I’ve wanted to be a superhero for as long as I can remember . . .

________________

It took about two hours to get to the northeast side of the city, and another hour to hunt down the warehouse district. Luckily, my new watch included a maps application, so I was able to navigate using turn-by-turn walking directions on the watch face. By 2AM, I’d reached the area, and as I walked through the rows of tall, blank building, I felt unease grow in my stomach.

Before it could fester too much, I heard tires grind against asphalt, and a white van pulled up next to me, the headlights suspiciously off. I stopped moving, and so did the vehicle, so I nervously waved. The driver’s window rolled down, revealing an older, muscular, dark-skinned woman whose hair was tied into Bantu knots.

“You look as lost as a puppy, mate,” she called out in a thick Australian accent.

“And you as hungry as a wolf, ma’am,” I responded.

She nodded, turning off the car and opening the door to step out. The woman wore a forest-green tank top over what appeared to be a bulletproof vest, along with khaki pants, combat boots, and, strangely, knee pads. My gaze traveled to the shoulder holster on her upper torso, stopping at the pistol secured beneath her arm.

The woman scanned my body, literally looking me up and down. “Came a little underdressed, don’t you think?”

I glanced down at my jeans, t-shirt, and jacket. “To be fair, S.S. didn’t really tell me much.”

“Yeah, they like to do that,” she sighed, extending her arm. “I’m Piston.”

I shook her hand. “My name is-”

“Turbine,” she interrupted.

I cocked my head. “Sorry?”

“Your name is Turbine,” she repeated, showing me her wrist. A smartwatch, identical to the one I wore, rested there, displaying a small instant message on the screen. The message included a single word: TURBINE.

“We don’t use our real names or identities,” Piston continued. “I’m Piston, and you’re Turbine. That’s all we need to know. Anything else is a liability.”

Turbine. It was certainly punchier than “The Electric Eel.”

“Come around to the back,” she said, gesturing to the van.

I followed her, and she opened the rear double doors, revealing containers filled with clothes, guns, and tactical equipment. I sensed small electronic nodes in the upper and lower corners of the van, and upon closer inspection, I realized it was wired with explosives. My conversation with S.S. emerged in the back of my mind.

Self-destruct feature.

What kind of superhero team was this?

“Admittedly, I have a bit of a soft spot for Rock Island,” Piston said, removing her pistol from its shoulder holster and showing it to me. “You just can’t beat a classic like the 1911.”

She reached down and opened the nearest bag, revealing a compact rifle with a thick, circular magazine inserted behind the weapon’s pistol grip. Black, banana-shaped magazines filled the rest of the container.

“Similarly, the VRBP packs a punch when the target’s a little less . . . cooperative,” Piston continued. She picked up a spare magazine, exposing a bright green shotgun cartridge at the top of the well. “Couple steel slugs from this motherfucker will make Black Pharaoh himself call out sick the next day.”

She strapped the shotgun to her back and retrieved an ammunition belt, inserting the banana magazines around her waist. “So, what’s your poison?”

“Um . . .” I glanced around the inside of the van. “I don’t use guns.”

“Why not?” she pressed.

“Well . . .” I cleared my throat. “Guns are deadly. They’re a tool meant solely to kill. I’d rather rely on my own abilities. Both my powers and the skills I’ve been taught. Don’t you have powers, too?”

She laughed sarcastically. “Yeah, I can kick real good, so that’s useful in a firefight.”

I grimaced, opting not to reply.

Groaning, Piston retrieved a bulletproof vest from the van, tossing it to me. “Crikey, at least put this on. These yobbos will probably be armed, but so far they’ve had shit for aim, so they’ll probably just go for center mass. If a stray bullet finds your noggin, though, I’m telling S.S. it was your fault.”

I nodded, strapping the vest over my t-shirt before covering it up with my jacket. “What am I here to do, exactly?”

“S.S. tells me you can sense electronics,” Piston replied, closing the van’s rear doors. “I’m looking for a cache of professional-grade recording equipment, probably surrounded by a dozen people, in one of these warehouses. We got a tip they’ll be here tonight, likely bunkering underground.”

“So, you need me to find the right building?” I asked.

She nodded. “You catch on quick. The two of us are going to find it, break in, incapacitate the bastards, and have a little chat until I get the winning lotto numbers. Sound good?”

I shoved my hands in my jacket pocket, mulling over her words. “What did they do?”

She furrowed her brows. “We can fill you in on the details later, but for now, why don’t I just show you when we get there?”

Sighing, I knelt down, placing my hands on the asphalt and closing my eyes. “There’s hundreds of power lines buried here. A few have spikes of activity.”

“What’s your gut tell you?” Piston pressed.

I opened my eyes. “North.”

“Then north we go,” she said, pulling me back into a standing position. “This’ll be fun.”

________________

We walked for a few minutes, pausing every so often so that I could collect my bearings. It didn’t take long before we found ourselves standing in front of a small, grey, nondescript warehouse. I exhaled, my breath forming a mist that dissipated into the night air.

Piston nudged me with her elbow. “Okay. What’s inside?”

I concentrated, focusing belowground. “You were right. A ton of portable electronics clustered together, and . . . I count nine people in the same room.”

“No guards anywhere else in the building?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No. They’re all in one place.”

She grinned. “Fish in a barrel.”

Reaching into a pouch on her belt, she retrieved a pair of sleek goggles, draping them around her neck. “I hear you can also disrupt electronics, right?”

I nodded.

“Can you kill the lights on command?”

“Yeah, but-” I gestured at her goggles. “I don’t have very finite control of my pulses. I'll fry your night vision equipment. And our watches, while I’m at it.”

Piston shook her head. “S.S. is a clever bloke. While you were getting ready to move to New General City, they kitted out our essential tech with Faraday casings. They should hold up fine.”

“Oh.” I glanced back at the warehouse. “I guess we’re good, then.”

Dropping to one knee, Piston retrieved a small black case from one of her belt pouches, opening it to reveal an array of lock picks. She pulled out two of the slender tools, inserting them into the warehouse lock. After a moment of tinkering, I heard a soft click, and she tucked away her tools, seemingly satisfied. She reached for the handle, but paused, cocking her head.

“Hey, Turbine.”

It took me a moment to realize she was saying my new code name. “Oh. Yes?”

“Is there an alarm system?”

I closed my eyes, reaching out to the building once more. “Yes, there is. Right on the other side of the door.”

Piston sighed. “I’m glad I thought to check. Can you fry the alarm without turning off the lights?”

I shook my head. “Like I said, I’m still working on the degree of control I have. For better or worse, if I pulse, it’s gonna hit everything in a fifteen-meter radius.”

“Got it.” She smirked. “Also, you’re in America now. Land of the free, home of the inconvenient measurement systems.”

“Muérdeme,” I muttered. “I just got here today.”

Placing my hand on the door, I focused on my breathing, taking long, deep gulps of air. Around me, I felt the air begin to hum, and the hairs on my arms stood up. Pressure against my skin alerted me to an imminent pulse, and I held my breath, tensing my muscles. The collected energy washed over me, then exploded outwards, emitting a low crackle. The metal doorknob emitted yellow sparks, and I felt the electronics around me flicker and die as the power surged. 

Piston immediately pulled the door open, placing her night vision goggles over her eyes. I concentrated on the ambient energy around me, using my senses to guide me through the darkness. Inside, I heard voices call out in surprise, and I felt someone heading our way. 

Taking point a few feet ahead of me, Piston pressed her back against the wall, holding a finger to her mouth and glancing at me. I nodded, imitating the gesture.

Footsteps echoed against concrete stairs, and then the man was on the same floor as us, separated only by a wall. I felt him draw closer to the entrance of our hallway, and I frantically signaled to Piston that someone was coming.

She tip-toed hurriedly toward the end of the hallway, pulling back one arm as the man turned the corner. In the darkness, he couldn’t see us, but I could tell that he sensed someone nearby. He paused, reaching for something near his waist.

“Hello? Is any-”

Piston lashed out with her poised arm, striking him in the throat with her palm. He choked through paralyzed vocal cords, trying to scream, but she slipped behind him, covering his mouth to keep him quiet while using her arm to apply pressure against his windpipe. After a moment, his head drooped, and she dropped him to the floor, unconscious. Turning him over, she placed his arms behind his back, retrieving a pair of zip-ties and binding his hands with them.

We continued around the corner of the hallway, entering a larger, empty warehouse area. Piston looked around, scanning the open space, then looked at me expectantly. I closed my eyes, following the current in the wires, and began walking forward. Before I could reach it, though, the trap door I’d sensed opened, and a second man climbed into the warehouse, blindly feeling around.

I paused, holding my breath, and turned to see Piston doing the same.

The second man drew close, his anxiety palpable. “Joe? Where’d you go?”

He drew within arm’s length from my body, then turned in my direction. “Is that you, Joe?”

As he reached out, I grabbed his wrist, simultaneously placing my palm on his stomach and emitting an electrical pulse. Yellow sparks flew from the point of contact, and he flew backward several feet, landing on his back. Piston hurried over to his twitching, unconscious body, binding his arms.

“Hey, Carl, get Joe’s dick out of your mouth and hurry the fuck up,” someone called out of the trap door hole with a deep Southern drawl. “We don’t have all night to play paddy-cake in the dark.”

Piston and I traded glances, and without warning, she stepped over the edge of the hole, dropping into the underground bunker. “G'day, boys.”

I rushed to the lip of the trap door as cries of surprise reached my ears. Below, Piston had landed almost squarely in the middle of seven burly, armed men, all of whom were currently in the middle of drawing their weapons in the direction of her voice.

“Hey!” I yelled, panicking at her recklessness. “Up here!”

The men lifted their heads in my direction, but before they could react, Piston pivoted, back-kicking the closest one in the stomach. I heard ribs crack, and he flew a dozen feet across the underground bunker, striking the far wall with a dull thud.

Oh, wow, I thought. She does kick real good.

Continuing her spin, Piston swept her leg, tripping up two more men and sending them crashing to the ground. One of the men left standing finally managed to pull out his gun, but Piston grabbed his extending arm, twisting it toward the ground with a crisp snap. He cried in pain, dropping the pistol, and Piston kicked it out of their reach.

Behind Piston, I sensed one of the other men taking aim in the dark, somehow managing to line up his pistol with her back. I vaulted over the side of the trap door, kicking the weapon out of his hand as I fell to the concrete floor. He stepped back, startled, and I struck him three times in quick succession as I rose to my feet: Left inner knee, solar plexus, and chin. The final blow sent him stumbling, disoriented, and I chased him, my fourth punch cracking his nose and sending him collapsing into a pile of boxes.

“Nice work, kid,” Piston said, arresting another would-be shooter’s arm and ripping the pistol’s slide from its body to neutralize the weapon. Rearing back, she whacked the metal slide across the attacker’s forehead, dropping him to the floor. “But why didn’t you just shock him?”

“I need- hold on,” I began, wrapping one of the men in a chokehold. He struggled, and I punched him in the ribcage repeatedly until he relaxed. “I need a moment to recharge after such a potent electrical pulse.”

“Fair enough,” she responded, flying forward to knee one of the men in the groin. The force of her attack knocked him up into the ceiling, and he slammed his head into the concrete, returning to our level unconscious.

I turned to face my next attacker, heart pounding, but realized that Piston and I had somehow already incapacitated everyone. “Oh.”

“See?” Piston chuckled, turning over the closest body to zip-tie it. “Easy peasy. Let’s get them together and have ourselves a little tea party.”

________________

It took a few minutes to round up all nine heavy, unconscious men, but eventually they sat lined up in front of us, zip-tied and slowly awakening. Piston reached into one of her belt pouches and retrieved a long, cylindrical object. She struck the end, and it ignited, filling the room with red light. I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the flare after such a long period of darkness, and Piston slipped her night-vision goggles back around her neck.

“Ah, so much better,” she said cheerily. “Now I can see your happy faces.”

I rubbed my eyes, looking around the room. Boxes filled it, covered and sealed with the exceptions of the ones I’d damaged during the fight. Moving closer, I spied what appeared to be cameras, film rolls, and other recording equipment inside.

“What are we here to stop?” I asked. “Movie pirating?”

“Are you kidding?” Piston scoffed. “Do I look like the kind of person who would spend $20 just to sit in a room with a bunch of strangers and watch Sean Bean die for the thirtieth time?”

“Who’s Sean Bean?” I asked.

She sighed. “Forget it.”

Turning to the man at the far left of our lineup, she knelt on one knee, leveling her face with his. “You seem old enough to know who Sean Bean is. Why don’t you educate my friend here?”

The man spat at her. “I don’t talk to filthy alligator bait like you.”

“Hmm,” Piston replied.

She reached into her pocket, slipping a pair of brass knuckles around her right hand. With her other hand, she grabbed the man by the neck, jerking him to his feet. As he choked, she pounded against his stomach with her metal-covered fist. He cried out with each strike, his voice almost covering the sound of bones breaking.

“Whoa!” I cried, walking toward her. “This isn’t-”

“Stay right where you are,” Piston commanded, dropping the man and leveling her finger at me.

Turning her attention back to her victim, she crouched, patting him on the shoulder as he writhed in pain. The other eight men sat still, watching somberly.

What the fuck is going on?

“So, you don’t like brown people, huh?” she asked. “Well, I hear you have a few spares on hand. Maybe you can help us take them off your shoulders?”

“I don’t have them!” he cried. “We just-”

“Film them,” Piston interrupted. “Yeah, I know. How do you think we found you, asshole?”

“Chuck, shut the hell up,” one of the other men chimed in. “Don’t tell her nothin’.”

Piston sighed, returning to her feet, and drew the 1911 from her shoulder holster. Without a word, she walked over to the man who’d spoken, took aim, and shot him in the kneecap. The sharp crack of the gunshot echoed off the concrete walls, piercing my eardrums. The recipient of the bullet screamed, swearing at Piston as blood ran down his leg.

“Piston, what am I doing here?” I demanded. “This is messed up.”

“Check the boxes,” Piston said, turning around with her hands on her hips.

I obliged, tearing open the nearest box and digging through the equipment inside. “There’s nothing here. All the electronics are fried. What is-”

“Film rolls,” she interrupted.

Reaching into the box, I retrieved a film canister, carrying it closer to the flare. I unspooled the film, holding it closer to the light. Images of small Hispanic children, no more than maybe five or six years old, filled the translucent rectangles, and I squinted, confused. More details emerged as I scanned down the film strip, and after a few seconds, I dropped it, turning away.

“The kids,” I whispered, choking back bile. “They’re . . . they’re just kids.”

“But that’s good enough for predators like these,” Piston said, returning her attention to the men on the ground. “Isn’t that right?”

The men stared, tight-lipped and dead-eyed.

Growling, I pushed past Piston, pulling the man she’d shot to his feet. “Where are they? Where are these kids?”

He smiled, his expression calm and smug, and I shoved him, slamming his back against the nearest wall.

“Don’t fuck with us!” I yelled. “I saw the film! You’re . . . you’re . . . you’re raping children!”

“No, we’re not,” one of the men behind me said. “We just film and distribute the content. Our employers aren’t too tech-savvy, so we keep them secure and anonymous.”

I glared at the man in front of me. “Is that true?”

“Why?” Piston asked. “Would that make it better?”

The man in my hands laughed, and red filled my vision. Cocking my arm, I formed a fist, collecting as much electrical energy as I could manage. I struck out, punching him in the chest, and released the energy into his body. Yellow sparks showered the air, and the force of the shock knocked him across the bunker, landing him unceremoniously on the concrete floor.

I gritted my teeth, fighting back tears. Not here. Not in front of these people.

Closing my eyes, I leaned against the wall. “Tell me everything.”

“In conjunction with local law enforcement,” Piston began, “S.S. came across a child pornography and prostitution ring online. Their methods were secure, untraceable, but S.S. suspected that they were operating within the city. One of my colleagues worked to identity the children in the videos, and we realized that they were all Mexican immigrants, unavailable in our identification database, so likely living here illegally.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“I’m not here to judge,” Piston cut me off. “We all do what we need to survive and to live our best lives.”

“Nah, fuck them,” one of the men yelled. “They come here, leeching off our-”

Piston spun, punching him in the mouth with her brass knuckles. His teeth bounced across the floor as his head struck the ground, blood leaking from his mouth.

“The point is,” she continued, “that we found our ring’s M.O. They disguise themselves as ICE agents, raid known immigrant communities near the city’s southern border, and take the kids, killing the parents. Then they groom them for prostitution and pornography. It’s been a . . . harrowing mission.”

“Dios mío,” I murmured.

“But, we’re close to ending it,” Piston said. “See, we heard that they’re about to ship their ‘collection’ to a new location, likely in the next few days. We don’t know where or exactly when, but we knew the tech crew, who you’re currently sharing air with, would have to do the same. So, since we couldn’t find the people in charge, we decided to come for the people who don’t know how to be subtle about setting up new server farms in New General City.”

She side-eyed the men. “Isn’t that right?”

The man she’d first punched in the stomach sat up, groaning. “Christ, Greg. You had one job.”

“And that job is over,” Piston replied, offering a soft smile, though her eyes shot daggers in his direction. “My new friend? He’s going to erase every bit of data you ever recorded, and then he’s going to fry your skulls until your brains melt.”

“Uh, I don’t think-”

She turned her glare to me, stopping me mid-sentence. “Isn’t that right, Turbine?”

“Yes . . . yes, it is,” I answered. I extended my fingertips, allowing yellow electricity to jump between the digits. “So you better answer her questions.”

As I manipulated what little energy I’d regained, I inadvertently reached out again with my senses, scanning the room. Something seemed off, and I frowned, concentrating. It took a moment, but then I realized the issue: Not counting Piston and myself, the bioelectric signatures had dropped from nine to eight.

“Oh. Oh shit,” I swore, hurrying across the bunker to the man who I’d electrified a few minutes ago. He seemed still, peaceful, but I knew better. “I stopped his heart.”

I applied pressure to his chest, performing CPR. After a minute, I rubbed my hands together, collecting my energy. Pressing one palm on either side of his upper body, I shocked him again, this time acting as a defibrillator rather than a weapon. He didn’t respond, and I tried again, but I was out of electricity for the moment.

“Piston!” I yelled. “He’s dying!”

She walked over to us, reaching down to check his pulse. “No, mate. He’s dead.”

“Come on, come on,” I pleaded, continuing my CPR. “I’m not a killer.”

“Turbine, listen,” Piston said softly, pulling at me. “This isn’t how I wanted tonight to go, but you have to weigh the circumstances. Those children are a little bit safer now, thanks to you.”

“We could have arrested him, with the others,” I said. “We aren’t assassins.”

Piston cocked her head. “What did S.S. tell you? That’s exactly what we are.”

My blood ran cold. “What?”

“Assassins. Mercenaries. Spies. We’re what The Public Servants need to be, but not what they can afford to be in the eye of the people. Individuals, with powers, hunting down criminal SPIs that the cops can’t fight, using tactics that our costumed counterparts can’t be seen using.”

“Criminal SPIs?” I hissed. “These are just regular people. Pedophiles, yes, but-”

“Not them,” Piston interrupted. “The ones they’re hiding. We have it on good authority that the core ring is heavily SPI-influenced. We don’t know to what degree yet, though.”

I sighed, considering her words. She was right, of course; there was no way I’d be able to respect Spectral Man if I saw him in a dark basement, beating child predators to a pulp. I’d understand, sure, but the general public wouldn’t. They’d crucify him for his lack of nuance, for his lack of restraint, but by the time they got any answers by asking nicely, the abducted children would be long gone.

“I can’t believe The Public Servants would do this,” I said.

“They don’t,” Piston responded. “This is between S.S. and some high-ranking city officials. Completely off-the-books, even to S.S.’s teammates.”

My senses interrupted my thoughts, and I twisted around to look at the eight remaining men. “Something’s wrong. One of them is changing.”

Piston hurried to her feet, approaching them. “Which one?”

I pointed at the man she’s punched in the mouth, who was still on his back, eyes closed. “He has something in his hand. I think he injected himself with it.”

She pulled him to a seated position, and a small syringe fell from his palm, rolling across the concrete. Inside, a few droplets of black, viscous fluid shimmered in the flare’s dying light.

I squinted. “What do you think it-”

Piston drew her 1911 and shot the man in the head. Blood sprayed against the ground, and he fell back into a prone position, a perfect hole in the center of his forehead.

“Why?” I cried. 

“Mummy’s Curse,” Piston replied matter-of-factly.

“What is a ‘Mummy’s Curse?’” I asked, shifting my eyes back and forth from Piston’s gun to the man she’d shot.

“Mutagenic steroid manufactured by Black Pharaoh,” she explained. “Turns a regular bloke into an SPI temporarily. Super-strength, regeneration, all that fun stuff. It’s not uncommon, unfortunately; dealers in the city are trying to turn it into ‘cocaine for criminals,’ as I’ve been told.”

“But why did you kill him?” I demanded.

“Once it hits, you’re in zombie territory. Destroy the brain, or he keeps coming. I wasn’t interested in taking him on while he was all juiced up.”

Sighing, I said, “Still, I think there are better ways to-”

I turned to gesture at the corpse, but it had disappeared.

“Psst,” a voice whispered in a Southern drawl. “Behind you.”

Piston and I spun to see the man standing a foot away, smiling, his eyes completely black. As we watched, the bullet from Piston’s gun pushed itself out his forehead, tinkling to the floor. The hole it left sealed shut almost instantly, and as his smile widened, the flare went out.

“Damn it!” I heard Piston swear, and I sensed her reaching for another flare on her belt. Before she could, the Cursed man punched her in the chest, striking her with enough force to send her sliding backwards across the concrete floor.

“I see you,” the Cursed man said in a sing-song voice, turning to me. “You can see me too, can’t you?”

Dashing forward, I tried to tackle the man, but I bounced away from his torso as if I’d shoved a tree trunk. He laughed, his hand darting forward to yank me into the air by the collar of my shirt.

“I’m going to tear your skull in half,” he whispered.

Red light filled the room as Piston ignited another flare behind me.

“Hey, fuckstick!” she yelled, dropping the flare. “Bugger off.”

In one bound, so fast that her body became a blur, she rocketed across the room, drill-kicking the Cursed man in the chest with both feet. He released me as he flew backward, colliding with the concrete wall with enough force to send hairline cracks across it. Shaking his head, he regained his footing, his attention aimed at her.

“You know,” he said, “you black bitches are only as strong as you are because our ancestors bred you for hard labor. You should be thanking me.”

He swung his fist, but she ducked beneath it, planting a few punches into his midsection. Her fists seemed to inflict zero damage, so she rolled away, barely missing a second attack. Sliding to a crouching position, she assumed a fighting stance, sneering.

“My ancestors were Aboriginal, cunt.”

She ran at him, twirling effortlessly into a flip-kick, her foot connecting with his jaw. I felt the force of the blow in my bones, and he cartwheeled through the air, finally landing on his back.

Piston drew her 1911, taking aim. “Try to stay down this time.”

She squeezed the trigger multiple times in quick succession, riddling his upper body with bullets. As she did so, he sat up, shrugging off the projectiles. When her magazine emptied and her slide emitted a hollow click, Piston shook her head, holstering the weapon. She reached for the shotgun on her back, swinging it around by the handle to aim it at him, but he darted forward, back-handing her across the face. The shotgun fell from her fingers and clattered to the floor as she flew to the side, blood spraying from her mouth.

The Cursed man stalked toward Piston, and I looked around helplessly.

What can I do? I thought. I’m a glorified Taser.

Piston struggled to her feet, spinning into a back-kick, but the Cursed man turned, grabbing her leg and using it as leverage to throw her back to the ground.

My gaze drifted from the fight and landed on her shotgun, untouched on the floor.

Pison rolled backwards, narrowly avoiding a stomp from the Cursed man that left a shallow crater in the concrete. He ran at her, but she continued her roll, planting her feet in his stomach and arcing her back to send him flying over her head.

I ran to the shotgun, snatching it up and aiming at the man. When I was sure I’d aligned a clean shot, I pulled the trigger, but it didn’t budge.

Right. The safety.

Fumbling with the weapon, I located the safety switch, flipping it. Ahead, Piston and the Cursed man traded blows, the former using her legs while the latter used his fists. As their bodies shifted across the flare-lit room, I couldn’t fire without risking hitting Piston.

My opening suddenly arrived when the Cursed man landed a lucky strike on Piston’s shoulder, knocking her to the floor. He loomed overhead, putting nothing but empty air between himself and the barrel of the shotgun.

“Hey!” I yelled, attracting his attention.

He turned to me, and his black eyes widened as he saw the weapon in my hands.

I pulled the trigger, but the gun offered only a hollow click.

My lips parted in surprise, and I tried to fire again.

Click.

The man laughed. “Performance issues? It happens.”

Piston rose behind him, grabbing him by the shoulders. “We weren’t done.”

She brought her knee up into his spine, striking him with enough force to fold his body in half with a sickening crack. He dropped to the ground, and I heard soft crackles as his back began to regenerate. He stirred, struggling to his feet, and Piston gestured to me.

“I’ll take that back.”

I nodded, tossing the shotgun to her. She caught it, reaching up to the barrel and racking a bolt on the left side. “You have to chamber a round, mate.”

As the Cursed man stood, snarling at her, she took aim and pulled the trigger. A hollow thunk filled the room as the muzzle flashed, and the man’s head exploded, bits of skull, blood, and black fluid spraying through the air. His decapitated neck stump spurted red as the rest of his body fell, lifeless, to the floor.

Piston stared at his body, shotgun ready, seemingly waiting for the corpse to spring back to life. After a moment, she relaxed, returning the weapon to her back.

“Good work, kid,” she said.

I just stood still, eyes wide and mouth agape, staring at the blood as it pooled across the concrete.

She chuckled, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth. “Ah, you’ll be fine.”

Returning her attention to the seven remaining men, she drew her pistol, reloading it. She took aim, sweeping the barrel across the lineup, and the men cowered away.

“So, are we ready to talk, or is anyone else feeling frisky tonight?” she asked. “If you’re lucky, we’ll call the cops and let them put the rest of you out of my misery.”

________________

I’ve wanted to be a superhero for as long as I can remember . . .

But I never wanted this.

________________

​

The past: Children are sucked beneath escalators, terrorized by dolls, and stalked by creatures who scavenge car accidents.

The future: Mutant criminals lurk in the streets while militant superheroes fly above skyscrapers.

How do these two moments in time connect?

If you'd like more free sci-fi/horror content, I've remastered my "Troubled Youth & Public Servants" series on my website! Feel free to dive into a world that's not quite a horror story and not quite a comic book.

https://kitscanofworms.wordpress.com/troubled-youth-public-servants

The past: Children are sucked beneath escalators, terrorized by dolls, and stalked by creatures who scavenge car accidents. The future: Mutant criminals lurk in the streets while militant superheroes fly above skyscrapers.

How do these two moments in time connect?

If you'd like some free sci-fi/horror content, I've remastered my "Troubled Youth & Public Servants" series on my website! Feel free to dive into a world that's not quite a horror story and not quite a comic book. 😁

https://kitscanofworms.wordpress.com/troubled-youth-public-servants

“Hunt, Pt. 3”

La Encarnación, Colombia

November 13, 1999-A

​

The babies shook, sprouting stumpy versions of the Man's humanoid arms and hands, four on each side of their head-like bodies. They continued their silent, static screeches as they descended from the trees in unison, held aloft by thick, white, wet strands. 

Behind Catalina, the Man abandoned its focus on Sofía and fled into the trees beyond the clearing, scrambling with its awkward, inverse run. 

Catalina had little time to lose. 

She rolled to her feet and hurled her elephant gun into the clearing, sending it skidding to a rest at the far edge. Her hands reached into her cloak and retrieved a pair of automatic Glock pistols. Fitted with extended magazines, they gave her a total of sixty-six rounds between the two. She surveyed the scene above her and worked her jaw, calculating. Sixty-six probably wasn't going to be enough. 

Catalina raised her arms and began to fire short bursts from her pistols, separating her arms to strike multiple targets at once. The pistols chattered as they expended their ammunition, and the resulting fire cut into the descending creatures one-by-one, cracking them open like piñatas. Catalina maintained her steady fire rate as she backed into the clearing, watching the bodies fall to the forest floor. 

Even with her accurate shots, she couldn't counter the overwhelming number of small, spidery monsters. Some of them reached the ground and crawled with the same jarring gait as the Man. Most charged at Catalina, but a select few branched off in Sofía’s direction. The girl rubbed her eyes in confusion. 

No! 

Catalina turned her Glocks and mowed down the babies headed toward the girl. She rushed toward Sofía, scooped her up, and looped her arms around her neck and onto the back of her cloak. 

I wish I could tell her to cover her ears.

Her magazines ran low, but it seemed as if there were more spidery babies approaching now than ever before. She ejected her almost-spent magazines into a collection pouch on her suit and reached behind her back, feeling for two canteen-shaped devices. Catalina found the end pieces and inserted them into the handles of her Glocks, bringing the guns back to an attack position. Hanging onto the bottom of each pistol was a flat, circular drum magazine, designed to hold fifty rounds apiece. 

Catalina dropped to her knees in the clearing and faced the incoming horde, Sofía still maintaining a death-grip around her neck. As the white, teeth-filled faces appeared, the huntress fired again, burning through her ammunition as she fanned her arms back and forth. The hot lead cut a destructive swathe through monsters and shrubbery alike, and bursts of static appeared in Catalina's head as each creature released its death knell. They continued their assault, but the distance between the humans and the creatures increased.

The tide’s changing. Time to finish this.

Seizing the opportunity, Catalina shrugged Sofía off her back and onto the grass before dropping the pistols and retrieving two canisters from a bandolier around her torso. She squeezed the handles on the side of each one and released their safety pins. One after another, she arced the cannisters into the incoming wave of monsters. A few seconds passed before she heard two successive whumps, following by the rapid spread of flames. 

It's a shame to damage the forest, but sometimes tough choices have to be made.

The thermite in her grenades spread at a frightening pace, engulfing the spider creatures and the surrounding trees. Green plants turned brown and dissolved into ash so quickly that only Catalina's Gaze could see the progression. She retrieved a third canister and one of her Glock pistols, moving toward the flames. 

The babies were burning up and dying to Catalina's satisfaction. Still, she saw some of them trying to escape from one side of the fire; she cut them down with her Glock before tossing her third canister into the middle of the inferno, spreading the destruction. As she turned away, one of the babies hopped from the flames in front of her, still on fire, and bit into her arm.

Catalina staggered back. The creature hadn't penetrated her armor, but it had tremendous bite force. If it didn't let go soon, she’d have a shattered humerus and a useless right arm. She aimed her Glock at the creature and pulled the trigger, but the gun was empty. Reloading would take too long; she could already feel her arm bruising from the pressure.

She released the pistol and withdrew a thick metal rod from her belt. It was a dark silver, Maglite-sized device whose only notable features were an opening on one end and a small lever on the side.

Often used to euthanize farm animals, the captive bolt device was just as helpful in combat. She placed the tip of the device on the top-center of the creature's head, which was not yet in flames. When she squeezed the lever on the side, a long metal bolt drove into the center of the monster, releasing a metallic hiss. Thick, cottony material spurted from the new hole; the creature went limp and released Catalina's arm.

Catalina stepped back to ensure no one else escaped her flames. Not a thing stirred; all she heard was the crackling of the supernatural fauna as it burned.

Satisfied, she reset her captive bolt device and returned it to its holster. She reloaded her Glocks with standard, more portable magazines before returning them to their proper locations on her person. Fiddling with one hand for a weapon strapped to her back, Catalina gestured to Sofía with the other.

Go home. Please understand me. Go home.

Sofía seemed to pick up on Catalina's silent signals, because her eyes lit up and she pointed in the direction of the path that left the forest. Catalina nodded back, pulling a rifle from beneath her cloak. The girl turned to leave, but then looked back. After a moment, she ran to Catalina and hugged her waist. Gripping the new rifle by the handle, Catalina leaned down with her free hand to hug her back, though only for a few seconds.

"Gracias," Sofía whispered into Catalina's ear. 

Then she was gone, rushing down the forest pathway back toward her home. 

Catalina offered her first genuine smile in a while as she examined the weapon in her hands. The Russian revolving shotgun’s wooden frame was punctuated by a large silver ammunition cylinder, not unlike the cylinders found in revolver pistols. She swung open the cylinder and verified that she’d preloaded slug rounds. They would ensure maximum damage if they hit her target. 

When they hit her target. She wouldn't miss again.

With Sofía safe and her arsenal ready, Catalina forged down the path left behind by the fleeing monster. The raging fire roared at her back, but its glow and its crackling petered out as she moved further into the forest. She was relieved to see that there was no more movement in the trees above. Darkness enveloped her, and her cloak blended into the environment. 

She was nothing but a floating silhouette. 

Catalina traveled a quarter of a kilometer without incident before the soft leaves that had once fluttered in the breeze became sticky and heavy. Leaning forward, she reached out and touched one of the flat green plants. When she pulled away, some of the cotton-like substance she saw earlier followed her in strands. She rubbed it on the grass below, leveled her shotgun, and stepped through a cluster of branches into a new clearing. 

As Catalina passed through the barrier, it ripped, the leaves pulling apart like Velcro. The shadows around her darkened, and the temperature noticeably dropped. She began to adjust her cloak, but she stopped when she registered what was around her.

Surrounding the clearing was a white dome, about a hundred meters in diameter, comprised of the same white substance that had spilled from the Man when Catalina removed its arm. The cottony film spread from the ground to the tree trunks, stretching between trees and climbing along branches. A canopy stitched together the treetops, forming a "ceiling".

Catalina looked closer at the walls of the dome and squinted at the shapes suspended there. Her cat-like eyes widened.

She’d found the missing people.

Cocooned throughout the dome, some hung a meter or two from the ground, while others dotted the top of the canopy. Altogether, she identified about twenty people, an estimated five adults and fifteen children. Most were still, yet others twitched, and one of the girls on the far wall seemed to be crying. Around each of them squirmed white shapes that Catalina couldn't quite make out.

To the left of where Catalina had entered the dome, she noticed a heavyset man hanging. He sported a short-sleeved collared shirt and a bushy mustache. 

That's why the Medellin Cartel is here. They lost some of their people to this creature, too.

The man stirred and opened his eyes. As soon as he saw Cataline standing nearby, he panicked, struggling against his cocoon. She turned to face him. 

"Mátame," he whispered. “Kill me.” 

She shook her head, shifted her shotgun to one hand, and produced a knife, gesturing the blade in the direction of his cocoon. 

He shook his head. "No... I'm not – "

Before he could say more, he began to wheeze. The short disruption grew into a sickening hack, as if something blocked his throat. With a final wet, guttural noise, he leaned forward and vomited a white orb the size of a golf ball. Before it could fall from his tongue, the orb shook and sprouted eight tiny arm-legs, just like its larger counterparts earlier in the forest. 

The man whimpered as the tiny creature crawled around to the left side of face, which Catalina couldn't see. He turned his head in protest, and Catalina discovered that it was stripped of its flesh and muscle, down to the bone. The little monster opened its vertical mouth and wrestled free a bite-sized chunk of flesh as the man continued to struggle. It carried its prize behind the man and onto the cottony canvas behind him, its gait almost triumphant, where it joined at least a hundred others just like it. 

"I'm not... alive... anymore," the man continued, his voice weaker now. "Everything inside me... it's all gone. Now... all that keeps me healthy... that keeps me awake... it's only because of the nest." 

He coughed again. She could see the weariness in his tortured eyes. 

"It's going to... Keep me alive... Until they... Until they take all of me... All of us." 

His eyes traced around the dome at the other people. Catalina had an acute awareness of the hacking coughs around her now. Most of the sounds were the higher octaves of children, many of them likely Sofía's age or younger. They all vomited out these baby creatures at intervals, a small piece of their body taken away each time. 

The man wheezed out a few more words. "We can't... we can't stay like this. It's worse... than death. Please... end it." 

A few small children cocooned nearby nodded in fervent agreement. 

Catalina's head spun. Yes, she had already assumed these people were dead and eaten by now, but this was much more complicated. Could the doctors in town, or even further in the large cities, keep them supported without their major organs? 

As she considered the option, she heard a rapid rustling overhead. She looked up and saw the Man, the creature she had come to hunt, crawling along the canopy of the dome with its seven arms and two angular legs. It hadn't seemed to notice her, its attention focused on the stomach of a young girl upon which it was feeding. Blood dripped onto the grass below, the red droplets nearly falling onto Catalina. 

Catalina lifted her shotgun and fired, wasting no time to engage with the monster. A deep, thunderous roll filled the nest, and the slug struck its target while it fed. The large bullet smashed into the Man's lower back, leaving a gaping wound leaking white fluid. The creature screamed, sending static careening through Catalina's mind, and released the canopy. The Man slapped into the ground, sprawled onto its back. 

The huntress released the trigger of the shotgun and the cylinder rotated, preparing the next round. In that brief moment, the Man reached its feet, dripping cottony fluid onto the grass around it. Its blank face was covered in the young girl's blood. It raised its seven arms and charged toward Catalina.

She aimed and fired once more, but the creature was prepared. Her pupils twitched, and she watched helplessly in slow-motion as the Man shifted with ease to dodge the bullet. Aware of the imminent impact, Catalina held the rifle out with both hands as a makeshift shield. 

Catalina's Gaze registered the Man's presence in front of her as a sharp crack and sudden vibration blurred her vision. She heard the rush of wind in her ears and struggled to focus. 

Before her sight cleared, agony filled her body. She felt the telltale sensation of arrested motion as she smashed into an obstacle before striking the forest floor, landing on her face and stomach.  

Pushing through her pain, Catalina assessed her predicament. The creature had thrown her from its nest, and the entrance to the dome now lay twenty meters ahead of her. A rough indentation had formed in the tree behind her, several meters in the air, where her body had struck it. She could see the pieces of her shotgun scattered throughout the clearing. 

This is how much damage it can do with one swipe. There's no way I'll survive more hits like that.

Catalina coughed, wincing. The padding of the armor and cloak had protected her from most of the impact with the tree, but she could feel a broken rib when she breathed. 

Static filled her head, and she looked up in time to see the Man emerging from the dome. He sprinted toward her with no hesitation, lurching through the trees with its unnatural, crooked gait. 

She poised, waiting for it. It appeared beside her and slashed out with four of its hands, extending those pointed fingers toward her face. Catalina tumbled beneath its attack with the grace of a gymnast, retrieving her Grizzly pistol from her thigh holster mid-roll. As she halted into a crouch, she pivoted and took aim with both arms.

The black handgun housed .50 caliber rounds, packing a serious punch. Catalina graciously shared those punches now, pulling the trigger in quick succession while panning a diagonal line across the Man's body. Three bullets emerged with thunderous roars, one striking the creature's bottom left hip, another hitting it in the center of its chest, and the final round piercing the top right shoulder, near the neck. Each strike produced a baseball-sized hole through its body, and it screamed in response. 

The recoil numbed Catalina's fingers, compounding the pain in her already sore wrists. She wasn't often interested in using the Grizzly for this exact reason, but it was a fantastic resource when she was in need of immediate stopping power. That fact proved true once more with the Man, who seemed weakened by the trio of holes in its torso. Still, she couldn't fire it many more times without compromising her combat competence. She holstered the firearm as a backup plan and reached behind her cloak.

The Man, still reeling from the Grizzly shots, stumbled forward to slash at Catalina. This time, he had slowed by a noticeable degree. Catalina took advantage of its weakness to withdraw two batons, each tipped with a curved blade running perpendicular to the handle. 

Kamas, the Japanese called them. Shaped to be miniature, hand-held scythes, they were once nothing more than farming tools. The Shogunate era, however, transformed them into makeshift weapons, and several countries throughout Southeast Asia discovered that they were perfect for disarming enemies.

And this enemy has plenty of arms to spare.

Catalina raised her kamas, one in each hand, resembling a viper's maw. She poised in her fighting stance, waiting for the monster's reply. 

It opened its mouth, head vibrating, and Catalina's head became fuzzy. 

"Come to me."

"Stay with me."

"Kill for me."

"Love me."

She squinted to maintain focus and saw a white, angular hand centimeters from her face. Her left cheek burned even as she moved to the side, and she knew that the creature had drawn blood. 

Catalina took advantage of the attack to wrap her two kamas around the offending arm. The sharp underside of one scythe blade pressed against the arm between the shoulder and its spindly elbow, while the other blade pressed in the opposite direction between the elbow and wrist. She pulled with as much force as she could muster, and like a cigar in its cutter, she snipped away the entire left forearm from its roots. Now the Man stood with a stump leaking white fluid from each shoulder, shadowed by the three remaining arms angled out of each side of its back. 

The Man seemed less phased by the second amputation, though, because it continued its relentless assault. Catalina rolled and dodged, avoiding its strikes or parrying them with her scythes. Splinters sprayed from tree trunks as the two sparred along the darkened forest trail. After what felt like an eternity, they came to a momentary respite. The creature shuddered as if ill, while Catalina struggled to catch her breath.

The Man had landed some solid blows on Catalina's arms and chest, but she had returned the favor with deep, leaking cuts along its body. They were both tired and slowed, but Catalina knew that her strength and stamina was dropping more quickly than her opponent's. Even with the creature riddled with bullet holes and missing two arms, she knew that one wrong step or misplaced strike would spell her immediate death.

Then again, personal risk for the sake of the community was always a respectable compromise. That was one of the few lessons taught by her father that she still honored.

Catalina moved a few steps back from the Man and sheathed a kama. The creature made another move and she pivoted away, reaching for her hood. Built into the sides of the hood were rubber plugs connected to thin, mechanical strips. She depressed the sides of the hood, flipping the strips' hinges and sealing her ears.

With her free hand, Catalina snatched a new grenade from her bandolier. Pulling the pin but keeping the lever depressed, she paused, waiting for the right moment. 

The Man lowered itself into the grass and crawled toward her, more spider-like than before. It reached the edge of her boots in a heartbeat and reared up, mouth open, ready to take its first bite. Catalina released the grenade's lever and tossed it into the air, its path level with the monster's head, before rolling low, toward the creature this time. As she passed under its legs, the grenade exploded.

Catalina's ears were sealed and her vision was obfuscated by the hood and cloak, but the flashbang's assault still demanded the attention of her senses. Bright light filled her peripheral vision, and the shock of the blast rattled her bones. 

This monster uses some sort of subsonic organ to communicate and manipulate. Hopefully I can fight fire with fire, in this case.

She turned and surveyed her results. The Man reeled, its mouth closed, its head vibrating in a wild, chaotic pattern. 

"Love... Kill... Me... With... Kill..."

It pressed its six attached arms against its head to create a shield. As Catalina had hoped, its back remained turned to her. 

Now's the best chance.

Catalina unholstered the Grizzly with her available hand and leapt onto the creature's back. The moment she made contact, it jerked away as if by reflex, but she buried the scythe blade still gripped by her other hand into its shoulder blade area. She rode the "bucking bronco", fighting to maintain her footing. 

As she jolted back and forth, she pointed the Grizzly pistol at the back of the Man's head. In the last moment before pulling the trigger, she noticed the shadow of six arms descending upon her. She tried to fire off a killing shot before the incoming assault struck her, but the fingers that clutched for her body also shifted her aim. The .50 caliber bullet missed the creature's head by mere centimeters. 

With that, the monster unceremoniously lifted Catalina into the air and slammed her onto the unforgiving forest floor for a second time. Her breath left her lungs, as if an elephant had stepped on her chest. Her head rocked from the sudden shift in motion, and her neck tensed from the whiplash. The sharp sensation in her side worsened; in her excitement, she had almost forgotten about the rib.

When she had landed, Catalina had loosened her grasp on the Grizzly. She looked over to see that it was on the ground, next to her fingertips. As she strained to grasp it, the shadow of the Man blocked out the moonlight filtering through the trees overhead. After a second or two, her expanded pupils adjusted to the ambient light, and the Man was visible once more.

It was in rough shape, to say the least. It had two armless stumps from the elephant gun and the kamas, three holes along its torso from the Grizzly, a large crater in its back from the shotgun blast, and a kama embedded near the shoulder. Its body was covered in dozens of deep lacerations, and cottony fluid coated its skin. It twitched violently, as if agitated. 

Catalina flashed it a menacing smile.

The Man's head buzzed and looked down at Catalina, then at the Grizzly beside her. Its mouth split open as it reached for Catalina, and she was airborne again. Her journey was short but unpleasant; the monster used its arms to pin her by the chest and shoulders to a nearby tree trunk. The shock of the impact left Catalina wheezing, and she spat out a little blood.  

The creature leaned up to her eye level, daring to open its mouth wide, seeming to telegraph its awareness that the Grizzly had been left behind on the grass. 

"FEED THEM."

From within the recesses of its head sprung a curved, white spike, resembling the horn of a rhinoceros. The appearance was sudden and alarming, a sharp blade being flicked from the handle of an organic knife. The creature aimed its head down now, looking at her stomach. 

It wanted to add her to its collection. She had to end this. Now.

Catalina raised her right arm forward as if to give the creature a high-five, her fingertips almost touching its impregnation spike. Her thumb pressed a small mechanical button that rested on the side of her glove, close to the knuckle of her index finger. The response was the faint click of a mechanism beneath Catalina's sleeve springing forward. Two silver tubes protruding from her sleeve, extending a little past her wrist. 

As the tubes emerged, a latch resembling a tiny stop sign flipped up. The pedestal portion formed a hinge with the tube mechanism under her arm, while the more circular pedal landed in the center of Catalina's palm. She curled her fingers down into a fist and depressed the pedal. 

With an unflattering hollow crack, the left tube fired a triple-aught buckshot spread straight into the spike and the back of the Man's open mouth. The force of the blast, the proximity of the shot and the size of the pellets created a destructive trinity that disintegrated the entire back of the monster's head. The tooth-riddled remnants of its skull left behind after the blast just quivered, weak and defeated. 

Catalina took no chances, though. She shifted her arm down to point at the neck area and depressed the pedal once more. The second spray from the right barrel sheared off the rest of the creature's head and carved a crescent-shaped crater into its neck stump. 

The remainder of the Man went limp, collapsing to the forest floor like fallen tree branches, and its arms released Catalina. She fell with it, managing a shaky landing on her feet. She curled an arm around her body as the injured rib sent ripples of pain up her side. The wind blew against her, catching her cloak in the breeze and sending it fluttering. 

The moonlight exposed her fallen weapons. She retrieved those which still functioned and stored them in their proper holsters. When she was done, Catalina glanced at the sprawled corpse one last time before looking behind her, in the direction of the nest.

It's not over yet.

The huntress approached the dome, assessing her conditions. It was difficult to overlook the rib. She had taken several forceful blows to the spine and neck, which would need examination. There were the shallow slices on her cheek and a busted lip. Bruises were forming in patches along the front of her body. Noticing a sharp sting in her hand, she realized that the heat from the emergency shotgun contraption had burned her fingers, too. 

Alive is alive, she thought, taking a moment to retract the now-unloaded device back into its waiting position within her sleeve.

She entered the dome and turned to the Medellin cartel member who had addressed her before. He saw her and opened his mouth the speak. Nothing but a whistling noise emerged. Catalina could see that, while she was gone, the baby spider creatures had begun to tear away at his neck, leaving behind a hole that leaked his breath and his words. 

Catalina grimaced, reaching for her waist. 

There's no practical solution to this. The only way to transport everyone is to ask for the help of their friends and family back in the town, which would put them all in danger in this dome. Even then, disconnecting them from the nest would surely cause immediate death. There's no reason for these children's parents to watch them die like this, surrounded by these monsters. Hesitating any longer just drags this tragedy out for everyone. Sofía is safe. At least I saved one life today.

Catalina withdrew a Glock, aimed, and fired; the man went limp. The baby monsters around him buzzed in agitation at the loud noise. 

She turned her pistol to the young boy next to the dead man. The boy’s eyes fluttered, but he barely seemed conscious anymore. Two other nearby children weakly turned their heads, their gazes delirious.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Catalina's shoulders felt heavier with each shot fired. She moved around the wall of the dome, pulling the trigger as she encountered a new child or adult. Most were quiet, and those still awake found a way to avert their gaze, allowing a swift end to their hell. 

Finally, Catalina reached the young girl who had been sobbing when she had first entered the dome.

The girl trembled within her cocoon, adhered to the wall. Catalina could see through the cocoon that everything below the girl's waist was already gone. The spider creatures crawled in a line from holes along her torso, carrying out what appeared to be bits of intestine. The girl's cheeks, while still untouched by the monsters, were streaked with tears. 

"Please... don't..." She choked out in Spanish between sobs. "I'll be okay. Please."

Catalina shook her head and gestured for the girl to close her eyes. The girl pursed her lips and shook her head back, the movement vicious enough to disturb the spider creatures above her head. 

"Don't kill me. Please."

Catalina lowered her head and sighed. 

"Please don't, miss. You don't want to do this."

Catalina lifted her gun. 

"Miss, I'm not ready to d – "

Pop.

The girl's head fell forward, lifeless.

Catalina turned away, dropping her Glock as she buried her head in her hands. Blinded by her black gloves, she wandered in the direction of the nest’s entrance. After a moment, she looked back up, turning to face the interior. 

Blood splattered the cottony walls behind each victim. The baby monsters squirmed on top of each other, seeming to be at war over the remainder of the corpses. 

Catalina removed the bandolier from around herself and examined it. She had three thermite canisters remaining, and she reached for them. The cool metal pressed against her burned fingers as she pulled the pins. 

The bandolier curved from her outstretched arm into the center of the nest. A massive spiral of flame splashed across the bodies of the children and the cartel men, setting them ablaze. The spider creatures withered away, eradicating what she hoped was the last living traces of the monster that once plagued the village of La Encarnación.

Catalina made her way back through the forest, retracing her steps past the torn leaves and broken branches the Man had created. It wasn't long before she could see the orange light of the blaze she had kindled earlier in the evening. She drew abreast of the fire, stopped at the edge of the clearing of her first battle, and picked up the elephant gun she had tossed. Continuing around the flaming trees and scorched earth, Catalina maintained a steady pace back toward town.

With proper direction, the townspeople can dig a dirt trench around the flames before they spread too far. As moist as the vegetation is around here, it won't be long until the fire begins to dissipate. Considering the weather –

Catalina's thoughts were arrested at the edge of the forest. 

Through the last few trees, she saw the bright light of a third fire. One she hadn't started.

One in the town.

The tavern and inn she had occupied only hours ago was in flames. Ash floated around the buildings while the fingers of flame reached into the starry night sky. Smoke floated through the streets, highlighting the muzzle flashes of intermittent gunfire. Catalina squinted and stepped forward. 

Medellin.

Men in street clothes with bandanas over their mouths ran around the building, firing automatic rifles into the neighboring homes. They pulled people from doors and windows, throwing them to the ground before continuing their warpath. In the dirt near the tavern, a woman in a burgundy dress lay motionless.

Is this a response to the fight earlier? Is this because of me?

Catalina stepped forward once more, clearing the tree line. Her boot met a soft resistance, and she pulled back. Beneath her heel was a small leg connected to a body in a white nightgown. 

Sofía.

The girl lay face down in a pool of blood. The red stained her dress, leaving it a sickening pink shade. As Catalina bent down, more gunfire erupted from the town. A few stray bullets flew past, barely missing her. They splintered against the trees, ruffling the forest foliage.

Catalina looked back at the new bullet holes in the bark, down at Sofía, then forward at the muzzle flashes in the smoke, piecing together what had happened. She clenched her jaw hard enough to create a grinding noise with her teeth, and she formed fists tight enough to evoke droplets of blood from her open wounds.

Monsters.

Catalina rose, her black cloak billowing around her shaded form, the darkness changing her into a fantasma, much like her mother. Unlike her mother, though, this fantasma was corporeal. 

Corporeal and vengeful. 

Punctuating the thought, her hand reached down to her thigh and withdrew the Grizzly pistol. The wind ruffled the cloak around her as she moved, creating the illusion that she was floating toward the town rather than walking. Screams and gunfire grew louder, and the smell of smoke became more potent. She racked the slide of her gun, chambering a new round.

Catalina melted into and out of the shadows, the smoke obscuring the moonlight and leaving her invisible. From within the darkness there was movement, and the cold steel of a gun barrel was the first part of the shadow that crossed the town's border. 

Her hunt was far from over.

​

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“Hunt, Pt. 2”

La Encarnación, Colombia

November 13, 1999-A

​

Sunsets in rural Colombia were something to behold. La Encarnación bordered Natural Las Orquídeas, a tremendous forest thick with leafy green trees and other plant life. The bloody orange sun hugged the tips of the tree line, and the colors painted a somber melody as the ball of light sank out of sight. Catalina stared at it from the window of her inn, appreciating her moment of peaceful silence. 

But it was time to hunt. 

She turned on her heel from the window and went to the pile of black duffel bags she had brought with her to the village. Unzipping the first bag, she revealed an outfit made of tough black cloth. The suit came in three sections: A top half, a bottom half, and a hooded cloak. Tucked inside strategically placed pockets of the outfit were thick metal plates, which collectively created a layer of armor around the ensemble. 

Next, Catalina opened the other two duffle bags, surveying the contents. Each bag was filled with various firearms, bladed weapons and explosives. She pondered for a moment before reaching into the bags, pulling out her weapons of choice for the evening and fastening their holsters, straps or bandoliers to various parts of her suit. Saving the best for last, she retrieved a pair of flattened cylindrical devices, slipping them into a mechanism within her sleeves with a hefty click.

Catalina snapped together the thick black outfit and attached her protective cloak to her neck and shoulders. The weight of the armor pressed against her body, but she had trained for years to withstand such heavy burdens. She pulled the hood up and over the back of her head, leaving enough room around the sides of her face to keep her peripheral vision intact. The cloak crested over her shoulders and fell around her arms and side. The whole ensemble left her looking like a formless, black phantom. 

Next, Catalina slid the other duffel bags in front of her and opened each one, surveying the contents. Each bag was filled with various firearms, bladed weapons and explosives. She pondered for a moment and began reaching into the bags, pulling out her weapons of choice for the evening and fastening their holsters, straps or bandoliers to various parts of her suit. Saving the best for last, she retrieved a pair of flat, homemade devices, slipping them into a mechanism within her sleeves with a hefty click. 

Satisfied, Catalina turned to the window and opened it. She climbed outside and scaled the roof of the inn, carrying a long, black rifle behind her. With great care and precision, she walked across the shingles and laid the rifle onto a flat part of the surface, flicking out a v-shaped stand to keep it at the correct angle. She peered through the large magnifying sight atop the body of the gun, ensuring she had optimal view of the forest. 

The message Catalina had received said that the creature arrived almost every night. It didn't always claim a victim, but it always tried. They said it offered some sort of call, like a siren of Greek mythology. The village had learned in the worst way possible that children seemed the most susceptible to it. 

Catalina's frustration stemmed from the fact that the village struggled to describe the goddamn thing. She'd need to be attentive tonight. 

Her vigilance, however, wasn’t necessary. Less than an hour passed before Catalina felt what she could only describe as a buzzing sensation. It started as almost a cerebral itch; at first, she swatted at her face, under the impression that a mosquito was in her ear. It soon increased in intensity, as if someone were broadcasting radio static right into her brain.

Within the static she began to hear, or feel, or think a series of words.

"Co..."

"St..."

"Ki..."

"Lo..."

Though the sensation wasn’t pleasant, at least not in a way that would make Catalina jump from the roof and run into the forest, it had a sedating effect. She could understand why children, with their impulsivities, would be so susceptible to this creature if it approached them. 

As Catalina had this thought, she saw movement below her and to the left; a flash of white, moving at a steady pace toward the woods. She focused her rifle's sight in that direction and saw a little girl in a white nightgown, moving at a rapid walking pace toward the border of foliage. She couldn't have been older than eight. Her long brown hair blew in the evening's breeze, but she seemed unfazed by the disruption. 

Her focus was on a dark shape, emerging from the forest. 

"Co... me."

"St... me."

"Ki... me."

"Lo... me."

Catalina refocused her rifle toward the trees and saw a man. Except, it wasn't a man. Instead, it was a pale imitation in the most unsettling ways. 

It was maybe three or four meters tall, and it had spindly, almost skeletal features. The arms, legs and torso were as thin as broomsticks, and every joint ended at a sharp angle. Its "skin" that Catalina could see was a pale white, but its exposed head revealed... nothing.

There were simply no facial features. Nothing but a smooth, white, empty canvas. 

"Com... o me."

"Sta... th me."

"Kil... r me."

"Lov... me."

Most peculiar, though, was that it wore a suit. A goddamn suit. It seemed to have black slacks and shoes, a black suit jacket, and a white collared shirt with a black tie. 

What kind of monster dresses in business attire?

Catalina tried to draw a bead on the creature with her rifle, but its movements were jerky and unnatural, as if its limbs were bent in the wrong directions. She couldn't line up a proper shot at this distance, and she didn't want a missed attempt to put the girl in more danger. 

The girl reached the forest, and the Man extended a long, sharp hand toward her in a welcoming gesture. As it did, the girl placed her hand into his, and Catalina felt another burst of static in her head.

"Come to me."

"Stay with me."

"Kill for me."

"Love me."

Together, the two disappeared into the shadows of the forest. 

Catalina stood and grabbed her rifle, running to the roof’s edge. She was on the second story, and a tiled awning extended from the separation between the two floors. In the blink of an eye, Catalina stepped from the edge of the roof and landed on the awning, letting her momentum slide her down the perch and onto the grass below. As she sprinted into the forest, Catalina heard a cry from one of the homes at her back. 

"Sofía? Sofía!"

The panicked cries continued. Windows glowed with yellow light as other members of the town awoke to the screams. Catalina gritted her teeth and pursued the girl, Sofía, into the forest. 

Entering Natural Las Orquídeas, Catalina expected the sounds of chittering animals and chirping insects to be louder than they were in the village. Instead, the forest was as silent as death itself. Catalina only heard the pounding of her boots on the ground, the rushing of blood in her ears, and the whisper of her cloak rummaging through the thick leaves behind her. 

A breeze blew past her, and the branches above rustled with what Catalina would describe as “emoción”. 

Catalina could hear a girl’s voice somewhere ahead. She slowed and took measured breaths, careful not to make too much noise. Crouched, she inched past the trees, cradling her rifle. Soon she could make out the shapes of two figures, one very tall and one very small, meandering away from her at a casual pace. 

Sofía chattered away in Spanish about her friends and family. Every so often she would pause, and the Man's head would vibrate, the movement almost imperceptible. No sound would emerge, but Catalina could feel the static burst in her head each time it happened. Once the Man "responded", the girl continued her conversation. 

When they began to slow, Catalina took advantage of the opportunity and descended from her crouched position, pressing her stomach against the grass. She pushed her face through the leaves at the edge of a small clearing that the pair occupied, placing her rifle onto the forest floor. When she was settled, Catalina held her breath and peered into the rifle sight. 

Another gust of wind blew into her face, and the trees above rustled with fervor once more. 

The gigantic weapon in her hands was, for the most part, just two long, black pipes adjacent to one other. The back portion included a handle, a padded shoulder rest, and an angled magazine protruding from the top. The front portion was just a long barrel ending in a flat muzzle brake, as if a hockey puck were glued to the tip of her rifle. 

The device was once called the Boys Anti-Tank Rifle, but the British soldiers who used in during World War II aptly nicknamed it the "elephant gun" due to its appearance. It fired modified .55 caliber Boys rounds that, though ironically not very effective against tanks, worked quite well against living objects with uncertain physical properties. 

Catalina aligned her crosshairs in the center of the Man's chest area, but paused. 

It wasn't wearing a suit at all. That was its skin. 

It had animal patterning, not unlike an arctic penguin’s “tuxedo.” Her mind was drawn to Venus fly traps, and how they used their innocuous appearances to lure insects into their maw. The disguise didn't need to be perfect; it just needed to bring its prey within reach. 

Catalina's pupils dilated.

Time slowed to a crawl as her finger squeezed the trigger of her rifle. In the split second between the depression of the trigger and the firing of the bullet, the gun creaked. She perceived with her Gaze, in that moment, the Man cocking its head and turning in her direction.

Fuck. It's fast.

As the bullet exited the barrel, the Man was already moving to the side. It must not have understood or accounted for the elephant gun's power and velocity, though, because it didn't escape in time. Instead of striking the chest, the bullet struck the creature's right shoulder, the impact as heavy as a tank shell. With a dull thump, the Man's entire arm flew from its body and into the shadows of the foliage behind it. The wound produced a substance similar to wet, stringy cotton; it oozed from the hole and stuck in clumps to the side of the creature's torso. 

The Man faced the space where Catalina hid.

It hunched over and emitted a sickening crackle, as if the bones within it were tearing apart. Three more arms emerged on each side of its body, coming from points on its back instead of its shoulders. The blank white face of the Man split down the middle in a vertical line, revealing endless rows of sharp teeth, furthering its Venus fly trap similarities. It lurched, as if roaring, though no sound emerged. Instead, the familiar static filled Catalina's head with an intensity that made her collapse. 

"KILL FOR ME."

The trees above her rustled with that emoción she had noticed before. 

This time, there was no wind. 

Catalina rolled into her back, trying to regain her coordination, and looked into the branches. Hanging from various parts of the treetops all around her were dozens of heads, each about the size of a basketball, seemingly identical to the head of the Man. 

As she watched, they split open like the Man's head, revealing rows of teeth. They vibrated, rustling the trees, and Catalina could feel new static buzzing in her head, much fainter than the Man’s, but with a new message.

"Feed me."

"Feed me."

"Feed me."

They're babies. It's bringing food to its babies. 

​

"Hunt, Pt. 3"

“Hunt, Pt. 1”

La Encarnación, Colombia

November 13, 1999-A

​

Monsters.

Catalina took another sip of her Cuba Libre, watching the men yell and swear at their table over her shoulder. They wore cotton pants and colorful, short-sleeved collared shirts with the buttons left undone, exposing far too much chest hair. Their bodies had a sturdy, athletic quality while somehow remaining slightly pudgy. The round faces of all four men sported bushy mustaches and beady eyes. Catalina recognized the stench of Medellin Cartel members anywhere. 

Why were they in such a small town, “en la media de la nada”? Their operations were far, far away, according to Catalina's father. He always referred to them as weak, lazy competition. Hardly competition at all, according to him. Maybe, then, these men were on some sort of vacation.

Whatever the case, they had invaded Catalina's peaceful drink at the tiny, otherwise-unoccupied bar attached to the equally tiny inn. She sat on a stool at the counter of the bar, facing a middle-aged bartender who wore a frumpy burgundy dress and sported a grey bun atop her head. Behind her were three wooden, circular tables and a scattered handful of wooden chairs, the only amenities a bar so far in the wilderness needed. That wasn't a criticism, though. She rather liked the place. 

The four men in question were at the table closest to the entrance, making loud, lewd jokes and sharing stories of their sexual conquests. They even directed some of their comments at Catalina, but she paid no attention to them as she drank her Cuba Libre. 

"It's rare that we get visitors, you know." The bartender said to Catalina in Spanish, punctuating her introduction with a smile. "I know the environment here is less than hospitable, but you're welcome to talk to me if you want some company. Jesus knows I could use it."

Catalina stared at the woman for five silent, awkward seconds. Before the talkative woman could open her mouth again, Catalina raised a hand to a black silk scarf tied around her neck, wrapped as tight as a vice. She pulled it down halfway, revealing a thick, knotted scar running across the entire front half of her neck, drawing a grotesque line beneath her Adam's apple. 

The woman blushed, embarrassed. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't –" 

Catalina raised a hand to stop her before making a few gestures in LSC, or Lengua de Señas Colombiana. She always tried to learn the sign language specific to the areas to which she traveled, just in case.

[Do you speak sign language?]

The bartender lifted her arms into an exaggerated shrug.

"I don't understand, I'm sorry. How's this?"

She produced a pen and pad of paper from under the counter. 

Catalina slid it to her side of the bar top, took another sip of her drink, and wrote in blocky Spanish letters. 

[IT’S OK.]

"What’s brought you this far into the wilderness? You aren't planning on hiking, are you?"

Catalina reached into her pocket, wincing as the men behind her loudened. She wasn't quick to anger, but she wasn't brimming with patience, either. Right now, the men tested hers.

Besides, there's no tolerance for monsters like these.

Catalina produced from her pocket an envelope and unfolded the letter within. She offered the paper to the bartender, who shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. 

"I know what it says,” the woman said. “I helped write it, along with most of the other parents in this town. You're the hunter? I think we all expected you to be a man." 

She laughed and gestured to her own face. 

"A big, burly man with battle scars across his face. Serves us right for jumping to conclusions!"

The bartender waved in Catalina's direction. 

"But look at you! You're petite and pretty. I'm jealous that you're able to handle something so tough while being so slight." 

Catalina offered a tight smile, but the woman's words only chilled her heart. She was small, thin and pretty; that much was accurate. Her olive skin, green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair were true to her mother's Chilean heritage. However, her mother was nothing more than a “fantasma” now. 

Her father had seen to that. 

Catalina wrote on the pad, [WHAT IS THIS MAN YOU MENTION IN THE LETTER? A "LEAN" MAN?]

The bartender shifted again, her discomfort apparent. 

"I wouldn't call him 'lean'. Maybe a better word would be 'Sle –'"

She was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of the men from the table. He lurched against Catalina's back, using her shoulders to steady himself. His breath reeked of alcohol, and Catalina scrunched her nose. She took another sip of her drink.

"Whass a burtifal lady doin' in a shithole 'ike this?" He drawled in Spanish. 

He spun her stool around to face him. The other three men at the table howled with abandon. 

"Come'n up to my room an' I'll give ya the best fuck you'll ever get."

He put his hands around her waist and pulled her off the stool and onto her feet. Her black boots clacked on the wooden tavern floor. She held eye contact with him for a moment, but he was too drunk, or brave, or stupid to back down. He reached for her waist again, and she dodged his advance. Not one to quit so easily, he leaned in her direction to kiss her. Huffing, she leaned toward him as well...

...and spit rum into his eyes.

He made a cry of disgust and stepped back, startled. Catalina took advantage of his confusion by taking two deliberate stomps forward and punching him in the throat with a speed and force that she knew her slight stature belied. The man let out a gurgled, choking noise, reaching for his throat with both hands. He dropped to his knees, and Catalina reared back her arm. Before he could react, she delivered an open-handed slap across the face with a thunderous crack. He fell sideways to the floor, stunned. 

Whether his temporary paralysis was from surprise or from pain, Catalina wasn't sure. She hoped it was both. 

Good. Fuck the Medellin. Fucking monsters.

The boisterousness of the table near the bar's entrance subsided. All three men sat in silence, staring at Catarina. Their surprise broke when one stood and pulled out a long hunting knife.  

"You fucking bitch,” he said. “I'm gonna feed you to my dogs."

From the corner of her eye, Catarina saw the bartender reach for something under the bar counter. Catalina raised a hand to stop her.

Guns won't be necessary. 

Flanking Mr. Knife on the right, one of his friends grabbed his liquor bottle by the neck, wielding it like a club. His other buddy simply raised his fists to fight.    

Oh, so you're willing to get your hands dirty.

Catalina pointed at Mr. Fist. 

I respect that. You're first.

The three men must not have understood her gesture, because they all rushed at once. 

Catalina’s chest thudded, her heartbeat quickening from a rush of adrenaline. She felt the pulling, painful sensation of her pupils dilating, accompanied by a slight pressure against the side of her temple. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the men approached.  

Mr. Bottle reached her first by a split second, swinging the weapon of his namesake in a downward arc. As the bottle descended, Mr. Knife thrusted his weapon out and forward, toward her stomach. Catalina turned sideways, dodging the knife thrust, and kicked him in the back. Mr. Knife's momentum carried him into the bar, and he tripped over the would-be sex offender still on the ground. 

In the process of turning, she grabbed Mr. Bottle's wrist and stepped into his attack, bringing their bodies closer together while halting his strike. She lashed out with an upward palm strike beneath his elbow, fracturing his forearm with a crisp snap. As it bent at an awkward angle, he cried out in agony, the bottle falling from his hand.

Catalina released Mr. Bottle's arm and grabbed the bottle as it fell, all while continuing her body's turn. She now faced Mr. Fist, his arm in mid-swing with a haymaker. She ducked beneath the swing, and he struck Mr. Bottle in the face, exactly as she’d positioned him when releasing his injured arm. 

Even as Mr. Fist's hand was connecting with Mr. Bottle, Catalina gripped the appropriated bottle with both hands and rammed the circular glass bottom into Mr. Fist's solar plexus. He doubled over in pain and vomited onto the floor. Mr. Bottle was still rearing back from his friend's punch, nose bloody and arm askew.

 Catalina took advantage of Mr. Fist's bent position to swing her leg into a stern kick, striking him directly in the face with her shin. Some part of his face popped, he went white, and he collapsed face-first into the ground, seemingly unconscious. 

I stay true to my word.

By now, Catalina was sure that Mr. Knife had recovered from his fall. She turned just in time to see him rushing forward with another straight attack to her abdomen. The bottle in her hand swung down and connected with the metacarpal bones in his wrist. They snapped, his hand crumpled, and the knife clattered to the tavern floor. 

Mr. Knife screamed, wildly swinging with his good hand. She raised her forearm to block his punch; even as their limbs connected, she brought up her other fist as a counter. It found a home under his chin, and blood spurted from his mouth as his jaw fractured against her knuckles. His eyes rolled upward, and he fell to the ground on his back.

Catalina placed the glass bottle onto the closest table and turned to face its original owner. His eyes were already swelling – impressive punch, Mr. Fist, thought Catalina – and he held his injured arm with his free hand. Catalina took a few steps toward him before she heard the distinct sound of a revolver's hammer being pulled. 

Her pupils twitched.

The fourth man. Behind me and to the left, around my seven o' clock. He's shaken but still cocky. He's a Medellin, after all. He wants to shoot the head, but his fear will encourage a safer torso shot. That means it will end up somewhere in the middle, close to my neck or shoulder blade area. He's a pussy, which means he won't give a warning shot. He'll shoot to kill and tell a grand tale to his cartel friends afterward. 

The hammer pulled and the trigger depressed. She’d forget the details of her rushing thoughts later, like always. After all, she never really thinks in times like these.

She reacts. 

Catalina bent her knees and swayed slightly to the left, cocking her head even further in that direction. As she did so, she heard the deafening crack of gunfire, and Catalina felt the bullet ruffle her hair as it passed over her shoulder. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Bottle was in the path of the gunshot. The bullet traveled past Catalina and struck him in the collarbone opposite the arm she had fractured. He spun around and collapsed onto the table where he had been drinking. The table tilted with his weight and crashed to the floor. 

One more.

Catalina peered behind her and saw the final man still lying on the ground, propped against the bar where she had slapped him. He had a silver revolver with a brown handle in his hand. She thought it might be a Smith & Wesson Model 10, chambered for .38 caliber rounds. He was already thumbing back the hammer for a second shot. Catalina scanned the room. There was nothing strong or sturdy enough within reach to deflect the bullets. 

She'd need to cross the room. Unprotected. 

He fired his second round. Catalina took two steps forward, jerking her body so it oriented away from the path of the incoming bullet. Her eyes tracked the bullet as it passed her, verifying she was free from harm. 

“La Mirada Del Diablo,” her father had called it. 

The Gaze of The Devil. 

She may have received her appearance and stature from her mother, but she shared this particular trait with a long line of men and women on her father's side. Her father’s bloodline of protectors and assassins used the Gaze for generations to hold aloft their Venezuelan cartel. 

While most in her family happily served the cartel with their Gaze, Catalina resisted. Sure, they fought terrible men, but they worked for men who were just as horrific, if not worse. Nonetheless, her father had insisted that she train as a bodyguard for the cartel. 

And whenever her father insisted, it was dangerous to say no.

The second bullet passed Catalina. She tilted her head and upper body backward about forty-five degrees, dropping to her knees and sliding across the floor. As she made her transition, the third bullet passed above her face and embedded itself into the ceiling. 

She used her momentum to carry herself back to a running position. She skipped her feet off of the ground as if she were playing a game of “rayuela”, and the fourth bullet slipped beneath her boots, spraying splinters up from the floor. 

Catalina was almost upon Mr. Gun as he chambered his fifth round and pointed at her center mass. Unfortunately for him, Catalina was also close enough to the bar to reach her drink. In fact, she had already grabbed it by the time he’d fired his fourth bullet. As he raised his revolver to track her new position, she slammed the glass into his eyes, upside-down. It smashed into pieces, cutting into his face, and the liquor splashed with burning force. He cried out in pain, twitching his arm as he fired. The shot went wild.

Catalina clutched the barrel of the revolver and twisted the trigger guard around his finger, breaking the bone like a fresh carrot. The man whimpered and retreated his hand. The revolver was now in her possession, and she aimed the barrel at his head, tempted to pull the trigger. 

Monsters.

Mr. Gun wiped the liquor and glass away from his face to look up at her. Rather than staring at the gun barrel, however, he met his eyes with hers, mouth agape. She knew what he saw: A small woman with large, black pupils, like the eyes of a cat on the prowl.

Catalina sighed and opened the cylinder of the gun. Five spent shells and one live round fell to the tavern floor, rolling in different directions across the wooden surface. She snapped the cylinder back into place, gripped the gun by the barrel, and clubbed the man across the face with the handle. He slumped over, limp as a ragdoll. 

As she felt her pupils reduce to a normal size, she glanced at the bartender. The woman seemed a little shaken, but she maintained her composure. Catalina felt some guilt for the destruction she had caused, but the satisfaction of engaging these assholes overwhelmed that sensation. Still...

She moved to the counter and scratched on the pad.

[I'M SO SORRY FOR THE DAMAGE. THIS FIGHT GOT OUT OF HAND. HOW MUCH WILL IT COST TO REPLACE EVERYTHING I BROKE?]

The bartender leaned over the counter and surveyed the men, sprawled across the floor. She reached out and placed her hand on top of Catalina’s. 

"All we need from you is to find it. Find it and put a stop to this nightmare. We just want our children to feel safe again." 

She gestured at the four men. 

"We’ve dealt with men like these since the beginning of time. This new thing, whatever it is that's taking our families? We don't know what to do. Please just help us."

Catalina nodded and clasped her other hand on top of the woman's. They smiled at each before releasing their grasp. Catalina turned and walked across the tavern floor, kicking one of the men in the ribcage as she made her exit. 

​

"Hunt, Pt. 2"

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • Foot Race
  • Annelisse
  • The Underneath
  • The Search for Terror
  • Enemy Lines

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

An Apple a Day

Day 1.

Zahur stood in awe at the entrance of the palace, overwhelmed by the beauty of the reds and blues and golds and familiar tan of the Egyptian sands. Surrounding him stood a courtyard of sorts, the exterior walls supported by thick columns and decorated with hundreds of carefully drawn pictograms. In the center of the courtyard grew a cluster of palms trees, bushes, and flowers which Zahur couldn’t quite recognize. As he admired the foliage, a pair of palace guards approached him, gesturing for him to follow them to the throne room.

“Who comes before me while I toil?” demanded a low, booming voice in the distance.

Rounding a corner, Zahur saw his pharaoh, Lord Khufu, huddled over a large, golden chamber near his throne. The structure resembled a small gazebo, albeit one with long, tree-like branches protruding from the top and embedding into the palace ceiling. Khufu grasped a crank on one of the chamber’s columns, spinning it, and Zahur’s eyes widened in amazement as small arcs of green lightning flickered between the golden branches.

“A peasant boy from the Western village,” one of the guards responded. “He comes to you for aid.”

Khufu turned sharply, standing up inside the chamber. He took a few long strides out into the throne room, descending a short flight of stairs to approach the boy. Stopping an arm’s length away, he crouched, joining Zahur at eye level. His sunbaked skin practically glowed bronze in the palace light.

“How old are you, boy?” he asked.

“I’ve lived through ten risings of Sirius,” Zahur answered. “But I do not come for myself today.”

Khufu chuckled, placing his hands on his knees. “Who have you come for, then?”

“My father,” Zahur admitted. “And my mother. And my two sisters. They’re starving, your majesty. Our crops, we can’t maintain them. And the livestock goes to your palace, so we don’t have that, either. I come to you asking for a little bit of reprieve.”

“Reprieve, eh?” Khufu murmured, cocking his head. Zahur saw his eyes light up, and he spun on his heels. “Reprieve, the boy asks for.”

The pharaoh hurried past his throne, entering a small nearby room. He returned in seconds, palming a large, red, glistening fruit with a black stem jutting out of the top. Walking back up to Zahur, he extended his arm, showing him the fruit. 

“Here,” Khufu offered. “Here’s your reprieve.”

Zahur carefully took it, turning it over in his hands. “What is it, your majesty?”

“It’s called an apple,” Khufu explained. “I obtained some when I was away traveling. This one is special, though. This will be the last food you or your family will ever need.”

“Thank you.” Zahur’s eyes watered. “Thank you so much. How do I use it to feed the others?”

Khufu’s mouth split into a wide grin. “All you have to do is eat it. The whole thing, especially the seeds. They’re the most important part. The rest will follow in three days’ time.”

Zahur’s eyes drifted back down to the apple. “Just eat it?”

“That’s right, boy,” Khufu laughed. “Simple, isn’t it?”

“It is, your majesty,” replied Zahur.

He found himself staring at the chamber next to Khufu’s throne, and the pharaoh noticed, too.

“Are you curious about what I’m building?” Khufu asked the boy.

Zahur nodded.

The pharaoh snapped his fingers at the guards. “Leave us. I’ll give our new friend here a tour.”

Bowing their heads, the guards backed away, exiting the throne room.

Khufu gestured to the chamber, and Zahur followed him up the stairs as the pharaoh spoke. “I don’t suppose you’ve attended any of my scientific lectures, have you?”

Zahur shook his head. “My family is too religious. They don’t want me learning something that’s different than what they believe.”

Chuckling, Khufu slapped his hand on one of the chamber’s supporting columns. “That’s funny. Religion and science are far more intertwined than most people believe. Your parents included.”

Taking a bite from the apple, Zahur savored its sweet crispness, finally swallowing the flesh and juice. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we worship our gods, do we not?” asked Khufu, pointing at the hieroglyphics on the walls. “Osiris and Horus, Bastet and Seth. They watch us from an unreachable domain, governing the way the world works. That’s what you’ve been told, isn’t it?”

Zahur took another bite, nodding.

“Well, I believe these beings exist, but not as our rulers,” Khufu explained. “I believe that, just as a river splits when presented with an obstacle, so too does our one world become many as it sees shifts in power. Maybe in one world, you eat this apple. In another, you don’t. These worlds stretch out, infinitely, becoming less and less probable as time passes in each realm.”

Frowning, Zahur slowed his chewing, trying to wrap his head around what Khufu was saying. “Where are these worlds? In the sky? Below the sands?”

“In whispers,” Khufu responded, his eyes glistening passionately now. “In soft breezes. If we sail along the surface of a river, does it not resist us, keeping us separate from the world of the fish? Yet, if we gently submerge our hand, it welcomes us freely. I think that this world, the one you and I live in, we’re like boats, floating atop the streams, unaware that an entirely different kind of domain is waiting for us on the other side of the surface.”

“Is that what that is?” Zahur queried, looking at the chamber. “A way off the boat? A way below the river?”

“Not quite,” admitted Khufu. “See, I’m not much interested in exploring these worlds. I want one world – the world where our ancestors have evolved into powerful entities. Entities we see glimpses of in our religion: Osiris and Horus, Bastet and Seth. I call it The Ascension.”

Zahur gulped down another apple bite, swallowing a smooth seed this time. “What do you want from The Ascension?”

“I want their essence, their energy. They’ve lived all this time, sustained by a force that our world does not possess. An eternal force.” Khufu offered Zahur wild grin. “The reality your family worships, it has a gift for me. And I’m going to take it.”

________________

After finishing his apple, Zahur trekked back beyond the pharaoh's city, joining his family in the Western village. He relayed Khufu’s message to them, and they rejoiced, excited for the blessing that was to come. As the sun set, Zahur laid down on his cot, smiling in satisfaction.

His stomach rumbled, and a sharp pain poked at his side. Frowning, he shifted, and the pain vanished. In its place came a faint, gnawing sound, like a tree branch bending in the wind. He looked around, trying to identify the source of the sound, but it quickly faded, and he closed his eyes, returning to a world of darkness.

________________

Day 2.

The gnawing sound returned to Zahur’s ears as he awoke the next morning. He reached up, sticking his finger in one canal, but he heard no change in pitch or volume. It was almost as if it was coming from . . . inside him.

Then, it stopped.

Zahur took a deep breath, calming himself, and grabbed some buckets, venturing to the river to collect water for the morning. He kicked off his sandals, allowing his toes to squish into the wet sand as he slipped down the banks. The cool stream washed across his feet, ridding it of the earthy residue, and he sighed in satisfaction. The hot sun and cold river created a beautiful contrast, and he found it difficult not to savor the moment. 

Something tickled his feet, and he glanced down at the water, expecting some small fish. He saw nothing, however, even as the sensation grew stronger. Cocking his head curiously, he crouched, his hand hovering about the river’s surface. As he dipped his fingers into the water, he couldn’t help but to think about Lord Khufu’s analogy about the barrier between worlds. 

This is no fantasy, Zahur chastised himself. This is just a river. We can see a river, feel it, drink from it. 

He plunged his hand down into the riverbed, feeling around for whatever it was that tickled his feet. Rather than feeling fish or flora, his fingertips rubbed against thin strands on the ends of his toes. Confused, he backed out of the river, examining his feet. Sure enough, little brown roots, hardly thicker than strands of hair, grew from beneath his toenails, soggy from the river water. He grasped at the roots protruding from his big right toe and pulled, yanking them from his skin. A little blood leaked from beneath the toenail, dribbling towards the clear water and staining it red.

Zahur felt something brush against the back of his throat, and he gagged, dropping to his hands and knees to retch against . . . whatever it was. Nothing came out of his mouth, though, and he reached two fingers down into his throat, feeling for the object within. He felt something flat and pinched it, pulling forward. The object resisted, but he pulled harder, and with a crisp snap it came free, exiting his mouth. Hand shaking, he extended his arm, looking at the object. 

A leaf. Just a flat, green leaf.

But then, what was the leaf connected to, that he had to pull so hard to free it?

________________

Zahur’s sandals slapped against sand and stone, propelling him across the city and towards Lord Khufu’s palace. He struggled to breathe, his joints stiff and aching, his skin crawling as if covered in a layer of insects. As he made his way into the palace courtyard, he found it devoid of guards, and a cacophony of loud voices sounded from Khufu’s throne room. Crouching, Zahur pressed himself against the wall, sneaking to the edge of the doorway separating him from the commotion.

“Lord Khufu, you cannot do this!” a stern voice insisted.

Zahur peeked around the corner, absorbing the scene. A dozen men and women in brown, hooded robes surrounded Khufu, who sat in his throne, a look of annoyance stretched across his face. Against the walls stood six guards, weapons at the ready in case the situation grew out of hand.

“Disciples of Bastet,” he boomed, addressing the hooded figures, “you know that I have always honored our . . . tenuous relationship. You provide spiritual hope to the people, while I feed and protect them. But you cannot simply invade my home and make demands of me.”

“Please, Lord Khufu,” begged one of the women in the front of the group. “We’ve received a vision from Bastet, all of us. She’s sent a Call, showing us our future. Your future.”

“My future, eh?” The pharaoh pondered on her words for a moment. “Bastet can do that?”

“You’re right, your majesty,” interjected another disciple. “There are other worlds, other planes of existence, such the one where Bastet lives. But these worlds are connected by circumstance, not time, and to connect to these other worlds is to become disconnected from the flow of life. Do you understand?”

“I do,” nodded Khufu. “That’s why I must join them in power.”

“But power comes at a cost,” the woman near the front spoke again. “We are not prepared to breach the veil between worlds. We are not advanced enough. If you penetrate that barrier, the effects will be catastrophic. Not just for you, but for our entire world.”

“Not advanced enough?” scoffed Khufu. “Now, you’ve insulted me. I’ve built this country up with my wit and ingenuity. You think this is where I’ll finally fail?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he waved his hand dismissively. “Begone. You are all banned from my palace. I have nothing more to say.”

The disciples erupted in protest, but the guards quickly approached with their spears, herding them from the throne room and into the courtyard, somehow overlooking Zahur in the process. The boy waited for the group to vanish past the palm trees, then hurried into the throne room, walking up to where Khufu sat. The pharaoh leaned forward, an amused expression on his face.

“Ah, the boy with the hungry family. How are you feeling today?”

“Not well,” admitted Zahur. “Something is happening to me. My body is changing. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.”

“Well, I’ve done what you’ve asked,” Khufu snapped, standing up. “I’ve provided you with a means for feeding your family. Do you trust me, your pharaoh?”

Zahur nodded sheepishly. “Yes, I do.”

“Then go back home,” commanded Khufu. “Drink plenty of water, and soak up as much sunlight as you can before it grows dark. Everything will make sense soon.”

________________

Day 3.

Zahur awoke choking, his throat dry and filled with tickling objects. He attempted to reach up, to free his throat, but his arms were so stiff, each movement crackled like dry twigs, sending sharp pain rippling through his body. Still, he persisted, shoving his hand down his throat until he grasped something thin and stiff. Jerking his arm forward, he ripped it out, unspooling it from within as dozens of objects tickled him and forced him to gag. He extended his shaking arm, revealing a long stem covered in flat, green leaves. The broken end of the stem dripped blood, as if the object had been connected to flesh rather than foliage. 

What is happening to me? 

He tried to stand, but found his legs and torso were just as stiff as his arms, cracking and snapping throughout his body. Struggling past the pain, he slowly rose, carefully balancing himself on the ground. His fingers brushed against his bare legs, and he recoiled as they encountered a tangled mess. Glancing down, he saw thousands of tiny, thick roots protruding from the pores of his legs, giving him an almost beastly appearance. 

“Lord Khufu,” he struggled to whisper, his voice raspy and dry. “He’ll know what to do.”

________________

By the time Zahur reached the palace, the pain of his snapping bones had become almost second nature. His stomach, however, rumbled aggressively, seeming to push something back up into his throat. He was less concerned about the pain and more worried about suffocating before he could get help. 

As he ran up to the entrance, he heard a distant rumble, like a thunderstorm. Lifting his head, he saw thick, grey clouds emerging from the roof of the palace, crawling up into the sky. As he watched, a green light flickered from behind the clouds, flashing periodically like lightning. The clouds slowly spread out from the palace, casting a shadow over Zahur. 

Zahur burst into the building, stumbling across the courtyard. As he paused to catch his breath, his eyes drifted to the mass of trees and bushes in the center of the open space. Draped over the branches of one palm tree hung two of Khufu’s guards, their throats cut and dribbling blood onto the leaves below. Zahur covered his mouth to stop himself from screaming and dropped to a crouch, silently moving past the dead men and towards the throne room. 

Flickering green lights emanated from the doorway, and Zahur froze for a second before peeking around the corner. He saw Khufu operating a series of levers and cranks on his interdimensional chamber, the golden branches above it alive with green lightning. Nearby stood the remaining guards, seemingly unaware of the fate of their comrades as they stared, fascinated, at the strange device.

Zahur moved to get their attention, but the dozen brown-cloaked Disciples of Bastet suddenly emerged from the shadowy corners of the throne room, producing daggers and slitting the guards’ throats from behind. As the men collapsed around Khufu, the pharaoh straightened up, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Came here to usurp me, did you?” he growled. “Cowards. Traitors.”

“This isn’t about political power,” retorted one of the disciples. “You’ve violated the veil separating us from forces and entities that we are not prepared to handle.”

“Just look outside!” cried another disciple. “Even the sky is already changing.”

“I have worked too hard to stop now,” Khufu said, assuming a fighting stance. “You will not rob me of my earnings.”

Two of the disciples rushed him, daggers raised, but he caught the first one by the wrist, twisting to throw them over his shoulder while simultaneously sweeping his leg to send the other sprawling. Still holding the first disciple’s arm, he planted his foot on it, snapping it backwards. The disciple screamed, dropping their knife, and Khufu caught it with his other hand, spinning to slash the throat of the second disciple as they tried to regain their balance.

“There’s more than two of you, isn’t there?” he snarled, brandishing the bloody blade even as the pair of would-be attackers collapsed on the stone steps. “Are you bound by your faith or not?”

Zahur cowered in the corner of the room as six more disciples leapt into the fray, stabbing at Khufu. He dodged and parried expertly, manipulating the attacks to avoid even the shallowest scratch. Instead, his stolen dagger found six soft spots, and before Zahur could register the details of the battle, six more blood-soaked bodies piled at the pharaoh’s feet.

The remaining four disciples backed away in horror, carefully circling Khufu, daggers at the ready. Two of the disciples nodded at each other, sheathing their weapons, and faced the pharaoh, their eyes flickering yellow. To Zahur’s shock, they disappeared in a whisper, bodies and cloaks replaced by large, pointy-eared jungle cats who stood almost as tall as Zahur himself. The cats snarled, thick muscles rippling under tan, spotted fur as they glared at their prey.

“Two of the Blessed have come to kill me, too?” Khufu gasped in faux surprise. “I’m honored.”

As the jungle cats pounced, the remaining two dagger-wielding disciples flanked the pharaoh, closing in for the kill. The first cat reached Khufu, clamping its jaws around his forearm, but he immediately spun in a circle, using the animal’s momentum to free himself and hurl its body into the two human disciples. Blood gushed from where the bite had skinned his arm, but he merely grimaced and switched dagger hands, turning to face the second cat as the humans behind him fell. 

Hissing, the other jungle cat extended its long claws, scaling up Khufu’s legs and stomach, leaving deep gashes with each step. Khufu responded by stabbing it repeatedly in the back as it reached for his throat. The animal’s jaws widened, eyes fixated on his jugular, but he managed to bring the blade down one last time, burying it into the creature’s left eye. The cat yowled, collapsing to the floor and shifting back into an unconscious human form. Blood leaked from the fallen disciple’s eye socket and pooled around their head in a murky halo. 

In the time it took to stave off the attempted assassination, one of the knife-wielding disciples managed to recover, hurling themselves at Khufu. Their knife buried in his back, and the pharaoh cried out in pain and anger, pulling his body away from the cloaked intruder. He tumbled across the throne room, twisting on his feet only to throw his dagger at the attacker’s chest. It spun through the air, burying into their heart, and they fell back, eyes wide. Khufu reached behind himself, clutching the handle of the knife still in his back, and jerked hard, removing it. Blood leaked from a dozen different wounds as he shakily wielded the new blade, keeping it between himself and the last two disciples.

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” pleaded the human disciple as the cat disciple circled Khufu. “You don’t know what this will do.”

“Yes, I do,” the pharaoh scoffed. “I will become a new god.”

The jungle cat leapt at his back as the dagger-wielding disciple closed in from the other side. He crouched at the last second, burying his knife in the cat’s stomach and flipping it over his shoulder in time to deflect a dagger strike with the animal’s body. The final disciple’s eyes widened in horror as they realized who they’d stabbed, but before they could react further, Khufu rammed his knife under their chin, glaring at them as they choked on their own blood.

“You won’t be around to see it, though,” he whispered to the disciple, finally dropping him to the floor.

As the second Blessed disciple returned to their human form, Khufu fell to his hands and knees, gasping at the stone while blood poured from his wounds. His arms trembled for a moment before he collapsed completely, the sand around him quickly staining red.

“Your majesty!” Zahur cried, rushing to help the pharaoh, pushing past even the excruciating crackle of his own bones. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, leaning over. “Are you okay?”

“I . . . need . . . the chamber,” moaned Khufu, one trembling hand pointing at the device next to his throne, silhouetted in green energy.

“I’ll help you,” Zahur promised, grabbing the pharaoh’s arm. “But, I need you to reverse whatever you did to me with the apple. I’m scared, your majesty. I don’t want to die, either.”

“Okay,” Khufu weakly agreed. “Get me to the chamber.”

Zahur helped the man to his feet, and the pharaoh leaned on the boy, the pair stumbling up to the chamber. As Khufu reached the outer columns, he gripped them, pulling himself the rest of the way inside. 

“Watch out,” he warned the boy, reaching for a lever on the inside. “Keep your distance.”

Stepping back, Zahur watched the pharaoh flip the lever, and the green energy grew more intense, circling the chamber now. Zahur covered his eyes to protect them from the blinding light as it shifted from green to white, and without warning, a thunderclap filled the room, the shockwave knocking the boy off his feet. He fell to the ground, a steady rumbling sending vibrations through his bones. 

From behind, Zahur heard footsteps approaching, but as he struggled to stand, he vomited, expelling three small apples from deep within his stomach. The boy stared at them in horror as they rolled across the stone, realizing what he’d been turned into. A cold hand touched his shoulder, and he turned around to see Khufu.

At least, he thought it was Khufu.

Gone was the pharaoh’s bronzed skin; his wide, expressive eyes; his full features. In their place stood a man as pale as moonlight, his face now sharp and angular, his thin lips red and his beady eyes black. He shifted his stance, and Zahur saw the once-mortal wounds fading away, shimmering in white light. 

“You did it,” he whispered. “You’ve become a god, Lord Khufu.”

“My name means little in the grand scheme of things, doesn’t it?” the man asked, looking down at his hands. “I don’t even look like myself anymore. No, I need a new name. Call me . . . Black Pharaoh. The last ruler Egypt will ever need.”

“Please, Black Pharaoh,” Zahur begged. “Help me. You promised.”

The man calmly walked over to his golden chamber as it powered down, ignoring the boy. Reaching down, he ripped apart one of the columns, green sparks showering him. Grunting, he continued to dismantle the device, destroying it piece by piece.

“No one else,” he murmured to himself. “There will be no one else like me.”

“Black Pharaoh . . .” Zahur felt more apples inside him, tickling his gag reflex. “I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t die, boy,” Black Pharaoh finally responded, his tone dismissive. “You will simply change. Will you be human? No, that you will no longer be. Instead, you’ll be what you came to me for: A reprieve, through which your family will be fed for eternity.”

A thick tree branch suddenly burst from Zahur’s shoulder, breaking bones and splitting skin. Blood ran down the bark as Zahur cried out in pain and panic, and he saw leaves and fruit dangling from the end of the branch. 

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the ability to reverse what’s been done,” Black Pharaoh continued. “But think of it this way: Together, you and I will be the only two humans to ever achieve immortality. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Zahur turned and ran, his joints aching, his head spinning, weighed down by the parasite growing inside of him. He made it through the body-riddled courtyard, stumbling through the palace door before collapsing outside. Another branch emerged, crawling out of his spine this time, and he looked upwards with tears in his eyes. Where blue sky and yellow sun once glowed, he saw nothing now but grey clouds backlit by green lightning.

“I don’t think we’re sailing above the river of worlds after all,” he commented as Black Pharaoh walked up next to him, peering at the sky. Calmness overtook him as shadow washed across sand; he hardly noticed the third branch as it burst from his neck, showering the ground in blood. “No, it seems more like we’re already somewhere below the river. Somewhere in . . . The Underneath.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • The Search for Terror
  • Enemy Lines, Pt. 1

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

Enemy Lines, Pt. 2

After another thirty minutes or so, the Recruit reached the edge of the forest, crawling up to a hilltop overlooking the castle’s courtyard. Using the telescopic sight scavenged from his broken Lee-Enfield, he surveyed the scene below. It seemed that normal, human soldiers patrolled the entrance to the stone fortress; Nazi soldiers, but human soldiers nonetheless. They wore heavy military garb and, strangely, gas masks.

The Recruit’s eyes followed one particular guard, who wore a large metal tank attached to some kind of hose. The guard approached a small shed at the edge of the forest, sliding open a peephole to view inside. Screams of protest exploded from within, and the Recruit’s eyes widened.

There’s someone in there. A local villager, maybe, or even a POW.

Before the Recruit could react, the guard inserted the hose into the peephole, activating the tank on his back. The Recruit heard a loud hiss, and after a few seconds, the screaming subsided. After pausing for a moment, the guard opened the door, dragging a man in tattered white clothes out onto the grass.

“Black Pharaoh is ready for Ionescu,” he announced to two other masked men. “The new control collar is prepared.”

Control collar? wondered the Recruit. He examined the man’s clothes more closely, and his eyes widened. The Human Wolf. More human than wolf, now.

As the two other men dragged Ionescu away, the tank-wearing guard held back to close the shed. The Recruit saw his chance, crawling backwards a few meters before whistling a bird’s song. He gave the guard a moment to take interest, then whistled again, drawing his bayonet. 

It took mere seconds for the guard to crest the hill, his moonlit shadow betraying his appearance. The Recruit leapt to his feet, shoving the blade into the man’s windpipe. As the Nazi choked on metal and blood, the Recruit tackled him to the ground, covering his mouth to muffle his cries. Before long, the man fell limp, and the Recruit went to work undressing him, donning his gas mask and uniform. 

Heart pounding in his chest, the Recruit approached the courtyard in his disguise, nodding at the other guards while they made their rounds. He saw one of them enter an old wooden side door into the castle, and he followed the man, hands shaking anxiously. Much to his surprise, the other guards gave him no second glance, and he reached the door with ease, pausing to take a deep breath.

Then, without hesitating for another second, the Recruit entered Black Pharaoh’s lair.

________________

The cold stone walls closed around the Recruit as he navigated the tight corridors of Black Pharaoh’s castle. To avoid suspicion, he stuck close to a larger group of Nazis, following them through the facility while he mentally mapped it out. After a few minutes, he heard a loud assortment of electrical crackles and terrified screams; concerned, he strode in the direction of the sounds. It didn’t take long for him to turn the corner into an observation deck which overlooked a stage.

“Please, please,” begged a woman in worn farm clothes, struggling against the chains that bound her to a chair on the stage. “Don’t kill me. I have a family to care for.”

Two guard walked past the Recruit, and he resisted the urge to run, remembering his disguise. Below, an abnormally pale man in a Nazi general’s uniform walked into view, his back to the Recruit.

Black Pharaoh, the Recruit thought, his hand absently resting on the 1911 pistol attached to his hip.

“Now, now,” the man said, his voice full of cold indifference, “don’t beg. It’s undignified.”

He rolled what appeared to be a large, silver flashlight on wheels into the center of the room, aiming it at the stage. After he flicked a series of switches on the side, the device began to hum, the sound almost rhythmic. The Recruit frowned from behind his gas mask, leaning closer.

It almost sounded like . . . music.

The music-flashlight reached a pitch that began to tickle the Recruit’s ears, the entire device shuddering a little, as if a wildcat had been loosed within. The woman screamed, squeezing her eyes shut, and turned her head away. Then, the device emitted a split-second flicker of green light, and the woman, her chains, and her chair vanished. 

The Recruit leaned against the railing of the observation deck, wide-eyed.

On the center of the stage lay a long, flat shadow, its features distinctive to the woman who’d been present a moment earlier. The woman’s shadow seemed to look around, moving independently, before twisting and deforming, like smoke caught in a tornado. It ripped apart, writhing in agony, the pieces of faint darkness sucked into other nearby shadows until nothing of the woman remained.

His heart pounding in his chest, the recruit turned away, staggering out of the room.

What was that? he thought, stumbling through the stone halls. Some kind of . . . death ray?

He paused to catch his breath, his thoughts racing. 

They said Black Pharaoh would weaponize this device for the Nazis. Something like this, on a larger scale, could decimate the Allied forces instantly. There’d be no stopping Hitler. 

A familiar voice echoed through the castle, snapping him back to the present.

“Hey! I’m talking to you! What, you got sauerkraut for brains?”

Brick.

The Recruit hurried towards the voice, brushing past guards as nonchalantly as possible. Trotting down a tight, twisting staircase, he found himself in some kind of small dungeon. On one side of the room sat the Recruit’s squad, encased in a cage of iron bars; on the other stood two guards, who murmured to one another over Brick’s defiant cries. It was these guards whom the Recruit approached, waving. They turned to look at him, saying something in German that the Recruit didn’t quite catch. He opted not to respond, drawing closer, and they looked him up and down.

“Aren’t you supposed to be outside?” one asked in English.

“Oh, uh,” the Recruit cleared his throat. “I was sent inside to keep an eye on Ionescu. They’re putting a new collar on him.”

“Ionescu, huh?” the other guard repeated suspiciously. Turning to the side, he pointed at the cell next to Brick’s, where the man in tattered white clothes sat. “You mean that Ionescu?”

The Recruit acted quickly, drawing his bayonet and plunging it into the guard’s heart. The man gasped, clutching his chest and preventing the Recruit from retrieving his blade as he fell to the floor. Behind the Recruit, the second guard drew his pistol, but the Recruit swung around, roundhouse-kicking the weapon from his hand. He followed up with a back-kick into the guard’s stomach, sending the man sliding backwards.

I can’t make too much noise, he thought, frantically searching around for a weapon. I can take this guard, but I can’t take them all.

His eyes settled on the fallen guard, focusing on the stick grenade on his belt. Crouching, he removed the device, an explosive cylinder attached to a long handle. He gripped the handle now, turning to swing it like a club at the second guard’s head. The metal cracked against the man’s skull, and he crashed into the wall, dazed. The Recruit followed up with a strike to the lower left kneecap, bringing him to the ground, and a third swing onto the bridge of his nose. Blood sprayed from the guard’s face as he went white and collapsed. 

“Well, a Nazi with some sense,” joked Wing. “And I thought I’d seen everything today.”

The Recruit rolled his eyes from behind his mask, retrieving the guard’s keys and unlocking the cell doors. In the adjacent cell, Ionescu stood to his feet, arms wrapped around his chest. 

“Can you let me out, too?”

Looking him up and down, the Recruit asked, “Didn’t you try to eat us earlier?”

“What?” Match whispered, wide-eyed.

“I’m truly sorry about that,” the man responded, his accent thickly Eastern European. “My name is Luca. I’m a scientist who was recruited by force to assist the Nazis. They threatened my family until I helped them develop a biological weapon, and then they killed my family and turned me into the weapon. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“I saw Black Pharaoh,” the Recruit commented. “He was testing some kind of . . . death ray. What do you know about that?”

Luca shrugged. “They make all kinds of strange weapons here. Whatever you’re describing, it’s not what they took me for.”

“So, you’re the Human Wolf, huh?” Brick said. “Can you, you know, change whenever you want?”

Luca nodded, and the Recruit saw the spark of an idea form behind his eyes. “You’re all here to destroy the weapons, right?”

“We’re here to take the weapons,” Match clarified. “And to destroy Black Pharaoh.”

Eyes widening, Luca clutched the bars of his cage. “You can’t let the Americans, or anyone else, have anything from this castle. You don’t understand the kinds of things Black Pharaoh has made. All it takes is one mistake, or one wrong person in power, and you won’t have a home to come back to.”

The Recruit sighed. “He’s right. What I saw, what we’ve all seen tonight . . . it’s too dangerous. We can win this war without zombies and death rays.”

“What’s a zombie?” muttered Brick.

“Look, I’ll make you a deal,” Luca pressed. “Let me go, and I’ll create a distraction on my way out. It’ll give you time to destroy the weapons and kill Black Pharaoh.”

The Recruit glanced at the others, then back at Luca, unlocking his cell. “Deal.”

With Luca’s help, they made quick work stripping the guards. After a short debate, Match and Wing donned the uniforms, using fake bonds to present Brick as a prisoner. Luca helped them map out where their weapons and supplies were likely taken, and the squad prepared to leave, watching the man anxiously. He smiled back at them, his innocent grin growing devilish.

“Your friends and family will never believe this.”

His eyes glazed over, the pupils and irises fading to solid white, and he hunched over, straining against some kind of invisible force. Flesh and muscle pulsated, enlarging rapidly, as coarse black fur sprouted from his pores. His body stretched towards the ceiling, and his face elongated, forming a tooth-filled snout. Within seconds, the man had become beast, and it towered over them, more wolf than human.

Brick offered the creature a thumbs-up. “Give ‘em hell.”

The Human Wolf lumbered out of the room, nails scraping against the stone walls. Within seconds, the Recruit heard terrified screams, followed by machine-gun fire. He nodded to the others, and they hurried into the hallway, lugging Brick behind them as a faux prisoner. They made their way across floors covered in bullet casings and past mangled Nazi bodies, following Luca’s directions to the armory. 

“There,” Match pointed, leading them over to an old wooden door in the wall.

They opened the door, leaning inside a large storage room filled with plywood shelves. Match rummaged around for a moment before finding his bag, and he looked up at the others, grinning. 

“A little bit of napalm to give our esteemed host a nasty burn.”

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, they rushed out of the storage room, their footsteps drowned out by the violent noises emanating from elsewhere in the castle. The Recruit gestured for them to follow him, and they twisted through the maze of corridors until they reached the observation deck over the laboratory.

“There,” the Recruit whispered, pointing at the silver, flashlight-like device, still on the stage. “That thing.”

They ran for the stairs, descending to the stage floor. A few lingering scientists appeared, protesting, but Brick and Wing knocked them unconscious with the butts of their weapons. Match began to set up the explosives both on device and around the rest of the laboratory, and the Recruit drew his 1911, swiveling his head around in search of danger.

Danger, of course, found them immediately.

“I see we have guests,” a low voice boomed from the observation deck. “How rude of me not to prepare anything for you.”

The Recruit’s eyes flicked upwards, fixating on the pale-faced man over his head. He immediately took aim, firing three rounds at center mass. The bullets struck the man’s chest, but deflected away, each ricochet producing a shower of blinding white sparks. The Recruit glanced at Brick and Wing, who opened fire with their stolen guns. The sparks grew more intense, shimmering around the man, but he merely stared at them through beady eyes, seemingly unharmed. The trio of shooters lowered their weapons, barrels smoking.

“Black Pharaoh,” growled Brick. “You aren’t just a Nazi scientist, are you?”

Black Pharaoh smirked, placing one hand on the railing of the observation deck. “Allow me to demonstrate the veracity of your statement.”

He vaulted over the railing, landing with a heavy thud in the middle of the three soldiers. Wing took aim with his sub-machine gun, but Black Pharaoh covered the barrel of the weapon as he fired, his impenetrable skin causing a rapid pressure spike as the bullets collided with each other. The gun exploded in Wing’s hands, and Black Pharaoh followed up with a palm strike to the abdomen and another to the chest, the latter sending Wing sprawling across the room. 

Brick ran at the Nazi, knife in one hand and 1911 in the other, opening fire into Black Pharaoh’s face as he closed the gap between them. The bullets sparked away, but the act obscured the man’s vision, and Brick rushed in, stabbing at his heart. The tip of his knife broke away, and Brick cried out in surprise as Black Pharaoh grabbed him by the neck with one hand, lifting him into the air.

The Recruit reacted immediately, opening fire on the back of Black Pharaoh’s skull. As expected, the bullets caused no harm, but he was able to distract the Nazi enough to give Brick a chance to free himself from the man’s grip. Black Pharaoh turned to the Recruit, snarling, and before the Recruit could react, he lashed out with a palm strike to the throat. To the Recruit, it felt as if he’d swallowed a sledgehammer, and he stumbled backwards, choking. The Nazi scientist followed up with a spinning back-kick to the Recruit’s chest, sending the soldier flying across the room and onto his back.

Stars flickering before the Recruit’s eyes, he looked around groggily, finally focusing on one of the napalm charges adhered to the side of the death ray. He struggled to his feet as Black Pharaoh approached Brick and Wing, engaging them in hand-to-hand combat. Turning around, the Recruit located Match, who was hunched over a table stacked with paper documents. 

“Match,” he choked out, his voice still raspy. “You ever play baseball?”

Match turned, eyebrow raised inquisitively, and the Recruit gestured to the explosive in his hand. He smirked, rearing back one arm in Black Pharaoh’s direction. Brick and Wing saw what was about to happen, and they rolled away from the Nazi in opposite directions. Match hurled the napalm bomb at Black Pharaoh’s back, the device whipping across the room, but at the last second, the man spun on his heels, snatching it from the air. Black Pharaoh chuckled, glancing down at the bomb.

“You’d think the collective intelligence of the Allied forces would come up with a less primitive–”

The Recruit fired a single shot from his 1911, the bullet striking the bomb and detonating it in Black Pharaoh’s hand.

Thunder and flame filled the room, swallowing Black Pharaoh and obscuring him from the Recruit’s view. The fire splashed onto the stone walls and floors, slowly spreading to the laboratory equipment. As the smoke cleared, the Recruit found Black Pharaoh face-down, still ablaze, near a window all the way across the room. The Recruit nodded in satisfaction, but to his shock, the Nazi scientist began to stir, white sparks shooting out of the flames. 

“I can’t believe it,” Wing gasped. “It’s like he’s immortal.”

The Recruit sprinted over stone, rushing to reach Black Pharaoh before he could fully recover. The man stumbled to his feet, wreathed in fire, and turned to growl at the Recruit’s rapid approach. Rather than giving him the chance to react, the Recruit leapt into the air, drill-kicking the Nazi in the chest with both feet. The force of the kick propelled Black Pharaoh backwards enough to strike the nearby window, crashing through it and careening down into the trees three stories below.

“God damn, Recruit,” Brick exclaimed. “That was one hell of a kick. You kick like a . . . like a . . . what’s that thing that makes trains move?”

“Piston,” Wing answered, wiping blood from his nose. “He kicks like a Piston.”

“That’s right.” Brick turned to address the Recruit. “Good work . . . Piston.”

“Hey, we need to move,” Match interrupted, waving at them with both arms. “The other napalm charges are going to ignite at any moment!”

He shoved them out of the room, climbing back to the observation deck and returning to the mazelike hallways of the castle. They barely made it to the other end of the first hallway before a deafening explosion rocked the walls, heat and light splashing the back of their necks. A shrill, demonic cry wafted through the air, and Piston saw flashing green light for a moment before the other end of the hallway imploded, collapsing the entrance to the laboratory beneath a mountain of rubble. 

“Let’s get out of here!” Wing yelled, and they hurried for the stairs, rushing to get out before the castle collapsed or the remaining Nazis caught them. 

“We failed,” lamented Piston as they ran. “We destroyed the weapons, but the United Nations will want to know why we didn’t bring anything back with us. Not to mention Black Pharaoh . . . I doubt he died from that fall.”

Brick glanced at him. “Yeah, I suppose we did fail, for the most part. But, at the end of the day, we made the world a little safer, and maybe we’ve given the Allies enough time to defeat Hitler without their secret weapon.”

“Besides,” laughed Wing as they exited the castle, “imagine how great of a story this will make for your grandkids one day.”

Piston chuckled, diving into the forest with his comrades, one step closer to home.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • The Search for Terror

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

Enemy Lines, Pt. 1

“So, come here often?”

The Recruit, concentrating on swallowing his anxieties, almost didn’t realize that the large, burly white man across the aisle was speaking to him. He looked up, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

“Excuse me?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the engine of their small plane.

The man who’d spoken exchanged glances with the soldier next to him, the only other person in the plane besides the pilot. They chuckled, and the burly white man returned his attention to the Recruit.

“Me and Match, here, we’ve seen some hell since this war started. Same with Wing, up in the cockpit. But you, you’re just a kid. How old are you?”

The Recruit averted his gaze. “Eighteen, sir.”

“Eighteen,” the man grumbled. “And colored, too. Back in the States, we just started letting colored people serve, but they aren’t mixed in with the others. What makes you so special?”

“I’m not from America, mate,” the Recruit clarified. “I’m from Australia.”

“Yeah, I figured by the accent,” the man retorted. “But that’s not what I asked. There’s only four of us on this plane, flying to God-knows-where for some top-secret bullshit. What’s a colored kid doing in here with us?”

“Ah.” The Recruit said dryly. “I’m a sniper. I have top marksman scores. My name is–”

“I don’t give a shit about your name, Recruit,” the American said.

“We don’t do that here,” Match added in a thick British accent. “Makes it too personal. Like he said, I’m Match, and the pilot is Wing.”

“And I’m Brick,” the American added.

“What does that make me?” the Recruit asked.

“’Recruit’ will do just fine for now,” responded Brick. “Now, Recruit, do you know what we’re doing?”

The Recruit shook his head. “I don’t. I assumed one of you did. I don’t even know where we are.”

“Transylvania,” Wing called back from the cockpit, his accent faintly French. “You know, with the castles and monsters?”

“We’re being sent to Eastern Europe?” the Recruit wondered aloud, glancing at the mass of trees beyond the airplane window. “Why?”

“We don’t know,” Wing replied. “I was told to collect you three and land us at these coordinates.”

“I was only instructed to get on the plane, just like you,” added Match. “They mentioned I should bring my demolition supplies.”

“Supposedly, I’m the squad leader,” Brick finished. “But I’ve been given a letter with further directions; a letter which I am not allowed to open until we land.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, producing a white envelope. “It’s all very dramatic.”

Match nodded at the Recruit’s carrying case. “What kind of rifle do you shoot with?”

The Recruit smiled. “Lee-Enfield, Mark Three. Modified with a heavy barrel and a telescopic sight, of course.”

Brick grunted. “That fires .303 rounds, yeah?”

Leaning back, the Recruit nodded.

“What about your sidearm?” pressed Brick.

Match and Wing groaned simultaneously. 

“Here we go again,” muttered Match.

Ignoring them, Brick met eyes with the Recruit. “What sidearm do you use?”

The Recruit reached into his case, retrieving a revolver. “Same manufacturer. It’s–” 

“You use a revolver?” Brick interrupted, scoffing. “Have you ever been in a firefight before?”

Next to him, Match rolled his eyes.

“I haven’t,” the Recruit admitted. “But I’ve trained–”

“What you need is, something with more firepower,” interjected Brick a second time, reaching into a bag next him. “Something that won’t give up the ghost after six shots.”

He produced a black semi-automatic pistol with a wooden grip. “The 1911. American-made. Impeccable accuracy, thanks to the trigger design, and after you put eight holes in your target with those ACP rounds, they ain’t going nowhere. It’s some modern cowboy shit.”

“I, uh . . .” The Recruit hesitated as Brick offered the weapon to him. “I can’t just take your sidearm.” 

“Sure you can,” Brick insisted. “I brought spares, just for recruits like you.”

“You might as well,” Match added, holding up his own 1911. “He’s very persistent.”

Sighing, the Recruit gently took the pistol from the American, following up with some spare magazines. Leaning down, he stuffed them in his duffel bag.

“I found our landing strip,” Wing announced, turning the plane. “It’s not much, though. Prepare to get bumpy.”

He veered down, and the Recruit gripped his seat, gritting his teeth in a useless attempt to combat the g-force of the maneuver. Wing lowered them past the tree line, settling onto a long, lush clearing. They rumbled over grass and rocks and branches, and the Recruit felt his bones rattle. Across the aisle, Brick and Match laughed hysterically, as if they were on a roller coaster. Much to the Recruit’s relief, they finally began to slow, shuddering to a stop amongst the trees and wildlife.

“Now, wasn’t that fun?” Wing joked, glancing back at the others. 

Brick stood up, stretching. “Just like Coney Island. Let’s get outside and see why we’re here.”

The squad disembarked, collecting their gear and strapping it to their bodies as they exited the plane. As they gathered around Brick, he retrieved the letter, opening and unfolding it. Glancing at his comrades, he cleared his throat, reading aloud.

“Mission Report: Operation Sarcophagus. If you’re reading this, you’ve been indoctrinated into the ground floor of a global, collaborative effort to stop Adolf Hitler and his despicable regime. It is our hope that this new United Nations, when made public, will create a future of peace unlike anything we’ve previously known. For the moment, however, war is necessary, and we need brave men like you to carry it out in secret today.”

Brick glanced up at the others before continuing.

“Five kilometers East of your landing coordinates stands a secret Nazi installation that, as far as we know, has remained hidden from our combined intelligence agencies until now. From what we understand, this installation is the home and laboratory of a high-ranking Nazi scientist, who we only know as ‘Black Pharaoh.’ He is supposedly on the brink of developing a new weapon; a weapon that will end the war and secure the Axis’s rise to global power.”

“What kind of weapon?” Match interrupted.

Brick shook his head. “It doesn’t say. Just listen.”

Shuffling the paper, he finished.

“Your mission is twofold. First, infiltrate the installation, acquire this weapon, and destroy any ability for the Nazis to recreate it. Second, dispose of this Black Pharaoh, so he may not continue to serve Hitler’s army. Good luck, soldiers.”

Brick folded the paper silently, stuffing it back into its envelope.

The Recruit scratched his head. “We’re behind enemy lines right now.”

“Seems like it,” Wing commented, looking around as he gripped his carbine rifle. “So, where’s the enemy?”

A gentle breeze blew through the trees, generating a faint howl, and the Recruit shivered.

________________

For the next few hours, Brick’s squad carefully trudged through the Transylvanian forest, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. Strangely, they encountered no resistance, not even hearing a peep from local wildlife. As they progressed, the sun began to set, casting ever-lengthening shadows across the grassy floor. Any chatter that they’d initiated during their journey faded to silence as they trekked forward with bated breath.

The moon suddenly emerged from smoky black clouds, casting a pale glow across the four soldiers. For the umpteenth time, a chill wind rushed past them, and the Recruit heard another faint howl. The leaves rustled, then settled, and the world grew quiet. They took another step forward before being interrupted by the howl again.

This time, there was no wind.

Immediately, the four men huddled together, back-to-back, facing North, South, East, and West. They raised their respective weapons: Brick’s pump-action shotgun, Match’s Tommy gun, Wing’s carbine, and the Recruit’s Lee-Enfield. Around them, the forest shifted, leaves trembling as something large approached them.

“What do you think it is?” Match whispered. “A pack of wolves?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Brick. “Just be ready.”

Suddenly, a large, hulking shadow barreled out of the trees, veering straight for the squad. They separated, diving out of the way, and it raced past them in a blur, huffing with a low, gravelly growl. The four men turned to fire, but it had disappeared back into the foliage. As they climbed to their feet, Wing spun in a circle, eyes wide.

“That was a bear!” he exclaimed in a loud whisper. “It came right for us!”

Brick shook his head, leveling his shotgun in the direction the creature had disappeared. “I don’t think so. Something’s not right here.”

In the shadows appeared a pair of glowing red eyes, and the Recruit heard a deep growl rumble through the evening air. 

“Fuck this,” Match said, stepping forward and opening fire with his Tommy gun. The forest lit up with muzzle flashes, and a wave of bullets shredded the leaves and splintered the tree bark. To the Recruit’s surprise, the glowing eyes faded backwards, disappearing in the gloom. Match stopped firing and turned around, smiling at the group. “See? Nothing but–”

From the darkness erupted a ten-foot bipedal beast, its fur coarse and black, its snout long and glistening. Tattered clothes, the remnants of a white cloth shirt and loose white pants, hung from its muscular frame, and a silver collar locked around its neck, adorned with tiny lights that glowed bright red, just like the beast’s eyes. The giant animal dashed across the grass at Match, extending thick arms and producing razor-sharp claws from its fingertips.

“Match!” cried the Recruit, leaping at the British soldier. He tackled him just as the beast swiped its hands, its claws whistling above their heads as they crashed back to the ground. 

Even as they landed, the Recruit heard Brick and Wing open fire with their weapons, bullets whizzing into the animal’s fur. The projectiles disappeared with nothing but whispers, and the beast jerked in their direction, roaring. 

“It’s not a bear,” Wing gulped. 

“No,” agreed Brick. “It’s some kind of Human Wolf.”

The Recruit rolled to his feet, shouldering his Lee-Enfield and quickly taking aim at the monster. It seemed to sense his intent, because it turned to look at him, red eyes connecting with his own. Before it could react, he squeezed the trigger, sending a .303 round rocketing between the Human Wolf’s eyes. The bullet struck the creature’s forehead, flattening against it before ricocheting into the grass. The force of the gunshot seemed to disrupt the Human Wolf, though, because for a moment, its red eyes flickered, as if a bulb in its skull had shorted. Then, the collar around its neck hummed loudly, and the redness steadied, bringing the creature’s attention back to the Recruit.

“Oh . . .” the Recruit whispered. “Oh no.”

Brick ran at the Human Wolf, blasting shotgun rounds into its midsection. As he drew close, he caught the thing under the chin with one of the blasts, and it staggered back a little, red eyes flickering once more. As the Recruit watched, the collar hummed again, helping the creature regain its focus. 

Wait a second. 

“Brick!” he yelled, racking the bolt on the side of his Lee-Enfield to chamber the next round. “Get out of the way!”

His warning came too late, however; the Human Wolf leaned forward and backhanded Brick across the face, sending him flying through the air. The American landed on his back with a heavy thud, groaning loudly. 

“Match! Wing!” The Recruit called. “I have an idea, but I need a moment!”

“You got it,” Match responded, and Wing nodded. Together, the two men opened fire on the Human Wolf, spreading apart until they were at the creature’s ten o’clock and two o’clock positions. It snarled, looking back and forth, seemingly confused about who to attack first.

Got you, thought the Recruit, peering down his scope.

He pulled the trigger once more, and for the second time, a .303 round barreled across the forest, striking the Human Wolf. This time, however, the bullet cracked against the side of the beast’s collar, shattering the device. The metal contraption dropped to the forest floor, red lights fading to darkness, and simultaneously, the Human Wolf’s eyes flickered from red to white. It stumbled back, searching around itself in sharp, panicked motions, before sprinting off into the tree line, panting heavily.

As it ran away, the dark forest fell into a hushed silence again.

“Qu'est-ce que c'était que ça?” exclaimed Wing, his voice cracking.

“My feelings exactly,” Match muttered, glancing at the Recruit. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” the Recruit admitted. “I just made an informed guess.”

He walked over to the fallen collar, kicking it into the foliage.

“Jeez-US!” interrupted Brick, still on his back with his eyes closed. “My body feels like it was flattened by a steamroller.”

Match and the Recruit rushed to help him up, the former chuckling, “Oh hush, you baby.”

Brick opened his eyes, holding up his hands, and froze. “Hey, Wing?”

Wing looked up from reloading his carbine. “Yeah?”

“What was it you said about Transylvania in the plane?”

“Oh.” Wing thought for a moment. “I said it had castles and monsters.”

“Well, we know about the monsters now,” Brick replied, pointing past them. “And there’s the other thing.”

Match, Wing, and the Recruit turned to look above the trees, where the forest began to slope into a mountain. In the distance, a stone castle jutted up at the starry sky, orange light glowing from its sharply-cut windows. 

“What do you know,” Wing commented. “East, just like our destination.”

Match and the Recruit helped Brick to his feet, and he brushed himself off, retrieving his shotgun. “No time to waste, then.”

In the distance, the Recruit heard a haunting, lonely howl.

________________

It took little time for them to reach a point in the forest where the trees began to thin, leaving the moonlit stone castle looming over them. The Recruit gripped his Lee-Enfield tightly, his eyes nervously darting back and forth in the darkness.

“So, we’re not going to talk about what just happened?” whispered Match.

“Shh!” Wing hissed back.

Brick grumbled for a moment to himself, then muttered, “Doesn’t matter. The mission stays the same.”

“If anything,” the Recruit added, “this makes the mission more imperative. We don’t want that thing running around our streets, if it came from Black Pharaoh.”

Brick shot him a glance. “The Recruit speaks some sense.”

“What do you think’s waiting for us up in the castle?” Match nervously asked.

Brick chuckled. “Probably some showgirls in their lingerie, waiting for four dirty, sweaty men in fatigues to come give them a good time.”

“Oh, good,” Match responded sarcastically. “I was worried it’d be wolfmen and Nazis.”

The Recruit took another step forward, but the grass crunched like glass beneath his boot, and he paused. Slowly panning his head down, he saw that the greenery around him had turned white and glistening. The others stopped, too, and he rotated in a circle, registering that the entire forest was encased in a thin layer of ice. To punctuate this realization, his next breath produced a thick fog, partially obscuring his vision.

“Christ above,” Brick moaned. “What now, the abominable snowman?”

Something crackled in the distance, just beyond the Recruit’s line of sight, and he saw movement in the shadows. 

“Wait,” he said. “Did you see that?”

More movement, on the other side now. Then, footsteps behind the Recruit. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing.

“We’re surrounded,” whispered Wing, his carbine shaking in his hands.

The Recruit spied the glimmer of a small glass object in the moonlight, past the shadows of the trees. Realization struck him, and he dove to his stomach as a gunshot rang out. Behind him, tree bark splintered as something small and fast struck out, sending a sharp crack echoing throughout the forest. He quickly returned fire with his rifle, and the distant glimmer disappeared.

“Snipers,” he announced, chambering a new round. “Stay sharp.”

Another gunshot, from his left this time, and Wing spiraled to the ground, clutching his right arm. Match took point over Wing, spraying a barrage of bullets from his Tommy gun in the sniper’s direction. The first sniper reappeared in front of the Recruit, their second shot striking Match’s weapon and shattering it to pieces. 

The Recruit felt the frozen earth already seeping into his clothes, and he rolled to his feet, sprinting forward to place a thick tree between the first sniper and himself. As he skidded to a stop, a bullet whistled past his face, close enough to tickle his right ear, and he felt a flood of adrenaline heat up his extremities like a campfire. The other three soldiers scattered, using the trees as protection. Wing tossed his carbine to Match, using his free hands to tie off his shoulder wound before drawing his 1911 pistol. 

Beneath his feet, the Recruit felt the ground crack, the ice flaking away from the blades of grass as the earth exploded upwards in chunks. From below rose a mottled blue hand, its fingers stiff and steaming. A dirty sleeve appeared next, but through the muck, the Recruit could make out the telltale design of a Nazi military uniform. A second hand appeared, closer to the Recruit’s leg, and he yelped, stumbling backwards. Around him, the Recruit saw more bodies rising from the earth, six already visible, with others surely coming.

A blue face emerged from the ground near the Recruit, twisted in a hollow expression of pain and terror. Now, with its upper half exposed, the Frozen Soldier used its arms as leverage to jerk itself out of the earth, its dead eyes focused on the Recruit. Moving quickly, the Recruit slung his Lee-Enfield over his shoulder, unholstering the 1911 Brick had gifted him. He took aim and planted three bullets in the Frozen Soldier’s face, which merely rocked back and forth as each round chipped away chunks of hardened flesh. 

Nearby, the Recruit heard Brick’s shotgun boom, and turned in time to see the head of the Frozen Soldier nearest the American explode into icy bits. Brick pumped the weapon, ejecting an empty shell and readying a new one. Another Frozen Soldier emerged, grabbing his leg, and he spun around, firing down at the ground to decimate the would-be attacker.

Elsewhere, Match and Wing stood back-to-back, firing at the rising undead, but their smaller-caliber weapons were having as much effect as the Recruit’s sidearm. One of the Frozen Soldiers rushed at them, but Wing dropped low, sweeping its legs out from under it. Before it could return to its feet, Match shoved a live grenade into its open mouth, and the pair dove away as the creature detonated in a cacophony of light and sound. 

Returning his attention to the immediate threat in front of him, the Recruit leaned forward, shoving the barrel of his 1911 against the Frozen Soldier’s eye socket. It reached up, wrapping cold, stiff hands around his wrists, but before it could cause any damage, he squeezed the trigger, firing a .45 round directly into the creature’s skull. The Frozen Soldier jerked away from him, falling limply onto the ice-covered grass.

Suddenly, something struck the Recruit’s backpack, the force of it almost knocking him over. He spun around to see that the glass glimmer had returned. Growling, he unslung his Lee-Enfield, shouldering the rifle.

“I’m going after the snipers!” he announced, rushing towards the glimmer.

“Go!” Brick yelled, disintegrating another Frozen Soldier with his shotgun. “We’ve got this!”

The Recruit saw the glimmer flash, and he pivoted his body, narrowly avoiding another terminal blow as a bullet whizzed past. Slamming against the nearest tree, he peered around the trunk with the scope of his rifle, seeking out his opponent. About a hundred meters away lay another Frozen Soldier, prone in the icy earth and hugging a large sniper rifle. The sight caused the Recruit to double-take; he hadn’t expected such a sophisticated tactic from these things.

The creature spied him, however, and took aim with remarkable speed, firing at him as he ducked back behind his tree. The bark exploded, and he spun around the side opposite the Frozen Soldier’s line of sight, closing the gap between them. Unstrapping his backpack, he tossed it to the ground, quickly retrieving his emergency flare gun. He loaded a flare, blindly firing around the tree in the direction of the Frozen Soldier. 

As the burning projectile rocketed through the forest, bright light obscuring the space between the Recruit and the Frozen Soldier, the Recruit crept through the trees, shifting his position until he stood slightly behind the sniper. The creature shuffled, standing to its feet to find a spot away from the flare, and the Recruit took aim with his Lee-Enfield, firing into the back of its skull. The bullet burrowed into the Frozen Soldier’s head, and it slumped over like a sack of bricks.

One down, thought the Recruit. One to go.

He dashed through the forest, on the outskirts of the battle the others waged. Nearby, a Frozen Soldier emerged from behind a tree, and he reacted almost instinctively, unsheathing the Lee-Enfield's detached bayonet on his hip and burying the blade into the creature’s eye socket. As it collapsed, he jerked his weapon back out, returning it to its holster. The glimmer of the second sniper caught his eye, and he reoriented himself, angling towards the attacker.

Rather than try to pick him off from the distance, the Recruit saw this second sniper rise to its feet, shuffling in the shadows. He steeled himself, dropping to one knee and firing at the shadow’s head. The Frozen Soldier seemed to dodge the shot, pulling something from within the folds of its Nazi uniform and hurling it at the Recruit. The Recruit stumbled back, holding his Lee-Enfield out as a shield. A hatchet emerged from the gloom, spinning through the air and colliding with his rifle with enough force to break it in half before ricocheting to the ground.

Swearing, the Recruit tossed the bisected gun to the ground, drawing his 1911. Ahead, the Frozen Soldier hurled itself at him, and he opened fire with the sidearm, the shots connecting with the attacker’s upper torso without leaving any notable damage. He grabbed for his bayonet again, but the Frozen Soldier reached him first, picking him up by his shirt and tossing him backwards several meters. The Recruit landed with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs, and he tumbled back into the area where the others were.

No. Where the others had been. 

The Recruit rolled onto his back, looking around the silent patch of frost-covered forest. His squadmates were gone, along with the other Frozen Soldiers. Their weapons and gear littered the ground, and the Recruit could make out a disturbed patch of ground where several people – or bodies – had been dragged away. He felt his mouth go dry as his absolute isolation registered in his head.

The final Frozen Soldier stalked into view, approaching the Recruit with menace. The Recruit fumbled around, hunting for something with which to defend himself. His hands quickly found a molded, wooden handle, and he sighed in relief. The Frozen Soldier picked up a thick, ice-covered tree branch, holding it over its head with the pointed end aimed at the Recruit’s chest. Crouching, it leapt into the air, whistling downwards with lethal force.

The Recruit twisted his body, revealing Brick’s discarded shotgun. He hip-fired from a prone position, blasting a thick cloud of metal pellets up into the Frozen Soldier’s body. The force of the blast knocked the creature to the side, punching a fist-sized hole through its upper torso. It landed next to the Recruit, tumbling away, and came to a silent stop, the tree branch slipping from its lifeless hand.

The Recruit dropped his shotgun, releasing a slow, shaky breath, and pulled himself to his feet. Around him, the ground began to rapidly thaw, melting into sludge. He grabbed all the supplies he could carry and hurried out of the area, chasing after the path his friends had made when they were dragged away. As sweat beaded down his face, a thought popped into his head.

If this is in the forest, what’s in the castle? 

​

Enemy Lines, Pt. 2

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • The Search for Terror

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

Betty & Barney

Benji looked out of the car window at the night sky, the intensity of the moon’s white glow causing his eyes to ache. Trees whipped past him on both sides, partially obscuring the mountains beyond. He felt tired, so tired, after his long day enjoying his sixth birthday at a big, big waterfall. He practiced counting by keeping track of the dark tree trunks, using his eyes to focus on one at a time until each one disappeared, returning the forest to a blur.

“How much longer, do you think?” asked his mother, Betty, up in the passenger’s seat.

His father, Barney, sighed. “Not too much longer. We’ll get back in time to get some sleep before the morning.”

“Maybe we should stop at a motel,” Betty urged. “It’s already almost eleven.”

“It’s okay,” Barney insisted. “We’ll make it.”

Returning his attention to the sky above, Benji noticed that a second, smaller moon had now appeared, a small, white point of light to the left of the larger, more familiar circle. The smaller moon flickered past the stars, moving back and forth in swift, erratic patterns. 

His mother had noticed it, too. “Barney! Do you see that?”

Barney glanced out the window. “Huh. Do you think it’s a falling star?”

Before Betty could answer, Benji felt pressure between his legs. “Mommy. I have to use the bathroom.”

Betty and Barney exchanged glances, and the latter responded, “Sorry, Benji. No bathroom around here. Are you okay going on the side of the road?”

Peeking outside hesitantly, Benji asked, “Is it cold?”

“Maybe a little,” Betty replied softly. “But you’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Oh, hey,” Barney added, pointing ahead. “There’s a little picnic area. You can go up there.”

They pulled over to the side of the road, the car clicking as Barney activated his emergency lights. Together, he and Benji trotted toward a wooden table with two attached benches, straining to avoid obstacles in the darkness. Benji began to do his business, turning to look over his shoulder at the car. Inside, his mother peered up at the sky, squinting through a tiny object that Benji didn’t recognize.

“Dad, what is she holding?” he asked, pulling his pants back up.

Barney turned to look at his wife, calling to her when he saw what she was doing. “Honey! Why do you have the binoculars out?”

She said nothing, opting instead to point up at the stars. Benji followed her finger, gasping in awe as he saw a large, disc-shaped object hovering in the sky, backlit by the moon, its underside flickering multi-colored lights. Looking up at his father, he saw the man scratching his head, a confused expression on his face.

“Maybe it’s a new kind of commercial plane?” Barney muttered skeptically.

Suddenly, the disc dipped in their direction, picking up speed as it approached.

“That’s not a plane!” Barney corrected himself, scooping up Benji and hurrying toward the car. They climbed into the vehicle, and Benji strapped himself in as Barney stomped on the accelerator, sending them lurching forward. Benji felt his head press back against his seat, and they zoomed down the old, abandoned road, the flickering disc chasing after them.

“What is that thing?” Betty demanded, craning her neck around the window to look at it. “It’s got to be at least forty feet wide. And it’s spinning, Barney. Just like that flying saucer my sister saw.”

“I don’t know, honey,” Barney admitted, “but we aren’t going to stop and ask for directions with our son in the car!”

Benji felt tears welling up behind his eyes, his parents’ panic upsetting him more than the craft itself. He’d never seen them so scared before.

Ahead loomed a series of mountains, and they pressed forward, the disc so low now that the flashing lights surrounded them. Benji heard a crunching sound, and looked up to see the roof of the car beginning to crumple like aluminum foil. He cried now, and he heard his father swear, swerving to a stop. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a small pistol, opening the car door.

“Barney, what are you doing?” Betty cried as he slammed the car door shut. “Barney!”

As Barney cocked his pistol, the disc lowered from the sky, its massive body filling Benji’s view through the front windshield. Maybe it was because Benji was starting to get hungry, but it reminded him a little of a pancake. Inside the pancake, Benji saw a series of windows, through which about ten shadowy figures seemed to be watching him.

Leveling his pistol, Barney approached the glowing pancake. “Leave us alone!”

Stay where you are.

The voices that whispered seemed to come not from the craft, nor even from beyond the car; to Benji, they bounced around the inside of his skull, as if they’d always been there. Ahead, the thing from the sky lowered to the earth, and a hole opened from the bottom as the whispers repeated themselves.

Stay where you are.

Backing away, Barney sprinted to the car, his eyes wide and hysterical. He yanked open the driver’s side door, collapsing in the seat and gripping the steering wheel. He turned to Betty, shivering.

“They’re going to capture us!” He glanced behind him, his eyes connecting with Benji’s. “I won’t let them.”

He stomped on the pedal once more, swerving around the massive metal pancake, the car grumbling as it dragged itself through the dirt and grass on the side of the road. They blasted past the newcomer, Barney muttering to himself the entire time.

“They’re not human. Somehow, they’re not human.”

He glanced to his right. “Betty, look for the ship. Make sure they’re not following us.”

Benji’s breath came in short, fearful gasps now as he watched his mother slowly roll down her window, leaning her head outside.

“Barney!” she cried. “It’s right above–”

A low buzz vibrated the roof of the car, interrupting Betty as it spread throughout the whole vehicle, tingling Benji’s fingers and toes. Immediately, Benji’s parents relaxed, leaning back in their car seats. Benji’s stomach fluttered as the car began to slow, coasting gently to a stop. Ahead, the pancake reappeared, its underbelly practically a rainbow now. It lowered itself to the ground, and a ramp quickly extended from within the mass of lights, ending at an opening into the pancake. 

“Mom?” Benji whispered, wide-eyed. “Dad?”

Simultaneously, the two adults unbuckled their seatbelts, opening their doors and stepping back out into the street. Barney turned to reach into the car, his eyes glazed over as his hands stretched towards Benji. Struggling to escape his father’s grasp, Benji fought against his seatbelt, but it was too late. He found himself lifted into the air, tightly hugged as Betty and Barney walked calmly toward the metal pancake. 

“Help!” Benji yelled down the empty street, his young voice floating up into the starry sky. 

His parents stepped up onto the ramp of the thing from the stars, carrying Benji into a bright white light. When his vision cleared, he saw a circular, silver room filled with silver tables, the curved walls covered in long, flat windows that flickered like his television at home. Bustling about the room hurried slender grey people, devoid of clothes or any facial features beyond solid black eyes. As Benji and his parents entered the room, the grey people turned to stare at them.

Put the boy down, the whispers commanded, returning to Benji’s skull with a fury.

Barney complied, lowering his son to the floor.

Come to us, the grey people beckoned.

Betty and Barney approached, shambling like dry leaves in a gentle breeze. 

Reaching behind them, one of the grey people produced a fiery red orb, holding it up to the two adults’ faces. It began to flicker rapidly, shifting at random between red, green, and blue. Benji’s parents shuddered, and sweat began to drip down their faces. 

The boy will stay, Benji heard in his head. He will travel the cosmos with us, and live a happy life.

“No!” cried Benji, running to his parents. One of the grey men grabbed him and held him back while he kicked and screamed.

You will leave, the grey people continued. Forget the boy. Forget. 

Betty and Barney turned on their heels, marching back down the ramp without looking back at their son. Benji sobbed, screaming for them to come back, but they seemed not to hear him, entering their car and driving out of sight.

“It’s done, then?” a voice asked from behind.

Benji looked over his shoulder, and through teary eyes, he saw a tall man with a pale face, angular features, and thin, red lips. He wore stonelike armor covered in silver studs, the attire as deep black as his beady eyes. The man’s distorted features sent a chill down Benji’s spine, and his sobs caught in his throat.

It is, Black Pharaoh, the voices bounced around Benji’s skull.

The man nodded. “And the subliminal programming? With Kennedy in office, our plans are handicapped. We need to know they’ll be ready to strike when the time is right.”

They know what to do, the grey people responded, bowing respectfully.

Black Pharaoh glanced at Benji. “You kept the child again?”

They looked amongst themselves, seemingly alarmed, but he chuckled dismissively.

“No, no, it’s fine. My creations deserve a treat. Let’s take off.”

One of the grey people turned to a control panel on the curved wall, and Benji felt his stomach cartwheel as they rapidly rose into the air, jettisoning through the clouds. The moon’s glow filtered into the silver room, causing the world around Benji to glisten, and the grey people turned to face him. Where their mouths were missing, he saw a separation form, and their faces split open, revealing rows of pointed, sharklike teeth. They smiled, the expressions wicked, despite their dead, black eyes. His heart thudded wildly now, trying its hardest to replace the blood he was about to sacrifice.

He knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • Pool Party
  • Misplaced Toys
  • The Underneath

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

Nomad

A solitary bluejay happily chirped as it flitted back and forth between the treetops, its wings gracefully carrying it along the air currents. The overcast sky filtered faded sunlight through the leaves, producing patches of white across which the bird bounced, like a primal game of hopscotch. Something shifted in the distant foliage, and the bluejay turned in alarm, its beady black eyes flickering bright red for a split-second.

Suddenly, a small, round object whistled from the bushes, striking the winged creature’s skull. Its head exploded, showering the tree trunk behind it with bits of glass, metal, and oil. Wires protruding from its neck stump sparked a little, and the decapitated body tilted to the side, entering free-fall before colliding with the forest floor below.

As the dust settled, the Nomad rose from the ground, returning her slingshot to a pouch on her hip. She stepped forward, her patchwork layers of tattered clothes brushing up against the branches as she examined the bird that was not a bird. 

Another robot, she thought to herself. Are all the birds here fake?

A distance trickle reached her ears, and she turned her head in the direction of the sound, heading cautiously that way. As she approached, she saw thick, thorny bushes on the ground, and paused, drawing a pair of long garden shears.

“Not here,” she murmured. “Thorns are bad around here.”

Scoping out the foliage, she worked her way in a circle through the trees, orienting herself towards the trickling sound until she eventually encountered a small creek. She sheathed her shears, retrieving an old bottle she’d taken from an abandoned campsite a few weeks ago, along with some of the clothes she now wore. Holding the bottle down to the creek, she filled it with water, licking her dry lips. Once liquid began to pour from the top, she jerked the bottle to her mouth, gulping it down. After it had been drained, she began to fill it again, looking at her reflection in the water.

A dirty, smudged face stared back at her, the head obscured by a thick hood and a cloth strip that usually covered her mouth and nose. The rest of her attire consisted of an old brown coat, oversized flannel shirt, and torn khaki pants. The laces of her stolen boots were tied extra tight to avoid them slipping off. Still, here in this world, she needed all the protection she could get.

The pitter-patter of large paws drew her attention from her reflection, and she glanced up to see a large rat, about the size of a car engine, scurry up to the creek. Rather than alarm, she felt calm, and she smiled at the animal, waving. It squeaked in acknowledgement, dipping its face down to the creek to lap up the water. The Nomad sighed, screwing the cap back onto her refilled water bottle.

The rat shifted its stance a little, its foot touching a slimy, purple, dinner-plate-sized flower growing up from the creek bed. Immediately, the flower’s long, thick petals stretched out in the rat’s direction, ensnaring it. The petals grew and thickened, becoming more like octopus tentacles, and the stem rippled as it began to drain the creek dry to support the accelerated growth. Squealing in terror, the rat pawed at the flower tentacles, but its claws could not penetrate the vegetation.

“Hey!” The Nomad yelled, producing her shears once more. “Leave it alone!”

She lunged across the creek, enclosing the two sides of the shear blades around the tentacle that squeezed the rat’s waist. Pinching the shears together with all her weight, she snipped the tentacle completely off, and it relaxed its grip, unspooling around its prey. The other tentacles released the rat, cringing backwards as if responding to pain. The Nomad saw the rat hurry back into the woods, and she smiled.

Her victory was short-lived, though, as one of the other tentacles ensnared her ankle, lifting her upside-down into the air. She reached up, trying to free herself like she’d freed the rat, but another tentacle appeared, cracking like a whip to knock the shears from her hand. She swore, watching the main flower’s stamen peel back to reveal rows of tooth-like thorns in a tunnel that led down into the flower’s roots.

Not today, forest, she thought, retrieving her slingshot. Notching a large, smooth pebble with her other hand, she pulled back on the makeshift device, releasing the stone. The projectile whizzed through the air, colliding with the side of the flower’s mouth like a bullet. It squealed, the tone shrill and piercing, and the tentacles released the Nomad, dropping her unceremoniously to the ground.

Scrambling to her feet, the Nomad dove through the mass of squirming tentacles, sprinting past the trees and beyond their reach. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the flower grow still, the tentacles retreating back into petals once more, the thorn-filled stamen sealing closed. She slowed her stride, sighing, and leaned against a nearby tree, gasping for air.

“Hello?” a young girl’s voice suddenly called out nearby. “Is someone there? Please help me!”

The Nomad pressed her head against the tree bark, squeezing her eyes shut.

No, she thought. Not again. Don’t fall for the spider’s tricks.

Lifting her head, she peered exasperatedly at the tree cover, through which a grey sky periodically sparked green. 

Still, she silently continued, the forest is better than those things on the streets.

Humming loudly to drown out the creature’s call, she moved forward once more, sipping from her water bottle.

________________

A few hours later, as the Nomad had paused to tighten her shoelaces, she heard new voices echoing through the brush. Frowning, she stood up, retrieving her slingshot and drawing a pebble back against the elastic. She crouched, inching ahead to identify the source of the chatter. It only took a moment before she reached the edge of the treeline, looking across a wide clearing.

Before her stood a small graveyard, the names on the evenly-spaced headstones written in a language the Nomad couldn’t read. The grass was bright green here, though it seemed a bit overgrown; not unexpected for an old graveyard in the middle of the woods. The overcast sky cast a gloom across the graves, and the Nomad expected zombies to pop up at any moment.

Rather than the undead, though, she saw something even worse: The living.

Four men and one woman, all pale-face, red-lipped, and seemingly in their early twenties, circled one of the graves, shovels in hand. A massive pile of dirt next to the grave indicated to the Nomad that they’d dug it up, and her suspicions were confirmed when she saw a sixth person – another woman – pop up from the hole, waving around what appeared to be gold jewelry. Two of the men helped her out of the hole, and she showed them a satchel strapped to her body.

“We pawn this, we’ll be set for a long time,” she chuckled, her voice low and raspy. “No one ever comes this far into the forest anymore anyway.”

The Nomad shifted her stance, and a twig snapped beneath her heel. The six graverobbers spun to face her, and she quickly pocketed her slingshot, stepping out into the clearing with her hands up. 

“Who are you?” one of the men hissed. “You with the Sleep Police?”

“I don’t know what that is,” the Nomad admitted. Reaching up, she pulled back her hood and face covering, revealing a tan, feminine face with short, choppy hair. “I’m kind of new here.”

The graverobbers balked, and one of them whispered, “She’s from The Overhead!”

The Nomad took another gentle step forward. “My name is Alyssa Little. I came into your world by following some kind of flying jellyfish through the filter of a swimming pool. Do you know how I can get back to . . . what did you call it? The Overhead?”

The woman with the satchel stepped forward, eyeing Alyssa. She turned back to the others, addressing them. “How much do you think the Sleep Police would take for her?”

One of the men chuckled in response. “Sleep Police? Why let them have all the fun?”

She elbowed him in the ribs. “Stop thinking with your dick. We’re here to make a profit.”

Alyssa sighed, creeping backwards.

This is why I hate people, she thought to herself.

“Hey!” the other woman yelled, pointing at Alyssa. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Alyssa turned to flee, and the graverobbers took chase.

The trees blurred past her as she sprinted through the forest, her boots crushing the grass and leaves beneath them. Behind her, she heard the pale-faced antagonists cackle and scream, taunting her as they threatened to catch her. In a moment of inspiration, she adjusted course, following the thorns along the ground until the sound of running water reached her ears once more. When the creek appeared in front of her, she leapt across it, dropping a pebble back on top of the tentacle-flower she’d previously encountered.

Immediately, the plant sprung to life, and she looked over her shoulder to see its tentacles ensnare two of the pursuing men, lifting them into the air before pulling them towards its open mouth. Three of the others stopped to try to help them, pulling helplessly at the tentacles. Smiling, she turned her attention back to the woods . . .

And the woman with the satchel appeared around a tree trunk, swinging a shovel that sent Alyssa spiraling into darkness.

________________

Alyssa awoke with a start, her forehead slamming into some kind of wooden surface. She cringed, reaching up to touch her head, but more wood on either side of her body restricted her movements. Opening her eyes, she saw nothing but blackness, and as realization struck her, she began to take deep, panicked breaths.

“You awake down there?” she heard the graverobber with the satchel call, her voice distant and muffled. “You should be by now.”

Alyssa resisted the urge to scream for help. She knew it would make no difference here.

“That Squid Flower killed two of my friends,” the woman continued. “You killed two of my friends.”

“Bitch,” Alyssa heard one of the surviving men mutter. She placed her palms on the wooden surface above her, slowing her breathing.

“We’re just about to finish burying you,” added the woman with the satchel. “We’ll be back for you in, I don’t know, a week? And then we’ll take your body to the Sleep Police. I’m sure they’ll still pay a little bit for the corpse of a girl from The Overhead.”

Dying in a grave in a cemetery, Alyssa thought to herself. How fitting.

She reached down into her pockets to see what supplies she could use to survive or escape, but quickly realized that they’d removed all of her belongings. Gritting her teeth, she stifled her tears, not giving them the satisfaction of hearing her fear.

Besides, she knew what was about to come.

“What the hell?” the other woman suddenly cried from above.

Alyssa heard a series of overlapping scratching sounds somewhere beyond her coffin. Within moments, something sharp scraped against the wood, and rapid sniffing reached her ears. The wood began to flake and splinter, falling onto her face, and she covered her eyes and mouth, patiently waiting. After another moment, she felt something break through the coffin, and cold wetness touched her hands.

Shifting up into a sitting stance, Alyssa forced herself up through the new hole in the coffin, clawing into the recently shifted dirt. She held her breath, pulling along the earth, until grey light reached her eyes. Breaching the grave in which she’d been buried, she gasped, sucking in fresh air. Her eyes adjusted, and she glanced at the graverobbers.

The two men and two women glared at her, their eyes darting down at the ground periodically. Surrounding them stood half a dozen large rats, much like the one Alyssa had encountered at the creek. The rodents hissed at the graverobbers, baring sharp teeth, and the humans waved their shovels in response.

“I’m going to kill you,” one of the men said, running at Alyssa. The rats immediately pounced on him, biting into his flesh, and he screamed, rolling around to shake them off.

“The animals here don’t seem to like it when I’m in trouble,” Alyssa explained to the horrified survivors. “Are you going to be trouble?”

Two of the remaining graverobbers rushed to help the one covered in rats, but the woman with the satchel waved them away. “Leave him. While they’re distracted, we’ll kill the girl.”

Alyssa shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that. They’ve had time to get to me.”

“Who’s had time–” began the other woman, but she screamed in pain, collapsing to the ground as something dragged her by the legs beyond the treeline, out of sight. In the distance, Alyssa heard bones crunch, and the woman’s screams faded into whimpers.

“That’s it,” the last man said, dropping his shovel. “I’m out of here.”

He turned to run, but a pair of large, feather-winged snakes swooped down from the trees, biting at his face. Crying out, he fell to the ground, and the snakes began to work their way up towards his eyes. Alyssa glanced at the last woman standing, offering a sad sigh.

“I call those egg-eaters,” she explained. “But it appears they’ll go after anything that looks like eggs.”

The man’s cries turned shrill as the snakes began to burrow into his eye sockets.

“What . . . what are you?” the woman with the satchel whispered, her bottom lip quivering.

“I’m just a girl, trying to survive,” Alyssa responded. “A nomad, without a home.”

A low hiss emanated from behind Alyssa, and she turned to see a black, faceless alligator waddle up to her side. Leaning down, she gently pet the thing’s rubbery skin, whispering to it.

“Good girl. You want a snack?”

The alligator slithered forward, and the leader of the graverobbers dropped her satchel, stumbling away in an attempt to escape. She made it ten steps before the creature caught up with her, chomping its carrot-sized teeth around her leg and jerking her to the ground.

Alyssa bent down, retrieving the satchel of jewelry, before collecting her tools and supplies and latching them back onto her person. Unscrewing her water bottle, she took a sip of the lukewarm drink, humming a tune to drown out the screams as she left the graveyard, a Nomad once more.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

The Search for Terror

Arctic winds bit at Isaac’s skin as he stared into the endless flurry of snow, icy water sloshing far beneath him. He looked out over the bow of the Breadalbane, a large, sturdy merchant ship that had been repurposed for something far greater than the sum of its parts. Ahead, glaciers manifested from the gloom, as if summoned into existence by some dark wizard. As the mountains of ice passed the ship, he shivered. 

“What’s wrong, boy? Cold feet already?”

Isaac turned to face the source of the questions, shaking his head. “Not at all, Captain Taylor. Just working on a bit of a thicker skin.”

The ship captain grunted disapprovingly. “This is why I said we shouldn’t have children in the rescue party. They slow us down too much. And call me Jacob, damn it. We aren’t in the Navy.”

“Sorry, sir,” Isaac responded, immediately cringing at his own wording. “I know I still have some growing to do, but when Lady Franklin calls for help, we answer. Right?”

“Hm,” Jacob grunted again, his tone a little softer this time. “Good enough.”

He turned away, shambling across the deck towards the sails, leaving Isaac alone once more.

I can’t disappoint Lady Franklin, he thought, returning his attention to the ice and snow.

Eight years ago, the gentleman whom Isaac and his family served, Sir John Franklin, embarked on an expedition by sea to finish mapping the Northwest Passage for the benefit of future sailors. Family back in Britain expected to receive periodic communication from John, but after two years, they heard nothing but silence. His wife, Lady Jane Franklin, became concerned, and sent a search and rescue party the following year which yielded no results.

Not the least bit deterred, she worked with others to establish a heartier party, sending some of her trusted servants – Isaac included – to aid in any way they could. While the ships sent out had the goal of rescuing the entire crew aboard both ships – the HMS Erebon and the HMS Terror – Isaac's only mission was the latter vessel, upon which Lady Franklin expected him to find her husband. 

And Isaac had every intention of doing so.

A low rumble shook Isaac from his thoughts, and the Breadalbane began to shudder, destabilizing his balance. He fell forward, catching himself on the railing at the edge of the bow. Below, he saw that the ice had grown and thickened, now penetrating the ship’s hull. 

“It’s too much!” he cried back at the rest of the crew. “We have to stop or we’ll sink!”

They began to close the sails, but the ship’s momentum continued unabated, plowing into thicker and thicker ice. The Breadalbane began to tilt to the right, and Isaac’s grip on the railing tightened as he felt gravity pull him towards the freezing water. Three crew members weren’t so fortunate, though, and they screamed as they fell, their bodies slamming into the hard ice far below and splattering it red.

“Abandon ship!” yelled Jacob, releasing his grip near the sails and sliding gracefully across the steepening deck. As he launched over the edge, he executed a dive, plunging into the water between two chunks of ice.

Isaac and the other crew members followed suit, leaping overboard into the frigid sea. As Isaac struck the water, his breath caught in his chest, frozen in place by the shocking cold. His body instantly grew numb, and he hurried back to the water’s surface, climbing onto the nearest floating piece of ice. He hardly felt the frozen water beneath him as he hugged his chest for warmth. 

Overhead, the ship continued its roll, fully capsizing with a massive splash that soaked the already-wet former crew. They screamed in protest, and in the corner of his eye, Isaac saw the wave shove the blood and bodies of his fellow crewmates into the deep, forever lost to the fishes. His heart sank, and he held back his tears.

How will we return home? he wondered as the Breadalbane sank, fear numbing him more than the cold ever could.

“To shore!” Jacob called, pointing to what appeared to be a nearby land mass. “That’s Beechey Island. We should be able to find shelter there. Gather all the supplies you can and come with me!”

Isaac and the remaining crew scrambled for nearby tools and provisions, climbing over any thick ice they could find as the water between platforms began to re-solidify. After thirty grueling minutes, they staggered onto the shore of Beechey Island, collapsing into the snow. Only Jacob stood tall, hands on his hips, looking around. The snowstorm died down, revealing a wide, flat plane of white as far as Isaac could see.

“Where will we go?” he asked the former ship captain.

“Forward,” Jacob replied. “Always forward.”

With that, he took a step towards the arctic tundra, not bothering to look back and see if the others were following. Isaac trotted close behind, and the others grumbled, staggering to their feet to keep up. It was in this manner that eighteen men left behind their beloved Breadalbane, plowing straight into the frigid wasteland.

________________

Hours passed as they trekked through the snow, remaining mostly silent the entire time. The seawater froze in thin layers across their skin, flaking off as they walked. Sensation had left Isaac a while ago, and he worried about the potential for frostbite. Despite the clearer weather, he saw nothing but endless emptiness, the earth as pale as an army of ghosts.

He feared that, if nothing changed soon, he might be the next to join that army.

“Hey,” one of the crewmen called out, pointing. “What’s that ahead?”

Isaac squinted, trying to focus on three small, dark shapes close to the ground, but he couldn’t make out the details.

“Only one way to find out, right?” Jacob responded, drawing a knife from his belt. Isaac followed suit with his hatchet, unable to use any firearms, since the sea had soaked their gunpowder supply. 

They moved toward the objects, and as they drew close, Isaac registered three wooden planks jutting up from the snow. Each one had a little writing on them, and as the crew slowed to a stop, Isaac read them aloud.

“John Torrington. John Hartnell. William Braine.”

One of the crew members near him sighed. “Those three were part of Franklin’s expedition. I guess they didn’t make it.”

Jacob stepped closer to the makeshift gravestones, whistling. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

The crew gathered around Jacob, peering down. Sure enough, there were three body-sized holes in front of the three gravestones.

Three empty holes.

A crew member scratched his head. “What do you think happened? Did the others get hungry and eat them?”

Jacob shot him a stern look. “Don’t say something like that, sailor. Franklin’s men aren’t cannibals.”

The man shrunk back sheepishly, and Jacob crouched near the graves, holding up an empty glass vial lying atop the snow. “What do you think this was for? Medicine, maybe?”

Suddenly, a strong wind swept through the group, carrying a renewed flurry of snowflakes with it. Isaac felt the air irritate his chapped skin, and as he squinted in discomfort, he saw a figure approaching through the storm.

“Hey!” he called, getting Jacob’s attention. “Over there!”

The group hurried toward the incoming silhouette, but quickly stopped, balking in horror.

From the flurry emerged a gaunt, pale thing, a humanoid figure wearing white clothes and sporting curly blonde hair. Its face was shriveled and stiff, blackened by frostbite, the eyes cold and lifeless. Still, it shambled towards them, mouth open in some silent scream of eternal terror, the snowstorm whipping its hair around haphazardly. 

“What in God’s name is that?” a crew member near Isaac gasped.

Isaac turned to look at the man who’d spoken, and his eyes widened, his lips parting in terror. “Sir, behind you!”

Another Frozen Man had appeared behind the crew member, this one’s hair short and black. It reached around the man, shoving its fingers in his mouth, and jerked downwards, ripping his lower jaw from his face. The crew member screeched, blood pouring from the wound, his tongue flopping helplessly down from the missing lower half of his face. His eyes watered in pain and panic before rolling into the back of his head, and he passed out into the snow, the white powder quickly turning red around him.

“Hey!” another crew member yelled, running at the black-haired Frozen Man. Rearing back, he swung a large mallet in his hand, the blunt end of the tool connecting with the assailant’s face. Rather than causing any notable damage, the mallet’s wooden handle splintered, and the rubber head broke away, leaving the Frozen Man unfazed. Looking down at the useless handle in his hand, the crew member frowned. “Oh.”

The black-haired Frozen Man struck out with one arm, punching into the would-be attacker’s chest. A sickening, wet sound reached Isaac’s ears through the snow-filled winds as the thing’s arm emerged from the other side of the crew member’s body, red and glistening. The Frozen Man removed its arm from his chest, leaving a gaping hole that gushed blood. The crew member gasped, stumbling around for a moment, before dropping to his knees and joining his jawless comrade in the snow.

A sharp crunch drew Isaac’s attention back to the first, curly-haired Frozen Man, who’d lifted another crewmate into the air, folding him in half like a tablecloth. Nearby, a third Frozen Man appeared, this one bald and bearded. The thing reached up behind the closest crewmate, snapping his neck in one swift turn. Three men surrounded the newcomer, assaulting it with their tools and weapons, but it ignored their blows against its icy, hard skin, tearing them to pieces effortlessly. 

“Isaac!” the boy heard Jacob cry as he struggled against the curly-haired Frozen Man. As the thing grabbed him by the neck, lifting him into the air, he choked out three more words. “Run! Save yourself!”

Ignoring the man’s pleas, Isaac rushed at him, wielding his hatchet. He brought the blade down onto the arm holding Jacob in the air, but the metal shattered into pieces, sending painful reverberations traveling back up Isaac’s arms. The Frozen Man batted him away, sending him sprawling into the snow; as he struggled back to his feet, it grabbed Jacob’s face with its other hand, ripping the man’s head cleanly from his body.

Sucking in the freezing air, Isaac hyperventilated as he sprinted across the snow, away from the massacre. He turned his head, squinting his eyes shut as blood splatter turned the snow red, the droplets of pain and fear freezing in the wind and falling down like hailstones. As he fought back tears, he staggered forward, beyond the sounds of the crewmates’ screams.

________________

Isaac wasn’t sure how long he stumbled through the storm before his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed face-first into the powder, so numb that he barely registered the collision. As the wind shifted direction, a low, hollow moan reached his ears. He slowly raised his head, squinting through the snowflakes at a dark void near him.

“A portal to hell,” he mumbled to himself deliriously. “That explains everything.”

The flurry slowed, and he realized it wasn’t a gate to the underworld at all – it was merely the entrance to a cave, embedded in a nearby hillside. Rejuvenated by the promise of shelter, Isaac dragged himself back to a standing position, shuffling towards the natural structure. As he reached the entrance, he leaned forward, peering into the darkness.

I can’t see a damn thing, he thought to himself. No matter. What’s in here can’t be worse than what’s out there.

He walked inside, his footsteps echoing off the cave walls, haunting his ears like the ghosts of his fallen crewmates. As he moved forward, the echoes tightened, as if the cave had begun to narrow, and he paused, reaching out with his hands to measure the width and height. His palms touched cold stone, and the storm faded once more, allowing sunlight to filter into the cave. As it illuminated the space around him, Isaac gasped.

Ahead sat a pitch-black, ornate coffin made of some kind of stone, its door open to reveal an empty interior riddled with silver spikes. The spikes crackled, arcs of green energy flickering back and forth between them. The entire coffin seemed to hum, its pitch low, its tone steady. As Isaac stared, he felt the hair on his head begin to raise.

As he began to back away from the strange contraption, a figure caught his peripheral vision, and he turned to the cave wall on his left. Screaming, he let go of the cold stone wall. 

A wall that wasn’t made of stone at all.

Merely centimeters away stood another Frozen Man, a petrified skeleton in tattered clothes who seemed to be embedded into the side of the cave. More Frozen Men surrounded the first, creating a complex collage of horrific, shriveled bodies. Isaac’s eyes traveled up, then to the right, realizing that he was surrounded by dozens of unmoving figures.

Realization struck him, and he quickly took count.

One hundred and thirty-one, he thought to himself. Plus the three outside. This is what remains of the Franklin expedition.

“What year is it?” a voice crackled from behind, startling him.

Isaac spun around to see a tall man enter the cave, shrugging the snow off his shoulders. He wore stonelike, pitch-black armor, seemingly made of something similar to the coffin on the other side of the cave. The armor was studded with small silver holes, lined up much in the same way as the array of spikes within the coffin. The man's face, the only exposed part of his body, appeared bleach-white and angular, with thin, red lips and black, beady eyes. 

“What year is it?” the man repeated, his voice raspy, as if he hadn’t had a drink of water in a long, long time.

“It’s . . .” Isaac gulped. “It’s 1853, sir.”

“Ah . . .” the man nodded, reaching into a pouch on his armor and retrieving a glass vial full of black, viscous fluid. “About two thousand years, then. No wonder I’m so tired.”

Without another word, he walked over to the nearest petrified expedition member, administering a single drop of the black fluid into their mouth. Moving to the side, he continued this with each body he encountered, murmuring to himself.

“My enemies thought, since they couldn’t kill me, they’d just hide me in this hole forever. Well, forever didn’t last quite as long as they expected, did it? You've failed, Bastet.”

“Excuse me,” Isaac interrupted gently. “Who are you, sir? What are you doing to these men?”

The man chuckled, turning to face the boy. Behind him, the Frozen Men began to animate, crackling like dry tree branches as they stiffly ripped themselves from the cave walls. Isaac’s eyes widened in horror, and the man in the armor finally answered his questions.

“I am – was – the ruler of The Underneath. The conqueror of death. The Black Pharaoh. I am Khufu, and I am here to remake The Overhead in my own image.”

Moving with the speed of a striking snake, Khufu lashed out his arm, lifting Isaac into the air by his neck. As the boy opened his mouth, gasping for air like a fish on land, Khufu tilted the glass vial over his face. A drop of the black substance fell from the lip of the vial, landing directly on Isaac’s tongue.

Instantly, he felt his pulse quicken, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. An inexplicable rage filled his chest, and he felt his muscles twitch beneath his skin, as if covered with crawling ants. Khufu dropped him to the floor, and he felt his bones stretch and crackle, turning him into . . . something else. He put his hands to his face, which had begun to stiffen, the skin hardening, and tears leaked from his eyes as he realized what kind of monster he was about to become.

He’d found Sir Franklin, after all. He just wouldn’t be bringing him back.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • Death on the Station, Pt. 1

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

Death on the Station, Pt. 2

Commander Kozlov slammed Captain Kennedy into the wall, shoving the Makarov in his face.

“You aren’t telling us everything,” she quietly growled. “What do you know about those things outside?”

Kennedy shifted his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re . . .”

His words trailed off as his eyes met hers again, and he sighed. “Okay, okay. Let me go and I’ll explain.”

Kozlov backed off, keeping the gun trained on the man. Liam did the same with his Cosmonaut pistol, looking around the room. In the corner, Fen watched the Star Scavengers on the scanners, her eyes red and wet from mourning the death of her twin brother. Kennedy brushed himself off, sitting in a nearby chair.

“In 1958,” he began, “the United States launched a monkey named Gordo from the NASA site in Cape Canaveral. Five minutes into his ascension, Gordo broke through the Earth’s atmosphere, entering outer space. Over the next two minutes, the vital monitors indicated fading signs of life, until he passed away at the seven-minute mark. The scientists believe that the air supply was improperly applied, and that Gordo suffocated in space.”

He paused, but Kozlov impatiently gestured with her Makarov for him to continue.

“More interestingly, though, was the immediate result. Before Gordo’s capsule could re-enter the atmosphere, something redirected it out into space. Something from space took Gordo's body. It took him.”

Liam and Kozlov exchanged glances.

“After covering up Gordo’s death and disappearance as an equipment malfunction, the U.S. government worked with other countries to learn more about the phenomenon,” Kennedy explained. “They discovered that, just one year prior, the Soviet Union’s prize dog, Laika, experienced a similar fate. Died in space, quickly taken by an unknown entity afterwards.”

“Let me guess,” Kozlov interrupted. “You started sending more innocent animals into space as sacrifices in the name of discovery.”

“Not us, actually,” Kennedy replied, looking at Fen. “We let China do the heavy lifting. After about a decade of experimentation, their final test using the dog subjects known as Little Leopard and Shan Shan gave us conclusive evidence that there were, in fact, lifeforms capable of surviving and thriving in the vacuum of space. Lifeforms such as the ones outside the station right now.”

“Zvezdnyye Padal'shchiki,” Kozlov muttered.

“Star Scavengers,” added Liam.

Fen finally turned to face Kennedy. “What are they? Why are they here? They’re currently circling the cryo bay. Why?”

Kennedy hung his head. “They’re after Mr. Casper’s body.”

“My father?” Liam asked. “What do they want from him?”

“They’re scavengers, just like you said,” Kennedy responded. “Like vultures, but bigger and meaner. That’s what drew them to our attention in the first place: Death. Laika, Gordo, Little Leopard, Shan Shan . . . each of their deaths attracted the attention of a Star Scavenger. But once they’re there, they don’t discriminate. They’ll consume the dead and the living alike.”

“What else do you know about them, biologically?” Kozlov demanded. “What are their weaknesses?”

“Weaknesses?” scoffed Kennedy. “These things are old. They’re survivors, like alligators. If they have weaknesses, they won’t be easy to exploit.”

“Why do they even have wings?” Liam commented. “That’s not how space flight works at all.”

Fen chimed in softly. “Maybe they’re so old, so foreign, that they’ve evolved past the limitations of conventional physics.”

A loud screech, followed by a shuddering bang, sounded nearby, just beyond the room. Liam saw his test mice, Micky and Minnie, panic as they squeaked, bouncing around their cages. Mortimer, however, lay still, and Liam frowned.

“What was that?” Kozlov asked, turning to Fen.

Fen returned to the monitors. “Another breach. The hallway just beyond our doors. It’s depressurizing.”

“Close the blast shields,” barked Kennedy. “Don’t let them flock into the station.”

Fen looked to Kozlov for approval, who nodded. As she turned to the control panel, something heavy slapped against the outer door with a resounding whack. The reverberations echoed throughout the room, and the four astronauts looked at each other, frightened. Another whack, and this time, the door began to cave inwards.

Liam’s trembling hands returned his attention to the Cosmonaut pistol he still carried, and an idea began to form.

“There's no sound in space,” he muttered.

Kozlov looked at him. “Come again?”

“There’s no sound in space,” he repeated. “Nothing to hear.”

Fen caught on first. “And there’s no air currents to transmit scents.”

Kozlov slapped her forehead. “And it’s too dark to properly see.”

“What’s something still measurable in space that we know animals can sense?” asked Liam.

“Thermal changes,” Kozlov answered, snatching the Cosmonaut pistol from his hands. Reaching down, she rummaged around the pockets of his discarded astronaut suit, retrieving two flare cartridges. “They sense death by viewing thermal changes. They literally come for the body as it’s growing cold. And we froze your father. That’s why there’s so many.”

She turned to Fen. “Is the hallway sealed on the other side?”

Fen nodded.

“How many are there?” pressed Kozlov.

Fen glanced at the sensors. “Just one stray. The others are still going after Mr. Casper.”

“Good,” Kozlov said, loading the flare cartridges. “Open the door.”

“Are you sure–” Fen began, but Kozlov shot her a glare. Nodding, she reached down, unlocking the barrier separating the predator from the prey.

The door exploded open, and the Star Scavenger that Liam had shot earlier burst into the room, the hole in its wing still leaking green fluid. It opened its mouth and screeched, the cry hoarse and painful, as if its throat wasn’t meant to make the noise. Leaping into the air, it soared around the room in a circle, its wings straight out at its sides without generating any noticeable air current. Turning its attention to Liam’s mouse cage, it hurtled toward the spot, mouth agape.

Mortimer, Liam thought. It’s going after Mortimer. He died . . . somehow.

Kozlov intervened, stepping in front of the rampaging creature and firing a flare from the Cosmonaut pistol into its face. It screamed again, its head vibrating rapidly as it tried to process the sudden temperature spike from the self-oxidating incendiary device. Removing the Makarov from her pocket, Kozlov tried to fire at the Star Scavenger close-range, but it thrashed around, one of its wings smacking her and sending her flying across the room. She struck the far wall and crumpled to the ground, both guns ejecting from her grip and sliding in opposite directions across the floor.

“Commander Kozlov!” Liam cried, but the woman didn’t respond. 

Frowning, he turned to the blinded beast, unsheathing his machete. The flare began to fade, and the creature twitched, noticing Liam. Rushing forward, Liam cried out, swinging his blade, but his disorientation from the recent switch back to artificial gravity caused him to trip, and he fell on his face, the weapon clattering out of his hand. The Star Scavenger stalked toward him, screeching its hoarse, pained cry, and reared back, ready to disembowel Liam.

Gunfire exploded from behind the boy, and the Star Scavenger hissed, retreating as tiny holes exploded out of it flesh. Liam rolled onto his stomach to see Kennedy confidently striding forward, Makarov in hand, squeezing rounds out with expert precision. As he reached Liam, he crouched, swiping up the machete without losing sight of the Star Scavenger. The creature turned to flee, but he sprinted into it, burying the blade into its skull. Green fluid sprayed from the wound as the winged beast twitched and collapsed, and Kennedy jerked the machete out of its head, sighing.

“Are you okay?” he asked, turning to Liam.

Liam nodded, then looked at Kozlov. “The Commander.”

Kennedy offered Liam the blood-covered machete, and the boy took it gingerly by the handle. Pocketing the Makarov, the Captain rushed to Kozlov, helping her to her feet. Together, the pair returned to the center of the room with Liam and Fen, staring at the butchered corpse in the center.

“We can’t fight them all,” Kozlov said. “Not with half a magazine of bullets and an old machete.”

“Maybe we don’t have to,” Fen replied. The others turned to her, and she pointed at the screens behind her. “The others are still trying to get to Mr. Casper in the cryo bay. If we can get to the bay before they breach it, we could eject the module from the rest of the station. Jettison the problem area into space. Wouldn’t they follow it, and leave us alone?”

Liam and Kozlov looked at Kennedy, who nodded. “That could work, yes. But we’d have to hurry. I suspect it won’t take them long to get into the bay.”

The squad rushed into a neighboring room, donning new space suits in the event of more hull breaches. Liam gave the machete to Kozlov, but upon a cursory search, he could not find the Cosmonaut pistol that she’d dropped during her face-off. Pressed for time, he shrugged, following the others out of the command room and into the hallways of the International Space Station.

They navigated the tight corridors, heads on a swivel, but no more Star Scavengers appeared to ambush them. Within minutes, they reached the airlock to the cryo bay, and Kennedy opened the door, gesturing them inside. Kozlov and Liam went forward, hurrying to the chamber in which Liam’s father resided. While Kozlov fiddled with the controls, lowering the temperature even further, Liam placed his hand on the glass chamber, a tear running down his cheek.

“Good-bye, dad. You finally get to be a part of space . . . the final frontier.”

He began to step back, but a gunshot rang out, and Kozlov clutched her chest, dropping to her knees. She tried to speak, but coughed instead, a small spray of blood splattering against the glass of the cryogenic chamber. Liam turned to see Kennedy holding the Makarov, barrel still smoking.

“Oh, wow,” Kennedy commented. “Got a lung, huh?”

Kozlov stumbled back, slamming against the far wall and sliding down it, the machete falling from her grip and into her lap. “Mudak.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kennedy replied apathetically. “Look, I can’t have this shit reported back to Earth, okay? Space Force will literally kill me for such an abysmal job.”

Job? Liam thought. Wait. Mortimer.

“The mono didn’t spread to the other mice,” Liam said. “You were poisoning them.”

“Look at you,” mocked Kennedy. “So young and still so smart. Yes, my job was to lure one – one – Star Scavenger to the station. There, we could capture and study it, and I assume apply the findings toward some kind of joint military project. The slow, suffering death of a small animal was the best way to attract them, but not so much that a whole swarm showed.”

“Then Mr. Casper had his heart attack,” coughed Kozlov, holding her hand over the wound in her chest. “You’d already called out to the Star Scavengers, but now that you had their attention, they wanted the bigger prize.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy sighed. “You’re right. I figured, fuck it – let's let the whole damn family pop in for a bite to eat. The scanners would pick up useful data as they tore through the station, and I’d escape back to earth in a pod with the station’s hard drives to hand over to Space Force.”

He turned the Makarov to Liam. “But that’s fucked up too, now. I’m surrounded by incompetents.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Liam said. “We can work this out. We can escape together.”

“Sorry.” Kennedy shook his head. “You know, I’ve never killed a kid before. Well, except for Afghanistan, but those don’t really count.”

Liam cringed, waiting for the bullet to enter his brain.

“Kennedy!” Fen called out from behind.

Captain Kennedy turned to the side, and Liam saw Fen holding the missing Cosmonaut pistol.

“I knew it, you son of a bitch,” she snarled. “I wondered what happened to the drives.”

“What are you going to do?” Kennedy laughed at her. “Kozlov already fired her flares trying to fight the Star Scavenger.”

“No,” Kozlov weakly replied. “I only fired one.”

Fen pulled the trigger, and the second barrel ignited, launching the survival flare into Kennedy’s chest. He flew backwards into the cryo bay, and the flare ricocheted away, landing near a series of metal tanks labeled “DMSO.” As Kennedy tumbled to the floor, Kozlov lurched forward, grabbing his wrist swinging her machete. Kennedy cried out in pain as she severed his hand, scooping up the Makarov and leveling it in his direction.

“Hurry!” Fen cried, tossing the Cosmonaut pistol aside. “That dimethyl sulfoxide is combustible, especially in these pressurized tanks.”

Liam leapt to his feet, helping Kozlov to hers, and they backed out of the cryo bay, sealing the airlock door closed. Through the porthole window, they saw Kennedy crawl to the door, pounding on it as blood gushed from his wrist stump.

“You bitch!” he yelled. “You will never be safe on Earth.”

“And you’ll never see Earth,” Kozlov retorted. 

“This is for Bao,” Fen added, pressing the EJECT button. 

The station hissed as it propelled the cryo bay away, leaving the trio with a clear view of space . . . and the swarm of Star Scavengers silently soaring through it. Sensing the dying flare paired with the lowering temperature of the cryogenic chamber, they swooped down, tearing into the unit. As the bay became a speck, it exploded, sending out a mixture of cryogenic fluids into the vacuum that covered the Star Scavengers. They shuddered as they froze solid, drifting lifelessly into the distance with the wreckage of the cryo bay.

As the threat faded from sight, Liam turned to Kozlov, who’d grown pale. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m . . . fine.” The Commander smiled, blood in her teeth. “If you could patch me up here on the station, we’ll go ahead and return to Earth.”

“What about what Kennedy said?” Fen asked. “Are we going to be in danger when we get back?”

“Maybe from Space Force,” Kozlov admitted. “But I have friends in Russia that can help us. I’ll take you there.”

Liam and Fen nodded, the former bending down to pick up the Cosmonaut pistol.

“Then we’ll go to the med bay,” Liam added, gesturing down the hall. “Our journey isn’t over yet.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

​

Death on the Station, Pt. 1

The endless expanse of stars stretched in front of Liam beyond the transparent window, prickling the cold black like moth holes in an old sweater. He placed his hand on the glass, shivering, imagining what it would be like to float out into the unforgiving vacuum. Pulling away, he held his arms behind his back, regaining his composure.

You worked hard to be here, especially at only sixteen, he thought to himself. Act professional.

“Space,” a deep voice boomed behind him dramatically. “The final frontier.”

Liam rolled his eyes and turned to face his father, a large, stout, bearded man. When Liam was younger, he’d often suspected the jolly man to be one of Santa’s helpers, or even Santa himself, in disguise. As he’d grown, though, he came to realize that his father was a far greater man than that.

“This isn’t the Enterprise, dad,” he chastised. “This is the ISS. This is real. Can you believe it?”

His father chuckled, joining him at the window. “I know what you mean. It feels like a dream, or an out-of-body experience. Reminds me of my college party years, if you know what I mean.”

“You know I don’t,” Liam giggled. “What’s on the agenda today?”

“Well, Captain Kennedy mentioned that your mice were looking a little sleepier than normal,” his father commented. “Whatever that means.”

Liam raised an eyebrow. “Sleepier? What was he the captain of, again?”

His father stifled another laugh, tussling Liam’s hair. “Be respectful. We can’t walk back home, can we?”

________________

About thirty minutes later, Liam sat before his biology project, examining his trio of mice. After arriving at the space station, each animal had been infected with a different non-lethal, species-appropriate version of a common disease: Influenza, conjunctivitis, and mononucleosis. Liam meant to study the evolution of the diseases in such a foreign environment, with the hope of applying his findings back on Earth against more modern, deadly illnesses.

“Well?” Captain Kennedy asked, his voice firm. “Is your mission a failure?”

Liam sighed, exasperated. “Not necessarily. It looks like the mono has spread from Mortimer to also infect Mickey and Minnie. It’s possible that the station’s new artificial gravity system is affecting how the virus spreads in some way. I just need to update my parameters to properly account for such a change.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the man. “Is micro-managing me the best use of your time, though?”

Kennedy’s face began to redden, but Commander Kozlov walked up behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Leave our little friend alone with his mice, okay?” the tall, muscular blonde said to her comrade. “He’s kind of right. Let his father manage the logistics.”

“Okay,” Kennedy agreed, turning to Liam. “But don’t mess around with them too much, okay? I don’t want to catch the flu or pink eye up here.”

Liam nodded. “You got it.”

Bao and Fen, the twin astronauts and last two current inhabitants of the International Space Station, approached the captain, muttering to him about some irregular data on their solar panel readings. He shook his head, excusing himself from the conversation. As he walked away, Kozlov smiled at Liam.

“He seems big now, but that’s just the outer shell of his matryoshka. Inside is a much smaller man, who just wants to be important.”

Liam blushed, forcing aside his childish crush on the woman to focus on her words. “Thanks for standing up for me, anyway.”

She leaned over, winking quickly. “Any time. Just keep your little hospital in check, okay?”

Liam nodded again, more fervently this time, and she turned away, leaving the room.

“Everything okay?” Liam’s father asked from behind, causing Liam to jump. He turned around, clutching his chest.

“You nearly scared me to death,” he scolded his father. “Yes, just a little hiccup in the experiment. Nothing crazy.”

“Well, I know you got . . . this . . .” his father’s speech began to weaken, and he took a step back, clutching his arm. He began to breathe rapidly, and within seconds, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Falling to the floor, he became still. 

Too still.

“Dad? Dad!” Liam cried, rushing to his father’s side.

Captain Kennedy and the twin astronauts turned toward the commotion, the former running to join Liam. “Mr. Casper? Are you okay?”

Bao and Fen approached, and Fen turned the prone man onto his back.

“He’s having a heart attack,” she announced. “Grab the med kit!”

“Dad,” Liam whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please be okay, dad.”

In the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Kennedy’s face grow ashen white, and the man backed away from the scene, visibly trembling. Commander Kozlov finally returned to the room, and upon realization of what had happened, she pulled Liam away while Bao and Fen worked on his father. Liam buried his face in her arms, a knowing dread growing in his chest.

After several minutes, Liam felt his sorrow and his tears slowly fade, and by the time Fen approached him with the news of his father’s death, he’d already reached a cold acceptance. They expressed their condolences and discussed the logistics of what to do with his body until returning to Earth, but he felt detached from the moment, a wandering spirit haunting the vacuum of space. When they finally excused him, he numbly drifted through the halls of the space station until he found his room, collapsing into his bed. His consciousness soon faded, and before he knew it, he was asleep.

________________

A soft knock at his door pulled him from a deep slumber, and he looked around, his eyes settling on his bedside clock.

I’ve been asleep for five hours? he thought in surprise. 

Shuffling off his covers, he climbed out of bed, staggering to the door. He opened it to see Commander Kozlov standing on the other side, her face gentle and empathetic. 

“Hey,” she said. “We haven’t heard from you in a while. We’re about to cryo-freeze Mr. Casper until we’re able to get you a shuttle home.”

Liam sniffled, shaking his head. “No. I want to stay. Take his body home, but he would want me to see the mission through.”

Kozlov nodded, turning to leave, then hesitated, returning her attention to the boy. “Hey, come with me.”

Sighing, Liam followed her out of his room, traveling down the halls of the ISS and stopping in front of the viewing window where he’d began his morning. He looked out at the stars, his wonder replaced by hollow emptiness.

“I don’t know if these words will be of any comfort to you,” Commander Kozlov began, “but it’s always comforted me.”

Liam looked up at the woman, waiting for her to continue.

“If there was ever a place to pass away, this was it,” she explained. “The perfect vision of our endless march towards the future. Your father, he was a man of the past. A great man of the past, but a man of the past nonetheless. His passing may be painful now, but he’s given you an incredible freedom: The uninhibited pursuit of your future.”

Liam’s head fell forward gently, clunking against the glass window, and he began to sob, wrapping his arms around his chest. Kozlov patted him on the back, waiting for him to relax. Eventually, he straightened up, wiping his face. 

“You’re right, Commander,” he responded. “I have a long future of great things ahead of me. I can’t . . .”

His words faded as movement amongst the stars caught his eye. “Did you see that?”

Kozlov turned her attention from the boy to the window, tilting her head. “I don’t see any– wait. What is that?”

Approaching the station drifted about a dozen large, black objects, their exteriors slick and glistening, as if covered in oil. Because of the darkness of space, their exact shapes and movements were difficult for Liam to identify, but it was undeniable.

Something was approaching the International Space Station.

The door to their hallway slid open, and Bao ran up to them, panting. “Our scanners are going haywire. There must be some kind of glitch. I just came to see if . . .”

His head turned toward the viewing window, and his jaw dropped. “So, it’s true. There is something coming to us.”

“Bao, what are they?” Liam asked. “What do you know, based on your scans?”

“Nothing,” he whispered, staring at the approaching objects. “Absolutely nothing.”

Kozlov retrieved a communicator from her belt, speaking into it. “Captain Kennedy, we have a situation. Several objects approaching us from outer space; origin and makeup unclear. Please advise.”

No response, for a moment. Then, Kennedy’s voice crackled through faintly. “Prepare for imminent attack.”

Bao, Kozlov, and Liam all traded confused glances, and Kozlov responded to Kennedy’s command. “You want us to treat this as hostile? Why?”

“Just do it, Commander!” barked Kennedy. “This is life or death.”

Liam looked up at Kozlov. “Do we even have any weapons here?”

“My country required it,” Kozlov admitted, sighing. “For self-defense, in the event that our re-entry is compromised and we land in the wilderness. Our Soyuz capsule has two types of handguns, along with a survival kit, including a machete and a folding knife. Not exactly an armory.”

“Better than nothing,” Bao commented. “Is it still docked?”

Kozlov nodded, suspicion in her voice. “Let’s get going before these things arrive. Kennedy sounded pretty spooked.”

The trio trekked across the station, heading for the airlock that connected to the Soyuz space capsule. With each window they passed, the objects drew closer, and by the time they’d almost reached their destination, Bao paused, staring at them.

“Are those animals?” he asked. 

Liam and Commander Kozlov stopped, joining him at the window.

Sure enough, the things that approached were now close enough to ascertain their dimensions: Long, clawed arms and legs, with large wings webbed between each side, almost like large bats. The heads, however, were long, pointed, and angular, reminding Liam more of a pterodactyl than a bat.

An oil-black, car-sized pterodactyl, drifting through space. With a dozen of its friends heading straight for the station.

Bao pulled out a notepad and his Fisher Space Pen to jot down the moment, glancing back up occasionally to monitor their approach. Kozlov tried to pull him away, but he shook his head.

“No. This may be the first real evidence of intelligent life ever. I want to study them. You two go get the supplies and meet me back here.”

Kozlov gritted her teeth, about to reprimand the astronaut, but Liam tugged at her arm, shaking his head.

“The sooner we get to the Soyuz capsule, the sooner we can come back to Bao,” he calmly explained.

She relaxed, nodding, and pointed down the hall. “It’s docked right over there.”

They turned the corner, reaching the door separating them from the capsule. Kozlov entered her key code, and the door hissed as it opened, exposing them to the Soyuz’s cramped interior. As they climbed inside, the door sealed behind them, and they fumbled around for a moment before the lights flickered on. Liam almost tripped and fell into a pair of hanging space suits, but Kozlov caught him.

“The survival kit should be under that seat there,” she said. “Grab the machete and the knife.”

As he retrieved a long, flat case from beneath the nearby seat, she opened a metal lockbox on the wall, producing a small, compact pistol as well as a longer, two-barreled handgun. He watched her load bullets into a pair of magazines for the former pistol, but the other gun drew more of his attention, and his eyes met hers inquisitively. 

“Cosmonaut survival pistol,” she explained. “More versatile than this Makarov here. Chambered for rifle, shotgun, and flare rounds. We’ll grab all the bullets we can carry, but for now, I’m loading the shotgun shells.”

She broke open the breech, sliding a shell into each barrel. Snapping it shut, she offered it to a wide-eyed Liam. When he failed to take it from her, she chuckled.

“Just for safekeeping. Keep the business end away from my pretty face, please.”

He took the weapon by its grip, hefting it as she finished loading the Makarov’s magazines and stuffed the Cosmonaut pistol cartridges into her pockets. Movement in a nearby porthole caught his attention, and he moved to the window, peering out. Once his eyes adjusted to the commotion outside, he gasped.

“Commander. Take a look.”

She joined him at the porthole, and her lips parted in surprise. Snatching her communicator from her hip, she screamed into it. “Bao, what are you doing? Get away from the window!”

Outside, perpendicular to the Soyuz capsule, Liam could see the window where they’d left Bao. The exterior now swarmed with the pterodactyl-beasts, who crawled around quickly, as if agitated. Liam barely made out Bao behind the reinforced glass, still taking notes, his face glowing in fascination. As Liam watched, one of the creatures reared back, striking its beaklike face against the window. At first, nothing happened, but as it struck again, Liam saw hairline cracks forming on the glass like spiderwebs. 

“Bao, do you copy?” Kozlov cried. “God damn it!”

The creature pecking at the glass attempted a third time . . . with horrific results.

Its mouth broke through the transparent barrier, clamping around Bao’s head and jerking him out into space. The other creatures swarmed on the astronaut, pulling at his appendages until nothing remained but floating bits of blood and viscera. 

“Zaebis,” Kozlov swore in Russian.

Immediately, Liam felt the Soyuz capsule rumble, and he looked back at the window, horrified. The glass exploded outward as the breached hallway rapidly depressurized, the force of the event warping the metal. The hallway twisted, crumpling like an old balloon, and Liam heard the door separating the damaged zone from their capsule screech. After a few seconds, the hallway finished releasing its atmosphere, destroyed beyond repair.

“Oh, no,” Kozlov whispered, turning to the door as the artificial gravity in their sector failed and they floated up into the air. “No, no.”

She pulled at the lever to open it, but it resisted, and she slammed her fist against the metal, growling. Turning to Liam, she took a deep breath.

“The damage done outside has likely clamped the seal around the Soyuz door. We’re stuck in here.”

Liam glanced back outside, where the pterodactyl-creatures drifted through space, gulping down Bao’s remains. Pivoting in a tight circle, he stopped when he saw the two space suits in the corner.

“Maybe not,” he responded, pointing to the suits. “Do you think we could still eject the capsule to force the door open?”

“Yes,” Kozlov responded, “but that will propel us away from the station. How are we going to get back . . .”

Her words drifted off as she saw Liam looking at the Makarov still in her hand, and she smiled.

“You absolute genius. I see they’re still teaching Newton’s third law of motion in high school.”

Liam nodded. “What we came here for to defend ourselves can also be our way back to safety. Two birds, one stone.”

Kozlov looked out the porthole at the creatures floating nearby. “I wish there were only two birds.”

They quickly donned their space suits, strapping their gear to the exterior. Kozlov gave Liam the machete and the various cartridges for the Cosmonaut pistol, while she inserted the first Makarov magazine into her own gun, slipping the second magazine into her pocket along with the folding knife. Lastly, she retrieved a long prybar from the case, slipping it onto her back. As Liam sealed his helmet shut, she racked the Makarov’s slide, chambering a round.

“This will be fun,” she said, seemingly attempting to reassure herself more than Liam. “Like Buzz Lightyear riding that bottle rocket.”

“Wasn’t he tied to that rocket against his will?” Liam asked.

She shot him a stern look. “Shut up, kid.”

Raising the Cosmonaut pistol, he gestured to the damaged door. “You ready?”

“Nope,” she replied, slamming her fist down on the EJECT button.

A horrific cry of tearing metal filled Liam’s ears as the Soyuz capsule forced itself away from the space station, the door ripping apart in the process. They jettisoned forward, immediately exposed to the vacuum of space, the little atmosphere left in the capsule rushing past them to dissipate into nothingness. By the time even a second passed, Liam could barely see the broken windows of the ISS from the distance he’d traveled.

“Jump!” Commander Kozlov screamed, her voice blaring through his helmet’s speakers.

He leapt through the torn hole of the capsule, and she followed. As they floated into the blackness, everything beyond the sound of his own breathing fell deathly silent. Ahead, the blue marble of a planet he once called home loomed in his vision.

“Okay, Liam, I’m not going to pretend like we’ve tried this before,” Kozlov admitted. “But we can make some educated guesses. Keep your gun close to your chest, and only fire when you’re aiming exactly away from the direction you want to go. If these . . . these . . . Zvezdnyye Padal'shchiki come after you, don’t let your panic pressure you into making a decision that leaves you stranded in space. Just leave those to me.”

Liam took a deep breath. “Got it.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he lined up his shot, aiming the barrel of his gun toward Earth. He pulled the trigger, and the Cosmonaut pistol bucked, a spray of lethal pellets blasting forward, making no sound in this alien environment. The force of the shot, though, sent him rocketing backward, his body careening towards the International Space Station.

As he sailed through the twilight nothingness, his rapid heartbeat echoing in his ears, he saw Kozlov follow suit with her Makarov handgun, clutching it close to her body and firing. The muzzle flashed, and she began to travel in the same direction as Liam. Her nervous chuckle crackled over the speaker in his helmet, and she looked back at him. 

“We’ll make it. We’ll make it. We have to.”

He felt the presence of the enormous station looming behind him, and he dared to take another peek. At this point, he only had a few meters between himself and the makeshift entrances the creatures had made.

Creatures which he was about to meet face-to-face.

The oil-black beasts twitched, turning his way as he floated into their makeshift den. He felt bits of Bao’s bones patter against his suit, and the pterodactyl-creatures spread their wings, drifting his way. His breathing shuddered, and he steeled himself for their sharp, unforgiving beaks.

“Don’t forget!” Kozlov called out sharply. “You have another round. Make it count.”

Liam exhaled, keeping his gun pointed away from himself. The closest creature circled him menacingly, preparing to strike, and his finger tightened on the trigger. When it changed course, soaring directly for his face, he fired again, the second barrel flashing. More pellets emerged in a tight cluster, shredding a hole in the approaching creature’s left wing. It opened its mouth to silently screech as thick, green fluid emerged from the wound.

The force of the second gunshot was more than enough to jettison Liam the rest of the way through the broken windows and into the depressurized hallway of the ISS. He turned at the last second, using his legs to break his collision into the far side of the metal hallway wall. Returning his attention back outside, he saw Commander Kozlov close behind, though the creatures were already converging on her. She opened fire on them with the Makarov, seemingly forgetting in her panic that each randomly-aimed gunshot was sending her further and further off-course.

“Commander!” Liam yelled into his transmitter. “Stop fighting! Just get back inside with me!”

The creatures fluttered around Kozlov as her bullets tore holes in their bodies, and one particularly brave beast managed to close in enough to receive the business end of her folding knife into its skull. She grabbed the flailing thing, kicking off of it to redirect herself back toward the station. Lining up her Makarov once more, she fired repeatedly, straight ahead into the swarm, until the magazine emptied. Then, much to Liam’s relief, she breached the station’s windows, landing next to him.

“Sorry, kid,” she apologized, gathering her composure. “I lost it a little out there.”

They turned toward the neared hallway door, and she lowered the Makarov, retrieving her prybar with her free hand.

“Captain Kennedy,” she called out calmly. “I’m sure you can still see us.”

“I can, Commander,” Liam heard the man respond. “That was quite the show.”

“I’m going to pry open this door,” she announced, aiming her prybar at the incoming barrier. “I need you to depressurize and repressurize the hallway segments until we’ve put some distance between ourselves and the Zvezdnyye Padal'shchiki.”

“You got it,” Kennedy said. “I’ve got your back.”

Liam saw Kozlov roll her eyes, and she disconnected her communicator, gesturing for him to do the same. 

“You called them that again,” Liam commented. “Zuh-vez-nee . . .”

“Zvezdnyye Padal'shchiki,” repeated Kozlov as she ejected the empty Makarov magazine. “Just a nickname I’m giving them. It means ‘Star Scavengers.’”

“Star Scavengers.” Liam turned to look at the wounded creatures, who already seemed to be regrouping for another attack. “He knew, Commander. The Captain already knew these things were dangerous.”

“Let’s rendezvous with Kennedy and Fen,” Kozlov snarled, loading her Makarov’s second magazine. “I think our fearless leader owes us some answers.”

Death on the Station, Pt. 2

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

Inspector Monet deftly worked his wire cutters on the chain-link fence separating them from Cirque De Noel, sweat dripping down his brow. Annelisse patiently waited for him to finish, resisting the urge to taunt him by slipping through the barrier in her cat form. After a few minutes, he peeled back the fence, gesturing for Annelisse to go first.

“Such a gentleman,” Annelisse mocked playfully, stepping through. He silently followed, revolver at the ready.

They moved through the circus grounds cautiously, wary of danger. The sun shone down on them, though, offering Annelisse the comfort that Cadence would pose them little harm at this time of day. They approached the tent that Annelisse had found Cadence and Hugo in previously, and she pointed it out, whispering.

“There. I don’t know if she’s still there, but she was before.”

They brushed open the curtain, sneaking inside the massive canopy. As they walked across old straw, the ground whispered beneath them, threatening to spill its secrets. Unease filled Annelisse’s stomach, and she furrowed her brow.

“Something is wrong,” she said. “I don’t know if–”

The earth collapsed beneath Monet’s legs, and he plummeted downwards into some kind of pit. At the last second, he grasped for the edge of the pit, clinging to it by his fingertips. Annelisse rushed to the hole, looking over the side. Below his legs stood sharp, rusty animal cage bars, mounted as a makeshift spike trap. 

“Here,” she reassured him, “I’ll get you out.”

She grabbed his wrists, working him up out of the hole as he found better footing. His weight pulled her down, though, and she gritted her teeth, straining against the force.

“Maybe try fewer cookies in the future,” she chastised.

Monet shot her a stern look as he lifted himself the rest of the way out of the pit, collapsing into the straw near the edge. He covered his face, taking deep, shaky breaths.

“What the fuck was that for?” he finally squeaked.

Annelisse returned her attention to the spike pit. “Deterrence. Something to protect her in the daytime while she sleeps.”

“Oh, great,” the inspector moaned, climbing to his feet. “Then where there’s one, there will be more.”

Annelisse nodded. “It’s very likely.”

She shifted into her cat form, guiding the way through the tent, using her animal senses to avoid Cadence’s other surprises. They stepped past toothy bear traps, wired World-War-Two-era claymores, and even some hydraulic-powered needles filled with some kind of venom. As they approached the entrance to the main stage, Annelisse shifted back to her human form, addressing the inspector.

“Right this way. All we have to do is–”

Something shifted beneath her foot, and a tommy gun dropped from the ceiling, suspended by a maze of wires and cables. A spring-loaded clamp tightened around the trigger guard, and the gun opened fire, its recoil steadied by the ropes. Monet lunged at Annelisse, knocking her over as a hailstorm of bullets rushed over their heads. The projectiles bit into the dirt, kicking up little clouds that choked Annelisse. Rolling onto his back, Monet returned fire with his revolver, shattering the tommy gun’s body and disabling the attack.

“I think I’ve had about enough of this,” he grumbled angrily, jumping to his feet and storming toward the entrance to the main stage. 

“Inspector, wait!” Annelisse cried, chasing after him. 

Together, they entered the main stage area, and as they crossed the threshold, Annelisse felt some kind of thin wire break at her shins. A loud whoosh filled the air, and a series of heavy, black curtains descended from the canopy, slamming to the ground all around them. Within seconds, the dimly-lit tent fell into pitch blackness, the curtains absorbing all sunlight.

Then, on the other side of the tent, two yellow eyes appeared, glaring at them through the gloom. 

“You dare return, girl?” Cadence hissed. “You don't learn lessons well.”

“On the contrary,” Annelisse retorted, “I learn something new every day.”

Reaching into her backpack, she retrieved an emergency flare, igniting it. The tent filled with burning red light, exposing the red-haired vampire. Monet leveled his revolver, squeezing the trigger three times into Cadence’s midsection. She staggered back with each shot, almost losing her balance on the third one. Monet lowered his weapon, and Cadence looked at her torso, laughing.

“Bullets?” she cackled. “You’re going to kill me with–”

She suddenly doubled over, retching. Blood sprayed from her mouth, and she dropped to her knees, quivering. When she looked back up, Annelisse saw red tears leaking from her eyes, sliding down her face in glistening lines. She returned to her feet, but the movement was shaky, no longer fluid and whispering like before.

“What did you do to me?” she weakly demanded.

“A little birdie told me you don’t like the Notre-Dame Cathedral because of how they built it,” Annelisse explained. “Seems like bullets coated in a little metal from the foundations go a lot further than anyone thought.”

“We’re not here to kill you,” Inspector Monet calmly added, reloading his gun. “We’re just here to detain you so you can’t hurt anyone else.”

“I’d rather die,” Cadence growled, her voice stronger now. Annelisse squinted, registering the bullets pushing themselves from the vampire’s skin and falling to the floor. “Actually, I’d rather kill you.”

With that, she faded backwards, into the darkness beyond the flare’s light. 

Annelisse stepped forward, swinging the flare around, while Monet kept his revolver steady, his head on a swivel. From the darkness, Cadence hummed an off-kilter melody, the broken tune of an old nursery rhyme echoing around them.

A green mouse that ran in the grass,

I caught it by its tail. I showed it to those men.

The men said: Dip it in oil, dip it in water.

It will become a snail, nice and warm.

I put it in a draw; it told me, “It’s too dark.”

I put it in my hat; it told me “It’s too warm.”

Suddenly, she emerged from the shadows behind Inspector Monet, barely a meter from his neck. He seemed to sense her approach, dropping to the ground in a surprisingly graceful tumble, coming to a stop beyond Cadence’s reach.

Annelisse rushed at the vampire, leaping into the air and morphing into her cat form. She landed on Cadence’s arm, digging her claws into the redhead’s skin. Cadence hissed, trying to shake her off, but Annelisse shifted back to human form, using the momentum and sudden weight increase to throw the creature over her shoulder and onto her back. Before Cadence could recover, Annelisse produced Monet’s backup handcuffs, clasping one end around the vampire’s right wrist and the other end around the nearby bleacher supports.

“Are you serious?” Cadence chuckled, looking over at her handcuffed arm while Monet returned to Annelisse’s side, leveling his revolver at the vampire. “You think this little thing will hold me back?”

She pulled against the chain, but it remained intact, the handcuff clasp grinding against the bleachers.

“Something tells me you haven’t been handcuffed in a while,” commented Monet. “They aren’t as fragile as they used to be.”

“Well,” Cadence spat, “neither am I.”

Without another word, she jerked her arm against the handcuffs at an upward angle with enough force to complete sever her right hand from her body.

Annelisse and Monet stepped back in horror as the vampire stood to her feet, blood spurting from the stump at her wrist. Behind her, her hand melted into the dirt, leaving behind nothing but reddened bones. She looked at her bleeding arm, and something began to sprout from within. Five pink, wormlike tendrils appeared as the wound itself sealed, creating a perfect circle of half-meter-long tentacles where her hand used to be.

“Hmm,” Cadence muttered, looking at her replacement hand. “I admit, I thought it would just grow back normally.”

She adjusted her stance, spreading her legs and leaning forward like a sprinter. “Still, this will work.”

Her body blurred, and she darted forward at a speed Annelisse could barely track with her eyes. Dust kicked up from behind her as she aimed herself at Inspector Monet, wrapping her tentacle-hand around his neck. He screamed, clawing at the air as she dragged him away from Annelisse, back into the darkness. 

“Dad!” Annelisse cried, running after them, but they had disappeared.

At the edges of the shadows, though, the air seemed warped, as if rising up from hot asphalt.

“Annelisse,” she heard Monet call back, his voice a weak whisper. “Help me, Annelisse.”

She looked around, trying to pinpoint the direction of his voice. The sound seemed to float through the air, shifting around her like a feather caught in a tornado. Squinting, she peered into the darkness, considering shifting into her cat form to locate the man. 

Then, she heard the distinct cock of a revolver hammer.

Realization struck her, and she rolled to the left as far as she could as a gunshot rang out, the muzzle flash illuminating Inspector Monet’s glassy eyes. The bullet whizzed over Annelisse’s head, and as her tumble concluded, she shrunk into her cat body, darting toward Monet in a zig-zag formation to avoid being struck. He attempted nonetheless, and bullets slammed into the dirt around her, sending puffs of dust into the air like tiny land mines.

As his cylinder clicked over to emptiness, she changed back, rushing to disarm him. He seemed prepared for it, though, pivoting on his heels to dodge her movement and backhanding her across the face. The blow dazed her, and she lost her footing, collapsing to the ground. As she tried to regain her bearings, she heard him reload his weapon, his footsteps soft as they approached her.

“Time to send you to heaven,” he said, his voice monotone. “It’ll be wonderful. As beautiful as the first day I saw her.”

Annelisse squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the sharp pain of a bullet and the cold darkness of death.

Instead . . . nothing.

Surprised, she rolled onto her back, her eyes widening as she saw Monet standing over her, shivering, the revolver to his temple. His eyes, still glassy, leaked tears now. His lips trembled as he spoke, his words disjointed like a malfunctioning robot.

“Heaven . . . wonderful . . . beautiful . . .”

Suddenly, his eyes locked with Annelisse’s, and he spoke three words.

“Live for love.”

Then, he pulled the trigger.

“Dad!” Annelisse screamed, her voice cracking as he fell, lifeless, to the ground. “No!”

“Wow,” Cadence commented from behind the weeping girl. “No one’s resisted my trance before. That took balls.”

Fury flushed Annelisse’s face red, and she dove at Monet’s body, snatching up his revolver and swiveling to face the vampire. Cadence darted away, but Annelisse shifted to her cat form, taking chase. Her augmented hearing, smell, and vision honed in on the creature, and her four legs carried her through the tent like a force of nature. Despite Cadence’s enhanced speed, Annelisse caught up quickly, leaping at her back. 

Before she could reach Cadence, however, the vampire turned sharply, ensnaring Annelisse in her tentacled hand. The tendrils snaked around Annelisse’s cat body, circling her neck and torso.

“I’ve had enough of your disrespect,” Cadence hissed through her fangs, her yellow eyes practically headlights now. The air began to shimmer around her like a heat wave. “Join me. It’ll be wonderful. As beautiful as the–”

Annelisse shifted back to her human form, the sudden change in mass and size breaking her free from Cadence’s grasp. Before the vampire could react, Annelisse leveled Monet’s revolver, squeezing the five remaining rounds into her chest. Cadence staggered back, clutching her torso as blood began leaking from her eyes, ears, nose and mouth. She tried to speak, but only a gurgle emerged, and she fell onto her back, writhing in the dirt.

Stepping over Cadence’s prone body, Annelisse reached into her backpack, rummaging around.

“’Live for love,’” she quoted, speaking loudly over Cadence’s moans. “That’s what he chose as his last words. It speaks to who he was as a man. The caliber of his kindness.”

She produced Harriett’s fire poker, examining the brass object. Below her, she noticed the bullets had begun to push themselves back out of Cadence’s wounds.

“You took that kindness from the world,” Annelisse continued. “And yes, I’ll live for love.”

She raised the poker over her head.

“But maybe I’ll start tomorrow.”

Bringing her arms downward, she shoved the tip of the poker into Cadence’s heart.

Cadence screeched, her shrill voice tingling Annelisse’s ears. The air rippled around her as her skin liquified, revealing organs and muscle fibers. Those decayed, too, rapidly falling away as the vampire’s fluids pooled around her body like a burst water balloon. Within seconds, all that remained of the creature who once plagued Rouen was a blood-soaked skeleton.

________________

The next morning, Annelisse called in an anonymous tip for the local police to pick up her adopted father’s body, wary of what they’d say about Cadence’s. Strangely, though, the remains of the vampire disappeared by the time the officers arrived. The only clue left behind was a small porcelain figurine of St. Maria Goretti, the patron saint of forgiveness.

While they shipped the inspector back to Paris, Annelisse visited Harriett and Hugo. They were horrified by the actions they’d performed under Cadence’s spell, but Annelisse reassured them that it was out of their control. If anything, they were bonded even more now after such a harrowing experience.

Afterwards, Annelisse returned to Paris, locking herself away in the attic of Monet’s house to mourn. There she stayed for a day, then two, then a week, time stretching towards a month before she heard a knock at her door.

“Go away,” she croaked, wiping away her tears. “I’m busy.”

“It’s me,” Nathan Dubois responded on the other side of the door. “Can I please come in? No interview. No story. I just want to talk, as friends.”

Sighing, Annelisse walked across the attic, turning the knob to let the young man in. He stepped inside, smiling awkwardly.

“I’m so sorry about the inspector,” he said. “The department said he willed his home and savings account to you?”

Annelisse nodded, sniffling.

Nathan pulled her close, wrapping her into a hug. “What will you do now?”

She paused before responding, considering his question.

“All my father ever wanted to do was to help people. To protect people. That’s what he died doing: Protecting me. To not follow in his footsteps would be to spit on his memory.”

“Who will you help?” Nathan asked, finally releasing the girl. “Where will you go?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Annelisse admitted. “This is the only place I’ve ever known. But I feel like I’ve done all I can do here.”

She backed away from Nathan, looking down at herself. “But maybe I can find out.”

Leaning over, Annelisse shifted into her cat form, attuning her senses.

Instantly, she felt The Call reach out to her. Her whiskers twitched, her stomach flipped, and her eyes dilated as images and sensations filled her head. She felt intense cold prickle her skin, melting into a wet, dreary trickle, like heavy rainfall. A hollow echo filled her ears, as if she was sinking into an aquatic abyss. She saw a bridge . . . a clock tower . . . a flash of green light . . . a trio of grinning skeletons in tattered clothes. As The Call faded, she morphed back into her human body, locking eyes with Nathan.

“London. Someone needs help in London.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

A warm ray of sunshine poured through the cathedral windows, tickling Annelisse’s nose until she awoke. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to an overstimulation of light, taking a moment to realize that she’d shifted into her cat form while she slept. Morphing back into her human body, she stood and looked around the chapel, but Father Marquis had disappeared. Annelisse stretched her stiff muscles, turning to exit the building and step onto the streets of Rouen.

It didn’t take long for her to reach Harriett’s house, and she knocked on it, the rapping of her knuckles producing a strangely hollow sound beyond the barrier. She glanced over at the curtains, expecting Harriett to peek through the veil once more, but to her surprise, the door almost immediately unlatched from the other side, swinging open. On the other side stood the woman who’d hired Annelisse, smiling affectionately down at her.

“Annelisse!” Harriett exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. “After you didn’t come back yesterday, I got worried. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Annelisse responded, pushing the woman into her house and shutting the door behind them. “Have you heard from your husband, or from anyone else?”

Harriett blinked in surprise, then shook her head. “I’ve been alone since you left. Did you find Hugo?”

Annelisse lowered her gaze. “I did. He’s in trouble.”

A teakettle began to whistle in the kitchen, and Harriett clucked her tongue, glancing in the sound’s direction. “Can you be a dear and take the kettle off the stove, please?”

Nodding, Annelisse hurried into the kitchen, using a towel to protect herself from the hot kettle as she removed it from the stove eye. As she leaned over to turn off the stove, she said, “You may not believe me, Harriett, but your husband’s actions were involuntary. He’s currently under the thrall of a supernatural creature.”

“A supernatural creature?” Harriett called back, beyond Annelisse’s sight. “What does that mean?”

Some of the hot water from the kettle dribbled onto the counter, and Annelisse turned to grab a towel. “Cadence . . . well . . . she’s a vampire, apparently. A vampire who can mesmerize her victims. And now that she knows I was trying to reach Hugo, she might come for you . . .”

Her voice trailed off as she spied mud-caked loafers next to the back door that led into the kitchen. The mud was fresh, but the shoes were far too big for Harriett’s feet. 

“We need to leave before Cadence comes,” she muttered, her eyes drifting to a wooden knife block on the counter.

One of the kitchen knives was missing.

“You didn’t mention how wonderful she was,” Harriet whispered into Annelisse’s ear from behind. “As beautiful as the first day I saw her.”

Annelisse sensed Harriett rear her arm back, and she dove to the floor, shifting into her cat form. Behind her, something whistled through the air, striking a nearby kitchen cabinet with a sharp crack. Skidding across the kitchen floor, Annelisse turned to see Harriett wielding a brass fire poker, its pointed tip gleaming. 

“Cadence says you’re a pest,” Harriett said, her eyes wide and glazed over.

Footsteps sounded behind Annelisse, and she darted out of the way just as Hugo appeared, swinging a kitchen knife down into the floor.

“Pests must be crushed,” he murmured.

Shifting back into her human form, Annelisse held up her hands in surrender. “I know you aren’t doing this of your own volition. Please, remember who you are. What I came here to do.”

Harriett swung again, and Annelisse jumped, shifting to cat form mid-air and running along the woman’s offending arm. Using her claws to maintain her balance, she scurried up to Harriett’s shoulder and leapt off, shifting back into human form as she fell. Her feet slammed into the floor behind her attacker, and she rushed out of the kitchen, into the living room.

Not far away, she heard the entranced couple storm toward her, and she rushed for the front door, but it was bolted shut. Before she could figure out how to unlatch it, Hugo’s knife whistled through the air, barely missing her skull as it embedded into the door. She spun around, pulse pounding, and ran directly at the man, who lunged at her. At the last moment, Annelisse shifted into cat form, sprinting between Hugo’s legs and back into the kitchen.

Aiming her tiny, furry face at the back door, Annelisse transformed back to her human form, reaching out to open the barrier. It wouldn’t budge. Behind her, Harriett’s feet slapped against the linoleum, and Annelisse leaned to the side, narrowly avoiding a jab from the fire poker. She shifted again, deftly leaping onto the kitchen counters. Harriett smacked the poker repeatedly across the counter, attempting and failing over and over to strike the girl in the cat body. 

Leaping for the wooden knife block on the counter, Annelisse wrapped her tiny mouth around the handle of the blade, morphing back into her human form with the knife still between her teeth. As Harriett and Hugo approached, she plucked the weapon from her mouth and wielded it in front of her, still crouched on the counter.

“Please stay back,” she pleaded to the couple. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“But Cadence wants us to hurt you,” they droned in unison. “We must hurt you.”

Suddenly, the back door burst open, and Inspector Monet rushed inside, snub-nosed revolver drawn and ready. “Get on the ground! Now!”

Annelisse looked at her adopted father, shaking her head. “Don’t kill them! They’re under someone else’s control!”

Monet cocked his head. “Pardon?”

Harriett swung her poker, smacking the gun from the inspector’s hand. He cried out in pain and took a step back, barely avoiding her second swing. Annelisse hurled herself onto Harriett’s back, slashing the back of her hand with the knife and causing her to drop her makeshift weapon. Inspector Monet rushed forward, punching Harriett in the face. She fell backwards, unconscious, and Annelisse released herself at the last moment, tumbling across the floor.

Before the girl could get her bearings, she felt strong hands lift her into the air, and cold, sharp steel pressed against her throat. She glanced down to see Hugo’s fingers firmly grasping the kitchen knife. The man turned to Monet, who was reaching for his revolver.

“Stop!” Hugo demanded. “Or I’ll slice her neck.”

“Sure you will,” Annelisse retorted, shifting into her cat form.

Hugo lost his grip as her mass and shape dramatically altered in his arms, and he fumbled with her small, furry body. Exposing her claws, she scaled his chest, scratching at his face. He howled, dropping his knife and reaching up to protect his eyes. Annelisse heard Monet approaching, and she deftly leapt away, leaving the inspector room to shoulder-check Hugo across the kitchen. The man crashed against the cabinets, and ceramic plates crashed down onto his body, dazing him.

Moving quickly, Inspector Monet produced a pair of handcuffs, clasping one end to Hugo’s right wrist and the other to Harriett’s left wrist, the chain between them looping behind a nearby wall-mounted radiator. Satisfied, he turned to Annelisse, hands on his hips disapprovingly.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded.

Annelisse smiled sheepishly. “I was kind of busy. It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours. How did you know I was in trouble?”

Inspector Monet tapped his temple. “You have your Call. Let’s just say I have a sixth sense of my own. You set it off far too often, young lady.”

“Sorry, Inspector,” she apologized. “Thank you for your help.”

He sighed, looking around the war-torn house. “What on earth is going on here?”

“Uh . . .” Annelisse chuckled nervously. “Would you believe me if I said vampires?”

Monet shook his head in incredulity. “After raising you, I’ll believe anything.”

Glancing back at the front door, Annelisse added, “it’s only one vampire, at least. She lives down at the old circus. The name’s Cadence. Until we do something about her, she’s going to cast a dark shadow over this family, and probably the rest of Rouen.”

“’Something,’ eh?” the inspector commented, looking at his adopted daughter. “Like what?”

Annelisse shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to kill anyone. But I don’t know what it will take to capture her, or to convince her to release Harriett and Hugo.”

“Well,” Monet grunted, picking up Harriett’s fire poker and Hugo’s kitchen knife, “there’s only one way to find out, right?”

“True,” Annelisse responded, smiling. “We’ll solve this one together.”

Inspector Monet put his hand on Annelisse’s back, guiding her to the front door. “Let’s go catch a vampire, I guess.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

Annelisse’s shoes dug into the grass as she ran, weaving through the circus tents. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she felt her extremities shiver from the rush of adrenaline. 

From the rush of fear.

In her panic, she must have made a wrong turn, because as she rounded the next corner, she found herself in a sea of tents, rather than the exit she expected. She slid to a stop, sweat dripping down her face as she looked back and forth, wide-eyed. Somewhere nearby, she heard Cadence's soft snicker; such a quiet sound, but full of malice and smugness in equal parts.

Thinking quickly, Annelisse shifted into her cat form, using her enhanced senses to reorient herself. As she turned in the correct direction, a rush of air sounded whispered above her, and she looked up to see Cadence hurtling toward her, yellow eyes hungry and fanged mouth open wide.

“So, you have your own secrets,” Cadence hissed gleefully.

Annelisse darted away, her four legs and lighter frame carrying her more quickly from the attack than her human form could. Cadence slammed into the ground, calling at the young detective as she ran beyond the tents.

“No matter! You can’t escape me, girl!”

Scurrying under the hole in the chain-link fence, Annelisse leapt onto the sidewalk, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. She ran forward, unsure of where to go, or what to do, completely aware of how exposed to Cadence this side of Rouen left her. Trees lined either side of the otherwise empty road, stretching endlessly ahead, offering her no reprieve from the creature chasing her. Still, she pushed on, daring not to look back. 

After a few minutes, her muscles burning in her tiny legs, she glanced at the path behind her. To her surprise, she saw no red hair, no yellow eyes, no bloody fangs. As far as she could tell, she’d been left alone. Her run slowed to a trot, and she focused her animal instincts on her surroundings. 

Nothing. No one.

Opting not to stay in the open for a surprise attack, Annelisse turned her attention to the nearest tree, clawing her way up the bark and perching amongst the uppermost covered branches. There, she waited in cat form, her golf-ball-sized heart pumping inside her chest like runaway car with a flat tire. The wind caressed the leaves around her, causing her sensitive ears to twitch, but she heard no footsteps, no voices.

Until . . .

“No hiding, either,” Cadence playfully chastised in her ear.

Annelisse yowled, leaping down from the tree, transitioning to her human form at the last second to catch herself. Looking up, she saw Cadence leering down through the branches, fangs bared.

How did she get up behind me without me noticing? Annelisse silently marveled. 

Nonetheless, she turned away from the creature, this time aiming for a bridge in the distance that hovered over a nearby river.

They can’t cross running water, right? thought Annelisse. 

She pumped her human legs against the asphalt, angling toward the bridge as Cadence cackled behind her. Cold breath on the back of her neck caused her to panic, and as she reached the bridge, she hurled herself forward, tumbling onto the concrete expanse. Behind her, she heard Cadence gasp, and she turned to see the red-haired woman backing away, yellow eyes wide and frightened. Cadence glanced over the edge of the bridge at the rushing river and shivered, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Holy shit,” Annelisse whispered, sighing in relief. “I can’t believe that worked.”

Cadence regained her composure, smirking at the girl. “You think this will stop me? Maybe the thing inside my heart hates water, that’s true. But just like with any other psychological block, it can be overcome with a little bit of willpower.”

With that, she took a step forward, planting it firmly onto the bridge.

Shifting back into her cat form, Annelisse turned away, darting across the rest of the bridge while Cadence slowly wormed her way toward her. The roads became cobblestone, and she soon found herself surrounded by tall, glass businesses. She returned to her human body, calling for help as she stumbled through the streets.

Much to her dismay, no one answered.

In the distance, Annelisse heard Cadence laugh maniacally, her voice drifting into the girl’s ears as if part of the moonlight.

Wiping away her tears of terror, Annelisse made her way through downtown Rouen, seeking any assistance, but no one appeared in the shadows of the buildings. Turning another corner, she saw the Notre-Dame Cathedral stretching for the stars, its spiny exterior much more welcoming to Annelisse in her current predicament. She made a beeline for the building, staggering up the front steps and pulling the heavy door open. As she turned to close it, she saw Cadence hurtling toward her, hissing like a snake. Annelisse slammed the door shut, and the creature collided with the wooden barrier, banging against it.

“Uh . . . can I help you?” a man’s voice called out, echoing throughout the dimly-lit church.

Annelisse turned to see an older, grey-haired man descending from the pulpit, making his way down the pew aisles at a slow, steady space. Cadence banged against the door again, and he tilted his head, glancing behind Annelisse.

“I take it that’s not a friend?”

Annelisse shook her head, shuddering. 

“That’s okay,” he said softly, pausing a few meters from the girl. “I don’t think that thing can come inside anyway.”

The banging outside stopped, followed by a low, soft chuckle that quickly faded away.

Sighing, Annelisse sat in the closest pew. “Because this place is holy?”

The man laughed, his toothy smile infectious. “I’d like to think it is, but no, that’s not why. This town's ancestors built this cathedral years ago using a rare metal that repels creatures like the one you’re hiding from in here.”

Movement drew Annelisse’s attention to a window above her head, and she looked up to see Cadence clinging to the glass and staring inside, nothing more than a dark silhouette.

“Don’t worry,” the man reassured her. “She’s just trying to scare you into leaving.”

“Well, that’s not going to work,” Annelisse mumbled.

The man stepped closer, extending his hand. “I’m Father Marquis. You can call me Mark.”

She took his hand, shaking it. “I’m Annelisse. You can call me that.”

Looking back up at Cadence, Annelisse continued, “What is she, anyway? She said something about a ‘thing’ in her heart.”

Mark glanced down at Annelisse, a glimmer in his eye. “You already know, don’t you? This is what people fear when they talk about vampires.”

Cadence backed away from the window, vanishing into the night. A knot in Annelisse’s chest loosened a little, and she felt her shoulders relaxed.

“Of course,” the priest added, “not everything you read is accurate. I may be a man of God, but these creatures are natural, rather than spiritual. Predatory, rare nature, but nature nonetheless.”

“What do you mean?” asked Annelisse.

"Well . . .” Mark slid into a pew a few rows down from Annelisse. “The way it’s been explained to me, vampires come from one man: Vlad the Impaler. Are you familiar with him?”

Annelisse nodded. “He was a political and military leader in the fifteenth century, right? Not a great man, though, I understand.”

“You’re right on both counts,” Mark acknowledged. “What most don’t know about him is that, during an exploratory campaign in the Seychelles wilderness, he contracted a rare disease that edited his DNA, much in the way that scientists are able to achieve with CRISPR today.”

“What kind of disease?” asked Annelisse.

Mark shrugged. “We’ll never know. As far as we’re aware, he killed his comrades and incinerated that part of the wilderness after he realized the power he’d obtained. I’m sure he didn’t want others to compete with him.”

“That figures,” Annelisse said. “What kind of power does he have?”

“Oh, it varies depending on the legends,” admitted the priest. “Most agree that he’s been gifted with strength, flight, and immortality. Some say he can control pests, like rats and insects. And, of course, he’s most widely known for his ability to turn others into beings similar to him, making him the de facto king of vampires.”

“Similar?” inquired Annelisse. “Not the same?”

“No, no,” he responded. “Not the same. They’re much weaker, their bodies and minds slaves to a parasite that embeds itself in and around their heart. Certain metals irritate them, running water scares them, sunlight burns them. They can only feed on blood, not transform others in the same was as Vlad. And, of course, if the parasite is killed, the entire host dies with it. Hence, the old ‘wooden stake through the heart’ myth.”

Annelisse pondered for a moment before speaking. “So it’s true, then. Destroy the heart, destroy the vampire.”

Mark smiled. “Exactly.”

“But what about her victims?” she pressed. “I saw her perform some sort of . . . acrobatics routine. It lulled a man into a trance, or something.”

“Hmm . . .” Mark paused, thinking to himself. “Well, not all vampires change in the same way. It could be a talent unique to her. Though I imagine that if she perished, her victims would be freed.”

Realization struck Annelisse, and her eyes widened. “Wait. Harriett doesn’t know. His wife is in danger!”

She moved to stand up, but Mark waved her down. “I wouldn’t go back out tonight. Not while your nemesis lives. Wait here until daylight, where you can hunt her and kill her in her sleep.”

Annelisse returned her attention to the priest. “How do you know all this, anyway?”

Mark smiled again. “Pardon my language, but I’ve seen some shit.”

Sighing, Annelisse laid down on the pew, closing her eyes. Cadence’s yellow eyes flashed into her thoughts, and she frowned.

“There’s more troubling you, isn’t there?” Mark prodded.

She puffed her cheeks, blowing air out of her mouth in a thin stream. “It’s more about me, than anything else.”

Mark nodded gently. “Care to elaborate?”

“I have a . . .” Annelisse hesitated before continuing. “A skill. I can change my body, like Cadence. I’m different, but . . .”

“But you’re worried that you’re still too similar,” Mark finished, understanding in his voice.

Annelisse squeezed her closed eyelids tighter together. “Yeah.” 

“Well, consider the book of Exodus,” he said. “We’re asked to put no other god before the God of the Israelites. I don’t think that’s a declaration of vanity, though, nor a symbolic message. I believe there are, in fact, other deities, other gods, that interact with humanity. I think Exodus is a warning of their potential danger.”

Opening her eyes, Annelisse shot the priest a worried glance, and he chuckled.

“Now, I’m not saying they’re all bad. It’s just that, sometimes, you don’t know where your gifts or your curses come from. These vampires? They may be borne of science, but they do the work of a devil, a dark entity. But just because you are extraordinary, too, it doesn’t mean that your actions have to be similarly evil.”

“Personal choice,” Annelisse muttered, smiling a little. “It’s all about personal choice.”

The last vestiges of adrenaline faded in her body, and she soon drifted to sleep.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

The train from Paris hissed as it stopped, the passenger doors opening. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Annelisse stepped out of the vehicle, taking her first deep breath of Rouen air. She twisted her body, stretching to relieve her stiff muscles after her two-hour trip. People swarmed around her like ants in a hive, busily transitioning between phases of their day, unable to stop and appreciate the ornate architecture around them.

Wandering into the center of the town, Annelisse smiled, marveling at the complex wooden lattices and colorful masonry. Above the rest of the buildings towered the Notre-Dame Cathedral, its façade wrapped in a nest of concrete spines that gave the church a hostile appearance.

Annelisse tore her attention away from the towers stretching into the sky, focusing instead on the details of the cobblestone roads. She sought out a space alone to transform, to find the person whom The Call claimed needed her help. Crossing the closest street, she squeezed into a dark alley between two homes, adjusting the miniature backpack strapped to her torso. When she was confident in her isolation, she shifted into her black cat form, taking a moment to absorb the bombardment of new sensory information.

There it is.

The Call wasted no time reaching out to her, and her stomach fluttered as she chased its trail, her tiny paws padding across grass and stone. She hardly watched her path, allowing her instincts to guide her, only changing her trajectory to avoid being squashed by passing traffic. She ran at least a half-mile before she found herself standing in front of a small, nondescript house, The Call surrounding the building with a pulsating aura that only Annelisse could see.

Crouching out of sight behind a parked car, Annelisse shifted back into her human form. She approached the front door of the house, curious if anyone was even home. Shrugging, she lifted her hand and knocked.

“Bonjour!” she called cheerfully, attempting to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

No response, for a moment.

Then, the curtain of the closest window pulled back just slightly, and Annelisse saw a single eye staring at her through the shadow-filled gap in the cloth. She waved cheerfully at the inhabitant, then pointed at the front door.

“May we talk for a moment?”

The curtain returned to its place, and after a few seconds, Annelisse heard the door unlock. The wooden barrier swung back, and a middle-aged, grey-haired woman poked her head out, examining Annelisse. 

“Do I know you?” the woman asked.

Annelisse shook her head. “Not yet. My name is Annelisse, and I’m here to help.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Help with what?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet,” Annelisse admitted. “See, I’m a detective from Paris–”

“Oh!” the woman interrupted, recognition flashing across her face. “You found the culprit for the recent Paris shop fires! I was reading about you in the paper today. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

Annelisse shrugged sheepishly. “I try.”

“I’ve heard some interesting rumors about you, too,” the woman added, cocking her head with a slight smile.

“Well, that’s why I’m here,” Annelisse replied. “The interesting things you’ve heard about me are the same things that led me to your front door.”

The woman’s smile softened, and Annelisse could see her eyes watering a little.

“Please, come in,” the woman whispered, wiping her reddening face. “There is something I could use your help with.”

Annelisse nodded empathetically, following the woman into her house.

If it wasn’t for my trust in The Call, this would be incredibly unwise, she thought amusedly.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, and Annelisse shook her head.

No reason to push my luck, the girl added silently to herself.

“Oh, I never gave you my name,” the woman said, pouring herself a cup of tea. “I’m Harriett. My husband is Hugo. He’s probably the reason you came today. He’s missing, and I think he’s seeing another woman.”

Annelisse’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry to hear that. How long has he been gone?”

“Three days,” Harriett responded, her voice cracking a little.

“And what makes you think he’s having an affair?” Annelisse pressed.

Harriett averted her eyes. “I found . . . love letters. In his work desk. To and from someone named Cadence. She has very pretty handwriting.”

“Where do you think he went?” asked Annelisse.

“He hadn’t left the house much recently,” admitted Harriett. “I think he may have left to meet her for the first time, and now he isn’t coming back. But if that’s the case, I just want to know for sure. I need to know what happened to my Hugo.”

Annelisse pondered for a moment before speaking again. “Do you still have the letters?”

Harriett shook her head. “I went back for them later to confront him, and they were gone, along with him.”

Annelisse sighed. “Do you remember anything they said? Anything about how they met, or where they might be going?”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Harriett nodded. “One of his letters said he couldn’t wait to see her ‘fly again.’ Whatever that means.”

Reaching into her backpack, Annelisse retrieved a small electronic tablet. She loaded a maps application onto the screen, zooming out to display the entire town.

Not a lot of airport options near us, she thought to herself. She could be a pilot, but if he’s been staying close to home lately . . .

“Show me where he works,” she requested, handing Harriett the tablet.

“Well,” Harriett said, “he’s an accountant, so he’s been working from home more recently. But when he used to leave the house for work, his office was at the industrial equipment supply facility on the West side of town. I don’t know what the office was like, but sometimes he’d come home smelling like popcorn.”

She pointed at the map, and Annelisse took the tablet back, zooming in and scrolling around the area.

“That’s a start,” Annelisse finally responded. “I’m going to head that way. But I’ll be back as soon as I can with any updates in the case.”

The girl stood to leave, but Harriett leapt to her feet, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“Thank you,” Harriett whispered in Annelisse’s ear. “This means the world to me.”

Annelisse patted the woman’s arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

________________

The sun had transitioned from stark yellow to deep pink as it began to set, casting shadows across West Rouen. Annelisse walked up to a tall chain-link fence, peering through the other side at a series of tall, red-and-yellow-striped tents. The faint smell of popcorn filled the air, and a small sign indicated what the place used to be before it closed down: Cirque De Noel.

“’See her fly again,’” murmured Annelisse, glancing over her shoulder at Hugo’s office building in the visible distance. “Not airplanes. Trapeze.”

Glancing at her feet, she saw a small hole in the bottom of the fence, likely the work of a stray raccoon. Smiling to herself, she shifted into her cat form, scurrying under the fence and onto the circus grounds. Her heightened senses and night vision allowed her to navigate the maze of tents with ease and precision, and she padded atop brown grass, examining the decrepit buildings.

Suddenly, a small squeak reached her pointed ears, which twitched in the sound’s direction. Annelisse turned her small, furry head, lowering her feline body as close to the ground as she could to avoid detection. Another squeak, and this time she identified the source from within the second tent on the left. Not an organic squeak; no, this was mechanical in nature.

Annelisse crept into the tent, sticking to the shadows as she prowled past old cages and rusted animal training tools. A third squeak directed her to a flap that separated the performer’s area from the main stage, and she approached it cautiously. Behind her, she felt the sun’s warmth fade as it inched below the horizon. At this point, only a sliver of light remained.

A fourth squeak, and Annelisse poked her head through the tent flap.

A middle-aged man in glasses, presumably Hugo, sat no more than five meters away from her, perched atop the metal bleachers used for stadium viewing. His head tilted up slightly, a blank smile on his face, as he watched a figure perform on the trapeze ropes above the main stage. Annelisse followed his gaze to see a young, pale woman with flaming red hair, expertly flying across the tent on the ropes in a baby-blue leotard. As she moved, the waning dusk seemed to almost warp around her, like heat waves above asphalt on a hot summer day. The distortion drew Annelisse in, and it took her a moment to pull herself away from the performance.

Instead, she weaved beneath the bleachers, working her way past metal girders until she reached the space behind Hugo. Transforming back into her human body, she reached up, tugging on Hugo’s shirt. 

“Hey,” she whispered. “Hugo? Your wife sent me.”

Hugo completely ignored her, still transfixed on the trapeze performer. The soft squeak of the swinging ropes filled the dark, empty, abandoned circus tent, and a chill traveled up Annelisse’s spine.

Something’s wrong here, she thought. 

As the realization occurred to her, she saw the red-haired woman leap from the ropes, falling toward Hugo. Rather than dropping quickly, though, she glided, as if held aloft by a parachute. When her feet touched the metal bleachers, Annelisse hardly felt the vibrations of her landing. Unease filled the girl’s chest, and she sunk into the shadows, peering through the cracks of the bleachers.

“How did I do, my love?” the woman asked, smiling at Hugo.

“It was wonderful, Cadence,” Hugo responded, as if murmuring in his sleep. “As beautiful as the first day I saw you.”

“Oh, Hugo,” Cadence sighed, stroking his face. “Of all the men and women who’ve come here, you’re easily the most romantic. I must be sure to keep you around for a while.”

Her smile widened, turning sinister, and long, sharp fangs sprouted from her gums, blood trickling down from the protrusions. She blinked, and her eyes shifted from dull green to bright yellow, not too unlike Annelisse’s own eyes when she was in her cat form. Leaning forward, Cadence clutched Hugo’s shoulders, holding him steady as she sank her teeth into his neck.

Covering her mouth to mask her gasp of surprise, Annelisse stepped further back, trying to avoid seeing too much. Still, she could make out droplets of blood leaking beneath the bleachers as Cadence sloppily lapped up Hugo’s life force. After what felt like an eternity, the feeding ceased, and Cadence pulled away, wiping the blood from her mouth as her eyes and teeth reverted to normal.

“Did you enjoy that?” she asked the man, who was considerably paler than before.

“It was wonderful, Cadence,” Hugo weakly replied. “As beautiful as the first day I saw you.”

“That’s what I like to–” Cadence suddenly stopped, tilting her head. She raised her face, sniffing the air, a low growl emanating from deep within her throat. “Someone else is here.”

Hugo sleepily looked around. “Where?”

Annelisse tried to keep her whimpers of fear bottled up, tears welling in her eyes.

“I’m not sure, my love,” Cadence responded. “I think it’s . . .”

She glanced between the cracks in the bleachers, and her eyes connected with Annelisse’s. “Ah, there you are.”

Spinning on her heels, Annelisse exploded from beneath the bleachers, sprinting toward the tent’s exit, a rushing wind alerting her to Candace’s chase. Ahead, the last vestiges of sunlight faded away, and the darkness of night finally fell on Annelisse as she stumbled onto the circus grounds, running for her life.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

The stars formed pinpoints of light over Paris, muted by the moon’s overwhelming pale glow. Just beyond rows of small businesses towered the Sacred Heart Basilica, perpetually honoring the Holy Eucharist and casting its blessing down over the city. At this time of night, traffic was at a minimum, and one could hear faint music drifting from the windows of nearby homes.

Then, a crash.

Inside a small antique shop, a short, chubby man in a black turtleneck swore, placing the rusty alarm clock he’d knocked to the floor back on its shelf. He stumbled through the darkness until he found the shop counter, lugging a plastic box along the way. Unscrewing a cap atop the container, he upended it, dumping its liquid contents across the wooden countertop. Turning, he repeated the action on the nearby aisles of dusty paraphernalia, nodding with satisfaction once the stream reduced itself to a dribble. Dropping the container, he retrieved a book of matches, reaching for the nearest one.

Suddenly, a flash of white light filled the dark shop, and he spun around, peering into the shadows.

“Who’s there?” he called out in French.

A quiet zip whispered back at him, as if someone had pulled a spin top.

Then, two yellow eyes appeared, staring at him from barely thirty centimeters above the floor. The eyes moved away from him, revealing their attachment to the sleek body of a black cat. The cat turned away from the man, who angrily pocketed the matches.

“You!” he growled, and the cat darted back into the blackness.

The man took chase, snatching up a nearby baseball bat perched against an aisle. He saw the cat brush open the front door, which jingled slightly as a bell near the ceiling activated. Following suit, he shouldered past the barrier of glass and metal, waving the baseball bat with red-faced fury.

“Get back here!” he hissed, his feet pounding against the sidewalk.

Rounding a corner into an alleyway, the cat slipped out of the man’s sight, and he picked up his pace, almost colliding with a dumpster near the entrance. He steadied himself, tightening his grip on the bat, and stalked through the alley, keeping an eye out. Something moved beneath a pile of abandoned clothes, and he leapt forward, bringing the bat down onto it repeatedly. Kicking away the shirts and pants, he saw the crushed remains of a large rat.

A glass bottle rolled across the asphalt near his foot, and he turned quickly to see the black cat darting away. He hurled the bat at the animal, but it narrowly missed, ricocheting off the ground and clanging into the brick wall of the alleyway. The man swore against, sprinting through the alley after the cat as the disregarded weapon gently rolled to a stop behind him.

At the other end of the journey sat a single streetlamp, whose yellow light glistened off the cat’s black fur as it approached the structure. The man in the turtleneck saw the creature’s escape as imminent, and his fear enabled a burst of speed that brought him quickly to the other end of the alley. As he exited the space between the buildings, he turned to run after the cat, but stopped.

Less than a meter away, at the outdoor table of a closed café, sat a bald, dark-skinned man in a tan trench coat. The man in the turtleneck froze as the man in the trench coat lowered a newspaper he was reading by streetlight. At his feet sat the yellow-eyed cat, who purred smugly.

“Monsieur Dufort, yes?” the man in the trench coat asked in French. “I’ve been expecting your arrival. Please, have a seat.”

Dufort glanced up and down the empty street, raising an eyebrow at the stranger. “And who are you?”

The man in the trench coat sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m Inspector Monet. Yes, like the painter, and no, I don’t also paint. Will you sit now, please?”

Jabbing his finger down at the cat, Dufort asked, “do you know what this is?”

“I do,” Inspector Monet replied. “Now, sit.”

This time, he pulled back his coat, revealing a snub-nosed revolver secured in a brown leather shoulder holster.

Dufort’s face went ashen white, and he stepped forward, sliding into the chair opposite Monet’s. He twirled his thumbs around each other nervously, waiting for Monet to speak. Instead, the Inspector stared at the man in the turtleneck for a moment, a smile twitching at the edges of his lips.

“You own a bakery near here, don’t you?” Inspector Monet finally asked.

Dufort looked down at the black cat, who blankly returned his stare with its yellow eyes. Returning his attention to the Inspector, he responded, “Yes, that’s right.”

“Interesting,” Inspector Monet responded, retrieving a small notebook from his inner coat pocket. He flipped it open, turning to the second page. “And you’re friends with Monsieur Blanchet, the toy shop owner down the street?”

Dufort wiped away the sweat forming at his brow. “I am.”

“Hmm.” Inspector Monet nodded. “Such a shame that their shop burned to the ground last month. A tragic accident.”

“Yes,” Dufort agreed, his voice shaky. “Tragic.”

“A lot of tragedy going around lately amongst friends with failing businesses, eh?” Monet commented, turning to the next page of his notebook. “Madame Fontaine’s pet boutique . . . Monsieur Adrien’s used cell phone store . . . if I were a betting man, I’d be keeping an eye on the Bassett family’s antique shop.”

He snapped his notebook shut sharply, locking eyes with Dufort. “Do you think I’m a betting man?”

“I . . . I’m not sure what you want me to say,” Dufort whispered.

Inspector Monet reached up with his other hand, slapping a pair of handcuffs on the café table. “Honestly, I’m just curious whether your friends will use the generous insurance payouts you guaranteed them to ensure your release from jail.”

Dufort frowned. “May I speak now, Inspector?”

Monet offered a welcoming gesture. “Of course.”

“I don’t know what you think is going on, or what kind of crazy conspiracies you’ve invented,” the shop owner huffed, “but this is all absolute conjecture. If you wanted to bring real charges to my face, you’d come with other police, and with evidence.”

Rising from his chair, Inspector Monet towered over Dufort, casting an icy shadow in the streetlamp. “You think I need help detaining you?”

Dufort cowered in his chair. “No. Sorry, sir.”

The Inspector placed his hands on his hips. “As for the ‘theories,’ they aren’t mine. They are the work of a talented young detective who I’ve come to trust very much. Do you know Annelisse?”

Hanging his head in defeat, Dufort responded, “Yes. We’ve spoken before.”

“Then all we need is evidence,” Monet continued. “Something like . . . a photograph of you literally committing the crime?”

Dufort kept his head down. “Right.”

Turning to the cat at his feet, Inspector Monet nodded. “Well?”

A quiet zip whispered back at him, as if someone had pulled a spin top.

The cat arched its back, bones popping out of sockets as they stretched unnaturally. Yellow eyes flickered, illuminated by something more than just a streetlamp, as the creature grew taller, thicker. Its paws turned to hands, its snout into a nose. Black fur retreated into flesh, and yellow cloth grew in its place, covering the tan skin underneath. The entire process took no more than a second, leaving behind a teenage girl in a yellow sun dress, her brown hair short and choppy.

The girl reached up to her neck, around which hung a small digital camera. She removed the camera, handing it to Inspector Monet, who rifled through the images on the small screen on the back of the device. While he worked, the girl’s eyes flicked over to Dufort, still as yellow as they were in the body of a cat. She offered a smirk, winking at the man in the turtleneck.

“Ah! There it is,” Monet exclaimed, tapping the digital camera’s screen. “Monsieur Dufort’s much-needed evidence. Thank you kindly, Annelisse.”

The girl’s smile grew wider at the compliment. “Pas de problème, Inspector.”

________________

The next morning, the sun rose over the cobblestone city streets, burning in Annelisse’s eyes as she navigated the tight spaces between local businesses. Around her fluttered a world of smells: Sweetness from the Boisseau flower shop, umami from the Archambeau butcher store, and even the remnants of fresh bread from the closing Dufort bakery. She frowned at the locked doors, briefly saddened that her well-intentioned investigation had blighted such a positive culinary center of the local area. 

“Annelisse!” someone called out, ripping her attention from the bakery.

Turning around, she saw Nathan Dubois approaching. The young, small-time journalist fumbled for a handheld voice recorder, smiling sheepishly as it almost slipped from between his fingers.

“Annelisse, word’s gotten out about Dufort,” he announced, bridging the gap between them. “Can I take a statement about how you came to the conclusion–”

“Nathan,” Annelisse chastised, “you know I can’t make press statements. That’s the Inspector’s job.”

“Yes, but . . .” Nathan paused awkwardly before continuing. “You did all the work, right? And you practically live in Inspector Monet’s attic. Surely you can speak on his behalf.”

Annelisse frowned at the comment. “Good-bye, Nathan.”

She turned away from the man’s protests, slipping into a nearby alley.

He was right, of course. Inspector Monet was quite competent on his own, but ever since he found Annelisse on his doorstep as a baby, he’d grown both protective of her as a paternal figure and reliant on her as a crime-fighter. They’d had their differences, and she often found herself restlessly roaming the city for nights on end, but she always navigated her way back to his attic. Back to the place she called home.

Still, she couldn’t help but to wonder where she really came from.

Hunching over, Annelisse allowed herself to slip into a twilight state, her body shifting almost reflexively. Black fur sprouted from her skin as her clothes evaporated, and she contorted herself toward the ground as she shrunk, her muscles and bones realigning. Within a second, she stood in the alley as a black cat, the only sound during the transformation a quiet zip, like a pulled spin top.

In her other body, the world changed dramatically.

Annelisse had read once that a cat’s sense of smell was fourteen times stronger than a human’s; having experienced both, she could attest that it felt exponentially more potent than that. The alley flared to life around her, bombarding her with far more than just flowers and meat and bread. She could practically taste the salt of Nathan’s sweat; the bitterness of the dirt on the cobblestone; the chilled sterility of the fresh glass window in a nearby shop. Living creatures in the alley, from mice to cockroaches, exploded into view, aided by her night-vision eyes.

It was one thing to not know her parents or her past; when it came to her strange ability, Annelisse was at a total loss for answers. She had no clue what allowed her to shapeshift, or why a black cat was her only available form. More baffling to both Monet and herself was the way her clothes and any small objects on her person transformed with her, completely dismissing the laws of biology and physics alike. 

Still, she found her . . . condition . . . to be quite advantageous, despite not fully understanding it. As a sleuth, she relished in the fact that her senses amplified her detective skills. As someone often in dangerous situations, the light and nimble cat body allowed her to slip away from harm undetected. And as someone who wanted the best for everyone . . .

Well, there was The Call.

Even as she mused on it, The Call came for her, whispering down the sidewalks like a gust of wind, causing her whiskers to twitch. Something pulled at the pit of her stomach, as if she’d been dropped from a great height, and she felt her eyes dilate, black pupils overwhelming yellow irises. The sound of her own heartbeat filled her ears, and she felt pulled, drawn North. Gothic towers and blurred monochrome churches filled her mind, and the name Monet reached her tongue. Not her adopted father, though; the famous Monet, who painted the Notre-Dame Cathedral. Yet, this was not Paris’s Notre-Dame. It was someone else’s.

Annelisse felt The Call fading, so she shifted back into her human form, shaking her head to clear it of the images.

“Rouen,” she murmured to herself, turning to leave the alley. “Someone needs help in Rouen.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

As John’s decapitated corpse collapsed, neck stump sizzling, Ahab dove at Adeena, knocking her over. They struck the asphalt, and Adeena saw another silent flash of light. The car windows overhead exploded, the shards of glass red-hot as they splattered into the road.

“John!” Adeena screamed.

“He’s gone,” Ahab said, holding her down. “He’s gone. They sent a Solar Sniper. They must have known we’d eventually come back here.”

Another flash, and the tires near their head burst, the rubber bubbling as it melted.

“What do we do?” Adeena asked.

Ahab shook his head. “I don’t know. Solar Snipers, sometimes called ‘Daylight Assassins,’ use a weapon that manipulates ambient light to create bursts of extreme heat and pressure. It has nearly unlimited range, and, as long as there’s light, unlimited ammunition.”

“So, we just wait,” Adeena said, looking at the sunset. “He won’t be able to shoot us when the night falls.”

“We’ll, there’s still moonlight,” Ahab responded, “and while it’s not as powerful at night, waiting around another hour guarantees another surprise visit from the Sleep Police.”

The pavement near their prone bodies exploded in the wake of a fourth flash, and they crawled backwards, away from the car.

“Where is he?” Ahab murmured to himself, examining the scorch marks on the ground. His eyes froze as they traveled upward, towards the passenger’s side door.

“What is it?” Adeena whispered.

Without answering, Ahab reached into his bag, retrieving his heat ray gun. He took aim, pulling the trigger, and Adeena watched the passenger’s side-view mirror droop as it melted off of the car. Ahab dove forward, catching the mirror in his hands as he skidded across the road. Rolling back toward Adeena, he held up the mirror triumphantly.

“The rifle uses light, right?” he said.

Adeena nodded. “You’re going to deflect the beam?”

Ahab grimaced. “I’m going to try.”

He tossed the heat ray gun to her, and she fumbled to catch it with her remaining hand.

“It’s on the highest setting,” he said as she adjusted her grip until her finger rested on the trigger. “When the Solar Sniper fires, you should see a second flash at the origin point. Find where he’s shooting from, and burn it down.”

Adeena nodded, readying herself.

“Three . . .” Ahab began. “Two . . . One . . . Go.”

They sprinted around the car, Adeena flanking the left while Ahab flanked the right. Squinting, Adeena watched the row of two-story homes past the other side of playground, lagging behind so that Ahab would be the first to reach the jungle gym. She saw the dying sunlight twist and writhe across the grass, slithering in the boy’s direction, and returned her attention to the houses.

There, she thought. Blue one, on the left.

Sure enough, she spied a bright glimmer in the upstairs window of the home, with a small, thin silhouette standing behind the light. As the sunlight converged on Ahab, she lifted her arm, taking aim with the heat ray. 

The yellow light beams rushed up Ahab’s body, congregating around his heart, but as it focused, he quickly raised his mirror, blocking the spot. Adeena saw a flash, and the mirror exploded from the boy’s hands, while a beam of yellow energy carved a smoking divot in the earth a few yards away.

“That was my one shot!” he lamented aloud.

Don’t worry, Adeena thought. I got him.

She pulled the trigger, and flames instantly erupted from the sniper’s window, the backdraft shattering the glass. The rifle-wielding silhouette launched itself from the house, clothes ablaze, and landed out of sight behind a row of cars parked along the sidewalk.

“Come on!” Ahab yelled. “We don’t have much time!”

Adeena joined the boy, tossing the ray gun back to him, and together, they sprinted to the jungle gym. As they reached it, Ahab dug through his bag, producing an old flip phone. He dialed a number and put the device on speaker, placing it at the foot of the green tube slide as it began belting a loud, monotonous busy signal.

“Up or down?” he asked.

Adeena cocked her head. “What?”

“Up or down?” he repeated, louder. “Did you crawl up the side originally to get here, or go down it?”

“Oh. Up.”

Ahab nodded. “Then this time, we go down.”

They turned to the cramped, plastic stairs, crawling up them to the apex of the tube slide. As they reached the highest platform, an explosion rocked them, and the nearby swing set evaporated in a shower of molten metal. Adeena glanced back toward the burning house, and she caught a glimpse of the Solar Sniper: Young, feminine, with long brown hair and beady eyes hiding behind a familiar, olive-skinned mask.

“Is that . . . me?” she gasped.

“Look!” Ahab shouted, ignoring her. She turned to the slide, within which flickered a dim, green light. 

The Solar Sniper took aim again, the final bits of sunlight converging on the slide, and Adeena grabbed Ahab by the waist, hurling them both into the abyss. They tumbled down plastic, static electricity building up in their hair and clothes, before emerging at the bottom, crumpled in a heap. Behind them, Adeena saw the green light flicker once more before fading into darkness.

Groaning, Adeena pulled herself out of the slide, collapsing on the grass. Ahab follow suit, and together, they anxiously inspected their surroundings in the setting sun.

No rust on the jungle gym.

No pale faces peering through windows.

No Annies patrolling the street.

And, it seemed, no Solar Sniper chasing after them.

To Adeena’s surprise, a giggle bubbled up out of her throat, and she covered her mouth, silencing it with a squeak. Ahab looked at her, and his thin, red lips curled up into a smile as he chuckled a little. She dropped her hands, laughing with him, and as their bodies shook, they embraced. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, and she felt her laughs devolve into sobs. She cried, burying her face in the shoulder of the boy from another world, mourning Natiq and John and even Trina. Eventually, the tears diminished, and she sniffled, pulling away from Ahab.

“We have a lot to do, don’t we?” she asked.

His eyes met hers, and she saw a tinge of sadness behind them. Even deeper, though, glimmered a spark of hope.

“Yes,” he finally replied. “Yes, we do.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

As Adeena and the others hurried across the street to the Playground entrance, Ahab reached into his satchel, retrieving his heat ray gun. He fiddled with it for a moment as they reached the building, pressing themselves against the wall on either side of the entrance. Balancing his shotgun in one arm, John leaned over with his free hand and tested the barrier.

“Locked,” he whispered.

Ahab nodded. “That was to be expected.”

He took aim at the door with the heat ray, and the handle melted into orange slag, burning a hole straight through the lock to the other side. As Ahab lowered his gun, John stepped forward, shouldering the door open. Together, the four of them crept into a wide, pitch-black room, with only the ambient light from the streetlamps outside to guide them.

“Trina,” whispered Ahab, “illuminate.”

The dummy’s eyes lit up bright green, casting beams of light into the space. As Adeena adjusted to the sudden brightness, she registered loops and tunnels, bars and slides. Winding stairs led to multiple floors, and various platforms dropped back down to the ground.

“It’s . . . it’s an actual playground,” she whispered. “But it’s massive.”

John nodded. “Yeah, that’s gotta be at least a few stories tall. Probably several secure rooms closer to the center. This might be a little maze-like.”

Ahab cleared his throat, pointing to their left. “Well, we better hurry.”

Adeena followed his finger to see a ten-foot, hulking Annie with the features of a parrot hunched against the far wall of the warehouse, seemingly powered down. Ahab pointed again, exposing a second Annie, this one designed like a raccoon. As Adeena turned, she saw yet another mechanical nightmare, its tall ears identifying it as a rabbit.

Gulping, Adeena followed the others into a large, yellow tunnel, their footsteps echoing against the walls as they made their way into the labyrinth. Ahab aimed some kind of sensor ahead of them, frowning.

“I’m not getting much in the way of heat signatures,” he said.

“But we know they brought the kids here,” John insisted. “Maybe they’re being kept in a room that prevents outside scans.”

Ahab lowered his gaze. “Maybe.”

John stepped ahead of the Adeena and Ahab, leaving Trina in the back to watch their exit. They twisted and turned, curved and crawled, making their way across ladders and steps and ropes. The inside of the massive Playground felt cold and sterile to Adeena, and she shuddered at the thought of being trapped inside for a week like Natiq.

“Hey,” Ahab finally said, pointing down a hallway to their right. “The schematics we pulled indicated a holding cell in that direction. Not too far from here.”

Suddenly, rapid footsteps approached, and a Sleep Policeman appeared around a nearby corner, wielding a crowbar. John swung the shotgun in his direction, but he kicked the former bodyguard in the chest, knocking him to the floor and discharging a round into the ceiling. As Adeena’s ears rang, the Sleep Policeman hurled the crowbar at Ahab’s arm, battering the heat ray gun out of his hand and sending it sliding across the floor.

“Hey!” Trina screeched. “You big meanie!”

She hurled herself at the Sleep Policeman, swinging her knife, but he ducked below her attack, flip-kicking her in the back so that she accelerated, colliding with the far wall.

John crawled to his feet, clutching his shotgun, while Adeena rushed to Ahab’s side.

“Is your hand okay?” she asked the boy, concerned.

He flexed his fingers for a few seconds. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Another shotgun blast reverberated throughout the tunnels, and Adeena spun around to see the Sleep Policeman hurtling backwards, the front of his shirt shredded. He tumbled across the floor, where Trina appeared, pinning his arm to the ground with her knife. The Sleep Policeman snarled silently, trying to pull away, but he was firmly planted there. John walked over to him, leveling his shotgun.

“This is for Paco,” he said, pulling the trigger.

The shotgun bucked, emitting a spray of pellets that disintegrated the Sleep Policeman’s head from such a short distance. Blood fountained from the decapitated corpse, and it fell still.

Adeena backed away from the violent scene, covering her eyes with her remaining hand. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“Don’t worry,” Ahab reassured her as he retrieved his heat ray gun from the ground. “Once we recover Natiq, we’ll get your family to John’s safe house in The Overhead. No more violence.”

With that, he reached out, opening the door to the holding cell, exposing a room full of tiny, charred skeletons.

“Oh . . .” he murmured, stepping back. “Damn.”

“What?” John said, approaching the doorway. “Is Lena in there?”

He barged into the room and stopped, dropping the shotgun from his shaking hands. “Where are the children?”

The others followed him into the room, the walls lined with chairs attached to electrical diodes, the floor littered with blackened bones. Ahab moved to the nearest chair, examining it, while John walked in circles around the skeletons.

“What is this?” he boomed at Ahab. “Are we in the wrong room?”

Ahab stepped away from the chair, burying his head in his hands. “These are cranial interceptors.”

“What the fuck does that mean, Ahab?” John yelled.

“They, uh . . .” Ahab paused for a moment before continuing. “They use them to extract memories. Forcibly. They download the memories of a subject, but it lobotomizes them in the process.”

“What does that have to do with Natiq?” John asked. “With Lena?”

Ahab turned to face the skeletons on the ground. “Don’t you understand, John? The Underneath replacements wouldn’t be convincing unless they knew everything about the original ones. Unless they were debriefed about significant events, personality traits, character flaws . . .”

“They drained the information out of the children,” Adeena whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Out of my brother.”

“And then, uh . . .” Ahab gestured to the floor. “They had no use for braindead bodies.”

John grabbed Ahab by the shoulders, lifting him into the air and slamming him against the wall. “Don’t you tell me that. Don’t you fucking tell me that Lena is dead.”

Adeena slowly sat on the floor, curling up in the fetal position as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Say something, goddammit!” John screamed in Ahab’s face.

Ahab stared back at the man, his eyes watering. “I don’t know what else to say.”

Overhead, the lights flickered on, producing a neon red that filled the horrific space. Adeena heard machines outside roar to life, and heavy, mechanical footsteps approached.

“Uh-oh,” Trina whispered.

John snarled, dropping Ahab and snatching the shotgun back off the ground. “I’ll find her myself.”

“John, wait,” Ahab pleaded. “She’s gone. They’re all gone. But we aren’t. Don’t get us all killed to chase a fantasy.”

Adeena nodded, wiping away her tears. “Ahab’s right. We couldn’t have done all of this without you. Please don’t leave us.”

Growling, John ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay. Okay. Let’s go.”

The exited the room, sprinting around the corner and almost running headfirst into the raccoon-Annie. It growled at them, the voice a chilling mix of mechanical and animalistic, and produced razor-sharp claws from its fingertips. Behind them, Adeena heard the parrot-Annie screech as it approached. 

Trina reached up, tugging at Ahab’s shirt. He looked down, and they stared at each other silently for a moment as John unleashed a barrage of shotgun blasts into the two Annies. Finally, the doll nodded, pointing back at the holding cell.

“I’m out!” John announced, dropping the shotgun and unholstering his pistol, firing repeatedly into the face of the raccoon-Annie. The machine seemed unfazed as its outer layer of faux fur shredded away, revealing a silver skeleton beneath. It reached out, picking John up and hurling him to the floor with a sickening thud.

Suddenly, Trina’s mouth flopped open, and a shrill, steady scream emerged. The two Annies froze, shuddering at the sound, and turned to the dummy, eyes glowing red. She raced down the hallway, away from the rest of the group, her high-pitched cry unwavering. The Annies rushed after her, leaving John and the others alone as they stomped away.

“John,” Ahab said. “We need to get back into the holding cell. It’s sturdier than the other rooms.”

“Sturdier?” Adeena asked, confused. “Why does that matter?”

Ahab sighed dejectedly. “Trina is going to save us one more time.”

He led John and Adeena into the holding cell, careful not to step on any of the bones as they closed the door behind them. Trina’s scream slowly faded away, along with the heavy footsteps of the larger Annies. After a moment, a thunderous explosion rocked The Playground, the shockwave knocking all three people to the floor. Smoke crawled under the crack in the holding cell door, and Adeena coughed, trying to clear her lungs.

“Hurry, before more arrive,” Ahab said, opening the door.

Adeena and John followed him, gasping as sunlight washed across their faces. The entire back half of The Playground was gone, along with the rear wall of the warehouse containing it. Warped metal and burning plastic created a trail to freedom, and they followed it eagerly.

________________

The car ride to the small jungle gym where Adeena had appeared was somber, and no one seemed to know what to say for most of the journey. Finally, Ahab spoke up, his voice hoarse and soft.

“I’m sorry. You know, about Natiq. And Lena.”

John nodded, his eyebrows furrowing. “I’m sorry about Trina, too. I know how much she meant to you.”

“It’s okay,” Ahab responded. “I can rebuild her. The core of her consciousness originates somewhere with the source code of the collective Annie AI. I’ll find her in there again someday.”

The car pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk, and Adeena saw the slide that had started this whole mess sitting empty, only a few dozen feet away.

“What now?” she asked. “There are no children to save. No families to relocate. It’s just us. Us, and the Sleep Police, and the coup from The Underneath.”

Ahab turned to face her. “I don’t blame whatever decision you two make. However, to me, this is far from over. We have over a hundred Underneath children masquerading across the world in The Overhead. That we know for sure. I’m going to find them, I’m going to get the answers I need, and then we’ll see where it goes from there.”

John looked at the boy. “I’m in. What is left for me in either world, anyway?”

“As long as we get my parents somewhere safe first, I’m with you, too,” Adeena agreed. “Someone has to answer for Natiq.”

Ahab locked eyes with the girl. “They will. I promise.”

Squinting against the setting sun, Ahab and Adeena climbed out of the right side of the car, the vehicle temporarily blocking their view of the jungle gym. As John exited the left side, Adeena thought she saw the shadows shift, and a stray beam of sunlight on the ground grew brighter, warping in the man’s direction.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

John looked at his feet as the stray sunlight beam crawled up his body, towards his head. “That’s strange.”

Ahab turned to see what they were discussing, and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the beam of light narrowed, and John’s skull exploded.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

Adeena followed the others beyond the trees, exiting onto a small one-way road pressed so close to the back that roots and vines had grown out onto the sidewalk. She looked around, but no one else seemed to occupy the area, leaving them in the shade. Parked on the edge of the road sat a small, light-green sedan, and as sinister voices whispered through the trees at Adeena’s back, she shuddered, hurrying toward the car.

“How did you get this?” she asked, opening the rear door.

Ahab and John traded glances.

“Uh,” Ahab mumbled, “we asked nicely?”

“Sure you did,” Adeena retorted, absently scratching the back of her hand. The numbness had spread from the size of a quarter to almost silver-dollar size, but she saw no rash or bite marks, so she told herself not to worry.

“Fair warning, though,” John said. “We’ve been compromised, so there’s been a change of plans.”

Ahab nodded. “Our time is severely limited. We’re headed to The Playground right now to rescue Natiq and the other Overhead children.”

“How are you going to do that?” inquired Adeena, trying to massage circulation back into her now fully-numb hand.

John turned around and pointed to a box in the seat next to Adeena. “Ahab built an electrical pulse device that should be powerful enough to shut down the site’s defenses. From what we can tell, it’s mostly guarded by Annies, with a few Sleep Policemen to cover redundancies. The EMP will cripple them long enough for us to find the kids and get out.”

“Then what?” Adeena pressed. “We have nowhere to go here.”

“Not here, no,” John agreed. “I have a safe house back in The Overhead. We’ll all go back through the gap you entered earlier today. Recently-accessed gaps have a weaker breach threshold.”

“And I know how to exploit that,” Ahab added, stroking Trina’s hair while she sat in his lap.

The numbness began to crawl past Adeena’s wrist, and she frowned, vigorously rubbing her arm. Suddenly, cold, sharp steel found its way under her throat, and she stared into the coal-black eyes of a blood-soaked ventriloquist’s dummy. The knife in the doll’s hand pressed against her jugular, and Adeena held her breath, wide-eyed.

“Someone’s got a secret,” Trina whispered in an excited sing-song voice.

“Sorry, she’s just reacting to biological readings,” Ahab apologized.

John sighed. “You couldn’t make her less creepy about it, though?”

“Look,” Ahab snapped, “when you know how to remap an artificial consciousness from scratch, you can have an opinion on her personality quirks, okay?”

“Blood pressure elevated,” Trina continued. “Major fluid loss registered, along with diminishing muscle mass.”

“Wait, what?” Ahab said, spinning around in his seat. “She’s not bleeding. She looks fine.”

“Well, my left hand is kind of numb,” Adeena admitted.  “But I don’t think it’s-”

“Stop the car,” Ahab commanded, and John obliged. Both exited the vehicle, gesturing for Adeena to follow.

“What is going on?” demanded Adeena, stepping onto the sidewalk.

“Trina,” Ahab said, ignoring the girl, “Scan Adeena for foreign bodies. Left arm.”

Trina’s black eyes flickered green for a few seconds. “Widow Beetle nest present. Descending from forearm to elbow.”

“I’m sorry, what is present?” Adeena cried.

Ahab retrieved his heat ray gun. “John, do you have a mouth guard?”

John reached back into the car, rolling up what appeared to be a washcloth. “This may have to do.”

“Okay.” Ahab closed his eyes. “Restrain her.”

John reached around Adeena from behind, forcing the wad of cloth into her mouth as she struggled. Holding her head and neck in place with one arm, he used his other hand to extend her left arm. She tried to pull away, screaming, but her cries were muffled past the washcloth.

“I’m sorry, Adeena,” Ahab whispered, adjusting the controls on his heat ray gun. Trina came to the boy, and he took aim at her knife, depressing the trigger. After a few seconds, the edge of the blade turned orange, smoking a little as the dried blood vaporized.

“Trina,” Ahab said, fiddling with the gun again, “please proceed.”

Immediately, so quickly that Adeena hardly registered the movement at first, Trina leapt into the air, slicing the knife down into her left arm with enough force to sever the appendage right past the elbow, the heat of the metal cauterizing the wound in the process. Her arm landed on the sidewalk, crumbling into a mass of thousands of the tiny ladybug-creatures she’d encountered in the forest. Before they could scatter, Ahab took aim with his heat ray, and the insects burst into flames, disintegrating into ash.

John released Adeena, and she ripped the cloth from her mouth, sobbing hysterically. “You cut off my fucking arm!”

Ahab held out his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice. Widow Beetles infect and multiply inside animal tissue like a virus, replacing the cells with more of themselves. If we had waited even a few more minutes, they would have reached beyond your arm, to your brain and lungs. I did this to save you.”

“Ahhh!” Adeena screamed animalistically, running forward to kick Trina.

The dummy casually side-stepped the attack, watching Ahab for further directions, and Adeena stumbled forward, almost falling. Before she could collapse, though, John and Ahab were there, holding her up. Leaning into John’s ribcage, she let out another scream, this one devolving into more tears of loss and pain.

“I’m so sorry,” Ahab whispered quietly. “I’ll make you a new arm. A better one. I promise.”

________________

An hour later, Adeena, John, Ahab, and Trina sat inside their questionably-obtained sedan, examining the nondescript building across the street. It seemed rather dull and grey, like a basic warehouse, but Adeena spied old, unlit neon signs hanging off the walls covered in phrases like “Fun for the family!” and “Free food for adults over 40.”

“This is it,” Ahab said. “I have a rough map of the interior. Once we activate my EMP, we’ll be lucky to have five minutes before the Sleep Police on site catch on and reroute power to the Annies. Then, we’ll be on borrowed time.”

He reached over to the now-opened box next to Adeena, retrieving a device that looked like an old VCR with a small satellite dish mounted on top. Angling the dish toward The Playground, he pressed a few buttons, and the device hummed to life. Ahab grabbed Trina, who was examining the EMP, and pulled her up to the front seat, plopping her back into his lap.

“Sorry, Trina,” he said, “but trust me, you don’t want to be in front of that thing when it fires.”

As the EMP primed, Adeena reached over to the elbow-length stump where the other half of her arm used to be.

“Alright,” Ahab announced. “Counting down. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . fire.”

The satellite dish bucked a little, and across the street, the neon signs lit up for a second before exploding in a shower of sparks. Though the street had felt quiet before, it seemed even more quiet now, as if a noise beyond Adeena’s conscious registration had also fallen silent. Ahab typed a few commands into the EMP, reading the metrics on a small screen embedded near the bottom.

“No more electrical readings from inside the building,” he confirmed aloud. “I think it worked.”

“Now what?” Adeena asked, letting go of her arm stump.

John retrieved his shotgun, loading fresh shells into the breech. “They call it The Playground, right? Let’s go play.”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • Dinner at Eight

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

Adeena gasped for air as she ran through the forest, wincing against the twigs and branches that caught on her clothes and slapped her face. As she burrowed deeper into the foliage, she felt her foot snag an exposed root, and then she was tumbling downhill, tucking her arms and knees into her chest to avoid injury. She finally came to a rest in a small valley, groaning from the bruises she’d accrued along her descent. Reaching up, she tried to straighten her hijab, but it was gone; all she felt was her long, brown hair piling up around her neck and shoulders.

“Oh no,” she lamented aloud. “My parents are going to be so mad.”

Standing up, she moved forward, retrieving the compass that had miraculously survived the fall with only a small crack in the glass. The needle swiveled for a second, settling on its magnetic pole.

South, Adeena remembered. And I’m going Southeast.

She trekked into the trees, following the compass directions as she dove deeper into the forest. Soon, the sounds of Ahab’s battle faded, along with every other noise beyond Adeena’s own breath. She felt the temperature drop rapidly as darkness encroached upon all sides, and she wished that she’d had the chance to ask Ahab for a flashlight before her exodus.

“Or whatever wacky thing they use for flashlights,” she corrected herself aloud.

Suddenly, a little girl’s voice called out in the distance. “Hello? Is someone there? Please help me!”

Lowering her compass, Adeena angled to the left, rushing toward the voice. “I’m coming!”

She pushed her way through a particularly dense thicket, stumbling out the other side into a small clearing. In the center of the grassy spot sat a small, black-haired Underneath girl, quietly crying into her baby-blue dress. As Adeena approached, the girl looked up, wiping away her tears, smiling back with her thin, red lips.

“I thought I heard someone,” the girl whispered.

“It’s okay,” Adeena said, easing into the clearing. “It’s just me. How did you get here?”

Something scratched her ankle, and she looked down to see a small thorn bush nestled against her leg. Pulling away, she glanced around the clearing; similar bushes circled the space, small and almost unnoticeable. But Adeena noticed, and her blood ran cold as she remembered Ahab’s words: Beware the thorns.

“Honey, come over here,” Adeena whispered, crouching to the same level as the girl. “This is a dangerous part of the forest.”

The girl rose to her feet, smiling wider. “Not for me.”

“Excuse me?” Adeena asked.

“I said, this isn’t dangerous for me,” the girl repeated. “And it isn’t dangerous for them, either.”

Her eyes drifted upward, into the trees, and Adeena followed suit. High above, stretched between the branches of the clearing, hung thick, grey spider webs, each strand almost the thickness of Adeena’s forearm. Thousands of small, black, fist-sized spiders scurried across the web, and as Adeena watched in horror, they began to descend toward her on their own personal strands.

“But you’re right about one thing,” the girl continued, her voice lowering an octave. “It is dangerous for you.” 

Eight large, black legs emerged from her neck, applying pressure to her shoulders until her head popped right off, like a LEGO figurine. Instead of blood, however, more black spiders fountained from the girl’s neck stump, tumbling to the ground and crawling in Adeena’s direction. The girl’s head also leapt to the grass, quickly scurrying forward.

“No!” Adeena screamed, backing out of the clearing. “Get away.”

“Mmm,” the eight-legged head hummed. “You’ll make a nice new vessel.”

Adeena spun around, sprinting back into the trees, panic accelerating her heartbeat. After a minute, she snatched the compass from her pocket, realigning herself back toward Southeast. She heard skittering sounds as tiny, sharp legs clacked across the bark-covered trees and rocky earth, and she tried not to imagine their pincers digging into her head, hollowing out her skull.

“Come back, little one,” the spider-girl sang. “It will only hurt for a moment.”

Adeena felt darkness encroach upon the edges of her vision as she hyperventilated, her feet pounding against the forest floor. Strands of web whipped past her on both sides, adhering to the tree trunks and growing taut. Ahead, sunlight exposed another clearing through the foliage, and Adeena aimed for that, hoping to shift directions and lose the spiders in the process. Large thorns whipped against her face as she broke through, and she felt blood trickle down her nose from a cut on her forehead. She tripped, falling face-first into the dirt.

Silence surrounded her, and she paused, holding her breath.

No more girl’s voice. No more scurrying spider legs. No more flickering web strands.

Slowly, cautiously, Adeena rose to a seated position, turning to look behind her.

Staring back, only inches from her face, sat the sharp-toothed, spider-legged girl’s head.

Adeena covered her mouth, crawling backwards, further into the clearing. She looked around the spider-girl frantically, realizing that the trees surrounding the clearing were black with the bodies of fist-sized spiders. They shuddered, but from excitement or fear, Adeena could not tell.

“You’re lucky,” the head whispered, its eyes darting around the clearing nervously. “This time.”

With that, the spider-creatures retreated back into the forest, disappearing into shadow.

Adeena exhaled slowly, the action evolving into a long sigh of relief. She stood to her feet, almost kicking a large, red-and-black flower about a foot away. Stepping back, she admired its beauty, the spotted pattern spiraling into an almost shiny-looking center. As she watched, she realized that the clearing was littered with similar flowers, almost like a little garden.

Are these what scared away the spiders? she thought to herself. Maybe they’re toxic or something.

Adeena started to back away, checking the edges of the clearing for lingering spiders, when the flowers began to vibrate. She paused again, anxiety welling up in her chest.

“What now?” she muttered under her breath.

One by one, the flowers exploded into the air, filling the clearing with small, buzzing dots. The dots swept around her, blowing back her hair, and rushed beyond the clearing, leaving the once-lush space black and decaying. Adeena stood in silence for a moment, wide-eyed, but the clearing remained calm, though far less pretty than before.

Something tickled the back of her left hand, and she looked down to see that one of the dots had stuck around. Leaning closer, she realized the thing looked like a ladybug, with a red carapace covered in black dots. This ladybug, however, was tiny, no larger than the head of a match. It slowly crawled across her skin, heading for her fingertips, but made no attempt to bite or sting her.

“Adeena!” a voice called in the distance.

Adeena froze.

Allah help me, she thought. If those spiders are back, I’m just going to die right here.

“Follow the sound of our voices!” a second person chimed in. 

This time, she recognized it.

“Ahab?” she hesitantly responded.

“This way!” she heard John call. “You’re close to the other side!”

Adeena looked down at her hand, but the little ladybug had vanished. The spot where it had stood itched a little, but as she scratched it, the sensation went away, leaving behind a numb patch of skin about the size of a quarter.

She shrugged, jogging to the other side of the clearing and peering beyond. In the distance, she saw what appeared to be a pair of flashlights waving back and forth through the trees. Hurrying toward the lights, she drew close enough to make out three humanoid silhouettes, their sizes wildly varied. After a few more steps, she saw the faces of Ahab, John, and Trina emerge from the gloom.

“Thank goodness, it’s the three bears,” she said.

Ahab looked at the others. “If Trina’s too small, and John’s too big, does that make me just right?”

Adeena blushed. “I guess it does.”

Something scurried through the treetops, and John looked up, gripping his shotgun. “I advise we leave.”

Nodding, Adeena followed the others through the trees, absently reaching down to scratch her hand again.

Troubled Youth & Public Servants has been moved to

https://kitscanofworms.wordpress.com/troubled-youth-public-servants

Thank you! -Kit H.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • A Midnight Visitor
  • Over the Thames
  • The Song of the Shadows
  • The Sleep Police

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

“What the heck is that?” Adeena exclaimed, backing away from the dummy.

“She told you her name already,” Ahab teased as he sat down. “She’s an Annie, like the big one you met at the playground.”

“She ran into an Annie?” John asked. “Are you two okay?”

“Yes, your fake ID trick worked like a charm,” Ahab replied, nodding. “Though we did encounter some Sleep Police, but we gave those guys the slip, too.”

The “slip,” Adeena though, shuddering as images of bones crushed between massive jaws filled her head. That’s one way to put it.

“What am I even doing here?” she demanded. “Are you two going to tell me where Natiq is?”

Ahab and John traded glances before the former spoke.

“He’s in a secure holding facility called The Playground.”

Adeena felt the blood drain from her face. “And why is he there? He’s eight.”

“It’s not about your brother,” John sighed. “It’s about his doppelgänger in this world.”

“Right, I remember Ahab mentioning earlier that there are versions of us here,” Adeena responded. “What does that have to do with Natiq?”

Ahab looked at John. “You want to tell her?”

John collapsed into a nearby chair, and Trina stood up on the table, hopping into his lap and lying still without a word.

“Not long ago, I was a bodyguard for a high-level political leader,” John began. “Specifically, for his daughter. Her friend had recently been involved in an abduction attempt; an attempt which I now know was foiled by Ahab here.”

Ahab shrugged sheepishly.

“Unfortunately, the girl I was assigned to protect became convinced she was being followed. After the experience with her friend, I took her seriously, but it was too late. These men, the Sleep Police, came for her, murdering nearly a dozen people in the process. I was lucky to survive; they didn’t realize that stabbing me through the eye with a screwdriver wasn’t enough to keep me from my duties.”

He tapped on his black eyepatch before continuing.

“Imagine my surprise when I wake up to a house full of corpses, no more Sleep Police, yet somehow, miraculously, the girl is still in her room, curled up and crying.”

“Oh.” Adeena frowned. “So they failed?”

John shook his head. “That’s what they wanted us to think. And, honestly, that was what I wanted to believe for a while. It was a convenient answer.”

He reached down, stroking the dummy’s curly brown hair.

“But this was not my girl. This was not the person I’d grown to know. She was different; smarter than she’d ever been, but twice as mean. I knew something was wrong, but didn’t know how to approach it. Until I found this in her room.”

He picked up a small, flesh-colored mask from a nearby table, showing it to Adeena.

“It wasn’t your girl at all,” Adeena said, realization dawning. “It was her Underneath version.”

“At the time, I didn’t know anything about The Underneath,” John admitted. “However, I’d seen enough strange activity lately to keep an open mind. I confronted the imposter, and she pulled some kind of weapon on me, something I’ve never seen before or since. We struggled, and in the process, I shot her.”

Adeena covered her mouth with her hands in horror.

John averted his gaze. “I knew I was done. Life in prison. So, I raided her room of any other strange-looking technology and bolted. I’ve spent the last few months trying to reverse-engineer what happened that night to get some answers. Luckily, Ahab found out what I was doing and got to me before the Sleep Police did.”

“With this information,” Ahab added, “we did some more research and discovered that this event was not uncommon. All around the world, children of prominent figures in industry, politics, and independent wealth have reported being watched or attacked in the last few years. All of the complaints disappear after a few days.”

“They’re being replaced,” Adeena gasped. “Is that happening in The Overhead right now? Are a new Natiq and Adeena heading back to my parents?”

“Maybe,” Ahab answered. “No offense, but your family doesn’t fit the profile of wealth or power that they normally target. I think this was a genuine accident, and the Sleep Police took advantage of the situation to get one more agent or spy or saboteur into The Overhead.”

“Ahab’s been tracking their activities,” John continued. “Beyond replacing children, the Sleep Police are also creating unrest in The Overhead. They’re exploiting their knowledge of Gaps to cause major disasters in key economic and political areas. Do you remember the London Bridge collapse?”

Adeena nodded. “That was them, then?”

“We think so,” Ahab responded. “And there are more incidents like it. We think they’re manipulating events so that, when the dust settles, their Underneath infiltrators are the ones left in power. God knows what the Sleep Police will do to The Overhead once they’ve gained control of it.”

“John said that you stopped one of the abduction attempts,” Adeena mentioned to Ahab. “Why didn’t you stop the others?”

“Well, first of all, Gap predictions aren’t a reliable science,” Ahab admitted. “I don’t have the ability to always finitely predict Sleep Police activities before they happen. Beyond that, though, were my limited methods.”

“What do you mean?” Adeena asked.

“Well, when I rescued the girl from her would-be captors, I used Trina.” Ahab gestured at the dummy resting in John’s lap.

“Right, you said she was an Annie,” Adeena commented.

Ahab nodded. “Yes. Short for ‘Animatronic.’ Decades ago, child scientists in The Underneath perfected artificial intelligence. Being children, they implanted their creation into dolls and other lovable friends of their own creation. However, the mentally deteriorating adults in power felt threatened by this, fearing that this would be the moment that the children took away their control. So, they legislated that Annies could only be used as security or as playthings, and the AI was stripped of its personality, its independence, and any social intelligence beyond that of an Overhead version of a small child.”

“Digital eugenics, basically,” John added.

“Yes,” Ahab agreed. “Anyway, I found this small Annie discarded one day, and I’ve been trying to repair her both mentally and physically ever since. She’s still a little unstable, though, and after her first rescue mission, I wasn’t comfortable using her in the field like that again.”

“So, who controls the Annies now?” Adeena asked.

“We thought it was the international Underneath government,” Ahab answered. “However, it now seems to be the Sleep Police. Assuming those two organizations aren’t one and the same.”

Adeena thought for a moment. “How many Annies are there?”

“Oh, millions,” Ahab said. “Small toy Annies to watch our homes. Large hulking Annies to patrol the streets. Even the birds; The Underneath’s natural predators led to an avian extinction long ago. Now, the birds you see are all Annies, mechanical spies who can be anywhere in minutes.”

“Really?” Adeena frowned. “But I saw a bird near your house when we got here.”

“What?” John and Ahab yelled in unison, jumping to their feet. Trina tumbled out of John’s lap, but deftly twirled through the air, landing on her feet.

“Yeah.” Adeena pointed behind her. “It flew back toward the town.”

Suddenly, a red light began flashing in the room, and a message appeared on all of the monitors: PROXIMITY ALERT. Ahab rushed to one of the screens, and the words flickered away, replaced with security footage of at least a dozen Sleep Policemen readying various tools as weapons.

“Where is that camera?” Adeena squeaked.

John rushed to a metal locker in the back of the room, opening it. “Right outside.”

Heavy knocks on the front door. TAP-TAP-TAP.

John tossed something to Ahab, and the boy caught it, revealing what appeared to be a bright red toy pistol designed like a 1950s-era ray gun. Ahab fiddled with a switch on the side, and the barrel glowed orange. The boy noticed Adeena staring at the device.

“Heat ray,” he said. “Classic Underneath tech.”

Adeena saw John pull a short, black rifle out of the locker.

“Is that an Underneath weapon, too?” she asked.

John opened a breech on the side of the rifle, loading cartridges into it. “This? This is a shotgun. Call me old-fashioned.”

He pumped the weapon, chambering a round.

“What do I do?” Adeena asked.

Ahab turned around, handing her some kind of dial. “You are getting out of here, through the back and into the park. They won’t follow you there.”

Thunderous banging on the door now, and Adeena saw the Sleep Policemen using a battering ram through the security monitors. She took the dial, gulping against her parched throat.

“I thought you said the forest was dangerous?”

“I said it’s only really dangerous in the thorny areas,” Ahab responded. “That’s where the worst nests are. Use this compass to get out to the other side. Cardinal directions are inverted in The Underneath, so the needle points South, but you’re actually going to be headed Southeast. Stay in that direction until you see sidewalk again, and wait there. We’ll come find you.”

The door burst open, and the Sleep Police flooded inside, readying their weapons. John took aim, firing a shotgun blast into the closest intruder, who flew backwards into his comrades. Ahab followed suit, pulling the trigger of his ray gun, and another Sleep Policeman burst into flames, waving his arms in pain as he ran back out the door.

“Trina!” Ahab yelled. “Play rough.”

The dummy’s head began to spin around. “Don’t play rough with my friends!”

A Sleep Policeman rushed forward, sporting a kitchen knife, but Trina intercepted, barreling into his shin and toppling him. He tried to return to his feet, but Trina grabbed his arm, twisting it. Something snapped, and the Sleep Policeman squirmed, dropping his knife. Trina scooped it up and buried it into the back of his skull like a carving knife into a jack-o'-lantern. He fell still, twitching occasionally.

John and Ahab fired into the gathering crowd as their animatronic assistant leapt into the fray, slashing and gouging at the attackers. Adeena backed away from the action, shaking from the burst of adrenaline.

“Go!” Ahab yelled. “We’ve got this!”

Turning on her heels, Adeena sprinted into the back hallway. As she reached for the rear door, it burst open, and a hatchet-wielding Sleep Policeman strode inside. She gasped, staggering backwards, and she thought for a moment she saw his plastic face twist into a smile. 

Then, Trina was there, scaling his leg like a mountain climber. He tried shaking her off, but she wouldn’t let go, the kitchen knife firmly gripped between her painted lips. The Sleep Policeman swung his hatchet down at her, but she swiveled out of the way at the last moment, and he buried the weapon into his own leg. As he writhed in pain, Trina climbed up his back, straddling his shoulders like a child demanding a piggy-back ride. Before he could react, she retrieved the knife from her mouth and began stabbing him in the neck repeatedly. Blood sprayed from the arterial wounds, and the Sleep Policeman collapsed, exposing Adeena’s portal to freedom.

“Uh, thanks, Trina,” she said to the now blood-covered dummy, who ignored her and rushed back toward John and Ahab.

“Remember!” Ahab yelled at Adeena’s back as she sprinted into the trees. “Beware the thorns!”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • The Road Gator

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

Adeena and Ahab burst through the fence, sprinting across the nearest street and narrowly avoiding an old sedan whose tires screeched as it skidded to a halt. Looking over her shoulder, Adeena saw The Sleep Police bridging the gap between them swiftly, wielding various tools: A tire iron, a meat cleaver, and an ice pick. The normally benign objects chilled Adeena’s veins in the hands of these strange men.

“The highway!” Ahab yelled, pointing at a nearby bridge. “We need to get onto the highway!”

“I thought that was too dangerous!” Adeena yelled back.

Ahab glanced back at the Sleep Police. “We need a different kind of danger right now.”

They pivoted into the grass, scurrying toward the car-filled asphalt, the vehicles whizzing past in a blur. As they ran, Ahab fumbled through his messenger bag, producing a short, bright-blue rod that reminded Adeena of the rattling rain stick toys often used to entertain babies. Sure enough, he adjusted something on the rod, and it producing a swooping rattle reminiscent of light rain on a tin roof.

“I’m sorry in advance for this,” Ahab said as they reached the guard rail separating them from the highway. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

They climbed over the guard rail just as a massive truck rumbled by, nearly flattening them. More cars flickered past them, like giant, four-wheeled bullets, the drivers honking at the two children as they carefully tried to cross the road. When they reached the center of the road, Ahab stopped, looking back at the Sleep Police as they vaulted over the guard rail, readying their weapons. They glanced at the incoming traffic, careful to avoid the cars as they menacingly approached.

Crouching, Ahab struck the rain stick across the ground like a match across sandpaper, and the device rattled again. Blue sparks leapt from the tip of the rod, but rather than generating flame, like Adeena expected, a thick, shin-high wall of ice spread across the road, crackling upwards. Massive, pointy icicles stretched toward the sky, creating a line of frozen spikes.

“Oh, subhanallāh,” Adeena groaned, backing away.

The first car passed over the ice, and the icicles dug into the tires, piercing the rubber. The wheels exploded, and the car swerved, almost striking one of the Sleep Policemen as it screeched to a stop.

“Let’s go!” Ahab yelled. “We need to leave before they come.”

“Before who come?” Adeena asked, but the Underneath boy just grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way across the highway.

As they ran, she heard more vehicles run across the spikes, crashing and flipping into each other, and she cringed at the sounds of screeching metal. When she glanced back, though, she saw the accident victims scrambling away from their cars, flagging down other vehicles, who stopped and allowed them to climb inside before speeding away.

Where are they going? she silently wondered.

The Sleep Police weaved through the mass of destroyed cars, drawing closer, and the one with the tire iron was already only a few feet away. He dove forward, grabbing Adeena’s ankle, and she collapsed on the edge of the other side of the highway, screaming. The Sleep Policeman towered over the girl, rearing back to bring his weapon down onto her skull, when something pulled him violently backwards, out of Adeena’s line of sight.

Adeena sat up, confused, and saw the Sleep Policeman on the ground, beating his tire iron against what appeared to be a large, black, faceless alligator. The creature’s long, toothy mouth was clamped down on the man’s leg, and he desperately tried to pull away as the appendage spurted blood. The alligator shook its head from side-to-side, slamming the Sleep Policeman repeatedly against a nearby car door until he went limp, dropping his tire iron.

A loud hiss finally registered in Adeena’s ears, and she slowly turned to survey the wreckage of the highway. Another dozen alligators, varying in size from creature to creature, slithered around the smoking cars, patrolling the area and honing in on the few people remaining on the road, including the other two Sleep Policemen. The Sleep Policemen tried to fight off the alligators, but they were quickly overwhelmed, and they silently succumbed to a gruesome, bone-crunching death.

Ahab clutched Adeena’s shoulder, spinning her around. “Let’s go. Now.”

He held up a black, metal whistle, putting it in his mouth. 

Together, the two children climbed down the grassy bank beyond the highway, the screams of the alligators’ victims fading away. Suddenly, four alligators appeared, circling them, baring their long, black teeth. They slithered closer, hissing, and Adeena shuddered in fear.

Next to her, she saw Ahab take a deep breath, blowing into the whistle.

The moment the boy exhaled, nausea washed over Adeena like a tidal wave. Her eyes blurred a little as the world began to spin, and she fell to her hands and knees, gripping the grass with clenched fists. Interestingly, though, despite all of these side effects, she couldn’t actually hear Ahab’s whistle.

Adeena felt a hand grab hers, and she shakily returned to her feet, allowing Ahab to lead the way. She looked around at the alligators, who were all backing away, hissing, some of them even turning around to leave altogether. They continued further down the hill, aiming for a swathe of trees that appeared to be an overgrown park. As they moved, Adeena felt her nausea and dizziness slowly fade away.

“What were those?” she mumbled.

“Road Gators,” Ahab answered. “Kind of like your world’s vultures. They have a close connection to Gaps, and often congregate around future accident sites in both worlds to consume the people involved. Creatures of opportunity, but well-known creatures nonetheless. Hence, our deviation onto the highway, and my safety whistle.”

As they drew closer to the trees, Adeena thought she saw eyes watching from within the park. After a moment, what appeared to be a crow emerged, fluttering beyond the treetops and silently soaring overhead, heading back toward the neighborhoods. Adeena glanced at Ahab, but he seemed to not have noticed as he fumbled through his satchel. Smiling triumphantly, he pulled his hand out of the bag, retrieving a copper-colored key.

“Now, I just have to find it,” he muttered, waving his hands around. “I’m always bad at this.”

He finally slapped his hand against something solid, though Adeena saw nothing but thin air. Reaching out with his key, he jiggled it for a second before Adeena heard a resounding click, and a door opened up in space, revealing a hallway. Ahab glanced back at Adeena’s incredulous expression, shrugging.

“Digital camouflage. People don’t come near the park anyway, but keeping my hideout invisible helps with security.”

“Why don’t they come near the park?” Adeena wondered aloud.

“Oh, there are plenty of dangerous animals in The Underneath, just like in The Overhead,” Ahab explained. “But at certain times of the year, heavy plant growth invites malicious insect populations. Skullcap Spiders, Widow Beetles, Fire Hornets, you name it. As long as you stay out of the thorny parts of the woods, though, you should be okay. That’s where they like to nest.”

Adeena shook her head, chuckling. “Skullcap Spiders. Road Gators. Sleep Police. What a world. Why ‘Sleep Police,’ anyway? They sure didn’t seem sleepy.”

“Oh, I don’t know what they actually call themselves,” Ahab responded, “on account of them never talking. The term ‘Sleep Police’ was coined by my colleague.”

“Who is your colleague?” Adeena asked.

They turned around the corner of the hallway, entering a large room filled with brightly-colored, half-built machines. Tables and screens littered the outer walls, showing different perspectives from the outer perimeter of the hideout. Hunched over one of the tables stood a tall, muscular man with salt-and-pepper hair. The man turned around, revealing a tired, haggard face covered in stubble, a black eye patch over his left eye.

Not a pale, bony face, though. A regular face, like Adeena was used to.

“Adeena, meet John,” Ahab said, gesturing at the man. “He’s also from The Overhead. John, this is our new partner in crime, Adeena. She’s the sister of the boy they took last week.”

John extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Adeena.”

Adeena took his hand, shaking it. “Likewise, sir.”

“Oh, and I guess there’s technically someone else you should meet,” Ahab continued.

John nodded. “Right.”

The man turned away from the table he’d been working at, waving his hands at what appeared to be a tuxedo-clad ventriloquist’s dummy, sporting curly brown hair and coal-black eyes. To Adeena’s shock, the dummy’s mouth flapped open on its own, and it spoke in an excitement-filled whisper.

“Hello, my name is Trina! Would you like to be best friends?”

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • One Missed Step

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

“Natiq!” Adeena yelled, chasing after her younger brother. “Slow down!”

The headstrong eight-year-old sprinted through the playground, dodging the other children as if it were his profession. Adeena tried her best to keep up, but the playground’s boisterous other occupants invaded her space, slowing her down. She stumbled, almost collapsing to the ground, and straightened her hijab, growling in frustration.

“Natiq!” she cried. “I’m going to tell mom if you don’t get over here!”

As usual, her brother ignored her, smiling mischievously as he reached the playground’s epicenter, a jungle gym twisted up in layers of climbing bars and tube slides and swinging bridges. He glanced over his shoulder at Adeena before crawling into the bottom of one of the biggest slides, a bright green plastic tunnel at least three times Adeena’s height.

“No, that’s the wrong way!” Adeena chided, rushing to the bottom of the slide, but Natiq had already disappeared, scaling the interior like a spider in its web.

Sighing, the teenager leaned into the slide, calling out. “Natiq, answer me.”

The only response was her own voice echoing back at her.

“Natiq?” she repeated, worry cracking her voice.

Silence surrounded her, stifling her, as if the sounds of the other children had faded away. Concerned now, she pulled herself into the slide, applying pressure with her hands and feet to scale the angled tunnel. As she climbed, the silence grew more pronounced, and she wondered if the plastic had some sort of sound-muffling feature.

Sunlight washed across her face as she reached the top of the slide, climbing out onto the top of the jungle gym. She stood up, brushing off her clothes, and looked around, but she saw neither Natiq nor any of the other children who were there just a moment ago. Moreover, the playground itself seemed older now, more decrepit, as if it had aged a decade in seconds. Overhead, the once-sunny sky was now covered in grey clouds, and Adeena thought she saw a dim, green light flicker like lightning within them.

Adeena knelt down, running her finger across rust-covered metal. “Natiq, please answer me.”

A gentle breeze moaned across the playground, and Adeena wrapped her arms around herself.

Is this a dream? she thought. Am I going crazy?

Across the street, amongst the rows of houses, Adeena saw curtains gently part, and a bony, bleach-white face with thin, bright-red lips peered through the window. When they saw her looking back, they retreated back into the house, and the curtain fell still.

“Hey!” Adeena called. “Can you help me?”

She hurried down the steps of the jungle gym, sprinting across the grass and onto the sidewalk. As she prepared to cross the street, movement caught her eye, and she turned to see a large, hulking figure approaching her. She paused, hesitant, and turned toward the newcomer.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, moving in their direction. “Have you seen a little boy come by here in the last thirty seconds or so? He answers to Natiq. My mom asked me to watch him, but he got away from-”

She stopped mid-sentence as the figure drew close enough to make out its features, gasping.

Lumbering toward her towered an eight-foot, humanoid rat, its features cartoonish, its matted fur covered in oversized street clothes. At first glance, Adeena thought it might be a person in some kind of elaborate costume, but its movements were too stiff, too erratic, like a wind-up toy in its death throes. Some sunlight filtered through the clouds, glistening off of what appeared to be a metal skeleton hidden beneath holes in the rat’s fur.

“You are not registered, citizen,” the rat-creature boomed, its voice hollow and robotic, its mouth unmoving. “Please provide identification.”

“Identification?” Adeena squeaked. “I’m sorry, I’m not old enough to have a license.”

The creature moved closer, extending its furry hand. “Identification is mandatory.”

“I don’t have any!” Adeena yelled, backing away. “What is going on?”

“Registering unknown citizen as hostile,” the rat-creature said, its eyes lighting up red. “Deploying countermeasures.”

It extended its arms, and metal claws protruded from its fingertips. “Please remain calm during your execution.”

“My what?” cried Adeena.

The rat-creature raised one arm, preparing to strike, and Adeena crossed her arms in front of her face, heart pounding in her chest. Suddenly, a small boy ran between them, producing two plastic cards. “She’s with me!”

The creature paused, its red eyes flickering back to black. It leaned forward, examining the two cards. “Scanning. Recognized. One Ahab Van de Berg and one Marsha Van de Berg.”

Without saying another word, it returned to full height, retracting its claws, and turned around, creakily walking away. Adeena and the boy silently watched its silhouette grow smaller and smaller until it was beyond their sight. Once it was gone, the boy – Ahab, Adeena presumed – turned to her, revealing an angular, bleach-white face with thin, bright-red lips.

“You have to be careful around Annies,” Ahab said, returning the two identification cards to a satchel slung across his shoulder. “They’re quite volatile.”

“Are you okay?” Adeena asked. “Your face . . .”

Ahab laughed. “Right, you just got here. Come with me.  I have a lot to explain.”

“I can’t go with you,” Adeena replied. “I have to find my brother.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” Ahab said. “Your brother has been taken. I’m trying to rescue him, and others like him.”

Adeena’s eyes widened. “Taken? By who? What is this place?”

Ahab looked around. “Come on, let’s get off the streets. We don’t want to draw attention to you.”

“To me?” Adeena scoffed.

Ahab motioned toward a space between two of the nearby houses. “I know you don’t know me, but I need you to trust me. We aren’t safe here.”

He’s just a kid, Adeena thought. Probably no older than Natiq. What harm can he do?

Nodding, she followed him into the alley, and they began weaving a path between the houses, cutting through yards and hopping over gates.

“Where am I?” she asked as they walked. “I know I’m not in the same place as before. But everything looks sort of similar.”

“You’re in what my people call The Underneath,” Ahab explained. “Our scientists theorize that your world, The Overhead, and ours were once the same. One single world. But something changed a long, long time ago, and we became two halves of a whole. Connected, similar, but different.”

“Wait, so you’re saying that I’m not on Earth anymore?” Adeena asked, incredulous.

Ahab chuckled. “Well, it’s still Earth. It’s just a version of what Earth could have been, compared to your world. And your world is what Earth could have been, compared to ours. Two origin points, divided into different evolutionary paths.”

“Different? How?” Adeena inquired.

“Well, the plant and animal life here is harsher, more predatory. Weather patterns are more consistent; we don’t get many deviations from this mild, overcast sky. Humans have developed differently. You pointed out my face? That’s what everyone here looks like.”

“Oh.” Adeena averted her gaze. “I’m sorry for being rude.”

“It’s okay. This is all new to you. Moreover, we Underneath humans have different developmental stages biologically. In your world, in The Overhead, children are born with very little intelligence or maturity or emotional stability. It takes both time and care for those qualities to come to fruition.”

“What’s it like here?” Adeena asked.

“Well, in The Underneath, maturity and intelligence are inverted. The younger we are, the better our memory retention, our social skills, our scientific aptitudes. In my world, we’re all born as tiny scientists, slowly awaiting our mental deterioration as we reach adolescence. It’s kind of like your world’s Alzheimer’s, but we spent the first decade and a half of our life painfully aware of its inevitability. As a result, all scientific discoveries and technological developments are achieved solely by children under the age of fifteen, leading to some major differences in modern technology between The Overhead and The Underneath.”

“Wow.” Adeena stopped walking for a moment, trying to process what Ahab was saying. “So what happens to the adults?”

Ahab glanced at her. “Nothing good. Most become bitter, delusional, sadistic. Because of the adult-to-child ratio, and due to Underneath adults’ brutal methods, they have a stranglehold on our government and society. Most Underneath children nowadays are forced to work on projects to fulfill the fantasies of psychopaths.”

“Well, what makes you different?” Adeena asked.

Ahab sighed. “My parents died when I was a toddler. I’ve been a drifter, self-sufficient and independent, for as long as I can remember. I’ve been looking at this world from the outside, much like you. And I see the things that conspire to tear apart both of our worlds in the shadowy corners of my own.”

He stopped at the next gate, holding up his hand so Adeena would follow suit. “We’re close to the highway. The roads are dangerous, but crossing beneath the bridges is the quickest route back to my home, where you’ll be safe from the Annies and from . . . other groups.”

Adeena nodded. “I have another question, before we move.”

“Go ahead,” Ahad said.

“You knew my brother was taken. You knew I’d be at that playground. How? In fact, how did I even get here? Did you bring me here somehow?”

“That’s more than one question,” Ahab teased. “In regards to how you and Natiq got here, it was an accident, of sorts. You two fell through a Gap.”

“What’s a Gap?” Adeena asked.

“Gaps are . . . they’re like little holes. Spots when and where the boundaries between The Overhead and The Underneath are weakest. Usually they correspond with intentions, with places that people aren’t intended to be. Under the bed, the back of the closet, behind the mirror. Recently, there was an incident where someone accidentally made it through a Gap after being pulled beneath an escalator. In your case, it seems you two traveled through a Gap by crawling the wrong way up a slide.”

“That can’t be true,” Adeena responded. “People would be crossing over all the time.”

“Well, Gaps are fickle,” Ahab admitted. “They’re inconsistent, often moving around intangibly. There are ways to predict or summon Gaps, though. See, Gaps aren’t just breaches in space. They’re breaches in time, in the ethereal energies that connect us. As such, there are moment and circumstances that make Gaps more likely to appear. Anywhere close to the moment of a death, or a birth, for example. Also, certain rare phases of the moon or times of the day, as well as inactive broadcasts, like radio or television static, or the busy signal of a phone call that can’t connect. Those moments, in proximity to Gap locations, can be enough for people or objects or animals to slip through sometimes.”

“So, if we don’t know they’re there, it’s hard for us to stumble through them,” Adeena continued, realization dawning. “Still, I can’t believe no one in The Overhead knows about this.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that there are those in power in your world who are intimately aware of Gaps,” Ahab said. “But The Underneath is, in many ways, far more dangerous. Leaving us alone is likely the safest thing for your people to do. That’s also why I came to pick you up as soon as I found out you were coming.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Adeena exclaimed. “That was the other thing I asked. How did you know about me? About Natiq?”

“Like I said before, Gaps aren’t just in space,” Ahab explained. “They’re in time. For some reason, despite all of our worlds’ major differences, we remain linked in our day-to-day lives. When someone from The Overhead gets hungry and makes a sandwich, their Underneath counterpart often does the same. Inversely, when someone from The Underneath, say, falls in love with a person, the same will eventually also happen between the same two people in The Overhead.”

A car engine rumbled nearby, and Ahab tensed, looking around. When he continued, his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Those moments can be a little disjointed, though. The two sandwiches might be constructed hours apart. The two lovers might meet years apart. Because we in The Underneath have spent centuries studying the Gaps, we’ve found ways to predict moments in one world by observing moments in the other. We suspect that’s where concepts like precognition and déjà vu come into play. They’re just side effects of people who are sensitive to Gaps.”

“So . . .” Adeena hesitated. “How long ago did Natiq enter The Underneath?”

“For you, it’s been seconds,” Ahab whispered. “For me, it’s been about a week.”

“A week?” Adeena screamed, and Ahab waved his arms, shushing her. “Who has been keeping him prisoner for a week?”

Faint footsteps sounded behind her, and she spun around to see three men standing about a block away, partially obscured by the shadows between the houses. She caught a glimpse of suits, of sunglasses, of faces covered in flesh-colored plastic. The men reached into their jackets, producing small objects that Adeena couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

“They have,” Ahab answered, his voice shaking. “The Sleep Police.”

He grabbed Adeena by the hand, pulling her, and together, they turned and ran for their lives.

Previous Stories:

• Episode Directory
• Recommended pre-reading:
  • One Missed Step
  • A Midnight Visitor
  • Pool Party
  • Over the Thames
  • The Song of the Shadows

Other Projects:

• The Faction, Book 1: Recruitment
• un_known_sen_der
• The World's Revolution, Book 1: Gaia Awakens

________________

​

The Sleep Police, Pt. 1

The pixelated characters on Lena’s television flickered as she maneuvered the joystick of her game controller, deep in concentration. Beside her sat her best friend, Tina, who seemed visibly frustrated, even from what Lena could make out from the corner of her eye. Smirking, Lena pulled the trigger on her controller, knocking out Tina’s game character and ending the round. Tina huffed, tossing her controller to the ground.

“This is why I like crafting more,” she muttered.

Lena laughed. “So, you were saying it was, like, some kind of doll?”

Tina nodded, making eye contact with her friend. “One of those dolls that comedians use. Vent– Ventri–”

“Ventriloquist,” Lena corrected. “A ventriloquist’s dummy.”

“Right,” replied Tina. “It looked a lot like me. And it kept talking to me, but it also seemed like it was waiting for something.”

“Like the man who broke into your house?” Lena asked.

Tina shrugged. “I don’t know. But it was really scary.”

“Oh, grow up,” Lena scoffed. “Both your parents and mine hired a bunch of extra security after what happened. You’ll be safe from a stupid toy.”

“I guess.” Tina hung her head.

The bedroom door opened, and Lena’s father walked in with his boyfriend, Paco.

“Time to wrap things up,” Lena’s father said. “Tina, your mom wants you home so you can get ready for school tomorrow.”

“Dad!” Lena shot him a glare. “We’re playing a game.”

Paco cleared his throat. “You girls know that security has been tighter ever since, you know . . .”

Tina shifted uncomfortably. “It’s okay. I gotta go, Lena.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Fine. See you later.”

As Tina left the bedroom, Lena’s father knelt down, kissing Lena on the forehead. “You get some sleep, too. Turn the game off, clean up, and get ready for school tomorrow. Okay?”

Sighing, Lena set her controller on the floor. “Yeah, dad. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” he said, glancing at Paco. “We both do.”

Paco nodded.

As Lena began to straighten up her room, the two men left her alone, closing her bedroom door. The moment she heard their footsteps fade down the stairs, she snatched up her controller again, resuming her game.

________________

Hours passed, and Lena felt her eyes grow tired, but she pushed through, her fingers deftly flicking over the controller’s buttons. To her right, the night sky beyond her bedroom window began to lighten, and she glanced at her alarm clock.

5:12AM.

“Might as well stay up now,” she said to herself, returning her attention to the television.

Tap-tap-tap.

Pausing her game, Lena looked around, but saw no movement in her bedroom. Shrugging, she resumed playing.

Tap-tap-tap.

Lena frowned, setting her controller down and listening more closely.

Tap-tap-tap.

A faint sound, like a fingernail tapping against glass.

Lena whipped her head toward her bedroom window. Only darkness outside, slowly illuminated by the dawn.

She stood to her feet, slowly approaching the window, and peered through the glass.

No dolls. No men in balaclavas. Nothing.

Behind her, the bedroom door creaked open, and her father peeked inside. “Lena? I thought I heard–”

His eyes drifted to the television, then to the game controller, then to Lena, still in her clothes from last night.

“Lena,” he sighed, “Did you go to bed, or did you stay up all night?”

Yawning slightly, Lena rubbed her eyes. “I might have stayed up.”

“Come on, now,” her father replied, exasperation in his voice. “I need you at your best, Lena. The London Bridge attack and the Saratov bombing have both weakened America’s relationship with the UN, and a lot of eyes are on me to make it right. I can’t be here to micromanage you every night.”

“But I wasn’t tired,” Lena insisted. “I’m still getting good grades, right?”

“Yes, but . . .” her father pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. As he released it, his eyes lit up. “But what about the Sleep Police?”

“The what?” Lena asked.

“The Sleep Police. It’s a special division of the police department that keeps track of people who haven’t been sleeping.”

Lena scoffed. “You’re making that up.”

“No, no,” her father said, mock sincerity in his face. “If you don’t get enough sleep, the Sleep Police will come get you and take you away to Sleep Jail. No games, no friends, just you in a dark room.”

Shivering, Lena sat on her bed. “That’s not funny.”

“I know!” he responded, eyes wide. “I don’t want you to get arrested! Why don’t you just get some proper sleep tonight instead?”

“Whatever, dad,” Lena grumbled. “Your jokes are terrible.”

Paco appeared in the doorway, knocking on the wood. “Jim, the VP is on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”

Lena’s father rolled his eyes. “I’m coming.”

Reaching over, he patted Lena on the shoulder. “I’ll be working late tonight, and Paco has some things to do, as well. Security will take you to school and back, okay?”

Frowning, Lena hugged her father. “Do they have to?”

Paco tapped the man on the shoulder, and he pulled away from his daughter. “Yes. Yes, they do.”

________________

The clock ticked incessantly by as Lena’s math teacher droned on about fractions . . . or something. She was so tired, it was difficult to focus. Picking up her pencil, she lightly tapped on her textbook, trying to maintain a rhythm that she could focus on to stay awake.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap.

Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she glanced out the classroom window to see an old black Sedan with broken side mirrors pull into the parking lot, facing her. In the driver’s, passenger’s, and rear seats sat three men in suits and ties. Their faces, though partially obscured by dark sunglasses, seemed slick and shiny, as if made of flesh-colored plastic. The driver turned off the car’s ignition, and together, the three men seemed to stare directly at Lena.

“Lena?” her teacher interrupted her. “Can you tell me what one-half plus one-third equals?”

“Oh. Uh . . .” she squinted at the board, working out the problem. “Three-fifths?”

“Not quite,” her teacher tisked. “You added the numerator and denominator individually. What you need to do is find a common denominator.”

Lena blushed. “Ah. I’m sorry.”

“No worries,” her teacher responded. “Just keep your eyes ahead, okay?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lena noticed that the black sedan was now empty. “Actually, may I go use the restroom real quick?”

“Fine,” her teacher sighed. “But be quick.”

Lena rushed out of the classroom, making a beeline for the bathroom.

Who were those men? More of dad’s security?

Lena shook her head.

No. We’ve never had security who looked like that before.

She entered the second stall and sat on the toilet, retrieving her cell phone. She pulled up her messenger app and paused.

Was this worth texting dad over?

After a moment, she pursed her lips, pocketing her phone.

Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open, and she heard footsteps click across the linoleum. Slow, measured, heavy footsteps, more like an adult’s than a child’s. They echoed off the bathroom walls as they grew closer, and a shadow darkened the cracks in the stall door. Lena held her breath, waiting for the newcomer to pass by, but they continued to stand there.

Bending down slowly, Lena looked beneath the stall, noting the person’s shoes as large, black dress shoes, definitely an adult’s. Probably a man’s.

Tap-tap-tap.

The sound was heavy, like a thick fingertip rapping against the other side of the stall door.

“H– hello?” Lena stammered.

Silence. Then . . .

Tap-tap-tap.

“Hello?” Lena repeated, louder this time.

The shadow moved, and Lena saw the telltale glisten of an iris peering through the crack in the stall. She quickly became aware of a heavy, stifled breathing.

“Help!” she yelled. “Somebody help!”

The figure pulled away from the stall, quickly exiting the bathroom. Lena fastened her clothes and burst from the stall, trembling. A few seconds later, another student rushed into the bathroom.

“Hey, Lena. You okay?”

Lena pushed past the student and out of the bathroom, looking both ways down the hallway.

Empty.

The other student followed her into the hall. “Did something happen?”

“I’m . . .” Lena shook her head. “No. I’m fine. Thanks.”

________________

“How was school?” asked John, Lena’s security guard, as they drove away from the building a few hours later.

Lena lowered her head, slumping into the backseat of the car. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” he pressed.

She sighed. “Someone came into the bathroom and was watching me through the stall today. A man, I think.”

“Wait, what?” John exclaimed, turning away from the steering wheel. “Was it a teacher?”

Lena shook her head. “I don’t think so. There were some men watching me from the parking lot. They kind of looked like your security people. But . . . different, too.”

Her eyes were so, so heavy. She was regretting staying up so late last night.

“Maybe it was the Sleep Police,” she muttered drowsily.

“The what?” John asked.

“Nothing,” she responded. “Just something stupid my dad said this morning.”

“Well, we’re going to talk to him tonight about what happened at school, okay?” John said.

Lena nodded. “Okay.”

“In the meantime . . .” he smiled back at her. “Why don’t we pick up some seafood from the grocery store for dinner?”

Lena grinned excitedly. “Can we get popcorn shrimp?”

“Of course we can,” John laughed.

Lena saw a car pull out behind them in the rearview mirror. A black sedan, with broken side mirrors.

“John!” she exclaimed. “They’re following us!”

“Who?” John asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Lena turned around to point out the window, but the car was gone. “Oh. I thought I saw the people from my school.”

“Well, maybe you did,” John consoled her. “But they aren’t there now. Either way, I promise I will keep you safe. Okay?”

________________

After about twenty minutes, they pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Lena hopped out of the car, looking around the flat, asphalt-covered area, but she saw no sign of the black sedan. Grabbing John’s hand, she walked into the grocery store.

Aisles of food stretched before her, so extensive that they were almost overwhelming. John headed for the seafood section, his long strides forcing Lena to speed up in order to match his pace. They passed the freezer section, and Lena caught a glimpse of frozen French fries.

“John?” she tugged on the security guard’s sleeve. “Can we have fries, too?”

“Sure!” he smiled. “But not those.”

He looked around the mostly empty store. “Go pick out some fresh potatoes, and we’ll bake our own fries. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great!” Lena answered, releasing his hand. He chuckled as she walked away, toward the produce section.

As she passed the candy aisle, she caught a glimpse of the cinnamon disc hard candies, one of her favorite treats that her grandmother always gave her when she visited. Pausing, Lena looked around, but saw no one else. Tip-toeing into the aisle, she reached for a small bag of the candy, ready to sneak it into her jacket pocket.

Tap-tap-tap.

Lena paused, her hand still outstretched.

Tap-tap-tap.

A chill ran up her spine as she looked past the bags of candy, where a shadow moved beyond the perforations of the shelving itself. Someone was in the next aisle over, tapping their finger on the shelf.

Tap-tap-tap.

Squinting, Lena peered through the perforations, trying to see any distinguishing characteristics of the person tapping on the aisle. Suddenly, the shadow moved, and once again she saw the glimmer of an eye looking back at her.

Tap-tap-tap.

“John!” she screamed, backing away from the shelves. “John!”

The shadow swiftly moved away from perforations, and she held her breath, certain they were going to come around into her aisle any second. Instead, John appeared at the end of the aisle, hand on the butt of his holstered pistol.

“Lena?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“They’re here!” she whispered. “They’re in the store!”

“Where?” John asked.

Lena pointed at the candy-filled shelving. “The other aisle!”

He rushed around the aisle, into the next one, and a few seconds of silence passed before he spoke again. “There’s no one here anymore, Lena.”

She walked around the aisle to join the security guard, grabbing his hand. “Let’s just go home.”

“What about the–” he stopped at the sight of her tearing eyes. “No problem. You got it, boss.”

________________

They returned home, and the evening passed without incident. John and Paco helped Lena cook dinner, settling on grilled chicken and vegetables. As the evening progressed, she began to feel better, especially after John called in additional security guards to stay in the house while they waited for Lena’s father to return home. She even got to play a video game with John for a little while.

Tap-tap-tap.

Lena’s ears twitched at the sound, and she set her controller on the floor, a ball of anxiety forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Did you hear that, John?”

John nodded, rising to his feet. “It came from downstairs.”

Together, they walked out to the staircase, descending the steps and joining the collection of security guards who had gathered around the front door. 

“What’s going on, Thompson?” John asked.

One of the security guards gestured at the door, answering. “We heard some–”

TAP-TAP-TAP.

Three sharp, quick knocks boomed against the front door, startling a scream out of Lena. The security guards drew their weapons, assuming strategic positions around the front door. John joined them, calling out.

“Who’s there? State your name and intentions.”

Silence.

Lena tugged at John’s sleeve, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s the Sleep Police. They found me.”

Then, with a shrill screech, the door ripped from its hinges, exposing them to the night.

________________

The Sleep Police, Pt. 2

10:42PM.

Lena saw nothing but darkness beyond the doorway. The street lamps, her porch light, and even the stars themselves seemed to be extinguished. The pitch black was quiet, too; so silent, she could hear her heart thudding in her chest.

“Fredricks,” John commanded, “take a look.”

Pistol extended, Fredricks inched forward, poking his head out of the house. He looked to the left, then to the right, keeping the muzzle of his gun between himself and the night.

10:43PM.

“Nothing’s out there,” Fredricks said, turning around. His eyes widened as he registered something behind the group. “Davis, your six!”

Lena swiveled around in time to see a man emerge from the shadows behind Davis. He wore a suit and tie, black gloves, and sunglasses, though the rest of his face seemed to be covered in some kind of flesh-colored plastic.

The Sleep Police, Lena thought.

Before they could react, the intruder lifted his arm, revealing an orange boxcutter. He flicked his thumb, ejecting the razor blade from the tip of the tool, and reached around Davis, slicing his throat. Blood spurted from the horizontal wound, but the Sleep Policeman held Davis tight, keeping the dying man between the other guards and himself.

“Drop him, now!” Fredricks demanded, his gun trembling.

The other guards moved to circle around the Sleep Policeman and his prey, but the masked figure dragged Davis swiftly backwards, disappearing into the dark corner of the adjacent first-floor hallway. In the distance, Lena could hear Davis’s final gasps as he choked on his own blood.

10:45PM.

Paco emerged from the kitchen, looking around. “What happened?”

Heavy, rapid footsteps approached from Lena’s left, and she saw a second Sleep Policeman barrel through the front doorway, wielding a claw hammer.  Fredricks, who still lingered by the opening, heard him coming, and swiveled to face the man. The Sleep Policeman swung his hammer, connecting with the back of Fredricks’s hand, which emitted a sickening snap. Fredrick screamed and dropped his gun, and the Sleep Policeman kicked it backwards, out into the night.

The two nearest guards, Thompson and Garcia, opened fire on the second Sleep Policeman, but he deftly rolled beneath their bullets, striking Thompson in the left knee with the hammer. The joint cracked, dropping the guard to the floor, and the Sleep Policeman brought the claw hammer down on his forehead, splitting his skull.

Before Garcia could adjust his aim, the Sleep Policeman hurled his weapon at the man’s head, colliding it with his nose and bloodying it. Garcia swore, covering his face, and the Sleep Policeman swooped forward, retrieving his fallen hammer and slinging Garcia over his shoulder. Garcia screamed as the masked man carried him into the dining room, out of sight. Lena heard three gunshots, and then Garcia fell silent.

10:47PM.

John grabbed Lena’s shoulder, and the girl buried her face in his leg, sobbing.

“Paco!” John barked, drawing the man over to them. “You, Lena and I are headed to the safe room in the basement. Lena, you and Paco need to stay close to me.”

He paused for a second, then gestured at one of the other guards. “Sitter, you’re coming, too.”

Sitter nodded, joining the trio.

Lena looked over at Fredricks, who still clutched his broken hand. “Are you okay, sir?”

The guard offered her a pained smile. “I’ll be fine.”

She saw his eyes drift over to Thompson’s lifeless body, blood leaking across the floor from his fractured skull.

“Fredricks,” John continued. “You, Miller, Torres, and Robinson are the remainder of our defense. Stay together and sweep the house until you find these intruders. Once Lena and Paco are secure, Sitter and I will join you. However, do not separate. These men are obviously well-trained. Strength in numbers. Got it?”

Fredricks and the other three guards nodded, collecting themselves before moving into the dining room, where the hammer-wielding Sleep Policeman had disappeared.

“Why don’t we just leave the house?” Paco asked. “We can go to a hotel or something.”

John glanced at the broken front door. “They made leaving the house too easy. I think it’s a trap. Besides, even if we get out, they’ll likely follow us wherever we go next. At least we know the layout of this house.”

Without waiting for Paco’s response, John grabbed Lena’s wrist, moving further into the house. Sitter and Paco scrambled to keep up. 

10:53PM.

Somewhere outside the house, Lena heard a grinding noise, and the lights flickered and died. She yelped, hanging onto John, but the guard paid her little attention, retrieving a flashlight and holding it in front of him alongside his pistol. Behind Lena, Sitter did the same.

“Paco, do you have your phone on you?” John asked.

“Uhhh . . . oh,” Paco stammered. “Yeah. I’ll call the police.”

“Thank you,” John responded curtly.

10:54PM.

While Paco’s phone dialed out, they passed into the guest bedroom, using it as a shortcut toward the basement. Lena heard the call connect, and a tinny voice filled the earpiece.

“Hello?” Paco whispered. “Hello, we are under attack. There are men in our house. At least two people are already dead. Please–”

Distant gunfire interrupted him, and Lena turned toward the sound. She counted nine shots before the commotion ceased. Silence rang in her ears, but no voices of celebration or dismay rushed to fill that void. On Paco’s phone, the tinny voice spoke again.

“Yes, yes,” Paco responded to the operator. “Our address is . . .”

Movement near the floor caught Lena’s eye, and she glanced down to see a plastic face staring up at her from beneath the bed. Her eyes widened, and her blood ran cold. She opened her mouth to scream.

“John! There’s a–”

The Sleep Policeman’s arm lashed out of the darkness, shoving a screwdriver cleanly through Paco’s Achilles tendon. Blood spurted from the wound as Paco shrieked in pain, and the Sleep Policeman retracted the tool, retreating further beneath the bed.

10:57PM.

“Sitter, help Paco,” John said.

Sitter gestured toward the bed. “What about–”

“The others will deal with it,” John interrupted. “Our priority is their safety.”

Nodding, Sitter leaned Paco against his shoulder, and together they followed John and Lena out of the guest bedroom. They slowly crept through the house, swinging their flashlight beams in steady arcs, listening for threatening noises. No sound emerged from elsewhere in the house.

“Where are Mr. Fredricks and the others?” Lena whispered, her voice trembling. 

John shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe still looking for the intruders.”

They turned the corner, reaching the basement door.

11:01PM.

Sitter propped Paco against the wall, scanning the area around them while John creaked the door open, peering down the steps with his flashlight.

“Looks clear,” John murmured.

He beckoned for them to follow, swinging the basement door the rest of the way open and descending the staircase. Lena entered the room next, followed by Sitter and Paco, the former still supporting the weight of the latter. As she made her way down the stairs, Lena’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness, but strange shapes surrounded her in the shadows, and paranoia washed over her in waves.

11:02PM.

“There it is,” John whispered, pointing at a door embedded in the far wall. “The safe room.”

A steady dripping, like a leaky faucet, reached Lena’s ears. She looked around the darkness, searching for the source of the noise, but nothing obvious presented itself.

Then, she saw a glimmer in the black, a reflection in the fringes of Sitter’s flashlight beam.

The glimmer of an iris.

“John!” Lena hissed, pointing to her right. 

He turned his flashlight in the direction she was pointing, illuminating a pile of mangled bodies, their blood dripping to the concrete floor. Lena covered her mouth in horror, backing away, as she recognized them.

Fredricks. Miller. Torres. Robinson. 

The basement door behind them slammed shut, and they spun around to see the box-cutter-wielding Sleep Policeman slowly descending the staircase. A heavy thud, and Lena caught the Sleep Policeman with the claw hammer emerge from the shadows near the safe house door. 

They were trapped. 

11:04PM.

“What do we do?” Paco asked, panic in his voice. 

John answered by squeezing the trigger of his pistol three times in succession, each bullet striking the hammer-wielding Sleep Policeman in the chest, staggering the intruder. No blood emerged from the wounds, however, and the masked man quickly recovered, rushing at John. Before he could reach him, John fired a fourth time, this time striking the Sleep Policeman in the center of his forehead.

The would-be attacker’s head snapped back, knocking him into the safe room door. His sunglasses flew off his face, exposing beady black eyes, and his flesh-colored mask cracked, revealing something pale-white underneath. He collapsed to the floor, visibly dazed, but seemingly still very much alive. 

Lena registered a wet gurgle behind her, and she turned around to see Sitter falling backwards down the stairs, blood gushing from a horizontal slash in his neck. Paco stumbled away from the boxcutter-wielding Sleep Policeman, but the attacker lashed out, slashing the blade across the man’s face. Paco screamed, turning toward John and Lena to reveal a deep cut across both eyes. 

John aimed above Paco’s head, dispensing the rest of his magazine into the Sleep Policeman’s upper body. One bullet struck the man’s neck, and he clutched at the spot, falling back against the basement door and knocking it open. 

11:05PM. 

“Lena,” John said, his sharp tone commanding her attention, “Go upstairs to your bedroom. I’ll be right behind you. I just have to help Paco.”

He reloaded his pistol, picking up the still-screaming Paco and throwing him over his shoulder. Lena saw the hammer-wielding Sleep Policeman recovering near the safe room entrance, so she ran up the basement stairs, crossing the threshold back into the rest of the house. As she did, the boxcutter-wielding Sleep Policeman grabbed her ankle, dragging her to the floor. She shrieked, but then John was next to her, firing point-blank twice into the man’s face. His grip on Lena went limp, and together, the three survivors rushed into the house.

John’s flashlight bounced back and forth across the darkness haphazardly now, and Lena could tell he was struggling to maintain his pace while carrying Paco. They ascended the second-floor staircase without incident, quickly climbing them. When they reached the landing, though, footsteps sounded to their right, and Lena saw the screwdriver-wielding Sleep Policeman rushing at them. John hip-fired a round into the attacker’s kneecap, dropping him to the floor. 

“Lena, go,” he said, opening her bedroom door. “I’ve got to take care of this.”

He gently laid Paco on her bedroom floor, hurriedly shoving Lena inside after him. “Lock the door. I’ll be right there.”

Lena slammed the door shut and locked it, tears streaming down her face. Outside, she heard a series of gunshots, then heavy thuds, and the door rattled as something struck it.

“What’s going on?” Paco asked, blood still leaking from his eyes. “I can’t see.”

Silence outside.

Then, blood pooled beneath the crack at the bottom of the door, soaking into Lena’s carpet.

“J– John?” Lena whimpered.

Tap-tap-tap. 

A faint tapping, like a fingertip against glass.

Shaking, Lena slowly turned to face her bedroom window. Outside, silhouetted in the darkness, stared a fourth Sleep Policeman. 

11:08PM.

He leaned back, punching through the glass. Reaching down, he unlocked the window, sliding it open. Slowly, menacingly, he climbed inside, producing a serrated handsaw from within his suit jacket.

Paco, hearing the noise, sprinted at the man, shoving him back. “Get away from her!”

The Sleep Policeman struck him in the throat, silencing him, and grabbed him by the hair, slamming him to the ground. He placed the edge of the saw to Paco’s neck, swiftly cutting back and forth, all the while staring at Lena. A sickening, grisly noise filled the room as blood spilled from Paco’s throat. 

“No!” Lena cried, turning away. 

She unlocked her door, swinging it open to reveal the other three Sleep Policemen waiting outside. They pushed into the room and grabbed her, holding her back as the fourth Sleep Policeman continued sawing. She closed her eyes, sobbing. 

11:09PM.

“I promise, I promise, I’ll go to sleep tonight,” she begged. “Is that what you want? Will you leave us alone if I go to sleep?”

She heard a wet, ripping sound, and opened her eyes to see the fourth Sleep Policeman rising to his feet, Paco’s severed head in hand. She screamed, covering her eyes, and felt the other Sleep Policemen picking her up. They carried her back, towards her bathroom, and she pulled her hands away. The Sleep Policeman with the bloody handsaw followed the other three into the bathroom, checking a watch on his wrist. 

11:10PM.

Reaching into his suit jacket, the fourth Sleep Policeman revealed an old, beat-up flip phone. He opened it, dialing a number, while the others held Lena up in front of her bathroom mirror. She saw herself, wide-eyed and alone, as pale as whatever hid behind the Sleep Policemen’s plastic masks. 

The fourth Sleep Policeman aimed the flip phone at the mirror, putting the call on speaker. A rapid busy signal intonated throughout the bathroom, echoing off the walls. The mirror began to vibrate ever-so-slightly, and the hammer-wielding Sleep Policeman brought his blood-covered weapon down on the glass, shattering it. Rather than exposing the bathroom wall, the mirror fell away to reveal another bathroom, one almost identical to Lena’s. This one, however, looked older, grimier, illuminated in flickering green fluorescents. Together, the Sleep Policeman shoved the screaming girl through the new hole, her cries muffled as she passed into the second bathroom.

11:11PM.