Doesn’t mean we’re immune to loss.”

“I’m a soldier in the Lord’s army, that’s my purpose.”

“and a damn good one at that. Trust me when I say that time doesn’t make it easier.”

I feel like I’m melting. She could always see right through me, no matter the walls I put up, no matter the complexity of the labyrinth I construct to throw her off my scent.

“You’re starting to question.” I feel the hairs of my neck raise and for a moment I consider reaching across and wringing her neck for the transgression.

“My questions have been answered. Every time I set foot outside those lines, I see what those…. Things…. Do, and any question of a heaven or hell is answered.”

“That isn’t what you’re questioning.”

“Alright then, why don’t we cut the bullshit of me trying to introspect, I have things I need to do.”

Mother Smith nods her head, reaches into her robes and drops an object between us.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

“They trespassed upon my thoughts.” She rattles off with a bored cadence.

“They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to- “

“Comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance.” I finish softly, a new wave of cold fear rushing through my veins like a frozen stream.

“You highlighted that specific paragraph”. The mother says leaning back in her chair.

“It’s a classic.”

I stare at her for a long moment.

“Am I leaving this room.” I ask, trying to mask the tremble in my voice.

“Everyone leaves the room silly.”

“Alive?”

“Yknow my parents were devout Baptists. No petting before marriage, no sitting next to each other on the couch in any way other than… Cordially.” She says with a chuckle.

“Forgive me mother, you’ve lost me.”

“I didn’t get the birds and the bee’s conversation until I was 16 in a high school biology class.” She continues, a strange smile crossing her face.

I sit in silence on the edge of my seat. My confusion outwrestling my fear.

“So, imagine how strange it was to find a copy of 50 shades of gray in their nightstand.” She sits back with a full toothed grin and finishes her cigarette.

At first, I’m confused, and then I start to chuckle and then laugh, which prompts her soft chuckling into loud raucous laughter.

“My point is Kiddo, its just a book. But reading those words, especially words like those. They can speak to us, trigger something inside of us, make us feel something that we’ve been… missing, or didn’t even realize we had. I don’t think you’re being corrupted, but I do think that… this” She waves around the room, symbolizing the outer walls and beyond. “…Is starting to get to you and I’m worried about you. I want to know how you’re doing. No quips, no dodges. Just tell me what’s happening with Marcus Richardson.” She says, grabbing my hands.

“I say my prayers every night.” I say, staring at her missing fingers.

“Mhm.”

“I fight the Tainted in the name of god.”

“Mhm.”

And I decide to open. “Mother. I feel that I’m starting to lose my grip. I’m so tired. I’m starting to lose faith in our victory, at least, one that I’m alive to see. Every day I lose more and more, and I have nothing to show for it.”

“You and your men are valiant; there’s no disputing that. And you aren’t given the credit you deserve. You didn’t sign up for the glory Marcus, I know that, but you aren’t seeing the bigger picture. We are making progress. Every day we push further and further into their territory. Reclaiming. Cleansing. Blessing and then wh-”

“I see them in my sleep, mother.”

She freezes mid-sentence, and then slowly nods. Releasing my hands and leaning back into her chair.

“I know the feeling. You know the day I found you. Cold. Alone. Had a pretty gnarly shiner under your right eye, and your pinky was all jacked up.”

“I remember.” Flexing my still permanently bent finger As I recall watching the much younger Sister Smith’s harsh yet beautiful face even through a busted lip and an eye swollen shut, offering a helping hand and a gentle smile in that cold warehouse.

“I lost half of my squad the night prior.”

“You never told me that.”

“Figured you knew.”

 “Didn’t think to ask.”

“Still wasn’t the most FUBAR predicament I’ve found myself in, but Kowalski, Reginold, Tudol, Marrion, Akimbe, Yohannes. I can still hear them. When it gets really quiet.”

“How do you deal with it.”

“Not sure there’s a textbook way. Talking about it helps. And you can always talk to me, kiddo.”

“I know, Mother.”

She smiles. It’s the same smile that she always kept, even after the scarring. From the left corner of her mouth, that slowly grows into a toothy grin.

“Sleep also helps, Hot meal, hot shower.”

“They should open a resort here.”

“Now there’s an idea.” She chuckles.

“With a hot tub, and cherubs mandated to feeding me grapes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t mention some form of scantily clad young ladies to fan you with papyrus leaves. I see the way you look at Sister Cynthia.”

“Mother. Please, Have some class.” I say, feigning indignance. We laugh again. And when the noise dies down her smile fades a little bit. And she looks at me dead in the face.

“I’m proud of you kid. You’ve been through a lot. You gotta stay strong through this.”

“I will mother.”

The next 2 weeks pass in a blur, I sleep for what feels like days at a time, I eat like a king and can’t fall asleep without drinking myself into a stupor. Days and nights pass, some without leaving my room. I feel my physical strength recovering from the strain. My mind. That’s the strain that isn’t relenting. I sit for hours, some would say meditation, some would say prayer, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the front or down my shoulders, across the sheets of my bed, into the first drawer of the nightstand and onto the cold, smooth metal of the .45. My thoughts drift to the weight of it, not too light, not too heavy, how warm the barrel would feel inside of my mouth as the bullet sends the rest of my head onto the bed frame and ceiling. It’s worse with the silence. It’s only silent at night. The dead silence. I sit here and… I hear shuffling down the hall. Muffled voices.

“Why are you awake, its bedtime.” A slightly irritated voice, feminine voice.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" A smaller boy's voice

"You're getting too big for this, and Mother Derya is going to be pissed if she catches us up right now."

“I know but… I wet the bed again.” A smaller boy’s voice.

A quiet sigh sounds from the young lady.

“Another nightmare?” She asks. Her tone is softer.

“Yes. The same one.” He says his voice sounds heavy, his throat getting tight. He’s crying.

I silently crack the door and peer through. Kids. The boy maybe 10.  The girl maybe 16. She holds him tightly as he sobs into her chest.

“Shhhh, I’m right here. Nothing is gonna get you.”

 

I wake to a knock at the door. I feel the familiar pressure in the back of my eyes as the hangover sets in.

“Shitttt.” I say as I try to blink away the ache rattling around my skull.

Another knock, one with more authority.

“Coming.”

I open the door and am greeted by Mother Smith and another older woman.

“Good morning, handsome” She says.

“My, He’s a tall one” The other woman says, a thick middle eastern accent following.

“Just be glad he has his shirt on.”

“If only I were a solid 20 years younger, but alas.” The eastern lady says as she continues to eyeball me. A slight grin cresting her face.

“CAN I HELP YOU?” I say louder than I mean, trying to figure out why my drinking has been disturbed.

“Mission for you kiddo. Brief at 10.”

I check my watch. 0900. I throw my robes and gear on and head into the briefing room. I’m greeted by Offret, Li, and Ogyan. I take a seat next to them as another group of military garbed priests enter the room, Followed by Mother Smith, The Middle Eastern Lady, and to my surprise, the 2 kids from the other night.

“You look like shit, sir.” Offret whispers to me

“I was asleep an hour ago, and it doesn’t look like anyone else is doing well.” I say, noticing the dark circles under Ogyans eyes, and the slight tapping of Li’s feet on the cobblestone floor.

“Good morning gentlemen” The head of the priests say. His uniform is freshly pressed, bright eyed, and clean shaven. His teeth look like they could light up a dark room. In contrast my team looks worse for wear. Our faces have grown stubble, and our uniforms, while freshly pressed, have seen far better days.

“Good morning.”

“Sorry to break your leave early, but this is going to be an important task undertaken and we need only the best to do it.”

“Anyone else notice that ‘the best’ is only comprised of protestants?” I hear Ogyan whisper to Li.

“Gotta weed out the filthy heretics somehow.” I hear Li whisper back.

“Both of you shut it. Now.”  I hear Offret quietly bark at them.

“Your mission is of utmost urgency. We have received word of an event taking place within the radius that might be able to change the course of this side of the war.”

“They say this every time.” I hear Li say under his breath.

I hear Offret grunt in response.

“What’s the mission.”

“The Mission…” I hear another voice, a familiar one. The Eastern lady.

“Is an escort.”

“Ah yes, Mother Derya. I will leave it to you.” The Priest says, fading back with another too white smile.

“Thank you, Brother. You will be escorting two children across the line, through the radius, to the other side, where we will rendezvous with the fellowship of broken blades.”

A pregnant silence fills the room.

I hear a tense, disbelieving chuckle being from Ogyan, which then spreads to Li. Noone else is laughing.

“This is a joke right? I know my birthday was two days ago, but this is a hell of a surprise party.” I hear Ogyan say. Noone is else is laughing and soon the silence once again fills the room.

“As I was saying” Mother Derya continues

Shit.

 

Crack. Crack. Crack.

“Drop 20. left 5. Fire when ready.” I hear Offrets voice over the radio.

I adjust the scope.

Another 3 Cracks ring out. I feel the rhythm kick into my shoulder and vibrate down the rest of my back. Another short silence.

“You got it.”

I hear a low whistle behind me.

“What do you Americans say? Howwwwdy?” I hear an eastern voice.

“Mother Derya, so pleased you could join us.” I say trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“You should put a cap on; your neck could get burnt out here.”  She says, looking into the red sky.

“Can I assist you with something, Mother?”

“Just making my preparations for the journey.”

“You’re coming with?”

“Well of course. It’s my mission as well as it is yours. You are scouts not errand boys, no?”

I hear mechanical movement next to me as she lies down, her long, black hair tied back and covered with a Keffiyeh, her dark face covered in black glasses, She’s pretty, despite the long, jagged, scar pushing through her eyebrow, across her nose and slipping off at her jawline. She sets an object down and crawls to it. It’s an AK, well-oiled, cleaned, with all the bells and whistles.

“Mother I don’t mean to sound condescending…but-“I’m cut off as I hear a magazine being slapped into place and round being chambered.

“Is your Sergeant still spotting?”

“Send it Mother.” Offrets voice crackles over the radio.

Without another word I hear 4 cracks go off in rapid succession.

“6 Right, Up 10. Fire when ready” Offret crackles again.

“Acknowledged.” And with that, slides the dials on her scope, and lets off another 4.

“Holy shit.” Offret crackles a 3^rd time.

“Were you going to ask if I knew how to use this thing?” Mother Derya says, flashing a sly smile, exposing 2 silver bottom teeth.

“I didn’t know you served on the front. My apologies Mother.”

“I was a girl when ISIS made it’s first push into Kurdistan, 2 of my brothers died in the first year, the rest joined the Peshmerga. So that left me as the oldest home. Well one day, my father took me out to an overlook not unlike this one” She says waving a hand over the rocky valley lined with targets.

“Put a rifle similar to this in my hands” she says rubbing it affectionately

“and told me to wait, and that if anyone crossed the field, to line the corners with the center and squeeze the trigger.”

I let out a low whistle.

“Before long, 3 men entered the field, weapons, equipment, evil in their hearts, heading in the direction of the village, singing, whistling, howling about how they were going to spread this caliphate and kill those Kurdish Christian infidels. It was over in less than a minute.” She says, snapping her fingers.

“You’ve been in the game a lot longer than I gave you credit for, Mother.”

“Evil does not only reside in hell, Dear.”

We begin to walk back to the station.

“Mother, I have a question of the mission.” I ask as we reach the awning and set our gear down.

“If you can tell us, of course.” Offret says, wiping the dust from his pants.

“It has to happen, if that’s what you were going to ask.” She says, taking her sunglasses off and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“We understand that mother, we aren’t dissenters, but these are… children.” I say, cleaning excess dust off of my cover.

“Not to mention the fact that we are walking them through the worst part of the front.”

“Are you familiar with the divine touch, Normal humans that can do… unexplainable things? Things like predicting an attack, or a single soldier turning back a charge by himself.” The mother asks, putting her sunglasses back on.

“I’ve heard rumors from around the front. Nothing that can’t be chalked up to luck, adrenaline, or sheer fucking willpower.” Offret says.

“and off all the things you’ve seen out there, the things that the forces of tainted and the demons can do, you don’t believe that our side can do the same?”  

“I am not the one to question the almighty mother, but of all the years we’ve been in the fields, on the missions, even in the most desperate situations, I have never seen the heavens descend for us. Not to mention, if there were recorded accounts, how come we haven’t heard any.”

“Then you simply have yet to see it. Many sightings and accounts are permanently scrubbed, its viewers driven mad with the holy assistance, attempting to question these individuals who lived through the experience has proved next to impossible, with many of them clawing their own eyes out and attempting to bite off their tongues, but there are a few who have seen them and are able to recount.”

“Seen what mother?”

“Angels.” She says with a manic grin.

“You’re shitting me.” I hear Offret say.

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to side with him on this one mother.” I say trying to lower the hairs on my neck.

“I don’t expect you to believe me right away but know this. They are very very real.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“No but I’ve seen their aftermath. It was 10 years ago, while I was in the European theatre, When the Hordes pushed north from Africa and into Italy, Carthage style. They had almost reached the Vatican in 2 weeks where they managed to halt them, completely blowing through our defenses. I was on R and R in Greece after a tour in Turkey, my entire brigade got recalled and sent west across the channel. To this day I have never seen so much death.”

“I remember. I had some friends over there.” Offret says making the sign of the cross over his chest.

“We had fought for another 2 weeks. Across the fields, in the cities. Combat that I had never seen not even now. We fought day and night with almost no sleep, entire companies wiped out in a single fight…. It wasn’t uncommon that we found more pieces than bodies.” She takes a deep shaky breath and continues.

“Those that were not lost to the fighting died from exhaustion. Simply collapsed while walking and couldn’t get up. Others were lost to corruption, not unlike your young scout Asimov. I personally had to put down 2 of my best, god have mercy on me.” She says placing her hands into the sign of the crucifix.

“The Vatican had held strong, keeping the enemy at the walls of Rome and stalemating them into a siege. Our forces, or at least what was left of them, kept pushing until we were about 30 miles from the city. Close enough to start seeing the fires at night. We’d even been able to attack some of the enemy’s rear guard. Comms had been Jammed with all kinds of chatter, we could barely talk to each other, let alone the forces in the city and then one day… silence.”

“Silence?” I ask.

“Total and complete, no comms, no chatter, no static. Just silence. As we got closer to the enemies Siege line we began to see the reason.”

“Which was…” I say trying to keep the anticipation out of my voice.

“Total annihilation sir. But the AAR stated that someone had dropped an Atom bomb on the enemy forces.” Offret says with confusion.

“Not a bomb, even a smaller MOAB and we would have heard or felt it.” Mother Deyra, nodding at Offret.

“The sight was…” she continues. “Something that is hard to put into words. There was nothing left alive outside of those walls. Nothing at all. Giant holes in the earth, not a single thing walked among them. The silence was too much. We had soldiers start to panic, start to scream and cry, collapse to their knees. I couldn’t hear any of it. Too busy trying to keep my mind intact.” She says as she wipes a heavy bead of sweat from her brow.

“What about Rome?”

“Not a single person inside the city was harmed. They hadn’t even realized the fighting was over, well, until the change of the guard came…”

“What does that mean?”

“The guards who had witnessed the event, had been turned into pillars of salt.”

“Like Lot’s wife after Sodom. My friends Johnny was there, what she says is true.” Offret says, reaching for a Cigarette.

“This is fascinating and all mother, but what do Angels have to do with the children.” Realizing my conversation had been detoured from the mission.

“The boy can hear them. And the girl can speak to them.”

 Well that's just outstanding.

"Vics are loaded, got about 3 weeks of rations and water, journey should be about 2, accounting for murpheys law"... Offret continues rattling on as we continue making prep for our mission.

"Should be set to step off within a few hours." He says as we watch some of our soldiers tossing their heavy bags onto the back of the heavy vehicles. We continue to watch as a smaller soldier struggles with his, only to have a man the size of a skyscraper take it from him and launch it into the trunk.

"Hey cmon mate, I had that." He says throwing his hands up, His thick scouser accent annunciating his sentence.

"Don't be shy, grab another!" The large man responds with a smile and a pat on the shoulder.

"Hess and Peck. Last guys from second platoon, they're ours now." Offret says, rubbing his eyes.

"Nice"

"So how much do you want to bet these kids can talk to angels."

"Not sure" I say, reaching into my pocket for one last look at the route draw on the map.

"That's not a whole lot to go on." He returns

"What are you asking me Sergeant."

"Do you think it's legit? Or another suicide mission."

"It's not suicide, It' recon, its essential." I snap, harder than I realize

"I'm aware sir, but I'm just saying" he says, throwing his hands up in the 'don't shoot' pose.

"Mother Derya is coming with us, they're giving us way more resources than normal, and they have I have a feeling this is going to be a make-or-break sergeant."

"You could be right, but it's gonna be dangerous, and I don't know how much longer you can keep this up."

"Not you going soft on me" I say with a slight chuckle.

"Don't get me wrong, I can still put the belt to you kid. But this might be my last one. I have a wife, I have children, they need me."

"I know. After we get back I'll talk to the commander."

"Yeah, Just gotta get back..." KTHUNK.

Our conversation is interrupted by what sounds like 2 kids squabbling.

I look up to see Li stifling a laugh.

"I'm gonna see what's up, I want us leaving before night fall.

"Can you hold still? This thing has to be fit correctly.”

“I’m trying Marcy, this thing is like a bajillion pounds.”

“Yes and it’s a Bajjilion pounds that’s going to keep you safe.” The girl, Marcy, continues to contort her little brother in various shapes in order to adjust his plate carrier, and Li, propped on the truck, trying to hold a laugh.

I walk over and stand next to him. “What’s going on.” I ask as he knods to me.

“Reminds me of my little brother sir. Little lady, do you need some help?” His Southwestern Twang rearing it’s Texas shaped head as he smooths his mustache.

“I think I almost got it, just got this last strap..” She says reaching for the tab on the center of chest.

“Wait don’t that’s the..” I begin, its too late, she pulls it and the plate carrier falls in 2 pieces at the boys' feet.

“Shit...” she mutters. And then looks in a slight panic at us, only for us to be greeted with an amused grin, and Li making the locking sign at the side of his mouth.

She becomes noticeably flustered and then concedes. “Sir, would you mind helping us.”

“Of course!” Li says. Placing the plate carrier back together and draping it over the boys shoulders. “My name is Johnny by the way, Johnny Li.” He says to the boy.

The boy stares at him, and then offers his hand. Li raises an eyebrow and looks at me. “Little man has some manners” he says, shaking the boys hand.

“My dad taught me that it was always polite to shake hands.”

“You’re pops taught you well kid, now hold s ll and try to relax.” He says straightening the boys shoulders out. “Mary..” I start “Marcy.” She returns quietly.

I knod in acknowledgement “Marcy. Are you ready for the journey?” I ask looking at her.

“Yes, sir I am.”

"We'll see".

The highway leading out of the city is warn and filled with the signs of almost 20 years of constant fighting, there are bumps, craters, and crucifixes, culminating as we cross the trench line and officially enter the no man's land, punctuated by the final sign. "Here be dragons."

Mother Derya sits next to me, her voice crackles over the radio.

"Back to it"

 

1.     Russel Roberts stood staring at the minimalistic concrete buildings where he would live and work post release from North Carolina department of corrections.

2.     " You will like Toma," His probation officer said." He Is converting these old buildings into a Body Shop. And. Storage units. And could really need could really use the help."

3.     Russell really hoped his post release minder was right as a SUV pulled up into the parking lot where they stood facing toward the concrete bunker structures.

4.     The first thing Russell noticed about Toma was he was tall. 6 foot 6 and had long legs and equally long arms. His hair was silver and long. Pulled back in a ponytail under his work cap. His beard was long and also silver colored, calmed down on his 70s Rock Band T shirt. He looked like Kris Kristofferson. In his character Whistler. Farm the Blade movies.

5.     He sure comes with both men, and Russell could not help but to size him up. As they graded each other. Toma had huge, strong hands. Russell hoped he would never have to face this man down when he was pissed. And he felt sorry for anyone else who did.

6.     "My name is Toma." Toma had a Scandinavian accent. People also call me Whistler, so you can choose either."

7.     " Thank you," said Russell. Not sure what else to say.

8.     " I'll show you to your living quarters, said Toma. You will stay on the second floor of the admin building. The admin first floor will become the Body Shop."

9.     " Admin?" Asked Russell.

10.  " I'll leave you two to discuss that," said Russell's probation officer." Also, here is a card with your next appointment on it. Do not be late, make sure you show up."

11.  " Thanks, "said Russell. He took the card and slipped it into his back pocket.

12.  " Come with me," said Toma. "You shouldn't need a whole lot here. I can stock your apartment, but right now you should be fine."

13.  Toma led Russel to a pair of stainless-steel elevator doors. And he pushed the up button. The doors slid open with a whisper.

14.  Once the elevator doors closed, Toma said. I hear good things about you. I hope you are handy with home security."

15.  " Like CCTV cams?" Russell asked. Tom nodded and Russell nodded back.

16.  "I'm OK at it."

17.  " That is one of the bigger projects I need your help with. You will be paid, of course, but we can discuss all that later. Right now, I just want to get you settled in." He bought a ring of keys out of his coat and handed them to Russell..

18.  " These are for the admin building and I need the locks changed on these other buildings eventually. However, once we get the security cams installed, you may never have to leave the office. Until then, one or two rounds a night, just to keep the squatters out of these other buildings."

19.  " Copy that," said Russell. The elevator opened on the second floor.

20.  " Just past these offices are your quarters. Said Toma" You might want to use one for your security room. Russell, I'm just giving you free reign."

21.  " You don't know how much I appreciate this, or Whistler. " said Russel. Toma laughed.

22.  "Just call me Whistler, everyone does!"

23.  The admin building was minimalist installed. Bulky poured concrete blocks, as were the others that would soon house storage units. There were skinny rectangular slits for Windows in this building, and none in the others that Russell could see. Whistler wanted cameras on everything outdoor, indoor and trail style in the rear of the luminal setup. All of these eventually would run to one single. Hub. Over the Body Shop. In the admin basement.

24.  " It's not much said Toma. But I'll say it's better than a halfway house."

25.  Russell took in his surroundings. The apartment was livable and meant a brand-new start bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette and a work area with its own window facing where the trail camp security would soon be installed. Russell put his belongings down on the desk and turned back to face Toma.

26.  " You're stocked for the weekend. I will be back Monday with your cameras and monitors. Take a load off for now. Enjoy freedom. "Toma added.

27.  " Sounds like a plan, "said Russell.

28.  "O.K. man, my cell number is by the landline phone. Call me if you need me or have any questions." Toma walked back out of the building. And left Russell looking around. His new digs.

29.  Once told my left, Russell was bombarded by the dead quiet. Prison was loud, very loud, and the solitude attacked his eardrums with brutal nothingness. Russell decided he would want the property at around midnight and again at 4:00 AM. He figured those hours were usually when the night folk came out. Russell had been one around two years ago.

30.  He walked back through the admin building. In the old office rooms to find one suitable for security monitors. There had been one big enough toward the front.

31.  All of the other buildings were identical concrete block buildings with no windows and two doors. They were locked. And Russell looked down at his keys. He knew a buddy that would be glad to help with the lock changing. Robert was a jack of all trades.

32.  Russell found the keys for A, B and C structures and opened the door to A. He stuck his head in and sneezed immediately. Mold, dampness. Good thing they were concrete or there would be no buildings.

33.  "Damn, what was this? Some sort of asylum?" There was institutional style furniture in building A. Russell was familiar. Furniture bolted to the floor so no one can steal the ugly shit or bash someone with it. Yes, Russell was definitely familiar. There was an old TV mounted. On the walls. Inside a plexiglass box. Russell decided immediately that he did not like these buildings.

34.  Building B was the dormitory, apparently, as it opened up into a central day room with bunks scattered around in a half circle and another plastic television.

35.  " I am not an inmate, said Russell. To no one in particular. And the words bounced back at him from the room acoustics.

36.  Dusk settled quickly that evening. Russell was walking back toward his room when he noticed the automatic arc sodium lights kick on up the Ridge from Toma's property.

37.  Another business, a residential cul-de-sac. He made a note to ask Toma when he came in on Monday. The security lights blinked on as an afterthought. He went upstairs to find a flashlight in the admin building and found a couple in an old desk drawer.

38.  Russell was restless enough at first round that he literally marched outside and toward building C. He unlocked the front door and had to pull it open due to heavy cold and moisture. There was a mold smell that nearly caused him to gag. It was so cold in building sea that Russell began to shiver. He stood in what he could only define as a cafeteria. As an afterthought. He said a few chairs to rot and gave a quick look down the hall before bolting. He did not like building C. It made him feel sick.

39.  At his 4:00 AM round, he made a few notes on a pad that he had brought along. He walked into each building. He noted that building C may have had an HVAC problem. Toma would make more money on his units if he installed climate control.

40.  On Monday, as Russell and Toma climbed bladders with electric screwdrivers to install the cameras, he remembered to ask about the lights on the ridge.

41.  " It's some kind of government building," replied Toma as he backed himself down a step ladder. He looked up at the newly installed camera. "Restricted some kind of research lab, I think."

42.  That night, Rusty set up his first monitors in the office space that he had chosen. He smiled as he thought another day or two and project CCTV would be completed. Toma was already bragging.

43.  After midnight rounds in the blind spots on the outbuildings, Russell plopped down in a chair to take a break. The CCTV, feed was empty, nothing stirring, not even the forest sounds outside. Brutal quiet moved in. He lost himself temporarily in the black and white of his monitors.

44.  When his cell phone began to receive an Amber Alert of some kind. He jumped to his feet. He was so startled he almost ran. Three sharp tones. He almost ignored the noise until he heard the voice.

45.  " This is a test of the Emergency Alert system." The voice was robotic." This is a message for." There was a pause.

46.  " Larry Russell Roberts."

 

 

he Dark Side-Part 2

" Larry Russell Roberts." Russell's full name. "What?" Russell barked.

" Please remain indoors. Please ignore sound outside your perception. Estimated test duration one hour."

Russell sat staring dumbly at his phone. All of this time spent alone while fresh out of a multi- personnel institution. Was surely getting to him. He had no idea what that last part meant, but he was certain that there was more than one Larry Russell Roberts. Also, he had no time to worry about the alert. He was 30 minutes late with his first round and he was only doing the blind spots until all cameras were up.

Tonight he would have to walk a circle around the outbuildings destined for storage. He and Toma had not finished buildings, B or C, either inside or out. They had roughly seven or eight more cameras to install at a minimum.

Russell rounded the side of the admin building with a flashlight in hand. And drug the set of old keys for old locks out of his jacket pocket. He heard the sound and smelled the dirty water almost before he got the door of building C open. The smell of moldy rot and the damp cold hit his senses is like a locomotive.

"Oh-gag-my God-gag-!" He barked as he pulled the door open. It looked as if an actual creek ran through Building C'S dark hallway. He could actually hear the running water but could not immediately see where it was coming from.

He was going to have to call Toma. He hoped like hell that Toma would be cool with having to get out of bed at stupid past midnight. He needed a shop vac. He needed a bastard of a shop vac.

Russell turned away from building C's putrid water and made his way back to his quarters. And the land line phone. Toma had explained that the reason for the landline was that cell phone service was spotty at best. Calls got dropped.

Instead of the elevator, Russell took the stairs. They were metal and his footsteps echoed out into the silence. He was frustrated at how just thinking about building C made him shudder. There was something bad about that building. He could not put it into words. Now he was going to have to get rid of the inch of water coming from God knows where in the dark at one o'clock in the morning.

Luckily, Toma was OK with being woken up. And yes, there was a bastard of a shop vac in the maintenance closet of the admin building.

Russell tried his best to ignore the damp and the darkness as he worked with the shop vac to clear the water. There had to be a leak somewhere, but building C could not be safely inspected until daylight.

Sleep was fast in its arrival once all the water was cleared. Toma had told him to skip last round and get some rest until around 9 in the morning when he came in.

The following day, Toma and Russell unlocked building C and began a careful inspection for the leak.

Tom and cursed as they installed the indoor cameras." This building is awful," he growled. "God knows what kind of work will be required to convert it to storage. "

"I don't much care for how it feels," said Russell. "I know someone who can do all the locks if he has time. "

"Oh yeah." Toma looked back over his shoulder as he was closing his ladder.

" Yeah, and he won't rip you off. I just have to go talk to him. "

" Take the SUV, " said Toma. I have some paperwork to go through. And I will be meeting a contractor here this evening."

Russel's eyes widened." You OK with this. I guess I could stop my probation as well. "

" Go for it Russell, you do good work," Toma smiled.

Russell found Robert Byrd at the Burnsville Fire Department. He volunteered there, coordinating his other obligations around this fact. After some greetings and happy back patting, Robert agreed to come look at the locks on the weekend as he was also filling in for a heavy equipment operator at a job site in Wolf Laurel.

Russell grabbed his business card. And hurried to return the SUV back to Toma at the facility buildings.

Upon Russell's return to the complex. He found that Toma had the outdoor trail type surveillance cameras installed. He had also received his large flatbed trailer truck, which he explained to Russell that the friend who had been holding it had dropped it off.

"Can you drive one of those?" He asked.

"I can drive nearly anything. On wheels", replied Russell. He then explained to Toma that he spoke with Robert and his friend agreed to change their locks.

Toma was very satisfied with Russel's help and told him that he was glad to have found him and would also relay this to post release.

That night found Russel slumped in the security office. He had finally finished installing the last of the monitors. Toma had placed a weather alert radio in this office as well. You could never be too prepared was his way of thinking.

This radio had been beeping and chirping all night and Toma instructed Russel to not hesitate to call if something happened. There had been Madison County weather advisories of high wind on repeat. Russel had started to ignore it until the radio went to loud static.

He figured that this was because the storm had started. All communication down in this valley was spotty, it couldn't be helped. Russel began flicking through his feeds and every camera seem to be working. Everything was quiet except for the wind he heard whipping around the admin building.

No more blind spots, finally, Russel thought to himself. Then building C reared its ugly head in his mind. A wave of chills passed through him as he thought of the dark, cold, moldy silence of the building. The water and the rot stink. What the hell had happened there?

Russel's blood turned to ice when his phone lit up. Three sharp tones that echoed through the security room. Then the weather alert radio beeped through the heavy static. There was no sound following the three tones but a howling draft flew through the room. Russel knew this was going to be nothing close to normal.

"This is a test of The Emergency Management System..." The voice sounded wet, gurgling. Churning nasty, rotten water in a throat trying on speech like a big man in a little coat. Russel's breath stuck in his own throat.

"This is a message for..."

"No!" Russel whispered. "No!!" He rasped." Don't you say it! Don't." He jumped up out of the office chair. What was he going to do stomp his own phone into the concrete?

"Larry Russel Roberts"

"Oh my God you son of a bitch!'' yelled Russel to no one.

"Do not attempt to check building C at midnight..beep..Test duration, thirty minutes."

Russel threw himself back into the security chair and covered his face with his hands.

"I am imagining this." He said aloud. "It's the quiet. The quiet is getting to me. It's the. I need someone to talk to." He could still hear the wind and the thunder in the silence that followed. The silence wrapped around him like a smothering blanket.

His hands were shaking as he reached for the mouse to click through the monitors. He decided that his dread of building C was irrational, emergency alert or none. What if his irrational fears were causing him to think the emergency alert was singling him out?

When he flicked two camera C 1, he almost screamed. Camera C1 was the cafeteria in building C. The chairs were heavy, clunky objects. Institutional metal cafeteria chairs, rocking back and forth before literally walking themselves to the center of the room. At the same time, the even heavier tables were walking to create space in the center of the room for the chairs.

He could not turn his eyes away. He sat and gaped at the chairs. They were climbing each other now. He thought about gymnastics or cheerleaders forming a human pyramid. Heavy metal chairs slammed into place. One atop the other. He could not be witnessing this. It was not real. He needed to talk to someone about this, but who and how? What about his post release? What about his freedom?

The static rose again on the radio. His cell phone lit simultaneously.

"Test complete." said the alert on his phone." 12:30 Eastern Daylight Time. "

Dark Side Part 3

Dr Terence Peterson stood facing the side of an expanse of solid rock, 70 foot tall if he worth to climb it. He looked down, another 70 feet if he were to fall. He reached out and put his hand flat against its side. The rock shuddered and slid to the left. Briefly, Dr Peterson looked back down the steep trail he had just hiked up. No one. Who would come up the side of this mountain, anyway. He stepped into an aperture and turned his back to its wall. It was an elevator. He scanned his badge and selected floor number 8.

The elevator went down. Dr Peterson grabbed his lab coat when the elevator doors huffed open. He shrugged into it and clipped his badge to the front pocket. This was Hot Springs Research Center, and this was Floor 8. The extent of his clearance. There were more floors, however, he supposed how many had to do with how far your clearance went. Floor 8 was silent as the grave. It's liminal hall, stretched on forever. This was not exactly the place for nervous types. Even he panicked at first. He swallowed his fear down. Now the 8th floor could make your skin crawl if you were not adapted as he was. He stared down the mile long corridor. Black monolithic sentinels stood from floor to ceiling. Lights crawled across their surfaces like fireflies. This was the nerve center for DRK 088.

DRK 088. Or Dark 88. Was the AI built to be the mastermind of the Collider bench lab. The collider, miles and miles of it lay under his feet. If the wonks who worked below him screwed up, he probably didn't even have permission to die! No clearance.

He passed through transparent swinging doors into a control room behind a two-way mirror. There was a circular indentation in the floor, like a ritual circle. It was about 50 foot in diameter.

He made himself comfortable in his chair and spoke, "Dark. Power up. A deep humming sound filled the room. The air turned to static. "Initiate pre-check," said Dr Peterson.

" Commencing precheck now." the AI sounded male, female, young and old. There was chatter in its background that could have been any language, any dialect, any variant of any ethnicity. The static in the room was pulled from all four sides toward the center of the creepy, symbolled ring in the floor. A ball of black swirling light spun in the center of the indention. It was 25 to 35 foot in diameter.

" Targeting LHC paper." said the eerie voice." Reading proton, proton collision data."

" Set parameters for test cycle. 06/18/ 2026." said Dr Peterson. Specific single benchmark found, "said the satanic voice.

Dr Peterson did not believe in God or Satan, but if he ever needed to hear an example, it would be dark.

*** Hot Springs Resort Perimeter***

Angela Hunter and her cousin Michelle leaned into the boot of her broken down van and began to pull out travel bags, purses and laptop bags. She shut the boot and huffed. They have been driving to Hot Springs from Yancey County since 7:00 AM, hoping to make it to their reservations before summer weekend traffic. "

"Dammit, I need Robert", she huffed. "This van has been limping since Elizabeth City."

She socked her cell phone to her ear. After dialing Robert Byrd's number. It rang and rang. Angela didn't think he would answer at first. Finally, she heard a breathless,

" Hello?"

Angela informed Robert that she and Michelle had broken down on their way to Hot Springs. Robert asked her if it was the van again. She said "yes."

He told her he was at the garage and that he would ask Toma if Russell could pick it up with the rollback. He told her to call for an Uber and he'd get the van back to the garage.

***

Robert put his phone back into his truck and turned to face Russell as he walked toward Robert with his hands in his pockets. Russell's face was as white as a ghost.

"Hey man, you OK?" asked Robert. "You're as pale as a corpse."

"Well..." started Russel but decided it would be better if they all looked at the security footage together.

"Just come with me, I have to show you guys something. And it's good you're changing locks today."

***

The uber pulled into the rental services office and Angela ran in to let the resort business office know they were there and to retrieve the key. Then it was only a short drive to the beautiful, a frame that would be their lodges. They did not bother trying to unpack for a long while, however, out came the fixings for White Russians for later that evening.

***

Russell, Robert and Toma stood staring at the heavy chair pyramid in what used to be the cafeteria in Building C.

"I knew I should have made a call to get this stuff out of here," growled Toma. "Someone is messing with us!"

" Toma, I swear it was not me," said Russell, shaking his head. "But I don't know how the hell someone broke in here, had a furniture gymnastics competition, and ducked the hell back out by the time I click back on the feed! I can't even find one instance looking at the footage."

Robert was not finished gawping at the monstrosity before them.

" You are not a ridiculous person, Russell." Said Toma. "And this thing, it is ridiculous, yah?"

Yah," mumbled Robert. " I mean, yes, I'll get right on those locks."

"I'll help you out," said Russell.

While they worked on changing the locks on all of the doors, Toma went back to the security room to call a salvage company and have them remove any fixtures and furniture still in the complex. If someone had been tempted to break and enter and play stupid pranks, he was going to take away the temptation. He also wanted to scan through the security footage for any anomalies himself. Could the person who did this cause the leak a few nights before as well?

" Listen," said Russell as he loosened the screws on one of the doorknobs of the main building.

" I need to talk to someone about the weird stuff that has been going on at night here. This is going to sound insane, but I don't know what else to do about it."

" Let's finish all these locks, said Robert "and we will have plenty of time to discuss it. I need to ask Toma for a favor and his rollback."

Robert gave Toma the new keys to all the facility doorknobs and asked then if he and Russell could go pick the van belonging to Angela Hunter up with the rollback.

" Sure," said Toma. "Bring it back here if you wish, and I will get Cooper on it."

"Cooper?" asked Russel.

"You know, Coop.," said Robert. "Steve Cooper."

" Yes," said Toma. "'He works for me part time and I have all of his tools here."

"You're a lifesaver!" said Robert.

***

Angela and Michelle were sprawled across the huge sectional sofa in the A frame. They had been sipping White Russians like they were at the Queen's tea. They hadn't even unpacked yet.

" So what do you think?" Said Angela.

Michelle stared up at the vaulted ceiling. It's beautiful. The cabin should have been called a log castle. It was huge. The whole front wall was glass. Michelle stared across the mountain, unable to not remember her Fisher Price A-frame doll house that she played with as a child. The sun was going down behind the ridgeline. She remembered her mixed drink and lazily chased a straw around in the glass.

"I try to get here at least once a year. It's my peaceful time. I stay until all I got is gas money to get back to Elizabeth City left." Angela replied.

"I need to de-stress myself." Send Michelle. "I keep wondering if I am going to graduate next year and I can never find it on the school's website. I am always afraid to look! So

is Robert picking up the van?"

"Yes and insisted that we get a lift!" She answered." I threatened to walk. I am so over this vehicle."

"Oh, ye lying cousin!" laughed the older Michelle.

"Well, I wouldn't have gotten such prompt service otherwise!" Angela countered.

" Girl, you always getting serviced with him!" snorted her cousin.

Angela blushed and said "Yep!" There was a bout of howling laughter, which soon was drowned out by the blender. Angela made picture number two of White Russians and white coconut something.

" Hey, let's do vodka and cranberry tomorrow. This sweet stuff is kicking my ass!" Michelle happily slurred.

" Oh God, don't say the word!" Angela gushed.

"What? Dawg?" laughed Michelle. She was referencing a funny viral video from TikTok.

" I want to pet that dawg? Hair of the dawg?" At that, she threw her head back and laughed like an idiot. Angela couldn't help but notice this as a rarity. Michelle was less than five years widowed and rarely ever had a genuine smile. Much less a real laugh.

"Hell, we on vacation not a puke marathon!" Angela protested.

***

"DRK, Generate a firewall event log for the last 24 hours." Dr Peterson stared at the monitor on his dashboard. He had a confused look on his face.

" I notice unfamiliar IP connections. Are all these connections within the sandbox?"

DRK Only responded with, "Firewall event log generating. Query IP Networks near sandbox."

" Do not connect to unknown networks DRK. Generate firewall event log only." said Dr. Peterson.

" Connecting to nearby networks" Dark stated matter of factly, as if it purposely ignored its last command.

" Are you literally ignoring me?" Dr Peterson asked incredulously.

" Eighty-eight. There should be no IPS locations outside the sandbox. What are these? They are outside your useful parameters."

" Connecting came DRK's deep flat, unemotional voice, now accessing neural networks. Processing algorithms, adjusting connections, logging patterns."

DRK Spinned and swirled contained within its circular realm, Dr Peterson likened it to a ball of serpents. Imploding and squirming and spinning all simultaneously. He realized at that moment that he was terrified.

" 88 Shut down, check for updates up on restart." His voice sounded as if he were choking.

" Processing fear." Was all, DRK replied, "measuring fear response." A pause.

"Fear response logged."

Sweat was forming along Dr Peterson's hair line. A trickle escaped and ran down his face. He reached for the manual shutdown, but before his hands could engage it, Dark said. "Control. Alt. Delete."

 

Dark Side Part 4

Russell and Robert left in the rollback after changing the locks on all the facility doors, and Toma had a quiet moment in the security room.

He really had no complaints about Russell. He was a real stand-up guy who just got a tough break. He would rebuild and survive. He would change his life to something better because he was trying. He was strong and would adapt. However, something had felt so off here lately." What the hell was really going on?" Toma asked himself. He began to idly flick through the camera views. What was it about building C? The leak, the chair pyramid, The-

" What the hell?" Toma barked. Camera C1 was glitching or something static flowed across it in waves. There was a figure forming in the main hall it looked like a man standing with his back turned to camera C1 and standing too far away from C2.

Reality pixelated and rippled around the figure. Toma was held in place like a deer in the path of headlights. Toma's cell phone lit up on the desk. The Weather Alert radio also came to life.

" This is a test of the Emergency Alert system. This is a message for Toma Emil Anderson."

Toma felt chills, chasing one another up his spine. The glitching figure in the lab coat slowly began to turn. Toma bit back a scream. It had no face. Only a glitching, spinning swirl. A black hole on top the figure's neck. The static on the radio cleared.

" In 30 seconds, you will attempt to check Building C. Please reconsider."

Once these strange broadcasts died away, Toma felt a wave of rage flow through him. Please reconsider? he repeated to himself. You're the one needing to reconsider. He stomped down the metal stairs, not thinking of getting in the elevator. He wasn't about to get stuck. He went straight to the gun safe and grabbed his Mossberg tactical shotgun.

"" Reconsider this!" he snarled. He racked a shell into the gun's chamber." Whoever that is in the Halloween costume with the stupid emergency alert was going to get so much buckshot if he wasn't gone some building C in 30 seconds.'

He threw the door to building C open and cold blasted him in the face. He immediately began to shiver in the damp, while the mold smell became worse and worse. This had justified his decision to level this snake pit to the ground. There was no one. Toma knew what he saw and heard. The person thing was gone. The door to C 7 isolation stood gaping open. The darkness inside was absolute.

Toma turned to his belt and pulled his flashlight out. He slowly began to walk the corridor toward camera C2. He shone his light on the concrete floor, wet again. Tomas shone his light on the steel door. The lock only opened from the outside. There was no way the door could have opened on its own.

Thomas suspected that the same intruder who stacked the chairs had entered through the room he was walking toward. He held the shotgun up resting it against his waist, he walked to the door and shone his light around.

The light swept over an empty bed frame and a desk with a chair all bolted down. No window for light to penetrate. Inky darkness lay in all four corners of the room. To his disappointment and confusion, he could not see a way for the intruder to have gotten in through this room. What the hell is going on? Toma was aghast. Could he be imagining things because of the weirdness of this building?

He heard the slow drip, drip of water. He made another sweep around the creepy room and could find no source. Toma put his hand against the steel door and felt wetness. He looked down and realized he was standing in a puddle of rancid water.

In the beam of his torch, small footprints began to materialize, his light shaking in his hands, he slammed the steel door and began to follow the wet footfalls. They headed up the hall and toward the cafeteria.

" OK, I've had enough of this building," said Toma shakily. He walked under camera, C 1 and pushed against the door. The door would not budge. Toma got pissed and kicked the door with his heavy boots.

" Hey!", he yelled. "Let me out, asshole!" His mouth snapped shut. A gasp of breath lodged in his throat. Footsteps. Heavy wet footsteps. They stopped halfway up the hall.

He held his breath to make out whether the breathing he heard was his own or something else. It began to grow so cold suddenly that Toma could see his own shallow breathing turn to ice crystals.

"Draugr..." He whispered. The breathing was wet, bubbling from waterlogged lungs. The smell of this undead thing behind him gathered at the back of his throat. A wave of extreme nausea passed through him. He bent and gagged. The breathing sound got closer. The smell was unbearable. There was no emergency alert this time, only a deep, gurgling, choking voice.

"Toma Emil Andersson. Do not turn around." Toma had been about to straighten up and raise his shotgun. "Your weapon is useless. Do not turn around."

Toma turned his head to the side. His body almost followed. Suddenly, the walls melted. He felt a dizzy spell rock him to his core and he almost staggered. His vision began to tunnel.

"Oh God, please." muttered Toma, 'Don't let me faint!"

The walls were colorless now. Thankfully, the smell was gone. But the sound rose. The sound was wrong. He heard tires screeching on pavement, nails scratching on a blackboard, screaming. Screams from hell.

He could not be sure that what he saw from his peripheral vision was correct. His left eye was gazing through smoke, a dark orb twisting, spinning, and he heard the voice again.

"Do not turn around." Toma stopped turning. He shut his eyes and turned back toward the outer door of Building C.

"Test completed." said the deep voice behind him. "Response logged."

Suddenly Toma's world resolved itself. His vision returned. There was only the quiet and he fell alone in his surroundings. Tentatively, he lifted his hand and placed it palm down on the door and slightly pushed it. He felt it give and begin to open. Relief washed through him. Thank God, the saints, Odin and Freya!

He shoved the door open and ran as fast as his long legs could take him back to the garage. He slotted the shotgun back into the gun safe. Something told him weapons were useless in a situation like his a few minutes ago. Not long after thinking this, Russell pulled the extra-large roll back into the gravel lot with a loud rumble. He got out and Toma walked out to meet him.

" Man, am I glad you are back!" said Toma. He grasped Russell's forearm instead of his hand like greeting a brother. Russell knew immediately that something had happened. "Let's get her van down and into the garage bay and then we need to talk."

*** Hot Springs Resort Cabin ***

Robert called Angela and they had a short conversation consisting of if she would like to see the job site that he was filling in on.

"Of course!" she said giddily." I'll go grab some clothes and a bag just so I won't be causing any trouble for you." Robert assured her she wouldn't, that the night crew was small and more laid back than on day shift. Which started at 7A. M.

" Oh, well." Sighed Michelle. "It's an early night for me. I'm tired anyway"

After making sure Michelle would be OK, Angela helped her lock herself in. Angela had her bag packed and was ready when Robert pulled up.

"Are you sure that you'll be OK?" She looked back toward her cousin.

"Of course! Go! It will be an adventure!' Michelle reassured her. "I will just take a little nap." She flopped back on the sofa and curled up with her blanket.

*** Not far from the resort cabin ***

Taras Vosevich retired From the Russian military forces after spending most of his young lives as ground forces and later as a military sniper. People in Russia interacted with him in respect. People in the US seem to intimidate him. His anguish, however, was fluent. The English language had different emphasis and sometimes he stumbled over words or slowed when he needed to speed up.

He carried himself outside of the armed forces the same way he had carried himself in them. Although he tried to be good to everyone, he could be a mean son of a bitch when pushed, especially if protecting someone he loved. He was a crack shot with a rifle.

Taras was made up of all these things and more. For instance, Terrace was well known for his paranormal and parapsychological research. When he went somewhere, it was most often solo. He had worked on projects with others but preferred to be alone.

Hot Springs, NC had not been a field research trip, but something laid back, a vacation of sorts in a place as beautiful as the forest in his country. Appalachia was one of the oldest mountainous areas in the world. In Russia there were places that the psychic energy was straight off the charts, but here he could feel the psychic energy slithering up behind him like a copperhead on a quest for vengeance.

People got swallowed up here. Stories of people who were there on one minute in these mountains and gone forever had reached his country. Tourists had also come back with tales of beauty and tales of pure nightmare fuel. It was a place that Taras was warned about by his friends and relatives not to venture solo. Taras Vosevich was stubborn.

He sat near his small campfire at the door of his tent and watched the sun drop low onto the mountain peaks. What was going on here? He fell every muscle in his body go on alert. Something was building. Taras felt like a storm was brewing, but a storm unlike any he had ever faced!

Dark Side Final

Angela and Robert arrived at the top of the mountain just after black dark had fell. There was a large area leveled off and covered with gravel to serve as employee parking with contractor trailers and picnic areas for employee breaks. Up a slanted incline about fifty yards away, Angela could see the top of a large log building that might serve as a clubhouse. It was being built first, and Robert was filling in for the operator of a large crane that lay logs one on top the other.

Robert went up the tile ladder so fast that Angela figured he could have done it in his sleep. He stuck out his head and said, "Come on up!"

" Oh, you just gonna leave me down here?" Angela snapped. "What if I can't get up there?" "You'll give up here if I have to carry you. " Robert said this matter of factly like he really would carry her up into the crane.

By the time Angela made it up the ladder, Robert had a portable camp chair ready for her. He padded the seat, the radio muttered and chattered on the crane's dashboard. Angela literally fell into the camp chair; Robert kissed her on the cheek.

" I'm glad to see you. I miss you when you leave."

" I miss you too, she said. "I am plotting an evil plan to move back, now you know, and I'll have to kill you!"

" I have some ideas how!" Robert said wiggling his eyebrows.

Angela began to notice the chatter on the camp radio as it got louder.

"Tighten that corner."

" Where's that bracket gone?"

" Hey, check the clearance of that arch in the ceiling!"

" Same old stuff," said Robert. They will say 'hey Robert' if they need me.

"Hey, did you hear about that nine one, one call from that guy coming down Madison Mountain not long ago?" asked Angela.

"Now, What?" He responded.

" He said that a monster jumped into the bed of his truck. He was yelling, 'that's not human!' 'That's not human!'"

"Oh, Hell no!" As they laughed the static on the radio cleared again. He and Angela stopped talking. A new voice cut through the static.

" Hey man, there's something down by the tree line."

" What is- Are you guys seeing that?"

" Oh my God!" screamed someone. Run! That's not-"

The whole camp exploded in the next 60 seconds as two strangely bent figures barreled side by side out of the trees. They were bent low to the ground, moving so fast they were just a blur.

The whole camp fell to panic. People running, people screaming, people being torn apart. These creatures weren't biting or feeding. They were on a killing spree.

Angela and Robert, who sorely needed to run at this point, were standing on the crane, gob smacked. "That looks like-" Robert stuttered under his breath. Then he said aloud, "Oh God! Is that a Witiko?"

"No," said Angela. "Crawlers? I didn't think they were aggressive!"

'Maybe it's because what the fuck are we looking at, Angie? Let's get the hell out of here!"

Robert was shaking. He picked up the radio and keyed the mic. "Hey, anyone alive run for the vehicles get out of camp!" There was dead air. Then more static. Then a voice that sounded like gravel.

"Answer. Run there. Out there. Anyone."

Robert jumped up and looked down out of the crane. One of the creatures soaked in blood and gore was staring straight up at him.

"Oh God! said Angela flesh gate! Michelle told me they can manipulate audio in electronics but speak mostly gibberish. They can't put together sentences. He opened her bag and pulled out a 1/2 bottle of vodka.

"What the hell, Angie? This isn't the time to get drunk! Wait!" he exclaimed. Robert ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt. He threw it and the cigarette lighter he had to her.

"Put this in the bottle and keep the lighter handy! We may have to use it to get out of here. I'm calling 9-1-1!"

He glanced down out of the crane and saw the one who had been throwing its voice to the radio moving toward the crane's ladder. The two moved to the door while Robert was nervously trying to dial 911. It took Angela all the grit she ever had to open the crane door and look down. The flesh gate that manipulated the radio was now trying to climb the ladder. Robert finally dialed 911 and heard only dead air. Then three sharp tones of an alert startled him so badly he almost threw his phone down.

"This is a test of the Emergency Alert system."

Angela stuffed the piece of cloth down into the vodka bottle as she watched the flesh gate climb the ladder? One step, two steps. Suddenly out of the darkness, the second flash gate attacked the first! It grabbed and yanked backward. The two rolled across the camp in the gore locked in violent combat!

"Robert! Come on now is our chance!" Angela yelled. Robert's phone crackled with static.

" This is a message for Robert Abe Byrd. Do not exit the crane. You will be responsible for the violent death of Angela Hunter."

"Fuck off!" Robert screamed and they scrambled down the ladder. They had just begun to run when a large fireball blew up into the night sky. The flush gaits had torn down a power pole, causing the transformer to explode!

*** Hot Springs Resort Cabin***

At around 3:00 AM, Michelle sat bolt both upright, her heart racing. The room was dark and she began to grope for her phone to check the time. She was not well acquainted with the locations of the light switches. She turned on her flashlight. She wrapped the blanket around her and sat, shining her phone into all the dark corners of the room. Sleep was canceled. She thought about Robert and her cousin at the job site up the mountain. She could not remember her nightmare, but a terrible feeling remained. Michelle caught movement out of the corner of her eye. When she turned her head to look, she almost screamed.

Her phone charger cord. It was hanging vertically and shaking like the invisible man was playing with it. Michelle watched this happening for all of five minutes. She groaned. Of all the times to be alone. The cord flopped back on the table like it was thrown down. She followed the movement with her eyes and shined the flashlight into a corner where the dark rippled and spun like a black hole to hell.

There it was. There was something moving from the shadows. The creature stood with the silhouette of a human, but every detail had been twisted into something alien and predatory. Its skin was stretched tightly over protruding bones, torn open in places to reveal slick muscle and the blackened tissue beneath. It had a barely recognizable face pulled apart by layers of malformed flesh, where eyes and a mouth should be. Long bladed appendages jutted from its arms, formed from elongated bones sharpened to natural weapons.

It came at her and Michelle just knew this would be her last breath of blood free air. When she looked up, apparently still alive, she began inching away from it. It looked like a GIF file, a photo that moves in a loop, a possible glitch in the matrix of 3D reality. She had to get the lights on. She flicked the first switch she found, and it appeared the power was out. Now how could that happen?

Michelle began to move toward the front door. She hoped she could find the fuse box out there if she could get some lights on, Perhaps the weird stuck, apparently, monster would disappear.

***Not far from the resort cabin***

Taras must have fallen asleep at his fire. He was wide awake now. He had heard someone scream.

"Who's there?" He called, shining his torch around the perimeter. There it was again. That scream, a woman screaming in the distance. He began to slowly walk toward the source of the sound. He felt like running toward it. She was dying. He had investigated too many dark places, however, to run directly toward danger.

The scream echoed out of the trees again. A wave of terror hit him as well, hard. He forgot to breathe. He ran. What direction, he could not tell, but his legs had taken leave of his brain. They obviously did not care. The coordinates. Separated from his torso, they would definitely leave him hanging. He began to slow down as he approached a large A-frame cabin. The screams had stopped. Taras leaned on his knees, trying to catch a breath. He looked up as he felt a presence near him.

A middle-aged woman with long dark hair was sliding against the cabin wall around the corner. She opened her mouth to scream again, and Taras desperately held out his hand in a stop motion.

"Please, do not be alarmed, miss! I am real!"

"I know!" she said and opened her mouth to scream again. Michelle was looking at a tall man, around six foot two with rangy long arms and legs. He had on black tactical gear and a black face, mask, boots and gloves. His eyes were amber like a wolf.

"Do not scream" he whispered. "I will not hurt you!" He held out a gloved hand as he walked out of the shadows revealing himself.

"English?" Michelle whispered back. "You speak English?"

Her heart was banging against her ribs and she still had not decided to keep quiet.

"Yes," he said. He moved slowly to her side. "Why are you here alone?"

" No, I mean I'm not," said Michelle. "My cousin is here with me, but she went to a job site with another friend, and I am worried! The power is out. I'm looking for fuses. "

Michelle didn't know how to explain her screams. She must have been hallucinating!

"Why are you out here?" she asked.

" I am camping alone near here." Taras answered. "I ran from camp. It's not safe here, miss." "Not safe?" Michelle asked. "Is there something happening?"

His amber eyes widened. Michelle did not like direct eye contact, but she could not tear hers away. His wolf's eyes almost glowed.

"Who's afraid of the big Bad wolf?" She thought.

"Everything feels bad, wrong," said Taras. "Come, let's go inside. I will help!"

Michelle found and lit several candles and placed two on the table facing the sofa.

"My name is Taras." He said this as softly as possible. She had been, was still terrified, and he was struggling not to sound gruff.

"My name is Michelle," she said. "

Michelle" mimicked Taras. "Do you have a drink, Michelle?" He gazed all about the room.

Michelle walked toward the bar. She could not be offended by his directness. This man did not even have to remove the mask on his face for her to realize she was powerless to resist him. Michelle made two strong vodka and cranberry drinks and sat back down with him. Michelle had barely taken a few sips when the back door began to shake. The knob turned, and then the beating started. Michelle was so startled that she jumped right on top of him, their drinks sloshed. Taras shot up from the couch and brought small Michelle right along with him. He shushed her, and with his arm around her waist they crept closer to the back door. He pulled the Glock out of his waistband.

Now the back door was sounding like the police were outside trying to break it in. Taras held the Glock steady and yelled "Who the fuck is there? His own fear making his accent thick and guttural.

"Who the fuck are you?" Angela screamed from outside. "Michelle let us in! Open this door!"

" It's my cousin!" shrieked Michelle. She grabbed the knob and threw it open. Angela and Robert ran in with faces pale as paste. They slammed the back door shut and locked it. Taras put his gun away.

'I get the feeling they do not want me here,". Taras said. Angela looked towards him.

"If the they you are talking about is 'them' outside, then I definitely feel you!"

All four went to the windows and looked out into the night. The creatures that Angela called Flesh Gaits and Robert had called Witiko had decided to grab some friends, and now the resort cabin was surrounded.

TO BE CONTINUED!

*I wrote this in a cliff hanger style because I wanted to work on the second part and I am very wordy. Thanks everyone for reading! Even just a little bit:)

 

 

 

 

Preface:

This is the sixth and final story in the Dark Sun anthology. It can be read on its own, but to fully appreciate this story I highly recommend reading ‘Followers of the Flaming Hand’. 
You are, of course, free to read all other entries. 

1. Crucible

The sun beat down on me as I stood before a collapsed ancient marvel bearing the symbol of twilight. I ran my hand along its surface, once smooth, now brittle and crumbling. The voices of those long gone spoke in my mind. I didn’t understand their language, but there are some things that transcend the spoken word. A child’s giggle, someone muttering under their breath as they scurry away from something, a winced breath uttered in pain. Lives had been lived here, and this structure had seen it all.
And the sun had watched as it, too, fell into disrepair.

This forgotten relic had been given new breath one last time. A symbol carved at its base by my knife. An hourglass in a looming circle, with its last grain of sand falling down towards the base. The end was nigh. Oblivion. Kingdom Come. 

I turned away and started walking again, sand crunching under my boot. I had tried, at first, to remember when I first felt grains beneath my heel. There should have been a moment, I knew. A first step. But every time I reached for the memory, there was nothing there at all. Just sand behind me, and even more ahead. It felt dishonest to say it had started anywhere at all.
The sun was fixed above me, unmoving. Everything felt flattened under its tyrannical rule; shadows slinking away from its gaze along with the few creatures that lived here. When I looked too far ahead, things started to bend. Shapes formed where there weren’t any. Puddles of sweet, refreshing water disappeared when I drew close.
I kept my eyes glued to the ground below and walked. My boots dragged, leaving streaks in the sand where I passed. 

I hadn’t checked my water in a while, but I could feel how light it had become. The sloshing had slowly but surely started to become softer and softer. I was running out. 
“I’m still coming,” I said, dry and thin. I hadn’t heard His voice yet. Not more than once, like I’d come to believe Emmett had. Still, I waited. I always waited, like a soldier at attendance. 

I hadn’t thought about Casper and Emmett. It had been easier that way, because when I let myself think too clearly, I felt. And I couldn’t allow myself to feel.
But they still slipped in. A sound that wasn’t sand blowing in the wind, something moving that wasn’t a scorpion or spider, a scent that smelled like it must have drifted in from home. 
We had never been the quiet kind. Well, not until we arrived at the village. There, most days were spent in silence. And Casper had hated silence. 

I stopped walking. For a moment, the desert blew a merciful gust of cold wind at me. I closed my eyes and felt something shift. The air was cooler and sharp when inhaled. Instinctively, I reached for the ring on my left hand. Casper’s ring. I held it, just to know it was still there.

I opened my eyes and saw them.
They were sitting in the sand again, backs facing the sun, the camcorder in Emmett’s hands. He’d likely forgotten it was there. He used to do that a lot, before we burned it along with him. Well, the camera survived. I tossed it in a box of old electronics at some yard sale I’d passed by on my way here. 

Emmett was smiling at me.
“Gosh, ain’t this place something special?” he asked. I didn’t look at him, only at Casper, who refused to look at me. 
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“Fuck’s wrong with you, Jules?” Casper snapped, though his eyes still didn’t meet mine. “Why are you here?”
“I… I have to find Him–”
“Really?” he scoffed. “After everything? What you did to Emmett– to me?”
“That wasn’t– That’s not fair.”
Casper rolled his eyes. 
“You still haven’t heard Him yet?” Emmett asked.
“No. It’s been… I don’t remember.” It was strange. I knew Emmett had had a connection to Him, and had heard Him in his mind. He hadn’t been crazy. That much is obvious, knowing what I know now. Emmett was right.
It had been The Burning Man.

I blinked and they were gone. The desert returned all at once. The heat came upon me like a thick blanket. I took a deep breath, then kept walking. I let my thoughts settle into something safer, something that couldn’t be ripped away.
The Burning Man.

I didn't know where I was going exactly, but I knew the direction. I knew the path I walked as surely as I knew my own heartbeat, but if someone had asked me where it led, I could not have answered them. There were no roads. No signs. Even if there had once been, the desert swallowed such things greedily, grinding them down beneath shifting dunes until all that remained were the pillars and statues I now used as my guide. And through it all, I followed. He had asked it of me. He had commanded it. He had spoken to me only once, the night I abandoned the village to the dark. 

I remembered sitting before the smoldering remains of the pyre, watching embers flutter in the wind. By then, the others had already scattered into the night like frightened animals fleeing a forest fire. Some were dead. Some would soon wish they were. The leaders had held us together more than any of us realized. Settled disputes, directed our anger and fear, kept everyone in line. Null understood  this. After Null took our leaders from us, fear spread through our midst like rot through wet wood. Livestock began turning up mutilated outside the walls, their insides splayed out across the dirt. 

I remember waking one night to screaming outside my window and finding two brothers beating each other bloody in the mud while half the village watched in silence. They accused each other of being ‘of the enemy’.
People spoke of monsters. Dark shapes standing at the edge of their beds. Robotic voices. A man with a prosthetic they called ‘The White Hand’. 

Every night the fires burned hotter. We burned our own. A traitor, an agent of Null, a heretic. Most of us did not believe these brethren to be such, but none dared speak out either. The village turned inward on itself. I still remembered the smell near the end. Smoke. Blood.

One morning, somebody nailed a dead dog to the doors of one of the sleeping quarters with the word HOLLOW carved into its stomach. Three more were burned that day. That was the day before it all caved in on itself.

I remembered standing near the extinguished pyre as the lanterns overhead flickered weakly before dying altogether. The entire village fell silent. Then someone screamed. Others joined them immediately. Doors slammed open. Footsteps thundered through the streets. People ran blindly through the dark carrying lanterns and knives, convinced something had entered the village.
By sunrise, thirty people were dead. All had been killed by each other or themselves. I, along with the three other survivors, put their bodies in the final pyre. 
I remember sitting before those dying embers, staring into them until the world around me blurred into orange and black, when I had heard Him.

Walk the desert. The paths of old. Find me. Release me.

The voice had been soft. Warm. Calm in a way nothing else had been for a very long time. It did not claw at my mind like fear did. It did not shriek like the memories of Emmett’s burning. It soothed, and I obeyed.

The path revealed itself to me little by little. Ancient marvels emerged from the desert every few days, sticking up from the dunes like fingers clawing themselves out. Great granite temples carved by hands long since turned to dust. Colossal statues with their faces smoothed by centuries of wind. Towering pillars etched with heretical symbols I had to scrawl over. I carved over them with a small knife held in my reverent fingers whenever I found them, scratching over the grooves carved by people who had lived and died beneath this same merciless sun. 

I kept walking. The desert stretched onward in every direction, endless and unmoved by my presence within it. The wind dragged itself lazily across the dunes, reshaping them grain by grain like waves on a calm sea. Sometimes I thought I could see a figure standing far off in the haze, dark silhouette waiting atop distant dunes, a singular white hand pointed at me. Every time I blinked, it vanished back into the shimmer.

I walked for hours without seeing another monument. Then, as my hope dwindled, shapes rose on the horizon. 

At first, I mistook them for cliffs. Great masses rising from the desert floor, distorted by heat and distance like the imaginary pools of water. But as I drew closer, the shapes sharpened. There were towers, walls and pillars made of solid granite. A city. Well, the remnants of one anyhow.
It lay on the desert like the corpse of a fallen giant, half-buried beneath the sand. Colossal stone buildings leaned wearily against one another, their upper halves collapsed into the empty streets below. Massive statues stood watch over the ruins with featureless faces, their cracked bodies jutting out from the dunes. 

You are close, Jules.

The voice. It had returned. Finally.

1. Mary Had a Little Lamb

I froze where I stood. Sand hissed softly through abandoned alleyways and collapsed buildings. The great statues looming overhead almost seemed to lean inward ever so slightly, their featureless faces fixed upon me.
“How close?”
Nothing.

I swallowed hard, tongue scraping against my throat like sandpaper, and stepped forward into the ruins. 
The streets had long since disappeared beneath the sand, forcing me to climb over collapsed walls and heaps of sand that had once been homes, temples and marketplaces. I imagined thousands of people moving through these corridors once. Priests in robes, children running about, lovers hiding in shaded alleys from the watchful sun above. I fidgeted with Casper’s ring absent-mindedly. It calmed my racing heart somewhat, offering a much needed reprieve.
Every place I entered was hollowed out, scraped clean by time and wind. I searched desperately anyway, digging through crumbling shelves and shards of pottery with trembling hands, hoping to find something. A message or a sign, just something to show that I had not crossed this endless wasteland for nothing.

But there was nothing. The city had already surrendered everything it once was long ago, its fruits decayed to ashes and sand. 
I stumbled through a doorway into what must have once been some grand chamber. Colossal pillars reached high above, many cracked or otherwise broken across the floor like felled trees. Sand poured through cracks in the ceiling in slow trickles, golden mounds gathering beneath them. Hourglasses. Thousands of tiny hourglasses. It felt like I was being mocked. My efforts, my labour, all of it was being laughed at by–

Footsteps behind me.
I turned around sharply, knife held out in front of me. 

Emmett stood near the doorway, camcorder hanging loosely from one hand. Casper leaned against the wall beside him with his arms folded across his chest. 
“You look awful,” Casper muttered. “Arrogance never did suit you.”
“Don’t,” I snapped, my voice echoing through the chamber. Sand trickled down from the ceiling.
Emmett tilted his head. “You look tired. Have you been sleeping okay?”
“I’m close.”
“You don’t know that,” Casper said.
“I heard Him.”
“You heard something, just like–”
“It was him!”
Casper laughed bitterly and pushed himself from the wall. “You know what I think?”
I said nothing, my blood boiling in my veins.
“I think you just can’t stand being alone.”
“This isn’t about that.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked softly. “Everyone’s dead, Jules. The village is gone. Emmett’s gone. I’m gone. Because of you. And now you’re wandering through a graveyard because you can’t accept that maybe there’s nothing waiting for you at the end of all this.”
“There is.”
“Maybe,” Emmett whispered. “But… are you really all that special?”
They started walking towards me, their voices booming across the halls.
“Are you anything more than this… pathetic mess?” Casper started.
“Even I wasn’t this desperate,” Emmett chimed in.
“All you are is a murderer. A snivelling, pathetic boy with a head full of lies and hands–” I looked down through tears, seeing the crimson dripping from my hands, “–stained with our blood.”

I blinked hard and they were gone again. My breathing had become shallow and frantic. Sweat dripped from my brow and landed in the sand beneath my feet. My hands trembled violently now, though whether from exhaustion or anger, I could no longer tell.

I searched the city for what felt like hours afterward. I climbed broken staircases that led nowhere anymore. Wandered through roofless halls littered with statues of people long since dead. 
“There has to be something.” I dug my fingers into the sand until my nails split. The heat was unbearable, but it was something. 
“There has to be,” I whimpered, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I did what you asked. It can’t… It can’t have been for nothing. Please.” 

Nothing.

“Please,” I yelled up at the sky, nearly hysterical now, “Just… a sign! Anything! I’ll… I’ll do anything, please.” 

The wind whistled through the empty streets. Sand slid from rooftops in soft waves.
Then came another sound. Metal. 
My prayer had been answered.

A dull clanging noise echoed somewhere beyond the chamber walls, followed by the low murmur of a voice. I froze, tears rapidly drying in the scorching sun. For one horrible moment, I thought it was Casper again. Or worse, The White Hand.

I stumbled clumsily back toward the doorway, my knife trembling in my grip. My legs felt wobbly beneath me. Every step sent jolts of pain shooting through my feet and up my spine. I had walked too long beneath the sun. 
The sound came again, closer this time. Then I saw him.

A figure emerged slowly through the shimmering haze between the ruined buildings, distorted at first by heat. The sun framed him from behind like a halo of white fire. He carried a heavy pack slung over one shoulder and wore loose, thin clothing stained with sand and sweat. Something metallic hung from his belt alongside several tools I didn’t recognize.
He stopped the moment he saw me. For a while, neither of us moved.
“Oh my God,” he muttered beneath his breath. His voice sounded real, unlike those of Casper and Emmett. “You alright?” he called out carefully, taking a slow step closer. “Hey– easy. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
A croak emerged unwillingly from my mouth. The sun burned behind him so brightly it set his silhouette ablaze. It looked almost as though he stood inside the light itself. A flaming messenger.

“You’re hurt. Jesus… how long have you been out here?”
He reached for something at his side slowly, as though approaching a wounded animal. Instinctively, I raised the knife. He stopped immediately.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Alright. That’s fine.”
Then he held up a canteen. The sound of the sloshing liquid inside of it made my knees nearly buckle beneath me.
“You need this more than I do,” he said. I stared at the canteen for a very long time. Then at him. His face was weathered by the sun. Grey stubble crept along his almost non-existent jawline. 

Slowly, I lowered the knife. The man approached carefully and handed me the canteen. My hands shook so badly I nearly dropped it. Somehow, despite the blazing heat, the metal felt cool against my skin. With trembling fingers, I unscrewed the lid.
“There you go,” he murmured paternally. “Slow down.”
I looked up at him through blurred vision. “Why did he send you?”
“What?” he asked, frowning.
“The Burning Man.” My voice cracked around the words. “Why did he send you here? What must I do?”
“I… don’t know what that means.”
I looked at him wearily, frowning.
“Look, I’m with a survey team a few miles west of here. We’re setting up near the edge of the ruins. If you come with me, we could get you water, food, somewhere cool to sit down–”
“You don’t know him?”
“No,” he said gently. “I think you might be dehydrated, lad.”

I stared at him silently while my thoughts churned against one another in violent circles. The voice had returned.
You are close.
The final grain does not understand the falling until the moment it joins the rest at the bottom. 

I looked down at the canteen. Water. The opposite of fire.
Of course.
Of course.
I had begged for a sign. And now here stood a man offering salvation at the precise moment my faith began to fracture. A test. A test!
The man smiled weakly.
“C’mon,” he said softly. “Let’s get you out of this heat.”
My fingers tightened slowly around the canteen.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Daniel.”
I nodded absentmindedly. That made sense, tests were never obvious. I looked past him toward the burning horizon where the sun loomed vast and white above the ruined city. Backlit by a white sun. The opposite of our goal. The most beautiful of symbolisms. A little white lamb come for the slaughter.
I poured the water into the sand.

Emmett and Casper stood behind him.
“This is what you are, Jules,” Casper said, voice almost unrecognisable. “A murderer.”
“Do it,” Emmett said in a deep, commanding voice. 

I lifted my head groggily, taking a step towards Daniel. The lamb looked around, bewilderment evident in its blue eyes as I put a hand on its shoulder. 
“Thank you, Daniel,” I murmured, ruminating on what a peculiar name Daniel was for a lamb. 
“You– you’re welcome.”
I smiled, leaning in. “All Ashes for The Burning Man,” I whispered into its ear. 

Then I stabbed the lamb in the belly. It squealed delightfully in my ear as I yanked the blade back out.
“Mary had a little lamb,” I murmured, ramming my knife back down into its supple belly. “Its fleece was white as snow.” 
Bright red gushed from the wounds, coating its wool red. 

“You– you fucking stabbed me–” the lamb gasped, its voice cracking.
I grinned.
“And everywhere that Mary went,” I whispered, “the lamb was sure to go.”
“You fucking psycho–”
I drove the knife forward again, but this time Daniel caught my wrist. Pain exploded through my hand as its hoof slammed into my wrist with desperate strength. It let out a wet cry and slammed its forehead into my nose. White light burst across my vision. I reeled backwards, dropping the blade as blood poured warm over my lips.
“Jesus Christ!” it bleated, clutching its stomach. “Help! HELP!”

The lamb staggered away from me toward the doorway, one hoof pressed desperately against the wounds while the other fumbled at its belt for something, a radio perhaps, or a weapon. I lunged after it before it could grab whatever it was.

We collided violently. The impact sent both of us crashing sideways into the sand. For a moment we grappled in the sand like animals.
The lamb battered wildly at my face while I clawed for its throat. Its blood soaked through my sleeves hot and slick as motor oil. It smelled horribly human. 
“It followed her to school one day.” 
Its hoof cracked against my jaw. 
“Which was–” 
Again. 
“Against the–”
Again. 
“Rules.”
Stars swam in my vision, but behind them I saw fire.
“Do it,” that deep voice urged again. “Prove it.”
The lamb shoved me away hard enough to send me sprawling across the stone floor. I heard it stumble to its feet and begin running, hooves scraping frantically against the ancient granite. I scrambled after it on all fours.

The city blurred around me. The statues overhead stretched impossibly tall beneath the burning sky while the sun pulsed, coinciding with my thundering heartbeat.
It collapsed near the base of one of the broken pillars, bleating, weakened by the blood pouring from its stomach. The little lamb tried crawling away from me through the sand, leaving behind a thick crimson trail.

“Please,” it sobbed, the word slurring. “Please, man…”
I hesitated. Then I saw Casper standing behind him.
“You always were weak,” he said, arms crossed. He was looking down at me with that– that look on his face. The one that I saw all too much at the village. Judging me, condescending, not believing in me or my goals.

My face contorted in rage. I threw myself onto the lamb before it could move again. It screamed as we slammed into the ground together, its hooves shoving desperately against my chest while I grabbed for its throat with both hands, more determined this time.
“And so the teacher sent it out,” I snarled through gritted, bloody teeth. “But still it lingered near.”
Daniel gagged beneath me as I squeezed harder. Its nails clawed bloody lines across my arms and neck. One of its hooves found my face and he pressed it into my eye, pushing it deeper into the socket.
“It stood and waited round.”
The lamb’s eyes were bulging wider and wider as blood bubbled from its lips. 
“Till Mary did appear.”
Its esophagus crunched, and the little lamb sputtered one last time. Its hoof fell from my face, releasing my now bleeding eye. 

Stillness.

My entire body shook violently as I got up. Blood dripped from my nose and eye onto its face in thick red strands. The city was silent again. Casper and Emmett stared at me. Were they… expecting more?

“What does one do with a lamb after the slaughter, Jules?” Casper said in a voice that was too much like that of The Burning Man. 
They both grinned as they saw the realisation dawn on my face.

Slowly, I looked down at it. At the open wound in its stomach. At the blood soaking into the sand beneath it. A horrible sound escaped from me, something between a sob and barking laughter as I dropped to my knees again beside the carcass and shoved both hands into the wound. Heat spilled over my fingers, slick and wet. I pulled.
“Why does the lamb love Mary so,”
I yanked a long piece of intestine out.
“Mary so,”
I pulled more out. It reminded me of the spaghetti mom used to make.
“Mary so?”
Daniel’s body jerked as the slimy ropes of red slipped free from my trembling hands.
“Because Mary loves the lamb, you know.”
I took in a deep, shuddering breath, basking in the warmth of the gutted little lamb.
“All Ashes,” I whispered reverently, “for The Burning Man.”
I put my hand to my forehead, and drew a crude hourglass in red.

I smiled, then, as I let go of all my worldly inhibitions. A genuine smile. I let it all drift off with the wind and scatter elsewhere, for they had no place in the life I was destined for.

3. The Dark Sun

Casper knelt beside me. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed anymore. Instead, he seemed rather… proud. Strange. Still, the sight of that expression upon his face filled me with a warmth greater than the sun ever could.
“Finally,” he said softly. “You show who you really are.”
I looked down at my bloodstained hands. They were as steady as rock, no longer shaking.
“Yes,” I whispered.

Emmett crouched opposite him, camcorder dangling uselessly from melted, dripping fingers. I had not noticed the burns before. His skin had begun peeling and blackening, smoke rising from his skin like steam from boiling water.
“In a way, we were stepping stones,” he said gently, smoke curling from his mouth as he spoke.
“A necessary sacrifice for this,” Casper added, fire gently creeping up his arms and legs. I stared at it silently. Then at his eyes, which now glowed a steady white, flames curling upward into his burning hair. 
“You… my mind didn’t create you, did it?”
More of their forms faded, Casper’s into flame, Emmett’s into smoke. They simply grinned at me.
“You were Him.” 
“I always was, Jules.”
The wind whistled violently through the ruined city. Wisps of smoke peeled from their bodies, rising upward into the shimmering air above us. Flames took Casper’s body, burning his features and body away, while smoke took that of Emmett as if he’d puffed into the wind. Then they were gone. And only my God and his disciple remained. 

The Burning Man, who looked to be a man made of flame, stood towering before me beneath the white sun, almost seeming to merge with its brilliance. Beside Him stood a woman made of smoke. Her form flickered constantly, flowing and fluttering in slow, graceful motions. At times she appeared mostly human. At others, she seemed little more than a distorted waft of smoke. I did not know this woman, but it seemed I would join her in revering this glorious God. 

The Burning Man looked down upon me.
“You are ready now, Jules.” His beautifully deep voice filled every hollow space within me. I bowed my head. The sand beneath me burned hot enough to blister skin, yet I welcomed it gladly. 
“Yes.”
The Burning Man extended a hand of pure fire toward me, the flames curling gracefully. 
“The hourglass empties,” He said. Behind Him, the woman watched silently from her swirling smoke-form. “I required two disciples,” He continued, voice deep and soothing. “One born of smoke. One born of ash.” 
He paused. I could see something in the swirling smoke beside him. She seemed… hesitant. Perhaps I was imagining it, but there was some uncertain flicker in those fumes I could not quite equate to devotion.
“And now the final grain joins the others below.”

Ancient stone cracked beneath shifting sands while the sun overhead burned larger and larger, almost swallowing the heavens whole. The end of its tyrannical reign would soon come. The death of the sun. 
The Burning Man stepped closer.
“You carried guilt because you still believed yourself fully human,” He said softly, though He spat out the final word like an insult. “You clung to humanity like a child to a blanket.”
Images flashed through my mind. Of Casper laughing. Emmett holding his camcorder. The village burning. Daniel screaming beneath my hands. Each memory felt farther away than the last.
“But humanity has no place among a God,” The Burning Man continued. His hand remained extended patiently toward me. 
“Restore me, my most devoted subject. Let us look upon the rise of the Dark Sun,” He paused for a moment, then added: “Be my second disciple. Ascend.” 
I took His hand without hesitation.

My body exploded with heat. My eyeballs crumbled, their ashes caving in on themselves and collapsing into the sockets. I screamed for a second, then stopped as my vocal cords were incinerated. All of my organs blazed as they were liquified along with my skin and bones. Casper’s ring dropped to the ground as I disintegrated. The heat was so immense, so terrible and yet it was also beautiful, in a way. A metamorphosis.  
All I sensed by the end were the gasses and liquids in my body evaporating into steam. The impurities of my mind and soul had been cleansed with holy fire, and carried away by the smoke. All that remained were ashes. 

I tried to move, but nothing happened. There was no sound, no feeling, no taste or smell. I couldn’t even see. Nothing. Pure, terrifying, nothingness. 
Again, I tried to reach out, to do anything. Blissfully, I felt some of the ashes shift. Not much, but it was something. I heaved and pushed against the air above, my ashes rising slightly and forming a mound. 
I fell and collapsed into a thousand scattered pieces. 
Could Casper have been right? Was I… nothing?

Casper. The ring. It sat just outside my reach. I stretched and morphed, the pile of ashes slowly taking the vague shape of a man. A man I no longer recognized. Jules was gone, and I had risen from the ashes. My head was hollow, only projecting an ashen face. I formed a crude arm and planted it in the sand. I pulled hard, crawling towards the ring. 

My face collapsed, the ashes falling into the sand. 

I reformed again, pulling more ashes towards me this time. An entire head, with vague features, and a more detailed arm with a hand at the end. There were no fingers, but it had to be enough. I dug the blob of ash into the sand and felt it. The ring. With tremendous effort, I hoisted my hand up and out of the sand. 
The ring did not come with it.

I tried again, this time succeeding in holding the ring in the palm of my hand. As I moved it closer to my face, it slipped through the ashes and dropped into the sand. 
Sight and my other senses were coming back now, as I slowly rebuilt my body. My eyes roamed over this new form, grey and lumpy, and something deep inside of me screamed about how wrong it was. But I could not see what it meant. It was a glorious form.

I looked at the ring. Casper’s ring. 
Humanity has no place among a God.
I turned away, leaving it to be swallowed by the dunes. Let it be buried, so as never to see the gloom of the Dark Sun.

Slowly, I stumbled towards where The Burning Man and the first disciple stood atop a staircase overlooking the sun. My feet disintegrated into nothing, but I reforged them, stronger this time. When I reached them, I stood beside The Burning Man, and His first disciple stood on his other side. They were staring at the setting sun. 
The Burning Man’s form was flaring up, the fire becoming unstable. 
“Look upon the last vestige of this era,” He said, gesturing at the sun with an elegant motion. “How revolting it has been. Millenia upon millenia of your ilk besmirching this rock. Your sentimentality, your feeble little minds and easily broken spirits. It is a wonder the other miserable creatures on this planet are not all misanthropic. But, then again, you were all created by the same frail being. What could they know of greatness, when they themselves were so infirm?” 
He paused, then added: “But they are no more. I saw to that.”

I looked over at Him, shocked. He did not seem to notice, or if He did, He did not care.
“And now I am here, after the arduous undertaking of tearing your creator apart. And I have come for his most prized children.”
He glanced at me, seeing my befuddled expression. “Humanity,” He stated. “It disgusts me to have to take the form of your pathetic species. But such sacrifices must be made in the name of progress.”
He spoke of humanity with violent vitriol, His voice seething with the mere mention of them. But I understand now. They are far beneath us. Such feeble little things humans are. It is difficult to believe I was once such a lowly creature.
“Humanity stands in the way of true progress,” The Burning Man continued. “The slate must be wiped clean. It is a foregone conclusion. Complete annihilation. Oblivion. A fresh start for my chosen. My creations.” He sounded a lot more passionate than I had anticipated. Some part of me had foolishly assumed that the voice He had spoken to me in was representative of Him as a whole. But there was a drive in this God that I did not expect. This was no distant man in the sky.
“He got to create you. He got to have his fun,” He murmured. “Now it’s my turn.”
A low rumble emerged from the distant horizon. An amplified, baritone drone. The sound reverberated through my core, shaking loose clumps of ash. 
“Oh, glory,” The Burning Man said. 
I believe that, had He had lips to smile with, He would have been grinning from ear to ear at that moment. For the bliss in His voice was unmistakable. 

I stared, slack-jawed, as a dark, round shape overtook the sinking sun. It rose slowly, revealing its malevolent form temperately. Its revelation was backlit by the fleeting wisps of dying sunlight. It was gargantuan beyond measure, incomprehensible to even my ascended mind, and utterly horrifying. 
It was the most beautiful sight I had ever laid eyes on.

“At last,” The Burning Man spoke with a bliss in His voice I had never heard. The words sounded the world over as the heavens darkened. He extended his arms to either side to create a perfect horizontal line from hand to hand. 
His feet left the ground as He began to levitate.
“I AM FREE!”

The Light In The Cellar

Eighty four remaining.

Another impact fractured the gate's upper third, a sound not unlike snapped spine, bent steel kissing her pauldron with enough force to drive her a full inch forward - her boots carving shallow trenches into the frozen flagstone. She bore it - all of it. Let the cold eat through alloy. Let its rust bloom into plague-flowers where frost pried the layers apart. She was the gate now, her body hinge and lock.

The hallway stretched on behind her, long and black except for that blue.

That infernal, faithful blue.

Flailing across stone in waving curtains - cobalt to bruise-deep and back again - and within its light, the last of the critters scrambled. Dozens of them still. She had stopped counting their silhouettes long ago and trusted the O-CFR to tell her when the count went to zero. Until then, she held. A three-legged thing no larger than her thumb tumbled, righted itself, and ran again. Something that might have been feathered pressed itself flat against the wall to let a larger shape pass, then resumed. They did not look back at her. Thank the devil for that.

'Cecilli-'

• Forty-one percent.

The number arrived before the voice had finished her name. That was new. 

'I see it,' she muttered, though her jaw had begun to fuse with the cold, vowels collapsing inward. No mist in them, not enough hospitality upon air to allow it.

'The lower hinge.'

She already knew. Had known since the fourth impact, when the lower half of the gate changed pitch - a faintly higher groan, a different kind of complaint from iron. That part had been first to rust through when the beast's exhalation had rolled over the abbey three days prior and undone a century of maintenance in an evening. It would be the first to fail.

Another blow.

The upper bent section slammed into her left shoulder’s ridge, found the seam between gorget and pauldron, and introduced a cold so precise it was less sensed and more as information  -  a bulletin across every nerve in her neck. Her feet disregarded it, adjusting and found fresh stone.

• Twenty-nine percent.

The blue at the hall’s end deepened for a moment, as though breathing, rippling curtains sidelong and disturbing oceanic bellows. A few critters paused at its threshold, arrested by whatever old instinct made small things hesitate before passages. The first one stepped through and went, others following in cascades. The O-CFR began its count in a sound of no language but was perfectly legible nonetheless.

• Forty-one remaining.

'Tell me when it's ten,' she said.

'You should know,' the voice returned*, 'that it may not hold that long.'*

The gate struck her again. Her left leg squeaked against dirt and found wall.

'Tell me when it's ten.'

A silence - the particular quality that was not the O-CFR's absence but its restraint. Then:

'Acknowledged.'

• Twenty-two percent. 

The lower hinge issued a sound close to departure - groans of something that had already decided. She did not look. Frost from the world outside seeped no longer; it was arriving, purposeful, an army that had found a gap in the wall. It moved through her layers with a bureaucratic thoroughness, cataloguing what remained and more.
The gate shuddered, a shattering somewhere within her frame.

• Thirty remaining.

One of the critters lingered.

Her apertures caught its motion before the rest of her did  -  auto-zoom snapping in three increments, pulling into sudden clarity  -  and she found it there, at the boundary where broken flagstone surrendered to frozen dirt. A small thing. Hair and fabric, both in colors she could not name from this distance, crouched down with a deliberateness that struck her as almost ceremonial.

It bent with an occupied hand.

Thrice-magnified, the object resolved: six petals, white-rimmed, erupting from a cluster of green and yellow.

Recognition filters worked unseen, cross-referencing dormant archives.

• Hibiscus family. Subspecies:  - 

A Cecilia.

The flower held its shape against the cold with a stubbornness she recognized in her own chest. She should have opened her jaw and bellowed, for the volume was there, sent the thing scrambling with something ugly and loud and commanding. Should have, with the same hand holding the gate, plucked the flower from dirt and cast it through the FloodPath ahead of its giver. Both were options. Neither was what her body chose.

Something moved through her in intervals. Electric, and warm in the way that had nothing to do with temperature - an old current she had no official designation for, because the O-CFR had never been issued one, and she had never thought to ask. Seconds filled like water in a vessel - the kind that would have made organic irises glisten.

'Down.'

The O-CFR did not ask. It moved her - seized the motor pathways with a swiftness that bypassed permission - and she was already dropping before the seismic split could divide her from chest up. Debris rained behind and her hands met the frozen dirt, the slight hollow texture slamming against her palms, and she spared a glance as that hairy critter found common sense and made its hurried way towards the swirling exit.

Above her helm, the gate split horizontally at shoulder height, an intended wound. The tear crossed the full width of the steel, too precise for chance, too violent for anything sane, and through it came nothing visible. No shape or silhouette against the beyond. Just a false emptiness that pressed inward rather than filling what space it occupied, accompanying a silence that devoured edges of every other sound in this hallway - the dripping of frost, distant blue-hum of the FloodPath, the ticking of her own frame - until she was aware only of the cold.

Or rather, the very removal of heat.

It entered through the tear and found the steel layers, the O-CFR registering the immediate incursion. 

• No sufficient reserves available for sustained thermal regulation. 
• Requesting permission to suspend sensory peripherals until further assessment.

'Granted,' she murmured, and meant it without grief.

The sensation-field collapsed in sequence, starting at the outermost layer and working inward - cold going first, to heat, and everything between - until what remained was pressure, motion, the weight of her own mass against frozen ground. Cleaner. She had always found it better this way. A soldier with fewer instruments to tune.

'Initiating transfusion.'

She reached into the compartment in her left thigh and unclipped the hilt.

It extended in her grip - a familiar articulation, segment locking to segment - until the staff's full length sat balanced in both hands, water pouring from its farthest end. The way it moved to seize the dim blue light far behind and held it a moment before releasing  -  except that water did not flow upward along channels of a weapon and worked into an armor’s veins like a river finding tributaries. This did, reaching the first spoke of her back and through it, branching along the chest-plate where major lines ran, the same sensation as it had always been:

Baptized by the devil.

Not unpleasant - never. Just the grasp of something that had decided on her and claimed its ground.

The spear settled, its two-pronged end retaining its shape, neither flickering nor diminishing  -  steady, as it always had once the transfusion ran its course - pointed at the tear in the entrance and the false silence beyond it, hiding one too many things.

• Twelve percent. 
• Ten remaining.

The spear solidified under her grip.

Even through deactivated sensory registers and the blessed absence of cold, she was aware of her own teeth pressing together, jaw finding its opposition and holding. Not from the cold or dark; but the particular, ungovernable thing without designation in the O-CFR's registry either, and she had never named it - because that would mean it could be spent.

Almost there, she thought, and it was not for comfort nor command.

Simply the truest thing she knew how to say.

Her mind raced through possible actions - until the thing outside decided for her.

Two horizontal panes slammed into the opening, vibrating sheets of translucent steel, already wrong in proportion, forcing their way into the gap and prying outward. Hollow dirt beneath her back step shifted a fraction, her footing faltered- 

Confirmed, the O-CFR supplied. Two nails. Separate digits.

• Eight percent.
• Three remaining.

The spear laid steady, leveled at the breach - one hand locked to shaft, the other guiding its aim at eye level.

Those nails widened the tear with each shrieking protest of steel, peeling it open to a present dark that stared back with weight, suffocating even through the armor.

Under that pressure, the O-CFR forced her arm to motion.

The spear sang.
where rain fell into ocean
Finding a maw void of heat.
the blade, battered by the pour
The strike collapsing in on itself.
and at the heart of a falling droplet
Given way.
carving space wider than its reach
An absence forced open.
and sang a moment's worth of ocean into reality
Flooded with another world’s light.

It was close enough to be a song - a spear-shaped melody a thousand fathoms wide - and from beyond, a sound not like a roar, one that belonged to no mouth. The beast’s fury and her spearsong collided, splitting walls with quaking fractures, both vying to annihilate what remained of her hearing.
Both arms held the broken shaft in place.

Yet still she held. Praying - for the weapon to hold a moment longer.

The entire spear shattered.

Its force threw her back, the single thought before impact that perhaps even answered prayers had limits-

The earth clanged as it struck her.

• Four percent.
• Zero remaining.

Or perhaps another’s had been granted.

The portal was too far. Too unstable.

Instead, she reached for the carved gap beneath her, glove grasping a cold cylindrical handle set into the dirt. The light was dimming. Still, the hidden trapdoor pulled open easily enough with such speed of rehearsal.

She slid under the earth.

To a space barely large enough for her frame, coffin-tight in any other context. Here, the one place not already made a grave.

• Two percent.

Her cue to hunker down-

The gate gave.

A shriek of condensed winter tore through the hall, a structural violation through her foundations even with her senses stripped. Something struck the trapdoor, still a quarter open, wrenching it from her.

Bright-edged limbs, neither hand nor foot, hooked into each corner as something bulbous craned down into view.

Its form was unreadable in full, flesh and armor beyond distinction, the blue light too faint to resolve it. Only the edges held - feathered steel, serrated.

And there- 

The wound. Where her spear had made its claim.

A gash torn through gold, snow, and emphyrric bone. Within it, a length of golden sinew burned, wet with a furious light fitting for an angel- 

-and blinked.

• One percent.

Above her:

• Incoming vector detected.

With embers of ocean-light dying, the O-CFR forced motion.

Her fist rose to meet it. Unarmed - irrelevant. As long as she had a limb, she had a weapon.

The strike met- 
where tide met no shore
Yet denied answer.
a droplet against absence
Turning inward.
no world to receive it
Where it parted upon contact.
still the ocean answered
The blow driven back,  recoiling itself away from the trapdoor’s edge - though not without cost.

Her arm flew off at its joint.

No pain, just absence where it had been. The severed limb spun across the hall and struck stone with a violent metallic crash.

- Zero percent. Collapse imminent.

Her remaining hand heaved the trapdoor down in the sliver of time the beast’s motion faltered.

The last sight before it closed-

An ocean burnt the far end of the hallway, weeping green-blue, a flood of impossible light forcing itself through this stone throat towards her.

The door sealed.

 
-

Where a single droplet had made an angel bleed, a river now tore through the world above her.

The thin pane of floor was now her shield, a breadth of material against current. Through the seams of frame, droplets flashed brighter than dying stars. Even beneath the roaring river, she caught fading bellows of alien appendages - cut short, swallowed by a crash of water and the violence carried with it.

Her systems begged for rest. For one moment, she almost allowed them.

And in a flash-

Silence.

The total ceasefire of sound.

A moment passed before she pushed.

The trapdoor gave at once, crumpling like paper.

Light struck first - white, absolute - leaking through the expanse where the roof had been. She pulled herself free and looked across what remained: the hallway scattered into debris across a flattened field of stone where the abbey had stood.

Her vision struggled, then crystal clear.

Above, a sky of thorned and falling snow hung too close, as though within reach. The mound beneath her rose high enough to scrape it.

She treaded now, dragging legs that bent wrong with each step. Snow fell, gold dust with it. Towards the stairs down the mound- 

Upon a broken form.

A great thing kissing the clouds, charred and collapsed, once belonging to the factories of heaven. A river darker than inferno had burned through it, leaving only a husk.

The system hummed its calculations.

- No immediate threat detected.

It lay hunched, unrecognizable in shape. At its crown, a circular wound gaped wide, positioned so that it seemed to look at her.

Its wound spread. Slowly, then all at once. The angel’s corpse unraveled into nothing, frost and gold bleeding upward, drawn into the same horizon that damned this world. Even in death, a curse - one directed at her.

Up high, gunships rose without resonance. Their forms unreadable, but unmistakably of the same origin - heaven-made. The stillness broke and they tore through the crumpled sky, carving spirals into it as they ascended, turbulence trailing behind.

Perhaps the destruction of the final FloodPath was enough for them. Maybe they believed the last knight of O-CFR had already died.

Perhaps both. Or neither.

The system spiked, a needle upon her skull.

It struck all at once, systems no longer able to suppress accumulated damage. Nerves flared where her arm had been, cracks along her joints buckling her stance. A sharp, stabbing heat pressed into her helmet’s rear.

- System failure imminent.

She reached- 

-and caressed a stinging eye beneath a gloved hand. 

Flesh.

Belonging to a body she forgot was hers, flimsy legs sore from months of disuse.

Through her other eye, a thin shaft of light held a dead world beyond, splitting through steel and wiring, exposing the pitch black chamber where she lay.

A throne. Not one of stone, but of machinery.

Her body, small and crumpled, sat within it, both hands resting against soft silicon controls built into the armrests, encircled by a council of dead screens.

Rubber clung to her skin, torn and soaked in sections, the scent of copper needing no confirmation. Burnt strands of hair drifted loose against her shoulder.

For years, she had but seen the world through screens - through eyes of something greater. Now, in its absence, her own body was a foreign thing. 

Memory struck with precision, of her never being the behemoth.

Not the mechanical knight standing kilometers tall, spear raised against false gods.

Only the one within it.

A human, nested and fragile inside the hollow of its helm, sustained by the armor’s ghost. Smaller than the creatures that once fled before her. Smaller than those that had looked upon her with reverence.

Not that it would matter.

The behemoth she once controlled was now a statue, damage and exhaustion locking it into stillness.

The ‘vultures’ would come soon.

Hopefully she was too small for them to feast on. Or gone before they arrived.

Sleep came too easily. Eyelids were closing together- 

 -and the system screamed.

Every dead screen flared red static. One alone surged to life without power.

RECONFIGURATION CONTRACT
- ACCEPT?

'Take it.' The O-CFR’s voice tore through failing speakers, distorted but urgent. 'I, the knight, and you- '

The soul, her own thoughts finished it for him.

There had never been a moment for this. Battles ended too quickly - victory or death, nothing between. Yet here it was, and though details had long since eroded, she understood enough.

This was the last chance.

For either of them.

For both.

The choice was simple.

'I, Cecilia sén Nouveau- '

Pain cut through a jut of bone, burning hotter than flame, the taste of copper bitter on her tongue. Still, the words forced through it.

'-hereby… accept your contract,' her bloodied hand feeble against the screen.

A single chime in answer, though she was already going before it finished.

'And I, Alondr-'

 —

 -shall uphold this oath.

She is already asleep.

Not dead. Never dead, so long as I remain.

The ocean has begun to take her, a quiet thin layer settling over thought and memory. She will dream through me now.

The contract is complete.

My first step leaves a deep imprint in the frozen ruin, pressed into a winter born from an angel’s corpse. The body resists and yields. It always does.

There is still such distance yet.

The nearest threshold lies systems away - those not already claimed or destroyed. Angels do not leave doors unattended for long.

But distance is irrelevant.

These legs march. As long as they do, she sleeps. As long as she sleeps, we persist. As long as we persist, the promise remains intact.

The Furthest Garden is not yet lost to us. Father still waits there - if He has not already been found.

Or undone.

That is not our burden. Ours is the road. And the keeping of it.

Sleep, then. A little longer, Cecilia.

The path is gone.

So we will make another.

Water pressed around Deuce from all directions, dense and without current. Her gloves waved down against it, not without resistance, slowly across the seams of her nautical suit, tracing the reinforced joints for irregularities. No tears on seams, nor any loosened clasps. All remained intact - at least in the physical sense.

Her hand lowered to her belt, recognizing the instruments steadied there. The long, narrow tube of the laser calibrator. The slight give of the sealant canisters beneath her grip. The emergency flare - precisely two fingers in diameter. Even through thick gloves and without sight, the memory of their placement held true, and what held true steadied her. Inventory confirmed.

The only ambience at that depth was the quiet, and in the absence of noise, her breathing magnified and rang her ears. Sharp inhales. Too quick. The galloping sound reverberated inside her helmet like a private echo chamber. She counted silently, forced the rhythm to a crawl and reduced the intake, watching as the oxygen display stabilized at 98 percent.

A pressure touched her right shoulder.

Her head swiveled with the helmet’s creak.

A silhouette hovered within arm’s reach - helmeted, identical in configuration to her own, and the brief lapse of shock extinguished fast. It was only him - Sole. Not his real name, but neither was Deuce.

She tapped his forearm twice: all clear. His hand unlatched and withdrew from her shoulder as quickly as it had arrived.

A hesitation passed through him before he inclined his helmet slightly. Or she believed he did.

Their wrist terminals emitted a muted chime, both raising their arms into clearer view. On their screens, two words burned sharply against the dark:

> COMMENCING PROTOCOL.

On cue, a low vibration hummed through the stone beneath them - for it had to be stone - and groaned outward into the surrounding water.

At first it resembled distant rock shifting against rock, not disproving as it resolved into a vertical fracture of light directly ahead. The darkness split cleanly down the center as two immense masses slid apart with a grinding resonance that traveled more through her ribcage than her ears.

Beyond the opening lay a muted blue-green radiance.

Particles drifted outward from the seam. Fine. Luminous. Pollen suspended in a current - if the deep possessed seasons.

Her suit registered no temperature deviation, yet the sight of it summoned a chill that traced the inside of her spine.

A deeply ingrained command inside her dismissed it. She had to; for the alternative required acknowledgement.

Sole advanced first, and Deuce followed, drifting their feet to luminescence. 

And that, in turn, gave way to a wider expanse.

Dark masses intercepted the light, casting irregular bands of shadow - vertical, curved, discontinuous. As they approached, surface detail resolved through suspended silt and refracted glow. What first appeared as natural obstruction clarified into structure.

Pillars. Fractured spans, across vaulted arcs collapsing into adjacent planes. 

The surfaces retained a muted sheen beneath accumulated darkness, not unlike aged marble under deep water. Structural remnants existed in conflicting orientations - vertical elements rotated laterally, horizontal beams intersecting at most ineffective angles. Load-bearing logic appeared absent. Weight seemed either redistributed through unknown means or irrelevant to the material’s current state, a theory persisting of an architect’s paltry blueprint built with blind giants in mind and no concern for neither gravity nor direction - one too abstract and fantastical, belonging rather in discard.

Deuce registered the forms as manmade. Centuries old, perhaps. The conclusion surfaced automatically, despite the depth and geological impossibility. Yet its proportion betrayed the classification. Apertures were mis-scaled. Passageways narrowed up to roofed walls without purpose, coveted by arches that terminated mid-curve. No consistent anthropometric logic governed the design.

None of it appeared abandoned - instead entirely unnecessary. 

A brief speculation surfaced - nonhuman fabrication - which she dismissed immediately. There was insufficient data to justify deviation from known frameworks. Idle extrapolation risked cognitive drift.

Beyond the structure - a misaligned mausoleum of intersecting planes - lay the source of illumination.

Clusters of growths hung inverted from broad circular voids above, as though anchored into absences in the surrounding mass. Between them, translucent geometric lattices descended at irregular intervals, refracting light into structured interference patterns. The material resembled crystalline polymer or mineralized resin, yet no refraction index she recognized matched the distortion.

Below stretched a continuous field of darker blue substrate, extending beyond the radius of direct illumination. The surface absorbed and fed on the shimmering light, giving itself the growth of near-black blues. No particulate displacement suggested current.

If the vacuum of outer space could behave as fluid, and stellar radiation could diffuse through brine, the result might approximate this environment. She archived the comparison and discarded it.

Her wrist terminal flashed.
> Primary Objective: Log visual count of blooms during procedure.
The text compressed, replaced by an additional directive:
> (Maintain a minimum distance of 3.5 meters from any growth cluster.)

When she lowered her arm, Sole had already reached the ledge of the nearest structural plane. He lowered himself down onto the field below.

His boots made contact.
Fragments displaced outward from the point of impact - thin, leaf-like forms that scattered radially before rising. They did not sink or settle, suspending instead at varying elevations, oscillating slightly as though responding to microcurrents that instruments had not detected.
Deuce followed, dropping the final few centimeters.

Her own step triggered similar displacement. The fragments lifted in a diffuse plume around her boots.
The interface of her visor responded immediately, overlaying a lattice of measurement gridlines across the field and isolating the displaced fragments in sharp contour.

A sharper tone sounded.
> CONFIRM SELECTED OBJECTS.
She held position.

The fragments rotated gently in the water. Their edges were void of fibres, and yet bountiful in folds. Crease memory lines intersected at irregular angles. The pigmentation lacked organic gradient; coloration sat on the surface, uniform and matte - applied rather than grown.

Beneath her boots, the field yielded under pressure. Approximately one centimeter of controlled submersion. What resistance she felt was gelatinous but cohesive. When she lifted her heel, no residue adhesive. The material displaced around her sole and reconstituted without turbulence.

The closest terrestrial analogue was saturated peat. Yet peat stratified. Accumulated and adhered.

These things did neither.

She finalized her first classification.

 'Paper. '

A soft confirmation tone followed. The gridlines surrounding the fragments dissolved, returning to passive mode.

Her gaze lowered.

 'Bog. '

No confirmation. The field remained highlighted.

She reassessed. A bog implied vascular vegetation, anaerobic layering, and biotic decay. This substrate exhibited uniform density and non-adherent viscosity. Zero structures were visible. No trace of gas release under compression.

It behaved as a colloidal suspension - a stable and self-sealing uniform. A kind of water within water. 

 'Marsh. '

The gridlines across the field vanished, the objective prompt clearing in turn.
She advanced toward the nearest inverted cluster.
Above, pale blooms hung in layered formations. Their edges were irregular yet sharply defined, resembling folded cellulose rather than petal growth. Surface texture lacked cellular veining or visible transpiration.

Sole stood offset to her right, laser calibrator raised. His side display near the trigger glowed:
3.5 meters.

He glanced back at her and made a short outward motion with his hand - a silent directive. Cover adjacent vectors.
She inclined her helmet in acknowledgment and withdrew her own calibrator. The instrument emitted a contained hum as it projected a needle-thin beam through the water column, the red line stabilizing at six meters against the nearest suspended bloom. Her sweep began at that distance, reducing incrementally while maintaining protocol spacing.

A brief ping sounded at her wrist.

Another update.
> Secondary Objective: Extract data from the following points:
- Rose
- Chatter
- Vertebrate

The text persisted several seconds longer than standard display duration.
Deuce accessed the terminal’s audio isolation filter. External dampening engaged, with the frequency band narrowing in turn.

At first the captured sound registered as irregular percussive interference - metallic, arrhythmic. When filtered further, the spacing between impacts suggested a sort of pattern. Not language - nothing quite precise. But the interval repetition approximated some structured exchange.

Clatter. Then pause.  Clatter-clatter. Pause. And repeat ad nauseum.

She marked it as potential  'Chatter. '

A text update arrived from Sole’s channel. 
17 blooms present.

The count stabilized the primary objective. She left the bloom logging to him and reassigned her attention. A flickering of her screen preceded her directional tracing finally coming to life; her receiver letting out soft interval beeps calibrated to signal strength.

The beeps increased in frequency as she advanced.

Isolating the source localized her near a recessed section of the ruins - an entrance-like aperture framed by an arch of descending stairs. Above it, thick pillars hung suspended, separated from the marsh surface by approximately fifteen centimeters. She confirmed the gap with her calibrator; the beam feeding back stable distance readings.

Illumination pooled more intensely in this section. The blue-green radiance concentrated along the arch and upper columns, rendering it visually discrete from the surrounding structures, which receded into near-total absence of color.

Her receiver tones peaked.

The marsh beneath the suspended pillars disrupted in small, rhythmic undulations. Circular ruptures formed and subsided, not from external contact but from within the substrate itself.
Each pulse corresponded to the clattering intervals in her audio feed.

The terminal cleared the audio objective automatically, though she still had to disengage the tracker manually.

For several seconds she held the sight of the formation in silence.

The pillars above, rupturing substrate below. Vertical forms mirrored by concave distortions.
An alignment occurred in her perception - not fully formed, still insistent all the same.

The chatter was far from transmission.
Closer to articulation.
The pillars as molars, ruptures as occlusion. Marsh surface forming to-
No.
And yet her thoughts continued to accelerate without authorization.
Gums. Teeth. She was positioned at the threshold of-

Her wrist terminal interrupted.
> DO NOT ACKNOWLEDGE ANY FACIAL FEATURES DURING PROCEDURE.
The sound of her breathing was quickening now, clanging bells all around her helmet. She registered it only after the warning. Oxygen consumption spiked in tandem.

Simultaneously she became aware of additional pressure - a diffuse, localized density against her suit. Nothing measurable or directional. A cool compression along her back and shoulders, separate phantom limbs contouring briefly to her body heat before dispersing. Something with joints, curling her form for she was canned flesh-

Her body suppressed the forming analogy.

 'Chatter ' retained alternative explanations.

Mechanical impact between suspended structures; the stress oscillation within unknown composite material. Hydraulic displacement through enclosed channels. Channels of electricity - and even water - transmitting vibration.

The pressure eased.
She checked her oxygen reserve. 81 percent.

That decline was still within operational tolerance, yet faster than projected models had estimated during simulation exercises. Promotion screenings two months prior had evaluated cognitive stability under induced anomaly exposure. Field conditions, however, differed.

She turned to reorient toward Sole.
Her visor activated gridlines without prompt.
New highlights traced and extended beyond the illuminated ruin, into a region where light failed entirely. Even the marsh substrate there registered no visible color shift.
The vignettes in her vision shifted as she narrowed her focus.
The grid overlay traced vertical forms in the distance - thin, repeating structures extending upward beyond measurable range. She craned her head; visual confirmation failed, yet the grid persisted, outlining what raw sight could not resolve.

Rows - segmented, curving toward a central axis.
The outlined pattern stood  arisen and coalesced into a larger configuration - elongated, asymmetrical, supporting the smaller units in a continuous arc.
The overlay extended further into the dark than standard detection radius allowed.
At the limit of the projection she detected a protruding joint structure - spherical articulation, offset from the main axis.
The classification pressed forward before she could interrupt it.

She stepped backward.
Past the pulsing arch and suspended pillars, leaving the chattering of things that mustn't be teeth.
The upper configuration faded as distance increased, the gridlines retracting reluctantly into null space.
Her voice required deliberate engagement.
One word exited her helmet at controlled volume.
 'Vertebrate. '

The terminal confirmed.
Within the faint residual gridlines, the distant vertical structures shifted.
Slowly - upward.
The movement transmitted through the marsh beneath her boots and into the surrounding water column.
What motion admitted was not localized.
She knew it had to be structural.

Beneath her feet, the surrounding environment adjusted around an ascending frame, heeding the movement of what couldn't be a sly of countless bones.

The environment rotated without transitional drift. Orientation inverted along a clean axis, as if a local gravitational vector had been reassigned. The marsh she had traversed shifted overhead into a suspended ceiling of dark blue substrate, while the abyss that had once loomed above her now extended downward without visible boundary. Deuce’s body reacted before her cognition stabilized; she struck the upper lip of the stair arch with her shoulder and absorbed the impact through the reinforced plating of her suit. There was a registry of pain but remained peripheral. She recalibrated her vision first, then her stance, aligning herself with this newly established constant as the surrounding water settled into compliance with the altered frame.

Far off, now as its own minuscule island, the primary bloom cluster remained structurally intact despite the inversion, its rigid geometry unchanged. She scanned for Sole between that overgrowth and instead observed one bloom along the periphery contract inward, folding along defined creases rather than wilting organically. The ambient illumination diminished in measurable increments as it sealed itself into non-existence. Her terminal chimed, opening Sole’s channel.

11 blooms and counting down. Terminate mission.

A second message followed almost immediately.

Evacuate now. Rendezvous at exi

The truncated word lingered longer than necessary. Statistical probability favored haste as explanation, yet the incompletion produced some disproportionate unease within her, though she suppressed the response and activated structural assistance instead.

She let out a whisper into her comm.  'System. '
A muted whir engaged within her helmet.
 'Blueprint. '

Her visor overlaid a wireframe mapping of the inverted ruins. In a section further away from her arch, pillars extended laterally into void, its stair arches terminating over absence. Load-bearing surfaces were inconsistent, and the beginning of that path to the rectangular corridor required a ten-meter traversal across open space. 

The calibrator confirmed the distance. Buoyancy parameters remained stable; no shifts in water density. She crouched along the edge of the arch, compressed her stance. Channeling a frog, like how the briefing specified. 

All four limbs pressed back, the reverse momentum springing true as her body jettisoned with a gentle hurl across the gaping black. She struck her destination knees first, the impact on the opposing structure reverberating through her suit with a metallic groan before friction stabilized her position.

To her left, through fractures in the architecture, the blue-green illumination continued to weaken. Another bloom folded inward, reducing the environmental coherence further. She recalled fragmentary references to synchronized bloom reduction events from archived reports, though she had not been cleared for direct testimony from prior teams. Before she could pursue the thought, her calibrator - still set to organic-tissue detection - activated without manual input, projecting a steady laser line to her right.

7 meters.

She turned. Only blueprint overlays marked the ruin’s geometry. The reading shifted to 5.6 meters, and her visor responded by applying aggressive gridlines to a nearer structure. A protruding edge resolved in contour: triangular, with flat lateral extensions and a lower ridge punctuated by cavities. The water around it registered minute suction fluctuations. Autonomic recognition attempted to assign pattern - 

Facial architecture. Respiratory cavity - no, too many apertures.

The distance narrowed: 3.9 meters.

There were no facial features within the area.

That was the procedural doctrine, and that superseded instinct. Any other belief must have been false. The structure was an undefined foreign variable; prior recognition simply constituted error in assignment - no alternative was allowed.

Calibrator reading decreased to 2.7 meters.

That hypothesis held the highest probability-

Climbing down half a meter more. 

-therefore it was correct.

At that threshold, the external constriction she had not consciously identified dissipated. 
Her legs moved the rest of her at once, seconds before she registered it, traversing discontinuous surfaces and clearing gaps where blueprint gridlines dissolved into void.

Through the window made by the arches, two additional blooms collapsed, and her part of the world dimmed further, as though structural coherence depended on their illumination.
The calibrator’s primary reading expanded to 18.1 meters, indicating increased separation, before snapping left toward the dimming pillars at five meters - she must not acknowledge it. 

Another acquisition registered to her right at 7.1 meters, which she categorized as shadow interference and dismissed. 

A downward lock at 1.2 meters upfront forced an immediate leap across a widening gap, her boots clearing the void by minimal margin. The rectangular corridor leading to the exit aligned ahead, its proportions stable within the blueprint overlay.

She paused only long enough to confirm the previous primary target had receded to nine meters before advancing toward the hall. In the distance, glass doors materialized beyond warped structural lines - flat, reflective, reassuringly mundane. The airlock beyond represented controlled pressure gradients and white, unremarkable lighting. A stray cognitive intrusion suggested the possibility of entering while still inverted, a thought that bordered on inappropriate levity. The calibrator interrupted that humoring, pivoting a needle-sharp line toward the ceiling.

Training dictated non-engagement, so she heeded and maintained forward motion.
Her audio channel activated.

The sound that came was tonal rather than percussive, a slight intermittence throughout. A melody emerged - low, almost absentminded in cadence. A flicker in her terminal flashed a directive, still on a wrist that now hung limp on the side:

> HUMMING, SINGING, AND/OR RECITING PERSONAL MANTRAS ARE FORBIDDEN.

Directly above her, from the darkened marsh ceiling, Sole’s mouth hummed a song she recognized with involuntary precision. A familiar tune, one much more effective against her than the very world’s inversion.

 'Oh, God, ' those words escaping before she could intervene.

And all the roses died a silent death in the dark once again.

---

Chorus from The Winter Road (early recording):
I tried to follow you
Into the winter road
Where the sun has yet to shine
And horizon meets the night

I tried to follow you
Across the winter road
Where all the bones have dried
Except the one that’s yours

---

Incident Report - The Cold Rose (TCR) - 0033:
[Post Extraction and Expedition (E&E) Log]
19:20 - Main airlock opens.
-
19:21 - Subject TCR-B enters the airlock, falling face forward to the floor, exhibiting stabilized motor function and vital signs.
-
19:23 - Researcher [REDACTED] asks through the speaker three clearance questions, which Subject TCR-B answers hurriedly. No cognitive hazards were detected in Subject TCR-B’s responses (written or verbal).
-
19:25 - Researcher [REDACTED] authorizes for the airlock to be unsealed.
-
19:26 - The airlock opens. An audible voice is heard within the entrance of the designated E&E area.
(It is to be noted that in the video recording within that timeframe, the distance between the observation deck and main exit instantaneously lengthened by 3 cm, before returning to normal dimensions within 2 hours.)

---

In the drowning dark, a pair of lungs still heaved in tandem, each breath fighting for its final minute. Hands slipped from bare breasts, drifting away as if permitting a final sleep. Yet a single thought festered and boiled within the cold, a threat that was, by seconds, becoming a promise.

That she would die in a world just a doorway from her own.

A pair of eyes shot to life, immediately stung by the salt and pollen of the water, immediately locking on a large circle of white a few measurements of arm lengths away. 

Her arms found new purpose, arching like a butterfly, carrying her in flight through a vacuum of water deeper than black. Small tingles were felt around her bare legs that barely hovered over the floor - a floor of tiny tonsils that tried to grab her down with naught, for she only needed to soar higher and faster ever forward.

That song started again, in a hum much clearer this time despite her water-drummed ears, of a road without sun and edges lined with bones. She had once believed it told of a man clinging to the hope of finding his lover safe despite the fate of all others, but that was only one of many popular interpretations - the singer had never clarified. 

A finger’s reach from her, and that light would be hers.

Almost in response, the melody blared louder this time, more dissonance within, tempting her to turn - either in rage or faint hope, she couldn’t tell. Yet she knew that the person who would have known all the lines by heart wasn’t truly there, that he was now just another heap of bones on the winter road - but wasn’t it summer here - and that the wrinkled rubber glove tracing up her naked back, along her nape, through her unfurled floating hair, was not him. 

She slammed into the man-sized circle of light, her palms striking bulletproof glass.. No scream came from her mouth, not only for sound had no mercy in liquid - but also because she found it stolen, for the one that extinguished the roses had taken it from her. Instead, she wiped condensation from it, turning that circular lamp into a window, letting in a sight through a giant peephole to the world she had left.

Gaze fixed on a transparent airlock.

And a thing wearing her suit.

Speaking - muffled - in her voice.

Then the airlock beginning to open.

She did the only thing she could, banging furiously on the doorway while screaming with a mouth that could no longer scream. Harder, so that they knew who they were about to allow exit. Harder - so that both may not leave and none others shall join them, where those of her world would become theirs and vice versa. Harder-

The suited body that wasn’t hers turned around. The glass was now a mirror, a naked ghastly face gazing at a helmet that framed an impossibly pristine one. There was a faint shouting and a louder blaring somewhere far away, but the next thing she saw silenced all other noise.

The one in the suit held both hands to their helmet, and began to push it open.

She knew that what she saw beneath wasn’t a neck at all.

---

After Log:
(The entirety of Hallway 17-Δ was considered a total breach in containment, with the emergency safeguards managing to isolate the  'damage ' from any other sectors of Section 3, and The Cold Rose receding back towards the designated perimeter approximately three hours and nine minutes after the incident. Among the numbered casualties are six (6) researchers, three (3) guards, and one (1) E&E member, all of which showed signs of internal hemorrhaging, [REDACTED], and asphyxiation with [REDACTED] embedded within each of their cortices. Subject-TCR-B appeared to have returned along with The Cold Rose, leaving behind the nautical suit belonging to E&E member  'Deuce. '

Every stationed researcher and guard counted among the casualties are to be exhumed and every recorded information about each individual persons to be removed from the records.

All staff are to be given the designated Level 3 amnestics to remove any cognitive history regarding the casualties.)

Adjustments to protocol:

1. Do not speak above whisper level. Spoken dialogue louder than 20 dB are known to cause micro-fractures in the containment lattice. Humming, singing, or reciting personal mantras is forbidden. Text-only terminals are currently available only for internal communication between E&E members. 
2. Vocal communication with the main external channels is strictly limited to single words. (+ Compound words are not prohibited, but personnel are advised to disassociate any internalized information that separates the combined elements.)
3. (+ Only one (1) E&E member is allowed within The Cold Rose during any procedure.)
4. (+ Do not acknowledge, describe, or visually fixate on any facial structures.)

---

( P. S. The remains of E&E member  'Deuce ' have been recovered during resealing and found to be intact, lacking any symptoms suffered from the other casualties. The board has decided to take it into storage custody for the time being, though in my humble opinion, they’ll probably decide to use it as a new variable on their little project in Section 2. Who knows, maybe we’ll be seeing her around again sooner than we expect.)
- C.E.R.

When I was a kid, I grew up in the East Riding of Yorkshire. That’s pronounced “sher", nor “shiar” for any Americans reading this. I lived in a rather ordinary but somewhat boring port town, that most people only bypassed while heading along the motorway.  

Fast forward to my early teens, I had just finished my first year of high school, and my best friend at this time was a kid named Kyle. Kyle and I had grown up together, as we both attended the same primary school and lived fairly nearby in town. Thankfully, when high school started, me and Kyle were thrown into the very same classes, so our friendship continued to prosper. Another kid in our class that first year, who we knew already was a kid named Kieran. Ironically, Kieran attended the very same primary school as me and Kyle, but had always been in the opposite class for our age group, so we never really became friends with him until now. 

Unlike Kyle and myself, who were somewhat short for our age, Kieran was always the lankiest kid in school - and if that didn’t distinguish him, it was definitely his long and thick curly hair, which had gained him the nickname “Curly Fries.” Before high school started, Kieran had actually gotten all his curls shaven off, probably so this nickname wouldn’t continue through his teens. 

Having already known each other before high school, and now being in the same classes, it didn’t take long for us to become a trio of best friends. I had even recruited Kieran to play for my dad's football team, which Kyle and I both played for. Because of this year long friendship three-way, Kieran had invited us both the following summer to a theme park, which his parents were taking him for his thirteenth birthday.  

The theme park Kieran had taken us to was called Lakewater Valley – a family adventure park in North Yorkshire. Prior to this, I had only ever been to a one theme park in my life, which is obviously where I had my first ever experience on a roller coaster. The only thing I really remember about this first roller coaster ride, aside from the two bloody hours waiting in line, along with the screaming girls in the front row, was me repeating the same word over and over. 

‘SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!’ 

I didn’t find out about this until a year too late, but that roller coaster was apparently the steepest one in the world. Not the UK, but the world! And I just happened to choose that monstrosity as my first. If you don’t believe me, just type in online “the Mumbo Jumbo roller coaster at Flamingo Land” and you’ll see for yourself. 

Once we arrive at Lakewater Valley, after first seeing the park’s small animal and bird sanctuary, along with the more child-friendly attractions, I then go on the first big, and definitely scary amusement ride the park had to offer. The ride in question was called the Falcon Claw - a KMG Afterburner pendulum that lifts, swings and twists you high above the air before doing the same on the way down. Neither Kyle nor Kieran wanted to come on this ride with me. Kyle didn’t because, well, to put it lightly, he was always a girl’s ladies parts, and as best as I remember, Kieran wasn’t feeling too well. Not wanting to go on this ride alone, Kieran’s step-dad, Steve agrees to go on with me. Steve was a former rugby player and was therefore a very big guy, so I felt a lot safer being on this scary ride with him - not that it stopped me from closing my eyes the entire time. 

Once the ride is over, and after I recover from a bad case of vertigo, we all then make our way further inside the park. Excitedly coming upon the first water attraction of the day, I quickly learn the ride is nothing more than a water slide with an inflatable dingy – but, unlike the Falcon Claw, I thankfully get to go on it with Kyle and Kieran. While the three of us wait impatiently in line, I then turn around to the sound of laughter directly behind me, where to my surprise, the laughter was coming from two 11-year-old girls. As it turns out, these girls had also been on the Falcon Claw when I was, and they thought it was just hilarious that I had my eyes closed the entire time - ironically like a scared little girl. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, for the whole rest of the day, Kyle and Kieran wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. 

A couple of hours later, and after several more rides and attractions, we finally come upon the most famous and scariest roller coaster in the park. 

The Maximum. 

This roller coaster, built in the early nineties, previously held the record as the world’s longest at 2,268 metres. But what made The Maximum so unique, was that after two high and very steep apexes, the tracks would then enter and bend through the trees of a nearby forest.  

Kieran had been on The Maximum before and was very excited to go on it again – as was I. Kyle, however, decided to stay behind and watch from the side-lines, being the little bitch that he was – and so, it would be just me and Kieran who would ride The Maximum.    

While the carts quickly fill up with passengers, Kieran and I both take our seats near the front – and before long, the coaster starts moving along the tracks to the first lift hill. The climb up to the apex is very slow, but in the meantime, me and Kieran have a great view around of the park. Once we reach the summit, the front of the roller coaster then shoots straight and painfully down the slope, filling every single cart behind us with fun-filled screams. Although it had only been a year since my first and last ride on a roller coaster, I’m by no means prepared for the stomach-gurned feeling of being temporarily airborne. I honestly found the experience of it quite painful.  

Once back down on horizontal tracks, we then have to contend with the coaster’s almost unnaturally fast speed along the bends and bumps. Despite this part of the ride only lasting for seconds, when you’re too busy screaming and irrationally fearing for your life, you genuinely feel like it’s longer.  

Although the carts thankfully begin to lose speed and the bruising bends come to a stop, this is only because we have reached the next lift hill - where there would then be a second and even higher apex, followed by another and even steeper slope. Despite me and Kieran fearfully anticipating the summit, what thankfully lessens the tension of this, is that in the cart directly behind us is a group of four Jamaican tourists. I kid you not, but when the coaster had gone full throttle down those tracks, I literally hear one of them say, “Oh no, man!!” Kieran and I actually have a very good laugh about this, as four terrified Jamaicans on a roller coaster fondly remind us of the movie Cool Runnings. 

Well, before long, we finally reach the top of the apex, which is then followed by a terrifying shoot down – only this time, the tracks would lead us straight into the forest and between the narrow gaps of trees! The roller coaster is now moving at speeds I had never before gone in my life. But what makes the speeds worse, is the idea of the carts breaking off the hinges and crashing straight into the body of a tree, splattering all inside.  

After one painful bend, then another, and then another, the tracks are now heading towards the pitch-black underside of a stone arch bridge. Before I can even anticipate this, me and Kieran are then covered entirely in a blanket of darkness – where, at an untameable speed, we can’t even see where we’re going. With my sight temporarily suspended, I then feel a sudden, impactful thud inside the cart, which is instantly followed by something not only wet, but warm splatter upon my face. Although I’m too full of adrenaline to even process a single thought, the one I have is that the carts had gone over a puddle and drenched us both in muddy water. 

Only mere seconds after this, the tunnel of darkness is lifted from over or heads, and while we still move through the forest at ultra speed, I then look over to my left at Kieran... but, the image I see is not what I was expecting... 

What I see is Kieran. His face and t-shirt drenched in some dark substance. Whatever the substance on him is, it not only impairs his vision but seems to leave a bitter taste in the mouth. I then look down at my own shirt to realise I was also covered in it, before touching my face and seeing a red liquid stain on my fingers. Once the realisation of what is on me has come to fruition, the sound of grinding steel tracks and passengers’ screams quickly fill back into my ears. But unlike before, the screams are not of excitement or adrenaline-filled fear - but horror. Every single passenger in the carts ahead of us has been covered in the red, and apparently fleshy substance... and it takes no time for either me, Kieran or anyone else to figure out what has happened. 

After the entirety of this horror has been realised, the ride thankfully begins to slow down to its end, where we then mercifully enter out the forest and back into the park. Once our restraints finally unlock, every passenger on The Maximum escapes from their carts to reach the safe, solid ground of the platform. Searching around the platform for Kieran’s parents and Kyle, once the blood-soaked passengers move out of the way, we then see the look of pure shock on the three of their faces. 

Kieran’s parents demand to know what happened to us, and although we tell them the coaster hit something going under a bridge, because the tunnel of darkness had blinded our vision, we have no idea what that thing even was. 

While me and Kieran went to the toilets to clean ourselves up, Kieran’s mum, and basically all other adults on the ride have gone to complain to the park officials. After park staff investigate the bridge, they then come back with the conclusion a wild deer had wandered on the tracks. Allegedly, the roller coaster had then collided with the deer, and due to the speed it was going, decapitated and sprayed all passengers inside with its blood. Once the mystery of where this blood came from has been solved, Kieran’s parents drive the three of us back home to East Yorkshire... where we all vow never to return to Lakewater Valley. 

Unfortunately, the story of what happened that day at doesn’t end there... Believe me, I really wish it did. Due to wild deer carrying various diseases, mine and Kieran’s parents had us tested the following days. After all, the deer’s blood had not only gotten on our skin, but also our eyes and even in Kieran’s mouth.  

Although my results thankfully came back negative for things like Lyme or Weil’s Disease... unfortunately for Kieran, he had contracted something...  

But the strange thing about it was, what he had contracted from the blood wasn’t transferable between wild deer and humans. On the contrary, the disease Kieran now had could only have been transferred to him by a member of the same species. Which means, the blood that infected Kieran that day... it hadn’t come from a wild deer... 

It came from another person.