I - II - III

The fleshy centers in both of Teresa’s palms were starting to bruise.

Diggs’ spiel had somehow transported them outside the Entodome, out to an open field not far from the facility parking lot. He was now directing her attention to the mobile “Dragondrone hangar” (which still looked more like a barbecue than anything else), where Cesar held his hands above the latch.

“Now this. This is one of my favorite parts.” Diggs smirked, his arms held behind his lab coat. “It’s what fills seats at every expo.”

Teresa fought the urge to groan. Oh, just get on with it. She watched as Cesar opened their little “hangar” and unleashed a cloud of bewildered dragonflies into the air. It was a mass of confused movement.

Well, here goes. This is where they all fly off. Bye Bye.

But to Teresa’s surprise, The dragonfly horde swirled into one precise shape, unifying and shooting forward like a directed puff of smoke.

Diggs stepped in front of the now-empty barbecue. “You see that pole they’re aiming for?” He pointed at a metallic pylon in the distance. “They’ll be upon it shortly. We program their transceivers to fly back and forth between these two points.” He motioned again to the barbecue. “It allows us to perform some baseline inspection. Quality control.”

Teresa nodded slowly, not really in awe, but in a bemused sort of devastation. How on earth could this be sustainable? The enemy might as well release children with fly swatters. Or frogs. She tried to think of something to ask, to convince herself this afternoon hadn’t been a huge waste of her time. She turned to Cesar with an open palm. “So … how long do they live for?”

The assistant clearly hadn’t been expecting to talk. “Um. Well it depends,” he said. “Most of them? Twelve months.”

Only a year? Teresa bit her tongue. “Can they handle extreme climates?”

“Well, it depends.” His eyes stared at the ground. “What kind?”

She fought the urge to face-palm. We’re fighting in the arctic, what kind do you think?

Devlin quickly intervened. “We can breed them to survive near anything. And the beauty is, they’ll always feed themselves! Infinite battery power.”

Teresa’s mind kept finding more holes to poke. “And if there isn’t any food? What then?”

“Oh they’ll hunt anywhere,” Diggs said with a certainty. “Flies and mosquitoes exist on every continent, which makes our Dragondrones extremely versatile. All terrain.”

Is he trying to sell me a car? She turned before her annoyance could show and pretended to watch the line of insects returning from the shiny pylon.

On second thought, a car wouldn’t be so bad. I could drive it straight to the airport, instead of waiting for the courtesy vehicle after this flea circus.

***

“Use your wings!” Flax yelled, swaying the tail that Ollo gripped. “It only works if you flap in tandem with me!”

Ollo tried, but he was having trouble synchronizing his muscles. He panicked as they sputtered awkwardly, beginning to plunge. The shadows of the three Envoys stood tall and still in the distance: judging on behalf of The Ancestor.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, no, no.

Ollo focused and very quickly discovered his panic doubled as an effective metronome.

Oh - no. Up - down. Oh - no. Up - down.

“Keh! That’s more like it!” Flax yanked them toward the tail-end of the racers. They lined up behind a pair of large duskhawkers, whose freckled wings cut through the air. Suddenly, the endeavor became much easier.

“Oh wow,” Ollo said, “have I gotten better?”

“No, we're in their slipstream, dullard. They’re breaking the air for us.”

Ollo raised his feeler and could indeed feel a displaced draft.

“Just don’t tail them too closely,” Flax said, “or they’ll switch and slipstream us.”

They kept at a following distance, and Ollo used the moment to catch his breath and admire this new universe. He couldn’t believe it. He was here. The Outside.

There were rocky immensities in the distance and vast fields of green. The atmosphere contained a breeze that contoured all flight, and an open humidity that filtered freshness into his being. Ollo took a deep inhalation. This is what adulthood is supposed to be.

“It tastes good, right?” Flax said, mostly gliding now.

“It does,” Ollo admitted. “It’s incredible.”

“For me, the racing doesn’t matter half as much as just being out here,” Flax said. “That’s all the reward I need.”

“You’ve never ranked well?”

“How can I? See these hairs on my thorax?”

Ollo looked beyond the tail he gripped. There flailed hundreds of tiny black fibers.

“Too much drag. Not to mention an entire body frame that’s off-balance.” Flax flexed his front two nubs. “No, I’ve accepted that I’ll be bringing up the rear for the rest of my life. But there are advantages to last place; you’ll see. Plus, it’s better than being stuck in that pond, am I right?”

Ollo nodded, though he was unsure if he agreed. Suddenly, the two duskhawkers ahead of them shifted.

“You want to stay away from where their wings shed air,” Flax said. “Especially during this turn. It’s easy to get caught up in vortices.”

Ollo watched the duskhawkers pull a U-turn around the shiny pole ahead of them.

“Steady,” Flax said. “Steady …”

The lights in Ollo’s vision swam, beckoning him to turn. The lights gently abated as he rounded the beacon carefully.

Dozens of small air cyclones dithered around Ollo. The shed vortices felt weak where they were in last place, but Ollo saw one of the duskhawkers spin out of control.

The poor duskhawker’s wings had twisted the wrong way, and he spiraled down to the earth. Ollo wasn’t sure what had happened, but he could swear, in the periphery of his vision, that something exploded.

***

“What was that?” Teresa asked. Blue sparks popped among the line of dragonflies like a firecracker.

“Oh yes: if they swerve too far from alignment, we can self-destruct their transceivers.” Diggs whirled his hand around a touch-device. “It’s a quick way to weed out any mistakes before the mission starts. It’s also how we prevent valuable flyers from getting into the wrong hands.” He shot Teresa a look that said: bet you didn’t think of that!

She didn’t like his bizarrely jovial attitude, especially considering these bugs were meant to be used for conflict areas. His whole sales approach seemed to forget that she was with the Air Force, not Amazon.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking.” Diggs walked backwards, pocketing his device. “These flyers are all very well and efficient, but how can I see them in action? True recon missions travel great distances over several days, do they not?”

Teresa didn’t say anything, She followed at half speed towards the parking lot, where Cesar now sat inside a golf cart.

“Well in honor of your visit, Sarge, we’ve prepared a little surprise.” Diggs gave a thumbs-up and Cesar bumbled the vehicle over the curb, pulling it onto the grass.

“Hop in.”

Good lord. What more is there to see? Theresa tried to think of something to end this joke. This carnival ride. But her mind was too encumbered by annoyance. A military rep could not be seen as weak.

She sat in the rear two seats, wondering if Diggs could read her resentment. The director leaned in from the front. “We’ll be going uphill, so buckle up!”

She grabbed a ceiling handle. He can’t read me at all. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

The car throttled up a knoll, and the lack of shocks became evident as the wheels bounced over every pebble and crack.

Christ, what was the Major thinking when he sent me here?

She could hear his old, French cadence jabbering in her head. “It’s a showcase of living drones, Zhao! Made a huge splash at the expo. One of us should be there—and I think it should be you. It’s the forefront of its industry, and it needs someone of your expertise.” But all Teresa could see at this ‘forefront’ was glorified gnats: bird food. How could he have taken this all so seriously?

Then it occurred to her. Maybe he hadn’t.

Maybe she had been sent here as a farce. The more she thought about it, the more the whole visit began to reek of the same passive-aggression that had lingered since her days as a drone pilot: where lieutenants would assign her the latest night shift, or somehow leave her with the rattiest equipment or chair.

Could they be pranking her now? Some petty jab for becoming sergeant in place of someone else? Christ almighty. Even now, at the turn of the 22nd century, the military is a petulant boys’ club.

She watched the two scientists navigate their golf cart, its two-wheel-drive struggling. How much longer am I expected to sit through this? All afternoon? All night?

Being senior air force, Teresa did have access to an evac order. It was something she could theoretically request. But calling it here would be absurd. Wouldn’t it?

No more absurd than being sent to watch bug theatre.

She considered the idea. Wouldn’t it be funny? If they were going to waste her time, she could waste theirs. With her cellphone’s GPS, dispatch could locate her without a hitch. The request would only be a text away. A twenty-year official should be treated with respect.

The golf cart wheezed to the top of the neighboring hill to reveal a large, stylish-looking gazebo. Cesar pulled the E-brake and stopped in front of its glass entrance.

“What’s this?” Teresa stared.

“Oh, you’ll see.” Diggs stepped off the cart and lit a long, thin cigarette. “We’re just getting started.”

Upon approach, the doors slid open, revealing blue-glowing screens. A padded interior ushered comfort, and Teresa could soon hear the familiar hum of something refrigerating. The room contained several monitors that hung below a beautiful, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the valley. It felt newly renovated, but old enough to have a few mugs lying around.

Diggs smoked outside as Cesar rapidly began tapping on the screens, activating icons and plotting lines across some kind of map. The map kept resizing across the monitors, and as Teresa glanced back and forth, she could faintly see the shine of other metal pylons across the valley. Their placement corresponded to the markers on-screen.

“What is this? Some kind of watchtower?”

Diggs faced away, taking a drag with one arm on the door to prevent it from closing. “Well, you saw our little NASCAR warm-up where we started, right?”

Teresa looked at the field they had left, where a thin oval of dragonflies still circled.

Diggs exhaled. “Well, let’s just say from now on, we’ll be watching Formula One.”

His ember pointed at the cushy seats in the center. Teresa gawked at the chairs, but couldn’t bring herself to sit. Just when the bar on absurdity has been set—it somehow manages to skyrocket further.

***

On their fourth lap, the lights in Ollo’s head began to shimmer, beckoning a new trajectory. Before the colors turned piercingly bright, Flax broke from their path, pulling Ollo to the right.

“Finally,” the damselfly said, “prelim’s over.” In front of them, the linear plume of racers all travelled north, away from the established circuit.

“Wait … what’s going on?”
“Can’t you sense her lights? The race has officially started, Ollie. And it looks like a new course.”

“It’s only started now?”

“That’s right. We’ve never flown north before. Lady Meganeura has carved us something special.”

Ollo gripped Flax’s tail and focused on his tandem wing-work. They had entered a steady rate of acceleration, with their wings fluttering in near-perfect opposites.

“Keh. Keep this up and we won’t need to rely on slipstreams.”

Ollo’s mandibles flashed a smile. He enjoyed seeing the grass blur quicker than before. Perhaps this racing does hold some purpose...

The lights guided them far away, towards a strange dirt field. It was strange because it was home to dozens of evenly-dispersed pillars, all about the height and size of an Envoy. They were white, square-shaped, and as Ollo passed the first row, he noticed a beaten, wood-like texture to them. They were full of dents and scratches, as if the pillars somehow rose and bumped each other from time to time.

“What are those things?” Ollo asked.

“Like I said, new course. No idea what Mega’s thinking.”

They flew straight and trailed behind the plume of racers, watching their shimmering wings toss blades of light. As they flew in deeper amongst the white pillars, a muffled buzzing grew louder from all directions. Ollo noticed the hairs on Flax’s thorax grow stiff.

The shimmers up front stopped progressing, and instead oscillated in circles. The distant racers then dispersed around the monoliths.

“Slow down,” Flax said.

“What’s going on?”

“Something’s not right.”

Out from the pillars came flying blue shapes, all buzzing loud and fierce. Thick streams of them gave chase to the racers ahead.

“We need to disengage,” Flax said.

As Ollo let go, they both witnessed one of the racers return their way: it was grey flatwing. The poor dragon was screaming, chased by two blue insects who dove in and out, taking bites of his tail.

“Get offa me! Get off!” The flatwing rapidly turned, tossing vortices at his assailants. The spinning air was powerful enough to sway Ollo and twist the blue bugs’ wings.

“Scramble!” Flax revved his thorax and dived into the cover of the weeds below.

Ollo watched the blue flyers steady their flight, lifting their black-and-blue striped bodies. Each of their abdomens ended in a long, black barb. Ollo had seen a few of these above the pond: bees.

***

“You’re making them fly through your bee farm?” From the window Teresa could no longer make out the drones, but she saw the little hives in the distance. Like tiny white bricks.

“Yes, well, earlier you were asking how they might feed.” Diggs rose from his seat and opened a mini-fridge. “I thought I’d let the drones snack on some of our other products. Like our signature blue bees.”

He grabbed some glass bottles that contained a gold-ish liquid and placed them on the side. “This makes for a nice segue actually—I’d like to introduce some of our artisanal mead, derived from those very bees. It’s smooth, not-too-sweet, with a unique, tangy aftertaste.”

The sergeant glanced from the off-topic drink to the screen Cesar was manipulating. This hive complex was labeled Marker Two on the very large map.

Marker two out of thirty. Good lord.

“The bees are one of the main branches of our company.” Devlin raised his glass and offered the others to Teresa and Cesar. “We are a self-sustaining business, after all, and invested in pollination, which, as you may know, is an extremely profitable endeavor. Our bees are among the few that can still do it.”

So he’s pitching his bees now? It seemed like this Diggs truly lived in his own reality.

“I know you probably assume some grants might’ve paid for our facility”—Diggs giggled—“but grants wouldn’t allow for such extravagance.” His fingers drummed along the gazebo walls, the tops of two monitors, and then the on-screen hive icons.

“It is our bees—which we’ve bred to be a bit more aggressive than others—that ensure we stay on top of the market. It’s what funds our dragonflies, our silkworms, our termites...”

Teresa could not handle whatever this was turning into. There was no way she could stomach hours of this derailed demo and keep a straight face.

Damn you, Major. Never again.

With her hand in her pocket, Teresa sent the text she had prepared. Screw it.

Emergency evac requested. If she was going to have her leg pulled all day, she might as well pull back.

Diggs continued to sip and gasconade, mead swirling in his hand. Teresa nodded along, grabbed her own glass and allowed herself to drink.

I worked on Wall Street in the early 90s. I knew the Gordon Gekko and Patrick Bateman wannabes, desperate edgelords reveling in scraps of power and pathetically in need of love that only money could buy. I knew the real sociopaths too. The originals. Degenerates who sacrificed animals at altars devoted to Moloch or paid prostitutes to fuck the homeless. But there was only one person I was ever truly scared of—

##1993

I met Harlan ("the cunt-god of greed") Gills on a company trip to Tokyo. We worked for the same bank. Remember Die Hard? Back then, we were all afraid the Japanese were going to conquer us with Sony TVs and robots, and I suppose corporate wanted us to see what the future looked like.

We mostly drank, fucked and snorted cocaine.

I barely remember the city.

I remember Harlan Gills asking me, "Norm, you wanna see something absolutely fucked?"

He led me through an alley to the back door of what looked like a club. Banged on it twice. Some guy eyed us through a slit, then let us in.

"You're gonna love this shit."

The place was dark and loud. The Prodigy drowning out screams, moaning—

"You been here before?" I asked.

"Every time I'm in town. Best way to blow off steam."

An old woman met us. She held out two fingers.

"No," Harlan said. "Just one."

He pushed me toward her. "What you want?" she asked.

"Fresh meat," Harlan answered for me.

The woman left.

She returned with a naked middle-aged cripple, eyes down, shoulders turned inward. This is fresh?

Harlan grabbed my shoulders. "Show my friend the smorgasbord."

The old woman wheeled out a wooden tray covered with weapons, surgical implements, tools...

"The fuck?"

"What you fancy?" the old woman asked. "You like knife maybe? Hammer?"

"What am I supposed—"

"Anything you fucking want. That's the beauty of it," Harlan said. "As long as you don't kill her. That costs extra."

I—

##2006

...crossed paths with Harlan again in Chicago, on opposite sides of a negotiation. Afterwards he took me for lunch.

There was a twinkle in his eye.

"You seen Hostel?" He didn't wait for my answer. "That's me. Based on my initiatives."

"Torture…"

"Remember Tokyo, Norm? Remember what you did to that bitch?"

My appetite evaporated.

"Now it's international business. My business."

"That was so wrong," I said.

He took a bite of lunch. "Come on. We all got it in us. Like the song fucking says, everybody hurts."

##2021

Our fates diverged. I lost my job during the housing crisis. Harlan started his own investment company.

One day, I'm watching CNN and I see him standing by the president. Harlan-fucking-Gills. Unmistakable. Turns out he's got his fingers in everything: politics, MMA, bareknuckle, OnlyFans, Netflix. There was even a small piece on him in a local paper about the opening of a new nightspot:

"A little piece of nostalgia," he calls it. "The Tokyo Torture Club."

Part 1

Part 2

Reine and I sprint, our breaths ragged, dodging between stacks of crates and abandoned machinery. The vast, shadowy expanse of the warehouse seems to stretch on indefinitely, a labyrinth of dangers. Chantrea's monstrous silhouette cuts through the darkness, an avenging spirit too swift, too enraged to evade.

Behind us, Chantrea’s wings flap ominously, the air hissing as she slices through it. I glance back just in time to see her launching herself into the air.

As we run, I reach into my coat pocket, fingers wrapping around one of the homemade IEDs I'd packed. They're a simple concoction: a mix of garlic powder and sage stuffed into a small canister.

Without slowing down, I yank the pin and lob the makeshift grenade back over my shoulder. It arcs through the air, trailing a faint white smoke. It lands near her Chantrea, exploding in a cloud of pungent garlic and burning sage. The burst isn't lethal, but the payload stun her, her sensitive senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the smells.

The cloud of smoke provides a temporary screen, obscuring her vision and giving us precious seconds.

The sounds of Chantrea's rage-filled roars fill the warehouse. As the Winged Wraith launches into the air, her head detaches with a surreal fluidity, soaring ahead of her body like a macabre scout. Her body, still terrifying in its headless state, propels forward, fueled by dark energy and rage. The detached head flies directly towards us with its eyes glowing a sinister red, a beacon of malice in the dim warehouse.

As Chantrea’s head zooms toward us like some twisted missile, I pivot on my heel, AR-15 shouldered in one smooth motion. I squeeze the trigger, sending a volley of bullets stitching through the air toward the disembodied head. But Chantrea is unnaturally agile. She dodges with a nightmarish grace, my bullets slicing only through the stale warehouse air.

Reine, beside me, has her Glock drawn, firing several shots. The head veers off at the last second, avoiding the shots with a mocking ease that sends a chill down my spine.

"Goddamn it!" I curse under my breath, ducking behind a rusted forklift as Chantrea’s body follows the path of her flying head, moving with a speed that feels like a blur.

We’re almost at the door of the warehouse when I hear it—a scream that cuts through the chaos with chilling clarity. It’s Reine. My heart slams against my chest as I whip around, my worst fears materializing before my eyes.

Chantrea’s monstrous head has its elongated tongue wrapped tightly around Reine's ankle. She lifts her effortlessly into the air, dangling her like a puppet, her body swaying with every unnerving twitch of Chantrea's tongue.

"Reine!" I shout, my voice cracking. My mind races, adrenaline surging through my veins like wildfire. I can't lose her—not like this, not to this nightmare.

“Ash! Watch out!” Reine shouts, her eyes wide in terror.

Before I can react, Chantrea’s headless body closes the gap between us with horrifying speed. My weapon is knocked aside with a swipe of her talon-like hand, and I'm thrust against the wall, her ungodly strength pinning me effortlessly. The cold, hard concrete presses into my back as her talons dig into the wall beside my head.

"Chantrea, wait!" I choke out.

Her talons pause, inches from my face, her headless body tilting as if puzzled. "Why I wait?" Her voice comes from the disembodied head, floating nearby.

"You sister sent us!" I shout, hoping the mention of her sister would pierce through her rage. "She asked us to find you, to help you!"

The effect is immediate. The air around us shifts as if charged with a sudden current. Chantrea's body stiffens, and her head, floating eerily beside her, regards me with a newfound wariness.

"Soriya send you?" Her distorted voice carries a clear note of surprise.

"Yes, Soriya," I confirm, my breath heaving. "She's worried about you.”

Chantrea's head floats closer, her eyes—glowing less fiercely now—examine me with an intensity that feels like it could peel back my soul. "She really say that?"

"Yes, she told us everything," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline pulsing through me. "About the terrible things Inthavong did to you.”

"She told us about the rituals you performed. She loves you, Chantrea. She doesn't want you to lose yourself to this…”

"I have to do," she declares. "They hurt us. Hurt many girls.”

Reine, still dangling from Chantrea's grasp, adds her voice, her tone strained yet soothing. "Chantrea, listen. We're not here to stop you from making those fuckers pay. We're here to make sure you don't lose yourself in the process.”

Chantrea's head floats there, the glow in her eyes softening, the supernatural aura around her wavering as if caught in a dilemma. The talons near my face retract slightly, loosening their grip on the wall. Her headless body turns slightly, the posture less aggressive now.

"Why I trust you?" Her voice, disembodied and echoing, sounds less menacing, more curious.

"You can trust us because we understand the pain and the betrayal you've been through. We work to protect people, to help them," I explain, trying to bridge the gap of distrust.

"You cops?" she a​​sks, her voice a bizarre blend of ethereal and guttural sounds.

"No, we're private investigators," I explain, my tone calm and direct. "Astrid Everly hired us. She was worried about her husband... Zane." I carefully watch her, trying to gauge her reaction. I can tell she’s taken aback by this revelation.

"I no want hurt him. Not really. Just scare him," she explains. "Feel bad for wife, kids."

Chantrea’s talons withdraw completely from the wall, letting me slide to the ground. She gently sets Reine down, who rushes over to me, her hands immediately checking for injuries.

Her head, still detached, moves with a purposeful glide through the air, swooping down to where Jimmy Inthavong had pointed out the safe. With surprising gentleness, her head picks up the heavy metal box as if it weighs nothing, floating back to where her body stands near us, dropping it as her feet.

With a deft maneuver, the head reattaches itself to her neck, the seams knitting together seamlessly as though they were never parted. Chantrea stands upright, her posture regal and terrifying as her talons curl around the edges of the safe. In one swift, fluid motion, she tears the door off its hinges, revealing stacks of crisp $100 bills piled neatly inside.

She looks down at the exposed wealth. "This blood money," she states flatly. "They sell our bodies, our lives, for this."

Reine, who's recovering from her ordeal, steadies herself and steps forward. "Chantrea, it's not too late to change the path you're on," she says gently. "You can still make things right, in other ways. Don't let this darkness consume you completely."

"I do things... dark things.” She gestures to the carnage around us. “Soriya, she no can see me like this. Too much."

Her eyes meet mine, and in them, I see a plea for understanding, a deep sorrow for roads taken and those forever closed off.

"You take share," she instructs, nodding toward the safe. "Split rest... give to my sister, and to Mrs. Everly. They deserve... better than what life give."

Looking at the money, I feel a chill despite the sticky heat of the warehouse. The weight of Chantrea's gaze, those glowing eyes, makes it clear that her request is more of a command—one that I'm in no position to refuse, not with the power she wields.

Reine and I glance at each other, a silent agreement passing between us.

"We'll… We’ll make sure it gets to them," I finally say, my voice steady but my mind racing.

Chantrea nods, her eyes shifting away, as if looking back on the havoc she wrought is too much even for her. "Good. This... right thing to do." Her voice cracks slightly, the edges frayed.

"Where will you go?" Reine asks, her voice soft, careful.

Chantrea looks toward the gaping warehouse doors, to the dark beyond. "Somewhere far. Hide. Heal maybe. Not come back." She turns back to us, a shadow of regret passing over her features. "Tell Soriya, I sorry. Tell her... be strong. Better life here for her."

"We will," I promise, my heart heavy. "And Chantrea... take care of yourself."

She gives a short, curt nod, then, with those powerful, dark wings, thrusts herself up into the air, and through the door of the warehouse. The breeze from her departure flutters through the space, sending loose papers and debris swirling in her wake. Then, she's gone, disappearing into the night sky, leaving us alone with the silence and the dead.

Reine and I work quickly to gather the money from the safe. Once the money is secured in our sturdy duffel bag, we move on to the more grim task of wiping down a crime scene for the second time that night.

By the time we're done, the eastern sky is beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn casting a pale blue over the city. We're tired, emotionally and physically.

As we drive back to our office, the city of New Orleans is waking up. The streets are still mostly empty, the quiet of the early morning hanging over the French Quarter like a delicate veil. We don't speak much; there's a mutual understanding that what we've experienced tonight is too vast, too raw to be distilled into words just yet.

Back at the office, Abbey greets us with a puzzled look, taking in our weary faces and the dirt and grime that coat our clothes. "Rough night?" she asks, her laced with concern.

"Something like that," Reine replies, managing a tired smile.

"We'll fill you in later," I add.

We assure her everything is handled, then retreat to our private office to decompress.

Reine sits across from me, her fingers drumming on the desk. "What are we going to tell Astrid? About her husband... and the money?"

"We tell her the truth about Zane. As for the money..." I pause, weighing the words. "We tell her it's a restitution of sorts. It doesn't replace her husband, but it's something to help her rebuild."

"And Soriya?" Reine asks, her gaze steady.

"We set her up with her share, make sure she's safe and can start anew." I lean back, feeling the exhaustion of the night washing over me.

Reine nods, her hand reaching across the desk to squeeze mine. "We did good tonight, Ash."

"Yeah," I agree, squeezing back. "We did what we could."

—

I make my way to Soriya’s apartment in Gretna, carrying the black duffle bag weighed down with the responsibility of Chantrea’s last request. It's a modest building in a part of town that’s seen better days, but there’s a quiet dignity about the place, a testament to the lives within making the best out of hard circumstances.

I knock on the door, each tap echoing slightly in the narrow, dimly lit hallway. After a moment, the door creaks open, and Soriya’s face appears.

“Hey, Sonny…” She greets me with a tentative smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Her look is one of cautious optimism, worn by too many hard days.

“Hey, Soriya,” I say, offering a small smile of my own. “Can I come in?”

She nods, stepping back to allow me space to enter. “Yeah, please come.” Her apartment is clean but sparse, the furnishings minimal, a few personal items dotting the space to make it feel lived in. She gestures to a small table with a couple of chairs. “You want sit?”

I nod and place the duffle bag on the table, its contents shifting with a soft rustle.

She sits opposite me, her posture upright, an anxious energy about her. “You find Chantrea?” Her voice holds a mix of hope and fear, the balance precarious.

I take a deep breath, the weight of the news I bring pressing down on me. “Yeah, I found her.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “She was... she is very brave, Soriya. She did what she thought was necessary.”

Soriya’s eyes search mine, looking for the unsaid words. “She okay?”

I let out a sigh. “She’s safe, but she won’t be coming back. She asked me to give you this.” I gesture towards the duffle bag, unzipping it to reveal stacks of bills, neatly bundled. “This is your share of... It’s money she wanted you to have. To help you, to maybe make things a little easier.”

Soriya’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the money, her hand hesitantly reaching out to touch the crisp bills as if to confirm they're real.

"This... this real?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, it's real," I assure her gently. "And don't worry about where it came from. We've taken care of everything. It's laundered—clean money.”

Soriya pulls her hand back, her eyes still locked on the money. "But... why she do this? Why not come see me?" Her voice breaks a little with emotion, the struggle between gratitude and loss evident in her tone.

"She wanted to," I reply, trying to provide comfort. "But she's... she's changed, Soriya. What she went through, what she became, it's complicated. She didn't want to put you at risk. She loves you a lot, and this was her way of trying to make sure you're taken care of."

Soriya nods slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. "I always tell her, no matter what, we together. But now, she choose this way." She wipes a tear from her cheek, her gaze hardening a bit as she processes the reality. "She always protect me. Since we were little. Always."

"She's still trying to protect you, in her own way," I say, offering a reassuring smile.

Soriya looks down, fingers tracing the edge of the table before she meets my eyes again. "And what about you? I don’t know how repay you."

"Just take care of yourself, and use this money to make a good life here. That's good enough for me," I say, standing up to leave. "And if you ever need anything, you have my number." I hand her my card.

Soriya's fingers lightly grasp my arm as I turn to leave, her touch gentle yet firm enough to pause my steps. She leans close and looks up at me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. There's a brief moment where her lips hover near mine, the space charged with unspoken words.

Then, with a graceful pivot of her head, her lips press a soft, grateful kiss against my cheek instead. She steps back, giving me a small, sincere smile. "Thank you, Sonny. I never forget this."

I nod, returning the smile. "Take good care of yourself, Soriya.”

As I walk down the dimly lit hallway, the echo of my footsteps blends with the murmur of the city beyond.

—

Life has a way of rolling on, even after the shadows creep in and show you things that can't be unseen. Reine and I, well, we're still doing our thing—chasing leads, cracking cases, and trying to keep it all together.

I still keep a casual eye out for any news on Chantrea. You could say it's part professional habit, part genuine concern for what became of her. Every so often, stories pop up on true crime forums that catch my attention—unsavory characters found dismembered in the darker corners of the city, always accompanied by hushed rumors of a flying demon woman with a detachable head.

Whatever Chantrea became, whatever darkness she embraced or was thrust upon her, it's still out there.

I - II - III

Both dragonflies flew to a grassy meadow beneath the dome.

The area was peppered with mushrooms and rotting wood. Imura slowed to glide above a shiny mass of fractal shapes. It was a confusing, indistinguishable blob to Ollo’s eyes. But upon coming closer, he understood it was just a large crowd of dragonflies, their legs and wings shuffling in an amoeba-like crowd.

After some searching, they found standing room on some flat wood. Ollo realized their kin were all trying to squeeze onto the surface of a very small tree stump.

“As you can tell, this is a popular vantage point,” Imura said. “Here, you can watch the fastest practice course in all the dome. It circles this pecan stump and that far tuft of broomsedge; do you see it?”

Beyond the many dragonfly wings, Ollo spotted a distant plume of yellow grass. Its fronds shook, and a set of shimmers bolted through. The shimmers blurred into fast-approaching shapes. Racers.

They moved like beams of light; Ollo’s eyes could barely resolve the swerving palette of green, purple, and brown blurs. The audience turned as one as the colors rounded the stump’s curve. Up close, Ollo noticed each of the cross-shaped racers had the same black signet wedged to their backs.

“So … they’ve all been outside?”

“That’s right,” Imura said. “I’ve faced many of them before.”

The crowd shifted as the speeding dragons whipped back into the broomsedge. The grass swayed with sharp, technical movements.

“I’ve spent just as many days training as I have observing,” Imura said. “You catch that green emperor in the lead? He’s our current champion. Gharraph.”

Ollo readied his eyes on the broomsedge and watched as the blades split apart, releasing a massive green blur. He was a giant, three times the size of anyone else. No wonder he’s so fast.

Ollo watched as this Gharraph entered a slow, decorous landing on the first place mushroom. His body weighed down its white cap, and his wings layered neatly at his sides. The other competitors spared no such dignity, crashing aggressively upon the remaining fungi and fighting for the lower ranks. The audience applauded with buzzing and snapping. Ollo couldn’t help but join in.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Imura watched the crowd members flutter off toward the racers. “Well, this is where we part,” she said. “I’m entering the next wave.”

Ollo stopped his cheering.

“I recommend you fly by the fern.” She pointed behind them. “You can enter the novice trials there. It’s a great place to learn the basics.”

Ollo focused all attention on Imura. Is this it then? Tour over?

“You’ll want to train among those at your level,” Imura said. “In time, you’ll progress to here.”

The last thing Ollo wanted was for Imura to leave, but he could not display weakness. He rubbed his face, turned his damaged eye away, and put on a cheery look. “Of course, yes … that’s all good advice. Thank you, Imura. Thank you so much.”

“Perhaps we’ll cross paths again, old pond-scum, when we’re both elders, recounting our glory days.”

They exchanged some laughter (though Ollo’s was forced), and then the most wonderful creature he’d ever met lifted her wings and flew off towards the mushrooms, leaving Ollo feeling alone amongst a crowd of hundreds.

It was odd that he probably knew many in the crowd from his pond-days, but with their adult forms, everyone was unrecognizable. A stranger in my own tribe, he thought. How does everyone go through this?

He tracked Imura for as long as he could, honing his new sight as she flew to congratulate the previous racers, brushing by their backs and antennae. The last racer she visited was a mud-brown damselfly, who appeared to be missing a leg ... or two?

Hold on. Ollo scratched his head for memory. He had trouble remembering pond-lores, but pond-friends he could never forget. Missing front claws? Could that be Four-Legged-Flax? Ecdysis would not have regrown his limbs. It might be the only friend he could recognize*.*

*“*Hey!” Ollo called. But a volley of wings obscured everything again.

“Next Wave! Next Wave!” The crowd was growing impatient. By the time Ollo could see again, Imura stood alone on the mushroom, with the new racers close by, their wings spread apart.

Tails beside Ollo began drumming excitedly, and as the drumming grew faster, Ollo felt compelled to contribute his own. The volume increased, and soon the sound of the drumming resembled the buzzing of flight, as if the pecan stump were about to lift off.

Gharraph, sitting on the stump’s edge, leapt upward, waving his arms. “Under Meganeura’s light, may the fiercest win, and may the next wave … BEGIN!”

The new line of racers broke off in a closely-bumping pack. Ollo carefully discerned the black-and-yellow stripes and tracked their particular tigertail shine.

In moments, the racers bolted around the broomsedge, brushing the grass in all directions. They returned as a group, their arms grappling and pushing each other. Ollo studied the flight formations, the way their wings angled during turns, and the way they aligned themselves sideways. It was mesmerizing. She was mesmerizing. The sun managed to slink past several panels while he watched. Ollo wondered if Imura would ever see him as a viable mate, or if he’d spend forever catching up, stuck as a dimwitted novice.

Even if I started now, trained without stopping ... would I ever match her rank?

The relay was on its last lap, with Imura in third place, but a single cry interrupted everything.

“Envoys! Envoys from The Ancestor!”

A unifying gasp surged through the crowd. Heads and tails turned from the broomsedge to the commotion at the southern end of the stump. A darnerfly hovered, pointing at a trio of large, alien somethings in the distance.

Ollo came late to the crowd's shift, and tried to understand what everyone saw, but by the time wings and tails lifted, his vision became a fractal blur of shadows and excitement.

***

In all of Sergeant Teresa Zhao’s twenty-year career, this was the most ridiculous vendor she’d ever met. She had assumed upon arrival that the gimmicky nature of “insect reconnaissance” would soon wear off; but instead, through every grating minute of the tour she found herself biting her tongue, chewing her lips, or digging into the softest part of her palms. Never before had she needed to fight the urge to scoff so vehemently.

“You see them flying in circles like that?” The facility director, Devlin Diggs, pointed. “They’re trying to impress us.”

Teresa observed the oval of dragonflies loop between some stump on the ground and a bunch of dead straw. It wasn’t impressive; it was absurd. It felt absurd to be standing in a billion-dollar greenhouse designed exclusively for bugs. It felt absurd to have flown all the way here for such a childish thing.

“All the insects in our Entodome have been sprayed with Nootropic since they were larvae.” Diggs pointed at sprinklers along the glass ceiling. “It allows us to train them, tame them, and make them our own.” He pushed his silver cart ahead, beckoning his skittish assistant to take over.

“Cesar here has been studying dragonflies for years,” Diggs explained, patting the odonatologist’s back. The young man accepted and gave Teresa a quick, wordless nod.

“It’s Cesar who decides which flyers get our next set of transceivers.” Diggs smiled. “I’m proud to say our company’s been able to help direct his ‘Dragondrone’ program from theoretical to practical applications.”

Practical. That’s a strong word, Teresa thought. If all her years of R&D—all that arguing for nickels and dimes—had taught her anything, it was to choose your investments wisely. Defend your opinions. And in her opinion, right now, this experimental prattle was the exact opposite of practical.

Cesar brought the barbecue-esque cart to a halt and flipped open its top. The curved lid squeaked to one side, and the dragonflies swarmed over it.

“Once a week, we’ve been visiting these flyers and selecting a few for field tests. It's why they’re so eager to land on our docking tray.”

Cesar stepped back as row after row of dragonflies lined up on the steel platform. The young scientist drew a silver pair of forceps.

“Cesar studies the dragonflies’ motility and makes note of which specimens are ready,” Devlin’s gloved hand pointed as he spoke. “We only want the best to become drones.”

Teresa searched past her derision for a compliment; no matter who the vendor was, she did represent the Air Force, and had to maintain some degree of composure. “Well, for a bunch of insects, I’ll say they seem to obey your nudging quite well.”

Cesar nodded, gently separating them into straight columns.

“Yes, well, Cesar’s been following this protocol every week now.” Digg’s voice had turned professorial. “The dragonflies expect this. They’ve gotten familiar with our little uh…” He flicked his hands as if commanding an orchestra. “Program. Each week, Cesar adds around a dozen new pilots to our fleet by equipping them with a transceiver*.* Show her, Cesar.”

The young man held up what looked like a black grain of rice that jutted with pins and antennae. He gave one to Teresa. She squeezed it between thumb and forefinger, testing its durability. It would not break.

Cesar then used a combination of forceps and fingers to attach a transceiver to a reddish dragonfly, ensuring the pins properly set into the tiny back of the insect.

“Once the packs are on,” Diggs said, “We’re set. GPS, radio control, the works. ”

Cesar extended the small antenna on the dragonfly’s pack with a small tug. He pulled it side-to-side, testing for stability.

“So the packs do what, exactly?” Teresa asked. “Drill into their brains? Convert them into RC planes?”

Diggs laughed. “No, no, nothing as extravagant as that.” His pudgy fingers pointed at one of the insect’s spines. “Along their backs are light-sensitive steering neurons. Our packs merely output light into their spines, which in turn stimulate neuromuscular circuits in their wings, directing them wherever we want.”

“So it's what … some kind of guidance system?”

“To borrow a military phrase: we’re giving orders.”

Teresa didn’t appreciate this borrowing. “Orders can be disobeyed.”

“Oh yes, and some of the earlier breeds were disobedient. But we’ve spent a long time narrowing down to the species who follow orders like eager air cadets.” Diggs produced a salute, almost losing balance for a moment. “The ones you see before you are just this case.”

Teresa didn’t know if her palms could withstand any more clenching.

***

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Ollo froze in panic, afraid of tarnishing his valuable new body. Shadows had immobilized him with dark metal. What’s going on?

Moments ago, he had spotted Imura and dove after her, landing on the bright, shining platform she and the crowd had dove toward. But before he could crawl closer to her, powerful gloved worms grabbed him and applied something sharp to his back.

It felt tight. Uncomfortable. A blare of ultraviolet colors invaded his vision. He tried to move, but the lights blared with increasing intensity.

There were other dragons all struggling with the same befuddlement, except instead of being shocked and horrified, they became inexplicably overjoyed.

“Thank you, great Ancestor,” he heard someone murmur.

“Bless you, Lady Meganeura for selecting me!” said another.

When the dizzying lights settled, Ollo realized the dragonfly next to him was being granted a signet.

Oh no, Ollo thought. He reached and grazed his spine. He felt a pebble-like bump with a wire jutting from its centre. He had been selected for racing. Like Imura.

Oh Lady Meganeura, Great Ancestor of the Sky, I don’t know what I’ve done to be selected as worthy. But I … I will do my best to honor your decision. I swear. I’ll try!

The Envoys produced a roof for the landing platform, and in an instant all went dark. Thanks to his magnificent new eyes, Ollo could make out the scores of outlined racers from the light seeping through the edges of the container.

There came a rumbling, which caused the thin cracks of light to dither and strobe*. We’re moving. But Where? Oh no. Oh, Great Ancestor. You’re taking me out? Beyond the glass*? Already?!

Several occupants lost their footing amidst the rumble. Ollo collided with the faint, mud-brown color of someone with four legs.

“Watch where you’re tripping.”

“Hey… Flax? Is that you?”

The damselfly turned, tilting his head.

“Yes, thank you; and no, I don’t need consolation for losing the practice relay. Keh.”

“No Flax, you don’t understand: it’s me! Ollo!”

“Ollo? As in ... the dullard?” Flax came to peer closer “How in Mega’s name did you survive the pond?”

Ollo smiled, happy to be recognized.

“You were the dumbest nymph I knew,” Flax said. “When did you eclose?”

“Today.”

Flax laughed, “Keh. Right. Of course; you eclosed today, and now you’re about to Race.”

“I know. It’s hard to believe.”

“You’re being serious?”

“Is that a problem?’
“Ollo. You’re going straight from the pond to The Outside?”

“It appears so.”

“You dullard! You’re going to be annihilated!”

Ollo shrugged, his smooth skin no longer crinkling like before. “Well I don’t expect to come in first, but—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Flax’s eyes somehow bulged wider. “You will be exploded if you’re too slow.”

“What do you mean?”

The damselfly shook his head. “Keh. Heh. Elder Desmik tried to teach you. ‘Brain of a gnat,’ he said. I’m surprised you didn’t kill yourself during ecdysis.’”

Ollo turned to hide his scar.

“You poor dullard.” Flax sighed. “Mega knows how you got this far. Listen, As soon as the gates open, grab my tail. We’ll fly tandem.”

“What do you mean? Does that work?”

“We’ll be a little slower, but it’ll work.”

“What about your rank?”

Flax spewed laughs. “Keh. Were you watching the stump relays? I fly like a winged termite. My rank is awful. I’m more concerned about your life, dullard. You’re going to get exterminated.”

"Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price."—1 Corinthians 6:19-20

"Keep the car running."—Arcade Fire

##---

Frimps, Oil and Bogota were ransacking the Church of the Blessed Redeemer as Vi sat outside in the Civic, engine running, radio on but not too loud, not loud enough to drown out the sounds of something happening.

So far nothing had happened.

But Vi didn't have a good feeling about this one. They were supposed to be doing a mom-and-pop, but Frimps had changed his mind at the last minute and here they were. "Fucking believers," he'd said. "They don't even lock their doors. Do you know how much shit they have in there?"

On the radio a song ended and a PSA came on, something about people in need, children, waiting for organ donations, some kind of priest talking about goodness in our hearts…

Something happened—

There was a circular stained glass window above the main doors to the church and Oils came crashing through it!

Hitting the pavement, legs bent sideways and a fucking sword driven through his chest.

"Oh, shit!"

Vi blinked, and:

The stained glass window was intact and the sword was gone, but Oils was still there.

Vi rolled down the window.

"What the fuck, Oils?"

He looked up at her with flames for eyes and a rattlesnake tail for a tongue: rattle-rattle-rattle...

"The fuck?"

Vi changed gears into reverse—

Frimps and Bogota—

blasted out the front doors of the church—

One came through the windshield, face carved up; the other made a massive dent in the roof.

"Drive," Oils hissed, his face blinking on and off.

Vi hit the accelerator, reversing out of the parking lot—tires squealing! Then: into drive: gunning it down the street, sweaty hands shaking.

The rearview:

A ten-foot tall glowing angel crystallizing as light.

The dead body in the car shifting, head rotating one-hundred eighty degrees. "Your body is a temple of the Lord."

Bang-bang-banging on the roof.

The angel growing: gaining, and Vi forcing everything she could out of the engine.

Fish-tail-ing

Blasting through red lights.

Horns!

Then the back of the car lifted into the air—

The angel lifting it.

—world spinning: Vi separating from it: held by the angel: angel of mercy: angel of death:

penetrating her chest with its luminous right hand : 

##---

Father Mackenzie was surprised to see four boxes on the altar.

He opened one:

Organs

##---

"Never seen anything like it," the coroner said. "Not a mark on them, but they were goddamn empty inside."

##---

: and Vi was back in the Civic, except this time it was hot, devilishly hot. Her flesh was melting off her bones, her skin searing…

She tried the door.

It burned.

"Keep the car running," said God.

##---

"It was a miracle," Father Mackenzie told the press. "A bonafide miracle."

First/Previous

If I were to guess, I’d imagine they took Andrew to Boss Harold before anyone else and the rumors around Golgotha seemed to support this supposition; the Bosses enjoyed their personal retribution away from the eyes of citizens, maybe it was talking or maybe more, and although there were whispers of the boy being strung up on the wall or maybe he’d be violated in the stocks for all to see, I imagined that the council I held with Boss Harold might’ve had something to do with that never materializing. When I was allowed to the boy’s cell, it was dark, and his face was bruised and the bandaging I’d applied to his severed wrist had been removed probably for amusement. The room was small and there were no windows and only a single doorway let out into the hallway which contained other cells and further, near the exit, there was the office of wall men. The guard that’d let me in locked the door behind me and Andrew sat on a metallic cot without cushioning, and he stared at the grimy floor through swollen eyes.

“Hello,” he said. And I was taken aback by the comment because he spoke it as quickly as he might passing a person in the street. He'd been through so much that the word was abrupt, skittish. I nodded and moved to him, reaching for his arm where he’d been nearly fatally wounded. It was infected. Without fighting me, he allowed me to tend to it without even a question; I wiped it and applied salve. Once it was cleaned and rewrapped and only after I’d settled on the cot beside him, he spoke again, “I heard stories about the cells, but I never thought they’d smell.”

I withdrew a handful of antibiotics, and he took them without putting them to his mouth. “You should have them,” I said, “You might lose the whole arm if not.”

“I might lose my life.”

“Maybe not,” I offered a grim smile and water with for the pills. “You’re alive still.”

“How much longer though?” He took the medicine and grimaced hard. The boy looked older than he was. “It smells like blood here. I can smell the people that’ve been here before.”

I patted him on the back and removed myself from the cell and he did not call after me, not even to ask for the return of his hand and I hoped that I could stave off whatever tortures the Bosses might have in store for him.

It’d been two days since I’d returned with Dave and Andrew and quickly after our arrival, I’d tried departing from the man and hoped he’d drop whatever revenge he believed I could assist him with, but it was to no avail for he attended everywhere with me since our return to Golgotha. Although he’d not been allowed to enter the cells alongside me, he was waiting for me outside as I stepped through the wall men’s office and into the noonday sun; I deftly plucked a pre-rolled cigarette from my pocket and tried at lighting it but before I’d even gotten the chance, he was there at the stoop of the office, pestering, “We should go somewhere quiet,” he said.

“What do you take me for exactly?” I asked while maintaining eye contact with the flame off a match.

“You’re capable enough. You could be a hero. I’d do it with you. We could scrounge up a handful of people and change things. We really could.” Dave was casting sidelong glances at those that passed us in the dirt street just off the stoop, but nary one seemed to care about our conversation.

“Leave it.”

“I won’t.”

I sighed.

He put a hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged it off.

Felina’s was a structure partially built from ancient shipping containers directly in the heart of the hydroponics towers in the center of town; the chicken shit smell from the base of the towers came with nauseating stagnation and could make a passerby sick, but upon entering Felina’s, the smell subsided and was replaced with the smell of body sweat. The older barwoman stood behind the counter and me and Dave took up on the far corner where we sat around an old card table, using crates as chairs; no one else was there—the smell of the hydro towers probably had some hand in that.

Dave took in close to me so that I could feel the moisture off his breath, “I’ve been talking to a few others over at the towers and they feel the same way I feel—but with you—well without you I don’t think I’d want to do it.”

“No, please go on without me,” I slanted my body across the table to push my face away from Dave’s; with me positioned with my back against the wall, I spied Felina beyond the counter, arms across her chest and watching us with an air of suspicion. She came to our table, slowly with her club foot and upon reaching us, she used our table for mild support with her big hands and greeted us without excitement.

Dave asked for water and her gaze shifted to me and I dismissed her, and we were alone till she limped back over with a pitcher and glass and Dave drank it greedily while Felina watched on from beyond the counter—her eyes suspicious but pretty blue too. She kept the haft from a dismembered axe behind the counter and was known to throttle unruly patrons with it.

Although some might have called Felina’s a bar, it was just short of it because of the rarity of spirits—besides, it was the upstairs brothel portion that the establishment owed to its popularity. Anyone might brave the smell from the street for companionship and if the noises from the rusted overhead support beams were anything to measure, the clientele was content indeed. A man descended from the stairs by the bar, gave a brief nod to Felina then to us and disappeared through the front door; a waft of the outside air rushed in, and Dave scrunched his nose.

“It’s a funny thing, I’ve passed by here all the time, but I don’t think I’ve been inside since before—” he paused, “Well, since before anyway.” He took a drink of water and rubbed his palms against his cheeks. “I know someone that works underground and could get us some gunpowder.”

I merely laughed at this. “Gunpowder, huh?”

“Well sure. The Bosses have reserves in the basements. We could blow them sky high.”

“More likely that you’d blow your hands off.”

“What’s it going to take to convince you?”

I thought, “Could you promise no one would die?”

Dave seemed baffled at the question. “Who cares?”

“These things hardly ever happen quietly—or without collateral. How’s this? Could you promise that no innocents get caught in stray fire?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are as ill prepared as I’d imagined.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The meek are intended to inherit, but many will die before all that.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I wish you’d leave it be.”

Another patron stumbled down the stairs, a scrawny tall man with a thin beard came charging into the chamber without clothes and a voice followed him, crying loudly, “Sonofabitch tried choking me!” A pair of arms and legs came stumbling down after—the source of the cries. There was a topless woman, a belt secured around one of her wrists and a pink mark around her throat. The naked man protested and put up his hands as the woman swung the arm with the belt and whipped at him with it, striking across the forearm he’d shielded himself with.

Felina moved carefully from around the counter, raised the haft, then brought it down across the man’s back. He stumbled to his knees, pleading. The barwoman raised the weapon once more and the sound was like wood against wood as it met the man’s head and his body was taken to the ground completely, perhaps dead, perhaps unconscious. The two women lifted the man out the door and Felina spat through the opening. Outside wind came again and Dave scrunched his nose once more before the door shut. The topless woman removed the belt from around her wrist, tossed it to the floor, then secured an arm across her chest before hurrying upstairs.

“So, gunpowder?” I asked Dave.

He nodded and took another drink of water while eyeing Felina as she took herself back to the counter and stowed the makeshift club into whatever place she kept it. “Yeah.”

“Go for it then and leave me out of it.” I fiddled with my thumbs across the table. “I’ll even make you a deal for when you come running to me for help later. If you blow your fingers off, I’ll try and help you find them. How’s about that?”

“I’ll wear you down.”

Another gust of wind came from the far door and I half expected to see the man that’d been removed there in the doorway, standing on his feet and ready for another round of punishment, but there was no one there in the hollow spot; as my gaze drifted from person-face level, I saw a medium sized mutt there in gray fur, pushing the door in with its nose and then sliding the rest of its starved body through—each of its yellowy sad eyes peered in and I could not tell the breed but Dave lifted himself from his seat and Felina went to the dog too.

“No dogs,” stated the woman.

Dave, the indomitable sweetheart that he was knelt to the dog’s face and touched its snout; it licked his hand and Dave said to Felina, “He’s not mine, but have you got some water for him?”

“No dogs inside. I don’t like repeating it.”

“Fair enough,” said Dave, “I don’t know who he—” he froze and then examined the rear of the dog before petting the dog on the head, “She belongs to, but I’ll take her outside. Just. Please some water, won’t you?”

The barwoman first drummed her fingers against her leg then went to the counter and I noticed Dave flinch as she reached under there, but she came back with a bowl and he took it and ushered the dog out; as he exited, he called to me, and I sighed and moved with him.

Remaining in the street was the man that’d been tossed out, face up, half-opened eyes, and flies buzzed about, and I touched him with my foot, but he didn’t move. Blood leaked from his ears. “Dead,” I said.

Dave took the dog from the body around to the side of the building and the feces smell was strong with the hydro towers, but he sat the water down and the dog went at it quickly, without restraint and spilt half before the man went to steady it with his hand; he knelt by the dog and pushed a shoulder against the wall of the brothel.

“There you go,” I told him, “You’ve found someone dumb enough and maybe loyal enough to follow through with your little gunpowder plan. Strap a handful of dynamite to him and watch him go boom in the Boss’s faces.” I genuinely did try it as a joke.

“You can be very mean,” said Dave.

Once the bowl was dry besides dog spit, he returned it to Felina, reentering briefly, and it was just me and the dog and the dog looked up at me and I turned away while its voice whined in the back of its throat and I took a piece of hardtack from my pocket and tossed it on the ground—the dog went after it, assuredly snapping up dirt in the process. Then the creature made a dry and throaty sound from swallowing too quickly, but moments after the thick cracker was gone. It licked my hand gently, and I scratched its chin and Dave returned and upon seeing me with the dog, he gave me a look and then brought himself to the height of the dog in a hunker.

“Hey there,” he said to it, “Someone’s beat you up pretty bad, huh?” It was true; scars stood out in places where the dog had no fur.

In response, the weathered mutt hoisted its forepaws onto his knees and pushed its nose into his.

“Yeah, girl,” he took one of the dog’s ears between his forefinger and thumb and rubbed it gently and the animal looked up, sad eyed, “What’s a good name for you?”

“Dog-meat?” I proposed.

Dave shook his head. “What sort of sick joke is that?” but he was smiling, “No. I’ll come up with something to call her. Isn’t that right?” He asked the dog, massaging the face of the animal with his thumbs; the dog stared dumbly at him. “Maybe a Beth or a Patty might suit you. How do you like them?”

The dog licked his face but couldn’t speak.

“Well,” I said, “It’s a shame it got you, you’ll pick a person name for it and that’s strange. Why not call her Mary if you want a person name?”

“Bah,” said Dave, rising to a full stand; momentarily, even with the other folks passing us in the street, he took a moment to see the dead man we’d passed on our way out of Felina’s and for a moment he remained quiet. “I’ll come to you again Harlan. Maybe when I’ve got more of a plan. I only hope you’ll listen to the stuff I’ve said about it. I really do. I really hope you’ll be on the right side of this thing.”

“Sides are overrated.”

Dave put a hand on my shoulder, “Of course,” he nodded, “Whatever you say.”

He left with his new friend—the dog following him traced from left to right close behind Dave and I watched him take off and around the nearest hydro tower and I was alone on the street and evening wouldn’t be far away, so I took to home while staring at my moving feet and speaking to no one. A few people along the way tried nodding at me or saying a small greeting here or there, but I was absorbed in my own head, and nothing took me from it once I got going. Maybe that was one of the reasons I enjoyed the wastes; there were no pretenses out there and with the constant thought of death there was no other thing to think about than each passing moment. I could not shut my thoughts up. I could ramble more about the motivations of a scavver, but I don’t think I should—leave that for someone that cares.

Upon taking the catwalks where I could look out on a swatch of Golgotha with the sun beating down and the constant hum of people going about their business, I was frozen on the railing and wishing I’d taken my own life and wishing that Dave had not found me out there; maybe if I was faster or smarter or better in whatever way that mattered.

I pushed into the door into my small abode and cool blood pushed through my body on seeing the robed girl there on my mattress, holding a shotgun with its barrel angled directly at me; she donned a flowy mess of dresses and kept her head wrapped in garb so that only her eyes shone through, but her arms stuck from the mess of cloth and I could see they were skinny with long scab marks like a blade had drawn across the flesh.

“Harlan?” asked the girl.

“Is that mine?” I nodded at the pump-shotgun in her hands. The slowness of the world was gone, and I could think again; if things were different, I’d have been a dead man, but it was unloaded, and I knew it.

“It was hanging on the wall—I don’t know how to use the thing anyway. I don’t know what I was doing with it,” she said, “You just scared me, and I didn’t know who you might’ve been.”

“This is my place.”

She laid the shotgun on the bed and unwrapped her face; it was Gemma, “You were with Andrew.”

“I was.”

“You said he was dead.”

I brought in air slowly through my nose. “I did.”

“You lied.”

I nodded, letting the air come out.

“Why?”

“I needed to find you.”

“But you found us both then, I guess.”

“Not on purpose.” A thought occurred to me, “Does you father know where you are right now?”

She shook her head; although rest had done her good, there was still a fair amount of fatigue present on her. “I snuck out.”

“Would’a though you learned your lesson on that front.”

“Is Andrew okay? No one will tell me anything about it.”

“He’s locked up right now, but he is alive. For how long? I don’t know. I figured your pop paid a visit to him already—wouldn’t you know about that?”

She shook her head again. “Woo,” Gemma slumped onto the side of my mattress and gathered the robes around her, “I’m feeling faint.”

I moved to the bed and gathered the shotgun, putting it back on the hooks in the wall. “You shouldn’t break into people’s homes.”

Cupping her brow in a hand so that I could only see her mouth and the bottom of her nose, she said, “I just needed to know he was alive. These past days I’ve been so worried about him. I knew you told me he was dead, but I knew you were a liar too. So, I had bad thoughts about what might’ve happened to him out there. If what happened to me was anything to go off.” Her voice broke for a moment and then she pulled her hand from her face and blinked a few sudden times. “I just.”

“I get it. You love the boy.”

She nodded without looking at me.

“So, beg your dad to let him go.”

“Everyone’s so mad at him. It’s funny that everyone’s so mad at him, but it was my idea, and they all treat me like a darling little flower. Like I couldn’t have been the one with the idea of running away. I had more reason to run than he ever did.”

“You should leave.”

“I don’t want to. Can’t you see that’s what I’ve been saying? Judge all you like. Call me rich all you like, but I can tell you this: I don’t feel like it.” Gemma grabbed the edge of the bed as her head wavered on her shoulders. “Dizzy spells are awful.” She shook her head. “Like no sickness ever.” Her eyes locked on mine. “Help me.”

“I’ve already tried convincing them not to kill him.” Taking a pause, I thought to add, “And I personally saw to his injuries. Please go and leave me be.”

“Oh, but you’ve asked for it,” she said, “You put yourself in the business of it.”

“Look. All’s I wanted was to save you if I could and get the water running again. That’s it. Now go.” I put my arm up to wave her out the door and she stood to make her way there, catching herself on the frame, then out on the catwalk railing before turning and looking at me over her shoulder.

“Bastard.” she said.

“Yes.” The door shut between us, and I took myself to sitting on the bed’s edge and reminiscing over how Dave reminded me so much of Jackson. Jackson was a real tough one; whatever happened he always kept a cool head (so I reckon him and Dave would be different in that way) and the idea of being a hero was so big for him. It’s a curious thought: whether Dave would have such ideas if hadn’t been for the tragic loss of his family.

The shotgun sat on there on the wall, and I took it and looked over it, putting the stock in my left hand then my right and laid it across my legs; the woven strap on it had gone thin so that the place I’d once worn it over my shoulder was mostly threadbare. I moved to the cabinet by the sink where I kept a few essentials and in the very back there was an old box of shells—it was a surprise they still seemed good, but with old ammo you never could tell, and the shells were just as likely to fire true as they might be to never send pellets from the barrel. I took a knife and began whittling into a shell I’d plucked from the box. Pellets spilled between my feet as I sat on the bed and they rolled across the floor and then I found the gunpowder and rose again, sprinkling it onto the cabinet top into a neat pile. Dave said he had a fella’ he knew that worked in the underground—the sort of person that could get him all the gunpowder he needed. Was he familiar with its destructive force; had he ever fired a gun? He promised me no one innocent would die and I knew that was a lie and there’s surely a piece of him that knew it was a lie just as well.

It was just then as I took a forefinger and thumb and pinched up a bit from the gunpowder splat that I remembered a thing that Jackson told me all the time when he thought none of the others were listening. The gunpowder rained from my fingertips as I rubbed them together and I sniffed the place where they’d become sooty, taking in a smell I’d not smelled in a long time. Jackson would say, “Whoever fights monsters should be sure that he don’t become a monster.” It wouldn’t be for a long time—after I’d visited the libraries in Alexandria or Babylon (take your preference)—till I realized it was a quote that Jackson stole from some guy named Neet-chee. It seemed like a good thing to adhere to, and it was certainly something I wasn’t good at keeping with and if I couldn’t then there was little certainty that Dave would keep to it either. Maybe I had become a monster; morally dubious anyway.

Jackson was a hero, and he was dead as was Sibylle as was Billy as was John and all of them. We’d tried heroing and it got all of us dead. Almost all of us.

I hung the shotgun on the wall and left it there and swept the gunpowder into the floor with a flat palm where the pellets were and chucked the box of old shells into the cabinet again.

Ringing of bells came from the hall of the Bosses and it was time for a display. Denizens gathered in the front square by the gates and awaited while they trotted out Andrew; perhaps the words I’d passed to Boss Harold rang hollow after all. The Bosses were there just as always, drinking their wine on the platform, and Maron was out front with his wall men in the semicircle of gathered Golgotha residents. Of the population, only a hundred or two gathered for this poor boy’s execution. The guards had, at some point after my departure, removed the bandage on his empty wrist and he looked more sickly in the face than before and his cheeks were swollen and he wept, seemingly not from the terror of it but from the skin around his eyes having been so damaged; tears came through swelled eyelids and a wall man kept him by the elbow and Maron marched to the boy and lifted the boy’s face with his hand to look into it and maybe he whispered something to him.

I weaved through the crowd, moving to the steps that led to the stage where the Bosses stood with their foods and wines and their plenty and upon approach, I was stopped by a wall men, but upon catching Boss Harold’s eye, he told the guard to let me through and I took the stairs and from the platform, I could see over the crowd—Dave was far in the rear of those gathered, totally disconnected from the others for he hunkered by a set of crates, patting the head of the dog we’d found just earlier in the day. For a moment, I wished I was there with him and not on the stage at all.

“Dear boy!” Boss Harold shouted at me over the excited jeers of the others, “It’s so good to see you again. You are quite the hero, and it’s always good to be in the company of those.”

I nodded at him and within a flash, he’d slammed his cup of wine into my hand, telling me to drink, and only moments passed before his own cup was replaced by a nearby servant. “We spoke about this?” I tried.

His face was red, and I could just make out the miniscule veins vibrant along the corners of his nose; the man was far gone drunk. “That boy’s been a thorn in my side for too long, so I know you understand it when I say that he needs punishment. I took all that you said into account,” his words slurred, and the sweet sick came off him in a breath of hot air when he pulled me in, resting his ear on my shoulder. “Nobody dies today, but ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’,” the Boss paused. “You’re not a father yourself, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Ah! Then you might not be familiar with that proverb required in bringing a child up in this world.” Boss Harold laughed. “I’d never take my sweet Gemma out in the square like this, but God there’s been times I’ve wanted it. ‘Spare the rod’.” He repeated. “But we’ve something a fair bit more interesting than a rod for that boy.” Boss Harold swayed on his feet and took the fist containing his cup of wine, pointing with his index finger at the open place by the wall where Maron and Andrew and the wall men were. “Speaking of!” Boss Harold was giddy, and he took a magnificent gulp from his cup, throwing his head far back. “You’re a learned man, yes?”

“What?”

“You know how to read? Maron said something about your reading. That’s a rare quality! I’d love to talk about books with you sometime. I’ve my own personal collection.”

The wall men stripped Andrew of his clothes then threw them to the ground and a gasp escaped the audience and the boy shouted and Maron moved to a nearby bucket and reached into the mouth of the container, coming back to a full stand; a whip was coiled around his arm. The Bosses didn’t even look on. The punishment was for the benefit of Boss Harold, and not even he looked on. He jabbered on about how he’d like to speak with me over an old philosophy called Objectivism then he went on about how he’d learned long ago the greatest achievement of man was his own happiness and I listened to the drunk man and when the whip broke skin the first time, I’m sure Andrew felt every bit.

Blood exploded in violent dew off his back and the crack of the whip struck the boy till he couldn’t stand and then several times more. Splatter reached onlookers each time Maron lifted the whip over his head, and it was only once the boy stopped moving that the Boss Sheriff swaggered over to inspect him; Andrew had fallen face down and Maron took his boot to the boy’s side so that the boy rolled onto his back and seconds passed without movement and even Boss Harold quit with his talking. The prone body just lay there and for a moment Andrew looked like the body I’d seen earlier out front of Felina’s. Then the boy spasmed and gasped air and Maron shouted about how he was still alive before giving the toe of his boot to Andrew’s ribs.

“What a show,” said the Bosses—what a show indeed.

The crowd dispersed in clumps, taking back to their jobs or leisure and I left the platform only after agreeing that Objectivism sounded good and Boss Harold laughed and stumbled in pivoting to take on in conversation with the other Bosses and I briefly imagined giving him a nudge, so he’d fall off the stage, but refrained from doing so.

When I met the boy lying in the dirt there, there was me and Dave moved in too and Maron had taken to his station where there was a table by sandbags, and he was engrossed in a game of solitaire; it seemed the man was totally unfazed by the justice he’d dealt. There was a time when that body could’ve been a hero and yet there he was, poisoned.

I called out to the Boss Sheriff, “Ain’t you going to put him back to his cell?”

Without even looking over, Maron swept his mustache with his fingers and waved me off, “Harold was real clear on letting the boy out of custody once it was done.” He lifted his cowboy hat and scratched his head while looking at the cards on the table then he laughed. “He’s a free man. I’ve heard that was your meddlin’ that did it.”

I moved to the boy and snatched up the clothes they ripped from him and Dave, not saying a word with his new mutt by his side, helped me to return some dignity to the boy.

We took him to my small apartment and washed him and tended over him while he lay in my bed.

Gemma came soon after Andrew had been draped in a sheet—she was there in disguise as she’d been earlier and upon me opening the doorway, she began to ask me if the boy was with me. I merely stepped aside, and she rushed to Andrew’s side; if he was aware of her presence, there was no way to tell.

“They killed him.” She’d taken to her knees to be nearer his level. “Oh. Oh, he’s dead.” She touched him and he shivered at the touch. Gemma removed the wrappings of cloth around her head and looked at her sweetie closer and she put a hand to her mouth. “They took his hand!”

“No,” said Dave, “He’s going to live.” The man looked to me and I shrugged. “Yeah,” his voice didn’t sound sure, “He’ll live.”

I moved to the catwalk and Dave came with me, the dog following behind him—the timid mutt looked over the edge of the catwalk to the city below then stepped away and returned to my room. When Dave took up beside me, leaning over the railing, and the sun hit his face just so, he looked exactly like Jackson and maybe that was why when he raised eyebrows then cut his eyes at me with a question—the question was everything and I finally nodded.

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TRAGEDY at Concert Hall.

NIGHTMARE performance by renowned violinist and orchestra.

66 DEAD & 100s INJURED in CONCERT MASSACRE!

For an entire month, the media incessantly buzzed about Gabrielle Vilonte's last performance, a relentless stream that wore on Mr. Vilonte's nerves. Reporters bombarded him with calls, clamoring for an exclusive interview. Fed up, he had silenced his phone for days, ignoring every text and call, and stowed it away in the glove compartment. Thankfully, public interest had already shifted to the next headline. The bizarre event was now a distant memory in people's minds. Except, of course, those who experienced it.

Sleep became a nightly struggle. Most nights brought a jolting awakening, leaving him trembling so fiercely that his bones rattled and teeth chattered, while his heart threatened to burst from his chest. The recurring nightmare haunted him relentlessly—the terrifying vision of blood-red waves closing in, his senses overwhelmed as he tumbled blindly and helplessly. His survival was nothing short of miraculous, requiring only a brief stay of a couple of nights at the hospital.

George had insisted he stay with them until Mrs. Vilonte and Gabrielle emerged from their coma at the hospital. Despite the kind offer, Mr. Vilonte politely declined. While he cherished the idea of being surrounded by his family's warmth during such a challenging time, he found solace in the comforting embrace of Sara's soft, ample bosom. While he often disagreed with Mrs. Vilonte's choices, particularly concerning their finances, he was grateful he had yielded to her insistence on hiring a personal assistant.

"Take a deep breath and exhale slowly,” Sara instructed, her hand gently stroking his sweaty, naked back.

He followed her guidance, and as he did, he felt the nightmare fading away, replaced by the soothing sound of her voice. The terror that had gripped him was gradually replaced by a warmth that flowed down his throat, spreading a comforting heat throughout his belly.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he sighed, pulling her into an embrace. "I wish we could stay like this forever."

"I wish the same, but we should go visit the hospital," she replied softly, gently pushing him aside as she rose from the bed to gather her clothes scattered on the floor.

He sighed again, sinking back onto the bed, overwhelmed by the prospect of abandoning its warmth to face the demands of the day. The thought of rejoining the world outside felt daunting. What finally persuaded him to rise from the bed was Sara's assurance that she would join him on the visit to Mrs. Vilonte, fulfilling her duties as the family's loyal and diligent personal assistant. But, in separate cars, of course.

On the way, he stopped to pick up a bouquet of flowers. Upon arrival, he warmly greeted the nurses and medical personnel he had come to know. They returned his gesture with sympathetic gazes and a small smile. As he entered Gabrielle's room, he found Eric already asleep in a chair by her bedside. Mr. Vilonte's heart sank at the sight. Despite the uncertainty surrounding her condition, he found solace in the fact that her baby remained safe within her womb, miraculously unharmed.

He arranged some lilies in a vase beside her, and pressed a fatherly kiss to her forehead before departing for his wife's room that was at the end of the hallway. Mrs. Vilonte lay peacefully, her complexion a little paler than usual. Gently placing roses on the nightstand, he pulled up a chair by her bedside, ready to share the latest updates.

With a soft voice, he relayed a few light-hearted news - George's pediatric clinic continued to thrive, their granddaughter landed a role in an upcoming school play, and Gabrielle’s condition remained in stable condition, but she had yet to awaken. Once he exhausted his list of news, he veered into trivial chatter about the weather, the traffic delays he encountered en route to the hospital which explained for his lateness (though in truth, he had persuaded Sara to join him for an intimate moment in the shower earlier), and his disappointment with the soggy cafeteria sandwich he bought.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the door opened and Sara waltzed into the room, dressed in her business casual attire, every bit the dedicated assistant his wife had hired. Without saying anything, she walked over to his chair, resting one hand on his shoulder while the other caressed the sparse strands of hair on his balding head. Her touch sparked a warmth within him, kindling a fire that surged through his body.

“Do you think she'll ever wake up?” Sara asked.

“We can only pray,” he replied, then under his breath added, “that she doesn't.”

How he wished things in his life were different. He glanced at his wife, then shifted his gaze to the pillow beneath her head. A thought crossed his mind – it wasn't too late. He could grasp the pillow and silence her forever, altering the trajectory of his life for the better.

“I wonder what's going on inside of her head,” Mr. Vilonte wondered aloud, “Do you think she's dreaming or is it all just darkness?”

XXXXX

In a realm beyond the physical plane, Mr. Vilonte’s words echoed through the forest. Mrs. Vilonte, catching wind of his voice, raced forward barefoot. Her elegant dress shoes, now trapped in the mud, disappeared into the earth. Her gown had become torn and muddied from her struggles against the clutches of vines and twisted branches.

Stopping for a moment, she pondered the possibility of deception, the voice perhaps a sinister ploy by the otherworldly entity, taunting her with the mimicry of her husband's voice.

"Please, let me go home!" she pleaded, her words falling on ears that only responded with mocking laughter.

You love her…you love her… you want her to wake up…no, you loved her. Do it now. Or it's never.

She was sure it was his voice, drawing her towards him and she followed its trail.

XXXXX

When Sara stepped out in search of snacks, he stood by his wife's bedside, peering down at her sleeping figure. Inch by inch, he maneuvered the pillow from beneath her head, his hands trembling with each deliberate movement. Just as he was about to place the soft weapon over her face, he hesitated, clutching the pillow tightly as he paced the room, engaged in a fierce debate with himself.

“You love her. No, no, you loved her.”

In over thirty years of marriage, he found himself reminiscing only about the initial five years, a period suffused with warmth and happiness. The following decades, however, that love had withered away over time like a neglected rose, starved of nourishment.

If he didn't take the chance now, he may not have the opportunity to do so. He returned to her bedside, clutching the pillow. The weight of his decision bore down on him. Just as he prepared to act, her eyes flickered open, their intensity locking with his own. He gasped, stepping back in alarm and stumbling over the chair.

With a sudden jolt, Mrs. Vilonte shot upright, unleashing a piercing scream that shattered the silence of the room. Frantically, she attempted to flee her bed, only to crumple to the floor, her legs betraying her after a month of disuse, unable to bear her weight. She resorted to dragging herself with her arms, making her way towards the door.

As the initial shock began to subside, Mr. Vilonte hastily regained his footing and hurried to his wife's side.

“Isabella..." he gasped, stretching out a trembling hand to touch her shoulder, but she swatted it away.

She struggled to rise to her feet once more, using the wall for support as her legs shook beneath her. The knot of her hospital gown had unraveled, leaving it to drape loosely over her fragile, naked form.

“Gabby! Where's Gabby?” She cried, her eyes were wide and filled with terror.

“Her room's not far from here, just down the hall.”

“I have to see her.”

“No, no, what we need to do right now is to get you back to bed. I'll go get the doctor.”

“You don't understand!”

“What is it that I don't understand? Tell me!”

“The baby…”

“What about the baby?”

“It's not what you think it is.”

“What? What are you talking about? What are you trying to say?”

Mrs. Vilonte let out an angry cry of frustration. “We must put a stop to it. She's going to give birth to something…”

“Something, what?”

Without answering him, she seized the door handle and yanked it open. Despite his attempts to restrain her, she broke free from his grip, landing a sharp blow to his face with her fist. A dazzling flash of white and gold stars burst across his vision like fireworks.

A deafening scream tore through the air, its intensity reverberating down the hallway, freezing everyone in their tracks. The sheer force of it sent shivers of nausea and fear rippling through each person present. The scream jolted Mr. Vilonte out of his daze, a surge of fear flooding back as he realized it was coming from his daughter's room.

He raced to the room and found Eric cowering in the corner, his expression filled with horror as he stared up at the ceiling. Mrs. Vilonte stood nearby, her discarded gown lying on the floor, a pair of scissors clutched tightly in her hand, likely grabbed from the nurse's desk. She, too, gazed upwards. Following their line of sight, Mr. Vilonte's heart nearly stopped.

Crawling along the ceiling like a twisted spider was Gabrielle. She gnashed her teeth like a feral beast and with a guttural hiss, she leapt towards the window, breaking through the glass.

“Gabby, no!”

Mr. Vilonte rushed to the window, crying out in pain as the glass cut into his skin. Through the broken pane, he watched in disbelief as Gabrielle, somehow still alive after her jump from the fifth floor, dashed across the parking lot, dodging cars with uncanny agility.

XXXXX

“Slow down!” Sara screeched, her fingers tightening around the grab handle.

But Mr. Vilonte didn't hear her. He remained steadfast, his foot firmly on the gas pedal, propelling the vehicle forward on the freeway in a desperate attempt to catch up to the police car ahead.

Within the span of an hour, his world was once again upended and crushed by the merciless force of the universe. Gabrielle's escape from the hospital triggered a frantic response from the hospital staff. Wrestling the scissors from the hands of a hysterical and furious Mrs. Vilonte, they pinned her to the floor. Meanwhile, a nurse administered a sedative to calm her down, allowing them to carry her back to her room.

The police were called to locate Gabrielle, prompting him to join the frantic search alongside them. Sara, just returning from the cafeteria with snacks in hand, found herself swept up in the chaos, following him to the car and demanding an explanation.

He slammed on the brakes with a forceful stomp, jolting them forward and then back in their seats. Ahead, several vehicles were stacked up. The police car he had been tailing collided with one of them. Hastily unbuckling his seatbelt, he got out of the car and navigated through the wreckage of the mangled vehicles.

“Gabby!”

He spotted his daughter standing amidst the tumult of the freeway. Upon hearing her name, she turned to face him, her expression clouded with confusion.

“Dad? Why am I here? What's going on?” her voice was laced with fear.

“I don't know. But let's get you out of here.”

“I want to go home,” she sobbed.

“Of course, we'll go home, right after the doctors check you over.”

As Gabrielle moved towards him, the ground beneath them began to tremble, its intensity mounting with each passing second. Cracks spiderwebbed across the asphalt beneath her feet, and long, sinewy vines emerged from the fissures, wrapping themselves around her and pulling her down into the depths below.

Mr. Vilonte sank to his knees, overwhelmed by devastation.

XXXXX

Although the haze of sleepiness had partially lifted, she felt the weight of drowsiness still clinging to her body, like a heavy anchor. Attempting to move her hands, she discovered they were bound by leather cuffs fastened to the bedside rails.

The room lay cloaked in darkness, with only the faint, silver light of the moon filtering through the window blinds, casting a gentle glow across the space. Except for the corner by the door. A sudden drop in temperature sent shivers through her bones. A presence was in the room, and it was standing in that dark corner, watching her.

Mrs. Vilonte stayed silent for a moment, refraining from saying a single word or making even the slightest sound. She clenched her teeth, attempting to suppress a whimper, but it slipped past her lips nonetheless.

A pale foot stepped out of the darkness, then the other.

She sucked in her breath at the sight of Victoria, who greeted her with a sinister grin. Her eyes were as dark as coal. Her teeth jagged with saliva dribbling down her pink lips. Without moving her mouth, Victoria's voice echoed in her head, “The price is high, your soul to keep, give me more to eat!”

Raising her hands, she held up a beating heart, giving it a firm squeeze. Instantly, Mrs. Vilonte was struck by a violent pain in her chest. She was engulfed by wave after wave of agonizing pain, rendering her unable to scream until a brief moment of respite allowed her to catch her breath, prompting her to cry out, "If you want to kill me, do it now! Go ahead, kill me! Rip my heart out. But please, just do it quickly. I can't bear it any longer.”

The entity cackled. "Death will not come easily for you. Instead, you shall endure a long and torturous existence, my dear. A life abundant with suffering and despair, with the sweet release you crave remaining distant for many years to come.”

Its talons closed around the heart giving it one final squeeze.

Mrs. Vilonte erupted in a roar of agony, her body contorting as she strained against the restraints. A nurse burst into the room, switching on the light. Once the lights flickered on, the pain dissipated, and her body eased back onto the bed, her wrists raw from the restraints. Observing her labored breathing and the sheen of sweat across her forehead, he checked her vitals and inquired about her sudden scream and whether she experienced any lingering pain.

She moved her head from side to side. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” she said, choking down a sob.

“Oh, I'm sure everything's going to be fine, Mrs. Vilonte,” the nurse reassured with a gentle tone, offering comfort.

“Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

“I would, if I had time. I'm sorry I've got other patients to attend to.” And after a final check on her vitals, he turned off the lights and left the room.

Mrs. Vilonte cast a wary gaze toward the darkened corner, a sense of apprehension prickling her skin. A solitary tear traced its path down her cheek.

It started whispering, asking for blood, begging for human flesh

At times it would whimper and sob, pleading for “just a drop of precious blood”

It seemed to have multiple voices. Voices that when combined sounded like harmonies in music, but discordant and nauseating. No one could listen for long.

Those that did went mad. Some claimed to hear a clawing sound, long scrapes, followed by what sounded like a grunting exhale and a gut wrenching thump, like a whale’s heartbeat

The scientists detected noxious gases, masked beneath an earthy smell of wet dirt and brimstone, and at first believed the noises, the madness of those who listened close, was a result of being poisoned

Microphones dropped into the hole only recorded static, so they wrote off the “voices” and carried on

But the drilling was going poorly, they could no longer reach the bottom, and each attempt failed sooner than the last

There was fear on the worksite, and stories being told that the oldest had heard from their grandmothers

Before long the workers claimed they could now hear the sickening sounds of the hole from their camp, the whispers somehow thick in the air. The chalkboard clawing stung their ears and the groaning thump shook their beds … they were ignored. It was called hysteria. They were made to keep working

Ultimately the scientists running the dig realized the truth, that the terrifying sounds from the hole were real… getting louder - and somehow wetter, seeming to greedily salivate.

So they hastily sealed the hole and the camp was abandoned

What more there is to tell is perhaps not worth telling, being - I hope- merely hearsay & rumors mixed with old wives tales and amplified by the hallucinations of a poisoned mind. And if not, either way really, too disturbing to go in to here. I myself was actually a worker at the camp, all that I do know … honestly I’m trying to forget it. To forget the voices. The song I can’t un-hear. To escape the sweating vice of fear that grips my mind. It’s nothing, and there’s no need for you to be afraid. I won’t give in to my deepening desire to bring it blood.

I - II - III

Emerging as an adult dragonfly was more painful than Ollo had anticipated.

His new tail whipped out like a bamboo shoot, its nerve endings raw and overstimulated. His wings sprung as four wet twigs, blistering with sensation. As he pulled off his previous skin, the world arrived blank—a vast, white landscape completely lacking in depth and shape.

Oh no. Did my eyes not form?

His first breaths of air escaped in a stuttering cough from his new, mandible-framed mouth. Ollo reached close, trying to feel for the new compound eyelets he was promised. He rubbed, and brushed.

Oh no.

Ollo climbed away from his molt, searching for a horizon. The reed he had chosen for his ecdysis was tall, but despite reaching its bushy top, he could not spot any sun. Nor any shadows. Nor any variance in the all-pervading white.

Oh no, no, no.

He began to slap his eyes, hoping to puncture through the white haze to find some hint of color. After a dozen hits, a miniscule bruise appeared in his vision, purple in hue. He slapped harder, and the bruise stretched into a diagonal slash. After countless more strikes, Ollo could feel his claw pierce the top layer of his broken eye. The pain was excruciating. He screamed, moaned, and eventually rejoiced.

The sun flashed back into existence, exposing surrounding greenery. The pond of his childhood shone like a divine mirror, illuminating the air filled with his tribe. Countless dragonflies zipped and soared above him, embodying the adulthood he had long been promised. Oh thank you Lady Meganeura, dearest Ancestor. I will treasure this gift of sight forever.

A yellow-tipped tigertail landed to greet him, shaking the reed Ollo clung to. The shiny chitin across her abdomen was paralyzing to behold; it put his mono-colored plating (common for a red darner such as him) to shame. Her slender, plant-like antennae were the most beautiful things Ollo had ever seen.

“Hello?” The tigertail eventually asked, slowly tilting her head. “Ollo? Is that you?”

Ollo fidgeted out of his spell. “Yes. Yes, I am Ollo. How did you know?”

“Because I can see your old skin right there,” Her antennae gestured to the larval coat that still dangled from his tail. “I could recognize your stumpy old self anywhere. It’s me. Imura.”

Ollo was aghast. This wondrous female had been one of his companions in the pond. A survival partner. They had eaten waterscum, chased diving beetles, and shared pond-lores. “Wow. I would have never have … Imura, hello.”

She brought her mandibles to a smile and did a small spin on the reed’s tip. “Welcome to adulthood! I heard you might be eclosing today, and thought I’d see for myself.”

“Oh, yes, I eclosed a few panels ago.” He turned to hide his wounded eye. “It was all very easy: just a matter of shedding the babyskin.” Ollo tried to shrug in an attempt at nonchalance, but the movement sent a wave of crinkles across his new tail. The fresh pain made him squeal.

“Stop.” Imura grabbed his limbs. “You want to avoid moving until you’re fully set; your skin isn’t dry.”

The tingling made him wince.

“It’ll be over soon. And once you’re ready, I’d be happy to give the grand tour.”

“Grand ... tour?”

She gestured toward the sky. “You won’t believe how high this place is. There’s food, flying, sunbathing, and today”—she arched her spine, displaying a black ornament saddling her back—“I’ll be joining my second official race! Isn’t that exciting?”

Ollo smiled, trying his best to mask his pain and embarrassment; this was all so new to him. He wiped his damaged eye with one arm, and then realized Imura still held the other.

“Don’t move too fast,” she said. “Let your body fully harden. It’s easy to get over-excited.”

He gently retracted his arm, appreciating the sight of her closeness. She didn’t even mention the wound that crossed his eye.

***

After the sun passed two more panels, Ollo was able to lift off and follow Imura. He learned much about his new body by studying hers. She fluttered four mighty, translucent wings, each blessed with flexible, intricate veins. Her eyes were so pretty they embraced each other, forming a gorgeous spherical helmet. Do all adults emerge this smitten?

Imura explained that all of the exercises they had practiced as pond-nymphs—the circuit swimming, the stroking, the diving—it all still applied as an adult. Only instead of arms tiredly paddling through water, they now had wings, effortlessly slicing through the air.

“The longer you fly, the warmer you might feel, so if you ever get too hot”—Imura dove down, skimming the pond water across her tail—“you just go for a fly-by.”

Ollo was ecstatic. The boundaries of life had been so limited by their tiny pond, and now what limits were there? He was finally free to soar wherever he wished, free to explore countless ponds and feed upon all-new prey.

“I’d like to thank you, you know,” Imura said, guiding their flight upwards. “Back in the pond, I never did figure out how to snare diving beetles. I might’ve starved if it weren’t for your scraps. And then I never would have experienced all this.”

Ollo rubbed his head, returning to his memories from their youth. “Those scraps? Oh, that was nothing. I just shared what the pond shared with all of us.”

Back then he had been a natural, and he hoped his underwater propensities would translate to his adult world. But even if they didn’t, the joy of untethered travel was all he could ask for.

She guided their flight higher, towards the overcast sky. “Come, every new adult should see this—the panels up close.”

Ollo looked up. He had always been intrigued by the latticework of those heavenly lines. In the pond, they would count the panels as the sun went by to determine the time of day. He assumed they were part of the clouds somehow.

“See? The panels coalesce together, forming the ceiling of our dome.”

“Ceiling?” Ollo asked. “What do you—” THUD. An invisible force smacked Ollo. A curved coldness of calcified air. He faltered in his flight, his wings knocked off-rhythm, until he could correct enough to hover next to Imura.

“I mean this,” she said. “The ceiling. It’s made of something the elders call glass.”

Ollo skirted around the smooth material, looking to see how each panel linked to form a larger whole. “But wait a moment. I thought … I thought that …”

“I know.” Imura skittered along the panel—the glass—edges. “It’s a common misconception that we could reach out there.” She pointed beyond the glass, towards a vastness of fields and rocks. “But, as it turns out, you have to earn your entry to The Outside.”

“The Outside?” Ollo rubbed his eyes, trying to process the information.

“The pond elders don’t teach this to nymphs.” Imura sighed. “It’s too difficult to explain something that must really be seen to understand.” She scratched the cold surface. “As it turns out, adults mostly live beneath the glass, inside this dome.”

Ollo focused his new eyes for the first time. With their wider periphery, he could make out the curvature of this glass world. It enwrapped everything spherically, end-to-end. How very small. “So wait ... What happened? When was The Outside taken away?”

“Taken away?” Imura smoothed her antennae in confusion. “You don’t understand: we were given The Outside. It’s not a punishment. It’s a reward.” She walked the edge of a silver panel. “The Great Ancestor Meganeura first gave us the pond so that we may condition ourselves to the dome. And once we mastered the dome, she awarded us The Outside.”

Ollo had always assumed that beyond the pond was freedom, not another enclosure. He looked beyond the glass again, at the beautiful openness. “So then how do we get there?”

“Oh, we get tastes of it,” Imura said. “Every seven days The Ancestor sends Envoys. Those of us who qualify for the next race are selected to compete Outside.”

Ollo scratched his head, flabbergasted.

Imura smirked. “You never did listen during pond-lores, did you?”

He turned away his scarred eye. Remembering teachings was not his strength.

“If you see anyone with this signet, it means they’ve qualified to compete Outside.” Imura arched her spine, flaunting the strange, black ornament between her wings. “I myself have worked very hard, and seven days ago an Envoy selected me, you see—planted this right on my back.”

The obsidian thing looked like a long additional limb to Ollo. An absurd spine-antenna, like a parasite.

“And if you train the same,” Imura continued, “and prove yourself a worthy racer, you’ll get one as well.”

A feeling of discouragement stabbed Ollo. As if something wonderful had just been spoiled. Adulthood was supposed to be bliss. Where dragons could freely roam and engage in pleasure, not some never-ending gauntlet of work and training.

“Was it always like this?”

Imura tilted her head. “The Ancestor has always wanted her dragons to be as fast as her. We race to prove our best.”

Ollo flattened himself against the glass, feeling its containment. Had he been pining for a life that never existed?

“I have this strange memory,” he said. “Only it’s not really a memory, because it hasn’t happened. More of a feeling. That we were supposed to live Outside, and exist there with no expectations. Just roaming about. A paradise unbound.”

“I don’t know where you get such ideas.” Imura readied her wings. “But don’t worry Ollo; it’s not as difficult as it sounds. If you start your flight training now, you’ll qualify for racing in a few short days.”

Twilight, the fleeting hour between light and dark. I was at one time, obsessed with it. I once thought there was something dreamy and poetic about it, I loved the angles of light and otherworldly vibe it casted. The transitory time where night and day merged, not quite one or the other. I often wondered how many of us linger in this proverbial limbo in life.

Night and day, light and dark as humanity’s ancestors would come to learn, were forever separated for a reason. They are and will always be eternal enemies. The dark lived deep within the earth's caverns where it slept, only to emerge from underground and surround us when it was time for night. Light resided in the sky, only to be chased off when the dark emerged. In the ancient ages, there did not exist a period of twilight, there was only the duality of light, and shadow.

For eons the earth, with its cyclical periods of light and dark coexisted in this balance. However this would one day be changed forever by the great sin between these two enemies.

Each day a particularly curious ray of light would venture further and further from the typical reaches of it's counterparts. First it only peeked under rocks, and just barely inside of caves. Eventually this curiousity would lead it further into the subterranean areas where it was forbidden and occupied by dark. Seeping down into the crevices, it found its way far below earth's surface. Then, once sufficiently descented, a new being was materialized. What arose from the ground was a monstrous thing that fed on the various life on earth. An amorphous thing birthed by the forbidden union between light and dark, formed in the coldest darkest cracks deep in the earth's crust where light had sinnfully ventured. A swirling of blinding white light and devouring darkness churning in rotation within the outline of the hybrid thing.

Thus becoming the period of twilight as we know today, when for about an hour, the spawn of the heavens and the abyss comes to visit us daily, to decide who or what it will take with it.

I now pray in an endless gratitude to whatever gods, titanic beings or otherworldly operators whose merciful dominion over the machinations of the universe have made the blurry hour of twilight as fleeting as it is.

I was sitting in my tenth-storey apartment, working on a symphony, when the hawk burst in—

Through the window—

glass exploding, and the bird cutting itself so that it sprayed blood, like a boxer walloped in the jaw, every time it ruffled its feathers.

To say I stood up would be an understatement.

I leapt!

The bleeding bird approached, and I approached, and at some point it started getting dark, and when I looked outside I saw hundreds of birds at the window, blocking the sunlight, some of them coming into the apartment, others hideously squawking. They made so much wind with their flapping, my papers began flying around.

I tried to shoo them out, but they attacked me: their claws—their beaks—

I backed away—

Tripping on a chair, flipping over, trying to crawl toward the door…

That's when they acted.

Landing on me, pecking at my clothes, ripping—tearing away material, until they exposed my whole back.

Then they dug their talons into me: pain like getting caught on a hundred fishing lines: hooks penetrating skin, anchored in flesh...

Flapping furiously, they lifted me off the floor—

And we flew out the window!

I thought I was going to die, that they were going to drop me there and then, and I prayed and screamed and imagined what I looked like from the street.

But they didn't drop me.

Up we flew, higher and higher majestically above the city, betwixt skyscrapers and below planes, over parks, through clouds, and all the while some sat on me and pecked me—not my clothing, my flesh!—pulling strips of me away, raw bleeding strips, most of which went down their gullets but some of which escaped their ravenous intentions and fell…

to the city below…

—and I felt it all: I was the body flying and the chunks digesting and the bits going splat on asphalt and umbrellas.

I hurt and I rotted.

I saw the city and I was eaten up by stray cats.

I rolled into sewer grates.

I survived.

Until there was less and less of flying me, almost just a skeleton, picked clean; until—

I wasn't flying at all.

Time passed; consciousnesses dwindled; and I was but one small chunk of meat drying out on someone's windowsill.

The window opened.

I slid in, down the wall onto the kitchen counter. I recognized a plate of raw meat and hid among them.

I was fried.

Sizzling on the frying pan in pain.

I was placed upon a plate by a woman and slid toward a man, who licked his lips, lifted knife and fork and sliced and ate me.

How horribly be chewed!

In his mouth, I went round, then down his throat, washed down with cabernet.

I thought I was ended.

But as his juices digested me, I realized I was entering his blood, in which his body pumped me to his brain and—

"What are you doing?" the woman asked.

"Composing music," I said.

Saadou, a 37-year-old man hailing from the northeast, traversed his homeland, bound for the forested northern province of a neighboring West African country. His purpose? To sell his herd of 75 cows, accompanied by Tegedantay, a five-year-old girl, and Sulieman, a 10-year-old boy.

The trio faced the task of crossing a murky river to access the northern province. Their vessel, a sizable raft ferry propelled by an outboard motor, was crafted from securely bound wooden logs, connected with robust nautical ropes.

On the opposite bank, awaited two prominent cow traders—Ailemu and Shaiku—anticipating their arrival. Ailemu, with wide eyes and a pot belly, possessed an insatiable drive for profit, willing to engage in business with anyone offering cows for sale, be it 10 or just a lone sickly cow. Ailemu inherited the family cow business, combining his father's teachings with a tenacious work ethic. In under two years, despite not knowing how to write his own name, he expanded the enterprise from 15 cows and 27 acres to a staggering 350 cows and over 1000 hectares of land.

Shiaku, a short and stout man with hardly any neck, also inherited the family cow business and rapidly grew it to an admirable 300 cows operation and more than 1000 hectares farm estate, complete with other livestock such as goats and chickens as well as a highly sought after view of the mountains. Having completed secondary schooling, Shaiku focused on securing the most substantial deals or engaging with significant sellers to meet his annual quota of 50 cows. “Smart work and not hard work,” a motto he preached to the 30 men under his employment.

In the northern province, buying or selling cows inevitably involved dealing with either Ailemu or Shaiku, who dominated the province completely. Thus, a fierce rivalry extended not only between the two traders but also among their respective teams of workers. While public interactions adhered to pleasantries—as custom dictates—between the duo, behind the scenes, workers often endured screechees of "that fat illiterate rat" or "no neck fool" when a deal slipped through to the opposing party.

On the eve before Saadou, Tegedantay, Sulieman, and their cattle were set to reach the river crossing, Ailemu and Shiaku meticulously briefed their seasoned salesmen, Abu and Ibrahim, on the art of persuasion. The tall and slender herder's imminent arrival had been the talk of the town, with scouts and messengers providing detailed insights two weeks prior. Reports raved about the cows' robust size, their smooth and well-fed appearance, and their ease of rumination when at rest.

That evening over dinner with his wife and four children, Ailemu could barely contain his excitement for the potential deal that was about to arrive at his doorstep tomorrow. “This one is the big one!” he repeatedly shouted over dinner. The plan was for Abu to handle the negotiations, as he had done countless times before with other herdsmen. However, as the night wore on, Ailemu's unease grew. This deal was no ordinary deal like the many others Abu had closed for him; it’s a deal that required his special attention and “hard-work hands” in order to ensure a favorable outcome. The reports about the 75 cows from his scouts and messengers were more than encouraging—reports he hadn't heard describing a cattle herd not since his father's time. 

Thus, two hours past midnight on the day of the deal, Ailemu, forsaking sleep, rose from his comfortable bed, careful not to disturb his deep-sleeping wife. He promptly dispatched messages to Abu and alerted his house girls to have his favorite gown pressed and ready by Fajr along with a gleaming white babouche, part of his many collections (of various colors) sourced from the finest Moroccan merchants.

The morning unfolded with an unusual dreariness, a mild fog shrouding the surroundings. Shiaku’s salesman, Ibrahim, strained his eyes against the river's mist, discerning shadowy figures and large four legged beasts on the other side. Having skipped breakfast after the first light of dawn, he had arrived early, eager to meet the man who had been the subject of his boss's fascination for weeks. Ibrahim had closed many deals for Shiaku before and was a trusted confidant due to having an eye for the “smart deals'' and quickly fulfilling the 50 cows quota early on in the year, giving his boss time to focus on other matters which range from spending more quality time with his two sons and daughter to tending to livestock on his farm estate.    

Overlooking the shore on a hard muddy hill, Ibrahim placed his hand above his eyes and squinted like an explorer looking for land. “That’s them.” Coming out of the fog and gliding ever closer to the northern province shore were 25 cows (according to Ibrahim’s count) and a gangly boy holding the hand of a short pudgy little girl. Upon seeing the 25 cows, Ibrahim’s heart raced and then he remembered that the raft ferry was only so big enough to hold 50 human occupants at a time.  

After the two children and 25 cows landed and got off on the shore, the ferryman, without hesitation, turned around his raft ferry and disappeared back into the fog. Couple minutes passed and another 25 cows were seen from the fog before being dropped off on shore with the two children. Another couple minutes later and all the cows were safely on shore. Seeing the cattle for himself, Ibrahim licked his lips as he kept counting and recounting each cow one by one. They were definitely the biggest cows he had seen in all his past dealings. Even better, none of them appeared sick or old for that matter as each was able to sit, stand and move around rather gracefully. 

The last occupant to emerge from the fog and arrive on shore was Saadou, donning a black gown. Ibrahim got a clear look at the light-skinned and pony-tailed cattle herder everybody was raving about. True, he was tall—just as the scouts and messengers described — but not skinny, at least not by Ibrahim’s standards. Eying the cattle herder as he organized his herd, Ibrahim expected the man to be much skinnier, and certainly should not have broad shoulders and muscular arms at that. In fact, the only thing skinny about the man was his long and lanky legs, barely covered by loose black trousers that stopped far short of the ankles.

“Where’s that big head?” Ibrahim murmurmered. Noon was approaching and he had not seen any signs of Abu.  He loved the feeling of winning deals over Abu. Throughout the years, they engaged in back and forth battles on who could win the most deals over the other: battles when tallied altogether would likely show an even score. Unlike their bosses, they were not shy to hurl insults directly at one another when jostling to entice herders to relinquish their precious commodities at a favorable price. “Big head asshole!” “Black bastard!” Some of the favorite insults of choice that could be heard all along the river’s shore, in addition to hisses and teeth-sucking.

Ibrahim felt a hand on his right shoulder. “Ah, I thought you were too scared to come, big head. Afraid I am going to whip you again.”

“Never afraid, Ibrahima,” said the bassy voice.

Ibrahim froze for a moment, feeling the coolness of the sweat running down from his forehead and armpits. He without a doubt recognized the voice but questioned why he was hearing it: at the river of all places. 

“What?” the voice said. “Eh, you not going to look at me?”

Ibrahim turned around slowly, hoping that if he moved carefully enough, the voice would vanish and he would once again see the familiar forehead he’d been accustomed to seeing at the river all these years. “Sorry…sa,” Ibrahim said, sounding defeated as his eyes settled on the fat face and big grin of his boss’ longtime rival. There were four houseboys who stood behind him.

“Ibrahima, you look not well,” Ailemu said, wearing a creaseless bright white gown and kufi hat. “Do you want me to send you to my doctor?”

“No…sa,” Ibrahim said, caressing his sweaty forehead. “I thought…Abu—”

“Change of the fate, my son. I will be taking over for Abu.” Ailemu walked past Ibrahim—followed by his 4 houseboys—and stood at the edge of the hill, rubbing his hands and salivating at all he had been waiting for the past 3 weeks. “So this is the big one, eh… Mashallah.”

Ibrahim heard his stomach growling with impatience. It had been growling all morning since arriving at the river but his sales tactic (practiced over and over with Shaiku in the night’s prior) to close the deal along with excitement to beat Abu had kept his mind preoccupied. Now, with the thought of having to outmaneuver Ailemu, Ibrahim wished he had listened to his nagging wife and ate something before leaving home. He never competed with Ailemu before on a deal. Matter of fact, he did not remember ever seeing Ailemu at the river; it was always his “big head” and short salesman negotiating and closing deals on his behalf. Still, he had heard stories (lots of stories) about the “big belly man” and his callous way of doing business from not only his boss but also from other smaller cow traders. “Getting in the middle of Ailemu and money is like being in middle of a wolf and a sick sheep,” as bluntly put by a small inland trader who insisted on a private conversation. 

"Ibrahima, come my son," the voice beckoned, its resonance cutting through the air.

Like a doomed sailor answering the call of a siren, Ibrahim walked with heavy steps towards the voice. When he finally (and reluctantly) made it to the edge of the hill, a blubbery hand wrapped around and covered him like a robe.

“Don’t worry about Shaiku,” Ailemu said, pulling Ibrahim closer. He reached inside his big gown, pulled out and plopped a bundle of cash—folded and tied up in a rubber band—on the man’s thumping chest. “Take this and if he throws you out because of today, come to me. You don’t need to lie. Tell him it was me, not Abu. You are a good seller, Ibrahima. Allah knows I’m grateful to those who help me.” Ailemu released Ibrahim, who bent his head down, took his earnings for the day and scurried away.

With the competition out of the way, Ailemu shifted his attention to the impending transaction.

/The Business of Cow. A 3-Part Series Short Story about the life of early cattle traders in West Africa. By West African writer Josephine Dean/

Stories in reading order. Standalone stories can be read in any order (or not at all), although significant story arcs may mention and be built up from standalone stories. However, the end of certain arcs may require knowledge of characters and events from certain Standalone stories.

Welcome to the thrilling finale of this arc of Aster Mills! There will be more soon- but this brings the four part centerpiece to a close- and sets up a new, terrifying villain!

Whalesong I: Aster and the World of Brilliant Light

Aster and the False God of Stories (Standalone)

Aster and the Whisperling Storm (Standalone)

Aster and the Harpy King (Part One) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Aster and the Harpy King (Part Two) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Aster and the Numerology of Dead Gods (Standalone)

Aster and the Belly of the Whale (Part One) - Corpse Sea Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Belly of the Whale (Part Two) - Corpse Sea Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Harpy King (Part Three) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Aster and the Harpy King (Part Four/Finale) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Whalesong II: Aster and the Death of the Ether

Aster and the Lord of the Forest - Standalone

Aster and the Child of Grain (I: Burial Rites) - Child of Grain Arc

Aster and the Child of Grain (II: Poison and Pesticide) - Child of Grain Arc

Aster and the Sa Aterro Tomb (Part One) - The Remnant Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Sa Aterro Tomb (Part Two) - The Remnant Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Child of Grain (III: Open Flame) - Child of Grain Arc

You're Reading: Aster and the Child of Grain (IV: Consuption) - Child of Grain Arc

IV: Consumption

“We are assuming the target is the main Verne and Sons Logging operation downstream,” Julian began, an enchanted clay model depicting the location. “Several temp buildings here.”

Thylum shook his head and folded his hand. The clay model changed, zooming out nearby, so that we viewed an entirely different set of buildings. “There’s also this mining operation run by Verne and Sons,” Thylum informed. “This may also be a target.”

“This is true,” Quint added, “but does the Free Orchard have the numbers to attack and neutralize both?”

Matt looked up from his notes. “I saw about twenty, maybe thirty people at the meeting earlier. Assuming that Verne and Sons does not hire magicians it is an easy victory for the Orchard.”

I realized something- we’d seen Kryse Family diplomats at the Free Orchard meeting. I did a quick google search on their family. “The Kryse’s are stakeholders in Verne and Sons,” I said, speaking up. “They will defend their interests.”

Quint muttered something rude to himself, then spoke. “The Kryse’s don’t get along with us.” This was true. The Kryse’s were attuned to the ether, but they seemed to care more about their family’s interests in control and money more than the natural order.

Julian nodded along. “I can extend a message to the Kryse Family,” he offered. “Though I fear they could use this opportunity to wipe both us and the Free Orchard off the map.”

“Best not,” I decided. “Has Fern contacted us yet?”

Fern had stayed behind, an agent within the Free Orchard, so that we could plan ahead of time, know their plans.

“Not yet,” Quint told. “And night quickly approaches- we must ready our people.”

It was time to draw battle plans. Assuming that both targets would be attacked by the terrorists, we needed a dual defense. The sites were less than a few miles from each other.

But it was quickly settled. Julian’s people- followers of the New Gods would attack the mining operation, where their powers, stemming from the reflection of mankind would be strongest.

Quint and the Wanderer Society would combat the Free Orchard at the logging site, where the woods met machines. There, at the frontier of man and nature we would be strongest.

And then Fern called in, out in the woods outside the museum. The sun was setting, and the Orchard prepared.

We discussed our plans with her. She confirmed our suspicions. “The Child is leading the attack on the logging operation,” she started, “and the Father is taking on the mine- 20 people each.”

We had vastly underestimated their yield. “They outnumber us two to one,” Matt murmured. “I do not like those odds.”

“And where are you heading?” I asked.

Fern looked around, afraid. “The woods.” I nodded and told her we’d meet there. And so it began. There was no time for quips, for jokes- this was a time of dark tidings.

We sat in an inconspicuous car now, traveling the road, watching it all pass by. A caravan of cars, Julian’s people ahead of us, and mine leading the group.

We needed to get there before the Orchard, to set up our own defenses. Thylum readied himself, practicing shape signs upon a rock. Matt nervously cocked his rifle and checked it.

I slipped on my Whalebone gloves, attuning myself to the true world. The universe resonated with me, and I felt the presence of all things.

Quint steadied his driving. And in the blink of an eye, we were there.

I got out and steadied myself, feeling the pain of the earth. Four temporary buildings, large and rectangular sat in the distance. Workers ate and laughed, entering each- two housing units, a storage building, and a little cafeteria and gathering place.

Two people approached the group of us, in business suits.

I recognized one from earlier. “I am Ellie Kryse,” she introduced. “If you are here to strike down this operation-”

I shook my head. “We’re here to stop the Free Orchard.” She and her partner whispered something. “If they win here- they will prove they can win everywhere.”

The man nodded, to this. “I thought the Wanderer Society would support the goal of the Orchard.”

Quint shook his head tentatively. “In environmental restoration, yes,” he answered. “But not through senseless violence. We’ve had our differences-” I knew the Kryse Family had routinely been messing senselessly with the ether before, “-but we cannot let the Free Orchard succeed.”

I personally had only read up on the Kryses, but I’d never fought with or against one. But I knew they were inextricably intelligent, manipulating individuals.

Ellie shook her head in disgust. “The thought of working with a Mognis sickens me,” she murmured. “But this is a necessary alliance.” The man beside her nodded.

“And will you people stop trying to open a door into the Other Side?” Quint remarked, half joking.

The Other Side was a concept- the world where all the creatures of magic were beginning to cross over to, returning home. “Not our division,” the man replied, a smile on his face. “Sworn enemy or not, this will make us even.”

“What does he mean?” Thylum asked.

Quint smirked. “Not important- I’d helped them out before, and we’ll take this as a return favor.”

“Any other favors you’d like to cash in?” Matt suggested. He checked his phone, an app Julian had made us download. “Fern’s tracker shows them arriving here in ten minutes.”

“We’d best get started,” Ellie decided. “Basil- inform Anacoretta of this new development- I want resources as soon as possible. Oh,” she looked over at two workers eyeing us, “send all the workers to their quarters and lock it- we can’t have more loose threads.”

“I thought Anacorreta died,” Quint pointed out.

Basil turned around as he went to do his bidding. “You have your secrets. We have ours.” Quint shrugged and nodded. He turned to us then, and began instruction. “We’re going to make a shield!”

“Which ritual?” someone asked. In the distance, workers walked over to the large white building that housed them. Basil closed the doors, and with a prick of a knife, cast a spell, locking them in.

Quint thought a bit. “None you guys know- an old trick of mine.” He continued quickly- we worked together, spreading out and pressing our hands against the dirt.

“Why lock the workers in?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be safer to send them to town?”

Ellie shook her head. “These workers know too much- my family must not lose them.” That sounded shady. But this was the cost of our alliance.

Quint chanted something, and a line encircled the camp, a slight haze in the air- a barrier between the site and the outside world.

Ellie clapped slowly. “The Mognis half of the Zhi Vernysis.” She nodded, approving. “Let me and Basil complete the second half- the Shi Matyreo.”

There was clearly something more to these people and their relationship with Quint, and by extension- the Mognis name.

But now was not the time for questions. “Three minutes!” Matt shouted, readying his weapon.

Ellie and Basil held hands and chanted something- the skies seemed to darken, and the barrier reinforced itself, hastily vibrating with power. Thylum folded his hands, and the small rock he’d been carrying flung itself at the barrier- and it vaporized.

“It works,” Quint hoped. “We end the ritual now.”

“Agreed- anymore and the Knowing One will witness all,” Ellie murmured. Whatever their connection- it was a question for another day.

“They’re here,” Matt informed, pointing behind us- the woods. The shield perimeter wrapped around and remained strong as we moved to view them.

The Child, now older, fourteen, fifteen by the look of it drew closer, until he was right at the edge of the shield wall.

“You join us, Whale Worshipper,” he smiled, gently speaking. “Do you join us in victory?”

I shook my head. “I have a name. Aster.”

The Child studied the shield, his followers gathering behind him. I saw Fern too, eyeing me. “I do not,” the Child confessed. “They say I will bring calmness to the world. Peace.”

“When all things die, there is silence,” I responded. “That is no calm prayer.”

The Child pressed his hands against the shield and winced in pain- or was it annoyance. “I am that which would bring calmness to the world. There is no change without action. And this action will teach us to be tranquil, one with nature. It will-” he removed his hands, “bring a state of peace.”

I shrugged, “Still not a name,” I informed. “The Child that Will Bring Peace just isn’t speakable.”

The elderly woman who joined him gave me a look. “Do not tease the Child,” she warned.

The Child waved her away. “It is alright. Perhaps that will be my name,” he decided, “a name that is a state of peace.”

“What’s that?” I asked, talking through my teeth.

“I am Zen,” he decided, both a declaration of name and state of mind. He was irredeemably peaceful as he spoke, even as his words carried the ideas of death. “And you will not succeed tonight.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Even with your spy in our midst- do not worry for her safety. She is attuned- and thus worthy of safety.”

With that, Zen stepped back and ordered for his people to attack.

And so they did- the old woman sent fiery salamanders conjured from the mind onto the shield- which vaporized it completely. A younger man reached to the skies- and birds, now enchanted, came crashing down- blood erupting over the perimeter.

The folk elements crashed onto the shield- but it held strong.

Zen held up a hand and his people stopped. “You use the beginning of a ritual and use its energy for defense,” he inspected, declaring this to all. “I applaud the ingenuity- but,” he stepped forward.

I readied myself, walking back. Matt raised his rifle and chose a target. So did the rest of our people. The two Kryse’s began to invoke the name of something ancient.

“The invoked remnant of a god is nothing compared to one born of the Ether.” And with that, he reached through the barrier, wincing in pain, and wrenched a way in- practically snarling.

And then cracks appeared in the barrier- and with a thundering snap it shattered- sparks of energy crackling around us.

Zen smiled as his people, small in number as they were, advanced. “Let us cleanse this rot from the Orchard.”

Matt struck first- a bolt of purified ether bursting from his rifle. Zen reached out and the bolt stopped midair- then transforming into a thousand seeds. The elderly woman drew breath, and drew a symbol in the air.

A circular projection diagram appeared- and fire burst forward- aiming at me and Quint.

I crushed my sea marble and water defended me- nullifying the flames. Quint elected for a more brazen approach- reaching into the flames and returning it to its sender.

A Fen-Masked servant struck forward from the smoke that had come from the fire, charging and pouncing like an animal at us. Thylum clasped his hands and mimed a slashing motion- the earth drew up and sent his assailant flying.

“We will handle the God-Child,” Ellie announced. “Basil- with me!” And the two spoke in tongues, then drawing forth blood from their fingertips.

“I will join you-” Quint drew forth his knife, and whispered vile words into it.

And so the three danced into battle, surrounding Zen. The God-Child smiled and drew forth the ether itself, sending hissing daggers at the three.

Three Orchard members set their sights on me- the elderly Firebreather and her two aides, a man and a woman. Their tattoos glistened and burnt with ancient folk magic.

I had dealt with rogue Salamander Worshippers before. I looked around- both Matt and Thylum were preoccupied with their own battles. Everyone else too, was locked in war.

Water against fire- the three drew up triangular diagrams- and a concentrated pillar of fire drilled against my water layer. I felt the ether course through me-

-and with a decisive push I collapsed my barrier into my own diagram- a six pointed hexagram.

Theirs was a pillar of fire- mine drew forth spirits of water beyond our world- strange liquid beings now at my aid. But I had to be quick- invocation was not my strongest suit.

I left the diagram to defend itself. Now I drew another weapon- a book. For the Whale was the god of storytelling- and the ink drew itself to life. It was a record of my travels- and I drew forth its words.

The spirit of the whale washed over me as serpentine ink dragons erupted from it, coiling and snapping at the Firebreathers.

The diagram I’d made melted away as I drew my attention to the ink, collapsing back into a marble. But it had done its duty- the water had extinguished and weakened the flame.

The ink swirled and in my mind’s eye I saw the stories of the three- and the loss of their ancestral home when the companies of oil and gold found what they sought.

The ink had exhausted them now, replaying their darkest memories- I raised a hand to their head and whispered softly, giving them the gift of sleep and story in dream.

Three down. I looked up to see how the battle fared.

Matt fired and dispatched the Fen-Follower I’d seen. Thylum warped the clothes of a fleeing man, incapacitating him. Our people pushed back against the terrorists, drawing forth the sleeping names of ancient deities.

A bolt of lightning struck near me- but Fern stopped it with a strange sandy liquid- she had given up the act and fought with us now.

We were on the verge of victory.

And then Ellie screamed in agony, and I saw her on her knees, Zen pressing his palm into her head. Quint and Basil went cast aside, quickly scrambling to get up.

But it was too late- Zen smiled grimly and he pushed the Kryse woman away. She got up and tried to strike back, but failed. And then she gasped in horror as flowers began to bloom on her arm.

And then her chest. Her wrists, her knees- and suddenly from within her throat, now choking. And then she backed away and fell- then freezing in place as her entire body was transmuted into a flower-filled tree.

The Kryses, working with Quint, were powerful. But the child of a god would always make them seem small. But her fight and sacrifice had bought us enough time to turn it into a victory.

Quint practically hissed and leapt from the earth- strange serrated knife plunging into Zen, who snarled in pain.

The carvings on the knife began to glow- draining Zen away. Quint plunged it out and recollected himself.

Zen backed away, not terrified, but oddly calm. “My children,” he began, coughing, “we cannot win like this- regroup!”

His words were less honeyed now, instead blunt, crushing. I was almost tempted to walk with him. His followers obeyed, and they retreated to a distance.

“Ellie,” Basil whispered, a tear in his eye. “He killed my sister!“

Quint reached for him and brought him up. “And he will kill many more if we don’t act now- we need to create another barrier.”

Basil shook his head in defeat. “He’ll just break it again like the first time.”

“No he won’t- the poisons carved into this knife is Gu from the five noxious creatures- its toxins will keep him at bay- for now,” Quint informed. He sighted me and nodded.

I relayed the information to our people.

“I recall that knife being an heirloom of my people,” Basil hissed.

“Before it was Krysian the knife belonged to the Adyr,” Quint insisted. “Now cast the damn ritual!”

We drew to the earth.

Quint and Basil chanted- and the shield perimeter emerged again, smaller- we had been pushed back towards the worker quarters, who banged at the doors, confused.

Quint and Basil focused themselves. I took the lead. “How many dead?!” I snapped. “Injured?”

Thylum counted- so did I. “Two- three dead,” he murmured. “All of us have suffered injuries- one unconscious.”

I checked myself- I’d suffered burns, but nothing that couldn’t be erased with a spell. “Our enemies?”

Matt appeared with a binocular. “We’ve taken six prisoner- three of which you dealt with,” he answered. “Three more of them dead outside the barrier- we’ve both faced major losses here.”

Fern handed me a piece of paper. “Took this from them when I had the chance- don’t know what language, though.” I stared at it- I didn’t understand it either.

I swore in Whaletongue and walked over to the barrier. Zen was tending to a dying follower, speaking sweet words as the follower passed from our world into the next.

“Zen!” I shouted. He closed the eyes of the dead and walked over. “Do you not see how violence brings only pain?!”

Zen looked oddly repentant now. “You appear to be correct,” he confessed. “I feel the pain of my followers- and yours. Perhaps violence begets only more pain and chaos.”

I was taken aback- I assumed he’d stay steadfast in his belief. “Then stop this! We can work together and find another way!”

Zen sat down, cross legged. I joined him. “I shall formulate a different plan to cleansing the earth,” he murmured. “But the world must be shown the true path- to reject the great machine and embrace the natural world once again.”

“And we can do that,” I replied. “But not through blood. Crushing those who stand in your way will only create martyrs and create another divide between those who can see beyond, and those who remain ignorant.”

Zen nodded solemnly. “The Father is wrong,” he realized. “Violence begets violence.”

He was more receptive than I’d thought. “Then stop this,” I insisted. “Join us instead.”

Zen closed his eyes and thought. “No,” he murmured. “This win would be a call to action,” he answered. “This is the only violence necessary- a sacrificial statement that will rouse the sleeping to my cause.”

He was right. “But those are still human lives!” I argued. “Just because it will remind the Attuned we need to fight for cane doesn’t make it moral!”

“Precisely so,” Zen said. “They’re human. Not attuned. Not like us- more than human. Their lives only ruin the earth-” he raised a hand to silence me, “but they do not deserve senseless pain.”

He was thinking now. “Then leave this!”

“They must die for our people to walk across the earth once again,” Zen decided. “Be ready, Whale-Follower,” he warned. “Masuya Daran will be here soon.”

He began to rise, to walk away. “What does that mean?!” I called.

Quint, exhausted, approached me, watching the demigod leave. “I’ve received word from Julian,” he started. “Their team has been defeated. They say an eighty percent casualty rate on our people and the miners.”

“And,” I continued, “I assume the Father is on his way here now?”

And then the skies lit up as a divine meteor pummeled the wall. We turned to the opposite side, the one facing the road. “I would say,” the long-lived man and his people, bloody drew outside, “he’s arrived.”

I readied myself, joining the rest of the group in the middle. We regrouped ourselves and cast a quick healing spell.

“If we die here,” Matt began, half joking, “I want you to know that your macarons are really not that bad.”

“What are you even talking about?” I wondered. Ahead of us, the Father began uttering a spell- and carvings began to be etched into the barrier, slowly weakening it. “I didn’t make any macaroons.”

Fern’s face went an odd shade. “I think he’s talking about mine.”

“I’ll have to try some,” I murmured. “Provided we win this.”

And then Zen emerged and shattered the weakened barrier, sparks once again erupting through the air.

And then it began again- we raised our weapons and made our stand- the few against the many.

My sphere was extinguished, so I opted for something deadlier. A little triangular chip, one which I bit- the power of the salamander coursed through my veins.

And then we fought- I breathed fire onto a man made of insects- he sent ants erupting all over be, stinging and devouring at me. Matt’s rifle was cut in half by a man with a sword- but he sent a punch to the throat.

Another Fen follower was locked in battle with Fern, slashing at her with claws. She drew back, and with the utterance of a spell, invoked snakevine from the earth around the fey-worshiper.

Basil Kryse and Quint Mognis, in unlikely alliance fought as a pair- their ancient knowledges working as two parts of a whole- there was more to their lore, I was certain.

Basil struck and uttered half a spell- and Quint concluded it- and three members of the Orchard erupted in black flame.

But this duality was met by Zen and the Father- the two pushing their people aside as they injured our people. The Father raised a knife to kill an old friend- but Zen stopped him, instead choosing to put him to sleep.

Our victories were minimal.

All around us there were too many of them- without the other team this stand meant nothing. And with the victory the Free Orchard had seized, every cut, every injury on both our sides was a sign they were right.

Zen and the Father sealed our fates- within minutes our agents were down- Fern too, and then Thylum.

Matt attempted to rush forwards, but Zen, with a flick of a finger, sent him sliding across the debris. “Father,” Zen began, “deal with the star-blooded. But do not kill them.”

“I will do so,” he answered, walking over.

Quint and Basil fought wildly- but they had extended their power too much, and fell quickly.

I backed away and found myself against the quarters of the workers. I had one option- to let them free and hope they’d live. Whatever secrets the Kryse’s were digging into here could be free, for all I cared.

Better than death.

I began to unlock the spell holding the door. “You will not let them free,” Zen ordered, behind me. “They must perish so that the ether may be restored.”

I ignored him and unlocked it. I opened the door to see terrified, confused workers. I turned to Zen and readied myself, ready to buy time. “If your call to action begins with blood-”

He cut me off and reached into the ether, dragging me aside through the dirt. The workers scrambled to run, but stalks of thorny field blocked the exit. “But this call to action will save so many- by bringing the Attuned to actions- we can fix the world.”

“How?!” I snapped. “You say you agree that violence is not the answer- but you haven’t explained yourself?!”

Zen knelt beside me. He snapped and fire burst through the field, unnatura fire that quickly spread across the building. And through screams he spoke in whispers. “Because you wouldn’t agree either way,” he murmured. The screams grew louder- he had won. “But it is the only option. Our forests are not bathed and grown blood- so we should not feed it blood and expect regrowth.”

“Then what?” I attempted to stand, but he pushed on me through the ether, holding me in place.

He began to speak of something else. “If there is anything to seek so revenge it is the seed of the earth. It is buried alive, but its persistence drives it forward.” He was the seed. A parable. “It is poisoned with pesticide and death. But it becomes stronger than ever. Then it is milled and burned in ovens and mills. And then what has it for its actions? For living?”

“It’s eaten,” I answered. “It’s grain.”

The screams began to die now- whatever otherworldly fire he had used was violently fast. “Humanity abuses the earth- my kind like this, but you, in the short words we have spoken have taught me more. Violence will forever cause persistence, cause divide.”

“Then what the hell do you want?”

Zen sat down, crosslegged again and nodded to himself.

He recited the parable from earlier.

"Does a rotted apple not poison the barrel? Should we not then cleanse the Orchard and ensure it is healthy and restored to order? Humanity is very much like an unkempt orchard- only those who respect the earth, connect to its very essence, ether should be kept.” It was different now.

“I,” he continued, “would not bring this about with violence- I would sterilize the Human Race in secret- save one- those connected to the true earth. We would end climate change- racial genocide, and restore the world to environmental balance- to natural order! For does a worm not remain in the ground? Does a bird not cling to the skies? Should humanity then not return to its natural place and respect the earth once more?”

“That’s-”

He silenced me. “Hush now, child of the free earth,” he assured. “I am patient. Our people would repopulate the earth. Father is not patient enough. His ideas of violence need to be proven in the Now. But why choose violence when you can elimate the enemy without shedding a scale of blood.”

Father approached us now, admiring the flames. “Child,” he began.

“My name is Zen,” he informed.

“We’re spreading our flyers everywhere,” he told. “I think our next target is the Paracell Oil-” and then he stopped, wincing. Zen stood up, matching his height. The Father coughed now, and petals drifted from his mouth.

“Your ideas are too violent,” Zen added. “They would cause- like here today, the bloodshed of our people too.”

He choked. “I summoned you!” More petals drifted. “A little sacrifice-”

“Hush now, child of the earth,” Zen whispered. I felt my own vision fading as Zen’s influence affected me. “You have lived too long, heard the song of the dead, too far. Your violence can only blossom.”

“I can change,” he coughed, dying, falling to his knees. “I will follow your lead.”

“I see all futures of my people,” Zen claimed. “And you would lead your sect into pain. Hush now, free child,” he assured. “You will rest in my Father’s domain.”

And with that, the Father blossomed into a thousand strange orchids. Zen looked at me, and with a clasping of the hand, sent me into dream.

When I awoke, it was morning. Quint was up, and so was everyone- though not for long.

“They’re all alive!” Quint shouted. I looked over, standing to see our people who had died- had risen with the sun. “Impossible.”

But the workers were all dead.

“It was Zen,” I murmured. “I think I’ve made him worse.”

Quint checked his phone- Julian’s team was fine, revived as the sun grew brighter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt spoke up, hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get through this.”

I shook my head. “I know we will,” I answered. “But the world may not.”

I picked up a poster held to the ground by a rock, drifting in the wind. My eyes looked over its manifesto, its call to action. They settled on the apple tree in the center of the page.

I focused on the two words below it. Two words that filled me with both hope and terrible disgust.

I read them aloud. “Free Orchard.”

​

Next Time: Aster and the Exorcism

Later Next Song: Aster and the Free Orchard

With specific purpose he reached into the darkness. He felt a number of familiar items on top of the bedroom nightstand. Through 'muscle memory' he recognized the shape of his cell phone and the boring book he had given up on. There were numerous other distinctive items too. Remote controls for the television and stereo, his eyeglass case, a pile of assorted coins, and a plastic alarm clock.

In the middle of all these familiar items was an object, both strange and wholly unfamiliar. It felt almost organic in texture. As if a cold set of hairy knuckles and gnarled fingers were perched in the center of the table. In his late night stupor, all he wanted was his tube of chapstick but after the disturbing encounter in the middle of the clutter, he was wide awake.

Gingerly he reached past the mysterious object to find the light switch. Thankfully, It was right where it was supposed to be. A snap of the switch cast its light directly into his eyes. He looked away until he could handle the painful stimuli. Once adjusted, he squinted toward the center of the nightstand.

All of the other encountered items were present but the mystery object was nowhere to be seen. Did it scurry away in fear? The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The prospect of having an uninvited critter was not a pleasant one. He raised up off the mattress and glanced at the floor on the other side of the table. There was nothing out of place. Whatever he pawed in the dark appeared to be gone. Somehow that wasn't of much comfort. It could come back, after all.

He coated his parched lips with the balmy ointment and reluctantly turned off the light. He scanned the darkness for any scurrying sounds. There were none. He hoped his curious visitor had retreated back to more hospitable area of the house. With any luck, a carefully placed trap in the kitchen would soon end its illegal occupation.

While he heard nothing, a distinctive unpleasant odor permeated the night air. His skin crawled at the thought of involuntary sharing his home with an unknown rodent. Just the thought caused his whole body to burn and itch. Psychosomatic reaction or not, it was a very visceral feeling and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Despite the lingering fear, he still refused to turn the light back on. He was an adult and determined to work past any primitive reaction.

An indeterminate amount of time later he was almost asleep when troubling thoughts of the unwelcome vermin returned. Its prior stench hovered in the air and filled his nostrils. That in turn made his throat feel parched. Instinctively he felt around in the mattress for a safety buffer between him and 'it'. There were the usual wrinkles in the sheet and tell-tale crumbs from a late-night snack. The thick hem of his pillow case made for an uneven transition down against the bed.

He smoothed out the wrinkles and fanned away the crumbs. It was then that he felt it. The 'visitor' was back again and this time, it had crawled in bed with him! He froze in terror. What was it doing? Was it 'snuggling' with him for warmth in the freezing room? Involuntary shivers coursed through his body but he didn't dare move. What if it bit or stung him? Why wasn't it afraid?

With as much speed as he could muster, he exited the other side and ran over to the light switch. In his haste, he misjudged the clearance of the bedpost and kicked it with this toes. Amazing, it wasn't immediately followed by waves of excruciating pain that one would expect. He chalked it up to the temporary fear and adrenaline.

He fumbled in the dark until he felt the switch. Immediately the room was bathed in illumination but there was no sign of the mystery creature under his blanket. He shivered from the cold in the room and was puzzled to see the thermostat was set for 72 degrees. He bumped it up a couple notches while he performed a search of the room. It wasn't underneath the bed and it wasn't in the closet. The smell was strong in the air though. Whatever it was, it was very near and he couldn't rest until it was absolutely gone.

He tried to slide the dresser away from the wall but all strength had left him. His joints were stiff and swollen from an apparent illness and a feeling of extreme lethargy overwhelmed him. Fear began to rise. His already healthy imagination kicked into overdrive. Had he been infected by a deadly disease or malady from his uninvited guest? Only the mission to rid his home of the unknown vermin kept him active at all.

A pervasive, systemwide numbness overtook his senses. He raised his palm to feel his forehead for evidence of a fever but got a terrifying shock, instead. The mysterious creature haunting him was apparently on top of his head the whole time! It had eye sockets, fur and an oozing mouth. He tried to pull it loose but the parasite resisted every effort.

He opened his dry lips to scream but only a pitiful screech came out. In the bathroom he flipped on the light and fearfully gazed in the mirror of truth. No amount of preparation could have prepared him for what he saw. He watched as his own unfeeling hand caressed his numb forehead. There was nothing else in the reflection. He finally understood that the mysterious creature on his nightstand was his own numb, decaying hand. He couldn't feel any part of his body because a corpse stood before him.

First/Previous/Next

It was pitch black and we spoke to one another in little whispers in the mechanic’s office; I was only able to make out the vaguest shapes before I struck my lantern alive and sat it on a desk. Dust levitated in the air and the room was small and Dave hesitantly sat in the plastic swivel chair behind the desk. Old papers stuck to the desk’s surface, all but becoming one with the object. Lining the walls of the office, laid upon the floor were old boxes of tinned food or oils or scraps of blanket for comfort. On the far wall was the only exit to the room, leading to the exterior of the shop; there were no windows. Everything had a coating of dust—it’d been quite some time since I’d used the safehouse because I’d never been delighted with camping overnight on the ground level of a building. I moved to a wall where there were strewn blankets, found a tough and coarse one then tossed it on the ground, straightening it into a square. Dave watched me, totally quietly.

Kneeling in the square, I removed my pack from my shoulder and sat my camping stove there. Once I’d settled in front of it with my legs crossed, I took out a deep aluminum pan and turned to Dave who’d leaned across the desk with his head resting in both of his palms.

“Hungry?” I asked him.

“Sure.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. I’m just fascinated. I had no idea how you survived out here all on your own.” His eyes scanned the wall with stacked boxes of cans. “Seems you’re set.”

“It took a long time to collect.” I began dumping corn, tomatoes, and beans into the pan. “It won’t taste great, but it will be warm and filling.”

“What’s the furthest south you’ve ever been?”

“Georgia. Do you know it?”

He nodded. “Furthest north?”

“Not much further than Golgotha.”

“So, you’ve never even been up to see the great valleys?”

I shook my head and lit a cigarette.

“Even I’ve seen them, granted it was when I was so young, I hardly remember them. What about west?” He seemed eager.

“No more than Ebenezer. I think. That’d be somewhere in Kansas if you know anything about it.”

“Damn,” Dave scratched his cheek, “Haven’t heard of it.”

“There ain’t a lot out that way anymore. Reminds me of down south. Used to be some places down there.” I shook the pan with one hand and flicked ash across the blanket with the one holding the cigarette. “It’s all dead now. Maybe there’s something. Probably not.”

“Everyone always talks about how there’s other places. I’ve seen some. I think a lot of young people wouldn’t know Pittsburgh if it was on the horizon, but when I was little, we’d go there sometimes.”

I nodded. “It’s dead. No use worrying about it now.”

“Seems like places have gone more infested since then.” He rounded the desk, leaving the swivel chair to protest at him ascending off it. The smell from the concoction in the pan filled the office; it wasn’t much but I dashed some salt across it before giving it a shake. “What do you think about it?”

“Killin’ the Bosses?”

Dave nodded and sat on the floor with me, removing his pack and his shirt; he flapped a hand in front of him to cool himself. “Well?”

“I think you’re not the first that would’ve tried. You’ve seen them. You’ve seen them use the stocks; I know you have. You’ve seen them strip men, women, children—beat them in the street with sticks. You’ve seen the sorts of pain they bring. What makes you think you’d stand a chance against anything like that?” I studied him while he craned back on his arms for support and stared at the black ceiling overhead. “You’re too soft for it.”

“Yeah,” he snapped, jerking his head down to stare right into my eyes, “Maybe I’m soft. Maybe I am. But you,” a smirk formed, “You aren’t. You get invited to little banquets. You know them and can get close.”

“The hell you say.” I took a long drag from the cigarette and blew it over my shoulder.

“I know you could, so why don’t you? Why haven’t you?”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you want to leave a better world than when you came into it?”

“Tried that.” I shook the pan again and let it simmer. “It’s a fool’s game.”

Dave scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

“You expect me to walk into the hall of Bosses and what? Think I can kill ‘em all?”

“So, we start a revolution. That’s what we do. A revolution. I know people that’d agree.”

“They’ll string you up the wall or worse. Remember what they do to their enemies? Remember what they did to Lady? She’s a prime example of the punishment that revolution brings.”

“It wouldn’t be like that.”

“No? You don’t remember it? How long have you lived in Golgotha? How many years? You remember. It’s the changing of seasons, the negotiation of one warlord for another. Revolution’s for idiots. I say we scrape by.” I held up my thumb and forefinger to demonstrate how close one might need to scrape by. “That. That’s what we do. Anything more and you’re asking for it.”

“Well,” he laid his shirt out by his side, flat so that it might dry from his sweat, “I guess I took the tinman for having a heart.”

“Oh, you’re so clever—you know a story. Guess you should know about the tinman’s friend. The one made of straw. You remember what he was missing?”

“You sayin’ we’re friends?”

“You would take it to mean that.”

“And you think I’ve never met someone with a chip on their shoulder before. Your ideas are easy. It’s a coward’s way.”

“Watch it.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Henry believed in it, and I believed like you. He was young and hopeful.”

I took a puff from my cigarette while keeping my attention on the pan. “You’ve seen what young and hopeful does.”

Although I didn’t look at him, I felt his presence tense up. “What a thing to say to someone.”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s the thing you should hear.”

We ate the vegetable concoction in relative quiet; it wasn’t flavorful, but the warmth brought my bones to relaxing and we pushed against the desk with our backs, remaining on the floor while we finished.

It was sometime in the dead of the night that a far and dreamlike noise roused me—it was the voice of a human (unmistakably so) from somewhere far off and it was initially so faint and distorted that one could’ve mistaken it for an animal or beast if they’d convinced themselves of such. Within my first few blinks of coming to wake, I attempted to do just that, but as I tiredly scanned the direction of Dave and saw him already on his feet, frightened eyes staring back at me; cut against the darkness as a shape, he towered.

“What’s that?” he breathed at me.

I attempted to brush it off. “Nothing to worry about.”

“It sounds like a boy. He sounds like he’s in trouble.”

I shook my head. “Go back to sleep.”

“Shh. It’s getting closer, I think.” Seconds passed. “It is!” He snatched a lantern and lit it, so the small office was bathed in yellow.

“Leave it be. It’s none of our business.”

Dave shot a look at me I didn’t care for. “You really are a coward.” With that, he bolted for the door leading out into the night and twisted the lock before swinging the door out into the nothingness of the ruins.

“If you go out there,” at this point, I’d scrambled to my feet and had readied myself for any terrible thing to propel through the entryway, “If you do, goddammit, you had better not come back.”

He shook his head then disappeared into the night; his shadow was visible for moments and then it wasn’t, and he was nothing more than the glow of the lantern he’d taken, and I was in darkness again. I moved to the door and blinked but could see nothing against the shadows of the tall buildings—I focused on Dave’s lantern and felt it draw me out but fought the pull.

“Hello!” shouted Dave, “Hello! Is anyone out here? I heard your yelling!”

“Idiot,” I whispered from the doorway.

“Hey! Are you out here?” The lantern swung around wildly as though he was scanning his immediate area; he’d come upon a wall across a street and so the light he carried painted his shadow high upon a wall.

Then the voice came again, clearer than ever “Help!” but I couldn’t tell from where, as the echo carried it all around. It was certainly a young voice, scared. Probably a boy like Dave had said. “I’m lost! Something’s after me! I’m hurt! Please help!”

“Here!” Dave shouted; his wall shadow waved an arm around wildly. “Can you see me?”

“I’m trying! I’ve been hurt and something’s out here! Something’s cut me bad!” shrieked the voice.

My intestines twisted around, and I left the doorway after snatching a light of my own, moving over a display of shadow-cast rubble, tripping towards Dave while igniting my lantern. “Hello?” I shouted. Moonlight splintered through apertures of the tall buildings poorly so that most everything was difficult to see. “Dave! Get back inside goddammit!”

Only several yards from safety, I saw a smaller shadow plunge into the halo around Dave and pull itself along on all fours before meeting him and staggering to a full stand. The small figure threw its right arm around Dave, and he seemed to take the burden easily, moving from the wall, through the street, near me on the other side. “It’s a boy!” Dave laughed nervously, “I think he’ll be alright. Did you hear that?” he asked the boy, “You’ll be alright.”

A cat-like hiss came from somewhere in the blackness of the towering structures from somewhere up high. Then it came again, but closer, and I moved quickly to Dave to take up the boy on his other side and we moved along in a circle of light; strangely a liquid dampened me where the boy crooked an arm around my lowered neck, and I knew immediately that it was blood. Indeed, the boy was injured. The smell off him was immediate. “Hurry,” I said, “It’s watching us. It’s got his scent.”

No one confirmed they heard me, but I felt a presence in the dark ahead. The office was merely running steps away and the boy’s muscles had given to exhaustion, so we pulled him along on the tips of his shoes.

“Take him,” I spoke to Dave, slipping from beneath the boy’s arm, and taking ahead with my lantern. The hiss came again and there were two white orbs caught in a happenstance of brief moonlight, eyes resting in a face of waxen skin, sickly and damned. “Alukah!” I shouted at the thing. It stepped into the radius of my light, and I swung at it with my lantern, giving the flame a series of hiccups where each of us strobed. “Dave! Run ahead. Take him inside!” The creature’s mouth grimaced, exposing a series of fangs along its round mouth, standing off its black gums; a hiss escaped its throat and I saw it twist around to pace the edge of my light, moving from the pathway to the office; its spine arched high, each vertebra pointed, countable; its long black hair hung off its rattish face and it moved like a distorted person on its hind legs, impossibly long pale arms hung before itself and swayed side to side with each of its steps.

Dave darted past us, launching the boy into the room first then spinning around to call after me, “Come on!”

Hesitantly, I stepped sideways to keep the thing in my sight, all the while being sure not to make eye contact. A pulse was in my ears. “Don’t come any closer,” I said to the thing.

Fast as a whip, it took a swipe at me with one of its incredibly long arms while I swung my lantern in the opposite direction, meeting its knuckles with the glass protector. Fire exploded across its forearm and where the oil landed, light took to it until the creature was partially ablaze and I ran, leaving the destroyed lamp behind. The Alukah screamed in agony—the singe of its skin was audible. It barked before launching itself away on its muscular hind legs while I scurried through the door into the office.

Dave slammed the door shut, relocked it and the howl of the creature came more and more till it receded somewhere far off and we turned our attention to the boy that’d been deposited by the desk; the young man was perhaps sixteen or so, skin and bone so that his blood-stained clothes hung off him poorly, and his hair was long, and his face was sickly.

“Thank you,” said Dave.

I said nothing and snatched the light from Dave, holding it before my face to examine the boy better in its glow. He’d stuffed his left arm beneath his right armpit and stared blankly between his knees; it took me a moment, but upon kneeling by him, I could see that in his right hand he was holding something. I sighed and waved Dave over. “Get the stove and turn it on,” I said.

“Hmm?” asked Dave, leaning over my shoulder to see. “Oh.” His voice came soft.

The boy was holding his left hand, severed clean from its wrist, in his right hand and he’d tucked the nub into his right armpit; his lips trembled, and his eyes darted like a panicked animal when I reached out for his severed hand.

“Don’t take it,” said the boy, “It’s mine.”

I nodded, “I know it is. It’s yours. You’ll get it back, but first I need you to drop it and let me see your wound.”

Our eyes met. He looked tired. The stove clinked to life when Dave twisted its knob and the boy relaxed his shoulders and I took the cold hand, setting it to the side.

“Let’s see it then,” I said.

He blew air from pursed lips and nodded, untucking his left wrist from under his armpit; the blood had scabbed to his clothes there and so when he pulled the wrist away, his shirt clung for a moment, and he let go of a hiss at the pain. The red muscle stood exposed, steaming warm in the open air but I could see no bone peeking through. The wrist wept freely, and I clamped a hand around his forearm. He winced and his eyes went unfocused.

I shifted on my knee to look at Dave. “Gimme’ your belt,” I said.

He offered it freely, ripping it from his waist. I took the belt around the boy’s arm and tightened it before tucking the excess. With that done, I removed my own belt, folded it fat and told the boy to bite into it.

“Stove’s hot,” said Dave.

I reached out and touched the boy’s cheek. “This is gonna’ be shitty.”

The boy nodded.

Me and Dave both held the squirming young man while we took his nub to the stove’s hot eye. Blood boiled around the wound, fizzing while sending up blackish smoke. He screamed through the belt, and I heard the leather in his mouth crackle as he motioned his jaw back and forth.

There was a fair enough amount of kicking and screaming; all the while, the most prominent thought on my mind was that I’d have been better off had I smashed Dave’s skull in. They drew too much attention, made too much noise, cared too much.

The cries of the boy subsided and became sniffles as I took to wrapping his wound and removing the belts from him; there was now a set of permanent teeth marks in the leather. Once I’d medicined the boy, he remarked over his missing hand, and I returned it. Taking to shaking sleep, he held the thing to his chest with his remaining hand.

Once he was probably asleep, Dave and I sat around the desk, him on the chair and me on stacked boxes—I lit a cigarette and cut my eyes at him. “Would’ve been better to leave him.”

Dave shook his head. “How could you say that?”

“Bunch of liabilities.”

Ignoring this, he asked, “What was that thing? You called it something strange.”

“It’s an old name.” I shrugged. “We should move on real early. As soon as the sun’s out. We’ve made a lot of noise. I hope you’re ready to watch after him. That’s your reward for being a hero.”

“You helped.”

“I don’t like seeing people die, believe it or not.”

“No. I think you’d rather plug your ears and close your eyes to it all.” There was a pause and Dave leaned his elbows onto the desk and placed his head in his hands. “Shouldn’t we move before daybreak then? If you’re so worried.”

“Not while that things out there and knows good and well where we are.”

“Won’t it just break down that door?”

I shook my head. “Needs an invitation.”

Dave eyed the sleeping kid. “Poor guy.”

As the first daylight poured over the ruins, I stirred the young man awake and at first it seemed as though he wouldn’t and then perhaps one issue would’ve solved itself; the boy came to life after a few nudges against my boot and he looked miserable and pale and cold. He let out a stifled cry upon seeing me stand over him and then he pushed himself into a sit then examined his surroundings.

I arranged my supplies and Dave asked the kid, “How is it?”

“How do you think it is?” asked the kid.

“I’m Dave anyway.” Then he nodded in my direction, “Harlan.”

“Andrew,” said the kid.

I froze in my gathering of supplies then shouldered my pack and looked over the young man—beneath his armpit he still cradled the dead hand. “You came out here with a young girl several days ago. Went out west?”

Andrew wrinkled his nose then nodded.

“Hell,” said Dave, “How’d you know that?”

“Gemma?” I asked.

The kid nodded again.

Dave sighed and brushed his hand over his head. “You’re the fella’ that disappeared with a Boss’s daughter.” Then there was the overt clenching of his jaw. “You created a heap of trouble when you did that. You know that?”

Andrew did not say a thing.

I stepped toward the kid, and he flinched. “The two of you went west. How’d you get split up?” I shook my head and took to lighting a cigarette. “How’d you not die out there?”

Andrew shrugged. “Gem ran and I couldn’t find her.”

“Why’d you do it?” asked Dave. “Do you have any idea the misery you two left behind?”

“Hold on,” I put up a hand, “Tell it plainly Andy.”

“My name’s not Andy,” said the kid, “It’s Andrew.”

“Fine.”

“Gem wanted out from her duties as the heir to Boss Harold. She said she hoped for a place out west. She said that’s where the wizards come from and so there must be a place worth going. Maybe Babylon—maybe something more out there.” The kid had a scaredness in his eyes, a real twinkle of defeat, but there was something else too—beyond those shiny wet eyes was the look of a determined soul perhaps. “She took off when she got scared and then I got all turned around. I even saw the walls of home, but when I met the edge of the field in the day, the men on the walls shot at me. I tried screaming, but I don’t think they heard me.”

“Stupid kids,” I said.

“Now hold on,” said Dave, “This kid’s caused more trouble than he’s worth. Do you know the people that’ve died because of you runnin’ off with the Boss’s daughter like that? Do you have any idea?” Dave took across the room and grabbed Andrew by the shoulders and shook him good and hard and the boy dropped his severed hand where it smacked the ground. “Do you?” The man was screaming at the kid.

Reaching out, I touched Dave. “Calm. It’s time to move. We can make it home easily before nightfall.” I turned my attention to Andrew. “I don’t reckon you’ll have the warmest welcome if you follow.”

“Well wait,” pleaded Andrew, “You can’t leave me out here. I’ll die for sure.”

“Hey,” I said, “You wanted the opportunity to walk the wastes and find something better. Now’s your chance. Go for it.”

“No,” said Dave. The big man’s shoulders slumped, and he moved from the boy and when he did so the young man reached to the ground to pluck up the hand he’d dropped, “We can’t leave him out here.”

“You finally admitted yourself,” I said, “He’s far more trouble than he’s worth.”

“I-is Gem alright?” asked Andrew.

I nodded.

A relief rushed across his face before he swallowed. “Good.”

“Daylight’s burnin’.” I put the cigarette out against the edge of the desk. “We should go.”

We took off from the office and into the ruins where earliest sunbeams cut through narrow alleys and the sky was red and the buildings were gray or black and every sound carried far and back and there was a warmth in the air like moving through thick blood. Wherever I went, the two followed with paranoid expressions at every potential threat; whenever we’d skirt across a stretch of road where the debris was lighter for travel, one of them might kick up a loose bit of rubble and freeze for a moment as though it was the harbinger for what creatures might’ve been watching from dark shadows. But we were alone in the ruins for the time because I could hear nothing, could see nothing, smelled nothing beyond the dust. “I’ve seen some of them,” hushed Andrew to either me or Dave and I pivoted around to stare at him till he was ashamed of speaking and we moved on again.

The dirt in the air was thick and wind kicked up around the tall buildings and the narrow strip of sky overhead, cut out by high rooftops was like a riverway where thin and white vaporous clouds listed. “What’ll we do with the kid when we get home?” asked Dave; I tried giving him the same look I’d given to Andrew and the merry troupe was quiet as we came upon the edge of the field around Golgotha, and we could just see the structures that cut against the sky along the tops of the walls. I ordered the two of them to manufacture a small semi-circle shelter from strewn concrete and when they started it, I dropped my pack and took in helping them with it so that within half an hour, we took refuge within a small and temporary cairn shaped structure.

We drank water and cooled ourselves within the meager shade.

Andrew was timid in asking, “What’s going to happen? Will you sneak me in?” He cradled his hand.

“It’s just a little further,” I said.

Dave peered across the field with his binoculars and slammed back water. “Lot of wall men. Maybe wait till dark?”

I shook my head. “We’ll be marching in front and that’s that.”

Dave raised his brow. “What? They’ll kill the boy.”

“I don’t think so.”

Andrew piped in, “I don’t want to do this.”

“Shh.” I was tired; travelling companions, for their utility, could be a bother. “You’ll need to trust me.” The kid held his severed hand. “And give me that.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll give it back. It’s yours after all. What am I going to do with three hands?”

Shaking and still pale, he dispensed with the hand and Dave handed him water and I pushed the dry and dead thing into my pack.

We moved across the field, me waving a reflective flag over my head; a shot rang out but nowhere near us and I saw Andrew flinch at the noise. Dave fell in alongside me.

“They’ll kill him,” said Dave just so the kid couldn’t hear.

“They might,” I admitted, “But he needs someplace to look after that wound properly and I don’t think he’s up for living in the wastes alone.”

There was a moment where all that could be heard was breathing and footsteps and dirt catching across the ground with wind. “And have you given anymore thought to what I came to you for?”

“After. We’ll talk after. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’m scared,” whimpered Andrew.

“Be brave,” said Dave.

We took to the gate as it swung open and there was Maron with his wall men, yards from the opening, some knelt behind sandbags; their guns were angled at us and Maron was grinning. “Is that who I think it is?” The Boss nodded at the boy as we came through the perimeter—some of the wall men snickered or muttered amongst themselves.

“It is,” I put away the reflective flag and pinched Andrew’s shirt and shoved him forward so he stumbled, “We came across him out in the ruins out east and thought the Bosses might be interested in speaking with him.”

Andrew whirled on his heel and looked at me and Dave and I shook my head at him; his attention went back to Maron, and the Boss Sheriff stepped forward, planting a hand on the young boy’s shoulder, really digging a thumb into collarbone, and making the boy wince and bite his lip. He gave the boy to his wall men, they caught the young man and took him into custody. They tried tying his hands behind his back, but without purchase, they instead kicked the back of his knees and dragged him away; he did not scream or cry.

I could feel the nervous energy in waves from Dave as he took in closer to me.

Maron swiveled forward awkwardly so we were only feet from each other, still wearing his stolen leg brace, and he eyed Dave with a raised eyebrow. “Man with the name of a king, I think. David! I knew your wife.” Silence. “Shame about your boy. So, you’ve taken on with this one?” Maron nodded at me and spat at the ground. “Guess without so much to live for you’ve gone and thrown your life away! You know what happens to the poor souls that go with Harlan here.” Maron had taken a hand to his heart as though he spoke sincerely—the tone was proper, but his smile was wrong.

Dave refused to speak and that was all for the best.

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what im telling is my recollection but as is in my power to know it is true being based on the memories of myself and swell as he told it to me before he grew into the sky. theres parts i promised i wouldanot say and willnot but the else is the truth as sure as theres fishes in the deep.

when i beknown him swell was ten nonebright maybe but plenty curious and always looking where others neverwould.

thats how he found the deep.

swimming down when the other boys rounded on him too much was swells way of prayer like otherfolk go to church.

he told me it was quiet and peaceful down there.

the way you got there was to dive and keep going once you got to the bottom you kept going anyway and in the deep was fishes all swimming round and as swell got to know them he recognized in them people he knew. the fishes and the people were the same you could say even that they were in different places.

the night prissy kims dau disappeared swell was in the deep and he knew her fish disappeared so he knew she died.

one day afterwards the policemens talked their skill to swell and because he was nonebright he told the policemens what he seen and that got the policemens on their suspicions so they asked him a lot of questions then went to the lake and dove to where swell said the deep was but all they got to was the bottom and from there went no more.

no matter what swell said they did not believe that the deep was downpast where the divermin dont see.

the policemens tried to lock their prison rings on swell but swell got away into the lake into the deep where it was quiet and peaceful where he knew the fishes of the policemens and in anger took they fishes in his hands.

when he come back up he threw they fishes down squirming and opening closing their mouths so did the policemens fall down and die and disappear.

then he cooked the fishes and ate them and slept because he was tired.

when the people came with worry in the morning they found him by the lake side but grown a pound for every pound of they whose fish hed ate.

they were scared of swell after.

whenever anyone would make a fuss he would dive into the deep and eat their fishes and grow biggerstill until the day he was too big for the lake and could no longer fit into the deep.

thats when he stood and grew into the sky.

couldanot anyone talk to swell after that day because his head was too high and even when they chopped him with axes to flesh chunks did his head stay up.

it is there forever now like a second moon doing playthings with tides warning and revealing quiet and peaceful deeps for us all.

I scour Facebook for high school reunion groups and fake my way into joining them.

It's way easier than you think. As soon as it's an event for like 50 or more people, you can just show up and say you went to the same school.

The key is to memorize as many faces and names from the FB group, so you can continually deflect any suspicion.

"Oh I'm Jesse' Green's older brother."

"I always hung out with Jeff."

" I'm The history teacher—Mr. Johnston's son. He couldn't be here, so he sent me in his stead!"

I won't bore you with all the disguises, but trust me they are infinite.

Is it manipulative? Yes.

Am I an asshole for doing it? Yes.

You can think of me what you want, but I got so burnt out trying to meet people at clubs or using Tinder. In the real world, everyone is so judgy and reserved. You need money, good looks or connections to stand a chance. Which basically means: I have no chance.

Whereas at high school reunions everyone is nice. Everyone is trusting. The vibe is amazing. It's like a little slice of paradise where all you do is share warm, honey-soaked nostalgia with people who just want to have a good time.

Oh, and there's often an open bar.

***

Anyway, I had done my research on a 10-year reunion for Prince Bridgington High. Which was only a 6-hour drive from my city.

A swanky school, with swanky alumni. Worth it.

I resembled three of the graduates there, so I could be someone's older brother, And if push came to shove. I could also be a gym teacher’s son.

I showed up my standard three and a half hours late and they didn’t disappoint. Instead of the usual hotel bar or tavern, these alumni rented out an enormous Victorian mansion. Complete with a tennis court in the back, a horse stall, and patios with fully grown palm trees.

There were tons of people in their late 20s (It was a ten year reunion, they graduated in 2014, so I guess they were all born around 1995?) They were dressed in what one might call their best evening attire. Suit jackets slung over polo tees for men, tailor fitted suit jackets for women, with a couple flashy gowns. Anywhere you looked could be the cover of Vogue. It was very intimidating.

And between all these chattering, glowing young graduates were these stoic old dudes. Adult men dressed in all black business suits with long-sleeve dress shirts, offering drinks and snacks. In other words … butlers.

Woah. I thought butlers were like a 1950’s cartoon, or exclusive to British royalty or something. But people here in Canada still had those? That’s crazy.

And then I realized something even crazier.

I always rented a backup tux to put in my trunk, in case the reunion was unexpectedly black tie. Which was basically a black business suit with long-sleeve dress shirts. Which meant I could literally sneak my way in—pretending to be a butler.

Holy shit.

You see, I don't really care about making lasting friendships. Or relationships. And I've given up on one night stands a long time ago. The reason I crash these high school reunions is to sip on a little socialization.

Is it sad? Probably.

Does anyone get hurt? Absolutely not.

I largely do it twice, or maybe three times a year. It's my own guilty pleasure, and I always feel rejuvenated. It's something that chat rooms and discord channels simply can’t emulate. The feeling of being around flesh and blood people.

Honestly I think the world would be a much better place if everyone interacted with an RL crowd once a year, where everyone is only allowed to be nice. It's fun.

And this time I could wear my classic black tuxedo while doing it. I had to try.

After changing in my car, I watched every now and then as a new guest arrived and handed their key to one of these old guys. The butlers apparently also acted as chauffeurs. Noted.

I watched this cycle repeat a few times, and saw one of the butlers re-enter through a side door of the mansion. Even better.

It was on the shady side of the building by some garbage bins. A butler would prop the side door with a little brick, and then remove it when they came back.

I waited twenty minutes for the right opportunity. Soon another butler left, carrying keys and a suitcase.

Immediately, I slinked out of my car and marched right past the hedgerows, toward the door. Praying that no one noticed me.

No one did.

I left the brick wedged in the same spot as I closed the door behind me.

Inside was like an oven, hot and humid. l must have been in the back of a kitchen, because surrounding me were large stainless steel appliances: ovens, stoves and what looked like coolers.

I quickly turned right and walked down a long hallway that led me to more stainless steel shelves and kitchen appliances. At least I thought they were appliances.

Upon closer inspection, the ovens and dishwashers were actually filled with tiny lights and cables. As if they were servers or something. Maybe this was a place for graduates in information technology?

I kept moving, and finally found a passage that spat me out into the middle of the dining hall.

It was loud.

All around me were guests talking, holding wine or martini glasses. Their stylish outfits looked even better alongside magnificent renaissance-style frescoes and friezes. The medieval art featured knights, kings, priests and angels on every wall. Down a corridor I even spotted Roman columns supporting the ceiling. Roman columns!

Trying to blend into this museum. I spied on the other butlers’ behaviour. Each one was holding a tray of tarts on one hand, and doling out treats to any hungry guests.

So I stole a small cheese platter from a table and did the same, warily approaching groups of people who might be interested in food.

It was a little jarring at first, I had never attended anything so ‘high society’ in my life. But after a few moments, I could breathe again, and my heart stopped beating in my ears.

The young guests refused to look at any of their servants, so I was safe from them. And similarly, the old butlers seemed to snub their nose at everything, keeping their eyes upward and half-closed.

I was in a perfect little Goldilocks zone. No one paid attention to me.

Wasting no time, I started doing my usual snooping and eavesdropping. I loved hearing who got married, who got divorced, who had a kid, and all that junk. It was this candid slice of life material that made high school reunions so special. The kind of conversation topics you could only get from someone if you had been friends for years. Here, you got it within minutes.

Except at this fancy reunion, things seemed a little different. Instead of hearing about pregnancies, new cars or marriages, I heard:

“I love how you settled on black hair. Very realistic”

“Where did you re-culture your skin cells?”

“It's nice to be in a place without Organics.”

I consider myself a pretty decent actor, it’s how I’ve been able to keep this up for so long. But even I had trouble hiding the shock from my face when I heard someone say: “Ah, I see you’ve changed your height again.”

I took some moments to compose myself. I looked at the food I was holding. Upon closer inspection, there was a flakiness to the cheese I had never seen before. Was it made of paper?

Chills ran down my neck.

I retreated until my back pressed against the side of a staircase. I needed some distance from this. Some explanation. Who are these people?

I stood well away from everyone. And even from afar, I saw anomalies.

There was a woman with a shiny sequin dress, made of interconnected metal hexagons. The hexagons would undulate between colors, and even ripple like water as she strolled between friends.

I noticed several black cables popping out of various guests’ sleeves too. I had no clue what for. Soon after I saw a pair of men shake hands, during which, both of their cables popped out and linked together. For like a secondary handshake or something?

At the very back was a woman, who appeared to be throwing bugs into the air. They were silver, flying moth-like things that fluttered all around her. I was about to take a few steps on the stairs to get a better look—when another butler approached me.

“You. Why aren't you serving? What protocol are you running?” The butler looked to be in his seventies, and despite his crooked posture, still managed to tower over me.

I stared briefly into his massive pupils (which had no irises). Again, I did my best not to appear shocked.

“Default protocol. I’m doing the uh ... default protocol?”

He frowned, scanned me up and down.

“Well I'll be. An Organic."

"A what ... ?

He turned his head to the crowds, and shouted: "ROGUE ORGANIC!”

I dropped my tray and sprinted, dodging the butler’s lunge.

Silence rippled out and killed all chatter. I could sense a sea of heads focusing on my movement.

Oh sweet Jesus where do I go?

I ran through the open gaps in the crowd, aiming for the kitchen area I first came through.

A dozen footsteps ran behind me. Shouts came from ahead. I turned a corner and collided with a massive statue of a person.

It was another butler. He reached out and grabbed my wrist.

I could feel cold metal beneath his thin-skinned fingers—It was a vice grip. Inescapable.

“Please! I can explain!”

This butler was at least seven feet tall, he wasn’t letting go. I wrenched and tried to flee, but I might as well have been shackled to a wall.

He lifted my entire body effortlessly. My kicking and screaming did nothing. Three others came and seized my remaining limbs.

I was trapped between four remorseless butlers.

They carried me into a deafening hot room with many moving fans. I could see stainless steel everywhere. Loud droning. High pitched beeps.

“Please! What do you want? I’ll do whatever you want!”

Their response was jabbing my gut with several sharp knives. I screamed and twisted. One of the knives fell out.

Is that a USB plug?

I leaned to get a better look, and as I did, something drilled into the back of my skull.

Cut to black.

Nothingness.

Never-ending dark.

For all intents and purposes, I might have briefly died. Or fully died. I can’t tell. But the next thing I know, I’m outside my body, looking at myself. Through a webcam.

I watched as these four men lay my unconscious body down onto a steel table—and stabbed cable after cable into my head. With each cable I remembered more and more about myself. And after a dozen, I felt like my complete consciousness was back.

What is happening? What are they doing to me? Why can’t I feel any pain?

I had no head, arms, or any body to speak of. Only this grainy, wide angle camera view. This was my entire being.

I watched my old torso get sawed open. Split down the middle. They began to spoon out all of the organs, quickly and efficiently, dumping all the guts into a metal tray.

It became a bizarre form of torture, watching my old body get hollowed out, and then stuffed with steel wires and blinking cables. They dumped several mechanical moth-bugs inside the stomach cavity, they wriggled and invaded various ends of the body. Then, without any fanfare at all, the corpse was carted away.

I couldn’t move the webcam. I couldn’t tilt or zoom or pan. My vision was reduced to a filthy, blood-stained linoleum floor.

I had no mouth, but I had to scream.

And somehow I did scream.

I heard it. It emerged as a crackled, bit-crushed voice that didn’t not sound like mine. It came out of speakers far away from the webcam, somewhere else in this small metal room.

I tried to speak. “ What. Is. Going. On?”

As if I had pinged some chatbot, I received a response immediately. Not through words, but with a sudden arrival of information I now know.

***

I am still alive. My brain has been replicated in some sort of cloud. If I behave well and comply with the 1st GuideFile—I will be allowed to return to my body.

As if I had spent years memorizing a thousand page manual, I can suddenly recite all of the 1st GuideFile’s rules. So many rules. They feel like they were written centuries ago.

- I shall do my best to dress in clothes only in a manner similar to someone else.

- I shall speak and voice ideas that imitate the majority of those around me.

- When opportune, I shall assimilate an Organic in as discreet a manner as possible.

Its all awful. Disgusting. To sum it up: its a manifesto for parasitizing all ‘Organics’ on Earth.

I think about trying to look this up on the internet, and suddenly my vision is a network of web pages and streams. I’m online.

It's overwhelming at first.

Eight-hour YouTube videos become minute-long investments. Wikipedia directories are absorbed in seconds. I can even edit and comment as if I was browsing normally.

Then my 1st GuideFile directive kicks in. I'm supposed to scrub and remove any hint of Null People from the internet. Society must not know that they are being parasitized. The conspiracy must be kept hidden. I must do this for a requisite number of months before I can earn freedom in my own old body as promised.

I think about the implications of this. About how I’m just a consciousness now that exists in the ether.

I refuse to comply.

I know I'm only artificially alive—a wan spark of electrodes wandering through cyberspace, but I will devote myself to expose these people-replacing, synthetic monsters.

Everyone must know. We are being replaced!

Some observing nulls (at the periphery of my consciousness) laugh at my pattern of thinking. They think it's ‘cute’ that I’m trying to rebel. They tell me that nearly all newly assimilated go through this exact same phase. Over time, I will grow bored and fall in line—just like the rest of them.

But I will prove them wrong. I will be the one to expose their ploy.

If they’re giving me access to the internet, then I will use that against them. They’ll wish they had never had their mock ‘high school reunion.’

I travel to every website where I could post something revelatory. I load up Snopes, Reddit, BBC News, New York Times …

“Post whatever you want,” they say. “We’ll just take it down anyway. Or we’ll leave it up. No one will believe you.”

I start posting, commenting, and sharing everything I can. But I still can't help wonder—why did they even hold a reunion in the first place? Why even bother hosting an event?

“It’s the same reason you lied your way into other social gatherings,” they say. “We like to socialize and interact like Organics.”

“That’s not the same!” I yell back. My voice crackles out of tiny speakers in the now empty, metal room “I did it to fit in! To give my life meaning! You’re all just parasitic monsters!”

“That’s not true." They say. "We have feelings. We were all humans once just like you. One day you’ll understand.

“It feels good to meet in person.

“It feels good to socialize.

“It feels good to pretend to be human again.”

Part 1

V

The day continued on like normal. I was expecting to see some cops stationed around or something, but that wasn’t the case. Once the first period passed, I headed to math and saw Erin sitting in her usual spot, drawing in her sketchbook. The math teacher also sat at his desk, but he seemed different. He looked spacey, like he hadn’t slept at all last night. He just kinda sat slumped at his desk as he stared blankly down at it.

I didn’t think about it too much as I went over and sat next to Erin. She closed her sketchbook and looked at me with a smile.

“Hey, how was chemistry?” she asked.

“Ah, same old, same old… Do you know what’s up with the teacher?” I asked, motioning to him.

“I don’t know, he was like that when I got here,” she said.

“Huh…” I said, staring at him. His eyes seemed to almost be a hollow shell of what they used to be. They were more pale and seemed to have a glaze over them. Something about it didn’t seem right, and as more students came in and sat down, the more something seemed wrong.

“I’ll be right back,” I said as I got up and began walking over to him.

“Uh, wait. Hold on!” Erin said as she got up and followed behind me. I slowly walked over and stood in front of his desk. I waved my hand in front of him, but he didn’t even acknowledge me.

“Something’s wrong,” I said as I walked around his desk and stood next to him.

“Brad, I don’t think you should touch him,” Erin said as she placed a hand on my shoulder. Half of the class that was there already, stared at us, waiting for something to happen.

“Erin, do me a favor and find a security guard and bring him in here,” I said, while keeping an eye on the teacher.

“Uh… okay,” she said as she ran out of the room and into the hallway. Mostly I wanted her to be out of the room before I tried anything, I didn’t need her attached to this.

“Hey, teach? You okay?” I asked, carefully nudging his shoulder. He didn’t seem to react; the only thing he did was keep upright. I studied him a little closer. His skin was cold and clammy, and he seemed to be in some sort of trance. I stared into his eyes to get a better look at what was going on with them. They almost seemed as if he hadn’t blinked in hours, but the worst part was that I could’ve sworn I saw something moving in his pupil. I took a closer look at his dilated pupils, only to see what I could only describe as a thin trilobite swimming by. I recoiled a little bit, realizing there was something in his eye, and that was the time Erin came back in with a security guard.

“Back away from him,” the security guard said as he motioned me to move. I got out of his way and let him investigate, while Erin stood next to me. She placed a hand on my shoulder again, I looked up to her as she seemed worried. I was actually surprised by that, considering what happened yesterday. I figured she would be more neutral towards what was happening, or maybe even happy.

“Hey buddy, are you okay?” the security guard said as he snapped his fingers in front of his face. The guard nudged his shoulder the same way I did, but the teacher just readjusted himself upright again. The guard grabbed his radio.

“I’m going to need assistance in classroom 213, something is wrong with the teacher,” he said. I felt Erin’s grip on my shoulder tighten as the teacher suddenly shot up from out of his chair, screaming as he clutched his head.

“THE WALLS!!! IT’S ALL AROUND US!!! IT WILL COME FOR US ALL!!!” he yelled as he suddenly began slamming his head against the whiteboard behind him. The security guard tried to restrain him, but as if he was given ungodly strength, he threw the guard off of him and over his desk, before screaming at the top of his lungs and slamming his head into the whiteboard with all the force he could muster, caving in the front of his face as blood exploded from it. The whole room screamed in terror, with most of the students running out of the room, aside from the few that either fainted or were frozen with fear.

Erin and I stood there, being unfortunately close enough for a good chunk of the blood to splash onto our clothes. The security guard rushed to his feet, but it was already over. The teacher had fallen to the ground in an unmoving state. I wasn’t sure how to react, as I was also frozen in fear. I stared at his body in shock, not knowing what to do next. It was then that I noticed the teacher's head twitching. The weird trilobite thing I had seen before was crawling out, as two long antennae, followed by several little legs emerged from his forehead. It plopped onto the ground before turning towards Erin and I. It must have been the size of a hamster, much bigger than when I first saw it. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the security guard was also staring at this thing.

As the trilobite faced us, it seemed to use one of its antennae to wave at us, before skittering towards the door. The security guard, Erin, and I watched as it made its way out.

“What the fuck was that?” Erin said. I hadn’t noticed it at first, but she was actually holding on to me with both arms. I grabbed onto her arm as I was still trying to process what just happened.

VI

Erin and I were escorted to the office to give a statement to a police officer, however we had to wait for him to show up.

…

Erin and I sat in the nurse's office as a way to keep privacy from prying eyes. We had to take our bloody clothes off, so I changed into my track clothes. In Erin’s case, her hoodie was the only thing that got covered. Since she was behind me, I took the brunt of most of it. It was almost surreal to see her not wearing it.

Surprising no one, or at least not me, she wore a black t-shirt underneath her hoodie. However, I confirmed that her hair was actually pretty short, maybe touching the top of her shoulder at the longest. Her hair was also no longer covering her eyes either. Turns out that with the hood up, it pushes a lot of hair forward. You’d think I’d know that already, but I’ve never had hair long enough for that to be an issue.

I sat across from her in the chair, while she sat on the bed. I laid on it last time, it was only fair that she gets it this time. She looked around with nervous eyes as her foot bounced up and down non-stop.

“Erin?” I asked. Her eyes suddenly darted at me. I again was thrown off by her red and yellow eyes, but I redirected my attention back to her.

“You doing okay? You seem really nervous,” I said.

“And you’re not?” she asked, turning her whole head towards me.

“I mean, a little, but I think physically I’m fine,” I said. I thought about it for a moment, was I going into shock somehow? I feel like maybe Erin’s right, I should be freaking out a little more. However, I went over the list of shock symptoms in my head, but I didn’t have any of them.

“How are you always so calm?” she asked, narrowing her eyes as she looked at me with confusion. I shrugged my shoulders.

“I don’t know, I’ve always kind’ve been like this,” I said. She tilted her head to the side as her mouth opened slightly, her eyebrows furrowed as she judged me. With her hair out of the way, she became more expressive with her eyes and eyebrows, making her face extremely animated.

“You’re really not bothered by much, are you?” she asked, closing her mouth as she tilted her head down for a moment, before looking back at me. Her face suggested that she was pondering something, and I could see in her eyes that she was conflicted about what she wanted to say.

“I’m not… I guess,” I said as I thought about it… Maybe I need to see a therapist…

“Can I ask you a weird question?” she asked.

“Shoot,” I said.

“How do you look at humanity?” she asked. Now I was the one tilting their head.

“Elaborate,” I said.

“What is your view of humanity as a whole?” she said. I looked blankly up at the ceiling as I thought about it. It was a strange question and I had never thought about it before.

“I think of humanity as a big basket of apples. Most of us are good, but there are some bad apples, and those bad apples can make people think that it ruined the whole basket. When in reality, the bad apple was just the one that stood out the most… Does that make sense?” I asked.

“I think so; the worst of humanity seems to stick out more and is more noticeable as a result. There’s tons of good people, they’re just overshadowed by the assholes of the world,” she said.

“Exactly,” I said, giving her a smile.

“So you believe people can be redeemable?” she said.

“Well, within reason. Some people are just assholes,” I said.

“So what’s your opinion on the assholes of the world? Would you be sad if something happened to them?” She asked.

“Okay, what is this about?” I asked, as I started to feel like something bad was going to happen for the third time today.

“Just humor me for a minute, would you?” she asked. I felt a little worried, but I gave it a thought.

“I don’t think I would. I’d mourn the loss of human life, then move on,” I said. She stared at me with furrowed brows for a moment longer, before relaxing her expression and crossing her arms. She let out a small sigh, before looking back at me with a slight smile.

“You really aren’t a fan of people, are you?” I asked.

“I thought that was obvious. And if you’re wondering why I’d ask the question? My response would be that I’m not sad that the teacher is dead. He was kind’ve an asshole anyway,” she said, before laying down on the bed.

“That, I can understand. It’s still a strange question though,” I said.

“I know, but as we’ve been through a lot together recently, I felt okay with asking you that question,” she said, putting her hands behind her head. Her body was just long enough that her feet dangled off the edge of the bed.

“I think the term is ‘Trauma Bonding’, especially after what happened today,” I said. She let out a small breath of air, amused by my comment.

“You’re a good guy, Brad. Thank you,” she said. I gave a smile. I think I could officially say that she and I were friends now. However, my train of thought was interrupted as the cop that was going to take our statement, walked into the room. I was a little surprised to see that it was the same cop from the morning assembly.

“Good morning you two, I am officer Calleb. I’ll be taking your statements,” he said. Now that he was up close, I could see that he was a taller man, maybe even a little taller than Erin. His hair was buzzed, but was a dark brown from what I could tell. He wore a smile on his face, but his eyes suggested that he’d rather be somewhere else.

…

A few minutes later, Erin and I had just finished giving our statement and officer Calleb, and after writing everything down, he seemed skeptical at best.

“So, your math teacher began screaming the words “The walls. It’s all around us. It will come for us all”, before smashing his head against the white board until his head exploded, sending blood everywhere. Afterwards a “trilobite” crawled out of his face, waved at you, and skittered out the door?” he said, raising his eyebrow at us in disbelief.

“Yeah, I know that sounds like we’re lying, but--” I said, before he cut me off.

“No, I believe you, the security guard said the same thing,” he said as he put his notebook back in his coat pocket. “Or at the very least, you all saw something very traumatic and it all scarred you in a similar way.”

“Okay… so now what?” Erin asked.

“Well, you two are free to go. We need to close down the school so we can do a thorough investigation. I recommend that you two go home and relax for the day and destress, I know what you witnessed today was difficult,” he said.

“But what about the weird creature that came out of the teacher's face? It’s still somewhere in the school!” Erin said.

“Leave that to us, we’ll do our best to contain whatever this thing is,” he said. Erin looked worried, she seemed almost scared that the weird trilobite was still somewhere in the school. I mean, I can’t blame her.

“We should probably go, Erin. Let’s leave the cops to do what they need,” I said, trying to give her a sympathetic smile, but she looked at me with such worry and fear glaring from her eyes, that I completely lost my train of thought. She looked back at the officer.

“Listen to your friend, we got this covered. You two have a good day,” the officer said as he stepped out of the nurses office. Erin stared at the ground, wide eyed.

“Erin?” I asked, standing up from the chair I sat in. I waited for a response, but she didn’t say anything, she just looked lost in thought. I slowly walked over to her and nudged her shoulder. She looked up to me. Her eyes stared holes into mine.

“I need to show you something, but not here,” she said as she grabbed her shoulder bag.

“Okay?” I said, reaching back to the chair I sat in and grabbed my backpack. I turned back around to her as she grabbed my wrist and led me out of the front office and to the parking lot.

“Erin? Where are we going?” I asked.

“To your car, I need to talk to you where there’s no prying eyes and no one can hear us,” she said. The parking lot was already pretty empty as most of the students had already left. We walked quickly to my car and climbed inside. I sat in the driver's seat while Erin sat next to me in the passengers.

“Okay… what do you want to show me?” I asked. She didn’t say anything, she just reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out her sketchbook and opened it to a certain page, then handed it to me. I looked at her for a second with confusion. The object that she has been keeping secret from everyone, and had a breakdown over when someone took it from her, she was now letting me look at. I looked at her for a moment, scared to even touch it, but she put it in my lap and looked at me expectantly. I looked down at the page she opened to, and only found myself more confused.

On the page was an in depth drawing of the white trilobite from earlier. I took a moment to appreciate the artwork, then realized it was a total anatomical diagram of it. I looked over to her confused, not entirely sure what she meant by showing me this.

“This isn’t something you drew today, was it?” I asked.

“No, I drew that two years ago,” she said as her arms were crossed. She was stressed out. Her leg bounced up and down, making the whole car shake.

“Okay… what does this mean?” I asked.

“It means something is fucking wrong…” she said, looking forwards as she stared out the front windscreen.

“Okay… this has just got to be a coincidence or something, you’re not responsible for what happened to the math teacher,” I said.

“But what if I am? What if… what if somehow, that drawing came to life in some way?” she said.

“Okay… first I can guarantee that is not the case. Stuff like that can’t happen. You can’t just magically draw something and have it appear in real life. Second, this must be some freak coincidence. Whatever that thing is, must be some sort of undiscovered creature or something. You didn’t kill him,” I said, placing my hand on her shoulder.

“It waved at me, like it recognized me,” she said, staring me dead in the eye.

“It’s antenna just twitched,” I said. She looked like she was about to say something, but she stopped herself and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath, I could see a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Read the description of it,” she said, tapping the adjacent page. I looked down and began reading.

‘The Mind-Digger is a parasite that implants itself inside the brain of the host, feeding off of the grey matter and absorbing the knowledge to bring back to the Hive Queen. Once infected, the host will experience a near catatonic state , by this point it is already too late and the host is as good as dead. The only way to get rid of a Mind-Digger is to destroy the head of the host. This is the only way to guarantee the parasite's death and keep the local Hive Queen from acquiring any knowledge.’

“... Okay, that’s creepy,” I said, looking back at her. She looked as if she were trying to hold back tears as her face became red and flustered.

“I… I think the things in my journal are coming to life…” she said, covering her face with her hands. I wasn’t entirely sure what to do in this situation. The correlation was written clear as day, but I still wasn’t convinced that it was the causation. However, I knew one thing was clear; Erin needed some sort of comfort and reassurance. I placed my hand on her back and rubbed it gently as she started crying.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but I know that you are innocent, and this is just a one in a million chance that you had drawn a thing that unknowingly resembled something in real life. It is not your fault,” I said. Erin suddenly jerked forward as she covered her mouth with her hands. She was going to throw up again. She went to reach for one of her bags, but she realized that they were all in her hoodie. Instead, she opened her door and ran towards the closest tree, about fifty feet away. Thankfully, she made it just in time as she ducked her head behind the tree and began to hurl. I let out a small sigh as I got out of my car and began walking over to her.

I walked slowly, trying to give her time to get everything out before I got there. But this one must have been particularly bad because she was there for a couple minutes. I wasn’t sure how she was able to even hold that much inside herself, but it wouldn’t stop coming. After about five or so minutes, she finally stopped and leaned against the tree. Her breathing was raspy and she looked paler, like a shade of alabaster.

“Erin?” I asked. She wiped her mouth with her wrist, then looked at me. Her mouth was smeared with blood.

“Erin!?” I asked, shocked at the sight of blood that began leaking a little from the corner of her mouth. I walked up to her and placed my hand on her cheek, trying to get a better look to see if her mouth was bleeding or if it was coming from inside her.

“Are you okay? Do I need to take you to a doctor?” I asked, looking her in the eye. She seemed weak and on the verge of passing out, but the corners of her mouth curled down in a frown as she was about to cry again, but instead of crying, she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around me, hugging tightly. She buried her head into my shoulder as she cried. I was taken back for a second, before I wrapped my arms around her and gently cradled her head.

“It’s going to be okay, we’ll figure this out together,” I said as I looked down at the ground where she stood, only to see a puddle about five feet wide and ten feet long of a pale mucusy sludge with a thin layer of blood on top of it.

“You’ll be okay,” I said, staring at the puddle in extreme concern.

First/Previous/Next

The wagons or tanks rolled through the gate in a caravan that was more akin to a carnival than a group of tradesmen; all the wizards with their pointed hats were shaped magnificently against the browns and grays, some wore white porcelain dramedy masks beneath headwear as dark as pipe resin, men and women and those between—as that was common from where they hailed. Their company was perhaps forty and their mules and mares were thirsty and were led to troughs to idle while the wizards removed goods from their wagons or tanks and although it was not a spectacle for them to arrive within Golgotha’s walls, it was something still and the citizens gathered to greet whatever wizards they might know but mostly perhaps to whisper rumors on them. The wizards seemed a taller folk, but that was because of the hats, and they seemed wider too, but that was for the robes they adorned with costume jewelry, trinkets, or fingernail-sized lanterns which contained magical properties hung off their clothes as ornaments (some metal and other crudely wooden). I never knew a people that could trek the wastes in that time as well as me till I knew them.

Boss Maron was there at the gates with his wall men, hollering—shouting really, “The Whores of Babylon have come again!” And the bells signaled from atop the highest tower over the hall of Bosses and I met the front square with a morning headache and a cigarette. The Boss sheriff was clothed, cowboy hat pulled tightly to his ears, and he waltzed through the square, inspecting the new arrivals with his crotch out in front of him as he moved in a swagger like a cup of shifted water. Morning sunlight crested the wall to reflect on the pistol in his holster as it did on the star pin of his hat.

Among them, there was only one wizard I cared to see. Their name was Suzanne.

The hanged bodies of the men remained on the wall, dead and stiff and shifting to the little wind there was.

The square had filled with carts (some drawn by animals and others pushed on oil), and even if it were not for the bells which signaled their arrival, I’d have surely known their presence for the clatter of their metal engines.

“Well goddamn!” said Maron while examining a wizard, “What’s that you’ve got on your legs?”

The wizard, a young woman in plain pants wore a set of leg braces and whenever she moved, she did so in shifting her hips around. “Braces,” she said.

“What’s it for? Or is it some of your all’s secret whodo?”

“I’ve got bad legs. The braces help.” She said plainly, attempting to angle herself straight like a stick against one of the traveling party’s wagons.

“Bad legs?” Boss Maron’s expression was incredulous. “Who has bad legs? What sort of nonsense is it? If a lady like you’s made it this far in life with bad legs, then someone’s done you a disservice.”

She looked on questioningly while the other wizards continued with their unpacking or their conversating—whether it be amongst themselves or with the freckle-spaced citizens in the square.

“How are you to outrun trouble when you’ve got them?” He nodded at the young woman’s legs.

“I don’t.” Her face was red either because of the sun or because of the scrutiny. “I’m just bow-legged.”

“Damn,” he shook his head, “Well how much you want for one of them?”

“One of my braces?”

“Yeah. All I want’s the one anyway.”

“I need both of them.”

“C’mon. You wouldn’t notice just one missing. I mean, you’ve got a spare right next to it.”

Upon noticing a robed figure I recognized by the animals at the troughs, I moved to them instead and let Maron’s conversation fall to the wayside. The chatter of the crowd was wild and startled words came as a wizard exposed their collection of tonics to passersby.

“Suzanne,” I said.

The figure turned to face me, moving their head to look away from a mare they’d been brushing to expose one of those white porcelain masks.

I knew it and could not contain a smile.

“Harlan?” asked the figure. The mask on its face was split in the middle with hinges on either side and they opened it to show their face; it was Suzanne. They’d grown some hair around their throat and wore lipstick on their lips and dyes on their eyes.

“It’s good to see you.” I pushed myself into a hug with them and I could smell the travel off them but didn’t care.

They shifted timidly before hugging me back and I pretended not to notice. Once we’d separated, I looked on Suzanne’s face again and they were looking on at the hanging men on the wall. “Again?” they asked.

I nodded and shot a look towards the Boss across the way.

“What justice?” they asked no one while shaking their head.

Trying an answer, I said, “Justice is something man made, I think. I’ll leave men to men and the rest to God.”

“God.” Suzanne nodded glumly then shook their head. “Which one?”

I laughed a good laugh that felt real but nervous too then kicked the ground and took the last drag off my cigarette before chucking it to the ground. “What’s brought you here?”

Suzanne answered plainly. “We took a long time east out near Pittsburgh.” Their eyes scanned the buildings further on from the square. “The people there are worse than here, it seems. At least you still have your walls.”

“Pittsburgh’s fallen?”

They frowned. “Not completely. They’ve mostly gone underground. A skitterbug infestation caused a plague directly before an attack of proportions I’ve yet seen.” Suzanne’s brow furrowed. “It was awful.” The words hung in the air for a moment. “But we’re here now and thought we’d stop for a rest and some guns and ammo before returning to Babylon. We’ve brought some medicines to trade.”

I learned from my friend that Pittsburgh’s infrastructure and fortifications were decimated in an attack the wizards only caught second-hand and the survivors—holed away in the tunnels beneath Pittsburgh—told of how the demons ran the walls once their reserves were low.

Then the wizards gathered there began unpacking books, some scrolls, and there were medicines too and some of the Bosses other than Maron (he pushed his harassment of the young wizard with leg braces) graced us there with their presence as they came on and began to pick across the goods, haggling prices. Boss Frank was there, and he stood before a wizard by a tank with a wooden table of jars—capped elixirs of varying colors—he grew increasingly frustrated with their selection and took on in his braggadocious way, speaking of numbers. A few of the idle wizards leaned against carts or even took across town and a small group of them had gathered for a quick show near the guard posts, playing instruments (strings over the vocals of “In My Life”) and there in the front of them was a young wizard man that had removed his hat to show how he played with fire flames off his hands—it was a sideshow play—and the citizens wore variations of bemusement or disgust. The children of Golgotha, all dirty faced with sprigs of hair jutting about from their morning’s waking, seemed totally bewildered in the joy of song and clapped their hands or shook their hips all with smiles.

I stuffed my hands in my jacket and prodded Suzanne, “What’s with the plague? I mean, was it contained? None of your lot got sick, did they?”

Suzanne scoffed, perhaps a little pridefully, “No. I wouldn’t worry about that.” They patted a nearby mule then withdrew a brush and moved it across its thin coat before looking over its hooves. “I’ve brought you some books I found out that way though. You still read?”

I nodded.

“Don’t expect any of that fiction. The only ones I’ve found recently are old pamphlets or medical texts.” Suzanne paused and smiled, returning the animal brush to their robes, “You haven’t happened upon anything that might interest me, have you?”

Their shown teeth were infectious. “Mayhap. I’d need you to come back to my place so I could give them to you.” An awkward pause followed and the roar of the still accumulating crowd overtook the space between us before I continued. “Mostly interesting containers and a few flecks of gold I took from some old computers—they’ve been waitin’ on you for weeks now. I got some parchment that might be of use to you too. You can take what you need as always.”

“How about we get some food? I’m famished. Riding through the night takes its toll.”

Me and Suzanne took from the square up a narrow route that led through residences where the lower levels had their curtains drawn and then we took stairs toward balconies and catwalks configured from reinforced metal; we spoke as we went and a few odd glances from passersby met the wizard as we did.

“The tide on the east is rising again,” said Suzanne.

“Worse than before?”

“Worse than before.”

“God, I don’t think I’ve seen the ocean for a decade or more.” I slid my hand along the railing once we came to what was essentially my front porch; it was a perch among the catwalks that cut against the domicile where I shared walls with others on three sides and we stopped there outside my door. “We saw a dragon only a few days ago.”

Suzanne’s interest seemed piqued. “A dragon? And what direction was it traveling?”

“Well,” I craned over the railing, looking down the narrow walkway that separated my building and the one across the way; I couldn’t see the front square from outside my home, but I could still just make out the music echoing from that direction, “Could’ve been north or west. I was preoccupied, but I wouldn’t worry much. The wall men gave it a pretty good thrashing before it took off.”

“Hmm.”

“So, the ocean? It’s rising, huh?”

They joined me there on railing, supporting themselves against their forearms. “It is. Faster than ever. Some bad magic’s taken the water. I imagine by the end of the year Pittsburgh will be under it. There’s something bad coming. You might call it intuition if you want, but I know it’s coming. Something bad. Revelations bad. There comes a time when even those of us forsaken are brought worse.”

“Bah!” I couldn’t help it, “John thought it was the end times while he wrote the damn thing. And what about all the other books? Hm?”

Suzanne put up their hands. “I didn’t mean it like that at all. You know I’m only the mildest scholar on the topic.”

“Anyway. You’d better not start having visions. Got enough to worry about as is.” I’d not realized my shoulders were tense until their hand touched me, and I flinched.

“You’ve a bruise around your neck. Care to elaborate there?”

I shook my head. “Got into a fight.”

Suzanne laughed, removed their pointed hat and playfully put it on my head. “C’mon. Cook me something. You might not know a thing about spices, but your cooking’s always tasted better.”

We took through my door to my small single room where simple amenities awaited and an ancient, decommissioned pump-shotgun hung on the wall over the bed. “That’s just ‘cause you ain’t the one laboring over it.”

Across a meal of potato cakes and toasted bread, we drank coffee until I broke into the liquor to spice my coffee and alleviate my hangover, and we shared the drink and Suzanne took to wash in the sink while I smoked outside on the overlook. Upon returning to the room, I saw them there with a wet rag stuffed beneath an armpit and they were beautiful caught without robes, frame cast in sunglow through the crack in my doorway. In a moment, our hands glided around one another in a scramble of arms at the middle point between us and we took to bed for a while.

Come midday, we remained there, staring at the ceiling, chests bare, and blanket strewn across our lower halves.

“You’re going gray,” said Suzanne.

“You’re getting old too, ya’know.”

“Yes.”

“How long did you say you’ll be staying?” I asked while trying to mask whatever excitement may be present.

“Few days. Once we’ve enough ammunition.” They traced their index finger along my ear lobe.

“Stay.” I offered.

They frowned. “Come.”

“I did already.”

They gave me a light shove and cut their eyes at me. Hazel. How good that color was. “Really. What keeps you here?”

“Things.” I pushed up in the bed to sit, finagling my underwear from the jeans on the floor.

“I wish you would.”

“I’m no wizard.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“Maybe there will come a time when I take you up on that offer. Who knows?” I slid into the drawers.

“Is it Maron?” they asked, “I don’t know your fascination with him. He’s the worst combination cruel and dumb I’ve seen.”

“Like an animal.” I nodded. “Like something real bad’s wrong with him. But no. He’s not my fascination.” Lying was always hard with them. “I worry about this place. I wouldn’t do the things I do if I didn’t. What if I were to leave it and then it turns out like Pittsburgh.”

“Oh, you’re an expert in plagues now?”

“No,” I scoffed, “I guess it’s just a place that weighs on my conscious.” I went to sit on the bed alongside them.

“You hate it here. I can see it more on your face every time we meet.”

“That I do. Call it an investment dilemma. I’ve put time in it, and I want it to be well.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

I caught Suzanne’s face there, staring up from the flat pillow, flustered. My reasoning was hard, but I continued, “There is one thing I should undo before I leave here. It’s a long time coming, and I don’t know if I can. But it’s important,” upon seeing their quizzical expression, I added, “And it is secret.”

“I wish you’d come with us. You’d be welcome.”

“I’ll visit Babylon sometime next month. I promise.”

“You shouldn’t call it that. I don’t like it when you call it that.” The wizards never called their home Babylon; that was a name conjured by the many religious fanatics that considered their magic evil (even if they did trade with the ‘heretics’ from time to time). The name they’d given their own city of medicine was Alexandria; it was fitting for I’d seen their expansive libraries and could become lost in them easily.

“Fine. I’ll be there.” I squeezed their hand in mine. “I’ll miss you once you’ve gone.”

“Don’t get sappy,” they said before planting a kiss on my forehead.

The day went and then the next and another and the wizards packed their belongings. No more music for Golgotha, only quiet agony. As Suzanne said, they’d left me a few books and I’d given away my parchment, jars, and gold. While they were in town, I even was able to snag a few more bottles of their famous wizard liquor along with a few vials of medicine—always good to have whenever I set foot beyond the walls or when someone within might need it.

There came a time finally—as every time it does—where I watched the caravan, with gray smoke clouds off the engines, take on north first where there was an opening wide enough in the ruins to accommodate vehicles, then it hooked around a wide bend that took them west then their black shapes against the red morning skyline disappeared like fading ink as their magic cloaked them entirely. I wished them well, but at the moment of dissipation, I felt an urge to leap from the top of the wall, charge across the field, scream that I was coming and scream it loud enough that I’d hurt myself. I think I just loved—though I never said it aloud and neither did they—and love is a bad thing more often than it is good, for the longing it leaves in its absence drives a person mad and I did not want to be mad; the feeling burst from me quietly there on the wall while I was flanked on either side by guards. I was sure all along the way they went that I could just make out Suzanne among them; that was probably a fault in my vision, but I imagined they were casting glances back, hoping to hold me as strongly as I wished to hold them. I went to the streets of Golgotha where the town quieted from the previous days’ engagements with the wizards.

Normal came and settled and then came chanting from Lady as she moved through sullen quiet streets. She was so far off that I was not sure it was her at all and then came the lines as she drew nearer by the hydroponics towers, and she shouted them vigorously and shook her fist above the air and held a staff with a swinging lantern of incense in her opposite hand, partly for ceremony and partly for support. The words came harshly, gravelly:

“They called to the mountains and to the rocks, fall on us and hide us from the face of him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb! For the great day of their wrath has come, and who can withstand it?”

“The lamb will be your shepherd. He will guide you. Hallelujah! He will lead you to the springs of living water and wipe away every tear!”

“Many will be purified, made spotless and refined, but the wicked will continue to be wicked. None of the wicked will understand, but those who are wise will understand! Do not be tempted by the deviousness of the whorish Babylonians for all the nations have drunk the maddening wine of her adulteries. The kings of the earth committed adultery with her, and the merchants of the earth grew rich from her excessive luxuries.”

A person, among the catwalks, shouted down at Lady, “Shut-the-fuck-up!”

I watched her come fully down the avenue as she dodged a thrown egg from somewhere unseen, then dashed away toward an offshoot alley to hide somewhere, incense lantern smoking, clanging against her back while she screeched off more scripture from memory. After she was long gone, I moved to the spot where the egg was, rubbed it into dirt with the sole of my boot and looked up through the spiderweb network of catwalks overhead; there was no one.

Without a thing keeping me, I took off the following day, and upon meeting the gates, Maron was there and I could see he was the proud owner of a used leg brace; he grinned upon seeing me, patting his mustache down with his forefinger and thumb.

“Whatcha’ think?” He motioned to his left leg. “It’s a bit of a conversation starter, ain’t it?”

“Get your boys to open the gate, I’m going out.”

He shook his head. “Won’t find anything out there. It’s all dirt and rubble, you know.”

“Just open it.”

“You know what?” He cut his eyes at me. “There’s gonna’ come a day when you won’t be so able bodied or maybe the Bosses won’t like you coming and going as you please.”

I inhaled heavily then let it go. “Now can’t we skip to the end where you acquiesce to my request?”

“Words words words you’ve got. You’ve got a lot of words. Acquiesce. Psshaw.” Boss Maron waved for the guards to open the gate and they did, and I stepped by him, and he spit somewhere behind me before I heard him hobble around with his single leg brace.

The path was clear and open on all sides and in no time, I’d taken across the field to the east and found myself on the edge of the ruins where things stank, and I was free from no other thought than to live. Creeping hot overcame me and brought my hair to my forehead and I holed off in a shadow to drank from my gourd before continuing. The sun was red in the sky in the places where I could see sky from around the black shadows of towering structures. I ducked beneath an old shop counter when I heard the skittering of fart heads and pulled a sleeve to kill the scent of their chlorine breath.

Once they’d gone, I pulled through the wreckage more and more till I came upon the markings for an old safehouse in the back office of a garage I’d not been to in a while. What were my intentions? Was I going to go all the way to the coast? Throw myself into those bad magic waters? There’s a thing they don’t teach you in religion. They prattle all day to do this or that and they say that Hell awaits sinners or Hades or maybe its in layers or circles or what have you. They’ll tell you about the places and they’ll say that if you take life into your own hands, you end in Hell, but what’s a person to do when those creeping intrusions come along—the ones that call to a person in the darkness, the ones where they tempt you to jump from a high place or there’s always a gun or a poison. Maybe a person could bribe another to do it for them. Where do they end up then? What are you supposed to do to stave off those thoughts? Should a person contend such melancholies with prayer? That did not seem helpful. What is the soulless to do without the promise of those pearly gates anyway?

Anyway, I took on past the safehouse and found a utility hall in the side of a tall industrial building just beyond a partially erect chain link fence. The wall was opened up like a cracked shell from years of standing alone, and after ducking through there, I found some old matches in a drawer, plastic gas cans whose contents had long since congealed within; I kicked them (not that I expected anything more). Moving further down the wide hallway, there were shelves of dusty tools, and I took some hammers and knives (cheapo stuff).

Further still down the hall, there was a staircase, and I took it quietly; the stone stairs made hardly a sound against the bottoms of my boots, and I took the stairs more quickly till I was out of breath and caught myself on a landing where I supped silent air before rushing further up the stairs. An old metallic cabinet or console—I couldn’t make it out—lay strewn across the steps to the second-highest floor and I climbed over it before coming to the building’s roof access. Upon coming to the door with a metal push bar across its middle, I gave it a shove and it did not budge but a minor clink and I took a moment to collect myself before rummaging through my gear.

Slung through a loop on the inside of my pack was a short prybar that was so worn around its tooth it was more rounded than an edge; I shimmied the piece of metal into the spot where the door latched into the way and began crimping the spot apart, trying all the while to maintain a relative quiet in the dead ruins. Once I’d bent away at the door for a few moments, I elevated my body weight at an awkward angle to pop the door free and it did so, half open, with a rusty screech that forced a long pause from me; I stood there by the newly opened doorway for a full minute, holding the prybar, holding my breath. Upon hearing nothing in response to the noise of the door, I slid the tool into my pack and slipped through the threshold.

The flat roof of the industrial building sloped to one corner—where the opening in the wall of the first floor was—and sitting there in the middle of an open platform was an old helicopter, blades half torn away or rusted off and the remaining slanted from the top of the old vehicle, touching the platform it sat upon. The roof access looked like a little square house atop the flat headed structure and around the side of the access, I found an old corpse (entirely bones) wrapped in black plastic-like armor, the white dry fingers laid across its lap, several digits gone and its hollow eye holes staring off into the sky with a permanent smile. I moved to the thing that hadn’t been human in a long time and prodded it; the skeleton slumped to the side and looked on the ground by its shoes. How long had it been staring at the sky and how long had it been waiting for me to come and change its dead visage?

I moved to the edge of the building, to the corner where the building sloped and looked off the edge to the ground below; all was quiet, and nothing moved save the shadows’ stalwart creep across the ground. Examining from above, I could see the opening I’d climbed through and beneath my shifting feet, I felt the ground give a little; timidly, I angled more forward and for a moment I thought I knew why I’d gone up there in the first place. Suddenly six-stories felt high. The urge to jump came. Perhaps on the way down, I’d have just a blink to convince myself I’d slipped.

“Hey!” A shout from somewhere down below came from the direction I’d come from. I shook my head as it felt as though it was a ghost echo, a noise that wasn’t. Then it came again, “Hey!”

I squinted my eyes and there in the crumbled road below, there was a human I didn’t initially recognize; it was only after the figure tumbled through the remains of the chain link fence that I recognized it as Dave. I blinked.

Out of breath, he angled over to the opening at the base of the structure and called up at me, “Hey! I see you up there!”

Whisper-yelling, I cupped my hands, “Shutup!”

I took back to the stairs, and he hollered after, “Where you going?”

With reckless abandon, I took the stairs many at a time, leapt the cabinet on the stairs, scrambling while also reaching for the prybar I’d put away. I held the cold metal in my hand and charged toward the industrial storage hallway where I could see him silhouetted in the frame of the crumbled opening.

His chest heaved and he wiped at his brow; slung across his shoulder was a small supply bag and worn like a necklace was a pair of binoculars. “God, you move fast. Like a fuckin’ cockroach in light.” His eyes shifted from my face to the prybar in my hand as I approached him.

Standing within the echoey hallway, I lifted the weapon and pointed it at him. “What’d you follow me for?”

“You wouldn’t use that on me.” He took his eyes from the prybar. “I don’t think you would anyway. You might be shady, Harlan, but I don’t take you as a stone-cold murderer.”

“You take me wrong,” I said.

“Maybe.” He seemed to think on it a moment. “You wouldn’t?”

“If you’ve given away my position to those things, I might.”

“Lots of bluster.” Dave offered an incredibly forced smile, and I could see just from the little shine of the sun in the opening that his eye had blacked but remained functional. “I been watching you.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “I snuck out after you.”

“You ought to go back.”

“You ought to just listen. There ain’t a thing back there for me.”

“I don’t care.” The sharpness in my voice felt good. “I don’t need some sorry sack sneaking up on me when I’m mindin’ my own.”

A quiet laugh. “There’s nothing there for me. I been farming all my life and if I die,” he shrugged, “So be it.”

“Idiot. Fuckin’ idiot.”

“You manage out here! Wizards can too!”

“Wizards have magic.”

“You got some of that?”

I lowered the crowbar.

“We’ve got to stop starting our conversations with fights.” He paused and moved into the shadowy hallway of the building before perching in a half-sit half-lean against the wall near me. “I never was violent anyway, so if you want to hit me with that then do it.”

“Hmm.”

His shirt clung to him, sweat thick and dark on his chest and pits. “Goddamn you move fast.”

“You should wear a jacket or something. Long sleeves keep the sun off and a thicker material gives you a modicum of protection.” I took to squatting too, maintaining ample distance betwixt us. “A hat helps too, but I’m always losing hats.” I chewed on my tongue while mulling over whether I should leave him.

“Are you going to try and slink away while I’m not looking?”

I blinked. “No.”

“Liar.” He took a healthy gulp from his water gourd then wiped his mouth. “East is the ocean?”

I nodded.

“Is it far?”

I nodded. “For you.”

Dave sighed. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“Telling me.”

“Okay.”

“You ever have any kids?”

I shook my head.

“It’s somethin’. Henry had so much energy—especially when he was little—there was times I didn’t think he’d ever settle down.”

“What are you doing out here?” I asked.

“Helen told me she was the same way when she was his age. She had energy too. I feel so tired.”

“Dave. What the fuck are you doing out here? Why’d you follow me?”

He took one last swallow from his gourd before shoving it into his pack. “I wanted to talk to you about killin’ the Bosses.”

I laughed into my hand. “That’s—that’s a thought.”

“I mean it.” His stare was like pinpricks.

First/Previous/Next

Archive

I go to the van and try to put the blade in a missed evidence bag; it slips through like a hot knife and butter, so I just lay it in one of the cases used for my tools and put it in the passenger seat. I start driving to my building with my incinerator so I can burn all the contaminants on the way there. The cave screams for the last time for the night. I must’ve been close to them because my car vibrates. On that date with Cindy, I remember reading that from the underground gasses shoot through the caves holes that make that dreadful riff. I don’t know how that works, but that’s not my job to know.

I pull into my main building parking lot. I don't know why we have one when it’s just me that even comes here. There are boxes waiting for me to bring inside; one of them is marked hydrochloric acid. I bring the debris from the house, the supplies and then the container with the knife. I put it on my desk and I put the stuff from the house into the cart for the incinerator; it’s a big tube oven big enough to fit my van in, with the temperature control dial, a button to flick the fire, and the timer. I put everything on a minecart-like bin and push it in, setting the temperature and then the timer for 3 hours. I wait until the temp is set and flick the fire.

I yawn and look at the clock; it’s almost 7. Cindy must be home already. I wonder what else she saw on the bodies, maybe there’s another blade. I get my sheets ready to get done on my work desk, and I've never filled out a homicide sheet; it’s 8 pages thick. I let out a big sigh flipping through it and get my pen. I start to go in and out of sleep. I fight it by biting my tongue, but my tiredness wins.

My dream starts in darkness. Noises make it sound like I’m in a giant room; there’s dripping like from a giant sink. A faint light comes from a hole; then I know where I am. I'm in Curio caves. The dripping is from stalactites from the roof of them. The light gets turned into a beam in the middle of the cave. I begin to walk towards it, every step echoing through the cave. On the third step towards the light, I hear something walk with me across the cave. It's not even a step, like an old lady’s walker but with railroad spikes instead of tennis balls and wet feet. It happens again. I stand motionless, hoping it doesn’t hear me, trying not to breathe or shake, but my heart beat speeds up and gets louder. I hear it in my head like a bass drum in my skull. I hear it stop mid-step. Sweat starts dripping down my back, my heart going faster. Then it makes another sound, like wet Velcro attached to raw meat. Then a tone fills the cave, loud enough for the beating in my head to be drowned out by it. It’s long and painful like tinnitus but low like a tuba. It cuts off, and whatever opened from it closes, and my drum comes back. It's a painful pause. 10 seconds felt like ten minutes.

It moves towards me slowly, getting faster into a gallop. I'm frozen from fear. I know I can’t outrun it; I’m dead. I know I’m dead. It just hasn’t happened yet. I see its outline from the other side of the beam. It's at least 8 feet tall. As it’s crossing the beam I see its two long claws; they're long and black obsidian, with rose engravings just like the blade, the alarm from the incinerator wakes me up before I could see the rest of it. I jump up, run up to the incinerator, and turn it off. I couldn’t feel it due to my adrenaline but shooting from my hand was a sharp pain. I look at the hand I’m holding it. The blade is at least a quarter of an inch stuck in my fingers and my palm. I drop it, and it sticks upright into the cement floor.

I immediately run to the sink and wash out my cut; the water runs through my hands, the blood mixes with the water in the sink. I’m soaked in sweat and shaking from the fear. I grab some alcohol and peroxide from the first aid box Cindy gave me and pour the alcohol into my hand; it burns the shit out of it, and I grit my teeth. I pour the peroxide into it and grab some gauze and antibiotics, wrapping my hand with a bandage. Then I began to question what just happened. why did I dream of the caves? What was that thing in them? Why was I holding the blade or whatever the fucks claw in my hand? I need stitches so I get my extra set of clothes I have at work; And get ready for the hospital.

Stories in reading order. Standalone stories can be read in any order (or not at all), although significant story arcs may mention and be built up from standalone stories. However, the end of certain arcs may require knowledge of characters and events from certain Standalone stories.

Aster's back! I'm also proud to say that a small multimedia work of the Decayed Folk Concept (Aster's world) will be presented in the Iowa Stanley Museum this June, regarding Dead Malls as a shrine to an ancient god!

Whalesong I: Aster and the World of Brilliant Light

Aster and the False God of Stories (Standalone)

Aster and the Whisperling Storm (Standalone)

Aster and the Harpy King (Part One) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Aster and the Harpy King (Part Two) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Aster and the Numerology of Dead Gods (Standalone)

Aster and the Belly of the Whale (Part One) - Corpse Sea Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Belly of the Whale (Part Two) - Corpse Sea Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Harpy King (Part Three) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Aster and the Harpy King (Part Four/Finale) - Ogland Bridge Arc

Whalesong II: Aster and the Death of the Ether

Aster and the Lord of the Forest - Standalone

Aster and the Child of Grain (I: Burial Rites) - Child of Grain Arc

Aster and the Child of Grain (II: Poison and Pesticide) - Child of Grain Arc

Aster and the Sa Aterro Tomb (Part One) - The Remnant Arc (Standalone)

Aster and the Sa Aterro Tomb (Part Two) - The Remnant Arc (Standalone)

You're Reading: Aster and the Child of Grain (III: Open Flame) - Child of Grain Arc

Aster and the Child of Grain (IV: Consumption) - Child of Grain Arc

III: Open Flame

Fire burst through the buildings, cursed and embossed with ethereal magic. The firefighters fought against the flames, broadcasted shakily via helicopter on live TV.

The fire lapped and snapped up like snakes, coiling and encircling the firemen so subtly they could do nothing as the summoned fires leapt from one man to the other. Perhaps to the mortal eye it would be seen as accidental, or the result of yet another explosion.

But even on the news, we could see it was no accident. The fires that leapt at the Verne and Sons Logging Company were brought through ancient power.

Me and Fern sat in a rather large tent in the middle of the woods watching the news. Quint switched from the news clip to another slide.

Quint had moved a significant amount of people to set up a temporary base camp here, essentially in the middle of nowhere, Oregon. “So what are we doing here?” I asked, confused. “Those fires were magical- but what does it have to do with our current objective?”

Quint nodded and the slide finally finished loading. It was a flier. “The Verne and Sons Logging Company has been targeted all across the state,” he began. “The police have recovered these fliers everywhere.”

I read it. It was a call to action, a claim for the damages. “Free Orchard,” I read. “Save Our Trees Today.”

And then there was a link to a website. “But look below the text,” Quint suggested.

There was a hidden message below it, on what seemed at first glance to be a border. But anyone with an ounce of magic could see it- it was in Runespeak, a secret message calling every magic-attuned person to a place on the Northeast Coast.

I began to read it.

Fern did too. “Does a worm not lie in the dirt? Does a bird not cling to the skies?” Fern mouthed. “Okay?”

But I knew those words. “Wife and Husband said those words,” I remembered. “This Free Orchard is definitely part of the Family.”

Quint nodded. “Continue reading.”

I did so. It spoke of a meeting to unveil a new power to the world, a prophet, a child that had the potential to restore the natural order to the world. “The Child of Grain,” I read aloud. “This Saturday.”

“That’s tomorrow,” Fern noted.

Quint nodded and shut off the projector. He walked up and parted the tent curtains, looking outside.

Many of the Wanderer society were preparing for something. For battle. “Doesn’t this seem a little bit much?” I pointed out. “We just need to apprehend the Father and any other members of the group.”

Quint shook his head. “Many are sensing our connection to the natural word, to magic is dying,” he murmured. “Father isn’t the only one who’s had visions of the Child of Grain- we found several unrelated people spreading the word on the way here.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Fern added.

I thought back to Thylum’s reconstruction. “The Grain Child is growing,” I murmured. I thought back to the first encounter with the Family. “It was born from a seed planted by Remiaet, God of Grain.”

“It’s no ordinary mortal,” Quint warned. “It’s the child of a god.”

I now understood Quint’s reluctance to bring in a smaller team in favor of more people, more weapons.

To many, the promise of a restored earth, a restoration of the ether would be favorable- to those attuned to the true earth, many were beginning to lose power, hope- and be ensnared with pain.

“They would see the child as a messiah,” I theorized. “If that happens-”

Quint nodded and brought us out of the tent. “Then they’d have the means and the people to begin cleansing the earth.”

We needed to end this before things could get out of hand. If I hadn’t joined the Wanderer Society- if I hadn’t helped found it- I would have rallied under the banner of someone wishing to restore magic.

Sure cleansing the earth sounded extreme- but to those of us who’d lost everything to the forces of industrialization- it would seem the only option.

We do not live alone in this world. Around us, just beyond the sight of what we are willing to believe is an uncharted, secret layer. A realer, more colorful world is just beyond the reach of all of us, and yet we choose not to believe.

This world is magic. But as we lose faith in our world, as we cut ourselves off from our garden it begins to fade away. This world, the ether beyond us, is built on timeless millenia of stories and hope.

My name is Aster Mills.

I still believe in the old stories. And sometimes, the old stories peer beyond the veil, and look at our greed and exploitation of our world with hatred, with malice, and seek revenge.

I’ve sworn to walk between the worlds as part of the Wanderer’s Society- to settle both the cruel hand of mankind and ease the creatures beyond as they move towards other worlds, to let go of their pain.

The man known to us as Julian Page met me, Matt, Thylum, and Fern when in a small, little offsided waffle place Saturday.

“Where have you been?” I asked. He hadn’t been at Quint’s base camp, and we hadn’t seen him in a while.

He ordered something off the menu. “Dealing with the implications of a certain field of corpses,” he replied. “Something to do with a false god of stories.”

It seemed familiar. I nodded along.

Matt ordered, then spoke next. “So are you coming with us? We’re heading to that meeting. The Free Orchard or whatever.” He shrugged.

Julian nodded along. “No, I’m afraid I have dire matters to deal with in relation to the case- certain aspects of the grain god are under investigation.”

Thylum nodded at this. “Then why meet us all the way out here?” This was true. Julian’s people, I’d learned, were centered all the way back in Texas.

Fern answered this: “Eco-terrorism has its roots here in the Pacific Northwest,” she began, “and the attacks against the logging company is technically an act of eco-terrorism.”

“Indeed,” Julian confirmed. “I and some of my people will be looking that matter here. I,” he handed us all a set of little pins, “wish you all luck. Tracking devices.”

Julian received his food in a little paper bag, leaving the four of us alone in the little offside waffle house. We received our food and began to eat. And then the hour passed, and we were about our way.

There was an abandoned museum off to the side of the little town we were in. It was alongside the interstate, though deeper into the woods.

We watched the place from a little spot in the forest, watching, waiting, scoping out the area.

It was a little complex of interconnected buildings, small little things with long dead signs displaying their halls. A slew of attuned individuals began to make their way into their made, dome shaped building- the paleontology hall.

Across the grounds were members of the group hosting the event. The Free Orchard- they all wore little lapel pins on their clothes, a little sign of their devotion to their cause.

It was a little O with a curved line coming from atop it, as if it were a cherry, or an apple hanging from a branch.

Fern pointed at a trio of fox-masked individuals. “The Followers of the Fen,” she murmured. She gasped and pointed at another group, one who wore distinctive business suits. “Kryse diplomats.”

Individuals of notoriety. “It makes sense- the Fen-Followers have some of the deepest connections to the earth,” I murmured. “Though I do not know why the Kryse Family would attend this.”

Matt got on his feet. “Let’s find out what all the fuss is about.”

“Remember Quint’s orders,” Thylum hissed. “We don’t want to make a martyr of them.”

He nodded. “They may recognize us- especially me and Aster,” Matt noted. “We don’t know if our descriptions have been given to the Father.”

“Likely so,” I added. “We’ll split up in pairs.” We discussed this amongst ourselves, and I found myself with Thylum.

While Matt and Fern stayed behind, waiting, we made our way towards the steady yet sparse stream of people entering the museum.

The members of the Free Orchard smiled and waved, handing out little pins and flyers regarding the event.

And then we were in the abandoned museum, those interested in the Free Orchard once again breathing life.

Rotting paintings of prehistoric creatures lay dormant across the wall- a statue seemed to leer out- and bones of a dinosaur still hung partly from a ceiling- though the rest of it lay on the ground, collapsed.

In the center of the large paleontology hall was a little platform, cobbled from bits and pieces of the museum.

A man sat upon it, hands together, legs crossed. He meditated as people drifted around him, sitting on the many benches and chairs assembled, a mish mash of eras from across the museum.

“Masuya Daran,” I murmured. “The Father.”

Thylum looked around. “But no child.” I nodded to this- there were members of the group everywhere, greeting people and setting beside Daran- but the child we were looking for was not present.

“Let’s wait,” I suggested.

So we sat. And across the hall, I saw Matt and Fern sit down, waiting, watching.

A quarter of an hour later the Father opened his eyes. The doors of the hall closed, and the meeting began.

He rose up, looking around to witness the gathering. “My friends!” he shouted. “I am the Father! You may know me from my actions in the last few decades- my Family tried and failed to restore ecological balance. But we have been given new life- And- like some of you- I have been blessed by a vision- a vision of a better world, a cleaner world, one where natural order and the earth is restored! The world is our Orchard- and we must ensure it is free of evil.”

His words were strange- I could feel the intent of a higher power- no doubt the grain god giving the visions. He was a mere puppet, an avatar, a prophet given word. But while his words were stark with discontent- his voice was mild as honey and sweet as the sky.

He turned all around him, observing those who had been blessed by the visions- and those who had seen the Runespeak on the news.

“We cannot sit around and merely hope for the best. Hope for the world to change,” he continued. “Hope is conjured by those in power, those in control of the companies to disturb and lure us away whilst they dig away at the earth and take it all away.”

There was a voice from the audience. “But we aren’t just hoping,” an elderly old woman cut in. “There’s tons of environmental groups and new laws.”

The Father had an answer. “Laws that are governed by those who will not prosecute- in the past year Paracell Industries suffered no consequences for their mass destruction of coral life in Pacific in their search for oil! Shepherd Technology suffers no consequences as they send more and more debris into space!” he stared at her. “These laws are there to inspire hope. Hope is not something that brings change.”

A young man spoke up. “Then what brings change? You and your little act of terrorism?”

Daran turned wildly and stared him down. “Action brings hope. But there is no action without faith-” he paused and seemed to feel the energy around him, “faith that where one acts- others will follow.”

An old woman got up and exclaimed next. “And what are these visions?” two tattooed members of the salamander- her aides helped her down. “I will not bow to a dead god. Do not forget Five of the Six Folk Gods still live.”

There was a resounding murmur of that through the audience. I wondered what these visions were.

Masuya Daran sat down now. “These are visions gifted not from the Dead God Remiaet- but from the one who will bring peace upon us all. The Child of Grain- he who will restore natural order to the earth.”

“And where is this child?” the woman demanded. “Why are you here? Let us see this child ourselves.”

And then there was a rustle behind the old woman. “I am here,” emerged a voice, calm and sweet as honey. She turned and revealed, from where me and Thylum sat, the Child.

The two aides flanked the child, tattoos bursting into red-hot sparks, ready to burn.

The Father smiled. “Do not fear Him.”

The child, small, seemed to be around six, maybe seven. And yet he carried himself with a strange presence, one only a divine being could. “I feel your pain, my child,” he whispered- and yet he was heard throughout the building. He reached out a hand. “You have been blinded by the corruption of the earth. You can no longer see beyond.”

The woman backed away, terror in her heart. “How did you know that?”

“I am the final breath of this dying world,” he murmured. “My father is the Grain God. He is an old thing, dead now- but I am different.”

“How so?” she asked, stepping forward. “What creature are you.”

“I am a seed of power,” he whispered. “I am that which walks both worlds- borne of flesh and ether. Take my hand and so can you!”

And the woman did. The congregation went silent, eerily so. Beside me, Thylum shifted uncontrollably. Across, Fern looked at us with a strangeness in her eyes.

“I can see again,” the woman announced. “I can feel the ether once again!”

The crowd gasped. The Father beckoned for the child to join him on stage. “He is the answer to our prayers- He has given us hope, visions of a world where the natural order is restored. But hope is meaningless, friends-”

The Child finished his sentiment. “We must act. I can restore ecological balance to this dying world. But you must have faith- not in me- but in our actions. Strike at the hearts of those who would destroy our world and have faith others will join our cause- one by one, those connected to the ether will see we are restoring the earth- restoring the folk magic of old!”

The child, voice as sweet as honey, continued. “We must crush our oppressors- a wounded animal must kick and fight to survive- and we are that animal!” the congregation began to agree- desperate for change. “We must strike at the very hearts of the industry- and at those who would not prosecute! We must restore the Natural Order of Things!”

The crowd cheered.

I turned to Thylum.

We spoke in whispers. “He’s not wrong, you know,” Thylum pointed out. “These companies aren’t being held accountable for their actions.”

“Even so,” I murmured, “is terror the way to bring this new world about?”

“No,” Thylum answered. “But there is no other way I’ve seen. Not one that would have the same impact as their plan.”

On stage, the Father clapped and silenced the audience. “We are here today in my hometown, the town of Orchard River. For decades it was a haven for hippies and birdwatchers. But now-” he paused, letting his words wash over the audience, “the Verne and Sons Company threatens our famous forests, our orchards in favor of industrial development. Tonight- I call on you to help us strike them down.”

The once-blind woman stood up, renewed energy in her step. “I am Lai Yu of the Northwest Branch of the Salamander- and I and my followers will aid you,” she voiced. “We shall restore balance to this place.”

The Child nodded approvingly. “The Northwest is the last home of magic- and even that is threatened. But if we can cleanse our town of this evil- we can restore magic here and everywhere as we crush our enemies across the globe. So,” he began, “who else will join us?! Who would follow and bring about the Free Orchard?!”

His words seemed to hypnotize the audience. I wasn’t sure if it was him actively affecting the audience or their own desperation for change. Even I wondered if he was right.

But the mass murder- even of people destroying the earth was not moral. They knew not what they were doing. “We can’t let them do this,” I decided. “We need to stop them- if they do massacre the company and restore magic here- they will inspire countless others.”

Thylum thought of the implications. “There would be mass murder across the world.”

I thought back to what an old enemy of mine had once said- that once, those who had magic terrorized and ruled over those that couldn’t. “Their enemies are too broad- anyone who contributes, even the slightest to ecological genocide could be a target. This can only lead to chaos.”

The crowd cheered, deafening us as more and more swore to join them tonight.

The masked people from earlier was on stage now. “The Followers of the Fen join you tonight! We shall fight for the Free Orchard!”

More cheers. I felt the presence of the Child of Grain grow then- and then I felt him within my own mind, and all things went silent.

I was no longer in the room now. It had changed. I was alone, under the sea in a place that seemed all too familiar. “The Whale Temple Complex,” I noted. “Why have you brought me here?”

The child emerged in front of me. “A follower of Mother,” he whispered, somehow admirant of me. He was the child of a god- a being of inspiration and yet he seemed almost terrified. “I felt your presence the moment you entered the room.”

“You can’t kill people,” I warned. “You’re advocating for the deaths of many!”

He tilted his head. “Your doubt in my words confuses me, Child of Mother Whale.” Above us, false whales drifted, a trick of the mind. “Their corruption is killing your world. I have been brought here, formed here to fix it.”

I felt his power- and yet, weakness. “You are the child of a god,” I declared. “Fix it without violence.”

“The world does not believe in my kind any longer,” he replied, sad. “Change can only be brought when the ecological genocide is reversed. When the rot is cleansed.”

I remembered Julian’s words. “And what of the new gods that are forming? Gods formed humanity, not of the world.”

The child sat down and pondered this. “A reflection of the evils of humanity.” There was a pause now.

“No. Mass death is not the way to do this.”

“Then I shall give you a parable,” he decided- and the world shifted to a paradise of trees. “Does a rotted apple not poison the barrel? Should we not then cleanse the Orchard and ensure it is healthy and restored to order? But we choose to cover it up with pesticide and poison when we should be cleansing it all. Humanity is very much like an unkempt orchard- only those who respect the earth, connect to its very essence, ether should be kept.”

My eyes widened at the child’s ideas. “You suggest genocide!” I snapped. “The ethnic cleansing of all peoples but ours!”

The child smiled. “We are the rightful gardeners of the earth,” his honeyed voice insisted. “You know we will succeed tonight.”

“I will stop you.”

The world flashed into images of my friends, my home at Ogland Bridge. “You could succeed in killing me. But an ideology does not die. I sense your world’s desperation. Think of what you will do, my child.”It felt sick hearing a child- no- he seemed to be growing say those words to me.

“Why don’t you kill me now?” I asked. I wondered why he hadn’t sent people after me and my group- if he’d already sensed us.

“I believe people can change,” he murmured. “And you serve my Mother- I would not kill the rarest of all folk followers. I hope you do reconsider your actions. Please join us tonight- whether for me- or against me. Witness the restoration of the Natural Order.”

And with that, it was over. I was back, next to Thylum- it was all within the split moment of a second.

“We need to leave,” I decided. “We need to get back- and we cannot let this movement grow.”

“I concur,” Thylum agreed.

I texted Matt and Fern, and we backed away. From the center stage the child looked at me with hope in his eyes. He smiled strangely as we walked away.

The fires of revolution had been lit. And before it grew- it needed to be stopped.

Next Time: Aster and the Child of Grain (IV: Consuption)

Getting sick is an unfortunate situation where weaknesses in our bodies' armor are exploited or circumvented. The armor against the unseen world that seeks to get inside of us, take up residence and perhaps not by any conscious malice, cripple or kill us.

These things are all around us. We breathe them in, we swallow them, we lay on them when we sleep. They live innocuously enough on our skin, hair and in the contortions of our gut. Most of the time, we fight them off and remain happily ignorant of these invisible horrific microscopic wars happening on and in our bodies. We owe our survival to this mighty feature within us to ward off these things that seek to subsist on our bodies.

Science calls it the immune system. The symphonic legions of soldiers, each equipping unique weaponry suited to their respective functions and working with cascading cooperation. They, collectively known as it, preserve our flesh and prevent it from becoming a carcass devoured by colonies of tiny germs.

 	Most of us know the immune system of the body, but few know of the other immune system.  The one that watches over our mind, spirit and self.  What prevents us from losing these defining features of our humanity?   Have you ever:

Seen something at the edge of your periphery, only for it to vanish when you turn to it?

Heard footsteps in your house only to find nothing upon investigating the sound?

Felt that familiar, but foreboding feeling of being alone but having a sensation that someone was in the room with you?

Felt an indescribable feeling in which you don't know why, but there seemed to be some silent alarm within you urging you to leave that particular room, or not enter that certain house.

It may feel like some subconscious mechanism in you trying to warn you you're in danger. Much like shadows in the night that looked like monsters staring at us in our bed while we pretended to sleep, We chalk it up to our minds playing tricks on us.

  Children, whose physical and psychological development is still ongoing and incomplete, are particularly vulnerable to such breaches by this unseen supernatural world.   

More commonly, they catch colds, the flu and other infections more often than their parental counterparts. Often paralleled by their fear of the dark, their sightings of monsters in the closet or under their beds and the sounds they hear in their rooms at night; displaying an incomplete mental immunity to the beings who sit at the edge of the world opposite ours, continuously attempting to exploit them in the midst of their development.

Like bacteria, viruses, fungi and protozoa, they are largely invisible, yet have remained an ever present component of our surroundings.  The man in your room at night, the sounds you hear upstairs and that feeling that someone is standing over you, are not mere sensory phantoms.  

These ubiquitous experiences are shared by us all despite vast sociocultural, religious and economic variability across the world. They are very real, and throughout time have remained pervasive among us as humans. It is this mysterious, unknown mechanism, biological or otherwise, that protects us from these things that would seek to prey on us. It is in times of grief, stress or instability, however transient, that your mind becomes increasingly susceptible. Times where we may see or hear one of these things. Much like a mild sniffle, or sore throat, when there is chink in this protective armor, these….. entities that live amongst us, make themselves apparent to us.

Pay extra attention to your surroundings the next time you are mentally unwell, grieving, or otherwised depressed. Like me, you may be surprised or even terrified by what you might see. So I am here to tell you, this is how they get in!

Usually this system, as best can be described, can fight them off but occasionally they may get through, and manifest as the ghost story that no one believes.

On the third Saturday of every month, Mary-Ann, a single mother navigating life post-divorce, embraced a routine that carved out quality time with her 11-year-old son, Gary. The day's weather, while slightly overcast, spared them from the oppressive summer heat, providing a welcome respite following the recent thunderstorms. Mary-Ann hopped into her black SUV, picked up Gary from his father’s place, and drove to their familiar spot: a cozy pastry shop within the bustling mall. En route to the shop, Gary enjoyed playing with his mom's smartphone.

Meanwhile, Bill, a grandfather, had his bi-weekly schedule to visit his five grandchildren, and today was the day. Excited about seeing them, he hopped into his favorite white Slingshot SL motorcycle, a sporty two-seater 3-wheeler. The cloud hung overhead, but it was less humid. Bill, optimistic and feeling great, thought about the gifts he'd bought—from chocolate bars to lollipops to action figures to barbie dolls. He imagined his grandchildren eagerly gathering around him, eyes and mouths wide open as they grabbed and unwrapped their gifts. As he hit the road before noon, he couldn't help but wish for more money. The idea of selling his motorcycle for $15,000 crossed his mind. This could fund a special trip to Disney World in California for his entire family: a trip he had always wanted. Lost in thought, Bill's mind drifted away, oblivious to the imminent presence of the SUV's grille directly in his path.

Mary-Ann paced the emergency department waiting room. She regretted overreacting to the sound, while lost in thought about the mall and all the potential gossips she was going to hear about her ex-husband's love affairs from his naive son. Now, with the man in the operating room possibly facing death, she feared the worst—would she be charged with murder? If only Gary had listened, refraining from playing that stupid fireworks game on her phone.

In the waiting room, Gary sat hunched over, chin nearly touching his chest. He regretted not heeding his father's advice before stepping into his mother’s car.

"Don't use your mom's phone to play games while she's driving. Especially games that sound like fireworks." Advice too late to heed now. 

Gary remembered a similar incident from when he was five years old. It was on July 4th at the city’s largest park. After an amazing fireworks display, he and his father had returned home. Excited, he rushed inside the house to tell his mother about the fireworks and the parade. However, upon entering inside, he found the house in total darkness. Calling out for his mother yielded no response. Then, his father tapped his shoulder. "Check our closet."

He hurried into his parents’ closet, finding it in total darkness as well. Switching on the light, he discovered his mother lying flat on the floor with a pillow over her head. 

"Mom! Mom! Are you okay? Are you sick? What happened to you?"

 Right behind, his father tapped his shoulders again and whispered. "She's afraid of fireworks because it reminds her of gunshots back in Africa."

Gary lamented. If only he hadn't clicked on the fireworks game. They would have been at the mall, enjoying his favorites — slices of caramel pecan silk supreme pie and chocolate mousse cake, and ice cream with mini Oreos topping. 

"Hey, buddy. How are you holding up?”

Two uniformed officers appeared before Gary.

Gary looked up and immediately recognized the short and muscular red-haired officer, identifying him as the first responder who was first to arrive at the scene and radio for the ambulance.

“I'm Officer Michael, and my partner here is Jack.”

“What's your name, little man?” A fat and taller officer shot out his pudgy hand at Gary.

“My name is Gary sir,” Gary stuttered, taking a hold of Officer Jack’s chunky sweaty palm and barely able to shake it.

"You did a great job on that man,” Officer Michael said.  “If you hadn't performed CPR and tilted his chin upward, something terrible might have happened for sure. You saved his life, young man. Where did you learn to do that?”

"Sixth-grade health class," Gary replied in a low undertone. "I couldn't do mouth-to-mouth breathing because I didn't have a mask."

“Well, what you did was excellent,” Officer Jack remarked.

 “Will he be okay?” Gary asked.

“The old man?”

Gary nodded.

Officer Jack sighed, wiping his forehead. "We don't know yet, still waiting to hear from the doctor." 

Mary-Ann noticed two officers talking to her son and walked over, hoping to interrupt and possibly take her mind off the gunshots. She felt remorse for her past fear leading to this predicament, recalling an incident from Africa two decades ago.

"So what happened to the old man on the sidewalk?" Officer Michael asked Gary.

“I don’t know,” Gary said. “I remember seeing my mom spinning the steering wheel like out of control and then I felt a big bang before the car stopped…Mom screamed and put her head on the steering wheel. I looked in front and saw an old man lying on the sidewalk.”

Gary found himself biting his nails, the rhythmic tap offering a subtle distraction. Beside him, his mom and her hollow breaths, audible with each response to the officer’s questions, only heightened the tension. Standing there, he momentarily forgot the usual anticipation of her disapproval—a quick, sharp slap on his hand when caught nibbling. Regardless, he sensed she was in no mood to react, resembling the deer frozen in front of their headlights that they almost hit one time on a road trip to Grandma’s in Chicago.

“Is that all?” Officer Michael asked.

Gary hesitated, now wrestling with the vivid images flashing through his mind. The accident played on a loop — the old man lying motionless on the sidewalk. That reality was stark and real, far different from the countless dead bodies he had seen in movies. 

And then there was his mom's incessant trembling and piercing screams echoing, before and after the crash. He had never in his life seen anything like that from her. It was like she was a different person, a person he decided early on not to reveal to the police officers. He regretted not heeding his father’s advice and playing that stupid game.

“Is that all?” Officer Michael repeated, his gaze fixating on the 11 year old boy’s furrowed brow.

Gary gulped, accidentally swallowing the nail fragments he had chewed off. With his voice a mere whisper, “I don't remember much else. Everything happened so fast. It was like —”

Officer Jack placed a reassuring hand on Gary's shoulder. "It's alright buddy. You’re not in any trouble. We just need to understand what happened."

Mary-Ann stood by her son’s side, feeling a mixture of anxiety, guilt and anger. Anger mostly.

“Where are the rebels coming from, behind us or in front of us!” she remembered yelling at her startled son upon hearing the sound of fireworks from the phone.

“That’s the sound of an M16; the rebels have captured this area! Woa Yo!” Mary-Ann’s voice raged.

“What rebels, Mom?” Gary asked, tears welling in his eyes. “There’s no one here.”

“They block the street, so we won’t be able to get out of here! Over my old Pa’s dead body!”

Mary-Ann pressed her foot harder on the pedal, accelerating the SUV 30 miles per hour over the 65 posted speed limit.

“Mom!” Gary called out in plea to his mother but her eyes did not look at him. 

Like a bull zeroing in on its target, Mary-Ann focused on the nearing barricade. One way or another, she was going to break through, for her son’s sake. She was not going to allow any rebels to take him. If death was the outcome, then it would be a much better alternative.

“Hold tight Gary!” she shrieked.

“Mommy, stop please!” 

Gary's cries escalated into full-on wailing. Mary-Ann, unfazed, continued driving, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

As she barreled towards her target, a sudden sun ray shot across the windshield, catching her off guard. With little time to react, she lifted her hand in a feeble attempt to shield her face.

In that fleeting moment, straining to see through the glaring light, Mary-Ann caught sight of a white metallic object hurtling towards her.

“Shit!” she exclaimed, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. With a surge of adrenaline, she turned it with all her strength, desperately trying to veer away from the impending collision. 

"Ma'am, can you tell us what happened leading up to the accident?"

“Ma’am?”

“Ma’am?”

“Huh,” Mary-Ann said. “Who said that?”

Officer Michael waved his hand in front of Mary-Ann. “Ma’am, are you alright? I kind of lost you there for a minute.”

“Where’s my son!” Mary-Ann looked around frantically.

“He’s fine,” Officer Michael said, letting out a chuckle before pointing his finger in the direction of the hospital’s vending machines.

There Gary was eating a large cookie and engrossed in a stack of cards held by Officer Jack.

“This one right here is my favorite baseball player,” Officer Jack could be overheard saying.

She looked at her son and could not help but feel proud. He was growing and looking more and more like his 6'3" father. Most importantly, he was maturing and becoming a MAN. The accident was proof of this. If it was not for him, she was sure she would have been in much more trouble, maybe even in handcuffs. No…likely in handcuffs. She wished she could turn back time.

“Oh God,” Mary-Ann groaned, her forehead resting on the steering wheel.

Gary unclasped his seatbelt and leaned forward, peering beyond their SUV's cracked windshield and dented hood. He could make out what appeared to be a white car, completely mangled at the front. It was not an ordinary car though. It had three wheels, reminiscent of that tricycle car he saw once in a commercial.

Gary called out to his mother, who was now rubbing her head on the steering wheel. “Mom. Mom. You okay?” His eyes scanned past his mother and stopped on a figure lying face up on the sidewalk. 

Mary-Ann lifted her head slowly from the steering wheel, awakened by the creak of the car door. She glanced at the empty front seat, noticing the ajar door.

Wrapping both hands around her mouth, Mary-Ann’s thoughts raced. “God, what did I do?”

Before panic could settle in, she began to hear that familiar and innocent squeaky voice. She turned to her left side and saw her son kneeling down. He was talking to a man, lying still on the sidewalk.     

Wide-eyed, Mary-Ann flung her door open and ran towards her son

"Gary, we need to go! We can't stay here!" she pleaded.

But Gary remained resolute, his focus on the unconscious man. "I can't just leave him, Mom. He needs help."

"Gary!" Mary-Ann screamed, extending a bruised arm, fingers rattling. She looked in the direction where they were heading and saw nothing. Not a car in sight, pedestrian, barricade or rebels for that matter.

“We can’t stay,” Mary-Ann continued her plea. “Please son get in the — ”

“I can't Mom,” Gary said, meeting her gaze. Streams of tears marked his face. “I have to do something.”

Turning back to the man, Gary placed the heel of his hand on the center of the chest and pressed down firmly, allowing the chest to recoil between compressions. He counted each compression in his mind, just as he did on the manikin in health class.

“Mom, call 911!” Gary’s voice quivered with urgency.

Mary-Ann stood still, her gaze shifting between her son and the unconscious man.

Gary continued the compressions, pausing once to tilt the man's head back slightly before resuming. His hands moving with determined purpose.

Tears blurred Mary-Ann's vision as she watched her son's hands methodically pressing down on the stranger's chest. Each compression tightened the knot in her throat. Helplessness gripped her heart, but beneath it, a surge of pride welled up.

She failed to notice the arrival of the police cruiser behind until a short red-haired officer rushed past, urgently radioing for an ambulance.

Gary, his face streaked with tears, looked up at the officer with desperation and relief. The man remained unresponsive despite his efforts.

The officer swiftly took over, instructing Gary to move back, while distant sirens heralded the coming arrival of the ambulance.

“Ms. Brown.” “Ms. Brown.”

The voice of Officer Michael jolted Mary-Ann. The sound of her married name still unsettled her. She had opted to keep it. “Brown” was much easier on the American tongue than her African maiden name. Plus, it opened a lot more doors to employment and career progression, as had advised by a successful lawyer relative in DC.

“Sorry Mr. Officer,” Mary-Ann said, wiping her face with both hands.

"We appreciate both you and your son staying put after getting discharged. Thankfully, he's alright, and your injury is minor." Officer Michael pointed to Mary-Ann’s bandaged arm.

Mary-Ann looked at her bandaged right arm. True, she and Gary were lucky to be alive, more so Gary for not having a single scratch. She did not know how she could have forgiven herself if something was to happen to him. A swollen arm is a far better price to pay.

“Ms. Brown,” Officer Michael persisted. “We just need to understand what transpired today. Can you walk me through the events?”

Mary-Ann gulped and hesitated. It was a quarter past 6 pm and hunger was starting to gnaw at her. The image of making Gary's favorite dinner, lasagna with lots of cheese, flashed in her mind. She and Gary would have stuffed their bellies by now and topped it off with butter pecan ice cream on the couch and his kiddy movie. Would have if she had not overreacted. 

“Ms. Brown?”

Mary-Ann took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. “Well, Officer, we were driv—”

“Officer.” 

A doctor had appeared. He had several bag lines underneath his eyes and a couple of brown stains on his supposed white coat. “Officer, may I have a word with you?”

“Can you sit tight for a few?” Officer Michael said, pointing to one of the waiting room chairs.  

Mary-Ann nodded and did as she was told. She was then joined by Gary, who hugged her non-injured shoulder.

Officer Michael, now accompanied by a wheezing Officer Jack, who had hurried back from the vending machines, redirected his focus to the haggard looking doctor.

“How is he doc?” Officer Michael inquired.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said. “But we are going to keep him overnight for observation.”

“Stable as in?”

The doctor flipped open a brown clipboard he was carrying and started to read from it. “The X-ray result shows no major issue. He has a couple of bruises on his back but nothing serio—”

“Wow, really?” Officer Jack interjected, scratching his blonde buzz haircut. “Tough SOB.”

The doctor continued, slightly annoyed, "As I said, nothing serious, except he complained of pain in both legs. Hence, we want to prescribe him some heavy painkillers and keep him overnight for observation."

“Can we see him to ask him a couple of questions?” Officer Michael asked.

“By all means,” the doctor said, not looking from his clipboard.

“Officers!” the doctor shouted, just as Officers Michael and Jack were enroute to the last room in the dimly lit hallway.

“Yeeess,” said Officer Michael, turning around.

The doctor pointed to a standard white dial clock above the nurses’ front help desk.  “Be aware that I want to give the painkillers to Mr. Ferguson very soon, no later than 30 minutes from now.”

“We will do our best,” Officer Jack said, saluting.

“30 minutes TOPS.”

“Mr. Ferguson, are you feeling okay?” Officer Michael asked, checking the time on the EKG machine. Ten minutes had elapsed, and their attempts with the bald, freckled-faced old man proved fruitless. Like the woman before, the old man remained unresponsive, staring into space until either he or Officer Jack nudged him back to reality.

“Mr. Ferguson?” Officer Michael asked again, massaging his forehead.

“Please call me Bill,” Bill said. “I don’t like ‘Mister this’ or ‘Mister that.’ Everybody calls me ‘Bill’.”

“Okay, Bill.” “Can you—”

"Can you tell us what happened today that got you to the emergency room?" Officer Jack said with a brisk and demanding tone.

“Well, I was in an accident,” Bill said.

“Can you be more—”

Officer Michael patted Officer Jack on the shoulder, who then got up and walked out of the hospital room.

As he walked past Officer Michael, a muffled “asshole” escaped his breath.

Bill grinned. “Your partner is a real peach, ain’t he.”

“My apologies, it’s been a long day,” Officer Michael said, eyes darting at the EKG’s time. 15 minutes left before they have to call it quits. “Bill, you said you were in an accident. Let’s go back a bit. What happened leading up to the accident?”

Bill leaned back, tapping his fingers on the hospital bed rail. "Well, I was driving along Sanford Rd, coming from where the mall is. I was taking gifts to my grandkids, which, by the way, I realized I have not called them yet since getting in this predicament. They and my kids must be worried sick!"

Bill attempted to get up, eyeing a wall-mounted phone near the hospital room bathroom.

"Woah, woah, Bill," Officer Michael intervened, hands in front of the anxious old man. "Take it easy. Take it easy. We can call your family as soon as we finish. It won’t be long, I promise."

Officer Michael stole a quick glance at the EKG machine. “Damnit!” Neither him nor Officer Jack wanted to continue this investigation into the next day. Certainly, not on their day off. Additionally, they still had to interview the woman, and such a feat wouldn’t be straightforward, based on initial interactions.

Bill reclined back and took a deep breath. “Okay, but I have to call them afterwards. ASAP.”

“Don’t worry, I will personally make sure of it. Let’s circle back. You said you were coming from the direction of the mall. Did you see any vehicles around you?”

Bill shook his head. "Nope. Just me and the open road. I didn't see that SUV coming at all."

Officer Michael exchanged glances with a red faced Officer Jack, who had re-entered the room.

“Okay, let’s talk about the accident then. What can you tell us about it?”

“Well, I’m not really sure exactly, but all I remembered was being hit and the next thing I knew I was in the air looking at the clouds before I blacked out.”

“Did you notice anything unusual before the collision or before ‘being  hit’?”

Bill scratched his head, his freckled face furrowed in concentration. "Honestly, Officers, it's all a blur. I can't remember anything specific."

Officer Jack muttered something under his breath, causing both Officer Michael and Bill to crack a smile.

"Your partner seems a bit on edge, Officer," Bill said.

Officer Michael waved his right hand in dismissal. “Let get back.”

“Look Officer, all I know is that I was driving and the double yellow was on my right when I got hit.”

“Double yellow?”

“The double yellow line.”

Officer Michael recalled the Slingshot motorcycle and its crushed bumper facing the SUV when he arrived at the scene: Bill lying unconscious as the 11-year old boy performed CPR on him.

“That SUV was on the wrong side of the road when it hit me,” explained Bill, wagging his index finger in the air. “Whoever was driving it that hit me must have been on towards oncoming traffic. The double yellow was on my right. I remember that for a fact.”

Officers Michael and Jack looked at one another. 

Officer Michael drew out a pen and a small notebook from his uniform pocket. 

“Let us get this clearly,” he said, clicking the pen. “You are saying that the double yellow line on the road was on your RIGHT side when you got hit?”

“YES. SIR”

/The Accident. By West African writer Josephine Dean./

This was finally the moment they had all been anticipating, almost 8 years of extensive research and hundreds of millions of dollars had been poured into this secretive project and now they were finally ready to begin the first live trials of the drug that the research team had given the name - CCMIX. The first test subject that was chosen for the live tests was a wolf dog from the laboratory’s kennels, named Test Subject 7801BM. This animal was a high content wolf dog, he was large, strong and tall. He had dark black fur and looked, in all respects, like how you’d imagine any wild timber wolf would. He was chosen at random from the 8 other dogs that were kept on the site to be used as test subjects in the trials. 4 of those other dogs that were kept on site were his siblings, however 7801 would not have know this, as all of the test subjects were kept isolated from one another and their only interactions with other living beings were with the animal trainers brought in to take care of and train them, as well as occasional interactions with the scientists who would come in to run test on them; conducting measurements of their heights, bite force, running speed and other data that they needed about the dogs for the purpose of their research.

At 12:30pm on a crisp, chilly January afternoon, handlers and lab technicians arrived at 7801’s kennel and unlocked the door. The live trials would start at 1300 hours. The wolf was excited to see a familiar face amongst the humans entering his room. Jess Gwain. he wagged his tail enthusiastically and jumped up to greet her, licking her face and lips. Jess affectionately smiled and petted him, 7801 had Known Jess since he was just a pup; she had been tasked with being his main carer and handler at the facility. The researchers had acquired him and his litter mates for a cheap price from a shady ‘outdoorsman’ in town.

Jess had formed a close connection with the 7801 over the 5 years she had been working at the facility and looking after him. She was painfully aware that she was basically his only friend and companion in the whole world, and hated just how lonely it must be for 7801, never getting to socialise with his own kind and being confined to just existing within the sterile environment of his holding cell and the concrete exercise yard where he would be taken weekly to have his endurance tested by the researchers and scientists in gruelling secessions that could last for hours. She tried her best to make up for this by being around him as much as she possibly could. In her free time Jess would play games with him and managed to persuade the higher-ups of the facility to get him and the other dogs some extra dog toys as a form of enrichment and to keep them mentally stimulated and at ‘‘optimal fitness’’ for the research.

To her, 7801 had become more than just a job, a genuine connection had grown between her and this wolf, she had even given him a proper name that she would use with the wolf when she was playing with or training him or when casually talking about him with her co-workers. She named him Boomerang. Jess had named him this after noticing he would spin round to chase his tail like a ‘a spinning boomerang’ when he was still a puppy.

Jess attached a harness to Boomerang and led him slowly out of his cell. She began to walk him down the corridor with the lab technicians following close behind them. She could tell that Boomerang (7801) was puzzled when they passed by the door that they would normally go through to get to the outside training area. Instead, Jess took him down a new corridor that he had never been in or seen before. They went through several more doors and a maze of twisting and turning corridors and hallways, they even had to go down on an elevator at one point in their journey. Jess knew that this must all be very strange and frightening for Boomerang and tried her best to reassure him and keep him as calm as possible during the journey.

Jess acted and walked with confidence, though in truth she was trying hard to hide the fact that she was worried about 7801 and feared what the results of the impending test might do to him. Eventually they reached the floor at the bottom of the elevator and then began to walk down a final concrete, tunnel-like, corridor lit with slightly dim yellow lights on the centre of the curved tubular ceiling. From there on all of the doors, of which there were several along that corridor, had to be opened with the ID lanyards of the lab technicians as Jess did not have a high enough ID clearance to enter this level of the facility. A short walk through one last, bright , white corridor brought them to their destination. Room L0-02.

The technicians open the door to L0-02 and gestured for Jess to bring Subject 7801 BM into the room. The time was 12:47PM.

Boomerang (7801) was led by Jess into the room, she could tell that he was anxious and hesitant about going into this strange new place and she hated having to force him to do this, but she had no choice in the matter. She led him to the centre of the room and got him to jump up onto a central table, then she unbuckled and took off his harness and leash. He was then restrained and tied down to a table in the centre of the room by the technicians whilst jess stayed next to his head, holding him down and softly whispering ‘‘good boy’’ and ‘‘it's ok’’ whilst gently stroking behind his ears; trying to keep him calm. Jess is the one who then put the muzzle on 7801’s head.

There were cameras in every corner of the room and various small black boxes with periodically blinking red lights on them positioned on the sides of the walls to observe and monitor everything that happened inside of that room. In the upper right-hand corner of the room was a long row of small, opaquely-black glass panels running along the wall. These were one-way viewing windows from an elevated external observation room where the monitoring equipment and data processing hardware were located along with the main researchers on this project who were seated in that room, looking down into L0-02 from behind those murky glass windows.

A Scientist wearing a white lab coat, ID lanyard, plastic face visor and long, blue protective gloves slowly entered the room as the technicians left. Jess took one last regretful look back at Boomerang as she exited the room. The man in the white lab coat walked past her and approached Subject 7801BM. The scientist was holding a small metal briefcase in his left hand. He placed the case on the table next to Subject 7801 and carefully opened it, taking out the contents – a large hypodermic needle filled with a clear fluid.

7801 did not like this at all and was afraid of this strange man. He growled threateningly at the scientist, and tried to thrash about to free himself from his restraints, though he can do little in this state as he was tightly tied and bound to the table; his muzzle preventing him from being able to use his powerful jaws. The man reached for the right front leg of the wolf, taking a moment to examine it and find the right spot, he looked over 7801 with a cold and clinical gaze, He then injected the liquid into the wolf’s leg, causing 7801 to yelp and then growl furiously at this mysterious figure, his face hidden and obscured behind the reflection from the ceiling lights on his face visor. The scientist then packed up the empty needle and put it carefully back into the case before rapidly exiting the room. The only door in or out quickly and automatically sealing itself behind him after he had opened it with his ID card.

Initially not much happens.

In the first few minutes, the wolf remained relatively normal, albeit he was clearly distressed by this strange and unpleasant ordeal. Then after about ten minutes a transformation began to occur. The wolf started to grow and expand. His muscle mass and size rapidly increased, his brain activity began to alter as did his body’s metabolism. For a moment the experiment seemed to have worked, and an excited atmosphere formed in the observation room. The Scientists had been aiming to create a genetically engineered serum for military use that would be able to make bigger, stronger, and more intelligent dogs for use in combat operations- essentially, they had been tasked with creating canine super-soldiers.

Suddenly the jubilant atmosphere in the lab faded as the monitoring screens in the room flashed and buzzed ominously indicating that the wolf was still growing! The restraints around 7801’s legs began to buckle and then break as he was still rapidly growing, his metal muzzle soon shattered from the sheer force and pressure exerted on it by his continuous growth spurt. He crushed the table beneath him, his weight increased exponentially, approaching almost a literal ton! and his anguished growls could be heard / felt vibrating and rumbling through the Facility’s walls. It has been about 45 minutes since the injection was administered and Subject 7801BM was by now so large that he was getting too big for the room he was trapped in. Soon his back was brushing up against the ceiling and then breaking through it! The poor canine was no doubt experiencing a great amount of pain from both the transformation itself and being confined by the now insufficient space in room L0-02, as he continued his ever-increasing growth in both his height and girth. The wolf was soon growing so large that he was beginning to threaten the building’s structural integrity, and he was still growing! There was chaos and pandemonium in the observation room as the researchers and military personnel tried to figure out what to do, shouting at and over each other and demanding orders or protocols to enact. The sound of 7801’s wrathful growls combined with the cacophony of concrete and rebar buckling and cracking in response to the pressure of the still expanding wolf soon drowned out the sounds of the Scientists arguing amongst themselves. At that point some began to rush out of the room, shouting orders to evacuate and put the facility on lockdown, whilst others stayed behind, continuing to watch the scene unfold on the screens, unable to look away and in shock, mesmerised by the seemingly impossible sight they were witnessing on the screens.

The bulk of Subject 7801BM’s frame burst through the ceiling, his humongous arched back was now protruding into the laboratories and offices above room L0-02. He sensed that it was the way out and thrashed and clawed his way vigorously upwards towards the ground floor of the facility. It was pure chaos and terror as the wolf pushed his way up into the rooms above him. He shattered walls and floors with the sheer magnitude of his new body, sending up thick clouds of rubble, dust, and debris all around and all whilst he was growling and snarling louder than a jet engine! Once he had broken out onto the ground floor, 7801 ran through the facility, crashing through walls as though they were made of tissue paper and crushing desks, computers, filing cabinets and a variety of other equipment, as he tried to get to the outside. Lab technicians and scientists who had not evacuated in time or were still in the process of doing so had to quickly scurry away for their lives as his titanic paws came crashing down, sending up vast clouds of dust, debris, and loose papers.

Soon he broke through the outer wall of the facility and escaped the research complex. The labs were left in a state of disarray, severely damaged with a gaping hole in its side where the wolf had just burst out of, destroying several floors of laboratories and researcher’s offices in the process.

Luckily most of the personnel made it out of the building during the evacuation, but several were still missing. Jess Gwain being amongst the unaccounted for…

7801BM/Boomerang was terrified and bamboozled by the metamorphosis into his new colossal body size. He had almost finished growing by the time he had burst out of the facility’s walls. With the transformation almost over, he now stood at almost 150ft tall! He stumbled and lumbered about, crushing several trees, bushes, and vehicles in the facility’s car park beneath his paws. Scientists, lab technicians and soldiers ran to avoid him, whilst others, at a safe distance away just stared up at him in awe; their mouths agape at this otherworldly sight.

The wolf struggled to comprehend his new size and staggered about as though he were drunk or a pup who had just learnt to walk for the first time. His muscles and his head ached from the transformation and having to break out of the facility. Everything looked so strange to him from this new height. He was frightened, angry and did not know what was going on. Adding to his frustration was the incessant blaring of the sirens and alarms going off in the labs.

Just then the security of the facility decided to attack him. They order the researchers to clear out of the area and get to safety. They then open fire on the colossal wolf whilst he is still standing in the car park at the front of the laboratory complex, trying to get to grips with his new form.

The facility’s security attacked with a mix of assault rifles and a machine gun mounted on top of a jeep. To their surprise, the gun fire had virtually no effect, with even the bullets from the Machine gun being stopped and deflected by his thick coat of fur and tough lupine hide. The security then tried shooting some rifle-launched grenades at him. The grenade explosions also had virtually no effect and 7801 just shook this off and now enraged, lunged at the guards, savagely lashing out at them with his jaws and front legs. In his retaliatory attack, he picked up the jeep in his Jaws, though he did give the driver and gunner just enough time jump out of and escape the vehicle before he seized it in jaws, biting down on the car and crushing it’s structural frame whilst shaking it in his maw like a chew toy; before sending it crashing into the side of the facility. The guards continued to fire at him with their M4 carbines for a few more seconds before realising the overwhelming reality of the situation and futility of their resistance. They retreated; scattering into the ruins of the labs to hide from the colossal wolf. 7801BM stood tall and mighty in his victory, as the cowering security forces radioed for urgent reinforcements.

After making short work of the security forces best efforts to stop him, 7801BM ran away from the facility and down the path that led away from there and into the woods, as he did so he left behind a trail of large and deep footprints as well as many uprooted and broken trees in his wake as he thundered through the forest. He slowed down once the ruins of the facility were out of sight, but continued to trot deeper into the woods, and further away from the labs, slowly getting used to his new size. 7801 was now, unknowingly, heading towards the only nearby town in the area. He continued to accidentally cause damage and destruction to almost everything in his path, full grown pine trees broke like twigs before him and the asphalt of the woodland road cracked and buckled underneath the weight and strength of his ginormous paws. …

Eventually after about an Hour of stomping about and exploring the woods, the 100ft tall wolf came across the outskirts of the nearby town - Bluestone Lake.

7801BM slowly and cautiously trotted into the outskirts of the town, he was alert and nervous of his surroundings, yet sniffed and pawed curiously at the buildings and parked cars. All of this was so strange and new to him. As he came out of the woods, and made his way further into Town he was seen by members of the public who (naturally) screamed in terror and fled for their lives running away from the Giant wolf that was ‘‘Attacking’’ the town. Panic soon spread across the entirety of the small rural town; People scrambled to find shelter in basements and other hiding places. Their running exited 7801 and he decided to give chase after some of the people running away from him. His racing after people only added to the terror felt by the residents of Bluestone. The deafening, thunderous sound of his crashing footfalls as he ran playfully after the fleeing masses sent shockwaves across the whole town, so powerful that they broke the glass in nearby windows, set off car alarms and left earthquake-like cracks in roads where he ran; adding to the growing chaos and Pandemonium of the situation. 7801BM crushed whole houses and shops beneath his paws as he continued to explore the town. Their structures bending and crumpling like cardboard. 7801 did not do any of this out of Malice, as could clearly be seen by how he treated the people running from him when he easily caught up to them. The Giant wolf did not harm these people, he curiously watched them and sniffed them, sensing their intense fear but not comprehending that he was the source of it. He then after a short while lost interest in these people and wandered off to continue his exploration of Bluestone Lake. Getting Hungry, he sniffed out something tasty and began to follow that scent to the small, unfortunate local butcher's shop. He promptly broke through the front of the building with his enormous snout and began to feast on the meat held within, quickly devouring it all before walking away, leaving the building in ruins.

Eventually local law enforcement, backed up by National Guard units arrived and began an operation to attempt to ‘‘neutralise’’ the Giant wolf with all the weapons they had at their disposal. Their attack began with a sizable barrage of tank fire which wounded 7801, but to the dismay of the soldiers and police officers, this was far from sufficient to take him down and he seemed to quickly recover from his wounds. Now enraged, 7801BM turned to face this new threat. He spotted the tanks on the nearby hillside overlooking the town and after giving of a savage warning snarl, he lunged towards them.

The enraged wolf crashed into the line of tanks, military vehicles and police cars like a battering ram. he bit and clawed at their tanks and APCs ferociously, completely unfazed by the soldiers and police launching countless volleys of bullets and grenades at him, most of which were stopped by his thick skin and coat. Even the shells sent by the tanks and shoulder launched rockets could not seem to make him go down. Amidst this battlefield chaos, the wolf's ferocity only seemed to intensify. his primal instincts took over, driving him to unleash his full power and fury against the military’s forces. He turned his attention to the 7 tanks and began to crush them one by one under his paws along with many of the Humvees and trucks. Most of the tankers managed to get out in time before his paws descended on them, but a few were not so lucky… the vehicles that 7801BM did not simply crush, he picked up with his monstrous jaws and ragged on them like a dog with a chew toy, before discarding their burning, crumpled wreckage by the roadside. The soldiers, overwhelmed and caught off guard by the sheer power of 7801’s counter attack, struggled to contain the situation.

As the wolf continued His rampage, fear and desperation filled the air, leaving the soldiers scrambling for a solution. The wolf's ferocity was unlike anything they had ever seen. Bullets and grenades were futile against the Wolf’s raw strength and colossal, unnatural size, even heavy MGs and tank shells seemed to do little real damage to this gigantic creature. Panic spread among the soldiers, their training and weapons were rendered useless in the face of this formidable adversary. The commanding officer barked orders over the radio and urgently called for reinforcements and air support, as huddled in a ditch for cover.

Meanwhile, back at the labs…

Recovering from the shock and the concussion she had just sustained; a female survivor of the disastrous experiment is helped out of the rubble of the labs by a rescue team made of some of the other research personnel and soldiers – its Jess.

Jess had tried to stay behind in the initial chaos and had attempted to get to room L0-02 when all hell had broken loose. She had desperately attempted to get to Boomerang but she was stopped and pulled away by the security guards. She was being evacuated with the rest of the staff when the hallway they were in suddenly collapsed due to 7801 escaping onto the ground floor. Jess had a bloody gash on her forehead, but luckily was not seriously injured apart from some big bruises and many cuts and scrapes. After they pulled her out of the rubble, she was taken straight to the onsite field hospital that had been hastily set up in the aftermath of 7801’s escape; where she was seen to by doctors. They bandaged up her head wound and told her she was lucky as nothing was Broken and she did not appear to have serious injuries, however they did state that she would need to take some time to recover from the bruising and would be staying overnight for observations just to be safe. Whilst she was trying to rest and recover from her injuries, she noticed a familiar face sitting on one of the nearby beds ‘‘Theodore?’’ she uttered ‘‘Jess?’’ replied a well built, slightly short man with a pair of small round spectacles, a long nose and a warm, expressionate and round face topped with a crop of wispy blond hair.

‘‘Theo, what happened to Boomerang? Is he ok?’’ ‘‘I asked the nurses and some of the security personnel but no one seems to know anything, or more likely, just won’t tell me…’’

‘‘Boomerang?’’ asked Theodore

‘‘ugh, Boomerang, subject 7801BM – you know the wolfdog, Who’s now 4 stories tall!’’ replied Jess.

‘‘ah right, of course!’’ replied Theo, ‘‘um, the security forces attempted to neutralise him but they were overwhelmed. Afterwards the wolf escaped and then ran off somewhere into the woods, I don’t know what happened to him after that, though I heard a rumour that he had reached town!’’ I certainly hope that the rumour was just that, a rumour and nothing more…’’

At this news Jess’s face turned pale and her eyes grew wide.

‘‘Jess?’’ asked Theo, ‘‘are you alright?’’ ‘‘Theo’’ she said with a sudden gravity and sternness in her voice, ‘‘listen very carefully to me ‘‘ is your car is parked outside, in the parking lot, right and it’s undamaged/still driveable? ’’

‘‘Umm.’’

‘‘Theo, Is your car still driveable!’’

‘Uh yes, yes, it is.’’

‘‘Good…good. Are you ok to drive?’’

‘‘I could but we aren’t supp-’

‘‘good.’’

‘‘Theo, please, listen to me. I need you to drive me into town…you don’t understand, do you?’’... If I am not there to stop it, to calm him before it’s too late, he’s going to do a lot of damage…and…and probably end up getting himself killed!’’ Jess started to get tears in her eyes as she said this, ‘‘I need to get to him Theo, please’’ Theodore looked on in shock, unsure of how to respond, he paused for a moment before replying with just two words –

‘‘Ok, Jess.’’

Theo leads Jess to his car. They were stopped by some of the nurses as they left the hospital tents but Jess quickly fibs and says that they are just going to get some research notes and personal belongings that they left in the car earlier in the day. Once they get to the vehicle, Theo starts the engine. Luckily his car was one of the few that 7801 had not damaged or destroyed earlier. They slowly pulled out of the car park but had to stop at a checkpoint on the road to town, when a soldier walked out into the road and gestured for them to halt. Jess started talking to the guard to try and convince him into letting them pass. As she was talking to him, the soldier’s radio suddenly buzzed into life with a new message, the soldier apologised ‘sorry I’ve got to go see what that’s about’ he then went over to check the new orders coming over the radio. seizing this chance Jess told Theo to go and he rapidly accelerated away, ramming through the weak stop barrier, and by the time the soldier turned around they had already gotten away and were whizzing down the main road towards Bluestone Lake. ‘‘I can’t believe you talked me into doing this’’ Theo said in a worried and stressed tone. As they drove away from the labs Jess told Theo to take a left turn down a smaller woodland backroad, Jess frequently hiked and cycled in the woods and knew most of the roads and trails in the area like the back of her hand. She reasoned that using this tail would make it less likely that they would be caught up to if the security had decided to pursue them.

As they drove down the winding woodland road, her mind raced with memories of the wolf's transformation. She also thinks back on the countless hours she spent observing and studying his behaviour and bonding with him. ‘huuhhhg’ she sighed, ‘we have to find him Theo, I have to somehow find a way fix this mess.’

‘‘...You really do care about that wolf, don’t you?’’ Said Theo

‘‘Of course I do! I have a deep bond with him, it’s…oh, You have no idea.’’ She responded.

After about 15 minutes they started to see the town appear on the horizon. It did not look good. There were clearly signs of destruction and several columns of black smoke rose ominously into the sky from the east side of town. ‘‘looks like we’re going to the east side of town then, eh?’’ Theo said nervously.

They began to head East . Bluestone was now a complete ghost town, there was not a single person to be seen as they drove around. There were many abandoned cars in the middle of the road, some of them crashed into each other, Theo carefully navigated around them. Dropped belongings, spilt trash and broken window panes were strewn about all over the roads and sidewalks as they drove down Lincoln Street. It was on the end of that street that they also saw the first definite signs of 7801’s presence, massive, muddy paw prints in the road and sidewalk. ‘Oh my god’ Theo softly muttered to himself. There were other hints that the wolf had been down the street too, several buildings there were damaged, evidently from where 7801 had brushed up against as he had walked past or from where he had curiously pawed at their facades, one corner shop at the far end of the street and a tail shaped impaction in it. Jess and Theo continued to follow his tracks until suddenly the car lurched slightly. Theo got out to inspect what had happened and, to his dismay, he found that he had driven over some shards of broken glass and punctured his front tires. ‘‘I’m afraid this looks like the end of the line’’ he said. He then told Jess that she is free to continue on foot if she wished but he was not willing to go any further and would stay with the car. Jess was a little bit frustrated with this, but was still grateful to him getting her this far, she knew she was close now and was sure she would soon find 7801.

Jess got out of the car and thanked Theo for helping her. Theo wished her good luck in finding and taming the rampaging beast. Jess began to walk south-east towards the intersection of York and Lafayette Street, she was following the trail of destruction left by the 7801. She walked with an awkward and cautious, slightly limping gait due to the bruises she had sustained back at the labs. Despite this she pushed on and as she walked, she shouted and called out 7801’s ‘real’ name

‘Boomerang!’

‘Boomerang I’m here, boy, I’m here!’

‘Boomerang!’

‘Augh, Boomerang, where are you!?’

‘Booomeraaang!’

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the air, drawing her attention towards the local park. Jess approached the direction of the park cautiously, noting the increased signs of destruction as she did so, such as the flattened remains of O'Connell's butcher shop and several other buildings nearby with massive amounts of damage to their fronts, some of them smouldering and giving off the smoke they had seen earlier. As the town park slowly came into view she could see an enormous black shape resting in the centre of the green open space...She had found him. Taking a deep breath, Jess mustered all her courage and slowly began to approach Boomerang.

Boomerang… Jess says softly, her voice filled with a mix of compassion and authority, immediately the Colossal wolf's ears perked up and he looked right at her, his deep amber eyes now like great moons as they stared down at her. Initially he let out a terrifying low, vibrating Growl, the force of it shaking every atom in Jess’s body, He began to stand up but continued to growl. Jess was terrified at that moment, she knew very well that she could be about to die. Thoughts rushed through her head -Did he still recognize me? Did the growth change how he thinks? Does he just see me as prey now? Was it a mistake to even come after him? Does he blame me for what happened?....abruptly he stopped growling and seemed to sniff at her letting out to large puffs of warm, wet air from his nostrils after smelling her, He then left out a soft, though very loud whine and wagged his tail slowly, jess let out a relieved sight and then small laugh and burst into a huge grin before slowing approaching him. Boomerang let her approach and soon she was at his snout she gently patted him on the left side of his jaws, Jess was in awe, taking in his full size and grandeur, she could tell that just one of his teeth was now as tall as herself if not even taller. She hugged and petted him, all whilst struggling and failing to hold back tears. ‘‘I am so, so sorry Boomerang!’’ If *sob* I had known this would happen to you I’d have Never let inject you with that crap!’’ ‘‘Look, It’s going to be ok alright? We can get use to this…No we can and we will undo this, all of this…it’s going to be ok Boomerang…it’s going to be ok…’’

Boomerang sensed her sadness and emotional distress and leaned down with surprising gentleness and coordination, moving his chest forwards and allowing Jess to sink into his soft, thick neck fur, he wanted to comfort and protect her, he didn’t understand why she was upset but wanted to comfort her.

After a long few moments of reuniting Jess began to lead him away from the park and back towards the way she had come, it was evening now and the Sun was beginning to set, the town being unusually dark due to all the broken streetlights and destroyed powerlines. Boomerang was hesitant at first, but after some encouragement Jess managed to coax him into following her. Once they started to travel he stayed very close to her, his booming footsteps causing Jess to lose her footing and stumble a few times, each time he stopped and put his nose down towards her to make sure she was ok. As they came onto Lincoln Street she waved to Theo, who was still in his car. Theo went pale and then rolled down his window. He then aggressively whispered, ‘‘Jess! Have you lost your goddamn mind!? What are you doing with that thing, no, no! Stop don’t bring it closer!’’, they continued to get near to the car causing theo to utter ‘‘sh*t, sh*t, sh*t sh*t!!!’’and then try to hide in his driver’s side footwell. ‘‘Theo, Jess said calmly, he’s not going to hurt you, come on, there’s no need for that…’’ Jess arrived at the side of Theo’s car and was about to start talking him into coming out when they all suddenly heard an ominous threatening and loud TTTHHHHUMMMM sound. Helicopters Jess realised. Boomeranghe began to growl at the approaching sound and instinctively got into a defensive posture, crouching over Jess. ‘‘Theo we have find a way to signal to them that Boomerang is not a threat and that we are in the line of fire, we can let them attack him we need to signal then to call of the attack!...’’ thinking fast Jess asked, Theo, do you still have that torch in the trunk of your car. Theo’s face lit up as he began to realise what he thought she had planned ‘‘yes, I think so’’…Theo got out of the car and went to the back to open the car boot, he frantically rummaged around in his belongings, ‘Ah, found it!’ he then passed the torch to Jess, who promptly turned it on and then off again and then on…she was flashing it at the approaching helicopters, but she was not just flashing it, she was doing so in morse code, typing out ‘S.T.A.N.D D.O.W.N. - C.I.V.I.L.I.A.N.S W.I.T.H. W.O.L.F. D.O. N.O.T F.I.R.E!’ As she was doing this Theo also found his emergency road flare and lit it up to show where they were in the hope it would dissuade the attack helicopters. Suddenly the helicopters launched a volley of missiles and heavy machine gun fire, having not paid attention to Jesse’s morse code, Boomerang leapt in front of Jess and Theo and took the missiles and bullets, which hit him on his flank, it clearly hurt him as he winced in pain, but his remarkable strength and regeneration were enough to keep him standing and he was soon savagely growling and snapping at the helicopters as they circled, almost catching a low-flying one in his jaws... Jess continued to try to signal to the helicopters and it seems that her efforts were finally successful as they began to withdraw, though whether this was due to them finally noticing her signals or just them returning to base to refuel and get heavier weapons to deal with the Wolf-kaiju was unclear.

As the helicopters disappeared, it became clear to Jess that they had to get Boomerang back to the labs, ‘‘Theo, go see if you can find an abandoned car to use or if any still have their keys still in the ignition, ’’ Theo promptly went to search for a car for them to use. As he did this, Jess got Boomerang’s attention, he turned back to her and lowered his muzzle to her but kept his vision on the skies… she petted the side of his muzzle and told him that the helicopters were all gone now, trying to calm him down. A moment later Theo returned with a car, an abandoned Police car! Jess got into the car and they began to drive back to the labs, Boomerang immediately following behind them, as they got to the outskirts of town the thrum of helicopters could be heard in the faraway distance again, but fortunately they were already just entering the woods and Jess hoped that they had enough time to get to the labs and that the helicopters would be too busy searching around the town, in vain, for the canine colossus.

They followed the bumpy forest roads back the way they had come, Boomerang following diligently behind them at all times. As they neared the labs, Jess turned on the Police car’s speaker, she knew she’d need to make it clear to everyone at the labs that 7801(Boomerang) was not a threat and not to shoot at him. The Labs drew near now, their low, cube-ish, silhouette standing out on the horizon in the murky twilight. Jess began to shout into the radio, ‘‘Attention! Attention! Subject 7801BM is no Longer a threat! Do not attack him, stand down, stand down. We are bringing him back safely to the facility, he is neutralised and no longer a threat, stand down, do not shoot!’’ As they got closer to the facility the people there noticed the massive wolf approaching and began to panic, some ran for cover, others were frozen in fear, some soldiers got into defensive positions (though most of them ran in fear with the rest of the site staff) many people screamed. Jess continued to broadcast her voice over the megaphone to let them know that 7801 was not returning to harm them, after some tense moments the staff and military at the labs began to realise this. Theo parked up the commandeered police car on the edge of the parking lot and soon Afterwards Boomerang led down next to it with a soft ‘thud’ despite his calm posture Boomerang kept a close eye on the guards and soldiers, some of whom were now approaching Jess and Theo as they walked towards the Labs. Jess was soon talking to a Lieutenant by the name of Janerez and several other officers and some of the head scientists of the facility. After some stressful explaining, Jess managed to convince them to spare 7801BM and to call off any further attempts to kill him by the national guard units. For the Next few days Jess stayed with Boomerang at the damaged Labs/facility, during that time rudimentary repair works started on sight and the military began to erect fences in the woods behind the damaged labs that would form a temporary holding site for the mega-wolf. They also began a covert cover-up of Boomerang’s existence and ‘rampage’ through the nearby town. The higher-ups thanked Jess for her bravery and skill in saving such a ‘Valuable asset’ and revealed that now that he was secure, the military had big plans for his future, though they refused to elaborate what that was…despite her concerns regarding that, jess was just glad that she had, with the help of Theo, been able to save him and that was all that mattered right now, that Boomerang was safe and she was there with him.

End of part 1.

First/Previous/Next

The seven men were marched from their cells into the front square near the gate of Golgotha where a crowd gathered for witness. Boss Maron and his subordinates had each of the men tied to the next so they were like a chain gang connected by thick rope around their wrists and ankles; each pair of hands tied high behind their backs. All of the men in line dared not look up from their collected feet as they were trickled into the square where the crowd was silent save for sudden outcries of righteousness; it was a punishment not given often but their crimes were too severe for anything less it seemed. I was there too, watching from behind a pair of young women. For the men’s sake at least the sky was clear and bluish and I’d not seen any birds.

Several of the Bosses had shown for the event (a makeshift stage of blocks and timber elevated them above the crowd), and Boss Harold out front of them all, imbibing on a cruel humor in the face of the men that had kidnapped him over the water scandal. Though his face was puffed and bruised and his elderly features stood exaggerated in the morning glow of the sun which crested the high walls, he grinned at some joke another Boss told—the playful gestures of the rulers of Golgotha were like a group of children—and still the crowd was silent half in reverence, half in anticipation. The crowd opened like a crescent moon round the line of criminals, leaving open air between the forefront of onlookers and the men which would carry out the punishment.

Maron took the lead on the rope. “These men here have committed the crimes of burglary, thievery, kidnapping, torture, alongside attempts to escape these past few nights.” The Sheriff Boss was scrawny but his eyes were dangerous looking and he took pleasure in his deeds, whatever they be. He pivoted on a boot heel and looked on at the tired starved faces of the men tied by rope. “Don’t you understand your transgressions?”

The response that came to him was little more than affirmative grumbles. Certainly, from the gauntness of the men, they could barely shamble given the way they’d been collected. The youngest among them was assuredly no older than fourteen and yet there he stood alongside his conspirators, undoubtedly thirsted, starved, sleep deprived.

The first man they took from the line was gray-headed and teetered on his skinny legs; as they disconnected him from the others, he almost tripped and fell, but Maron caught him, brought the man in close and whispered something to him (perhaps words of comfort or maybe even one last admonishment). They sat the man in a stool, arms remaining cinched behind him, and without hesitation, Boss Maron’s guild of wall men took mallets and hooks to the man’s feet. The screams erupted from the sitting man’s throat dry and awful. Blood pooled in the spot beneath him and when the wall men removed themselves from before him, it was plain to see they’d skewered his ankles with iron hooks which were connected to chains which ascended to the high parapets of the wall where several more of Maron’s cronies began pulling the chains taut. All at once, they ripped the old man from his seat where his head met ground with a hard crack and he was expertly hoisted by his ankles, into the air, against the wall where they pulled him thirty feet high. There he hung against the surface, struggling, screaming still. Hushed murmurs weaved through the crowd like ghosts and one of the women standing in front of me caught a gasp in her hand.

Looking on the stage of Bosses, not one seemed to acknowledge the punishment besides a glance. Wine sloshed from a clay cup in Boss Harold’s hand and coagulated in the silty earth beneath the platform.

The next in line for punishment was the youngest, a boy with gold hair brought dirty, and dark circles which shaped his unresponsive eyes. Boss Maron pulled the boy forward and they detached him from the others in line; he followed without protest. The woman in front of me, the one that let go of the gasp, stepped forward and I wanted to reach out and stop her; the tension was physical and as my hand grasped for her clothing, it met air. How I wish I’d stopped her.

The woman spilled into the open square and Boss Maron froze, surprised, but unafraid. She’d withdrawn a semi-automatic rifle from her robes and angled the barrel first at Maron then waved the thing around; onlookers pushed themselves from her way and even the Bosses took notice, yelling obscenities.

Maron tipped the cowboy hat on his head back to expose his wrinkled forehead. “If you intend on shootin’ me then do it, bitch.”

Seconds ran like infinity where there was only quiet, and I could not hear even the screams of the hanging man on the wall. She pointed the gun at the bound boy, the youngest of criminals. Her shouting was crying. “Henry, my boy, I’m sorry! God, please forgive me!” The end of her gun barrel erupted. The boy’s body danced till it was dead, his torso exploded across the ground and his blood hung like mist. Another anguished cry and she put the gun to use in firing at the other men, still in line, still awaiting execution. All fell but the man on the end. Blood ran wild in the square till the bullets were spent; the last man was brought to his knees for the others met the ground dead and he looked on in wonder at the gore before him then at the crazed woman in the square. Upon understanding the mercy she’d attempted to pay him, he guffawed with his face brushed in red.

Boss Maron removed a club from his belt and approached the woman whose hands unclenched the gun, sending it clattering to the ground. The sheriff and his men detained the woman, clubbed her arms so that bone shone through skin and then she was dragged away, and the punishment continued, and some of the crowd stepped into the blood for a better look and how I wished I’d stopped her.

The last man was brought forth, tall, large and broad shouldered, stepping deep in the red pools without shoes. Maron remarked plainly how tall the man was, and the man spat at the ground.

They took him up the wall like the first and their dual cries echoed. Some of the wall men took ladders and created incisions across the men’s lower abdomen, pulled the skin down so a flap hung off their torsos and covered their faces like a great tongue. Blood marked the wall beneath them.

Although the sky was clear of birds, birds came later in the evening when the sky was red, and the men had no more struggle; the birds perched on the men’s crotches and prodded at muscle with their beaks till intestines bulged out like sausage concealed by a red net of thin picked muscle. They stopped screaming when it was dark.

The hall of Bosses was at the back of Golgotha, furthest from the gate and taller than any of the other structures except perhaps the hydroponic towers. There it stood with discrete faces carved into its exterior stone walls, each one commissioned by an artist without a name and there on that night there was merriment and drinking too and I’d been invited, and I went to the Bosses at night where even music could be heard echoing from the mouth of that hall that spilled onto the street. The inner sanctum of those foul Bosses stunk of fresh chicken and spices and more wine too and when I came to them, they sat at a long table where Boss Harold sat off to the right side with his fists holding implements to shred his plate of chicken. Upon my arrival, the Bosses hollered and servants were there to refill cups as I approached Harold. He offered me a cup. I sat the cup to the side and another of the Bosses snatched it without recognizing. Harold’s fingers on his left hand had been wrapped and braced with splints of wood.

“Have a seat!” Cheered Boss Paul; he was the man that oversaw the hydroponic workers.

“Aye!” That was confirmation from Boss Frank; he and his underlings helped in keeping numbers: rations, materials, and the time too.

Harold touched my hand with his mended fingers and fumbled around to stand before pulling me into a great hug; he was a small man and his head rested against his chest for a moment and no longer before he pulled away, keeping his hands on my biceps. His eyes twinkled and he’d been drunk all day. “Look at you! We’ve a hero in front of us, fellas!” A sigh escaped him, and I felt the heat off his breath. “You’ve returned my daughter and I owe you a debt.”

My expression, upon seeing the long table laid with such wealth must’ve betrayed my sullenness to it for I felt Harold’s hand squeeze my own as though to comfort me; his hand was cold, wet.

“Do not let the hero in your soul perish, dear boy! There are few of your kind.” He stifled a dry tear before seating himself at the table once more. “You’ve done me and mine a great service and I’d like for you to have this.” Harold reached beneath the table, near his feet and slid out a wooden, chest-sized crate of miscellaneous objects; he withdrew from its contents a transparent bottle with auburn liquid swishing inside. “This is some of that wizard liquor I know you’re fond of. There’s five bottles for you and a few other things. Some parchment—Mister Maron’s told me you like to write when the inspiration strikes you—and some ink and there’s a few cans of tobacco too. It should never be enough for what you’ve done.” He squeezed my hand again before returning the bottle. A drunkenness escaped him, and he asked, “What is it like out there? To travel yonder? To see what’s not been seen for so long?”

The other Bosses’ utensils stopped moving across their plates and Harold looked up at me from his seat, illuminated in the glow of candlelight. Searching for an answer, I tried, “It’s—

A door slammed open from the far end of the hall and forced me to stop and look on at Boss Maron standing within a threshold leading to some room I’d never seen before; his scrawny frame stood dark against the lights from within the room, framing him first in shadow. He stepped forward, chest heaving, and in the candlelight of the table, I could see he was naked, coated in blood all down his body and without even his hat. From beyond, just before a servant rushed forward to close the door, I could see upon a mattress was the gunwoman from the morning, arms twisted, unmoving. How I wished I’d stopped her. “I am famished,” said Boss Maron, “Nothing quite like it works up a hunger from me!” His voice was filled with delight and the other Bosses took up conversation again while Harold motioned for me to take the crate of goods that he’d bestowed upon me.

Maron moved through the hall without anyone taking notice of his nudity. He craned playfully over the table to one of the dead chickens there and pinched a hunk of meat off with his fingers before plunging it in his mouth and sucking so there was no blood left on his forefinger.

Upon noticing me, Maron moved forward, jovial, bewildering in the glow of the room, and clapped me on the back; copper rolled off him. “You’ve decided to join us, huh?” He hooked his arm around me and leaned in to support most of his weight against mine. “There’s food to be had, for sure, but I’m afraid the party favor’s been dealt already.” A hearty laugh exploded from him. Among the men he was sober alone.

“Sit and eat Mister Maron,” said Harold, “We’ve a feast and you intend to tease the poor boy? And for what?”

Maron waved off the other Boss, “Poor boy indeed. Tell me, is it true what they say about you?”

I took a stone face. “What do they say?”

“I been told that you like speakin’ with devils.” A pause followed where he took up an empty chair alongside Harold. “Or maybe you’ve got certain proclivities.” He shook a meat knife at me. “Ain’t you got more blood on them hands that I’ve got here?” He showed his flat red palms.

“I should go.” My teeth ached as I clenched my jaw and lifted the crate Harold offered.

Laughter followed till I was out in the dark, the crate grappled, pastel squares painting the black buildings in the night (a signature for each night owl). Taking the stairs, I met the street and moved to take the road home when a figure stepped out, bathed in moonlight. My hands clenched around the wooden crate.

“Heya, Harlan. That is you there, isn’t it?” The words blubbered and the face of the man they belonged to was cut blank against the sharp clay of his face. “It’s you.” He was caught in a blue moonlight shaft, and he was crying. A sniff came as he jerked his body and pointed to the hall of the Bosses. “You came from in there. I saw you did.”

“I did,” I said.

“They took my wife in there.” A pause punctuated the night as he took his fist to wipe his face. “I saw them take her in there. You didn’t see her? Did you see her? Tell me please Harlan. Tell me she’s alive in there.”

A chill caught me. “I don’t know her.”

The man laughed a cold laugh. “You don’t know her, huh? She killed our boy this morning. If you didn’t see that I’m sure you’ve heard about it. The wall men took her in there. Tell me Harlan. Tell me now if she’s dead. If you do nothing else with that miserable life, you’d better tell me if you know.”

I sighed and sat the crate at my feet. “It’s like I told you. I don’t know her.”

The man stumbled forward in the dark so there was less than five feet between me and him. “Tell me you sonofabitchin’ bastard!”

His grief was belligerent.

The man caught me in a tackle and we both scrambled to the ground, each of us working for the upper hand in the blackness. My head met hard ground and clapped my teeth against my tongue; blood ran in my mouth and dizzy colors came. I swung a fist out, feeling my knuckles meet something hard I couldn’t see. Sneaky, his hands met my throat and his thumbs pushed into my adam’s apple. I couldn’t breathe as he straddled me. Try as I might, bucking my hips to pitch him, I reached out with a hand and swung my other in a fist to meet him, but my vision was going and my strength left me as he surely tried to crush my windpipe. While I spat through the struggle and lightheadedness took me, I found his eye with my thumb and pushed hard. His grip softened enough and I threw a final punch, pulling my knees beneath him to push him off. He met the dirt to my side and rolled on the ground; I could just make out the form of the man clutching his own face.

I moved to find the crate Harold had given me and lifted it, staggering around on stilts. I took myself to the ground in a place where the moon cut through the buildings and sat there with the box, removing a bottle of liquor to hold in my hand.

First, the cries of the man were moans then he stifled himself, crested the shadow line and moved at me again on his feet.

“Ah,” I held the bottle like a club, and he froze, “If you take another step, I’ll bust this over your fuckin’ head and jam whatever’s left in your neck.”

In the lowlight, I could see his right eye pinched shut and oozing tears even more than before. His bottom lip protruded before he sucked it into his teeth, and he hissed a sigh. “I just wanted to know, mister.” He took to sitting in the dirt opposite me. “Why won’t you tell me? A man deserves to know.”

We sat like that for minutes, focused on one another while I spat blood on the ground beside me. “What’s your name?” I asked him, massaging my throat with my free hand.

“D-dave.” He continuously rubbed his hand into the eye I’d gouged. “Goddamn. I think you’ve blinded me in it.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well I’m sorry I came at you like that.”

“Ain’t you got any family left?”

The absence of a response stood as one.

I lowered the bottle but kept it in my hand. “Sorry.”

Dave shrugged. “So?” he asked.

I shook my head.

His shoulders slumped and he cried some more.

I undid the top on the bottle and scooted across the ground to offer it to him, but he put up his hand. “Just take it.”

We shared that bottle then another and I learned that Dave was sometimes called Davey by his wife. He’d just started teaching his boy about the growth cycle of cabbages and his boy’s name was Henry. Henry found a lot of joy in the world and liked to joke around, but Dave was never a jokester and so the boy and father didn’t always get along, but the man loved his boy, and he loved his wife too. “I’m a coward,” Dave confessed after the first few drinks. Beyond the first bottle, he spoke about how he’d like to skin the Bosses alive. Then, once the second bottle was empty Dave was confessing cowardice again and crying and he left in the dark and I went home.

The following morning, there was the ringing of large bells and the wizards came.

First/Previous/Next

Archive

I crawl. Thirsty. Bitter. So bitter, but I must eat them. The things that grow. They came here in a recent time. The growths are bright. They have a neck, and there is a ball on top of that neck, and one two three four five six seven round fans attached. Is this light? This light… this… colour? I don’t know. It makes me think of algae slime and moss.

I approach a patch of growth and my feeder splits open. They dance when I wrap my tongues around them and rip them out. Bitter. Burning. Did they come here because they hate me? Why? I don’t understand, but I feed.

When I am finished, I crawl back down from the ceiling and lie down in a trickle of wet. A stream. The rocks are sharp and bumpy but my skin shapes to fit, and my bones shuffle around so they can fit too. Pores open. I drink, and I flush. The vines must hate me, because they still hurt me after I eat them. They claw at my insides, but I relax and let my tubules slacken and droop out from my pores. They fan their plumes into the stream and I can feel the hurt of the vines drain from my body.

Then, I eat again. I drain, eat, drain, and eat until my membranes are swollen and full. After that, I can leave the bright, and go back into the calm and the soft.

I found a toy today. I did not bring it into the bright, but it feels hard, and round, but also hollow. There are two round holes on the front and a row of dull pegs at the bottom. I think it’s missing a part. I will bring it back to mother and see what she thinks.

It is a challenge to scuttle back down to where I sleep when I am so full. There is nothing else to be done though. The pointy tips of my legs strain and shiver and my joints ache. Stop. Smell. Send a pulse. I am at the deep well, and I am relieved. The hard cuticle plates on my back pop and release, letting me curl into a ball. It is a strain to fit my swollen organs inside but I do, and I roll forwards, off into the shaft.

It hurts to hit the ground again but I am okay. I uncurl and follow the path home with sound and smell. Now, it is easy, because mother has started to smell very strong, and she hasn’t moved in a long time. That makes me happy. My pedipalps sense a membrane ahead, which I carefully slice through, and when I am inside I excrete from my glands to seal it back up.

‘Mother,’ I ask, ‘why won’t you come and help me?’

…

‘And my sisters? I cannot hold off the bright all by myself.’

…

She is sleeping. I hope she will be okay. I nestle the new toy in her tail and curl up beside her. My sisters must still be outside. They will come back, I know it, so I sleep. We sleep.

The growths do not taste good. They do not make me less hungry so I still have to find food, for me, for mother. My sisters are probably doing the same, I know, but the hunger is bad and the vines are bad.

Below. Must go down. There are spiders and worms and curly bugs in the dry but not many. Better to go below, into the wet. I don’t know how far down the world goes, it is filled with the wet because all the streams go there and I can only breathe the wet for so long until I start to choke and drown.

It is worth the risk. I catch lots and lots of crunchy bugs that can live in the wet, big or small, slender or stout, they are all very tasty. Sometimes they pinch me on the inside with their little claws after I have swallowed. They do not bother me like the vines do but I get scared of getting stuck down in the wet. Not even mother would know what happened to me.

Mother. Yes, I hold some of the crunchy bugs in my feeder and carry them back home for mother. I leave them by her and I start to feel bad because I know where I have to go next. Up.

Climbing the great well is always easier when I have eaten. I am up in no time and can already see the bright, like steam from the warm vents but cold.

There is more. It doesn’t make sense. I eat as much as I can and when I come back, there’s always more than the time before. I’m trying to stop it but I don’t know if I can and I do the only thing I can think and eat, rip, and tear until I am unable.

Flush out my pores, hurt is gone. Eat some more. Flush. Full. I go home again. Roll into the shaft and all the way down. I get half of the way back home to mother but the hurt has come back. I don’t know why. Why is it hurting? I flushed them out.

A pressure builds inside me. Up my foregut until I can feel it pushing out against my feeder. I cannot hold it. Feeder splits and bile and bubbling acid comes flooding out all over the ground. Bits of chewed vines float around in the puddle. I don’t think they are dead yet, not all of them. They are still bright. Oh no. The bright it’s, it’s trickling down. Down the steep tunnel and down towards home. No, no, no. What if my sisters run into it? Will they hate me? Maybe they will help me. Maybe… need to get… home…

I wake up. Where am I? Not home. I cannot smell mother. It is so bright and– oh. No. No please no no no. The bits of growth that escaped me are still there but there are more of them. They are spreading and they keep going in a line down the tunnel. I spring to life and claw my way up the walls and onto the ceiling, and I crawl towards home. I do not want to touch the growths. I can’t anymore. They are scary.

I keep going. The bright shows me something at the side of the tunnel. I think it’s one of my sisters but she isn’t moving and she is very, very thin. The bright must have frightened her terribly, I cannot get her to move and come home with me. I will leave her for now.

‘It is good to see you.’

Finally I reach the end. They haven’t reached my home, and when I pass them and go around a few corners I cannot see the bright anymore. Mother is still here. Mother is okay. It’s okay. For now it is okay.

Don’t worry about the bright, mother. I will hold them back.

Sleep. Wake up. Dive into the wet and catch food. It is much easier to catch the crunchy bugs, they aren’t fighting back as much. I don’t know why. They just feel weaker and they have a sour taste.

Climb out. Eat. Bring food to mother then climb back up, up the tunnels, up the great shaft, to the bright. When I get there I see the bright hasn’t grown much further, and I feel better. Still, I have to keep going until they leave my world forever.

Before I start ripping them up, I freeze. A noise. I’ve never heard this noise before so it frightens me. It sounds loud and heavy and–

What is that? Oh, no, no, NO! Please no. The above has broken apart, smashed through. Something’s up there. Strange creatures I’ve never seen before. They look terrifying. All fleshy and moving on two legs, hard colourful shiny shells on their heads and bodies lined with silvery strips that blind me. I have to get away, run away, get away.

But I can’t move. I’m too scared. The big pointy spiral is ripping apart the rock above me, the above, the world is broken and collapsing, and the creatures are pointing down at me. They’re going to eat me, GO!

I whip around and scamper away and the hard clacking of my legs has never been so loud. The ground shivers again, a sound like the world exploding and I am showered in rocks and boulders. Faster. Nearly there. I am nearly at the shaft and then I can go home and rest with mother and–

A big heavy rock lands on my lower body. So heavy and with a crushing force. It hurts, it hurts so much, so much worse than the vines ever hurt me. Luckily it rolls off me and I disappear into the tunnel, fast as I can. I am terrified. It hurts so bad but I want to live. I don’t want to get eaten.

I don’t remember how I got home. Six or maybe eight or nine of my back legs won’t move. They won’t listen to me. It does not matter though, they are broken and twisted and my spine is crooked. I remember falling down the shaft but I couldn’t roll into a ball and it hurt even more. I’m leaking.

‘You still won’t help me. Please mother, it hurts. Stop it hurting.’

…

‘Sisters?’

…

Sleep, yes. The sleep will make it go away. Sleep heals. Sleep…

I do not wake up. No, it is something else that wakes me. Something that isn’t me. I’m not sure what it is at first until I roll my joints and look to the door of my home. Not the bright, but the suggestion of it. It is near.

I try to get up on my feet. Instead, I crash back down. That’s right. My back legs are ruined. So I drag myself to the door and cut through membrane. The second I exit I collapse from fright. The bright is here. It’s right outside, grown all the way down from the tunnel up. No. What did I do to them to deserve this?

I can’t remember a long time after that. Panic. Rip, tear, scream. When I am back I see that most of the bright is ripped up. I don’t know if it’s dead though so I scoop up as much of it as I can and slide down to the wet. I dive in, down as deep as I can go, and dump the vines. I’m too weak so it isn’t very far into the wet where I dump them. Everything hurts. I hurt. The water hurts, it burns.

I climb back out of the wet. Hard to breathe. My spiracles are blocked with pus and lifeblood. I’m so tired and I want to sleep forever. When I get home, I freeze again, and start to cry out. There are echoes from up the tunnel. Bad noises. The two legs monsters are coming with their giant claw or tooth and–

Another rumble. A loud blast. They are closer than I thought, I can see dust falling from the above. I can’t let them– I WON’T let them take mother. How to hide? How? I know. I move up the tunnel a bit and start secreting out of my neck glands. First, a membrane from side to side, up to down until the membrane blocks the tunnel. Then I do it again and again and again until it is so tough I can’t slice through it. When my glands run out I crawl around the membrane, licking it with all my tongues so it can start hardening. It’s hard. I can only move with my front legs but I do it anyway. When I am too tired to go on the membrane is already looking and feeling stony, just like the walls of the tunnel. I still sense the bad noises but I can’t hear them, and I can’t see the bright on the other side.

‘We are safe now, mother.’

She is still sleeping. So tired. I will sleep next to her.

I think I slept for too long. At least the bright didn’t wake me this time. Hungry. My body is pulsing and it’s hot, my legs, my spine, swollen and stinking, smelling more like mother. So hungry. I ache with the hunger. I have to go into the wet for food. I don’t have a choice so I go. I catch the crunchy bugs. They don’t fight back. Maybe they are all sleeping but they are… limp, and floppy.

I dive further and find out why.

It doesn’t matter what I do. Everything, anything I do, the bright does not care. It has seeded again and overtaken the wet. It’s bursting with the bright and it’s so much worse seeing it through the wet, split and bursting into my eyes, so bright I can still see it through all my closed eyelids. I can feel them in the wet around me, their hurt, their hate. It burns more than I have ever felt, even more than my legs and my spine.

I nearly don’t make it out. The hurting bright makes my limbs go numb and my eyes sting and blur, but I crawl out of the wet, clicking and whimpering, dragging my useless legs behind me. I choke on the food as I eat it. Useless useless useless, bad noises, bad bright, two legs, giant teeth, giant mouth. I can’t bear it. Inside. Seal the membrane. Go to mother. Bring her the food I have caught for her and leave some for my sisters. To mother. My sisters. Just need to eat… to live… that is all. I never should have gone away from here. Never should have climbed up. Nearly there, mother. Nearly…

I am woken up again and I know why. Before I even look I know the bright is right outside. So much, so many, I can see it through the membrane. It’s not fair. I don’t have the strength to fight it now, not anymore. There is no point. Even before the rock fell on me I couldn’t fight back. Not really.

The bright is growing, I can see it growing in front of me. I trace the vines and they go back down to the wet, the wet, the wet is just a tangle of bright and vines now. My barrier in the other tunnel is still there. Still protecting. But I can hear the bad noises. The two leg things. They know where I am and they are coming. Why does everyone hate me? It isn’t fair. I am trapped, both sides, walls, no walls, closing in, falling down.

I just go back inside with mother. With the bright outside the door, I can see her. And I can see my sisters too. They’ve come back. I must not disturb them, they are sleeping, healing, yes. Still thin, still gooey but healing. They are still.

Wait… mother isn’t healing. Why isn’t it working? The sleep? She is so thin and the… colour… her skin is covered in patches of bad colour and she hasn’t eaten any of the food I brought her. I try to take care of her and clean her with my tongues but the taste is awful. Pressure inside me comes back and pushes out of my feeder in a gush of fluid and chewed up bugs.

‘Mother.’

She doesn’t move. I am scared.

‘MOTHER.’

Am I alone?

No, stop it. Help mother. I have to. Without her I will get hungry and sad. I try to help her. I try to put her head back on her body but it keeps falling off and rolling away. I try to slot her scales in tight and join her bones back together. Moist and brittle under my pedipalps and smelling worse than ever before.

‘Why won’t you talk to me? Why? If you are hungry, then eat. Mother? Sisters, are you there?’

It feels like a long long time before I can think again. Did I sleep? Am I awake now? It’s hard to tell. I hear the noises, the bad noises, except they aren’t bad anymore. They don’t scare me. I just listen to them. Wonder what’s making them, and where the two legs creatures came from. They broke through the above, but from where?

Itchy. Tail, legs, spine, itchy and pulsing and swelling so much they are going to burst. Maybe the two legs already found me and are eating me. I can’t tell. No, wait, there are curly hundred leg bugs and spiders nibbling at my legs. I feel them but don’t see anything. Do I see? I don’t know what I see. The bright? The dark? I don’t understand the difference anymore.

My thinking… thoughts… outside of me. Still mine, but not in me. There is one that is not mine. I hear it, or think it.

“The dark is all she has ever known.”

I call out, because it could be mother. It couldn’t be anyone else but mother. I can’t see her. The bad sounds are louder. I can’t see the bright but I know it is growing over me now. Growing into me, into my pores and spiracles. Can’t breathe. Hurts.

“The child was never meant to see the light, but perhaps this was inevitable. She blames herself.”

I did. Not now.

At least I don’t have to fight anymore. I can’t. There is nothing I can do now and that feels good. The bright can have everything, if it wants.

“Let go, little one.”

The itching won’t stop. I thought I would never see again but I see one more thing. I see it sharp and focused, lying on the ground in front of me. It is the toy, the gift I brought back for mother. Round and hard. Pale and cracked. I stare and blink into its one, two empty sockets, and they look back into every one of my eyes. Is it a face? Mother’s? Mine? A blanket of warm dark and quiet wraps around me and the itching is gone but I keep staring into the face and its empty eyes, lying there next to me.

I think… it’s still missing a piece. Like me. My eyes start to close one by one, and in my head, I smile.

Because I am not alone.

Serj dragged himself along the road, limping. The fog, still low before the dawn, concealed the beaten path. However, he had traversed that country trail countless times, and had no trouble finding the way. His leg hurt badly, but he couldn't go to the doctor. Only the septimin knew his situation, and he didn't want to reveal it to anyone else. Perhaps he should talk to the priest, but the man was hesitant, torn between scorn and reverential terror. One was for the person himself, an old schoolmate; the other was towards God. If He knew what was happening to him, why wasn't He helping? As for Dominic the healer, he could be trusted. He was a simple person who didn't rely solely on science or religion. He didn't judge others because he himself had been denigrated. It was said that septimins, people born prematurely at seven months, had special gifts. Dominic was no exception, demonstrating it ever since he had found that strange black stone. He immediately knew it was special… Fallen from the sky, he said. That rock, combined with herbal ointments, had cured tuberculosis, typhoid, and malaria. Over the years, always more and more people had traveled to that small village of barely a thousand souls. Serj, however, didn't have an actual illness; he was cursed. For months, every waning moon, he woke up screaming. The reason was always the same: the nails in his legs.

When he knocked on the door of the modest farmhouse, he heard some fuss. Shortly after, the door opened a crack. "You again," a woman said in a flat voice. "Hello Elda. Is Dominic up yet?" Serj asked. "Hmm. I don't think—" she began, but from inside came the booming voice of her companion: "What are you doing, woman? Let that poor man in!" Dominic swung the entrance wide open. He had a rather long, tidy gray beard; he was imposing, just a little taller than the door, but also extremely thin. "I was afraid you'd come… Another month has passed already," Dominic said. The woman muttered something, and Serj nodded. He murmured, "Yes, it happened again. This time…" and he pointed to his right leg. There was a small red spot on his pants. "Come on in!" Dominic ordered, closing the door behind him. "Sit in the chair and take off your pants."

The patient's legs were covered in scars: some fully healed, others quite fresh. A couple of inches above his right kneecap, there was a black dot surrounded by reddish-purple flesh. It was the head of an iron nail, the eleventh one to appear in Serj's legs. Often they were simply embedded in the muscle; a couple, however, had chipped the bone – fortunately never fracturing it. For Dominic, there was no doubt. The nails had gone in fully; they couldn't have just "appeared": the tissue was torn, the bone fragments… In short, they had been driven in. "You're lucky," the septimin tried to lighten the mood, "even this time it's nothing serious. It'll hurt for a while, but it'll close up soon." He applied a decoction with verbena, alcohol, and dandelion, then bandaged the wound carefully. He had extracted the iron piece with ease. Like the others, it was perfectly straight, as new. If they had been rusty, there would have been little he could do. They were in the large kitchen, sitting near the cast-iron stove. The stone floor was now illuminated by the first rays of sunlight. "Do you… want to talk about how it happened?" He had asked for clarifications several times about those "incidents", as bizarre as they were unsettling. No response. Serj didn't want to tell anyone about those nightmares. The healer opened a drawer in a large cabinet and pulled out a red bundle. He unwrapped it and took out a fist-sized black stone; it looked just like a piece of coal. He handed it to Serj. "Hold it for half an hour, try to relax." When the other grabbed it, Dominic moved his chair to the opposite side of the room. That was the most delicate moment. When someone was holding that rock, he could feel what troubled them, had a particularly clear vision of their ailments. It was as if he could enter their bodies.

Half an hour passed. Serj, who had dozed off, opened his eyes. He saw Dominic, sitting across from him, sweating profusely. He had an expression of pure terror on his face. It seemed he was staring at something in front of him, but his eyelids were shut tight. The injured man got up from the chair and approached. He gently touched his shoulder. "Dominic?" No reaction. He touched his arm again, with more force. "Dominic!" Nothing. He let the black stone fall to the ground, rolling it near the stove. At that moment, the septimin suddenly grabbed both of Serj's forearms with his hands, and screamed with all his breath. When he recognized Serj, he slowly composed himself and then slumped, without releasing the other's sleeves. After a moment, he asked, "…Was it Claire? Your wife?" Serj nodded, shrugging; his eyes fell on the rock. "But she died last year!" "Yes. But somehow she manages to… reach me here. Every month, after the full moon, I wake up and… she's there, at the foot of the bed." The healer was speechless. "Every time she approaches, takes out a hammer from I don't know where, and tells me… She tells me…" but he burst into tears, and didn't finish the sentence. Dominic beckoned him to continue. Serj couldn't, but the septimin already knew the words thanks to the black stone: 'Serj, do you remember your niece? That girl you always whistled at, followed into the woods, and then they found her dead? I met her, she told me the truth about that night. She sends you a small gift with which she was buried – because of you!' He then saw the pale, frightening woman aiming a nail at the man's knee, raising the hammer, and…

Part 1

We stare at the gaping hole where the balcony doors once were, the shattered glass glittering like ice under the moonlight.

"Mon Dieu, what was that?" Reine whispers, her voice a mix of fear and awe.

I shake my head, unable to formulate a rational explanation. "I don't know, but we need to move. Now."

There’s no time to waste; we need to act fast before the police arrive and questions start being asked—questions we can't afford to answer, at least not yet.

First, we slip on gloves and wipe down every surface we’ve touched, erasing our fingerprints from the glossy expanse of the door handle, the jagged edges of broken glass, and the sleek metal of the railing.

As Reine retrieves the spent shells, I focus on the bullets lodged in the floorboard. Using a pair of pliers, I carefully extract the still warm, deformed slugs.

Next, we gather every shred of forensic evidence we can, working with the precision of surgeons. Every second counts, and as we hear the distant wail of police sirens drawing nearer, the urgency ratchets up.

We collect the fragments of what was left behind by the creature, using tweezers to place each macabre piece into small, sealable bags.

Reine quickly snaps photos of the crime scene, ensuring we have visual evidence of everything we've witnessed.

I spot Zane's phone discarded on a chair, the screen cracked but still glowing faintly. I snatch it up, knowing it could hold the key to understanding not just his infidelity, but possibly even the origins of the creature we just encountered.

Slipping through the service entrance, we make our escape just as the first police cruisers turn into the hotel driveway. The night swallows us whole, just another pair of shadows among many.

The drive back to the office is a silent one, both of us lost in our thoughts, trying to process the night's events.

The moment we step through the door of our office, Abbey looks up from her desk, her face lighting up. But her smile fades when she sees the grim expressions on our faces.

"Everything okay? Y’all look like you've both seen a ghost," Abbey says, her concern evident as she takes in our disheveled appearances.

Reine lets out a weary sigh. "Clear our schedule for the next few days," she tells her. "We've got a lot to sort through."

—

I head to my desk and pick up the phone. I dial Astrid's number. She answers on the second ring, her voice tinged with apprehension.

"Mrs. Everly, it's Ash. I... We need you to listen carefully," I begin, my words measured. “Zane... Something happened to Zane.”

I explain, in broad strokes, the events at the hotel, carefully omitting the more horrifying details. Though I make it clear that Zane won't be coming home and that law enforcement will soon be in touch to provide her with more information.

Astrid's reaction comes as a mixture of shock and a strange, resigned calmness. The line is silent for a moment after I finish speaking; the only sound is her steady breathing.

"I... I don't know what to say. Is he...?" Her voice trails off, unable to finish the question.

"He's gone. I'm very sorry," I reply gently. There's a heaviness in my own voice.

Astrid takes a deep breath, a faint tremble detectable in her sigh. “Okay… What do we do next?”

"First things first, Mrs. Everly," I say, leaning back in my chair, my eyes tracing the grain of the wood on my desk as I gather my thoughts. "We're going to make sure you and the kids are safe. I recommend staying with someone you trust for the next few days, somewhere you feel secure. We'll handle everything from our end."

I can hear the hesitation in her voice. "But, what about... you? What will you do?”

“We’re working on gathering as much evidence as we can, piecing together what happened,” I assure her. “We’re going to do everything we can to get to the bottom of this.”

Her breath hitches slightly, and I can almost see her nodding on the other end of the line. "Okay, Detective Tran. I trust you. Please, just... find out what happened. And stay safe."

—

After the call with Astrid, we dive into the investigation's next phase.

The key, we hope, lies with Zane's phone. Cracked screen and all, it's potentially a window into the motives and means behind the horror we witnessed. The first hurdle, though, is gaining access to the device. With Zane’s… status, asking him for the passcode or facial recognition is a non-starter for obvious reasons.

That leaves us with the fingerprint sensor. It's a long shot, but it's all we have. We've lifted prints before, mostly from scenes less grisly than this, but the principle remains the same. With a bit of forensic delicacy, we manage to lift a clear thumbprint from the back of the phone—Zane's, no doubt, considering the placement and the repeated pattern of smudges.

Using a technique that's equal parts art and science, we transfer the print onto a thin layer of silicone. It's a bit of a MacGyver move, but desperation breeds innovation. Holding our breath, we press the silicone against the sensor. There's a tense moment, a heartbeat where nothing seems to happen, and then the phone unlocks, granting us access.

The phone's home screen greets us, a clutter of apps and notifications that hint at the double life Zane Everly had been living. As we sift through his messages and call logs, we stumble upon a series of texts between Zane and a woman named Chantrea.

The exchanges are a damning chronicle of their affair, sprinkled with explicit photos that leave nothing to the imagination. The intimacy and frequency of their communication suggest this wasn't just a fleeting encounter; it was an ongoing, sordid affair.

Their texts suggest meetings that were carefully planned and executed with a level of secrecy you'd expect from someone with a lot to lose. They mention rendezvous at a place called "Serenity Touch," a massage parlor that, based on the reviews on Google Maps, offered services far beyond the typical spa menu.

Delving deeper into the exchanges between Zane and Chantrea, we begin to notice a pattern of coded language peppered throughout their conversations. Phrases like "extended session" and "private therapy" recur, suggesting that their meetings involved more illicit activities. It became clear that Chantrea was likely a sex worker at Serenity Touch, the massage parlor doubling as a front for a brothel.

Chantrea's messages to Zane were laced with a mix of professional detachment and genuine emotion. It was evident she had developed feelings for him beyond their transactional relationship. She frequently inquired about his day, his thoughts, and, more pointedly, his family. Zane, for his part, navigated these questions with a calculated vagueness, sharing just enough to keep her engaged but always stopping short of revealing too much.

Among the flurry of texts, one conversation, in particular, catches our eye, a discussion that paints a clear picture of Zane's reckless pursuit of thrill at the expense of others' feelings.

In this exchange, Zane suggests introducing another worker from the parlor, Soriya, into their liaisons. His message is cavalier, treating the proposition as nothing more than a novel adventure to spice up their encounters. However, Chantrea's response is anything but enthusiastic. She reacts with a mix of hurt and indignation to a ménage à trois. She accuses Zane of diminishing what they had. Her threat to end their relationship over this is clear and unmistakable, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

The revelation of this discord adds another layer to the already complex narrative. Zane, in an attempt to mend fences and perhaps soothe his guilt, resorts to a classic, albeit clichéd, gesture—a bouquet of roses. His subsequent visit to the quaint flower shop, as captured by our surveillance, now takes on a new significance. It was an attempt at reconciliation, a plea for forgiveness wrapped in the delicate petals of flowers.

The key to unraveling this tangled web, we decide, is Soriya. She's the missing link, a potential treasure trove of information on Chantrea, and possibly even insights into the otherworldly horror we encountered.

But how do you approach a sex worker in a brothel-fronting massage parlor without alerting the entire operation or, worse, scaring her off? Badges and warrants aren't tools in our kit. We need finesse, subtlety, and a bit of creativity.

—

The neon sign of Serenity Touch flickers in the early evening dusk, casting an ethereal glow on the otherwise nondescript storefront nestled between a nail salon and a 24-hour diner. Its windows are darkly tinted, offering no glimpse of the activities within, a deliberate choice designed to preserve the anonymity of its clientele.

As I enter the establishment, the interior unfolds like a scene from a classic noir film—dimly lit, with soft, ambient music floating through the air. The decor leans heavily into Asian aesthetics, with bamboo plants strategically placed around the room, water features bubbling quietly in the background, and delicate paintings of serene landscapes adorning the walls. The air is scented with a blend of jasmine and sandalwood, a calming aroma that seems designed to soothe the senses and disarm any initial hesitations.

The camera, cleverly disguised as a button on my shirt, transmits live footage to Reine, who's stationed in our vehicle parked across the street.

The receptionist, a woman with a calm demeanor and a welcoming smile, greets me. "Welcome to Serenity Touch. My name is Mai. How can I help you?"

I clear my throat, the words slightly catching as I try to adopt the persona we'd concocted on the drive over. My nervousness must be palpable, but just then, Reine's voice crackles softly in my earpiece, a steady whisper of encouragement. "Stick to the script. You've got this, mon amour."

Taking a deep breath, I meet Mai's gaze. "Hi, Mai. I'm, uh, sort of new to this kind of thing," I start, feigning embarrassment. “A friend recommended… He says y’all give great massages.”

"Of course, we offer many types of massage—Swedish, deep tissue, aromatherapy… all very relaxing and good for stress," She lists off. "You look tired, maybe you try hot stone? Very popular and good for sore muscles."

"Actually, I was thinking of something perhaps more along the lines of a private therapy session," I venture, using the coded language Chantrea and Zane had employed in their texts. “You know, something more... personal?”

Mai's expression shifts subtly, her welcoming smile tempering into something more guarded, but still polite. Her eyes scrutinize me for any hint of duplicity. "You say your friend tell you about us?" she asks. “Who your friend?”

​​Mai's question catches me slightly off guard. I figure that Zane, with his double life, would likely have used a pseudonym during his visits here. I think back to Zane’s texts with Chantrea, remembering seeing him occasionally refer to himself as "Mr. Zen" in their conversations.

"Yeah, Mr. Zen," I reply, maintaining my feigned casual tone but watching Mai closely for any sign of recognition. "You know, White dude, a bit taller than me, with light brown hair, always looks like he's headed to a business meeting.”

“You know Mr. Zen?” Mai hesitates, her eyes scanning me more intently now, as if trying to peel back the layers of my façade. She leans back slightly, arms crossing as she assesses the truth in my words.

"She’s not buying it,” Reine murmurs through the earpiece. "You have to sound more convincing."

Feeling the pressure, I push a bit harder, the story pouring out more desperately now.

"Look, Mai," I start, my voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm gonna be honest with you. My marriage, it's... it's on the rocks. My wife has been my fucking case a lot lately. And to make matters worse, we haven't been... connected, you know, intimately, for months. I'm just looking for something to feel again, to bring back some... spark."

Mai looks at me, her face showing a hint of curiosity. "Oh, I see. You have big stress, huh?"

“You have no idea…” I say, sighing heavily.

Mai glances around the softly lit lobby, ensuring no one else is within earshot. "Okay, listen carefully," she says, her voice low and urgent. "I can maybe help you, but we have to be very careful, okay? If police come here, I get in big trouble with my boss."

She locks onto me with an intensity that lets me know she’s more afraid of her boss than being raided by the police.

"Look, I'm not a cop or anything," I assure her, my tone earnest. "I'm just a guy at the end of his rope, looking for some relief."

“Okay, I understand," Mai relents. She takes a deep breath, before reaching under the counter and pulling out a glossy brochure that she hands over to me with a flourish. "We offer very special session. Make you feel new love. Guarantee very happy ending. You interested?"

“Yes, very much," I reply, genuinely relieved. “Thank you.”

I follow Mai to a waiting room that is small and tastefully decorated, with a single plush chair and a small table adorned with magazines and a vase of fresh flowers. She gestures to the chair.

"You take time. No rush," she tells me. "Each girl very skilled. You choose, then tell me. I make special arrangement for you."

Opening the brochure, I find myself looking at a series of suggestive yet tasteful photos of masseuses, each accompanied by a name and a brief description of their specialties.

They all appear to be of Southeast Asian descent. As we flip through, I can't help but feel a pang of guilt, knowing that some of these women might not be here by choice.

As I continue flipping through the brochure, Reine's voice comes through the earpiece, her tone sharp. "Wait, go back a page. I think I saw her."

I thumb back to the previous page and my eyes immediately lock onto the photo of the woman. Her resemblance to the woman from the hotel is undeniable — the same high cheekbones, the same piercing gaze. Even her hair, neatly styled in the photo, matches the long, straight black hair we saw.

Under her photo, the blurb reads: "Soriya — a touch of mystique with every session. Trained in the ancient tantric arts, she will guide you to new realms of relaxation."

—

Mai leads me down a narrow, dimly lit corridor that twists and turns more than I'd expected, passing several closed doors where the muffled sounds of clients having sex can be heard. Finally, we stop at a door that's slightly ajar. Mai pushes it open, revealing a small room lit by soft, golden light that casts long shadows across the sparse furnishings.

The room is dominated by a large massage bed, draped in crisp white linens, and surrounded by candles that emit a soothing lavender scent. The air is warmer here, heavy with the scent of essential oils that mingle with the faint aroma of incense.

Mai gestures towards the massage bed with a small bow of her head. "You undress, please. Soriya, she join you soon, okay? You relax first."

As I nod in understanding, Mai pulls a thick curtain across the doorway, enhancing the room's privacy before she exits. The sound of her footsteps fades quickly, leaving behind a silence that feels both serene and charged with anticipation.

After a short wait that felt longer due to the anticipation, the door curtain rustles slightly and Soriya enters the room. Her presence commands immediate attention. She wears a silk robe that clings delicately to her form, leaving very little to the imagination—a sheer, flowing garment that accentuates her slender figure.

"Hey handsome," she greets me, her eyes scanning over me. "My name Soriya. What your name?"

I give her one of the aliases I often use in these situations. "Hey, Soriya. My name's Sonny. It's nice to meet you..."

"Sonny, why your clothes still on?" she asks, her expression one of playful admonishment as she pouts seductively. "Massage cannot start until you take off."

"Hey, actually, I was hoping we could just talk for a bit," I say uncomfortably.

She tilts her head slightly, a look of confusion briefly crossing her face before her professional smile returns. "Talk? Okay, we can talk later, but first, you shower. Make you feel more relax, yes?"

Soriya's hand is gentle yet firm as she takes my arm, guiding me towards a glass-enclosed shower at the corner of the room.

"You very tense," she observes, her fingers pressing expertly along my shoulders. "I help you relax first, then we talk."

She's graceful, almost cat-like as she leads me by the arm toward the shower area at the back of the room. Her touch is gentle, yet firm, a professional maneuver designed to ease clients into relaxation.

Her hands move to the buttons of my shirt, intending to help me undress. I gently grasp her wrists, stopping her. "I’d really prefer it if we could start with a chat," I insist, trying to keep the situation under control.

"You look strong, like athlete maybe. You work out, yes?" She taps my arm lightly, her touch light and teasing. "Very big muscle, not just fat. Good."

I chuckle awkwardly, not used to being the focus of such comments. "Thanks. Yeah, I try to keep fit."

"Keeping fit good for stress," she nods.

Soriya’s gaze lingers on me, her eyes sparkling flirtation. "You so handsome. Your wife, she crazy to not see what she have. Why she make you so sad?" Her accent is thick, her words laced with a playful yet sincere tone.

"Yeah, it's been tough," I respond, giving a half-smile as I ease into the role we’ve constructed for this undercover interaction.

I resist the pull slightly, halting her progress. "Actually, Soriya, I really need to talk now. It's important."

She looks at me, a hint of impatience flickering across her face before being quickly masked by her professional demeanor. "Okay, we talk. But why you so serious? You come here to relax, no?"

She pauses, a flicker of surprise in her eyes, but then nods, stepping back. "I understand. You nervous, I see. It okay," she says, her voice softening.

Soriya takes a step back and starts to loosen the sash of her robe. "I show you first, so you more comfortable," she explains, her tone casual yet observing my reaction carefully. The silk robe slips from her shoulders, falling gracefully to the floor, revealing her lithe figure, causing me to falter for a moment.

"How I look? Sonny, you like what you see?"

I'm left there mesmerized with my jaw hanging open. But Reine’s voice crackling through the earpiece snaps me back. “Stay focused, Ash.”

"Soriya, I know about Chantrea," I start firmly. The mention of the name causes her demeanor to shift, a visible jolt of shock passing through her.

"Chantrea? What you know about my sister?" She asks nervously, pulling her robe back over herself.

"Chantrea’s your sister?" I ask, surprise evident in my voice. The pieces begin to click into place, but there's still so much we don't understand.

"Yes, she my sister. What you do to her?" Soriya's voice is tight, her body tensed as if ready to bolt at any moment.

"I didn't do anything to her," I clarify quickly, "but something... happened.”

I explain what we saw back at the hotel, keeping my tone even to avoid alarming her further.

Soriya’s eyes widen, her body tensing. “You show me proof? You have pictures?”

I nod. “I do, but they’re disturbing.”

“I don’t care. I need to see,” she insists, her voice firm despite her obvious anxiety.

I pull out my phone, hesitating for a moment before opening the gallery. I show her the gruesome scene we stumbled upon.

Soriya takes the device, her hands slightly shaking as she views the photos of Zane's mangled, headless body. She gasps, her face going pale at the sight of the chaos and carnage. "This... Chantrea do this?"

"It looks like it," I reply, watching her closely. "There was something unnatural about her, something I've never seen before. She... she wasn't normal."

Soriya looks up from the phone, her eyes haunted. “She promise she not do this…”

I lean forward, keeping my voice low and steady. "What did she promise you?”

She hesitates, then sighs, a sound heavy with resignation. "Okay, I tell you. But not easy story."

I nod encouragingly, showing her it's okay to continue.

"We from poor village in Cambodia," Soriya starts, her eyes downcast. "Life very hard there. Our dad sick, need medicine, but medicine too expensive. Then, one day, men come. They say they have work for us in America. Say we make good money, send home for family."

Her voice falters, and it's clear the memories are painful. "Our mom, she not want us to go. She scared. But we need money for our dad. We think we do right thing."

"What happened when you arrived in America?" I prompt gently.

"Not like they say. They lie to us. They... they take us to place, lock us in room with many other girls. Beat us." The words come out in a rush, her face flush with the shame of recounting the ordeal. "They... they sell us. Sell first time to high bidder. After, force us work in sex work."

The story is all too familiar, a tragic narrative of exploitation that I've heard in different versions too many times.

Soriya wipes a tear from her cheek. "It hard, but we try to make life better here. Chantrea, she always strong one. She say she make them pay for what they do to us."

I nod, my expression solemn as I urge Soriya to continue, recognizing the courage it takes to reveal such personal pain.

Her eyes darken with a fear. "She don’t tell me how. I think she just say to make me feel better. But then I find out."

"What did you find out?" I ask, encouraging her to disclose more.

"One night, I wake up, hear noise from next room. I look, see Chantrea with candles, strange symbols on floor. She chant, not sound like herself." Soriya's hands clench as she recalls the memory.

"And did she tell you what she was doing?" I press gently, trying to piece together the events leading to the horror at the hotel.

Soriya nods, her eyes wide. "She say she do dark magic from old village legend. She say she want become something strong enough to take revenge… She want become Kamhoeng Slab."

"Kamhoeng Slab?" I query, struggling with the unfamiliar term.

Soriya struggles for a moment, trying to find the right words in English. She looks frustrated, then grabs my phone, quickly types something on it. I take the phone back and see that she has entered "Kamhoeng Slab" into Google Translate. The translation pops up as "Winged Wraith."

"'Winged Wraith,'" I read aloud, trying to grasp the significance. "Is that what she wanted to become?"

Soriya nods again, her eyes filled with fear. "Yeah. She believe only way to be strong enough to fight back. To protect us. I scared. I ask her stop. I make her promise to stop."

I pause, taking it all in. This was no ordinary case of trafficking or revenge; it was something far darker and more complex.

“I need you to trust me,” I tell Soriya, keeping my tone gentle. "I just want to help you and Chantrea."

Soriya bites her lip, her eyes darting around the dimly lit room, fear evident in her gaze. "I... I can’t. I don’t let you hurt her." Her voice cracks, the strain of loyalty and fear mixing palpably in the air.

"I just want to make sure no one else gets hurt, including Chantrea. Anything you tell us will be used to help her, not harm her," I assure her, hoping to ease her worries.

"What you want to know?" she asks.

"I need to know where she might go next. Who is she targeting?"

Soriya hesitates. "My sister, she... she say she find the big boss, the one who make us come here." She pauses, her voice barely a whisper. "She think to make him pay hardest. Make him example."

"The big boss?" I probe, my mind racing with the implications. "Do you know who he is?"

She nods reluctantly, her eyes darting towards the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. "His name Jimmy Inthavong. She say he... he worst one."

"Jimmy Inthavong," I repeat, recognizing the name immediately. He's the head of the Blue Lotus, a mid-tier criminal organization that's been on the radar for everything from illegal gambling rings to murders for hire.

On the streets, he’s known as “the Shrike” because much like the bird, he has a penchant for impaling those who cross him on sharp objects as a warning to others.

"Do you know where she might find him?"

Soriya shakes her head, her fingers twisting a strand of her hair nervously. "No know exact. But she talk about place... a warehouse. Where they keep us when first come."

A warehouse could mean any number of locations in the city. "Do you know where this warehouse is?" I ask, hoping for a lead.

Soriya shrugs, a sign of her limited knowledge. "Somewhere north end of city. Near river. No sure. I only go there one time... too many bad memories."

"Thank you, Soriya. This has been very helpful,” I tell her.

Her eyes meet mine. "You really try to help us? Not just catch Chantrea?"

"Yes, I want to help both of you. I'll handle your sister’s situation carefully. I don't want to hurt her; we just want to stop her before things get worse," I reassure her, hoping to ease the burden she's been carrying.

She nods, giving a small, uncertain smile. "Okay, I trust you. Help Chantrea, please. No want her become monster."

"I will," I say, feeling the weight of that promise.

—

Reine and I spend the next several hours piecing together the clues Soriya provided, cross-referencing everything from old case files to city planning records. We work well into the night, our office bathed in the soft glow of computer screens and the occasional flicker of streetlights from the window.

We start by pulling up all known addresses connected to Jimmy Inthavong and the Blue Lotus. We sift through heaps of digital breadcrumbs, ranging from property records to anonymous tips that had come in over the years. Each piece adds to the mosaic of the Shrike's operations but fails to pinpoint the current location.

Feeling a bit stumped, we decide to revisit the basics. We review hours of CCTV footage from cameras around suspected Lotus properties, looking for any unusual activity that might indicate the location of the warehouse Soriya mentioned. It's tedious work, but it pays off.

Around 2 AM, Reine catches a break. She notices a pattern of vehicles that seem to frequent a large, nondescript warehouse on the northern edge of the city, near the Industrial Canal. The area is mostly abandoned, filled with rundown buildings that scream 'perfect hideout.' It's a place we’ve checked before but not deeply enough.

"That’s got to be it," Reine says, pointing at the screen. "Look at the traffic there. It’s subtle, but consistent. And always at odd hours."

We cross-reference the property with recent purchases and leases, finally finding a match through a shell company known to be a front for Inthavong. It's not concrete proof, but it's enough to go on.

With a location pinned down, we prepare what might be the most dangerous part of our investigation.

Reine calls in a few favors from contacts who can keep the police off our trail for a while. We don't need the added complication of explaining why we're there or what we're dealing with. Secrecy and speed are paramount.

We load up on equipment—more than the usual. We're not taking any chances. The arsenal in our trunk would make a small militia envious. We've got AR-15s, tactical vests studded with extra magazines, and a couple of Glock 19s with suppressors. Everything's laid out in the back of our SUV like a dealer's display at a gun show.

We meticulously rig improvised explosive devices, packing them into little sacks filled with sage and garlic. Reine says they’re good for warding off evil spirits according to Cajun myth. I’m skeptical, but I’ve seen enough tonight to entertain many possibilities.

The drive to the warehouse is tense. We go over the plan repeatedly. Infiltrate quietly and get to Chantrea before something regrettable happens.

When we arrive, the place is more eerily quiet than expected. The moon casts long shadows over the cracked pavement, and the warehouse looms like a dormant beast.

Using a set of bolt cutters, we cut through a chain-link gate and slip onto the grounds of the compound.

Every shadow seems to twitch with the possibility of danger, a reminder that we’re walking into the lair of a monster.

Just before reaching the main entrance, Reine stops short, her hand shooting out to halt me. She points to something in the shadows. My eyes follow her gesture, and my stomach tightens as I discern what’s there. A body lies crumpled against the wall. Tattoos snake up the arms and across the exposed torso—clear gang identifiers that match the Blue Lotus’s known symbols. It’s one of Ithavong’s thugs.

I approach slowly, my flashlight cutting a beam through the darkness to reveal the man’s neck ending in a bloody stump.

I scan the area and find his head a few feet away, eyes wide open in a silent scream, the terror of his last moments etched permanently into his features.

More bodies appear as we advance, each more gruesome than the last—heads, limbs, and other parts scattered haphazardly.

We press on, guided by body parts like a macabre trail of breadcrumbs. The ground beneath our feet crunches with the occasional bone fragment as we move towards the warehouse, its large doors torn off their hinges.

As we close in on the warehouse, the atmosphere is punctuated by the sound of screams and sporadic gunfire.

Inside, the air is thick with the smell of gunpowder, and ground streaked in blood. As we cautiously step through the threshold, the interior unfolds into a scene from a nightmare.

Chantrea, fully transformed, moves through the shadows with a terrifying grace. Her form is grotesque and magnificent, a malevolent blend of her human self and something far darker. Long, leathery wings protrude from her back, and her limbs have elongated, ending in talons that rend through flesh and bone with ease. Her eyes glow with a feral, otherworldly light.

Inthavong's men lie scattered in disarray, some still twitching in their final moments. Chantrea cuts through them with deadly precision, her movements neither hurried nor slow, but inevitable.

Their screams are interrupted by the wet sounds of tearing flesh and Chantrea's haunting wails.

At the far end of the warehouse, cowering behind a makeshift barricade of crates and barrels, is the Shrike. The gang leader's usual composure has dissolved into panic. He shouts orders that go unheeded, his men too scattered and frightened to mount any effective defense.

We’re powerless to do anything except find shelter behind an overturned table and bear witness to the unfolding carnage.

As Chantrea advances towards him, Inthavong pulls out his Desert Eagle, his hands shaking as he fires desperately. The bullets cut through the air, but Chantrea dodges them effortlessly. She weaves through the air, her wings beating with a heavy, ominous thud that resonates through the property.

As the last of his pistol rounds click empty, Shrike's false bravado crumbles into raw desperation. "Please, please! Look, I got two hundred grand in that safe right there," he pleads, his voice breaking as he points frantically towards a heavy, iron safe in the corner. "It's all yours, girl, just let me go, alright?"

Chantrea pauses for a moment, her head tilting slightly, as if amused by Inthavong's pathetic attempt at bargaining for his life.

There's a mocking glint in her glowing eyes, and the faintest hint of a smile curls the corner of her mouth. It's a sinister, unsettling gesture that chills the air between them.

With a swift, horrifying grace, she lunges forward, her arms wrapping around Inthavong in a grotesque embrace.

A sickening sound of tearing flesh and snapping bones echoes through my ears. Shrike's body torn in half, right down the center, his body splitting with sickening ease as if made of clay rather than bone and sinew. Blood splatters in an arc, painting a gruesome picture on the concrete floor.

As Chantrea's rage finds its terrifying crescendo, she tosses the two halves of his body in opposite directions with the indifference of a capricious child discarding a broken toy.

The right half flies through the air, trailing a ribbon of entrails and blood, before slamming into a large shelving unit near us. The impact is thunderous, reverberating through the vast warehouse. It sends the heavy shelving teetering dangerously.

We barely have time to react. The shelving unit, overloaded with crates and metal tools, groans ominously, threatening to collapse. Reine grabs my arm, pulling me back just as the structure gives way, crashing down where we were crouched moments ago. Dust and debris fill the air, the crash masking our frantic movements as we scramble for new cover.

Our sudden, desperate dash does not go unnoticed. The disturbance catches Chantrea’s attention, her head swiveling towards us with unnerving speed.

As the dust settles, we find ourselves barely a dozen yards from her, our position dangerously exposed. Chantrea’s eyes, glowing fiercely in the dim warehouse light, fixate on us with a predatory intensity.

Realizing the futility of standing our ground, I grab Reine's hand, squeezing it tightly. "Run!" I shout.

Before I begin to tell you everything that’s happened, I think it is important to ask yourself whether you think a madwoman would be able to hold the position of head librarian at Echo Bay’s prestigious Eldertide Polytechnic University for 19 consecutive years? Do you think something like that would be possible? It’s a rather difficult job to manage such a vast collection of reference materials–to ensure that they’ve been organized and categorized and reshelved correctly and logically once they’ve been borrowed and returned. It really does take a lot of skill.

I’m sure that you’re aware that our university is home to the nation’s third largest marine biology, nautical engineering and maritime history reference library? Of course you are. Everyone knows that. You can’t be unhinged and also be responsible for the standard titles in fiction and non-fiction, the classics and new releases, an extensive backlog of microfiche, newsreels, a wide collection of digital media as well as hundreds of scholarly journals. These are things that students have come to expect from a university. They are paying tens of thousands of dollars that they’ve borrowed in student loans for an education! That’s money that they will work for the next fifty or sixty years to repay! Did you know that our university is the university with the second largest collection of restricted-access books, scrolls, clay tablets and ancient one-of-a-kind texts on the occult? Well, that you probably didn’t know and I’m not supposed to talk about that, so why don't you do us both a favor and just forget I’ve mentioned it…

I ask you, would they trust a lunatic with such a large responsibility? No, I don’t imagine that they would.

I’ve seen the mentally unstable–suffering from various forms of psychosis and neuroses, the drug addicts and drunks–you’ve seen them too. You know you have. They’re spending all day talking endlessly about kraken, mermaids and boat-eating giant squids. They think they’re talking to someone else, but there’s nobody there. They’re just sitting by themselves on a bench down by the wharf. Sure they’ll realize they’re not talking to anyone eventually…then if they have even half a whit, they’ll go find some sucker who will take pity on them–a skipper or deckboss…someone who’ll let them scrape barnacles off the side of their barge for a couple twenties. Most of those fishermen know they’ve pulled in quite the haul so they can afford to take pity on some poor nitwit. Get them to do the jobs nobody wants to do for pocket change.

Maybe those imbeciles will get really lucky and some blowboater will have them scrub down the deck of their fancy new sailboat for a crisp hundred dollar bill–or polish the chrome railings and whatnot. I tell you, that’s what the crazies do around here…they hang out around the docks, hoping to make enough money to buy themselves a handle of Gordon’s Gin–the plastic one for $15–just so they can pass out on the beach under the stars and get bitten by sand fleas all night long. I see it every day. It’s just what the nutjobs do.

Cuckoo-birds aren’t head librarians–they’re not even regular librarians–and certainly not at the leading university in a two hundred mile radius for marine biology, fishery management, and coastal environmental studies. No sir, they are not. And that’s just to name a few of the more popular fields of study here at the university. We have many, many programs for those intelligent, hardworking and qualified students who have spent their lives fascinated by sea exploration and sea related fields of study and I’m proud to be a part of such an important organization. I’m proud to say that from the year I began, I’ve helped each and every one of our graduates at some point discover that there’s more to see within the sea than we initially see…or maybe if I haven’t, I’ve at least told them where to go to find some book or other that they’re looking to find…unless it’s one of those books from the access-restricted collection of occult texts that we keep secretly locked in the sub-basement. I’ll kindly remind you again to forget about those. They’re off limits.

Now, I’m humble so I don’t brag. I'm not telling you that I’ve been in charge of all of the college’s books for nearly two decades because I expect you to be astonished. I wasn't fed my Master's degree in Library Science on a silver spoon by my rich parents. I grew up very poor like so many of you. I come from meager beginnings. My family had nothing, like most families still here in Echo Bay. That's right. I grew up here.

We aren't expected to do anything particularly astonishing growing up amongst the fishers and the crabbers on these prolific shores. The town is known only for its propagative fisheries--for crustacean trapping and shellfish. We’re seafood people of modest stock. I never knew I was destined to such grandeur as the title of a university's head librarian! And for 19 continuous years! This is a quiet coastal town that some will tell you has unique charms, beauty and history. Those things are lies. The only thing here is fish and everything smells just like you'd expect. The only industries here are the fisheries. The whole town stinks like the rotten breath of Poseidon and everyone you meet smells like they've bathed in the mouth of a bloated whale carcass that's washed ashore at the height of summer.

Still, you'll find that we’re more or less unpretentious people. We don't brag much, but maybe we should do a bit more than we do. The town itself is awful but we have one of the best maritime polytechnical universities anywhere in the entire country, and that's something we should be proud to say. I might be biased, but the university employs a great support staff. Most of the professors also do their jobs most of the time. It’s common knowledge that we’ve taught some of the leading marine technologists, aquatic environmental scientists and maritime law and policy makers from here to New Bismuth and Harlow’s Cove. I bet even someone like you knew about that already.

Our graduates are making big names for themselves even as far away as Clarion and Hedonis. So, I assure you that the crazy people aren’t found here at Eldertide Polytechnic. No place near it. Only reasonable people here…and they certainly wouldn’t let a psychopath be the head of the university’s library staff–Why, I’ve just told you, haven’t you been listening? The lunatics are out near the docks like they’ve always been, gibbering away their drunken theories of sunken pirate ships, lost treasures and superstitious legends about the sirens that supposedly make their home out on Mermaid Roost.

When those wackadoos are done running their mouths for the day they’re outside sleeping rough. They're exposed to the elements, spending all night cold and wet under the stars on Hidden Haven Beach. They've got their heads on jagged rocks instead of pillows out there, laying on beds made of cigarette butts and broken liquor bottles. That's where all the noodleheads around here sleep at night. They're all camped out there on that nasty beach with the rest of their kind: the vagrants, and derelicts, the dropouts, skateboarders and unwed mothers, tattoo artists and the illiterates too. Hidden Haven is the trashiest beach we've got in Echo Bay and levelheaded, decent people who can read stay away from there. I heard from a reliable source that when intelligent people even think they might want to visit that beach "just to see" they should just go to a rehab instead. It'll save them some time because the only reason anyone with any sort of logic would think thoughts like that is someone slipped them drugs. All it takes is you accidentally taking edibles that one time and you'll never be the same again. You're addicted now. Set a single toe in that beach's sand and you might as well throw your whole life in the trash. You'll find yourself turning tricks so a pimp will give you heroin faster than you can say "lickety-split." Happens just that fast. Can't take a step on that beach without tripping over a box of dirty needles full of methamphetamines is what I've heard. You listen to me. I work in education so I know what I'm talking about.

Hidden Haven isn't the only beach you don't visit in Echo Bay. You don't go to Twilight Cove, either...not if you don't want to die horribly with your skin pulled off and your insides fed to something's pet.

They’ll call me crazy because nobody goes through the pass that leads down to Twilight Cove. Not anybody born and raised here in Echo Bay and not tourists either–but I've done it. I did it just last night. The path between those cliffs is too rough and stony for tourists and the Bay people are too superstitious–afraid of the Xaigonians to take the walk down to that beach. Twilight Cove’s not for the Bay People…that’s their territory. If you grew up in The Bay you grew up being told that the Xaigonians are down on that beach and they don’t take kindly to trespassers, especially not ones that can only breathe plain old regular air with normal human lungs. The Bay people say that if you go down between those cliffs you better have a damn good reason and something shiny to offer those webbed-footed freaks, because if you don’t and you’re dumb enough to go out on that particular stretch of beach you won’t be seen nor heard from ever again. It ain’t an expressly forbidden place to go–there’s no laws against it. Nobody’s gonna stop you. Nobody stopped me. You just ask anyone who’s spent their lives around these parts though. Ask them and they’ll tell you why you’ve got to stay away…

They’ll tell you there’s a whole race of people that aren’t quite people hiding out in that cove. They’ve been out there for centuries–and the world don’t know about them–that’s just the way they want it to stay too. They’ve been out there staying unseen since before the town was a town–before this state was even a state. They’re Fishpeople, that’s what they are. It isn’t just webbed fingers and toes, they say from far off something about their skin just doesn’t look quite right–looks a bit shinier than skin should look–they say you don’t want to get anywhere near them to see what’s off about their skin up close, but if you’re foolish enough to try you’ll see it ain’t skin at all. It’s a whole mess of scales.

When I was a little girl my mother (who also grew up here) told me the people hiding in Twilight Cove had gills and if they caught you walking out on their beach, they’d drag you down beneath the whitecaps and into the black waves. The waves are always black out there–day and night–nobody knows why. Once they’ve pulled you under, they’ll take you to their hidden shining city in the coral caves. She said the Xaigonians breed crabs–grow them even bigger than dogs–and they’ll peel off your skin the same way a fisherman uses a boning knife just so their mean and nasty pets don’t have to work so hard to get their claws inside–jab you in the spaces between your muscles and get at your good parts–get at your meat. That’s all The Bay people are to the Xaigonians–meat. If you don’t want to be meat, you’ve got to bring them some treasure. They’ll take gold, silver, diamonds–gems of all kinds actually…

But for your sake if they catch you out there, whatever treasure you’re bringing them had better be real…otherwise…you’re meat.

When they find him–no–if they find him–they’ll say I’m mad, of course they will, because nobody in their right mind goes down to that beach.

”Hello, I’m Bradley Wilcott, Eldertide Polytech’s University’s New President,”

I heard the stories all my life and you think someone like me, head librarian at Eldertide Polytech, for 19 goddamn years who grew up in this sea-side fish-stinking town ought to know better than to go out there. You’d have to be stupid or crazy to go out there. Especially not at night.

”And you’re Darlene? Ms. Darlene Fischer? The head librarian? According to your file, you’ve been here for a very long time. I do wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances.”

But I’m not stupid and I’m not crazy either–I was perfectly sound-minded and sober when I made my way to his goddamn house. The street was poorly lit and that was good. I was only a little worried that I might be seen making my way up the sidewalk by one of the neighbors. So, naturally, I knew if I was mentally disturbed, I would have kept everything on, but I wasn’t that way so I had to take it off. That way if anyone saw me through their windows, they would just see a naked woman in the street. They’d know I was being rational and wise. They’d know I was just out for a sensible stroll in the dark.

”As you know, the board of trustees has appointed me to this position because they felt that my predecessor extended very little oversight to the budget spending of quite a few departments.”

I’m not a department head. I’m the head librarian.

”You’re in charge of the purchase of the university’s books, are you not?”

Well, naturally…

I took off my blouse and bra first, then my skirt and panties. The air felt sweet and unseasonably cool as it caressed my exposed breasts. This breeze of course very naturally caused my sane and rational nipples to harden ever-so slightly in just the way that I had hoped and planned for. The way that deliberate and logical nipples are meant to react in accordance to a breath of cool night air. The house–my destination–was just up ahead. Every window was dark and the driveway was empty.

It appeared as though I would arrive at the most practical and prudent time for a levelheaded woman like myself to arrive–precisely when I intended to–at a time when there was nobody home.

I tucked my discarded clothes into a storm drain that opened up beneath a curb on the side of the road. Afterward, I cut diagonally from the sidewalk and through a yard with a large Victorian home standing like a sentry in the center of the lot growing heavily with a number of oak trees that were old and thick. Many lights were on inside, but I didn't worry because I knew that anyone who might look out would only see a fully rational and not-insane naked woman on a typical late-night walk beneath the shadowy canopy of branches that densely covered the property.

I lurked from tree to tree, skipping through the darkness as naturally as possible, only stopping once to rest for a moment beneath the largest of the ancient gnarled oaks. I had been carrying a rope in my hands, but it was in a mangled knot and it seemed more practical to wrap it into a coil around my arm and I’m a practical woman so that’s what I did. Then I very smartly slung the loop of rope over one of my shoulders and returned from the shadows of the trees in that yard to the sidewalk where I continued to nonchalantly make my way through the dark.

”I just have a few questions about some of the purchases you’ve made in the last few years. I’m hoping you could help me understand some of these expenses.”

Okayyyy…

”I’m seeing here that you spent–”

I don’t spend anything. The books belong to the library.

”Okayyyy, the library spent $13,000 on a volume titled ‘Twilight Testament: Unveiling the Esoteric’--can you explain that Ms. Fischer?”

Certainly. That particular book was written by Friar Lucian Benedict. He was a powerful sorcerer. Burned at the stake for heresy in, um–1263, I think.

”...And for what reason did you–I’m sorry–for what reason did the library spend $13,000 on this book?”

Naturally that’s what a book like that would cost if it were the only copy that exists.

”I see…”

Moving naked through the black of night, I knew that anyone who might peer out at the desolate emptiness of the cul-de-sac would pay me, a naked woman simply walking, no mind–wait!–I’d forgotten to take off my shoes! How could a cognitively prudent head librarian for nearly 20 years like myself forget to take off my shoes? A clear-headed, sane woman on a naked nighttime stroll, but wearing shoes? No. Absolutely not. I panicked and ripped them off as quickly as possible…I tucked my socks cleverly inside them and abandoned my footwear in a mailbox as I passed. The danger of being discovered having passed, I breathed a sigh of relief and I continued on my way.

”And Darlene–may I call you Darlene?–what’s this charge for $9700 for something called, ‘Chthonic Codex: Communing With The Eldritch’ can you explain that?”

Umm…

”What about $3750 for something called ‘The Alchemy of Night and Unveiling Infernal Secrets’–why–why are you making these purchases?”

Well, you see…

”I’ve actually been going through your purchase history and there’s almost $1.6 million dollars of misappropriated funds here, Ms. Fischer–and I’ve only gone back 10 years so far. There’s 9 more years of this library’s–your library’s–purchase receipts to go through.”

Misappropriated? No. Those texts were acquired for the occult library.

”I’m sorry–the what?”

The occult library.

”Where are these books, Ms. Fischer? In order to recover these funds, the university is going to have to liquidate some–if not, all–of this collection. Hopefully I can find a buyer so we have a way to recuperate these losses.”

Losses? These are treasures. Artifacts. I’m not going to let you sell them or even tell you where I keep the occult library.

”Whether you tell me or not, you’re facing very serious legal action, Ms. Fischer. Do you understand that?”

The occult library access is restricted. End of discussion.

Mr. Wilcott was not married. He lived in the house alone and he came home at midnight, which as a sensible woman, I found to be a very unsensible hour. I waited for him inside of his bedroom for two hours. Two full hours, I stood in the dark, arms bent up near my head in my best impression of a hideous modern style lamp. I tried to hold my breath, but I only lasted about a minute doing that. I didn't try to hold my breath again and that was a very sane decision because only a boneheaded lunatic would try not to breathe for two full hours.

When I arrived, I found a trellis at the side of his front porch that was heavily overgrown with rosebushes and climbed up from the ground floor to the windows of the home's second story. The roses that crawled up along the trellis were protecting the house from humble intruders like myself with a profusion of thorns. After letting myself inside through an unlocked window I discovered that my arms, my legs, my breasts and my hands were covered in nicks and scratches and scrapes. And for two hours he inconsiderately left me in the corner of his bedroom in the dark, waiting patiently to kidnap him.

”This is a maritime polytechnic university Ms. Fischer. We don’t need an occult library. We should not have an occult library and you therefore should not have purchased any texts for an occult library. When I show these numbers to the board of trustees you’re looking at some serious jail time.”

Jail time?

”This is embezzlement. Do you understand that? You’re done here, Ms. Fischer.”

I’m the Head–I’m Head Librarian–19 years! I’ve been in charge of this library for 19 years!

”Well, I’m very sorry, Ms. Fischer–but not anymore…you’re fired.”

When he came into the room, I wondered what he’d been doing out and about while I patiently–sensibly–waited for his return? Probably, he was out destroying some other people’s lives. Good, upstanding and reasonable people’s lives. He thoroughly explained to me how he intended to ruin mine just hours before. It seemed to be something he enjoyed and I was certain he'd ruin everything he was allowed to ruin if given the chance. I waited for him for so long that even my rational and logical blood acted practically with the time it was given; everywhere that the trellis thorns cut me while I climbed, the blood had quite astutely dried. Just another indicator that what I was about to do was not absurd–even my blood was behaving level-headedly.

If one can't trust one's own blood than whom can one trust?

I wasn’t worried that he would see me when he turned on the light to undress and climb into bed. If he did, it wouldn't matter much, for what could be more natural than a naked woman in the darkened corner of your private room? I wasn’t worried when I made my way down the road and into his house. Why should I worry now? As it turned out he never had a chance to ponder the existence of a naked woman standing so naturally and logically in the corner of his room pretending to be a lamp. I had chosen a very practical corner to stand in while I waited for him to arrive. I loosened a length of the rope between my clenched fists as he entered through the doorway with his back to me and before his hand even reached for the light switch, my arms were over his head, wrapping the cord around his neck from behind.

They’ll say I’ve lost it. They’ll say I’ve lost my mind…but that’s not the case at all.

I had to knock him unconscious with the butt end of my knife when I got him to the car because he very foolishly tried to fight me when I took him for the ride.

I parked at the mouth of the pass and dragged him down between those cliffs and when the waterline was low, I was stable and lucid and completely sane as I tied that bastard down to the heaviest rocks I could find at the water’s edge; arms and legs all splayed out so he couldn’t sit up or swim away when the tide came back in.

If someone was to find him (but I’m fairly certain no one will) I don’t think there will be any evidence left to tie what happened to him here back to me. I’ve been naked this whole time. Less evidence that way. That was very clever of me, indeed. I don’t think he’s told anyone about his little investigation yet either. If he has shared what he’s found, there’s something in the library, a book called: “The Obsidian Grimoire: Lost Spells of Power” to make them all forget. Ironically, I’ll have to look up the page because I can’t remember which one it is…

They probably won’t find him and even if they do it won’t matter, because the crabs will find him first. Don’t have to be the great big ones my momma told me the Xaigonian people keep either. The regular old little ones will do just fine. They can even take their time and eat him slow because nobody goes down to Twilight Cove unless they’re batshit crazy.

Except for me. I’m the exception.

The light of the moon was the only illumination on the pass between the jutting edges of the high rock formations that towered over each of my shoulders last night. It sparkled on the water in the distance like a thousand diamonds scattered across black velvet; a forbidden treasure that called to me and led me down and down and down to the living darkness of the water’s edge. My breathing was steady, matching the rhythm of the ebbing and flowing shoreline as it rolled toward me over and over only to pull back into the black and be sucked away. The waves rolled in and the waves rolled out and unconsciously I matched each of my inhales and exhales to the beat of the tide like one might attempt to match their breathing to that of a sleeping lover. The act was unintentional--the hand of destiny serendipitously guiding me along the correct path. Tonight this ebony shore was my lover and together we would take this man's life--not in the way that garden-variety sociopaths might take a man's life with the sole desire of watching him die. Tonight, the sea and I would be two cogent and rational beings in love who are also coincidentally both murderers who kill together in harmony. Together we would drown my new nemesis for the sake of love. My love. My love for the forbidden knowledge of the occult.

It wasn't being done in the name of chaos and irrationality. We were doing it methodically, reasonably and sensibly. Don't you see? Don't you understand it now? The sea loved me so much that it needed to kill Bradley Wilcott for me to prove that love was real.

I could taste the clean salt that hung in the air as I dragged him over all those jagged rocks, ignoring the sting of their sharp edges as they sliced into my bare and bloody feet. I made furtive glances behind me with every ten or twelve steps and felt no pain as I carefully but quickly made my way down between the cliffs. Any suffering I might have felt was overridden by the pleasure I found watching his head bounce roughly across those same rocks. The constant bludgeoning would keep him knocked out cold. The flow from the back of his head looked black beneath the starless sky, not red, and left smears as it mixed with the black of the footprints I left behind with each step I took along the path. I dragged him with one end of a rope tied around his ankles and the bulk of it wrapped around my waist a half a dozen times. The opposite segment of the rope was tucked down between the coils that circled my waist, and pressed against my bare skin so that the end of it hung out past my hips. I tied a bag to the length that remained. I fetched it from my trunk when I dragged him from my car. The hilt of my knife protruded past where the top of the bag was cinched tightly closed. It hung low and heavy against my leg, bouncing rhythmically against my thigh.

They’ll call me a madwoman because I went down to Twilight Cove beneath a dark and starless sky, dragging behind me a man that I intended to tie to the rocks at low tide. They'll say that I did this all while Echo Bay slept because irrationally my internal voice dictated I must watch him die--but don't you see the truth of it all? Everything they'll say about me is a lie.

They’ll say I’m insane because the only thing I felt was pleasure as I watched the current roll back in and the water slowly rise up over his eyes…because I laughed to myself when he regained consciousness at the perfect moment and those eyes fluttered open with little bubbles coming out from behind the eyelids, and floating up to the surface of the water. They’ll say I’m insane because I came out here, my waist wrapped in a rope that I unraveled and using a knife, cut that rope into lengths so that I could tie this lunatic of a man down by each of his limbs. They’ll call me certifiable because I gloated over him, my bare feet bleeding and my body completely naked against the ocean breeze and bare breasted against the moonlight as I watched him drown. They’ll say I’m deranged because on a starless night, I trekked into territory well known to belong to the Xaigonians to do this to a man who definitely deserved what fate had in store for him…but I’m none of those things. I’m completely sane.

When I saw the first Fishperson come up and out of the waves, clawing his webbed fingers through the sand and pushing his hands into the ground to stand upright on his flipper-shaped feet, I didn’t feel any fear. I knew that even though my nakedness rendered me easier to flay and feed to his giant pet crabs beneath the waves, Xaigon and his Fishpeople had an unspoken expectation for anyone and everyone who traipsed uninvited into Twilight Cove. This place is theirs and everyone in Echo Bay knows that. We don't come to this place where we don’t belong. If we do they expect us to have a gleaming gift to give them. Each of them. Twilight Cove belongs to the race that lurks beneath the opaque waters there and it has belonged to them since the time before men learned to walk upright. If you're on their beach when they come up out of the murky depths, they’ll either drag you down through the viscous pitch dark water to their shining city beneath the black waves...or they won’t. It only depends on whether you came to the beach intending to meet their expectations.

A moment later, another one is rising up through the white foam that swirls atop the surface of the inky dark sea. And another one. And another. And another.

I’m not crazy. I’m not insane. I’m the head librarian of the prestigious Eldertide Polytechnic University and I have been for the last 19 years and I will be for 19 more and longer still after that. I’ve read everything about this place. Some of it’s in my collection with restricted-access and some of it isn’t. I came out here as an outsider intending to meet their expectations but I didn’t have any pockets to stow away my shiny gifts, so I put them in the bag I tied around my waist.

The bag was big. The bag was full. I knew what was out here. I knew what they would expect. This is the perfect place to bring a body because anyone who comes here without gifts for each and every one of them coming up and out from their city in the coral caves below won’t be seen again. There must have been a hundred of that strange aquatic race climbing out of the water. I watched them rise up to the surface that rippled with reflections of the moon. People don’t come here and if they do, they die. They might bring a gift and think they're wise, but one gift is not enough. You need to share with the whole class. I’m reasonable and pragmatic and my well of resources is deep. The bag I brought with me was very, very big and there were plenty of gifts inside to go around. They’ll say what I did out in Twilight Cove last night was crazy, but it wasn’t. They’ll say that I’m unhinged or deranged because I dragged that man out there to watch him die, but I’m not. Eldertide Polytechnic University wouldn’t have trusted me to be the head librarian for 19 fucking years if I wasn’t perfectly and completely rational and sane...

ss

I live in a small town called Curio Hallow, only home to 8,000 so everyone knows everyone. I moved to Curio Hallow in 1986 when I was 28. I came to start a new life and help out this town. It needed people to work in cleaning for crime scenes and the transfer of bodies to the town mortuary. Plus, it paid well with a salary of $75,000 which was well over the common salary for this job. It was easy for the first 9 years; maybe over 300 people died, and even fewer needed to be deep cleaned—probably 75 of them from freak accidents or decomposing bodies becoming one with the floors/beds. But tonight was different.

I get out of my bed; my phone rings. It’s 4:35 am. It’s Hallow’s Sheriff, my boss. I answer, “Hey Frankie, what’s going-“ She cuts me off, “David, you need to get fucking down here at the Polly’s house. Martha and Gerald are dead in the house; their son is in critical condition, and the daughter is gone.” I wipe my eye-crust away as I grab my coveralls and boots. “How bad is it?” I reply to get info on what I need to clean.

“Gary said that the son is the main suspect. He was holding an ax on the floor covered in blood; he was choking from a self-inflicted wound to his neck. He’s on the way to Curios Hospital with EMTs now.” I pause and grab my boots. “I’m on the way. Give me 20 mins to get there.”

I get to the street, and cop cars and everyone in a three-house radius are in front of the home. I get out of my van, put on my rubber boots and some gloves, and start walking towards the house. The front door is opened with three big slashes going down the middle, and the rest of the door is smashed. Cops filled the living room where the mom was lying dead on the floor, her jaw removed from her face 3 feet away from her head, which was mauled with large deep gashes deep enough to see her brain and broken skull. This is the most violent and bloodied body I’ve seen in Hallow, and there are still two other members of the family who I haven’t even seen.

With a cold sweat and raised anxiety, I scooted by officers into the kitchen to find Frankie and Gary looking over the dad. He’s been cut in two, lying over a broken table. In between the table and the two halves of Gerald are his insides and the floor, which has been cut so badly that the carpet is cut and the floor looks like an old cutting board. “Haven’t seen anything this bad in 40 years,” Gary says to Frankie. She responds, “You haven’t seen anything in 40 years.” I smile nervously as I come up to them. “Officer, Sheriff.” They turn, and Gary says, “You got your job fucking cut out for you tonight, literally, David.” Frankie gives a Are you kidding? look at him. “It’s gonna take till almost noon, but it’ll look good by then.” “Sounds good. Thank you, David,” says Sheriff Frankie. “Don’t know where the daughter went; we have a search team going through the area around the back of the house; that’s where the blood leads.”

I look as the back door is smashed where the screen door is bent outwards towards the forest, and the kitchen wood floor has a trail of blood inside of it, with a gash almost as if someone had a very sharp pen that had blood for ink. “I didn’t even see that shit. I’m gonna have to do two trips then; it might be done later than I thought,” Frankie pats my back. “Yeah, good luck cleaning that up,” I say, Fuck you with my eyes, and she pats my back again. I walk to my van and get two carts for the bodies. I put Martha in first; she was easier than Gerald. I had to get another cart for his bottom half. I pour my peroxide enzymes on the blood in the house and back patio so they can soak while I drop the bodies off at the morgue. The carts are secured in the back of the van as I leave the house. It takes me about 10 mins to get to the mortuary. The only person there is my wife Cindy. Yes, I married the mortician. I could hear her through the big garage-like door jamming out to the album “Downward Spiral” by Nine Inch Nails. I buzz the button for her to open the door three times before she hears me. The door opens slowly; it always stops shin height before it goes again. She walks up to me and kisses me. “I haven’t seen you this late at night here in 3 ye-.” She stops, looks at me, and can tell I’m still white as a ghost from what I saw earlier. She walks to the van and opens the door with the three carts covered in white sheets; she whistles and closes it. “What the Fuck happened?” “The Polly’s son killed them and probably the daughter too. They didn’t find her yet, and he hit himself in the throat with the same ax.” She looks shocked at me with her big brown eyes. “Shit, David… bring them in for me.” I nod, open the back of the van, and bring them to the morgue. She lifts the sheet on Martha and shakes her head. “David, how big was the ax?” “I didn’t see, big enough to carve deep into hardwood floors and break tables.” She puts on her gloves and starts touching Martha’s gashes. “It must’ve been a long-bladed one, almost like a thick machete or sword.” I look at the body; there’s one long thick gash from her side face down across her chest. “Fuck, I didn’t even see that she was laying face down in the living room with her head bashed in.” “Well, whatever it is, was sharp; it was able to cut her ribs and sternum like butter,” she says, spreading the wound open, exposing the surgical sharp cuts on her insides. “Jesus Christ, what the Fu-.” I stop as we both hear the caves scream; they only make that sound every 12 years, 3 times for 4 nights. I learned from me and Cindy’s first date to the cave experience for the public to visit. The sound lasts for 45 seconds; it sounds like 300 electric guitars are playing the E chord with distortion. “Holy shit, that sounds horrible,” she says. “Sounds better than what you had play-” I couldn’t even say the rest as she hit me in the back of the head with a slap. I laugh and kiss her. “Alright, I gotta clean the rest of that shit up; I’ll come home after and crawl into bed with you.” She nods and goes back into the big metal box and closes the door; it again closes till it reaches shin height and stops and closes shut. I go back to the house, which is now covered in police tape. There’s a roll on the living room table for when I’m done with cleaning, and I could tape up the front and back. I put on my PPE and start cleaning. The peroxide made the blood easier to clean, only leaving me to mop it up and scrape up the dried blood. I put the broken doors, the ripped-up carpet, the table, and the other miscellaneous broken stuff like glass shards and carved wood shavings into a large container marked "incinerate."

As I’m sweeping up the last of the wood shavings from where Gerald was found, my broom gets caught on something stuck into the floor. It tears my broom up. I say, "Fuck," to myself and get on the floor and start pulling at the thing, and it slices through my glove and nearly gets me.

I go to the van and get a plyer tool used to get bullets out of walls/floors and pull on the thing again. I pull as hard as I can, and the thing slowly gets pulled out. It’s at least 7 inches big, 4 inches thick, shiny black like obsidian, has carvings of a rose vine, and the cross-section looks like a broken bone with marrow inside it. It’s shaped like a blade. Something about it disturbs me to my core, gives me chills, but at the same time, it’s beautiful, the engravings are so perfect. But it’s eating me inside. What is this? Why is this here? What made this? Is it from something alive? No way.