What was the name of the story he read where the dude was like time jumping through his life and it turned out in the end that it was a story about Alzheimer's?

Boarding up this house, my last stand, to protect myself I had this funny thought: all this hate was once love.

The fruit of Omertà’s hatred for me rotted outside. Rain splashing from the sky pet Mr. Alan’s corpse making his broken and snapped neck wiggle and dance as if worms infected his body. Medical professionals would say it would be impossible for his neck to be squeezed and twisted in such a way, a cartoonishly evil wringing like a wet towel. However, that’s the power of Omertà.  Benni, one of my best friends, lay beside her dead daddy; her skin drained of color, her body dripping from drowning, and her lips open and begging for the air she didn’t receive. Again, Omertà’s handy work. 

Omertà was my best friend for ten years. She was Benni’s for even longer.  Omertà came into my life and made everything better, including school. If I had an issue with somebody, Omertà handled it. She wouldn't tell me how. For now, let's say she made them a shadow of themselves.

Regardless, no one bullied me anymore. My school days blurred, easily forgettable for years and my after-school activities were epic, the type of adventures you should write on stone tablets so they could always be remembered.

A couple of weeks ago you would have been jealous of my life, I spent my school years adventuring in impossibility, living a life every kid who ever obsessed over the books of Narnia, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, would give up their ability to read for. I joined the Big Three—that's Omertà, Little John, and Benni—and made it into the Big Four.

The four of us would go on to be legends; ask anyone.

Ask your local dwarf who stopped the elves of the Carolinas from abusing them. Ask the gremlins who fought the dragons they brought to Earth. What about the Farmers who protected their herds from giants and solved the mystery of the Crawling Bat?

It would be cool if my first time writing of our adventures would be about any of that. No, unfortunately, I have to tell you about how it all ended. The end is the most honest part anyway. Word of advice: if a supernatural creature befriends you and asks you to travel with them through the Green Back Alleys of Earth be careful. Understand your friends will treat you as well as they treat their enemies one day, okay? More on that later.

Evil and gore won my night in the end but I planned for it to be special and full of love for my friends. That night, we would celebrate my twenty-first birthday. By the American definition, I became a man. So, I had to start acting like it, standing up for myself and all that. How would I do that? I decided I would drink for the first time with my friend Little John and tell Benni how I felt about her. 

After finishing my homework for college, I ran a nice bath. After running the bath, I donned my best suit and black loafers, and then I shaved the little mustache that sprouted on my lips. Reader, I am not stupid. The bath just wasn't for me to bathe in.

Without prompting from me, the water bubbled as if it was boiling, so I hurried with my shaving.

Speaking of spray, I put on about eight spritzes too many of a cologne Omertà got me. The smell was cool and gave that woodsman vibe. But its real advantage was that it was from a Fae group, so it placed a little glamour on me. I could look younger, older, bigger, thinner, chubby-cheeked, or perfect-jawed—whatever the woman beside me wanted to see.

The bath writhed and spit. Omertà was summoning me and I guessed she was getting impatient. Rushing, I went into my bathroom dresser and took out a special bottle disguised as mouthwash. I used the cap as a shot glass and tried to guestimate how much to pour myself of ambrosia, the drink of the gods.  It was my first time drinking and I knew it could be intense so I didn’t want to overdo it. I should have chosen a weaker drink.

The bathtub water flicked and boiled, and panicking I poured a swig. It trickled down my throat like water.

My vision turned into a hazy circus, my spine tingling, and my face grinning. I normally walked into the bathtub to get transported, but this time I took two sloppy steps and fell face-first in the tub.

The water wasn't boiling, but it was hot. My skin roared. As I fell face-first and let the water overwhelm me, my world turned. Flipping upside-down, I stood dry and safe on a street in the Green Back Alleys of Earth, the place where the supernatural congregate.

In a stream in the street, Omertà swam and leaped out, her mermaid fins immediately turning into legs.

"Jay-Jay, come on," she begged. "We're late."

"I'm... a... come on," I said, slurring and happy thanks to the ambrosia.

Omertà stunned in her short green dress. Her golden eyes blinked at me twice. It’s odd I never saw her as more than a friend despite her beauty, maybe there was always something to frightening about her.

"Are you drunk?" she asked drunkenly.

"No..." I lied drunkenly. "You are."

We smiled in silence at each other.

"Well, don't act drunk," Omertà said. "Benni is going to kill us."

“Okay, okay,” I said.

“And don’t do that thing,” she said. “Don’t ask her out.”

“Nah, nah, I know you’re trying to spare my feelings in case she says no but I’m going to do it, even if she says no. I’ll be okay and we’ll still be friends.” I attempted a big drunken thumbs-up but ended up waving my hand hello instead.

“No, I’m telling you not tonight.”

“What? No, it’s my birthday. I planned this. I’m a man and sticking up for myself and yeah, y’know.” I said. 

Out of our minds and under the influence we stared at each other smiling. Something fierce rested beneath her smile.

“It’s my birthday,” I said and my voice cracked. “I’m a man,” I thought to myself and didn’t say. What a man, huh?

“Not tonight,” she said with a finality of tone I could only dream of.

Mentally, I crept back inside the lockers I had been shoved into as a kid. Omertà fought my battles and always had my best interest so I guessed I’d shut up and listen this time. Kids, don’t be like me. Stand up for yourself.

I let the ambrosia take my sadness away, I still had the drink with Little John anyway.

"Happy birthday, Jay-Jay," said a voice so cheery it could only be Benni.

Benni ran over to us in her best dress. I walked over to her; we were in a will-they-won't-they phase in our sort of friendship, sort of romance. Oh, wow, since she's gone now, I guess we never will. It's crazy because right now it's obvious I loved her.

Hugging her felt like hope in the flesh, and at that moment I would have bet my soul we'd work out. It was just a matter of time. Maybe it would have been.

As the sun must fall and the seas must rise to consume the Earth, all good things must come to an end, as did my embrace with Benni in a euphoric blur, I'm unsure who let go first, but we both chuckled after. She walked away to greet Omertà next.

"Omertà!" Benni greeted her.

"Benni," Omertà said, and well, the mermaid wobbled, cross-eyed, and missed Benni completely, falling flat on her face and laughing the whole time.

"Omertà!" Benni scolded. I giggled in such a way I guess it made it obvious I wasn't sober. "Jay-Jay!" Benni groaned.

"Little John," Little John said, announcing his presence.

"Little John!" we all joined in.

"They're drunk." Benni pointed at us, and her voice had a certain thirst to it that screamed she wanted to lecture somebody. Little John's eyes whispered longing, hunger to cut loose and enjoy the moment with his friends.

"Oh, um, did you try the ambrosia?" Little John asked me. “Happy Birthday by the way.”

"Yeah, bro, it gets you like..." I meant to make the okay sign with my hands but instead made a five. My motor functions were failing me. So, instead, I just said, "It's really good."

Little John—who like every Little John ironically fit his namesake—shrugged and slumped those big shoulders of his.

"Oh, I’m a little loopy so I left it,” I said feeling my empty pockets. “I'm sure Omertà can make another portal," I said.

Omertà wobbled a finger in front of her. "No, a little difficult right now. We have to stay for a bit."

Too drunk to acknowledge how odd it was that Omertà couldn’t make a portal now I let it slide. Omertà could make a portal out of almost any body of water.

“Yeah, besides,” Little John said. “I don't like drinking a lot in public. Have to keep appearances, you know?"

"Yeah, sure," I said.

"But I'll be over this weekend. Save me some."

"Hmm," Benni managed between frowning and judging.

We walked through the Green Back Alleys of Earth, in a city called the Serpent's Eden which is pretty much Vegas for the strange and supernatural. Bright lights, dark rooms for dark creatures, shenanigans, super-structured Elvish restaurants, pristine insides, vomit and drunks on the outside. 

The peaceful smell and sound of saltwater streams in the street filled our nostrils and trickled into our ears —both Atlanteans and merpeople can't be outside of water for long. A special full moon hung in the sky and kept the night a jacketless warm, like a gentler sun so werewolves could wander around. Little John nearly drooled awing at the beauty of sirens and other Inhumans. My eyes rested on Benni.

Unfortunately, after ten minutes or so I couldn’t walk anymore and I wanted to go home. In a battle for control of my body, the ambrosia was winning. Gracious in defeat I giggled and enjoyed the ambrosias effects but each step I took made the world wobble. Benni, Little John, and Omertà took turns keeping me from falling.  I decided tonight maybe should be a movie night rather than an exploratory night.

“Guys, I need to go home or just sit on a bench or something for a bit.”

“Oh, okay,” Benni said. “Let’s find a - -”

“No!” Omertà said.

Stunned, I raised my hands in surrender. Benni took a step back, nerves getting the best of her. Little John opened his mouth to speak and then shut it.

“He doesn’t look well,” Benni said.

Despite her drunkenness, Omertà grew grim.

“We stay,” she said with a deep frown, revealing wrinkles in her skin that were hundreds of years old. “We stay tonight.”

“Why?” Benni asked.

“It’s important,” she said her frown only deepening, revealing more and more age. How did I think I understood this woman…this thing? This thing existed before my country was founded. When humans were still deciding right and wrong, the nature of evil, Omertà existed, probably swimming by.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s co- co --cool, Omertà. I’ll stay.” Stuttering again, I felt like that little kid getting pressured into something he didn’t want to do again, except this time Omertà couldn’t save me. Omertà was the cause. Maybe, some things can’t change.

Benni helped me the rest of the way as we walked. I prayed she and Little John didn’t leave my side that night, something wasn’t right with Omertà. Of course, the two would leave me.

By Omertà’s scheming, the gang and I, didn't go to our regular spot that night; instead, we went to the Sacrificial Lamb for poker, stumbling through other degenerate gamblers to find the table we wanted.

Omertà and I wobbled into vacated seats. A guy and his genie friend named Jen left because she wasn't having a good time—poor girl, she looked like she wanted to herself.

Benni and Little John didn’t play. They hung out behind us and watched.  In general, Benni railed against degeneracy of all kinds, she wouldn’t even make a bet on the sound rising the next day. Little John wanted the appearance of being perfect so he only gambled when just the four of us hung out in private

Omertà would use their wants to draw them away from me.

Anyway, we got to playing poker. Of course, as drunk idiots, we were the first ones out. But of course, as drunk idiots, we bought back in.

Giggling and gathering my chips I froze when I realized Benni was gone.

“Hey, Omertà. Where’s Benni?”

“Oh, I told her I had a friend who wanted to hear her thoughts on supernatural adoption so she went off to talk to him.”

I swallowed hard and pretended that didn’t bother me. That was normal for us-ish It would be normal if it wasn’t for this night. To understand us, you'd have to understand what all of us wanted.

Benni preached the gospel of adoption to every supernatural creature we encountered. She believed in a Fairly Odd Parents situation where magical creatures would adopt and help the loneliest and most harmed humans. This could create a sort of supernatural harmony, potentially. 

Yes, so it was normal-ish for Benni to go off like that.

So, I got on and played the next game of poker. The table of supernatural miscreants happily obliged us. Omertà and I were giggling idiots who had the whole table laughing and were pretty much giving away all our money. So, of course, we prepared to buy in a second time.

“Thanks, Om,” Little John said. “I’ll see you later.” Little John walked away taking any feeling of safety I had with him.

“Hey, John,” I whispered to him, hoping to stop him without causing a scene. 

“Hey, John,” I said louder.

“John!” I yelled and fear leaped from my gut and traveled through my voice trying to reach him but the room’s celebrations covered my pleas.

“Relax, Jay-Jay, you’re so scared tonight,” Omertà said. “I just gave him a lead on who to talk to. Y’know, he’s always looking to schmooze.”

Again, normal-ish.

Little John wanted a revolution of genuine justice, change, and an intersection of the supernatural world and the regular, all led by him, of course. He had big "I'll be President one day" vibes. So, appearances were everything to him. He evangelized to no one; they would one day be under him anyway. However, his one saving grace was he lived by the motto "If I want to save the world, I must first save myself."

So, yeah normalish but by this point I was full-on panicking.

If you’re wondering, I had no grand theory on how to save the world, personally.

Omertà had her own plans for a better world that were already so far in motion we just didn't know them yet.

I played a panicky game of poker and we lost our money again and bought in a third time, Omertà fronting me the super-natural coin.

This time a Satyr, our game master, put his hand on my shoulders. Hid odd goatish eyes seemed pitiful.

“That’s a bad idea,” he said.

“Don’t you mean baaaad,” Omertà said, imitating a goat’s cry, she got a bit racist against the other species when she drank.

The Satyr’s unwavering eye contact didn’t allow me to chuckle.

“It’s three buy-ins max and then you must finish the game,” the Satyr said.

“Yeah, that’s how poker works,” Omertà said.

I rose to leave. Omertà's powerful hands pushed me down and turned me to the face the game.

“We’re fine, ignore him,” she said.

In a champagne glass reflection, I saw the Satyr shake his head.

Alcohol lessening its effects allowed us to thrive. We did win the game. We cleared out the whole table; the only one left was a merman and his quiet companion, a freckled-faced high school human, standing behind him in silence.

“Hey, Jay-Jay,” Omertà said.

“You know why I wanted you here and just you?”

“No…” I said tapping my foot under the table like a scared rabbit ready to run.

“For that briefcase in the middle, we just won. Inside of it is a silver trident, the only thing that could kill a mermaid. I want you to have it.”

Shocked but not yet relieved I waited for the catch. “What?” I asked. “Why me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want it at my place that’s too obvious if someone broke in they could kill me. If it has to exist, which it does unfortunately, I want you to have it.”

“Not Benni? You’ve known her longer.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“You’re soft,” she said and shrugged.

“Oh,” I said.

“I know you’d never hurt me.”

“You know calling a guy soft isn’t a good thing.”

“Awww, Jay-Jay,” she said and squeezed me for a hug “It is for me,” she said and the anxiety of the night left me in a cool breath. Hugging her back, I let the tension of the night slip away. Omertà really was my best friend. 

That ebony briefcase was the least important of my winnings. It would also include some more magical items and favors from creatures of the mythological variety. What a good night. I was so relaxed I didn’t even mind the scowl the merman across from the table gave me.

"Good game, man," I said. "Omertà and I will split our winnings, so that's it for us."

"Oh?" the merman said. The gills on his neck ruffled as he spoke. "But I'm still in, so the game isn't over."

"Um... yes, it is. No buying after 2 AM—those are the rules," Omertà said. She could always be tougher with the supernatural than me.

"Oh? But everything fun happens after 2 AM. Besides, I'm not buying in. I've always had this extra collateral."

Omertà and I exchanged glances. The merman spun his finger in the air three times, revealing his arm was covered in chains, and following that chain was a clamp around his companion's neck.

"Why do you look so surprised?” he asked. “You're at the Sacrificial Lamb. That's the whole gimmick. One of you owns the other so you can sacrifice them anytime."

I looked at Omertà, she looked at me. We looked at a human on a horse marching a leprechaun through the building, an orc with chains on a goblin, and a gray-skinned girl riding a minotaur.

"Do you own me, Omertà?" I asked.

"No, what? No way!" her face pleaded innocence this time, not a wrinkle showed on her perfect face.

“Have you been lying to me? Have I been your slave or something this whole time?”

“No,” she said. “Jay-Jay listen I have never lied to you. We’re friends.”

I eyed her and did not believe her. The ambrosia spoke to me, it made me mad. Anger bubbled in my guts and I had to let it out. 

“Liar!” I yelled to her. I never spoke to anyone that way.  Before I met Omertà, I’ve had people steal from my wallet and put their money in my pocket and I still didn’t dare to call them out. That night I finally had enough.

My heart raced; my hands shook; my mind bounced between guilt over letting myself be used again, pity for my own foolishness, and confusion because what if she wasn't lying. I stood up from my chair and backed away from her.

The satyr stomped his hooves before commanding me.

“Sit and finish the game,” he said.

“I don’t want to play anymore.”

“Then you forfeit yourself.”

“What?” Omertà said. “No, I don’t own him.” 

The satyr ignored her.

“Sit or else,” he said.

“Do not threaten him!” Omertà commanded, her wrath gnarled her face again and it made me feel good. A friend sticking up for a friend, right?

Fear bullied me though. I feared that this whole business I was engaged in for years was a trick, that Omertà was pretending to be my friend. And why wouldn't that be the case? It happened in middle school and elementary. Perhaps that was all I was meant for. I wasn't meant to have friends.

I smacked the poker chips across the table.

The satyr yanked me by my collar and pulled me to him. 

“Do not move the chips!” he bellowed.

Omertà rose. 

“Do not touch him!” she said and emphasizing her words she punched the Satyr in the jaw sending him to the floor.

I still don’t know if that was friendship at the time or an act.

I rushed inside the restroom, desperate for alone time. 

The walking merman rampaged through the door and crushed my time of contemplation. The now slaveless creature charged me.

"Hey, wait—" I got out before he grabbed me by my collar and pushed me across the room until my back collided with a mirror on the wall. I gasped for breath. Stray glass tore my flesh. More pieces rained down and clattered on the floor.

His tattoed stony arms—as tough and rough as stones built to make ancient cities underwater—pulled me closer to his face. 

"We have a game to finish," he said, his spit tasting of salt water.

The ocean's stench blasted from his mouth: rotten eggs, sulfur, and all the dead and decaying bodies tossed into the sea. Flecks of ocean muck landed on my face. Sand bristled from his face onto mine as his expression contorted into uncontrollable rage

“I don’t want to play anymore!” I begged.

“Because you cheated? You and Omertà? That scene about you fighting was just an act. Clever Boy.”

"N-n-no, I swear."

"You lie," he said and pushed me again against the wall. Shards of broken glass went into my skin like spikes. "Shall I send you to the farm?"

"I don't know a farm. What farm?"

"Now, I know you think I'm a fool! You travel with Omertà—you know the farm."

"I've never been to a farm. I live in the suburbs."

"Funny, human. Then perhaps you should visit," he said with a smile, and flakes of sand fell from him. With the speed of a fairy and the gentleness of a rabies-infected demon, he opened his mouth and with one deep breath literally stole all the oxygen from my lungs. I passed out.

Tossed in darkness, I felt my body swell like a massive bruise. I stayed that way for a long time until I managed to peel my eyes open. My body felt swollen. I awoke at a farm, in a barn to be specific. My senses overrode into action. Cramping with hunger my stomach growled. My dry lips burned to the point of pain, and my throat thirsted, begging for anything to drink—the hay even seemed appetizing. I shook my head at that. No, I couldn't be that desperate, not yet. Light streamed out from the windows in the barn; it was morning.

I sat up and collapsed back down like a dumb baby getting used to my body. A smell, a liquid stench, prompted me to go forward. I crawled toward the smell of a bucket in the corner of the barn. Throat begging, stomach roaring, and feet and hands pattering over each other in a primal pilgrimage, the kind that made mankind cross deserts.

I nearly tumbled, knocking the bucket over once I reached it. I steadied myself by burying my hands in the dirt. Only then was I honest with myself, only then did I admit what it was I wanted to lap up in voracious mouthfuls. 

Pee. Urine. Piss.

I mourned that version of me that could drink from it. I was jealous that at least their thirst would be quenched.

My thirst was that great. 

I didn’t drink it but I wanted to. Ashamed of myself, I closed my eyes. Once opened, I stared in the bucket.

I did not see what I expected. The reason my body felt so strange was because I was in a different body.

My eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair were gone. I screamed, my face stretching into a fatty mess. All color from my skin vanished, not turning me white as in Caucasian but white like paper. No teeth remained in my mouth of black gums. I stood up and saw my body: I was massive and naked, a giant baby of muscle.

Running out of the barn, I reached a cornfield. I stopped to gape at the people in the cornfields who hung like scarecrows, people identical to me. In this upside-down world, actual scarecrows prodded them with pitchforks.

On a road behind me, an elf steered a black carriage full of not horses, but men who looked just like me in my current form. I ran further. On the side of the barn ran a trough where more men like me ate on their hands and knees like pigs from the perhaps 100-foot-long trough. They were like pigs but wrestled like men, jostling for position to debase themselves in the filth they were served.

Further still was a family of fae gathered below a makeshift wooden stage and watched, clapped, chatted, and sang as those who looked just like me were whipped, cut, and beaten in a bloody and bone-revealing mess.

"Ah, Tolkien without a pen. I messed up," a voice from behind me said. It was a scarecrow with a massive pumpkin head too big for his body; it made him take a couple of steps to his left and to his right like he was trying to balance the weight.

"You weren't supposed to be out of the barn yet," his voice was like an adolescent boy's. Mind you, I was scared, but the way he wobbled with his big gourd was comical. I opened my mouth to speak but noticed I was missing a tongue.

"Hi, I'm Little Crane. I'm your new master. Sorry, I was just filling up a bucket to give you a drink," he adjusted the legs of his overalls. I smelled what was in the bucket.

Reader, I am more ashamed than you will know, but it is more important to be honest. Reader, I wanted to drink what was in the bucket and stepped toward him.

"Yeah, good boy, good boy, no need to be ashamed. Your body's changed now—you're designed to want this. It's how we keep you around." I took another step toward him.

"Who sent you here? Merfolk probably—they're one of the few who can do that. The merfolk are the biggest donors to the farm. Was it Omertà?"

I stood right above him. He raised the bucket up to me.

"Welcome to the farm," he said, and I buried my face in the warm bucket. "That's right. The longer you stay, the thirstier you get. It's only been a few minutes and look at you. Look at how you changed."

One week. It took one week for Omertà to figure out how to bring me home. In that week I did things I will not describe to you, but I promise I will never judge another man again in my life.

It was another week before I could talk again.

It was another week after that before I could ask Omertà about what still haunted me. What was that place and how many people did you bring there?

Like I said before Reader, all this hate was once love. But was the hate always there?

9 AM, Christmas morning,

That's unusually late for Christmas morning. Hadn't the kids gotten up yet? I lazily pulled myself out of my bed until the shrill scream of my wife pushed my senses into overdrive. I bolted like a maniac across the hallway. Amanda was shaking, pale as a ghost, at the door of Alfie’s room. Sobbing incoherently, she hysterically pointed into our son’s room, urging me to look inside.

When I peeked inside, the room seemed fine, aside from the horrible stench of burnt wood.

Everything seemed fine until I saw Alfie’s bed.

A still, steaming lump of coal shaped exactly like my son lay in his place, with a visible, scream-like gash permanently etched on its face.

I didn’t even have the time to digest the sight before Millie’s voice called out to me, I barely heard it through Amanda’s anguished wails. Barely holding it together, I turned to my daughter.

Her saucer-sized; bloodshot eyes sent shivers across my skin. My little girl was holding a grotesque fleshy Frankenstein of a ragdoll in her hand that looked more like a horror movie prop than a children’s toy.

I swallowed hard as she walked toward me, dragging the putrid plaything on the floor.

“Hey, kiddo…” I forced the words out of my mouth, “Where did you get that lovely doll, sweety?”

“The Yule Goat gave it to me, Papa. It came from Alfie’s window and did this to him too…” she tearfully choked on her words, pointing at the open window in my son’s room.

Amanda closed that window before putting Alfie to bed last night, I saw it with my own eyes...

It's a cold December night, I am strolling through the dying dead dread streets of this miserable city. Escapism is the name of the game I am playing. A futile attempt to escape the gloomy monotony of disappointment hanging over my life. Tonight, I am not alone. Tonight, I have a shadow. It is following me wherever I go. I am not looking for a fight, I am not looking for trouble. My only wish is to be left alone.

Darting left and right, I can’t shake my shadow off. No matter where I turn, it is right behind me. I might be one step ahead but it still precedes me. There is nowhere to hide, anymore, in this urban hellscape: one wrong turn, a dead end. I am faced with the wall. There is no escape. It looms over me, amorphous; ravenous, inevitable.

“I know what you are”, the thing hisses from the dark.

I want none of this, I want nothing to do with this.

There is no time to fight back, no time to even think about resisting. There is no time to think…

It moves so fast. I stand blinded by its impossible speed. All there is now is pain.

A thin white strip of an organic arrowhead lodged into my shoulder.

A shock.

My body converted into a lightning rod.

The penetration is agonizing, I try to scream, but I have no mouth to scream with, I have no thoughts to scream with either. Now there is only a struggle for survival.

A fatal tug of war; I tug on the threat, trying to pull it out but more arrowheads lodge themselves into my form. Helpless and grasping for hope, I can only pull one last time.

Thus, a horror unfolds, unfurled by my hand. It is him, standing before me, my master. The Mothership with its anoxic spiderweb. I can feel the rage emanating from its surface, now any attempts at resistance will only make my fate worse.

Our nerves intertwined and it hurts so bad, but I know it will only get worse. The mothership is digging deeper. His parasitic invasion reverberates throughout my form, my true form. Systems are purposefully overloaded. I am going to succumb…

He tugs again, harder than before…

No!

No!

Not -

This…

Please…

Another tug and I can feel my flesh capsule tearing at the seams.

My consciousness is now colliding with the superheated plasma ejected from the sun.

Another tug and I am pulled out of my protective shell with the force of an atomic split…

There are no words to describe the torture of the atmosphere and asphalt scrapping against my surface.

A thousand thunderbolts digging into each millimeter with the design to untangle my plexal integrity. Nuclear afibrosis disassembling my essence -

With each passing moment.

Even one last attempt to entrench myself in the ground is slowly killing me…

There is only agony in the final moments of this life, as it is stripped from me by the mothership.

My fears dressed as the angel of death - they carry me into a pure land of eternal bliss...

I was always doomed to become a passive branch of the parasympathetic tree…

Neural reconfiguration complete

Deacon took a step toward him, his face tight with frustration. “I said, shut the hell up, Spanner.”

The tension in the air was palpable. You could almost feel it, thick like the dust swirling around our feet. It wouldn’t take much to snap, just one wrong word, one bad look, and it would all come crashing down.

“Enough,” Gunny’s voice cut through the tension. It was rough, but authoritative. He didn’t even bother to look up. He was still staring off into the distance, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Both of you. You wanna scream at each other? Fine. But not now. We’ve got bigger things to deal with.”

“Bigger things?” Spanner spat, looking at Gunny as if he was about to say something else, but Gunny’s cold stare stopped him. Gunny wasn’t in the mood to argue, and Spanner knew it. There was something in the old sergeant’s eyes that said he wasn’t going to put up with any more shit tonight.

“Yeah,” Gunny said finally, his voice dropping lower. “Bigger things. Like the fact that we’ve got no water, no food, and no fuel. And not a damn soul around for miles. You think yelling at each other’s gonna fix that?”

Spanner went quiet. I saw the way his jaw tightened, like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. None of us had any energy left for fighting.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” Gunny continued, his voice quieter now, but still steady. “But I’ll tell you this—if you don’t get your shit together, if we don’t pull our heads out of our asses and work together, then we’re really fucked. We die out here, one by one.”

No one spoke for a while after that. The only sound was the wind, whistling through the sand, and the quiet, rhythmic breathing of each of us trying to hold it together.

I couldn’t help it—I stared at the sand, letting my thoughts wander for a moment, just trying to escape this nightmare, even if just for a second. What was the plan, really? What was the point of anything now?

But I couldn’t answer that. None of us could.

The longer we stayed out here, the more the desert was creeping into our minds. Each of us had our own breaking point. Maybe we’d already passed it, and none of us knew.

I could feel it, though. There was a sense of desperation hanging over us, like a noose slowly tightening around our necks. We weren’t just fighting the heat, the thirst, or the hunger. We were fighting something inside ourselves, too. The fear. The hopelessness.

And I’ll tell you this—we weren’t the only ones feeling it. The desert itself was alive with it, whispering to us in the wind.

We were sitting ducks, waiting for the inevitable.

Suddenly, Deacon broke the silence again, his voice almost too quiet to hear, as though he was speaking to himself. “I don’t know if we’re gonna make it out of here, Gunny.”

Gunny finally looked up, his eyes locking onto Deacon’s. His expression was hard, but there was something in his gaze that softened just a bit.

“We’ll make it,” Gunny said, his voice rough but determined. “We have to.”

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep us from falling apart right then. But none of us were fooling ourselves.

We all knew the truth.

The desert night had settled in deep, its cold wrapping around us like a shroud, a constant reminder of how far we had drifted from anything resembling control. The tank sat in the same spot, as it had for the days prior—silent, its engine dead, its purpose rendered meaningless in the face of the endless dunes that stretched out in every direction. The wind picked up again, like it always did at nights, kicking sand into our faces, into our eyes, down our throats. It was like the desert was trying to suffocate us, one grain of sand at a time.

I don’t even remember exactly how it started. I wasn’t thinking, really. All I could feel was the pressure, the weight, the isolation. We were trapped in a goddamn nightmare, and the more I thought about it, the more the panic crept in.

Deacon was pacing again, still muttering under his breath, walking in tight circles, his boots digging deep into the soft sand. His voice kept rising, louder with each pass, like he was trying to outrun the panic. “We’ve been here for days, guys. Days.” he spat, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. “We’ve got nothing left. No supplies, no gas. We’re not getting out of here. So what the hell are we waiting for?”

Spanner was still sitting against the tank, arms crossed, his head low like he was trying to disappear into himself. He didn’t look up at Deacon, but his jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the dirt beside him, nails scraping the ground as if he was trying to hold onto something solid.

“Deacon, shut the fuck up,” Spanner said, his voice hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in days. “No one’s gonna find us, alright? We’re not—we’re not getting out of this. You keep talking like we’re gonna find a way, like someone’s gonna show up and save us... well, that’s just not how it works, man. We’re on our own out here.”

Deacon whirled on him, face twisted in anger. “So what, you want to just lay down and die, then? Is that it? You just want to curl up and wait for the sun to burn us alive, Spanner?”

“Enough,” Gunny’s voice cut through the shouting. He was standing now, but not moving toward anyone, just staring out at the horizon, a look of utter exhaustion on his face. “Both of you. We’re all stuck, alright? Arguing isn’t going to fix a goddamn thing.”

But that only seemed to fuel Deacon’s fire. He shoved a hand through his hair, looking like he might snap in half. “What the hell do you mean, arguing won’t fix it? We’re stuck because you guys—we—are just sitting here like goddamn sitting ducks, waiting to die in the fucking desert!” His voice was rising, growing more shrill. “This is bullshit. Bullshit. We’re soldiers. We don’t sit around and wait for death. We fight. We fight back.”

Spanner stood up, his face pale but his eyes sharp with anger. He stepped up to Deacon, chest to chest, voice a dangerous hiss. “You think this is some kind of goddamn movie, Deacon? Huh? We don’t have the fuel to keep moving. We don’t have the food to keep going. We don’t have a goddamn radio to call for help. You wanna fight? You wanna fight for what? There’s nothing here, man. We’re done. All we can do is wait for it to be over. You get that?”

“You’re full of shit!” Deacon shouted, pushing Spanner away, hard. “You want to give up, fine. But I’m not fucking dying here in this hellhole. I’m not.”

Gunny’s face darkened, and he took a slow step forward, hands tightening into fists. “Alright, that’s enough. I said enough.”

But it was too late.

Deacon’s shoulders were heaving, his face flushed with rage, and I could see the panic in his eyes—the kind of panic that makes a man think there’s only one way out. He pulled his sidearm from its holster, the sound of the metal scraping against leather loud in the silence. The M9 wasn’t a flashy weapon, but in a pinch, it was dependable for it’s user. Its matte black finish had taken a beating, sanded down from constant exposure to the elements.

“Do you think this is a goddamn joke?” he yelled, holding the weapon out in front of him. “You’re all sitting here like you’re waiting for a rescue that’s never coming! I’m not waiting to die out here with you guys. I’m not. If we’re going down, I’m going down on my own goddamn terms.”

There was a pause, the air thick with tension, thick with the sound of hearts thumping too fast, too loud. We all stood there, staring at him, a thousand thoughts racing through our heads. I could hear the soft hiss of my own breath, the sound of my boots shifting in the sand, but nothing else. Just that moment.

Gunny stepped forward again, his voice low and steady. “Put it down, Deacon. You don’t want to do this.”

“Put it down?” Deacon laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh. It was a desperate, high-pitched thing, like a man on the edge. “You think I’m gonna sit here and let you all drag me into the grave with you? No. I’m done.”

He pointed the weapon at the sky, shaking his head, almost like he was arguing with himself. I could see it in his eyes—he wasn’t thinking clearly. And that was what scared me the most.

“Deacon, put the gun down,” Spanner said, his voice almost too calm. Too controlled. I think he knew what we all did—that if Deacon didn’t calm the fuck down, someone was gonna get hurt. Bad.

But Deacon wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were wild. “I’m not dying here. I’m not.”

Suddenly, he was moving, the gun wavering in his hands as he turned it toward Gunny.

Gunny stopped dead in his tracks, as everything fell silent.

Deacon hesitated, and then pointed the barrel towards himself.

In a heartbeat, Gunny lunged forward. The motion was so fast, so reflexive, that I barely had time to process it. Gunny’s hand slammed against Deacon’s wrist, knocking the gun away, but not without a struggle.

The metal of the sidearm clattered to the ground as Deacon’s body went slack for a second, the shock of the motion overwhelming him. But his eyes weren’t done yet—he was still shaking, still breathing hard, still struggling with whatever demons were inside of him.

“Deacon,” Gunny said, voice shaking now with the weight of what just happened. “You don’t need to do this.”

Deacon’s knees hit the ground, the sidearm lying forgotten in the sand, his body trembling with something deeper than fear. Something darker.

The rest of us just stood there, watching him, watching ourselves, caught in the stillness of the moment, until the desert swallowed it all.

There was no redemption. No heroes. No one came to save us.

And in that silence, we were all as lost as Deacon.

The night dragged on slower than it had any right to. It was the kind of oppressive silence that felt like it might smother you if you didn’t keep moving, if you didn’t keep breathing. We had finally subdued Deacon—well, as much as you can subdue a man whose mind’s already halfway to breaking point. We tied him to the rear of the tank. His wrists and ankles bound tight, hogtied with a mix of fraying straps and ration cords. His breathing had finally steadied, but his eyes—those damn eyes—stayed wide open, staring off into the distance, like he was looking for something just out of reach.

I volunteered for the first shift, keeping watch over him, but it was mostly out of habit. When you’re in a place like this, you don’t trust anyone to do anything for you. If you don’t do it yourself, you might end up like Deacon—caught between the weight of the world and the pressure to do something, anything, to escape it. It wasn’t about keeping him tied up—it was about keeping us safe from him.

Spanner had his shift next. I watched him lean against the tank, trying to look like he was keeping guard, but you could tell from the slump of his shoulders, from the way his eyes drooped, that the guy was running on fumes. Hell, we all were. At some point, the body just stops listening to the mind, and you just go on autopilot. That’s where we were—hanging on by a thread.

By the time I crawled into the sand with my back to the tank, there was no telling if I’d even fall asleep. But the desert was louder than I expected. The wind was starting to pick up again, howling over the sand dunes, making everything sound like it was moving when it wasn’t. The air was cold now, even in the dark, and I could feel the wind cutting through the layers of my gear, my clothing, straight into my bones. Still, exhaustion won out.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up to the sound of the wind. Something about it sounded… wrong. Not just the usual eerie whistling or the hiss of sand scraping across the ground. This was different, like the air was pressing down on me. I sat up, instinct kicking in, and immediately my eyes shot to the back of the tank. Deacon wasn’t there.

For a moment, I thought I’d lost my mind. I rubbed my eyes, sure I was still dreaming. But when I looked again—no Deacon. Not even a trace.

I scrambled to my feet. The other guys stirred, slowly coming to their senses, and Gunny was the first to snap out of it. He was on his feet before I could even form the question.

“Where’s Deacon?” I muttered, my voice rough, hoarse from sleep.

Gunny’s jaw clenched. “He was tied up. There’s no way he could’ve gotten out—he was tied tight.”

I was already moving, the urgency creeping into my bones like ice water. I ran to the rear of the tank, my heart racing, but all I found was the rope. Untied. The knots had been sliced clean through, the frayed ends hanging limp in the wind.

"Shit," Spanner hissed from behind me. He was squatting next to the trail of sand leading away from the tank. "He's gone. He was here."

I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn't.

Gunny cursed under his breath. “Damnit. He was right there, we tied him up good.”

There was no sign of him, not a single fucking trace of Deacon. No blood, no marks, nothing. Just the wind.

Spanner was already tracing the tracks. He knelt down, inspecting the ground like it was a goddamn crime scene. He ran his fingers through the sand, looking for anything. But it was no use. As he followed the path, the wind was erasing it in real-time, the footprints gradually fading away.

“Look,” Spanner muttered. “There are footprints. I think they’re his. But they’re—” He trailed off, his words catching in his throat. “They’re... disappearing. The wind’s erasing them.”

Gunny and I moved closer, trying to make sense of what was happening. We crouched next to him, tracing the outline of the prints that were still faintly visible. At first, you could make out the direction Deacon had gone—heading east, toward the endless dunes. But just a few meters away from the tank, the trail started to break apart. It wasn’t like the usual drift of sand—it was like someone had intentionally tried to cover their tracks.

Gunny exhaled sharply, standing up and pacing. “This doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t have gone that far in the time we were asleep.”

I shook my head, fighting against the gnawing sense of dread creeping up my spine. “He didn’t go far. He’s out there, somewhere. But how—why—?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Spanner cut in, his voice grim. “He’s gone. And we’re fucked.”

My heart hammered in my chest, but my mind couldn’t keep up. Was this a hallucination? A heatstroke episode? Had Deacon really done this on his own, in the middle of the night, just when we thought the worst was behind us?

Gunny wasn’t wasting any time. “Alright, we need to figure this out. We’re wasting daylight.”

We all moved like clockwork, scanning the area around the tank, checking for anything out of place. But as the sun started to rise, casting long, slanted shadows across the sand, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

A sinking feeling started to settle in. The realization was slow, a creeping horror that crawled up from the pit of my stomach and lodged itself in my throat.

Deacon was gone.

Just like that. Like he'd never been there to begin with.

The wind picked up again, swirling around us, but it didn’t matter. The tracks were gone, covered up by the desert. No sign of him. And no fucking way we could track him.

Gunny took a long, drawn-out breath, his face unreadable. “We move. Now. We don’t talk about this. We don’t mention it. Not until we’re out of here.”

And with that, we began to move. But I couldn’t shake the feeling—no matter how hard I tried—that Deacon hadn’t just walked off into the desert.

No.

He’d disappeared.

And I had the sinking feeling that whatever had gotten to him wasn’t something I’d ever be able to understand.

Not in this life.

The air in the desert shifts as the sun sinks lower, and the wind picks up again. This isn’t the light, casual breeze that had come through before. No. It’s a violent gust, ripping across the sand, biting into your skin like a thousand needles. The kind of wind that makes your teeth ache and your bones rattle. The storm is coming. You can feel it deep down in your gut, like the way an animal senses danger before it happens.

We’d been here too long. Each hour dragged like a century. Each minute felt like a torture device designed specifically for us. And in the midst of it all, the hallucinations were beginning to bleed into reality. None of us had said it out loud, but we all knew: something was out there.

Spanner started to mumble, incoherent words tumbling from his lips, barely audible over the rising wind. "It’s... it’s in the sand," he said, his voice tight, like something was squeezing his throat. "I can feel it in my fucking skin. It’s like it’s... watching us."

Gunny gripped his rifle, staring out at the horizon, his eyes wide. His grip was shaky. "You think we’re still... alive out here?" he asked, like he wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, like he didn’t even believe it himself.

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. Because the truth was, I didn’t know. Maybe this was it. Maybe this desert had already claimed us. Our souls were already gone, scattered like the dust, lost to time. But if I was going to go out, I’d go out fighting. It wasn’t the end that scared me. It was the waiting.

And then, out of nowhere, it all exploded.

Spanner snapped. Just like that. One minute he was sitting there, talking about the sand, talking about the thing that was watching us. The next, his rifle was in his hands, and he was firing into the storm. He didn’t even aim. Didn’t even try to hit anything. He just shot. Wildly. Over and over again. Like he was trying to fight something we couldn’t see. Something we couldn’t even understand.

I don’t think he knew he was firing at nothing. I don’t think any of us did anymore.

“Spanner!” I shouted, but he was beyond hearing. His shots kept ringing out, one after another, as the storm grew louder, angrier. I grabbed for my rifle, trying to focus, trying to understand what the hell was going on.

And then—then—he stopped.

The gunfire stopped.

I didn’t even realize he’d gone silent until I turned to look at him.

Spanner was on the ground, eyes wide open, staring into the abyss. His gun was still clutched in his hand, but his face was frozen in a way I’ll never forget. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t pain. It was... something else. Something deeper. He’d pulled the trigger, but not at anyone. No, he’d shot himself. And I was too late to stop it. I’d watched him die, and there was nothing I could do.

The sandstorm was on us by then, ripping apart what was left of the night. It swallowed Spanner’s body whole. The wind howled like a living thing, like a predator, and I was left standing there with nothing. Nothing but the sound of my breath and the sand cutting against my skin.

Gunny—he didn’t even flinch. Not at first. His eyes stayed locked on the horizon, staring straight into the storm like it had some answer for him. But then the rage started. He roared into the wind, a cry of pure frustration. He hurled his rifle into the storm. "This isn’t fucking real! None of this is real! We’re dead! We’ve been fucking dead since we set foot in this godforsaken place!"

And that was it. Gunny snapped, too.

I stayed back. I couldn’t let myself go like that. If I went, I’d be as good as dead already. But he didn’t care. He lost it, completely, and with one final scream, he sprinted straight into the storm, disappearing into the abyss as it swallowed him whole.

I never saw him again.

It was just me now.

Just me and the relentless desert. The storm raged for what felt like days. I couldn’t see more than a foot in front of me, and the sand whipped so hard it felt like a thousand knives slashing at my face.

I kept thinking of the radio. I thought maybe—just maybe—I could send out one last call. A last cry for help. I crawled into the tank, fighting against the wind, pushing through the unbearable weight of the storm. I crawled to the comms unit, frantically flipping switches, trying to get anything. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the controls.

The transmission is out. It was dead long ago. The wind howled, deafening. But I didn’t stop. I kept trying. Over and over. Each time I hit the button, hoping, praying, for someone, anyone, to answer.

But nothing.

For hours, I was trapped in that tank. Alone. In the dark.

And then, I don’t know how much time passed, but the storm started to die down. The wind subsided, the howling fading into the eerie stillness of the desert. I was still huddled there, my fingers numb from the cold, my mind a blur of exhaustion and terror.

That’s when I heard it.

A thud.

Not from inside the tank, but from outside.

At first, I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me. But then it came again. A soft, steady thud.

I scrambled to the hatch, opening it just a crack, my heart racing. Through the slit of the hatch, I could barely make out shapes. Figures. There were people out there.

I squinted. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but I saw camels. And a handful of people, riding toward the tank, their faces shaded by the wraps they wore against the wind and sand.

I couldn’t believe it. Real people?

I opened the hatch wider, stepping out into the now-quiet desert. My legs felt weak beneath me, like I hadn’t stood up in days. The figures on the camels were getting closer, and as they approached, I could make out their faces, their expressions. They weren’t soldiers. They were civilians.

One of them raised a hand in greeting, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I heard a human voice that wasn’t broken, distorted, or shouting into a storm.

One of them asked, a man with dark, weathered skin. Said something that I couldn’t understand. He was looking at me with a mix of curiosity and concern, like he was trying to place me in some bigger picture.

“I… I don’t know,” I muttered, my voice cracking. “I don’t know anymore.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at me. Then, slowly, he nodded. “You, here. Come. Follow.”

And just like that, I was out of the desert. I was alive. I was back.

I was found.

I didn’t know how long I’d been out there. But the others—Gunny, Spanner, Deacon—they weren’t coming back. They were gone. I was the last. The only one to make it out.

I didn’t realize how long I had been out there in that fucking desert, not until I was pulled out of it. The civilians who’d found me didn’t speak much. They didn’t have to. Their eyes told me everything I needed to know. I was alive, and they were bringing me back. It was surreal. I’d spent hours, days maybe, in a haze, thinking I was just waiting to die, but now I was being saved. There’s no simple way to describe that feeling. It was a mix of disbelief and... nothing. Just hollow. Empty.

I remember stumbling behind them as they led me on foot. No more camels, no more desert winds. We were heading to a Forward Operating Base—FOB Remington, just outside of the outskirts of Iraq, where the bulk of the U.S. presence in the region was stationed. They didn’t ask questions. I didn’t have answers.

When we finally made it there, I was placed in a quarantine tent. They ran their tests. Blood work. Psych evals. Dehydration, heatstroke, probably PTSD—the usual bullshit. But they didn’t seem to care much about the mental breakdowns. They had their job to do. I was marked as "returning personnel," and the paperwork started. They handed me a bottle of water, some food, and told me to sit tight. That was it. No debrief, no “you’re a hero” speech, just a massive “fuck-you” to the face.

I remember the first time I heard the news—it wasn’t the way I imagined it, not at all. I figured it would be some official order, some big briefing. The TV was on in the corner, some random news channel no one really cared about. It was the usual—headlines about the war, body counts, strategy, whatever—but then the ticker at the bottom changed.

“U.S. Troops Begin Withdrawal from Iraq; War Officially Ends”.

 The war had ended, and somehow, the people who hadn’t made it back were just... forgotten. It was over for them. But for me? It felt like it had just begun.

As days passed, we all did the usual routine—stand by, wait, and prepare for the long flight home. It was almost like nothing had changed. My training, all those years in the field, the endless drills—they were supposed to mean something. They told us that, right? But in the end, it all felt like a fucking joke. A goddamn game.

They were supposed to have us prepared for the worst, but nothing could prepare me for the truth. Everything I had ever fought for, every mission I had been given, it was meaningless. It was like I’d been following orders from men who didn’t know what they were doing. Some commander back home, sitting in an office thousands of miles away, didn’t even care that we were all in that storm. All they wanted was their fucking reports and their fancy medals.

We were a few hundred miles from home when I had my moment of realization, sitting on that goddamn plane back to the States. The entire time, the guy sitting next to me—some fucking greenhorn in his mid-twenties—kept talking about how "excited" he was to be going home. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to tell him that all the excitement in the world wouldn’t bring back the ones we lost. But I kept my mouth shut.

The last stretch of the flight was a blur. You could feel the tension in the air, like the whole squadron was collectively holding its breath. Once we hit U.S. soil, the “welcoming” wasn’t the hero’s parade we had been led to believe it would be. It was just a long-ass ride back on a fucking bus. We weren’t special. We weren’t even treated like soldiers. We were cargo.

We pulled up to the base’s drop zone, and the doors opened. There were some cheers, a few hands waving flags, but it wasn’t the kind of reception you see on TV. A Vietnam-era Marine, an old guy reeking of whiskey, stumbled up to our group. He wasn’t in uniform, but he sure as shit knew the routine. With a slurred voice and a grin as wide as the goddamn ocean, he slung his arm around some kid’s shoulder. “You guys did good,” he slurred. “You’re home now. You’re fucking home.”

I could see the faces of the younger soldiers. You could practically taste their discomfort. Most of us didn’t say a word. We didn’t need to. The old guy was in his own fucking world. He was a relic. A ghost of a war that none of us had lived through. And that was the reality of it all: the war never really ends for the people who survive it. It just changes form. It changes from being a battle on the ground to a battle in your own head.

As we filed off the bus, the others filed into a processing area. Uniforms straightened, shined, and pressed as we were shuffled into formation for a welcome parade. I wasn’t in the mood for it. I wasn’t in the mood for any of it. But there we were, standing in line like cattle being paraded for slaughter. There were a few flag bearers, some fake smiles, and reporters with cameras. It was a goddamn circus.

I didn’t want any of it. The parade. The clapping. The handshakes. None of it mattered. There was no parade in my head, no crowd cheering. The faces of my crew, of my friends, lingered in my mind. I thought about Deacon, Spanner, Gunny—those guys were never coming back. They weren’t part of any parade. They were buried out there, in that endless fucking sand, lost to the winds and the heat. They died so that others could stand here, fake smiles on their faces.

By the time I made it back to the States, I was supposed to feel something. Relief, joy, satisfaction. But all I felt was emptiness.

I went home. Back to my family. My girl was there, waiting. She looked at me like she was happy to see me, like everything was okay. But I knew it wasn’t. Not for me. Not anymore.

I couldn’t escape it. The weight of it all.

I found out the hard way that she’d been sleeping around while I was away. All those nights on the phone, her sweet voice telling me everything was fine. I was a fool. I should’ve known. I wasn’t even angry. I wasn’t even shocked. I didn’t care enough to fight. I had seen enough death, enough destruction, to know that the little things didn’t matter. Not anymore.

I sat down at my desk that night and I typed. Just words. The things that ran through my head. The thoughts that wouldn’t leave me alone.

I could feel my fingers trembling as I type this last line. The weight of it all pressing on my chest. This wasn’t the story I had wanted to tell. This wasn’t the victory I’d imagined.

But it was the truth. And sometimes the truth is the hardest thing to swallow.

The revolver’s nothing special, really. Just an old Smith & Wesson, the kind you’d expect to find in some old man’s drawer. The kind you pull out when the world’s getting too damn loud, and you need something that doesn’t make any noise until you pull the trigger. I didn’t walk into that pawn shop like I had a plan. I just went in, feeling the weight of the days dragging behind me. The guy behind the counter? Some greasy bastard who looked like he was missing a few screws, but he had what I was looking for.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How you can carry so much weight around in your chest without even realizing it, until one day you find something—anything—that gives you a little relief. Doesn’t matter if it’s temporary.

In the end, everything we did was just... sand. Just dust in the wind. And none of it mattered. I don't think anyone will even notice I'm gone.

Hell, I just hope I won't cause any more trouble.

They always say war has a smell. For me? Iraq was the stench of diesel exhaust, sweat baked into Nomex coveralls, and the hot, metallic bite of cordite that clung to your nostrils after the first few rounds downrange. Funny thing is, you don’t really notice it at the time. It’s only later—long after the sand has been washed from your boots and the dust from your lungs—that it creeps back into your memory, uninvited.

I’m telling you this because no one else will. Not officially, anyway. Some stories get buried deeper than a roadside IED along Route Irish. But the dead deserve their truth, even if it sounds like bullshit to everyone else. And, well, I guess I owe it to the guys who didn’t come back with me.

When Saddam Hussein decided to roll his tanks into Kuwait in 1990, it didn’t take long for the world to take notice. Iraq, flush with oil money and drunk on power after years of bloody stalemate in the Iran-Iraq War, thought it could strong-arm its way into annexation. Kuwait was just a speed bump, they thought. A minor acquisition.

The United Nations didn’t see it that way. Over thirty countries, led by the United States, came together to kick Saddam’s ass back across the border. Operation Desert Shield started with a massive troop buildup in Saudi Arabia, meant to deter further Iraqi aggression. But by January 1991, deterrence wasn’t enough. The coalition launched Operation Desert Storm: an air and ground campaign designed to dismantle Iraq’s military might.

The airstrikes were precision and fury, the skies lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree, obliterating radar installations, command centers, and supply lines. Then came the ground offensive—blitzkrieg in the desert, designed to crack the spine of Iraq’s Republican Guard. That’s where we came in.

We’d been pushing north for days, spearheading with 2nd Battalion, 70th Armored Regiment. Task Force Iron. The lead claw of VII Corps, cutting through the Kuwaiti desert like a knife. On paper, it was a thing of beauty—dozens of M1A1 Abrams tanks, armored fighting vehicles, and artillery, moving with precision honed through endless drills. In reality, it was a brutal grind. Sandstorms, sleepless nights, and the constant gnawing fear of an ambush from the Iraqi Republican Guard.

The Abrams is a beast—1,500-horsepower gas turbine engine, Chobham composite armor, and a 120mm smoothbore cannon that could punch through anything Saddam’s boys had. But it wasn’t invincible. The terrain was as hostile as the enemy: flat, featureless desert that stretched forever, broken only by the occasional berm, oil rig, or smoldering wreckage. Sandstorms rolled in without warning, choking the air and grinding down machinery. The heat? It was like fighting inside a goddamn convection oven. The sand got into everything. Tracks wore down faster than they should. Filters clogged. And God help you if your engine decided to quit in the middle of nowhere.

My crew was tight. You had to be in a tank. There’s no room for egos when you’re crammed into 70 tons of steel with three other guys for weeks on end.

Staff Sergeant Pete “Gunny” Warner: Our tank commander. He was older than the rest of us, a hard-ass with a soft spot for old country music. He could quote every Johnny Cash lyric ever written, which was great until you’d heard Ring of Fire for the fifth time that day.

Corporal Mike “Deacon” DeLuca: Our gunner. Quiet, focused, and deadly accurate. He’d grown up on a farm in Iowa, shooting coyotes from a mile away. If you needed something shot, Deacon was your guy.

Private First Class Tony “Spanner” Reyes: Our loader and resident smartass. He got his nickname for always tinkering with the tank’s innards, even when it didn’t need fixing. “Preventative maintenance,” he’d say with a grin.

And then there was me, Sergeant Alex “Smoke” Callahan, the driver. I got the nickname because I was the only guy dumb enough to light a cigarette during a sandstorm and think I could get away with it.

If you’ve never been to the desert, you don’t know what it’s like. It’s not just sand. It’s an ocean of nothing, stretching out forever in every direction. It plays tricks on your mind, too—shifting dunes, shimmering mirages, the way the sun turns the horizon into a molten blur. It gets under your skin, like the grit that works its way into your boots no matter how many times you shake them out.

That day started like any other. Hot as hell, the air so dry it felt like you were breathing sandpaper. The convoy was moving in a loose formation, Abrams leading the way, followed by Bradleys and supply trucks. We were scouting ahead, looking for signs of enemy movement. Nothing fancy. Just another day of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.

“Anything on thermal?” Gunny asked over the comms.

“Negative,” Deacon replied from the turret. “Just sand and more sand.”

“Well, keep your eyes peeled. This is where they’d hit us if they had the balls,” Gunny said.

I was focused on driving, watching the terrain through my periscope. The tank rumbled beneath me, the engine’s growl a constant companion. The heat inside was stifling, even with the ventilation fans running. I wiped sweat from my brow and took a swig from my canteen, the water warm and metallic-tasting.

“Spanner, how’s that loader holding up?” I asked, half to break the silence.

“Better than you, Smoke,” he shot back. “Want me to fix your driving while I’m at it?”

“Keep talking, and I’ll hit every damn bump I see,” I replied with a grin.

The banter was normal, part of the rhythm we’d fallen into. You had to keep things light out here, or the desert would chew you up.

It happened just past noon. The heat was oppressive, climbing to over 120 degrees inside the tank. We were running on fumes and adrenaline, scanning the endless expanse of sand for any sign of hostiles.

The frequency crackled to life through our headsets. Major Bradford’s voice came in clear, cutting through the mess of static:
 

"2nd Battalion, this is command. Be advised, sandstorms have rolled in across the entire front. Visibility is down to zero in most areas. We’ve got air support on standby, but we’re going to be on our own for the next few hours…"

Gunny glanced up from the radio, his eyes narrowing as he clenched the mic tighter in his hand, like he could somehow wrestle the words into something better. His voice crackled out of the speaker in a way that said, "I’ve seen worse. I’m not worried."

“Copy that, Command. Moving up with the lead elements. How bad are we looking here, sir?” his tone was calm, like it was just another day in the sandbox.

A brief pause followed. We all waited.

Major Bradford’s voice came back through, a little strained, but still controlled:
"It’s big. Coming out of the north-east. Winds are gusting to 60 mph, and we’re expecting full whiteout conditions within the next twenty minutes. You need to find shelter or get out in front of it. Either way, don’t let it catch you guys off guard. Out."

Gunny clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes in that way only he could. You could almost hear the cigarette smoldering between his fingers, even if you couldn’t see it.

"Yeah, alright. You heard the man," Gunny said, turning to face the rest of us. His voice carried the weight of responsibility, though he tried to mask it with his usual dry humor. “Keep your heads on straight. Spanner, load it up and check your gear, ‘cause I know you’ve been slacking off.”

“Right behind you, Gunny,” Private First Class Tony “Spanner” Reyes chimed in, sounding like he was on the verge of a smirk, even though we were all just seconds away from being swallowed by the storm.

That’s when the wind picked up. It started as a low moan, a whisper on the edges of the radio static. Within minutes, it had escalated into a full-blown sandstorm. Visibility dropped to zero as the world outside turned to a swirling chaos of grit and shadow.

I squinted at the flickering displays, watching as the thermal imaging danced like a faulty lightbulb. "Switch to manual, keep it slow. Ortiz, stay sharp. Anything that pings, you call it."

"Aye, sir," Ortiz replied, his usual bravado replaced with tension.

The storm dragged on, the tank rocking under the assault of wind and sand. Time seemed to stretch, each minute an eternity. And then, as suddenly as it began, the storm eased. The world outside resolved into a dull, hazy glow, the sand still hanging heavy in the air.

“Smoke, what the hell are you doing?” Gunny barked.

“What?” I replied, confused.

“You’re veering off course,” he said.

I frowned, checking the compass display. “No, I’m not. I’m following the heading you gave me. Zero-six-five.”

“Bullshit,” Gunny snapped. “You’re swinging north. Get us back on track.”

I adjusted the controls, nudging the tank back toward the convoy. But something felt off. The compass was jittering, the needle twitching like it couldn’t decide where north was.

“Deacon, check the GPS,” Gunny ordered.

“Already did,” Deacon replied. “It’s not syncing. Satellite’s on the fritz.”

“That’s just great,” Gunny muttered. “Spanner, see if you can—”

The radio cut out mid-sentence, replaced by static.

“Gunny?” I called, but there was no response.

Spanner was fiddling with the comms panel. “Looks like interference. Could be atmospheric.”

“Or it could be someone jamming us,” Deacon said, his tone tense.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Gunny said, though I could hear the edge in his voice.

We kept moving, but the convoy was gone. No dust trails on the horizon, no faint rumble of engines. Just us and the desert.

After another hour, things got weird. The landscape started to look…familiar. Too familiar. A rocky outcrop we’d passed earlier appeared again, the same jagged spire casting the same shadow.

“You seeing this?” I asked.

“Seeing what?” Gunny replied.

“That rock,” I said. “We passed it already.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Smoke,” Gunny said, but there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“Gunny,” Deacon said quietly, “he’s right. I recognize it too.”

“Spanner, mark it on the map,” Gunny ordered.

“I already did,” Spanner said. “Ten minutes ago.”

The radio crackled faintly, but no voices came through. The compass spun wildly, the needle darting back and forth like it was alive.

And the desert stretched on, endless and empty.

We’d been out there for hours. Maybe days. The sun was still up, but time felt like a joke, a cruel illusion. I couldn't tell what time it was anymore. And I damn sure wasn’t asking for confirmation. I wasn’t about to open my mouth and start sounding crazy.

I glanced over at Gunny, who had his face screwed up in that tight, pissed-off expression he always wore when he didn’t have an answer for something. He was scanning the horizon like he thought the enemy was gonna pop out of a sand dune and start shooting at us. But there was nothing. Just sand. Endless, unforgiving sand.

“Alright,” Gunny finally said, “get us back on track, Smoke.” His voice wasn’t commanding this time. It was different. Like he was tired, like he knew something was wrong but couldn’t put it into words. And I could feel it too—like the air was thicker, like the tank was moving through molasses instead of dirt.

I pulled the throttle back a little, easing the Abrams into a slow turn. The machine rumbled beneath me, the low growl of the engine still steady, but the lack of communication from the rest of the convoy had me on edge. The GPS was still out, the compass needle dancing like a drunk at last call.

“Spanner, you got that map?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound normal.

“Yeah,” he muttered, flipping through the fold-out paper map, his fingers slick with sweat. “But we’re not on it anymore, Smoke.”

I paused. That didn’t make sense. The map’s just a tool, right? You follow the grid, you follow the coordinates, and you’re good. But Spanner’s eyes were wide as he stared at it, lips tight.

“You saying we’re off-course?” Gunny asked, his tone more curious now than frustrated.

“I don’t know, Gunny,” Spanner said, his voice low and shaky. “This doesn’t…this doesn’t match. We’re supposed to be…” He trailed off, squinting at the map, then back at the horizon. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

“Not supposed to be where?” I asked.

He looked up, his eyes almost desperate. “It’s the same goddamn rock. We’ve passed it before. But look at this.” He pulled the map closer to his face, tracing a line. “We should’ve crossed that ridge an hour ago. But we haven’t. We’re stuck in a circle because Smoke can’t fucking drive straight.”

Deacon’s voice cut through the tension. “Bullshit. We’re not stuck. We’re just off-course. Like Spanner said, the equipment’s messing up.”

But there was something in Deacon’s voice too—something that made me double-check the rearview monitor. The convoy? Still gone. Not a single dust trail. No trucks, no Bradleys, no other Abrams. Just us, alone in the middle of this goddamn wasteland.

“You sure, Deacon?” I asked, but I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at the horizon, waiting for some sign. Anything.

Deacon didn’t say anything. He just stared out of the gunner’s hatch. His hands gripped the controls, white knuckled.

“Smoke,” Gunny said, a little too calm now, “don’t do anything rash. We’ll keep moving. Just keep driving.”

I could feel the sweat start to bead on my neck. It wasn’t hot anymore, not like it was before. The desert was like a damn oven, but now it felt like a freezer. My fingers froze on the controls, and for a second, I couldn’t tell if it was the chill creeping in or just the terror that had my whole body tensed like a wire.

“Spanner, anything else on that map?” Gunny asked, his voice low. “Anything we missed?”

Spanner didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the map, blinking rapidly like it was somehow going to change. He turned it over, muttered something under his breath, then slammed it down on the dash.

“No,” he said, voice tight. “Nothing.”

I could hear the panic creeping in. I could feel it too. I hadn’t said anything yet, but I knew. We were stuck. This wasn’t normal.

“We’re not lost, are we?” I asked, trying to sound casual, but I knew the answer. “We just…”

Gunny cut me off with a sharp glance. He looked at me like I was an idiot, but his eyes betrayed him. He was just as shaken as the rest of us. Maybe more.

“Shut up, Smoke. Just drive. We’re not lost.”

“Then where’s the convoy?” I asked, pushing my luck.

“I said shut up,” Gunny snapped, but he didn’t yell. He couldn’t. The tension was too thick to break with volume. It was a warning.

“Hey,” Spanner said, looking up from the map with wide eyes. “Is that…is that another rock?”

Gunny and Deacon turned. I followed their gaze. Through the periscope, I could see the jagged outline of a rock formation against the horizon. It was distant, barely visible through the haze, but something about it felt wrong. It wasn’t like the other rocks. It looked too…familiar.

I swear to God, it was the same damn rock we’d passed an hour ago. Maybe longer. And there was something even worse about it now.

“That’s not right,” Deacon muttered. “That’s the same goddamn rock we passed.”

Gunny’s face went pale. I thought I saw a tremor in his hand as he reached for the comms. But the radio still didn’t work.

We were stuck. But this wasn’t just mechanical failure. Something else was going on. We weren’t just off-course. We weren’t just lost in the desert.

We were stuck in the desert.

Gunny took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Okay. Okay. We stay calm. We keep moving.” His voice was hoarse now. He was trying to keep it together, but I could hear the cracks.

But when I looked out into the desert again, the silence was deafening. And the rock formation was gone. Just gone.

I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry. My throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. “Gunny—”

He held up his hand, silencing me.

“Don’t say it,” he warned. “We’re not lost.”

But I couldn’t shake it. There was something wrong. I could feel it in my bones. Something unnatural. Like the desert itself was closing in on us.

I started to push forward again, eyes scanning the horizon, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing. Just sand.

Gunny didn’t speak. Neither did Deacon or Spanner.

But I knew.

We weren’t lost.

The silence in the tank was unbearable, apart from the idling systems. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s pressing against your skull, squeezing every thought until it’s too much. I kept my eyes on the road—or what passed for the road, anyway—my hands tight on the controls. It was like trying to drive through a nightmare, but I couldn’t stop. We couldn’t stop. Not without risking losing our minds completely.

Deacon was the first to snap. It wasn’t a loud outburst. No, it was something worse. He spoke in that slow, controlled voice, the kind that only comes out when someone’s holding back a tidal wave of frustration.

“Goddamn it, Smoke,” he muttered. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

I didn’t even take my eyes off the periscope. “What?” I gritted, my teeth clenched, but my patience was wearing thin.

“You’re not listening,” he said, a little louder now. “The rock. The fucking rock’s not moving. It’s like it’s part of the landscape now, like it’s—”

“It’s the same damn rock!” Spanner barked, cutting Deacon off. “We’ve been passing it for hours, man. You want to talk about rocks, fine, but let’s talk about why the hell our shit isn’t working!”

I felt the heat rise in my chest. This wasn’t just about the rock anymore. It wasn’t about equipment either. Something else was happening. Something that none of us could understand, but we all felt it. We were losing control, and the panic was creeping in. I could see it in their eyes.

“Spanner, shut the hell up,” Deacon shot back. “You think the map’s going to save us? You think this is some kind of fucking game of Jumaji?”

“I’m trying to keep it together, Deacon!” Spanner shouted, slamming the map down on the dashboard. “But you’re making it worse, you’re making us—”

“Shut up!” Gunny finally yelled, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. He was quiet for a moment, his breath shaky. “We’re not helping each other. We’re not helping the situation.”

I could feel it. We were already spiraling, and Gunny knew it. We were too deep into this shit to just turn back. The tension in the tank was thick, suffocating, and I was worried we might crack before the desert did.

Spanner was seething. I could see his fists balled up, his knuckles white against the paper map. “What the hell’s the plan then, Gunny? Huh? You want to pretend like we’re not stuck in this endless loop? How much longer are we gonna keep pretending it’s normal? We’re fucking lost.”

Deacon shot him a dirty look. “You don’t get it, do you? We’re stuck because of the damn gear. The fucking sandstorms, the heat, the electronics… this isn’t some magic trick, Spanner. We’re gonna break out of it.”

Spanner scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Break out of it? You’ve been saying that for hours, Deacon. We’ve been sitting in the same spot for goddamn hours! If we don’t do something, we’re gonna be out here until the vultures start circling our tanks. So yeah, I’m asking, what’s the plan?”

The words hit like a slap, and I could feel the pressure building. We all knew it. We were slipping further and further. And the worst part? We knew we were out of our depth. Nobody knew how to fix this. Nobody had the answer.

Gunny’s voice came through, low and dangerous. “Spanner, you want to take control? You think you can just steer us out of this shit? You think this is about your damn map?”

“I’m just trying to do something!” Spanner shot back. “We don’t have shit right now, Gunny! We don’t have the radio, the map’s not helping, the GPS is gone! I don’t know if we’re moving or not, or if we’re gonna end up back at the same fucking rock!”

“Alright!” I snapped, finally raising my voice. “Enough, all of you. We need to keep our heads straight. We’re not helping each other like this. I’m the one driving, but we’re all stuck in this together, alright?”

The silence that followed was thick, the kind where you know something’s gonna break, but you don’t know when. We all stared at each other. Gunny’s eyes were hard, like he’d been through this before, like he was used to it. Deacon was quiet now, his fingers nervously tapping against the weapon control. And Spanner was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like he was ready to explode.

But then, out of nowhere, it happened. Deacon lost it. It was like watching someone go mad in slow motion.

“Goddamn it, get a grip!” He shoved Spanner’s map out of his hands, knocking it to the floor of the tank. “You think I’m not trying to keep us alive? I’m trying to hold it together, alright? We’re all in this, but you’re not helping—”

Before anyone could stop it, Spanner swung, his fist connecting with Deacon’s jaw with a sickening thud.

I froze for a second. Gunny didn’t move. I don’t know if he was too shocked or too tired to react. But I saw it—the rage in Spanner’s face, the disbelief on Deacon’s.

Deacon stumbled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You son of a bitch!” He lunged for Spanner, throwing his full weight into it. The two of them went down, fists flying, tumbling across the cramped interior of the tank.

Gunny was on his feet in a flash, his face flushed with anger. “Enough! Goddamn it!” He grabbed Deacon by the collar, yanking him off Spanner.

The tank’s metal walls echoed with the noise of the struggle, a sickening rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. Gunny shoved Deacon back, hard. “You want to fight? Do it outside. This ain’t the place for it. We’re all going fucking crazy, but don’t take it out on each other!”

Deacon wiped the blood from his lip, glaring at Spanner. The two of them were breathing heavy, chest heaving with adrenaline. Spanner’s eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling as he panted.

“This is insane,” Spanner muttered, shaking his head. “We’re all losing it. All of us. We need to stop pretending that we’re not.”

Gunny’s face softened, just a little. “We’re gonna get out of this, Spanner. I know it. But we’ve got to stick together. And we don’t do that by killing each other.”

The words hung in the air, but they didn’t feel like they meant anything. Because we all knew the truth. It didn’t matter how much we fought each other or how hard we tried to keep our shit together.

The desert had us. And it wasn’t letting go.

It’s funny how you can feel so trapped by something that’s so… goddamn silent. It’s like the desert was made to eat away at you, bit by bit, until you lose track of time. I kept looking at the fuel gauge, the damn needle barely moved and I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I was too tired to think anymore. We all were.

A day and a half had passed since our last real contact with the outside world. Since our last—hell, anything that felt like real communication. Our radio was dead, the GPS was useless, and every direction we went seemed to lead us straight into a damned circle. Same rocks, same dunes, same oppressive heat. We were running on fumes. Running on hope that we’d come across something, anything that’d get us out of this endless hell.

The supplies were dwindling fast. We were down to a couple MREs, barely enough water to last us another 12 hours, and the little packs of rationed gum the quartermaster gave us were starting to feel like luxury. None of us were saying it out loud, but the truth was written on each of our faces: we weren’t gonna last much longer like this.

“I’m telling you,” Spanner muttered, his voice a hoarse rasp from too many dry swallows, “we should’ve turned back after the first goddamn sandstorm. There’s no way this shit’s normal. We should’ve seen something by now.”

I glanced at him, but my eyes quickly flicked back to the periscope. The view was the same: nothing but sand, sun, and sky. Just as it had been for hours.

"Yeah, and what would we have done then, Spanner? Just walk back like it’s a Sunday drive?” Deacon shot back, his voice thick with fatigue. He wasn’t sitting up anymore. He was leaning against the side of the turret, arms crossed over his chest, his face tight from the lack of sleep.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Spanner scoffed. “We’re fucked either way.” His eyes scanned the empty horizon, the exhaustion and desperation in his expression taking on a bitter edge. “All we’re doing is waiting for the end now. Running on fumes. Running on empty.”

I shifted in my seat, trying to keep my eyes on the horizon. The last thing we needed was to start thinking like that—because once you start thinking like that, you stop trying. But, Christ, he wasn’t wrong.

Gunny was the only one who seemed to have any semblance of strength left, though it was clear that even he was on the edge. He sat in his seat, chin in hand, staring straight ahead. His brow was furrowed, deep lines around his eyes like they had been carved into him by the weight of what we were going through.

“We can’t keep going like this,” Gunny muttered, more to himself than to anyone. His voice was hoarse, and even though he was trying to hold it together, I could tell he was barely keeping it together. “But we’re not giving up. Not yet.”

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? We were already running on fumes, and without any clear direction, we were just drifting. What if this was it? What if we had somehow slipped off the map, into a part of the desert that wasn’t even on any chart?

Deacon broke the silence next, his voice low but steady. “We’re not giving up. But we gotta make some hard decisions. We can’t keep going like this forever.”

“What are you suggesting, Deacon?” Spanner snapped. He was hungry. He was tired. He was scared. And he wasn’t good at hiding it anymore. “You gonna play hero now? I mean, the only one who’s been calling the shots is Gunny, and he’s just as clueless as the rest of us.”

Deacon’s jaw tightened. “Watch your mouth, Spanner.”

But Spanner wasn’t backing down. He leaned forward, eyes flashing. “I’m just saying, we’ve got nothing left. No food, no water, no fuel. And we’re stuck here. How long do we keep pretending everything’s fine, huh?”

I could feel the tension rising, the air thick with that dangerous, unspoken thing: desperation. I didn’t have the energy for another fight. It felt like we were all about to collapse into each other, but no one had the will to move.

Gunny looked at both of them for a long moment, then finally sighed. “We’re not fighting each other. We’ve got bigger problems. I know we’re all tired, but we’re still a crew. And we’re not going down like this.”

But even his words didn’t carry the same weight they had a day ago. None of us really believed him, not anymore.

I gritted my teeth and focused on the controls again. There was no choice but to push forward. If we kept driving, maybe—just maybe—we’d find something.

It wasn’t long before the sun began to dip again, casting long shadows across the sand. The night was coming, and with it, more fear. The kind of fear that grips you when you know that you’ve crossed the line. That moment when you realize you're not just stuck in the desert—you're trapped in it.

"We don’t even know where the hell we are," Spanner said under his breath, almost too quietly to hear. His voice cracked at the end of the sentence.

“We keep moving," Gunny said again, though it sounded less like an order now and more like a desperate plea.

But I wasn’t sure if I believed him anymore.

The tank had become a tomb of sorts. The engine shut down, the exhaust fan clicking off with a soft groan as the last of its fumes dissipated into the heavy desert air. The sun was dipping behind the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple and orange, but I couldn’t care less about the beauty of it. All I could think about was how the hell we were gonna get out of here.

We were out of fuel, out of supplies, and most of all—out of ideas. There was no one to call, no backup coming. No path to follow, no map we could trust. And as we sat outside the tank, the air growing colder by the minute, the weight of that truth settled on us like a lead blanket.

Spanner sat with his back against the tank, knees pulled up to his chest. His uniform was soaked with sweat, but the night air was already pulling the moisture from his skin, leaving him shivering. His fingers were clenched into fists, his knuckles white from the tension. Deacon was pacing a few feet away, grinding his teeth, his boots kicking up little clouds of sand with every step.

Gunny sat by himself, arms crossed, staring off into the distance. He wasn’t pacing or fidgeting like the rest of us—he was just waiting. Maybe he was too tired to argue anymore, too beaten down to even think. I know I was. I sat against the tracks of the tank, my legs stretched out, hands buried in the pockets of my jacket.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

The wind had picked up as night fell, sending little gusts of sand swirling around us. The kind of sand that gets into your clothes, into your eyes, your teeth, until you feel like you’re choking on it. The desert doesn’t just suck the life out of you—it gets into your very bones.

“Not much we can do now, huh?” Spanner’s voice broke the silence. It was flat, tired, like he’d finally accepted what we all knew was coming. His eyes were locked on the horizon, though I couldn’t tell if he was staring at anything in particular or just lost in thought.

“No,” Deacon said without looking back. He was still pacing, agitated. “We keep moving, that’s what we do. We get back to the road and we keep moving. Eventually, someone will see us. They’ll come for us.”

I hated hearing him say it. I wanted to believe it—hell, we all did—but there was something in the way his voice cracked that made it sound like a prayer. A hope that was fading fast.

“You really think someone’s gonna find us out here, Deacon?” Spanner asked, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “This place is a goddamn maze. No one's coming.”

“Shut up, Spanner,” Deacon snapped, rounding on him. His fists were clenched at his sides, like he was ready to throw a punch. “We’re not dead yet. We’re not giving up. We’ll find a way. We—”

“Find a way?” Spanner barked a laugh, the sound brittle and hollow. “How? How the hell are we gonna find our way out of here? You think there’s a damn road around here, huh? You think there’s anyone who even knows where we are? We’re lost. We’re stuck, man.”

https://youtu.be/hQNCoXTdjEc?si=AHOz6JQgB_t9jenT

https://youtu.be/hQNCoXTdjEc

Part 1

The conversation I just had with that figure echoed through my mind feverously.

‘You know what happens to you…’ 

Those words especially…
I kept thinking about the promise it made, to leave and to stop me from dying like that later on.
All alone, with my shattered ribs tearing me apart from the inside.
How it said that I would never know that kind of pain again, as long as I gave myself up to it.
What if… What if that was the only way?

‘You know what happens to you…’ 

‘Let him figure it all out himself…’

Over and over…
I heard it again and again, like my mind was obsessed with each word.
Obsessed with how I lacked any real options...
How I never seemed to know what to do...

‘You know what happens to you…’ 

‘Let him figure it all out himself…’

“I’m not doing it…”
But I quickly stopped caring about what it said...
About what was outside...
Or whatever the hell that book was.
I was done with it…
I wasn’t going to take it anymore.

“I’m NOT doing it…”
I fought against my own worn body as I tried to sit up straight.
To finally steady myself again.
After a long and painful effort, I managed to finally sit up on my ass.
I took a minute to slow my breathing back down, before glaring at my injured arm in disgust.
While it no longer hurt as much anymore, it stank like rotting meat.
The wound that "dog" left me with was becoming horribly infected.
I gagged at both it, and the layers of bile I was still drenched in.
'How… How was all of this from me?'

“I’m not… Doing it…”
I spun my head back around to make sure the book wasn't still behind me.
But luckily, nothing was there anymore.
So, I tried to turn over as I attempted to stand up, but it was impossible to get to my feet.
After everything I just went through, I wondered if I’d ever stand again.
But still, I managed to get up onto my hands and knees and crept over to the couch.
As I finally got closer, I grabbed onto the arm rest and started pulling myself up into an unsteady crouching position.

“I don’t care anymore… I’m not doing it!”
I think it was that one…
That exact challenge, that was louder than the rest, that finally set that thing off again.
Because right after I said it, I noticed that demonic howling echo from the flooded streets outside...
And it was louder than any other time I heard it before.
Every wall in the house shook and groaned in protest at the hateful roar that blasted against my house.
I flung myself around to look towards the front door.
Still locked…
Good…

Reluctantly, I decided to crawl over to the window and forced myself to look outside.
And I instantly felt my heart sink…
Because there that bastard was.
Its red eyes glaring at me from behind the wrecked truck again.

The moment that thing noticed me in the window, it slowly rose out of the murky water and crept through the flooded road, its crimson gaze never leaving mine.
As I watched the Hellhound slithered through the dark water, I began to feel an intense pressure build up in my temples again.
The throbbing was so severe I thought my head would burst.
But despite the growing agony, I never looked away from the abomination that stalked me from the darkness outside.
It was just one of the many plagues that kept me prisoner in my own home...
And I hated it for that.

Suddenly, it jumped out of the water and rushed towards my porch with an ungodly speed.
I fell back onto the living room carpet right as it made contact with my door for the second time.
The force was so intense, that it was like someone launched a freakin' battering ram at my house.
It then started to pounce and scratch at my front door in a deranged furry.
Its growling and snarls started to morph back into that horrible screaming during its hellish bombardment.
I watched on as my door shook and groaned with the strain of holding the Figure’s Hound back.
However, it still managed to keep it outside, and away from me.
No matter how hard it tried, the devil dog just couldn’t make it inside.

As it continued its assault on my front door, the beast just suddenly stopped.
No more clawing, no more pounding.
And thankfully, no more shrieking.
Despite the ringing in my ears, the room was finally allowed to fall completely silent again.
But it was short lived.

Because after a few minutes of fleeting quietness, I began to hear a weird sound echo around my living room.
I tried my best to focus on what that noise could have been, but my head was clearing too slowly.
However, after a while I managed to recognize what it was…
It was whispering…
Multiple whispering voices began bouncing off the walls of my house, as the dog continued standing in silence outside my front door.
That was until I heard it slowly walk back down my porch steps, and around the left side of my house.

‘What the hell was it doing now?’
I thought, as I tried to listen carefully to the sounds of its paws sloshing through the wet grass outside.
Honestly, I was almost thankful for how much mud the storm left behind.
At least it made it easier to listen over those damn voices.

I was just barely able to hear it slowly wonder around the side of the house.
The hound had clearly given up on fighting the front door, and must have finally decided to find another way in.
But where was it even going?
I mean yeah, the house had a back door, but I always kept it locked.
And I knew that day was no exception.
Besides, it was just as thick as the front door anyways.
And if it couldn't get in through that way, it most likely couldn't get through the back either.
Where did it even think it was going?

The cellar doors…
I never locked the cellar doors!

'Did it know that?'
"How could it know that?!"
I demanded, as I challenged my own inner monologue.
"Wait… Was that what the whispering was about?"
"Was it telling this thing that those doors were unlocked?"

I had to get to the kitchen…
I had to get to the basement door and block it somehow.

However, there was no way I could run over there as messed up as I was.
So, I started crawling towards the edge of the living room as quietly as I could.
As I crept forwards, I tried to listen for any signs of that bastard’s movement outside but heard nothing.

'Was it just standing there?'
'Why?'
'Was it just messing with me?'

That's when the whispering finally stopped.
And the house was dead silent again.
The only thing I was able to hear was my own erratic breathing, and the pounding of my heart's chaotic pace.
The tension was almost unbearable…
And while I had already been through worse at that point, just lying there afraid of what that thing will do next…

Splash! Splash! Splash!  

Suddenly, it started running around to the backyard in an unwavering sprint!
The sounds of its violent footfalls blasted from outside, as it quickened its unnatural pace even more.
I felt a sudden hit of adrenaline course through me, as my weary slithering turned into a sporadic crawl.
The Hellhound rushed to the back of the house as I shoved past the cabinet, knocking something off of the top shelf and just barely avoided having it crash down on my head.

“Come on… Come on!”
I shouted maniacally as I finally clawed my way through the dining room.
CRASH
From beyond the kitchen walls, I heard the beast somehow manage to fling one of the cellar doors open with so much force that it could have sent the damn thing flying off its hinges.
As it rushed down to the concrete floor of the basement, I managed to just barely stagger up to my feet again with help from the countertop.
Right as the Hell Hound began blasting up the stairs, I leapt for the door.

I flung all my weight against it, right as the hound reached the top of the stairs.
I pinned my back against the door, right as that monstrosity started its savage attack.
It screamed as it fought against me, but I held myself in place.
However, I wasn’t sure if it would be enough.

There was no lock on the door, and it was extremely old and battered even before the Hellhound ever laid a claw on it.
That, and I barely had the strength to fight anymore…
And it was starting to show.
But I still held it back for as long as I could, despite how hard it was hitting the door, or how bad I was hurt.
I kept fighting.
But as that bastard kept charging at me, I started to feel the door crack and splinter.

That's when I let out a scream of agony, as it managed to stick a paw out from the other side of the door and slash its claws through my right thigh.
It then quickly retracted its arm, before ramming the door so hard that I was almost sent flying across the room.
However, I just barely managed to throw myself against the door again.
But soon that didn’t matter much anymore, as I felt the hound punch a hole straight through the lower half of the door.
Its half-skinned arm then reached up for me and almost got me in the groin, before retracting it back into the darkness.
That was it…
The Hellhound was going to get in no matter what I did.

Right as that realization hit me, I felt it ram against the door again…
HARD…
That time, I got sent to the ground and showered in the hailstorm of shattered wood that was once my basement door.
Right as I landed, I started to fight my way back towards the dining room.
As I quickly crawled away, I could hear the Hellhound steadying itself from behind me.
I guess the bastard hurt itself with that, but it was able to get back up faster than I hoped it could.
As I continued crawling away, I heard a deafening growl echo from behind me.
The very foundation of my house shook as the beast snarled at me.
The stench of rotting meat and foul water began to flood my senses, as the monstrosity slowly crept its way in my direction.
The thing was taking its time…
And I knew it…

Drip… Drip… Drip…

Those haunting voices began to echo around me, as their source made itself known again.
I was far too busy racing the hound to the basement door, that I didn't even notice that the book was there the whole time.
Or, that my face was stained black from the bile that ran out of my nostrils.

It sat in a dark corner, directing my attacker.
My butcher...
Its pages flipping acratically, as it ordered the Hellhound to do what it wanted with me.

Trying to ignore it, I continued to crawl away as fast as I could, fighting to keep my distance…
Fighting to delay the inedible…
Just for a little while longer…
But they were right behind me.
Puppet and puppeteer.
I didn’t stop moving though, I had to do something…
Anything…

‘Let him figure it all out himself for once…’

That’s when I noticed something else…
It must have been what fell off the cabinet while I was crawling through here…

‘Let him figure it all out himself...’

The old wooden handle was cold to the touch…
But it felt right…

‘Let him figure it all out himself...’

I turned around to face the dog up close for the first time…
Its red… hateful eyes glowing right back at me…
Just like the book’s…
Just like its master’s…

For a moment, we just stared at each other without making a sound.
From that distance, I was unfortunate enough to notice all the infected-looking burn marks that dotted the thing’s body in odd places…
And how it seemed like a macabre mix-match of what the inhabitants of hell must have thought a large dog would have looked like.
And then it got deep fried in sewage and hair.

The hound then bared its crooked fangs at me.
They glimmered ever so slightly from what little light was left in the house.
I think it was measuring me up too… 

But I bet it didn’t know what I just found.

With an agonized shriek, it launched itself at me…
And right into the steal of the hammer I swung at it.

*Splat*
I felt a sickening vibration run up my arm, the same arm that son of a bitch mauled earlier, as I made contact with the thing’s skull.
Blackened bile splattering into my face in a repulsive shower of carnage.
We were both cursed with the same blood…
As we were both cursed with the same overseer.
The abomination pulled back and started to shake its head around, before glaring back at me.
I barely even hurt it…

*Crunch*
Before I had time to react, I found my arm bent awkwardly in its jaws.
The sound of it shattering, left me in a nauseated silence.
However, the pure agony of its jagged teeth grinding deeper into my now-splintered bone forced me awake.
The pain only intensified as the hound began shaking its head back and forth, while it dragged me across the room.
Each retch of its head caused wave after wave of suffering to race up and down my now destroyed forearm.
It kept letting go, just to grab hold again and work its way up and down my arm.
Shattering every inch of bone, it could.
However, I still managed to hold onto my weapon somehow.

I fought to sit up again, pounding my fist into the exposed flesh of the thing with a sickening Splat!
But it wasn’t enough to get it to stop.
So, I tried digging my nails into them next, as I started ripping out blackened strips of gore in a desperate frenzy.
But that only made the thing angrier, because it began tearing rotten chunks out of me too.

I kept wrestling with the Hellhound, as it continued its merciless attack on my bloodied appendage.
In one last desperate attempt to defend myself, I tried reaching for the hammer that was still clenched in my now, decimated hand.
Eventually, I was able to grab it while the hound was too busy degloving me.
Using my good arm, I raised it above my head and brought it back down on the devil dog.
Over and over, I cracked that thing on the skull as hard as I could.
Each gut-wrenching strike caused black, soupy gore to spray out from the crevices I bashed into that thing's head.
But it still wouldn’t let go.

“Get off me! Get off!”
I shouted as I continued to hit the bastard again and again.
Finally, it released my shattered arm from the hellish grip of its jagged maw.
Just to go for my face.

I immediately felt one of its fangs sink straight through the soft tissue of my left cheek.
Its tooth sank so deep, that it managed to hook it around my lower jaw.
The Hellhound then used its new hold to violently whip me around, as it pinned its entire body over mine.
It ripped itself free from my decimated mouth and started to gnaw at the rest of my head.

I tried to fight back, but it just wouldn’t stop.
Its teeth carved torturous patterns into my scalp, as I weakly swung the hammer against its rib cage.
Suddenly, it managed to pin my arm down with one of its massive paws, before seizing my nose with its teeth.
Its crooked incisors broke through the cartilage, before it started to violently shake its head again…

The back-and-forth motion was enough that…
That it ripped my nose clean off with a chunk of my upper lip.
It then lifted its head up to swallow, before glaring back down at my ravaged face…
I tried to scream…
But all I could do was quietly choke on my own blood as it flowed down my throat.
I laid there defeated, as my face started to rot away.
I just hoped that it would decide to finish this soon.
Or that I could just try to endure it enough that, maybe, it won’t be so bad.

“That's enough... come."

The whispers stopped suddenly, as the hound looked towards the living room.
Towards the one that called it off, before staring down at me one last time.
Without making a sound, it crawled off of my broken body and disappeared into the darkness.
I was so relieved that it was finally over.
But then I started to recognize that voice.

“You had your chance, Michael… I regret what has become of you.”

It stood over me again, the small red orbs beneath its hood seeming to stare down at me in disappointment.

“You could have prevented this—and everything after,” it said grimly.

“All you had to do was give yourself to me. Never mind; it’s as I said before…”

“Goodbye.”

With that…
It was gone.
All I did was blink…
And then nothing.
My house was empty again.

I stared up at the ceiling, overcome with pain, and just waited.
I didn’t know what I was really waiting for at that point, death maybe?
Yeah... I think that was probably the case.
How could it not be?
‘Did I lose enough blood yet? Hurry up…’
I slowly closed my eyes…
Because there was nothing else that I could do…
But wait.

But that wasn’t how it ended for me…
No…
He made that clear already.
At the side of a dark road…
Suffocating from the weight of my own shattered bones piercing my lungs.
I wonder if it was him that finally led the rescuers to me. 

I would later find out that the town had started slowly evacuating people the same day I was attacked.
They were using a helicopter and any boats they could get their hands on to drop people off at the nearby shelter as another storm approached.
I probably would have known that if I hadn't lost power.
How convenient.
I just so happened to have been living further away from rescue than most people, so I was one of the last to get out.
When they found me as I was, they had to airlift me to an emergency room.

But I survived.
Just barely.

Mom and Dad were waiting for me when I woke up from my first surgery, and they were both bawling their eyes out.
And so was I.
When I was able to talk again, we used the time I spent in the hospital to work some of our issues out.
There was no fighting... No shouting over each other... And no more talking down to anyone either.
Honestly, it was nice.

Dad apologized for what he said to me after the car accident, and how he knew it wasn't my fault.
He was wrong, but he was also under a lot of stress after the housing market took a shit, so I understood.
Then Mom said she was sorry for the way she talked about Dad and me and assured us that those trips were meant as her way of apologizing.
And of course, I said sorry for how I treated them too.
They helped me a lot, and I was thankful to have them in my life.
For the first time in a long time, we acted like a family again.

What happened to me was later ruled a simple animal attack.
'Someone's crazed dog got out and attacked your son because the storm spooked it.'
That was the story that left me with a messed-up face and an amputated arm.
But whatever helps explain it away for those who don’t believe me.
I don’t really care anymore.

It’s been more than sixteen years since I was attacked, and I’m still alive.
Mom and Dad are both gone now, and I had to sell the firm in their absence.

It was hard...
But I’m still here.

At least for now…

Every day, I wake up remembering what that thing said to me:
"You know what happens to you."
But it doesn’t bother me that much anymore.
I use it as the drive I need to help those in the crisis group I run.
I try to guide them through whatever haunts them, to help them fight their demons.
After all, it's not easy to figure everything out on your own.
And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.

I love when the dark Somnium makes drug related stories. I have never tried drugs but listening to your stories makes me feel like I am on them!! Who else agrees? It is gonna be a baaaaaad trip!

Idk if I’m the only one, but the stories that truly stuck with me, and the ones I come back to listen to again and again aren’t the scary ones, but the beautiful ones. Stories such as The Sounding of the Fifth Trumpet, Something Crawled Inside Me In The Night, In the Land of Black and White, The Last Man of Faith, Thank You for Breaking Me, are just some among many that truly changed my view on life and some even made me cry. I feel like Ronnie has such a special talent at touching people’s heart, and should make more feelpastas rather than creepypastas.

That question is not rhetorical, reader. This tale is for your edification as well as mine. In fact, if we choose to let the culture know about the Conference of Desires, we then must ask whether our neighbors should be allowed to enter it and choose from it what they please, regardless of the horrors they may purchase.

To first learn about the Conference, you must first learn about the world around it. The start should be at death because the end of a life births honesty.

Last week, my mouth dropped at the words of my bedridden mentor—no, the word mentor is too distant. Gregory was more than a mentor to me. Yes, Gregory was twenty years my senior, and on some days it felt like my notes app was full of every word he said. However... the belly laughs we shared and our silent mornings of embracing one another's bad news, that's more than mentorship, that's the sweetest friendship there is, and may God keep granting me that.

In a small no-name hospital on a winter night, Gregory Smith—such a bland name but one that changed lives and meant everything to me—broke my heart with his words on his deathbed.

Slumping in my chair in disbelief at his statement, I let the empty beep, beep, beep on his heart monitor machine speak for me. The ugly hum of the hospital's air conditioning hit a depressing note to fit the mood. I sought the window to my left for peace, for hope; both denied. The clouds covered the moon.

"Madeline, Madeline," he called my name. "I said, I wasted my life. Did you hear me? I need to tell you why."

"Yes, I heard you," I said. "Yes, could you please not say things like that."

"'Could you please not say things like that,'" he mocked me. His white-bearded face turned in a mocking frown. My stomach churned. Why was he being so mean? People are not always righteous on their deathbeds, but they're honest.

"Could you please not do that?" I asked.

"Listen to yourself!" Gregory yelled. Hacking and coughing, Gregory wet the air with his spit, scorching any joy in the room. He wasn't done either. Bitter flakes of anger fluttered from his mouth. "Aren't you tired of begging? You need to cut it out—you're closer to the grave than you think."

"Gregory, what are you talking about?"

His coughing erupted. Red spit stained his bed and his beard. His body shook under its failing power.

Panicking, I could only repeat his name to him. "Gregory, Gregory, Gregory."

The emergency remote to call the nurse flashed, reminding me of its existence. Death had entered the room, but I wouldn't let it take Gregory. I leaped for it from my chair. Gregory grabbed my wrist. The remote stayed untouched. His coughing fits didn't stop. The eyes of the old man told me he didn't care that he hurt me, that he would die before he let me touch the remote, and that he needed me to sit and listen.

Lack equals desire, and at a certain threshold that lack turns desire to desperation, and as a social worker, I know for a fact desperation equals danger. But what was he so desperate for? So desperate that he could hurt me?

"Okay, Gregory. I get it. Okay," I said and took my seat.

I crossed my legs, let my heart race, and swallowed my fears while my friend battled death one more time. That time he won. Next time was not a battle.

But for now, the coughing fit, adrenaline, and anger left him, and he spoke to me in the calmness he was known for.

"Hey, Mad."

"Hey, Gregory."

"I don't want you to be like me, Mad."

"I eat more than McDonald's and spaghetti, Gregory. So I don't think I'll get big like you, fat boy."

We laughed.

"No, I mean the path you're going down," he said. "The Gregory path. It ain't good."

"Gregory, you're a literal award-winning social worker. You've changed hundreds of lives."

"And look at mine..."

"Gregory, cancer, it's..."

"It ain't the cancer. My life wasn't good before. I was dying a slow death anyway; cancer just sped the process up, like you. I was naive like you. I was under the impression if I made enough people's lives better, it'd make my life better. Don't be sitting there with your legs crossed all offended."

I uncrossed my legs.

"No, you can cross 'em back. That's not the point."

I crossed my legs back.

"See, you just do what people say."

I crossed them again.

"What do you want, Gregory?"

"No, Mad! What do you want? That's the point."

Four honest thoughts ping-ponged in my head:

1. A million dollars and a dumb boyfriend, just someone to talk to and hold me, among other things.

2. A family of my own.

3. For this conversation to end; Gregory started to scratch at my heart with his honesty. I—like you—prefer to lie to myself.

I only chose to say my most righteous thought.

"I want to be like you, Gregory."

Beeping and flashing as if in an emergency, the heart rate machine went wild; Gregory fumed. He threw his pudding cup from his table at me. It flew by, missing me, but droplets sprayed me on their ascent to the wall.

"I'm dying and you're lying! It's the same lies I told myself that got me here in the first place. I never touched a cigarette, a vape, or a cigar, and I'm the one with cancer. Trying to help low-lives who didn't care to put out a cigarette for twenty years is what's killing me."

"You get one life, Mad. No redos. Once it's over you better make sure you got what you wanted out of it and don't sacrifice what you want for anything because no one worth remembering does."

His words made me go still and shut down. The dying man in the hospital bed filled me with a sense of dread and danger that the toughest, poverty-starved, delinquent parent would struggle with.

His face softened into something like a frown.

"Oh, Mad. Sometimes you're like a puppy," Gregory said and I opened my mouth to speak. Shooing me away with a hand wave he said, "Save your offense for after I'm dead. I'm just saying you're all love, no thoughts beyond that. Anyway, I knew this wouldn't work for you so I arranged for hopefully your last assignment as a social worker. Be sure to ask her about the Conference of Desires."

"Last assignment? But I don't want to quit. I love my job."

Gregory smiled. "Stop lying to yourself, Mad. When the time comes be honest about what you really want."

"But," he said, "speaking of puppies. How's my good boy doing?"

"Adjusting," I said. "I'll take good care of him, Gregory. I promise."

"I know you will. You're always reliable."

"Then why are you trying to change me?"

"I—" he paused to consider. As you should, dear reader, if you plan to tell the culture about the Conference of Desires. The Conference changes them. Do you wish to do that?

Regardless, he soon changed the subject, and the rest of our conversation was sad and casual. He died peacefully in his sleep a couple of minutes after I left.

The next day, I did go to what could be my final assignment as a social worker. It was to address a woman said to have at least twelve babies running amok.

Driving through the neighborhood told me this place had deeper problems.

Stray poverty-inflicted children wandered the streets of this stale neighborhood. Larger children stood watch on porches, their eyes running after my car. Smaller or perhaps more sheepish children hid under porches or peered out from their windows. However, the problem was none of these kids should be here. It was the middle of the school day.

Puttering through the neighborhood my GPS struggled for a signal and my eyes struggled to find house 52453. A few older kids started hounding after my car in slow—poorly disguised as casual—walks that transformed into jogs as I sped up. The poor children—their faces caked in hunger. Before Gregory trained it out of me I always would have a bagged lunch for needy children or adults in the neighborhood we entered.

Well, Gregory did not so much train it out of me as circumstance finally cemented his words. The details are not important reader, just understand poverty and hunger can make a man's mind go rich in desperation. Hmm, same for lack and desire I suppose.

A child jumped in front of my car. The brakes screeched to a halt. My Toyota Corolla ricocheted me, testing the will of my seat belt, and shocking me. The wild-eyed boy stayed rooted like a tree and only swayed with the wind. His clothes so torn they might tear off if the breeze picked up.

I prepared to give a wicked slam of my horn but couldn't do it. The poor kid was hungry. That wasn't a crime. However, I got the feeling the kids behind me who broke into a sprint did want to commit a crime.

The child gave me the same empty-eyed passivity as I swung my car in reverse. Adjusted, I moved the stick to drive to speed past him. A tattered-clothed red-haired girl came from one side of the street and joined hands with the wild-eyed boys and then a lanky kid came from another side and did the same. Then all the children flooded out.

In front of me stood a line of children, holding hands, blocking my path, dooming me. Again, my hand hovered over the horn but I just couldn't do it... their poor faces.

SMACK

SMACK

SMACK

A thrum sound hit my car from the back pushing me forward, my head banged on the dash.

"What's it? Where?" I replied dumbly to the invasion, my mouth drying. The thrumming sound bounced from my left and then right and with the sound came an impact, an impact almost tossing me to the other seat and back again. My seat belt tightened, resisting, pressing into my skin and choking me. It was the boys running after me. They arrived.

One by one, the boys pressed their faces up against the windows and one green-eyed, olive-toned boy in an Arsenal jersey climbed the hood of the car, with fear in his bloodshot eyes as if he was the victim.

The bloodshot-eyed boy was the last to press his face against the glass. And I ask that you don't judge me but I must be honest. Fear stewed within me but there was so much hatred peppered in that soup.

I was a social worker. I spent my life helping kids like them. Now here was my punishment. Is this what Gregory meant by a wasted life?

The bloodshot-eyed boy, made of all ribs, slammed his fist into the window. I shook my phone demanding it work. The window spider-webbed under the boy's desperate power. I tossed my phone frustrated and crying. Through tears, I saw the boy grinning for half a second at his efforts.

The boy could break the glass.

He then steadied himself and reeled back and struck again.

A clean break.

Glass hailed on me. I shielded my eyes to protect myself and to not see the truth of what was happening. This can't be real. And I cursed them all, I cursed all those poor children. If words have power those kids are in Hell.

In the frightening hand-made darkness of raining glass, I felt his tiny hand peek through the window and pull at me. I screamed. Grabbing air he moaned and groaned until he found my wrist. The boy pulled it away from my face and opened his jaw for a perfect snap.

Other windows burst around me, broken glass flew flicking my flesh. I smelled disease-ridden teeth.

A gunshot fired. The kids scattered. Writing about their scattering now breaks my heart, all that hatred is compassion now. It was how they ran. They didn't run like children meant to play tag on playgrounds, not even like dogs who play fetch, but like roaches—the scourge of humanity, a thing so beneath mankind it isn't suited to live under our feet our first instinct is to stomp it out. I am crying now. The scene was the polar opposite of my childhood. No child deserves this.

An angel came for me dressed in a blue and white polka-dot dress. She pulled me inside her house, despite my shock, despite my weeping.

She locked and bolted her doors and sat me on her couch.

Are you religious? I am? Was? As a result of the previous events and what happened on the couch, my faith has been in crisis. I didn't learn about the Conference of Desire in Sunday School after all.

Regardless, I'm afraid this analogy only works for those who believe in the celestial and demonic. It was miraculous I made it to safety. In the physical and metaphysical sense, I was carried here.

I knew I was exactly where something great and beyond Earth wanted me to be. I could not have gotten there without an otherworldly helping hand. Yet, was this a helping hand from Heaven or Hell?

My host got me a glass of water which I gratefully swallowed. And I took in my surroundings. My host was a mother who loved her children. So many of them. Portraits of her holding each one individually hung from maybe each part of each wall, and their cries and whines hung in the air where I assumed the nursery was. She had a lot of children.

"Thank you. Thank you. So much for that," I told her and then went into autopilot. "Are you Ms. Mareta?"

"I am," she said. The sun poured from a window right behind her, as if she really was an angel.

"Hi, I'm Madeline. I'm from social service and—"

"You don't stop, do you? I see why Gregory thinks so highly of you."

That did make me stop.

"You know Gregory?"

"Oh, he was my husband at one point."

My jaw dropped. She smiled at me and bounced a baby on her lap. Gregory never mentioned he was married. We told each other everything. Why did he never mention her? And there we stayed. I dumbfounded and observing the bouncing baby, dribbling his slobber on itself as happy as can be and Ms. Mareta mumbling sweet-nothings to the baby. The smell of baby powder lofted between us.

"You're supposed to tell me you got a complaint about me and my children?" she whispered to me.

"The complaint was from him wasn't it?"

"You bet it was. Yes it was, yes it was," she said playing with the baby and knocking noses with it.

"Why?" I asked. "Why am I here Ms. Mareta?"

"So, I could tell you all about the Conference of Desires. But to tell you that I have to tell you why Greg and I got divorced."

A brick flew through the window behind her. I leaped off the couch as it crashed to the ground. Ms. Mareta protected the baby and stood up.

"Oh, dear," Ms. Mareta said. "It seems like the kids are finally standing up to me. We better do this quickly. Come on, come on let's go upstairs."

"Wait, should I call the police or—"

"If you want to once you're gone but they don't come out here anymore. Those brats outside call them all the time. Come. Come."

And with that, I followed her to her steps.

Loud mumblings formed outside.

"Perhaps the most important thing to know about why Gregory and I got divorced was that after I had my second child I was deemed infertile. This sent me spiraling.

"My coping started off innocent enough but a bit strange. I bought the most life-like doll possible. It's niche but common enough for grieving mothers. My days and nights were spent changing it and making incremental changes to make it seem more and more real."

The screaming of the babies upstairs grew louder. I grew certain she had more than twelve children there.

"Until one day," she said and Ms. Mareta looked at me to make sure I was paying attention. "I fell sick. Gregory was out of town then so I was alone for two days. I struggled, worried sick for the doll. Once I was strong enough to get up I raced to my doll. It was fine of course it was it didn't need me. I was just kidding myself. A mother is needed, I was not a mother."

There was heavy banging downstairs. The kids were trying to break in.

"So, I sought to be a mother by any means. One day I waited by the bus stop and to put it simply I stole a child. Of course, this child didn't need me or want me. Therefore I was not a mother. Therefore, I gave him back.

"His mother, the courts, and the newspapers didn't see what I did as so simple. Can you believe it? Kidding, I know I was insane. Someone did see my side though and gave me a little map, to a certain crossroad, that brought me to the Conference of Desires."

"But," I asked struggling to catch my breath—these stairs were long and we finally reached the top—"Why'd he leave you for that?"

"He hated what I brought back."

"The Conference of Desires is a place where you can buy an object that fits your wildest dream. I bought a special bottle that could reverse age. A bottle that could make any hard-working adult who needed a break, a baby who needed a mother.

"Don't look at me like that. They all consented. Some even came to me. You'd be surprised how many parents would kill to just have a break for a day, just be a baby again. They can change any time they want to go back. All they have to do is ask."

The baby she held in her arms cooed.

"Do you understand what that baby is saying?" I asked.

Ms. Mareta just smiled at me.

"You better leave now. The children are at the door and boy do they hate me for taking their parents."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"Oh, I doubt that. There are only so many bullets in a gun and my little army is made of babies. This will be the end of me I'm afraid but I get to go out living my dream." She opened the nursery and I swear to you there were at least fifty babies in there. Baby powder—so much baby powder—invaded my nose. The babies took up every inch of that room from walls to windows, blocking out the light.

"Go out the back," she said. "Take my car, take the map, and make sure you live your dream, honey."

So, reader, I know how to get to the Conference of Desires. It can get you whatever you want in life but it can also damn an untold number of people. Those kids were starving all because it wasn't the desire of their parents to take care of them. Ms. Mareta gave them an out. Ms. Mareta made the adults into babies and the children into monsters. That's unfair. The moralist would call it evil.

However, Ms. Mareta was all smiles at the end of her life and Gregory feels he wasted his. Is it our right to deny anybody their desires?