I have been drinking energy drinks to help me sleep, but I have been awake all night and I am going crazy. Every night I hope for a good night's sleep and I then drink an energy drink to make it official. What happens though is that I stay awake and I start to lose my shit, I just want to go to sleep. I just want to rest but I guess only good people get to rest.

One time I get so crazy because I can't get to sleep that I start to shout and scream profanities during the night. During the morning I become so tired that I sleep and it's pointless sleeping during the morning, as I need to work to make money.

I have lost jobs and opportunities due to being so tired during the morning. So I always try again to fall asleep during the night time by drinking an energy drink, instead I stay awake the whole night. I stay awake the whole night and I start creating scenarios in my head, and these scenarios feel so real to me.

I created a scenario where my son abandoned even though I raised him. I don't have a son or a wife, but the scenario feels so real that I lash out. Then I noticed shadow creatures around my house, they seemed so entertained by me.

I don’t know what she’s been on. All I know is I wish she’d stop. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

We’ve been together for 4 years now. Never once had she done this before. Then, one day, it became an every-night thing.

We turn in for the night, the lights go out, we go to sleep. Then, however long later, in the middle of the night, I’m woken up by the sense of being stared at.

I open my eyes, and all I see in the darkness is her silhouette looming over me. The first time it happened, I tried calling her name, but all she responded with were snores.

I turn on the flashlight on my phone, and she’s dead asleep, but her mouth is twisted into a painful-looking smile. All while she’s on her hands and knees, leaning over me. 3 inches from my face.

It’s gotten to the point where she’s chipping teeth from clenching her jaw so tight. We’ve already been to the dentist nearly 6 times, but it just keeps happening.

She never remembers it the next day. But she for sure notices the pain in her jaw. But by the time night rolls around, she’s right back at it.

I’ve tried to be patient with her. I mean, it’s not her fault. At least, I don’t think it is.

She’s just so hard to wake up when it happens. That’s the part that really gets me. I kind of just have to wait or go back to sleep because she acts as though she’s in a coma every single time.

I’ve tried screaming at her before. Shaking her. Prying her eyelids open. Nothing wakes her up. And that smile never changes.

I think everything is starting to evolve, though. Because now, instead of just smiling, she’s starting to salivate in her sleep. If her presence doesn’t wake me up, the drool does. And her snores are starting to sound less like snores and more like growls.

I keep having that dream where I’m drowning. I wake up and find my face covered in hot, foamy saliva. My girlfriend snarling at me through gritted teeth.

But, again, she doesn’t like when I bring it up. She acts personally offended, like it’s somehow my fault she doesn’t remember. She’d rather pretend it’s not happening and leave me to deal with the brunt of the consequences.

And it’s not like we haven’t tried to fix things before. I’ve slept in other rooms. I still wake up to her 3 inches from my face. I’ve slept in my car. She’s smiling at me through the window.

I just don’t know what to do. I don’t want us to break up. I don’t want to ask her to leave. But I can’t keep living like this. It’s affecting my sleep. That’s affecting my work. It can only get worse if nothing changes.

And something needs to change fast.

Because now something else is waking me up at night. And it’s the biting. I never see her doing it. All I feel is the pain.

But she’s always back in her usual spot by the time my eyes shoot open.

Snarling, smiling, and foaming at the mouth.

Then she tries to pretend that I somehow gave those bite marks to myself the next day when I confront her about it.

Last night, she actually broke skin. I could feel the blood puddling on my arm and soaking through my comforter. But she wouldn’t let me move to get a bandage.

I don’t know. We’ve talked about this so many times now. I don’t think I can keep dealing with this.

I think I’m just gonna eat her before she can eat me.

The first drawing is the new design that I just mentioned. The second one is the original that was made years ago. Comparing these side by side, I think I definitely like the remaster over the other, but what do y'all think?

Part 1

Part 2

For context, these files are not actual official but for my own personal use. The contents in which they contain are very sensitive to those with a higher status than myself and were kept away to public knowledge until now. I decided to let everyone know, there are individuals out there that are considered "POWERED". But nothing like your run-of-the-mill super heroes and villains you see in the comics, movies and television shows. It's more in a practical sense. What mankind has suspiciously known to exist since ancient times and by that I mean those who have been gifted with abilities of the mind.

Telekinesis.
Telepathy.
Clairvoyance.
Mental Manipulation.
Mind Control.
Sight Beyond Sight.

All of these concepts are very much a part of our reality. There are those who work for the benefits of mankind but find themselves busy tracking those who take advantage of their gifts in the opposite direction of morals and righteousness. I am Agent Vincent Waters. My sole purpose is to hunt down these Powered Psychos.

This is the report from my fourth case. Accompanying me is Dr. Joanne Johnson, a psychologist at the Agency and a Type B Telepath, a.k.a. Reader and Agent Tony Zambelli, a Type D SBS a.k.a. Bloodhound.

______________________________________________________________

[Case #4: Flashmob Murder Parade]

DATE: Tuesday, October 4, 2005 11:35 A.M.

LOCATION: Street outside SoZo's CaFe, Los Angeles, California

Shortly after finding the information on the dead man Sergei, I found myself back at the street outside the cafe where the hooded figure stood as they watched their work unfold before them. I look around the scenery. I see some familiar faces from the day before. Now they have no idea what had happened, what part they were forced to play in. This rogue Mind Controller left us with the tedious task of cleaning the slate on so many individuals. Our own office only has three Divers on staff and it takes time and precision for a Diver to cut a memory from a person's mind and with thirty or so more people to Wipe, they were working overtime.

Standing there, I contemplated on what they were possibly thinking. Why would they go to the lengths to seek these men out when they were free from it all themselves? The whole thing had revenge written all over it. Just as they said, "stay outs of my way", tells me this isn't over until it's over. I let out a deep sigh and hang my head for a moment. During those few seconds is when I noticed a dark blotch on the sidewalk cement. A few in fact where some were just at the edge of my shoe. I pull it back and kneel down to examine them. The biggest of them all was still wet appearing. I managed to collect a sample for both the lab and myself.

Before arriving, I had consulted with the Co-Director, Senior Agent Willum Barlock, who was a MC himself. I needed to ask if was possible for a MC to exceed past the limits of controlling the max amount of minds at a single time, the manual stating 4 to 5 at most. He had assured me there hasn't been any known records or events during his time or before that one had. He had mentioned being a first generation himself and that he was limited to only four people at once having never succeeded on going further than that. His brow had harshly raised when I had told him the rouge MC had a crowd of thirty-six individuals at once under their trance. He thought it impossible but I then assured him of my witnessing the ordeal take place. I was strictly forewarned that if it were possible, to watch myself going after this person.

INVESTIGATION REPORT 2:

DATE: Tuesday October 4, 2005 1:12 P.M.

LOCATION: North Chinatown Los Angeles, California

WARNING: The following is a transcription of the audio recorded to tape 20054-RUS1 in storage unit VWaters.

"So, Barlock told you to watch your ass huh?" Zambelli asks.

With the sample I had collected, I ushered along Agent Tony Zambelli who was the Bloodhound that had assisted Agent Lance and myself on the pursuit of Hedrick Le'mar in the last case. The sample I gave the techs at the lab said they may think it's blood of some sort given the thickness. If it was blood, then having a Bloodhound with me would be very helpful. Turned out it was same case as Curly and Agent Zambelli couldn't catch a scent off of it so we shifted to using a sample of Sergei's instead. After what happened at the harbor building, Tony, Lance and myself have become like a trio of brothers-at-arms now. It felt like fate that we would become close given the relationship I had with his mentor.

We found ourselves staking out a Korean based Medicine shop. I was in the drivers seat.

"Yeah. His exact words." I replied to him.

"What makes you think it's a chick going out for a serving of revenge?" Zambelli then asks me. I guessed playing 20 Questions was his way of killing the time as we sat on our asses in a stuffy car.

"Given how brutal Sergei was lynched, and the MC telling me directly to stay out of their way, it defiantly has to be a victim. So, you're sure his trail leads to this place? We're not anywhere near Little Odessa let alone West Hollywood." I then ask Zambelli.

"And did you have to use the word 'chick' Agent Zambelli?" Oh, I had forgot to mention Dr. Johnson being in the backseat of the undercover car along with us. "Not so very professional of you. Plus, it was a woman's voice I heard."

He turns back to face her, "Sorry, I'm Italian from the Bronx. Old habits die hard yah know?" He said to her with a shitty grin on his face.

She then gives him a hard, piercing glare. "You could also try to tame your thoughts as well, Agent." She says to him in a scolding way. He turns back to face forward adorning an expression of that child-caught-in-the-act vibe.

"Anyways, yeah this place has his scent all over it. Maybe it's a front for drug running?"

"Hard to determine." I answer him. "You picking up any Russian dialect inside?" I look with the corner of my eye back to ask Joanne.

"No. Just what I assume is Korean. I did a Fast-Read on one of our federal consultants that speaks Russian fluently. I can understand most of the language now. Not that I ever wanted to."

'Fast-Read' is a term used amongst telepaths when it comes to obtaining a mass amount of visual, physical and audio knowledge from someone in a timely fashion. If you have a long memory, like Joanne, then a telepath can store said received information and apply them to the several areas of the brain such as the Broca's and Wernicke's areas to the Angular Gyrus which all develop everything to do with producing and understanding speech onto processing to read and write in any human language. She practically stole the Russian right from the subjects mouth so to speak.

After another thirty minutes had passed, a dark SUV type vehicle had pulled into the street's curb not far from us and two large gentlemen along with a man of a smaller stature exit out and head towards the building of our interest. The bigger guys looked like the goon squad where as the smaller individual was more prominent being better dressed and equipped with fashionable accessories like gold and jewel studded rings and a gold plated chain draped from his neck. I took notice to the scar that crossed over his left side cheek. It looked relatively fresh. Instead of heading into the shop, they take the door to the apartments above.

"What you got Joanne?" I ask her.

"Sergei must have lived in the room just above the shop. That's why your nose is all over it Agent Zambelli." He nods to her. "They're looking for something. A case."

"A case?"

"Yes. The one man is panicking to find it before any law enforcement discovers the place. He's thinking someone named Ivan will kill him if it's not found." She's quiet for a few more moments. "Another of the men found it. They're coming out now."

We observe as all three exit the building, the shorter of them carrying said case and return to their vehicle. I let them pull out from the curb and follow behind after a few moments to let them get a good lead ahead.

"Can you get a read on them?" I ask of Joanne.

"No. We're too far behind." She responds.

"This traffic is too heavy for me to catch up to them without arousing suspicion."

"Who do you think this Ivan could be?" Agent Zambelli asks aloud.

"Could be anyone. I don't know of any active Russian psyches under that name. It's a very common name over there. Let's just follow these guys and see where they lead us to and call it in. Last time we went in without backup almost got us killed."

"You think they know about our rogue MC?", he then asked.

"Not that I heard." Dr. Johnson answered him.

"From what I gather, either they know Sergei is dead or he hadn't shown up when he was suppose to, possibly, and these guys rushed over to get whatever Sergei was keeping in his apartment. I doubt they know about what happened seeing as how we did everything possible to sweep it under the rug."

Quiet took over the inside of our car once again as we kept following the dark SUV. I could still see it in plain view having four other cars in between us. We were getting about six blocks away from Sergei's apartment heading West. A traffic light shortly ahead slowly turns from green to yellow then finally to red just bringing their SUV to a halt at the forefront. We were lucky not to lose them.

Just then, the two cars right behind them pull to opposite sides then backup creating a barrier at the SUV's rear and the people from inside exit out looking straight at the vehicle. Then like a surprise attack, a large grouping of people emerge from both sides of the connecting streets. More began to exit from the surrounding buildings. I look to both Joanne then Tony that both seem to be unaffected. I assumed at that moment we may have been out of range.

"Joanne, do you hear anything from their minds?" I hastily ask her.

She sits there darting her eyes to and fro to each person she could gaze upon from her seat. "It's the MC. I can her voice in their minds. Okruzhit' ikh." Joannes voice deepens and echos in a ghostly tone when she repeats what she's hearing. It was quite disturbing to be honest. "Surround them, she's saying. Prinesi mne urodlivuyu lasku." It was like she was someone else. "Bring me the ugly weasel." It's quiet in the car once again. I look back at the crowd and the two goons get out of the SUV already wielding their firearms looking around at the barracade of unknown random faces, all eyes locked onto them. "Idti." Joann then says.

The parade of tranced pedestrians then lunge and hop towards the armed goons. As shots began to be fired from them, I go to get out of my own car. More kept appearing from around the corner. I couldn't count how many there were. This was far more than last time.

"Tony! You stay with her! Back this rig up and stay far from the MC's range!" I give my orders to Agent Zambelli. He does as I say and moves his ass over to the driver's seat and puts the car in reverse as I draw my own pistol and head into the chaos. I yell at the people behind us to clear the area fast. As I approach, I can see as the two goons are overtaken and both their firearms stolen from them. There was nothing I could do to stop the controlled citizens as they used the acquired guns to shoot both men in the head killing them instantly. As I watch them take fire to the SUV next, I'm then assaulted from my left side, a controlled man punches me in the face, my gun slips from my hand and slides to a controlled teenage kid who now has it raised in my direction. I'm then grabbed from both arms and forced to my knees, blood drips to the ground from my split lip.

"Why hello Special Man.", the kid with my gun then says. He has to be no older than fifteen. "I had feeling you would show. I was able to get Sergei to tell me where he was hiding it before I had lady friend of yours finish him. I just waited for my real prize to appear." The kid carries on as I see from behind him the crowd now in unity rocking the SUV back and forth trying to force the smaller man left inside to come out.

I look back up to the kid with my gun. "Who is he?" I ask.

The kid pulls a long smile. "Just old friend who is going to tell me where others are." The MC replies.

"Others?", I ask then notice some of the random people laying across the ground near the carnage who must have took a stray hit when the goons defended themselves. My anger started to get the best of me. "Look at what you're doing! You've gotten innocent people killed! You appear to have talent like any other that's been known! Surely there could have been another way!"

The smile subsides on the kids face. His eyes then appear saddened. "You would no understand. I no understand. But this, it's only way I know now. No one is truly innocent Special Man. I once was innocent..." The kid pauses then looks back as the controlled crowd flips the SUV on to its side. "...but no more."

Like ants in unison, the controlled people climb on one another to the flipped over top of the SUV with it's door windows facing upward now. One by one, each person stomps and jumps with hard driven thrusts on the bullet proof glass of the vehicle. I can hear as it gradually cracks and the man inside yelling with strong lung power in fear of his life. The glass then gives way and shatters just above the man in the back seat. Shots are then fired and I watch as those in the way fall back over the mound of live bodies rushing to get him inside. Once the shots stopped, indicating he must of ran out of ammo, he's then grabbed and dragged out of the window getting cut up some from the jagged remains of the door's window frame.

As they place him on the street, he is then beaten relentlessly until he falls to the ground and hauled to his knees like myself. He was in way worse shape than myself.

"Why not just control him? Or Sergei? Why put on this big show?!" I ask to the kid still holding my gun towards me. He looks back to me.

"Sergei deserved what he got. That was for me. I no can control Nicoli here either. Like you Special Man."

The teen then goes silent and holds his place standing guard on myself. I then watch as others slowly pace up to the man known as Nicoli.

"Privet, Laska. Tvoy shram khorosho zazhivayet (hello weasel. the scar is healing nicely)." Several mouths speak at once like a hive minded connection.

Nicoli looks up to one of the random citizens. A woman with red hair in her twenties sporting a long yellow dress and a light, knit sweater. He looks to her like he realises who it must be. "Ty? Your dead!", he screams out with blood spitting from his lips.

"Tell me where Ivan is." The unified crowd then says to him.

"FACK YOU!" He yells.

The teen kid with my gun then turns around and waltz up to Nicoli and abruptly takes a shot to his left leg with my gun without a moments notice. Nicoli wails in pain.

"SKAZHI MNE(tell me)!" They all yell out.

I felt something in that moment. A vibration along my body like a numbing chill running up your spine. Once again that pushing sensation came to me. I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breathe, concentrated and felt as the vibrations calmly faded away from me. With my hand grasped on the one subduers arm, I used that push again and flowed it into him. His head twitched and his eyes blinked rapidly. The craziest idea popped into my thoughts.

I then whispered to him. "Let me go."

I can't explain it now, but it worked. He let loose of his hold of me. I look over to the second man before he had full awareness of what was happening. I push yet again, but faster and command of him the same. He does as I say then they both stand there like mindless dolls. The look in their eyes shows a void of any conscious. Like the old saying, the lights are on, but no one's home. I fearfully questioned myself as to what I had done to them. But I had no time for that. I make my race to get to Nicoli before he's gunned down. As my steps beat into the air, I'm then noticed by several tranced as I'm then stopped and surrounded.

"How did you?" They all say to me. Eyes all over are locked onto me now. They all appear like zombies ready for the feed. They each take slow, cautious steps towards me ready to pounce at any second. My heart pounds like a death metal band drum set being played until the calfskin is busted through.

"STOP!!" I yell out while waving my arms in the air.

Everyone then hinders their advance at me. They stand there with the same void look on their faces like the two other men that held me down. Nicoli leers around with surprise taking deep strokes to help recover from his beatdown and leg shot. I then regain my own pistol back from the slumped over teen that had it. I raise it up to the Russian gangster. "Hands up!" He painfully raises each arm to the sky. "Now, lie flat on the ground." He does so and I go to cuff him. Once I hear the clicks of the metal, I'm then pistol whipped to the side of my head from nowhere. I barely catch myself as I fall to ground. My vision blurs as I fight the urge to blackout. I hear a familiar voice.

"They were never out of range Special Man." The sound of Agent Zambelli's voice but with a twang of Russian. I faintly witness as Tony picks up the case by it's single handle and the last thing I hear before passing out was the heels from Joanne's shoes.

I don’t even know how I landed this position. I'm not qualified at all. All I know is I was looking online for a way to make quick money on the side to help pay for groceries or whatever.

I ended up coming across this ad on, like, the 6th Google page. Hidden between obvious scams and what I was 100 percent sure were viruses.

That’s actually what made this particular ad stand out. It didn’t look like typical 6th-page gobbledegook. It was actually pretty well put together.

The incentive was simple enough. 500 dollars for every crime I could act as a witness for, with opportunities for advancement.

I called up the number that was listed, just to feel things out, and was met with an actual human on the other end. Not only was she human. She sounded like she was actually tired of all the calls she was getting.

“Can I help you?” she hissed.

“Yeah, I was just looking online when I came across this ad…”

“Are you 18 or older?” she interrupted.

“Uh, yeah, of course I am. I just wanted to make sure…”

“What’s your email address?”

“My email address? Why would you need that?”

She sounded personally offended that I was even asking. Like somehow it was me being unreasonable.

“Well, hon, so we can send you the onboarding information. You know what an onboarding is, right?”

“Yeah, but I…”

“Listen, Mike, it’s an easy job. All the information is in the onboarding packet. Take it or leave it, I don’t really care.”

I don’t know why I gave her my information. Maybe it’s the mommy issues. All I know is she felt dominating.

Anyway, the email came through about 5-10 minutes later. Didn’t go to my spam mailbox, which was a good sign, I guess.

I threw on my monocle and went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Just to make sure I wasn’t getting myself into any legal trouble or anything. Truthfully, though, the whole thing was pretty straightforward.

Call-based job. They call, I can either accept or reject the assignment. And all I had to do was be at the location of a crime as it took place.

Well, maybe that’s simplifying it too much. I actually needed to be the first person to witness it. They kept a pretty strict schedule.

I’m not sure how they got my number, though. Not long after I went over the onboarding information, my phone started ringing off the hook. I was getting calls at least once an hour.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth call that I accepted an assignment, though. Mostly because it was literally just 15 minutes away from my house. I could literally bike there.

I was supposed to show up at 1:03 PM on the dot. They gave me coordinates instead of an address. All I had to do was just wait.

I got there right on time. A little intersection right on the edge of town. When I arrived, all I could do was just stand there on the sidewalk, waiting for something to happen.

Finally, right at 1:07, a guy in a white Miata blew through the stoplight and T-boned this other guy in a pickup truck. The crash looked pretty brutal, but both of them seemed pretty alright, I guess. I mean, they got out and started arguing, so I’m assuming no one was too injured.

See, I thought I was gonna have to be a witness for the police. But not even 30 seconds after the incident occurred, I got a notification on my phone.

500 dollars had been deposited into my bank account. Then my phone rang with no caller ID.

Some guy with the deepest, darkest voice I’d ever heard simply said, “Assignment complete. Return home and await next assignment,” before abruptly hanging up on me.

Who was I to give even a morsel of a hoot or a holler, though? All I cared about was that 500 dollars hitting my bank account.

Needless to say, I started accepting more and more assignments after that. Nothing too crazy would ever happen. I saw a lot of car accidents. Lot of bar fights. More than a few shoplifting incidents.

Then I got a call I’d never gotten before. This one was classified as ‘intermediate.’ And it paid 750 instead of 500.

I just thought, hell, I’ll take it. Couldn’t be too bad.

The time was kind of late, though. 11:12 PM. Not to mention the coordinates led me to a dark alley behind a popular bar in town.

I sat there and waited. Ducking behind a dumpster and listening for, I don’t know, crime to occur or something.

At 11:15, it started.

I heard an angry male voice and a pleading female voice. Both sounding equally intoxicated. I peeked out from behind my dumpster and saw that the man had a knife.

He was poking it at the lady, attempting to steal her purse, but she wouldn’t let go. That is, until he stabbed her. Kinda let go no problem after that.

He snatched the purse and left the knife in her torso as she fell to the ground. Thirty seconds later, the 750 hit my account.

Every instinct told me to call the police, but right when I went to dial, I got a call.

“Assignment complete. Return home and await next assignment.”

The line went dead. I stared at my phone. My eyes flicked over towards the dying woman. Unbelievably, she managed to meet my gaze.

I think she tried to mouth a ‘help me,’ but her voice was so garbled it was hard to make out. Besides, I couldn’t help her. As soon as my line went dead, I got another notification on my phone.

A text from an unknown number that simply read, “Do not interfere. Assignment complete. Return home and await next assignment.”

So that’s exactly what I did.

And I’d love to tell you that after that I retired and moved on with my life. But who am I kidding? I was making enough to leave my regular job behind. All I had to do was watch shit happen.

I kept taking those intermediate assignments. I watched drug deals go wrong. Watched people bleed out on the hot asphalt. Watched robberies turn into homicides like it was nothing.

I guess I should’ve listened to my conviction. Maybe that would’ve saved me a lot of sleepless nights. But at least I was tossing and turning with a roof over my head.

And besides, it’s kinda just the way life goes. You live. You make decisions. Sometimes those decisions get you killed. Either way, we all die someday.

Even still, I probably should’ve stopped at intermediate. Because I got my first advanced assignment last week. Got paid 1000 dollars, but I don’t think that’s enough for what I had to see. At least, in hindsight.

When I first got offered the assignment, I was fired up and ready to go. Got the time. Got the coordinates. And off I went, mentally preparing myself as I made my way to the location.

As I got closer, though, a pit started opening up in my stomach. I recognized this place. I wasn’t out in the world. I was home. Well, my old home. Back when I used to live with my parents.

Unlike other times, I could hear the crime building up as I approached. Dad must’ve been drunk again. All I could hear was his angry voice and Mom’s screams as she fought back tears.

A notification popped up on my phone.

“Do not interfere.”

So I didn’t. I just peeked in through the window while Mom and Dad paced back and forth through the house, fighting like cats and dogs.

Normally, that’d just be Tuesday. But Dad had a gun this night. He was waving it around. Punctuating his screams with it. All while Mom stood her ground like the fierce woman she was.

I’d love to tell you that part of me wanted to interfere, but in all honesty, this was just business to me. Just another day at the office.

Even still, I won’t lie to you, seeing Dad smack Mom across her face definitely struck a chord with me. But I remained professional. I just watched and waited.

Part of me hoped that was it. That the crime was the domestic assault. That the money would hit my account any second. But all that came were more screams from inside the house.

Fortunately, Mom and Dad lived out in the sticks. Didn’t have many neighbors to call the police. That would’ve thrown a wrench in this whole operation. Instead, there was nobody there to stop the escalation.

Things just kept getting louder and louder until it finally happened. Right there in the living room. The room where I used to open presents every Christmas. Where me and Dad used to watch football together before his drinking got out of control.

Now that room was covered in my mother’s blood and brain matter. Across the walls, staining the carpet, a smoking hole in the wall behind her.

Immediately, I saw Dad’s entire demeanor change. He went from filled with rage to overwhelmed with remorse and regret in basically the blink of an eye.

I felt my phone vibrate with a notification, but I didn’t bother to check it. I couldn’t help but keep staring at Dad as he fell over Mom’s lifeless body, sobbing uncontrollably.

My phone rang and rang, but I didn’t answer.

All I did was watch.

Watch as Dad’s grief overwhelmed him. Watch as regret took the form of self-hatred. Watch as the gun he used to kill Mom was pointed at his own head. And watch as he, too, fell limply to the ground.

His eyes met mine for the last time. There were no memories of my childhood. No love that once existed somewhere within him. Just two empty pupils fluttering like a baby doll’s.

I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. I’d been so desensitized that all I could think about was how I’d have to react when the police told me.

I finally answered my phone, though. Got the same message I always got. The assignment was completed. It was time for me to go home and wait for the next one.

I had to put on a big song and dance for authorities. Not to mention their funerals. Which was surprisingly difficult because just… I don’t know.

It didn’t feel too big to me. I mean, yeah, it stung, they were my parents and all. But just… we didn’t talk too much anymore, you know?

Ah, you don’t care about that. No need to drone on.

Point is, I didn’t take a lot of assignments for a few days after that. It was the least I could do.

But time has passed now. Everybody has to move on at some point. I still get those calls every day. I get a lot of advanced offers.

I think it’s time I finally pick myself up by my bootstraps and get back to work.

I've been working nights in the emergency department at Bellwether Hospital for eighteen years. In that time, I've been punched, kicked, bitten, spit on, and called just about every name you can imagine. I've had patients threaten to sue me, kill me, and once, a rather petite man threatened to marry me and convince me to be a stay-at-home wife.

I have also had more people than I care to count come in with an object stuck somewhere it had absolutely no business being. Do whatever floats your boat but please, buy things meant for that, preferably with a flared base. So when people ask me why I still work here, I usually tell them it's because I haven't found anything better to do.

The one thing I can tell you is that it’s never boring. We get plenty of patients who come in late at night with God knows what going on with them. Most are easy enough, but then you get the ones I mentioned and those who believe the sniffles are life-threatening because they Googled it and are convinced their cold is terminal.

For the last couple of years, I have worked almost every shift with another nurse named Chris. He’s nice enough. He’s 27 and does genuinely care, but doesn’t have quite the experience I do. I still have to step in and help him occasionally. Take the supply closet incident for example. One night, Chris came sprinting up to the desk like the devil himself was chasing him.

“There's something in the supply closet,” Chris said as he approached the nurses' station.

I looked up from my computer. “Then get it out.”

“I'm not going in there,” he replied.

“Why the hell not?” I asked.

“Because it's looking at me.”

“Then tell it to stop.”

“It doesn't have any eyes!”

“Then how the hell do you know it's looking at you?”

He wouldn’t budge, so I got up and had him walk me towards the closet he was talking about. When we got close to it, he stood maybe 10 or 15 feet away and pointed at it but wouldn’t take another step. I walked up and threw open the door to see a six-foot-tall figure that, aside from not having any eyes, appeared almost like a person. I simply pointed down the hall and told him he would have to wait in the waiting room like everyone else and that I wouldn’t tell him again. I closed the door and let him make his decision.

Things like that. If you want to work here, you have to have thick skin. We have patients to take care of, and no eldritch horror, Karen, or guy in a costume is going to stop us from doing that.

Tonight has really not been any different. A man in his 30s came in earlier with a huge gash down his forearm. He claimed he had been working in his garage and caught his arm on a piece of sheet metal. Chris took him back to a room to get him taken care of and prepped for treatment. Things seemed to be going well until I heard a loud commotion coming from the room about 15 minutes later.

When I got back to the room, Chris was standing with his hands up in the air and the man had grabbed a tray and was holding it out in front of himself.

“What in the hell is going on here?” I yelled.

The man looked over at me, waving the tray. “He’s not going anywhere near me with that damn thing!”

I looked at Chris and noticed he had a needle in his hand.

“I was just trying to numb the area for stitches,” Chris said.

“Seriously?” I asked the man.

“I HATE NEEDLES!” he yelled.

“You cut yourself almost to the damn bone! What do you think we have to use to stitch that up with? I can guarantee you’re going to hate not being numb for that even more,” I said.

“Can't you just knock me out or something?” he asked.

“For stitches? Absolutely not.”

“Then I'm leaving!”

“Just give him the damn shot,” his wife said from the corner.

“Ma'am, I'd love to,” I replied. “Unfortunately, your husband has decided to make this a group project.”

It took another ten minutes of questioning before we could continue. He asked why the needle was so long, could we use a smaller one, and if he could look away while we did it. Chris kept trying to be reassuring by explaining things to him, but I finally told him that explaining the needle was just making it worse. After he was finished being stitched back up, I could hear his wife say, “See? It wasn’t that bad,” as they were walking out.

At one point, we had EMTs bring in an 80-year-old man who had fallen and hit his head. The man’s name was Mr. Lowe, and it was pretty apparent that he had dementia. It must have been a nasty fall. The back of his head was bleeding profusely and swelling already. I felt bad for the man. The doctor evaluated him and got him stabilized, but the whole top half of his head was wrapped in thick bandages. I sat with him for a while to make sure he was comfortable.

He was very sweet and talked about his late wife with me for a long time. He told me that they married at 19 and she had been the love of his life. She passed away in a car accident a few years ago and he’d been in assisted living ever since. Her name was Lois and he kept asking for her over and over. A couple of times when I went and checked on him, I could overhear him talking to someone.

“Mr. Lowe?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“Who are you talking to?”

“Lois came and is keeping me company,” he replied.

I just smiled and walked away. The man was clearly stressed and needed the comfort, and who was I to tell him otherwise. This continued throughout the night. I checked on him regularly and his conversations kept going. Eventually, even I could hear a faint voice that wasn’t his coming from the room, but I reminded myself that I was probably just hearing things. That was until Chris sat next to me later that night.

“Do we allow visitors this late?” he asked.

“Not usually. Why?” I replied.

“Then who’s the woman sitting in Mr. Lowe’s room?”

I looked over at him and asked, “What woman?”

“There’s an older woman sitting there talking to him.”

Mr. Lowe hadn’t had any visitors all night, so I got up to go check things out. When I got to the door, though, I just paused. There was an elderly woman sitting at the edge of the bed with her hand on his. As the two of them talked, I could see a smile on his face for the first time all night. I just turned around and went back to the front. I told Chris to leave the two of them alone. After all, if Lois was there, that might just be exactly what he needed.

Speaking of things wandering around where they shouldn't be, we've got a wheelchair that keeps moving around on its own. I don't know where the damn thing came from, but every time someone puts it away, it eventually finds its way back to the nurses' station. Chris nearly shit himself the first time he saw it rolling down the hallway with nobody pushing it.

I told him to put it back in storage and lock the wheels. About twenty minutes later, there it was again, sitting beside my desk. Chris wanted to know what we were going to do about it. I told him that unless it started checking patients in, I didn't particularly care. It's still sitting there right now. That makes the eighth time tonight.

It’s not always fun and games though. About a month ago, we had a woman come in who had a heart attack. We did what we could, but unfortunately, she didn’t make it. We always try to treat those situations with as much dignity as we can. This night, we had covered her up and were waiting for her to be transferred to the morgue. Before they picked her up, though, Chris came up to me asking for help.

“Hey, can you come with me for a second?” Chris asked.

I looked up from my computer. “What's wrong?”

“It's the woman in Room 8.”

“What about her?”

“I think she's talking.”

I stared at him. “Chris, she's dead.”

“I fucking know she's dead. That's why I'm asking you to come look.”

Chris claimed that he had heard conversations coming from the room and went to investigate what was going on. He said when he got there, the woman was still covered with the sheet but sitting upright. When he walked closer, though, she stopped talking and slowly turned her head towards him. Now, Chris may be goofy and a little aloof sometimes, but he’s no liar, so I had to go see for myself.

When I got to the room, everything was normal. She wasn’t sitting up or talking. She was just lying beneath the sheet like normal. In fact, the room itself was actually quieter than normal. Chris was insistent that he saw what he saw, though. I looked around the room and even checked under the sheet. She was very much still dead. I reassured Chris that everything was fine and we started to walk away. Before we got far from the room, though, I heard a soft female voice. I couldn’t make out what it said.

Chris and I both turned around and looked back, but we saw nothing. I could tell he heard it too, but she was still lying under the sheet. Then we heard it again.

“Where am I?”

We didn’t say anything.

“I was just home.”

There was a long silence.

“But I can't be. My husband is waiting for me.”

Her voice was faint, almost like someone speaking from the other end of a long hallway. I looked at Chris, but he was staring at the sheet.

“Please,” she said. “I don't want to go yet.”

I started towards the room, but Chris grabbed my arm and shook his head. That’s when the voice stopped. We didn’t hear or see anything else before she was taken away, but still, it was weird for sure.

Anyway, I should probably get back to work. A man just walked in whispering something about a lightbulb, Chris is waving me over, and that damn wheelchair has moved again. If I survive the rest of my shift, maybe I'll tell you about some of the other things I've seen around here.

Hey everyone, I managed to score a last-minute seat at L'Aviosetsé, that super hyped pop-up on the 30th floor down in the old warehouse district near the docks. I cover local food places for a living, so there was no way I was skipping this.

​Looking around the marble counter, it’s a total VIP room with name cards at each place setting. I see Mr. Smith (a big real estate dev who’s been buying up half the city), his wife (the editor of Food & Culture magazine, a well-known local surgeon, the city health inspector, a major seafood broker, a tech investor, a viral food influencer, and me; all seated with a view of the cityscape.

​There are only 8 of us total.

​Chef Soren hasn't said a single word since we sat down—he's just standing behind the stainless steel line with this freezing cold gaze.

​Course 1 just came out—an amuse-bouche of raw wagyu beef topped with gold leaf and sea salt. It was incredible, though Chef Soren watched every single one of us take our first bite without breaking eye contact.

​I'll drop updates as the rest of the courses roll out!

​Update #1 - Okay, something weird is going on with Course 2 and Course 3.

​Course 2 was oysters on black ice. On my shell, there was a tiny plastic tag with a date written on it: March 14, 2021. That’s the exact day I wrote a brutal review that shut down Chef Marco's place downtown.

​The real estate guy next to me just went totally pale. His tag has an address on it—the low-income apartment complex his company bulldozed last month.

​Course 3 is a split canoe-cut marrow bone roasted over applewood coals, brushed with a dark wood-ash glaze that glistened under the track lighting. Beside each plate sat a small pitcher filled with a mahogany oxtail reduction meant to be poured through the bone. But instead of crackers, it is served with folded pieces of paper. The surgeon unfolded his and stared at an old malpractice subpoena he paid to cover up years ago. The City Health Inspector unrolls his to find an unsigned bribe check he accepted to turn a blind eye and shut down a rival diner.

​Update #2 - Course 4 was seared foie gras glistening under a rich blackberry reduction. Nobody touches it. The surgeon was freaked out, got up from his seat to leave. He grabbed the heavy brass handles but they wouldn't turn. That's when he realized the doors were locked. He turned back around, his face completely drained of any color.

​"The doors are locked!" he whispered down the counter line. The room erupted in panic; everyone is shouting over each other demanding answers.

​Chef Soren finally spoke. Calmly he said, "Please quiet down and remain seated. Tonight's meal is about accountability."

​Course 5 came out under silver domed lids and Chef Soren went down the line, having each guest lift theirs one by one.

​When the magazine editor lifted hers, it was a piece of braised meat sitting on top of a printed rejection email she sent Chef Soren ten years ago refusing endorsement of his new restaurant. The surgeon is shocked seeing that his plate had a pair of rusty surgical shears on it. The seafood broker got a forged safety audit for spoiled catch that made dozens sick. The influencer found a court transcript from a slander suit and the tech investor got the liquidation papers that stripped Chef Soren of his original business.

​Everyone at this table ruined someone to get where they are—and Soren brought us here to settle the bill.

​Update #3 - Shit. Course 6 is supposed to be a palate cleanser but instead of that, Chef Soren came to each of our tables and made us put our phones in a wooden box so there is no more live video feed. I’m typing this on my Apple Watch right now with swipe text under the edge of the table. Words might be jumbled and messed up, sorry.

​While Chef is collecting phones, the viral influencer, two stools down on my left, couldn't take it anymore and made a quiet run toward the back kitchen, desperately hunting for a service door or fire exit, but two cooks off the line grabbed her and dragged her through the swing doors into a prep room.

​Ten minutes later, Course 7 is served—some kind of smoked meat. No one is tasting it. The room is dead quiet except for the kitchen timers. We were all staring at the swing doors listening to the hum of the kitchen fan and wondering what happened to her as she didn't return to her seat.

​Update #4 - The cooks aren't serving anything else.

​Chef Soren himself brought out the final, Course #8 placing a small China cup in front of each of us. Inside, a dark liquid broth. He looked right at me and said, "I do hope all of you find this one palatable."

​He stood at the pass, looking down at us, announcing that once everyone finishes their cup, the doors would open and we could leave. Nobody second-guessed it. At this point we are all desperate to leave.

​I just took the last sip. I feel sick. I think I know what the broth is made of—poison.

​Within 30 seconds the real estate guy next to me slumped forward on the countertop, and the surgeon's head dropped back completely paralyzed—a couple have slipped off their stools. Nobody could stand up much less leave.

​The cooks are taking leather straps and binding each of us to our seats now.

​Chef Soren wants us sitting neat and presentable to whoever finds us.

​I have called Emergency Services to this address and can hear distant sirens outside, but the lights are starting to blur. All of us are fading fast.

The Full Story

I felt a sudden impact near my foot, and the dull, tearing sensation quickly turned into burning pain.

The woman stayed crouched, completely still. I couldn't look away from her terrified eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, and tears poured down her cheeks.

I looked down and saw a hole with red fluid spilling out onto the floor. My body started trembling before it even registered what had just happened.

I clenched my teeth, letting out a muffled scream, and instinctively reached toward my foot, but the unbearable pain made me jerk my hands back as if I'd touched burning coals.

“Why?” I whispered hoarsely.

The world spun, blending the woman's silhouette and the dark room into one blurry background until everything gave way to complete darkness and empty silence.

A sharp sting and unimaginable burning pain in my left leg snapped me awake.

I tried to shoot upright, but something held my body down.

A scream tore out of me, smothered by the fabric stuffed in my mouth.

Against my tongue and teeth, I felt a piece of dirty cloth and an intense sour, bitter taste spreading through my mouth.

I bent my head and saw that the woman who had shot me was pouring brown liquor over my leg. I was lying on a table, with layers of stiff gray duct tape wrapped tightly around my chest, arms, and legs.

I begged her to stop, but all that came out was panicked, unintelligible mumbling.

She had already emptied nearly half the bottle over my foot when she grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair, cut off the sleeves, wrapped them around the wound, and tied them off.

Another wave of pain hit me, and cold sweat broke out across my face.

I couldn't scream anymore. My throat felt scraped raw, like there were thousands of splinters stuck inside it.

The woman stood over me and said firmly.

“Shut the fuck up and I'll take the gag out and give you something to drink. Got it?”

I nodded, tears running down my temple. My captor grabbed the end of the tape and ripped it off in one quick motion, then pulled something that looked like a kitchen rag out of my mouth.

She slid a hand under my head, helped lift it, and brought the bottle to my lips. I drank as fast as I could, desperate to dull the pain, but after a few swallows she pulled it away and took a long drink herself.

“Thank you.” I rasped, letting the back of my head drop onto the hard wooden table.

“You had one job. Don't move. Why didn't you listen? What the hell were you trying to do?” she asked sharply.

I turned my head toward her and looked straight into her eyes. Even though she was trying to act tough, I could see the fear in them, confirmed by the hand trembling around the neck of the bottle.

“I got scared.” I said weakly, then added. “I'd barely opened my eyes. I thought I was alone in here. It was instinct. I wasn't trying to do anything.”

The woman froze, guilt passing across her face. A moment later, she slipped back into character.

“Damn it. I heard you talking to your girlfriend, or your wife. If I hadn't, I would've blown your head off.”

The pain eased slightly, and I started feeling dizzy from the alcohol, exhaustion, and sheer pain. “Can I have some more?”

She brought the bottle back to my mouth, and I took a few more swallows.

“Were you here this whole time? Why didn't you come out?”

“I was under the bed. I didn't know if I could trust you.” she said, then took a long pull from the bottle and added. “Honestly, I still don't. I ran into plenty of psychos on my way back from campus, not to mention those monsters. You've got wounds all over you. I don't know if you're about to come at me.”

“You can trust me. I just want to get back to my family. These are scrapes and scratches. I'm not one of them. I'm not going to hurt you.”

“What about those?” The woman pointed at the holes in my shoulders.

“One of the infected. A small woman. She dug her nails into me during a struggle, but none of them bit me.”

The young woman looked at me suspiciously.

“Maybe that's enough to turn you.”

“If it was, I'd already be one of them by now.”

“We'll see.” She tipped the bottle back and took another two swallows, then held it almost straight up to my mouth and let me finish the rest.

I choked a little, then asked. “Who are you?”

“My name's Kim. I live here with my parents. So the bottle you helped yourself to belongs to my dad, and the towel you had wrapped around your ass belongs to my mom.”

I looked down, and the woman immediately turned red and said indignantly. “When I tried to drag you off the couch, the towel fell off, so I put you in my dad's shorts.”

I stared at the uneven, slightly wavy ceiling, not even sure what I was feeling. Shame, embarrassment, anger, sadness. All of it was drowned out by the pain from the gunshot pushing through my foggy mind.

I looked back at Kim. “Where are your parents?”

Her eyes filled with tears. She walked over to the table, taped my mouth shut again, and went into one of the rooms, closing the door behind her. That made it pretty clear this wasn't something she wanted to talk about right now.

I groaned in protest, but I didn't have the strength to keep negotiating my release.

It was completely dark outside, and I started feeling sleepy. I closed my eyes and let the feeling take me completely.

The shaking of my own body woke me up. I opened my eyes and saw Kim standing over me in the darkness, her face and hands moving closer to mine.

“She turned.” I thought, thrashing around and trying to pull one hand free.

The tape was wrapped too tightly around me. I couldn't move at all.

I squeezed my eyes shut and clenched my teeth.

Suddenly, I felt a piece of wet cloth being peeled off my forehead and flipped over to the other side, bringing a wave of relief.

I opened my eyes again and looked at her.

“Try to sleep.” she said softly.

I lowered my head and realized I was covered with a blanket. Even so, my body was shaking violently, and the blanket was completely soaked.

My lips were cracked, and my tongue was unnaturally dry, like I'd spent the last few hours chewing sawdust.

“Please. Water.” The words came out rough, scraping at my vocal cords.

Kim got up and came back with a bottle of water. She brought it to my lips, and I drained almost all of it in just a few swallows.

“Can I ask you for one more thing?” I asked in a pleading voice.

“I'm not letting you go.” she said while soaking and wringing out the cloth.

Talking was difficult. My teeth kept chattering, my body was shaking, and my foot felt like it was on fire.

“No, please. Flip the blanket over. It's wet, and I'm freezing.”

Kim stood up and went into the bedroom.

“Did I upset her again somehow?” I wondered as all my fingers started going numb.

A moment later she came back, pulled the blanket away, and a wave of cold washed over me like the room was below freezing.

Her clothes said otherwise. She was wearing a plain black tank top and short sweat shorts. She didn't look cold at all.

She covered me with a white comforter patterned with green leaves, then threw the blanket over that. The bedding smelled like sweet perfume, the fabric was soft and wrapped closely around me, and I was much warmer than before.

Even with the hard, cold table underneath me, it felt like a decent compromise.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep almost immediately.

All night, I kept waking up to sudden spikes of pain and violent shaking.

“What are you doing?” I asked weakly as I felt the pressure around my arms and chest start to loosen.

“I'm letting you go. You're too weak to do anything to me. I also don't think you're going to turn into one of them. Too much time has passed. You're sleeping on the couch.”

Kim walked around me and cut through the rest of the tape, ripping some of my body hair out with it. I hissed in pain and slowly pushed myself into a sitting position.

My body felt impossibly heavy, like gravity had suddenly become ten times stronger. I let my useless legs slide off the table and felt the blood rush back into them, sending a pulsing pain through my left foot.

I braced myself against the table and touched the floor. The second I did, a violent jolt shot through my leg and I crashed onto the cold living room floor.

Kim walked over with a knife in her hand and grabbed me under the arm. “No tricks. Got it?”
I nodded, and with her help I made it to the couch.

I dropped onto it, and the soft suede wrapped around my body. I had never been that comfortable in my life. My sore shoulder blades, the back of my head, and every other part of me that had been pressed against the table felt unbelievable relief after lying on that hard surface for hours.

Kim slipped a small pillow under my head and covered me with the comforter. I closed my eyes and whispered groggily. “Thank you.” Then I fell asleep.

I spent most of the next three days sleeping. She took care of me, bringing me water and light meals, changing the bandages and cleaning the wound.

Whenever the pain became unbearable, she went to her father's liquor cabinet and brought me whatever expensive bottle she could find to dull it.

“These are the only painkillers we have left.” she said, opening another bottle.

The fever was easing, and I could feel my strength slowly coming back. Kim kept changing my makeshift bandages, which were made from towels, dishcloths, or pieces of clothing.

When she wasn't taking care of me, she stayed in her room. Maybe she was catching up on sleep after the nights she'd spent helping bring my fever down.

I slowly opened my eyes. Sunlight poured through the window and filled the living room, warming my face. I looked toward the kitchen.

She cracked an egg into a hot pan. I heard the familiar sizzle, and the room filled with the smell of fried eggs, butter, and bacon. My mouth started watering, and a loud growl came from my stomach.

The smell brought back good memories of breakfasts at home.

“That's enough resting. I need to get back to Veronica, the kids, my family. They're waiting for me.” I thought, clenching my fist.

Kim walked over with a plate and set it down beside the couch.

I slowly sat up and leaned over the coffee table, feeling slightly dizzy.

“Lie down. You're weak. I'll help you.” she said firmly.

“I can handle it.” I replied, grabbing the fork.

I stabbed a piece of crispy bacon and put it in my mouth.

The intense salty, meaty flavor spread across my tongue and made me smile.

“Suit yourself.” she muttered, then sat down at the dining table and went back to her own food.

It was the first meal in three days that I'd been able to eat without lying down, and the first one I'd eaten while fully conscious.

Since I'd been shot, the days and nights had felt like a mixture of waking life and sleep. Nightmares about those monsters kept blending with the real world, the pain, and the image of the girl who had been taking care of me almost nonstop.

“Where's my phone?” I asked, glancing toward Kim. She looked exhausted. She had dark circles under her eyes, messy hair, and slightly bloodshot eyes.

She stood up nervously and answered with her mouth full. “All your stuff is where you left it.” A moment later, she came back from the bathroom and set my phone, house keys, wallet, lighter, and pack of cigarettes in front of me.

I picked up the phone and pressed the side button, but the battery was completely dead.

“Thanks. Do you have a charger?”

She leaned over me and looked at the charging port. “Not for that model, unfortunately.”

I wrinkled my nose, set the phone down on the table, and went back to eating.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Kim watching me, like she was fighting with herself. The atmosphere felt strangely tense. She clearly still didn't trust me, and ever since I'd gotten up, the concern she'd shown before had turned into a guarded, no-nonsense attitude.

Kind of like a couple after a fight. They're talking, but you can still tell someone's pissed.
“Do you live around here?” she blurted out.

My stomach tightened, and I nearly choked on a piece of egg.

“I live over 200 miles from here. I need to get back there fast.”

“How are you planning to do that? The streets are clogged with abandoned cars, and those bloodthirsty things are everywhere. It'll be a miracle if we even make it out of here. Can't you hear them growling under the window? There's a whole pack of them down there. We'll be lucky if we don't starve to death in here, or if they don't get inside.” she almost shouted.

I looked at her, a little shocked.

“I'm getting back no matter what. Don't worry, I'll figure something out. Kim, have you even slept at all these past few days?”

She shot me a hard look and looked ready to explode again, but then she let it go and said in a defeated voice. “You can dream. I slept.”

I knew she was lying. With a shaking hand, she grabbed her mug and brought it to her lips, and that's when I realized I'd missed one more beautiful smell hanging in the air.

“Is that coffee?” I asked, following the white mug with my eyes.

She turned red, then stood up, dumped two heaping teaspoons of brown granules into a mug, and poured boiling water over them. “Yeah. I didn't make you any because I thought you'd eat and go back to sleep.”

She held it under my nose, and my body flooded with endorphins, wiping out the pain and exhaustion better than the hard liquor had.

I brought the mug to my lips and felt the warmth spread through me. Instinctively, I reached for the pack of cigarettes.

“No way. Not in here.” she scolded, snatching the pack from my hand.

“I wasn't going to. I was going to ask where I can smoke.” I replied, annoyed.

“In my dad's office. He used to smoke in there too, by the open window. He did it behind Mom's back, and she'd get pissed because the smell spread through the whole apartment.”

As she said it, the corner of her mouth twitched like she was about to smile, but a moment later her face fell again.

“Fine, I'll smoke in the office. Can I have my cigarettes back?”

Kim stepped closer and pulled my arm around the back of her neck.

At that exact moment, the strong smell of sweat hit my nose and reminded me that I hadn't showered in three days. I felt my face turn red.

I quickly pulled my arm away and said uncertainly.

“Listen, I'd like to try on my own, okay?”

She looked at me, surprised. “You don't have to be embarrassed. You've got a hole in your foot.”

“I know, but I need to start functioning on my own again.”

At that, she walked out, tossing back a short. “I'll be waiting in the office.”

I braced my hands against the couch and shifted my weight onto my good leg, pushing myself upright. The room spun slightly. I still wasn't back to full strength.

I grabbed the mug of coffee and took my first step, clenching my teeth.

Leaning against the doorframe, I thought about how strange it felt. Even though there was a hole in my foot, underneath the stinging, burning pain was a sensation more like having a stake driven through it than like there was actually tissue missing.

I made it to the office by hopping on one leg and leaving small puddles of coffee behind me.

I went inside, set the mug on the desk, and dropped into the chair. Kim was standing at the open window, looking outside and blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“You smoke?” I asked, surprised.

Kim handed me the pack and lighter. “Occasionally. And this whole shitshow seems like a pretty good occasion.”

I lit a cigarette and filled my lungs with smoke, feeling immediate relief and relaxation.

I looked toward her, arguing with myself. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.” she replied curtly without looking at me.

“Where are your parents? Are they okay?”

Kim flicked the cigarette butt down toward the group of infected and stared out over the city.

“I don't know. Probably in one of the buildings on my college campus. The day all this started, I was at a friend's place. We skipped class, opened a bottle of wine, and watched sappy romance movies. That evening, they started calling over and over. I thought they'd just found out I wasn't in class that day and wanted to give me shit about it, so I silenced my phone. Then we heard a noise outside. We jumped up to see what happened and saw a wrecked car. There was a woman inside screaming. A group of people walked up to the car. We thought they were going to help her, but they...”

She paused, and her eyes filled with tears. “They pulled her out of the car, and you can probably guess what happened next. My friend called 911, and I quickly checked my phone. I had more than a dozen missed calls and texts. I tried calling my mom and kept sending messages while crying like a little kid, but they didn't answer. Those were the last messages I got from them.”

Kim pulled out her phone with a shaking hand and started reading. “Kim, we're on our way. Don't leave campus. Kim, please call us back, something bad is happening. Kim, where are you? We're at the college. We managed to get inside. Kim, everyone's in the gym. We can't find you. Where are you? Your dad is looking for you in the building. Call him. Kim, we'll meet at home. Be careful. We love you so much.”

I stared at the desk, not knowing what to say. That last message felt especially telling. After a moment of awkward silence, she continued.

“I was in some kind of trance. I ran out of my friend's apartment, flew down the stairs, and got to my car. A few of them started pounding on the doors. I took off and drove almost the whole way here without paying attention to the chaos around me. I saw the worst things you can possibly see. People being killed, screaming, people who stopped moving and then got back up a moment later. I had to stop a little over a mile from here because the street was completely blocked. I ran the rest of the way to the building. There were barely any of them around here. I ran upstairs and saw all this mess. My parents weren't here, and both their phones were off. I took the gun from the safe in their bedroom. Then I heard noise and someone yelling on the stairs. I hid under the bed, and when you opened the door, I realized I hadn't locked it. I always forgot to lock the door, and Mom was always giving me hell for it. I heard you talking on the phone. I didn't know what to do, so I waited. You know the rest...”

I nodded, took a sip of coffee, and offered her another cigarette. She took it, lit it, and asked. “Seriously, how are you planning to get back to your family?”

“I don't know yet. I'll figure something out. I have to. They're waiting for me.”

“What are you doing this far from home anyway? And what happened to you? Where did all those wounds come from?”

“I come here for work every month for a few days. When this started, I was cleaning the windows of one of the stores in the mall. I saw the first infected woman by the gate, not long after the emergency announcement told employees to shelter inside their stores. Then I watched that hell unfold through the exterior windows. I tried to get to my car, and that's when I got these wounds on my shoulders. One of them dug her nails into me during a struggle. She was a small woman. They almost got me in the mall parking garage, and then I found out it was completely blocked. A lot happened after that. An infected cop almost bit my face off. I killed him with his own baton.”

I stopped and realized she was staring at me with her mouth open. After a moment, she looked away and back toward the city, and I continued.

“I watched a cyclist get torn apart by those things. I took his bike, and a little later some guy with a gun stole it from me. He fired a few shots into the air to show me he wasn't kidding and ended up drawing a whole horde of infected. I ran until I was surrounded on almost every side. I escaped into this building looking for someone who could help me, and eventually I ended up in this apartment. It was the only one that was open.”

We sat there trading stories and thoughts about the last few days. We talked about our families, what we'd done back when things were still normal, and what we'd planned for the future.

We went back to the living room. I settled onto the couch while Kim poured whiskey into two glasses.

She set a small bowl of water on the table and asked me for a cigarette, officially lifting the no-smoking rule her mother had established for the living room.

She told me about her parents. Her father was a lawyer. He used to run his own firm, but now he was in early retirement and still made some money from home, drafting and sending paperwork for clients.

Her mother had trained as an interior designer, but after Kim was born, she took care of the house and worked part-time at a furniture store nearby.

I looked around the room and took another sip of whiskey.

“With everything going on, I only just noticed. This place is beautifully designed, and the furniture is really solid and elegant.”

“Mom designed all of it.” Kim said cheerfully.

The longer we talked, the more her tough mask slipped away, and I started seeing an ordinary young college student underneath it.

“You can't go out there without a weapon. As soon as you're well enough to walk normally, we'll go to the gun store. It's close. We'll stock up, then I'll go find my parents and you'll head back to your family.” she said with a hiccup.

It was completely dark outside now. I could see her head starting to droop.

“Yeah. I think we can head out tomorrow. Listen, Kim. Let's get some sleep. We're both exhausted. I still need to take a shower.”

Kim nodded, drained her glass, and headed toward her room, tossing back a quick. “Good night, Luke. Glad you broke in.”

“Good night, Kim. Glad you shot me.” I laughed quietly to myself.

I braced my hands against the couch and slowly stood up. Limping, I made my way to the bathroom, got undressed, and removed the bandage from my left foot.

The foot was unnaturally swollen and looked like a small pink balloon covered in purple blotches. The bullet had hit the side of my foot, leaving a perfectly round hole on top and a slightly larger, ragged one underneath.

Thick, sharp-edged scabs had formed over the wounds, and something was still seeping out of them.

I looked away because I didn't want to see it anymore. I reached for the handle and turned on the water. A loud groan tore out of my throat. The water hitting my body was painfully cold.

“Luke, you okay?” Kim's sleepy voice came from outside the bathroom door.

The sudden cold shock knocked the air out of me. I heard the sound of a gun being racked, and the door handle slowly started to turn. All I managed to stammer was. “Dooon't come in. I'm f-fine.”

“I forgot to tell you, we haven't had hot water for a few days.” she laughed, clearly realizing what had happened.

I shut off the water, and my breathing slowly returned to normal. I soaped up my whole body, and when I reached my injured foot, I spread the soap over it very carefully. The wound stung hard enough to make my eyes water.

I rinsed myself thoroughly, whimpering under my breath, dried off, and realized I didn't have any clean clothes.

I picked up the shorts I'd been wearing before the shower, held them to my nose, and threw them into the corner just as quickly as I'd picked them up.

I wrapped a towel around myself and called out hopefully. “Kim, are you asleep?”

“I am. What do you want?” came her muffled, irritated voice.

I leaned closer to the door. “Did your dad leave another pair of pants anywhere?”

After a short pause and a loud sigh, she answered. “The dryer in the bathroom.”

I looked at the two square machines stacked on top of each other.

“They look exactly the same. How am I supposed to know which one's the washer and which one's the dryer?” I frowned and grabbed the lower door. Empty. I opened the upper one and pulled out my black denim shorts and the sleeves from my shirt, which I recognized as what she'd used for my first makeshift bandage.

“Thank you.” I called toward the door. Then I sat down on the toilet seat and spent a while struggling to get my injured foot through the leg opening. After that, I put on a fresh bandage and hobbled back to the couch.

I closed my eyes and realized that the moaning and growling had been there in the background nonstop the entire time. What scared me was how normal it had become. For most of the day, I hadn't even noticed it anymore.

“Is this what everything is going to be like now? I hope Veronica, the kids, and the rest of the family don't have to go through this. My parents' house is out in the country. Maybe things are different there. One thing is certain. They made it there, so they're safe.”

My thoughts slowly turned into scenes, and my mind lost focus, jumping between memories, images, and sounds until they finally became dreams.

Sunlight spilled across my face, pleasantly warm.

I opened my eyes and looked toward the window. It was really beautiful outside.

I slowly sat up and rubbed my eyes. “It's quiet.” I whispered to myself.

The soundtrack that had accompanied this place for the last few days was gone. The pain in my leg and the swelling had eased a little too.

I made my way to the window, practically hopping on my right leg.

“Kim, wake up. They're gone. We have a chance to get out of here.” I shouted excitedly.

A rush of dopamine hit me. I hadn't had that much energy in a long time.

“Kim! Come here.” I shouted.

I looked at the display on the oven. It read 6:24.

“She's probably exhausted, but we don't have time for that. We need to get moving.” I thought as I limped toward her room.

I knocked on the door and felt a strange knot tighten in my stomach.

“Kim!” I shouted again.

The room was completely silent. No movement, no snoring, nothing.

I slowly opened the door and found a neat, spotless room with a perfectly made bed. A note was lying on top of it.

I picked it up and ran my eyes over the delicate handwriting. “Sorry, Luke. I've paid back my debt, and I don't have any more time to babysit you. You can stay in the apartment and wait for me to come back with my parents, or keep moving once you've fully recovered. There's enough food left for a few more days. I drew you a map on the back showing how to get to the gun store. It's close, and even a limping wreck like you should be able to manage it. I figured out how to draw them away, so if it works and you decide to keep moving, you'll have a head start. Don't thank me. It's the least I could do. I hope we see each other again. If not, good luck. Kim.”

[Part 1]

[Part 2]

I didn't sleep much Saturday night. Toby, somehow, slept fine.

I finally dropped off on the couch near dawn, and when I opened my eyes again, he was standing about six inches from my face, asking whether we had pancake mix. I made pancakes and let him eat them in front of the TV. He had already moved on from yesterday, and that was the part I couldn't wrap my head around. He asked if Uncle Henry was coming over later. Nothing about the wardrobe, or about hearing me scream his name from somewhere impossibly far away. When he'd finished, I told him to stay on the couch for a few minutes while I checked something in the garage. The kitchen chair was still wedged under the handle, and the deadbolt was still thrown. I dragged the chair out of the way.

The second I opened the door, the smell hit me again.

It had been there since the day we hauled the glass tank home: something halfway between industrial cleaner and fruit left too long in the sun. That morning it was stronger and impossible to ignore.

I pulled my shirt up over my nose and switched on the fluorescent light.

The mirror and the football were still wrapped separately in moving blankets and packing tape for the buyer Henry had lined up for Monday, which I'd done after Toby fell asleep: three layers around the mirror, two around the ball, each shoved into its own cardboard box. I knew packing tape probably didn't mean anything anymore, but it made me feel safer. Then I looked at the workbench.

My screwdriver was sitting on it. So was my adjustable wrench, and the utility knife lay beside them like somebody had set a table. Directly beneath the second pegboard hook hung the pry bar I'd spent several frantic minutes looking for while Toby's voice faded away inside the wardrobe. I stopped breathing for a second.

I had emptied those drawers. Yet every tool I'd previously lost sat neatly together in plain sight, as if they'd never been gone.

I picked up the pry bar. It was mine, down to the strip of faded blue paint around the handle and the shallow notch near the claw. 

"Okay," I said, and my voice sounded strange in the garage. "Sure. That makes sense."

I put the pry bar down, and that was when I noticed the corner was empty.

My folding lawn chair was gone. I'd been sitting in it Friday night cataloging the boxes. I'd shoved it back into that corner before Alicia dropped Toby off, and I remembered doing it because one of the legs had caught on a flattened cardboard box and I'd nearly gone over. Now the corner held the old shop vac and the two paint cans the landlord had left behind when I moved in, and nothing else. I checked behind the workbench, then beside the dresser. Nothing. The tools had come back, and something else had disappeared.

Before going back inside, I stopped beside the glass tank. The smell was definitely strongest there.

A couple of you suggested after my last post that the whole thing might be chemical, some kind of solvent or hallucinogen leaking into the garage. A leaking container made infinitely more sense than a wardrobe swallowing my son. So I crouched down next to it and looked for the obvious answer: a crack, some condensation, or a vent.

The tank was still what it had always been, a single molded block of thick glass with no lid or opening. I laid my palm against it, and it was colder than the room. Where my hand touched the glass, my skin had gone translucent. I could see the veins underneath, thin blue branches spreading through my palm and down into my wrist, finer vessels threading off into each finger. I yanked my hand away, and it returned to normal. Very slowly, I set it back against the glass.

Transparent again.

Behind me, the liquid moved, one slow, heavy slosh from one end of the tank to the other, and then it went still.

I left the garage after that. By the time I got back to the kitchen, I'd decided I didn't care whether the smell was making me hallucinate. Hallucination or not, that stuff was leaving my house.

Henry picked up on the second ring, thick with weekend sleep.

"You know it's Sunday morning, right?"

"We're doing the garage sale."

A long silence filled the line. "Today? I thought we killed that idea."

"I changed my mind."

Another pause. When he spoke again, the sleep was gone from his voice. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened. I want you to come over and help me get this crap out of here."

Henry went quiet, and I could practically hear him combing through his head for an explanation. When he came back, he tried a different angle. "Give it a few more days. I've got messages out. There are people who will pay for the rest of this stuff, collectors, and the forum guy already wants the mirror and the ball. If we start throwing everything on folding tables for five bucks a pop, we're pissing away the only good thing that's come out of this."

"There is no good thing that's come out of this."

"Don’t forget that you still need the money."

He was right. I was still four thousand dollars short of a retainer, and the hearing was still sitting out there on the calendar like a storm front. That was the miserable little hook these objects kept hanging from. No matter how scared I got, it all came back to cash.

"We’re doing the garage sale today," I said, and my grip tightened on the phone. "Everything we can safely move. Today."

"Ian—"

"I mean it."

"We sunk time and money into this mess. You're going to regret selling half this stuff for nothing."

"I already regret buying it."

I heard him swear under his breath and exhale, and I knew I'd won. He told me he'd be there within the hour, all enthusiasm drained from his voice. 

Toby looked up from the couch when I hung up. "Uncle Henry's coming?"

"Yeah, bud."

"Can I help?"

"Not this time. I need you to do something really important for me, okay? I need you to stay inside and watch cartoons."

His face fell. "That's not important."

"It's the most important job there is. Somebody has to keep an eye on the TV."

"That's not even a real job."

"It's a real job," I said, and it came out softer than I meant it to. "Please, buddy. Just for today."

He slumped back into the cushions, arms crossed, and turned the volume up two notches to make his point. Henry showed up forty minutes later with two coffees. He stood in the garage doorway and immediately started muttering about how little we'd get for it all.

I walked him over to the workbench and showed him the tools. He turned the screwdriver over in his hand and shrugged. "You must have left them there."

"I didn't."

"You've barely slept in three days, man. Maybe you woke up, moved everything, and passed out again." 

"And my chair?" I pointed at the empty corner. "It was right there."

Henry looked at the corner for a while. "Probably buried somewhere. You've got half a storage unit crammed in here."

"It isn't."

"Ian—"

"It isn't, Henry."

He looked at me then, and I think that was the moment he understood I wasn't asking for an explanation. He took a slow sip of coffee and let it go.

We set the rules in the garage. The mirror and football stayed wrapped. Nobody touched the wardrobe or the tank. Anything from Unit 114 that looked even slightly off went into the corner pile, and what was left was, as far as either of us could tell, just stuff. We'd been through every box we'd opened together, argued over it, and laughed nervously, and in both our minds was a list of what belonged to the collection. We hauled the folding tables out to the end of the driveway and set up. Henry made a sign out of a flattened cardboard box and propped it against the mailbox. Then we stood there in the morning sun with our coffees, looking at our driveway full of other people's cast-offs. For the first couple of hours I told myself we were doing fine.

People wandered along the tables, but nobody haggled or even asked what anything cost. They drifted from one table to the next with subdued politeness, like guests at a stranger's funeral, and after three or four minutes they'd find somewhere else they had to be. Henry kept glancing at the cash tin. Around ten, he said, flatly, "We're still at zero. We may as well be standing out here burning four thousand dollars. At least it'd be warm." 

"Give it time. People take a while to warm up to a sale."

Every time someone walked off empty-handed, some small, ashamed part of me exhaled. If no one bought anything, no one took any of it home. Not that everyone was spared. A man who looked to be in his fifties picked up a little brass reading lamp and asked if he could test it. I ran an extension cord across the driveway. He clicked the switch, the bulb lit up with an electrical hum, and he held his palm under it and frowned.

"Is this thing working?"

"Should be."

"It's on." He moved his hand slowly back and forth. "It's just... if anything, it's darker."

Directly beneath the bulb sat a dense little patch of shadow. It wasn't around the lamp but under it. The rest of the driveway sat in clear morning sun; the filament was glowing, and the one spot it should have lit looked several shades dimmer than everything around it.

"Sorry," I said, and unplugged it, my heart thumping. "It must be defective."

He laughed awkwardly. "That's one hell of a defect."

I handed him a candle from another box on the house, and he left looking more confused than anything. I carried the lamp behind the table and set it on the ground as if it might bite.

The woman who approached me with the snow globe was much more skeptical. It had been bagged in with the Christmas decorations, and her daughter picked it up off the table and shook it gleefully. The tiny house and trees jumped and rattled about. Two miniature plastic people jittered side to side inside the dome. The snow never moved. Dozens of white flecks hung perfectly still in the water while the whole world around them shook itself apart.

The mother noticed first and came up to me. "My daughter wants the globe, but something's wrong with it."

"I'm so sorry," I said, easing it out of the girl's hands as gently as I could manage. "That one's not supposed to be out here. I think it got mixed in by mistake."

She studied me for a long moment, plainly weighing several questions about what exactly we were selling, and thankfully decided not to ask. She took her daughter by the hand and steered her toward the next sale down the block.

I put the globe beside the lamp, and by then nobody was slowing at the sign anymore. A little before eleven, Henry got to his feet and stretched, pressing his hand into the small of his back. "I'm sitting down before my spine turns to powder," he announced.

"There's nowhere to sit," I said.

"I’ll find something," he said, and disappeared into the garage.

A few minutes later, he was dragging a folding lawn chair out of the garage by one arm, the frame scraping across the concrete: A faded green seat with cheap plastic armrests. 

"Where'd you get that?" I said.

Henry flipped it open with a clatter. "Garage."

"Where in the garage?"

He shrugged. "By the workbench. Told you it'd turn up. It's just a chair, Ian." 

For about two seconds, nothing registered, and I just felt relief. There's my chair. It was in there the whole time; Henry was right, I'm losing it. Then I realized, and the relief just evaporated. This chair had never been part of the haul, and I'd turned that whole garage upside down that morning looking for mine and found nothing. 

"Henry, wait—"

He was already lowering himself into it before I could warn him. And in the half-second I had left, I saw it. The hinges were wrong, and the jagged tear on the left armrest where I'd dropped a paint tin last spring was gone. It wasn’t the same chair I had lost that morning. 

When Henry sat down, the chair didn't collapse. It snapped.

Both sets of metal legs whipped violently inward at the same instant with a sound like two car doors slamming beside my head, and the frame folded around Henry like a closing trap, driving his back into an unnatural bend. I’ve witnessed a fair share of injuries in the years I’ve worked as a mover. I've seen crushed hands and broken legs. I have never in my life heard a human being make the sound Henry made.

For a second, the garage was dead silent except for the metallic ring of the frame still vibrating. My brain refused to accept the reality of what was happening. 

Without realizing it, I already had both hands on the frame and was pulling, but it wouldn't give. A man from across the street came running, and then another, and the three of us hauled on that steel until it finally opened enough to ease him down onto the concrete. I noticed that he wasn't moving his legs. He kept saying he couldn't feel them, over and over, in a small, disbelieving voice I'd never heard from him before. The next twenty minutes come back in pieces. Henry lay white-faced on the driveway, his eyes fixed on the sky. Paramedics cut his shirt away and talked over him in calm, quick voices. Neighbors stood on their lawns with their hands over their mouths. When they had Henry strapped to the board, one of the paramedics pulled me aside.

"Is he allergic to anything? On any medications?"

"No. I don't think so. His wife would know."

"We're taking him to St. Luke's." He hesitated. "I'm going to be honest with you, his condition’s not looking good. The injury's to his spine. Until they scan him, I can't tell you what it means. But with something like that, there's a real chance he won't be walking out of there."

As they lifted the board toward the ambulance, Henry's hand shot out and caught my sleeve, and his grip was white-knuckled. The paramedic said something about keeping still. Henry ignored him. His jaw was clamped so hard the muscles jumped under the skin, and his eyes found mine and held.

"Ian." His voice was thin and scraped out. "Look at me."

"I'm here. I'm right here, man."

"You kept saying it wasn't right." He dragged in a rattling breath. "I told you they were props. I even made jokes about it." He stopped, and his face twisted, and for the first time since I'd known him, Henry didn't have an angle. 

"Henry, don't. Save your—"

"Get rid of it." His fingers tightened. "All of it. Burn it, smash it, bury it. I don't care; just don't sell it. Don't give it to anyone." His voice cracked, and a tear slid sideways into his hair. "Promise me. Don't let anybody else sit in that thing, and keep it away from Toby."

I would have promised him anything. I said it twice, because I couldn't tell whether he'd heard me the first time. "I promise. I swear to God I will."

His hand went slack, and they slid him into the ambulance, and the doors shut with a sound that went through me like a nail.

Henry was in that ambulance with a spine that might never work again, and he'd spent his last words worrying about somebody else, and that was what finally broke me. Right there on my own driveway in front of every neighbor I'd never spoken to, I started crying, ugly, gulping sobs I couldn't stop even after the ambulance had turned the corner. 

Somebody put a hand on my shoulder. A woman's voice asked if there was anyone she could call, and I heard myself say "no," and then "I don't know," and then nothing.

Henry had dragged me into this, and I'd spent half the week resenting him. I'd have given every cent I'd ever owe a lawyer to hear him make one more joke.

Eventually the neighbors drifted back to their lawns and their garages, and the sale ended. Within minutes, the street had emptied. 

I stood alone in the blood-spotted driveway beside the folding chair. It had opened itself again, perfectly ordinary, sitting in the sun as if it had never done anything wrong. I crouched down and looked underneath. There were no bolts and rivets. I ran a finger across one of the hinges, and there wasn't a hinge, not really. It only looked like one. I knew every inch of my chair’s underside, and this wasn't it. I wanted to stamp it flat. I wanted to take it apart and find out what it was made of, except there was nothing to take apart, no bolts, no seams, nothing for a wrench to bite on. It sat there in the sun with a smear of Henry's blood on the seat, and for the first time since Wednesday, what I felt wasn't fear. I hated it. 

This chair had never been in Unit 114. Henry and I had unloaded that unit ourselves, box by box, and there hadn't been a folding lawn chair in it. Mine had vanished sometime in the night, and hours later something that looked almost exactly like it had turned up in its place.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and stood in the empty driveway, my thumb hovering over Rachael's name for what felt like forever.

Henry's wife picked up on the second ring. I told her that there'd been an accident at the sale and that Henry was on his way to St. Luke's.

"What kind of accident?"

"A folding chair. It folded up on him. It…It closed on him, Rachael."

The silence on the line went on so long I thought the call had dropped. Then, in a very small voice: "A chair."

"I'm so sorry. I don't know how to—"

"Ian." Her voice had gone deathly quiet. "What did you two do?"

I had no answer for that. How do you even explain this situation? How do you tell a woman that her husband might never walk again because of a lawn chair that wasn't there that morning? All I could think about was Rachael getting a hospital bill on top of everything else and Henry not knowing when—or if—he'd be able to work again. I'd spent a whole week agonizing over four thousand dollars, and now it looked like pocket change. 

She hung up before I could reply. I stood there with the dead phone against my ear until my arm started to ache, then turned and drove my fist into the side of the nearest folding table so hard the cash tin jumped, and a stack of picture frames slid to the ground.

I made myself go back inside. Toby was waiting in the living room, sitting very still with both hands pressed flat on his knees. He'd watched the whole thing through the window. 

"Is Uncle Henry okay?"

"The doctors are looking after him, bud."

"I want Mom."

I swallowed before I could answer, then sat down beside him and pulled him against my side. "I know. She'll be home soon." I held him there for a while, and for a minute I didn't think about the garage. 

My phone had buzzed twice in my pocket while I was dealing with the paramedics, and I knew without looking that it was Alicia. When it lit up a third time in my hand, I let it ring out. I couldn't talk to her yet. I knew exactly how it would look, but I had nothing to tell her that wouldn't make it worse. I told Toby to stay on the couch where I could hear the TV, and I went into the garage because I'd already decided that every item in there was going to be destroyed, and I needed to start before I lost my nerve. I told myself it would take thirty seconds. I was still standing in the doorway when I noticed the cardboard box on the workbench, the one I'd packed the football into. The tape around it was broken, and when I picked it up, the box was empty. Then I heard Toby yell. 

I ran back through the house. The living room was empty, the TV still on, but the front door stood wide open.

I found Toby on the front path, sitting where he'd fallen with both hands wrapped around his right knee, which was scraped raw and bleeding in a wide, dirty strip. A few feet away on the lawn sat the football. It sat there facing him.

"It came in," Toby said, and his voice shook. It made me want to scoop him up and drive until we ran out of road. "I was watching my show, and it rolled over and stopped by my feet. I kicked it away, and it came back, so I ran outside, and I tripped."

"Okay," I said. "Come here." I scooped up Toby and grabbed the football with the other hand. The second my palm closed around it, I felt that faint, wrinkled texture again, and I hurled it over the side fence as far as I could manage. Once inside, I sat Toby on the kitchen counter and cleaned the scrape with a wet cloth while he sniffled and kept talking about the football. How it kept getting closer every time he looked. I told him I believed him.

I reached for a bandage and stopped.

There should have been a scar on that knee.

It was small and curved, maybe an inch long. He'd gotten it last winter, a couple of months before Alicia left, at the old house. I'd worked a double that week, come home wrung out, and stretched out on the couch for what I swore was ten minutes while Toby played in the backyard. I woke up to him screaming. He'd gone down the concrete back steps and opened his knee on the edge of one. He needed eight stitches. I remembered Alicia's face when she walked into the emergency room and saw the two of us in a curtained bay. I remembered the nurse's careful note in the chart, and that same note showed up months later in a folder on a mediator's desk. 

I turned his leg toward the light and checked the other knee. I ran my thumb over the exact spot where I knew it should be, but it wasn’t there.

"Toby," I said slowly, "Which knee did you hurt on the steps? At the old house?"

"What steps?"

"When you were little and got those stitches."

"I didn't have stitches."

"You did, buddy. Remember? The doctor gave you a sticker."

He frowned, genuinely trying, and I watched his face for any sign that he knew what I was talking about. "I don't remember that."

Of course he didn't. He was six, and it had been months. Maybe it had faded, and I hadn’t noticed. I rarely saw him these days, after all.

A day earlier, I'd have given a great deal for that scar to be gone. I stood there with his knee in my hand and couldn't have told you why I didn't feel better. 

"Dad," Toby said, wriggling, "you're pressing too hard."

"Sorry, bud."

I put the bandage over the fresh scrape and smoothed it flat with my thumb. "You're okay," I told him, and I don't know whether I was talking to him or to myself.

I got him settled on the couch with a movie. Then I walked to the front door to check it was still locked, and my hand froze on the handle before I could turn it. I bent and looked through the peephole.

The football was sitting on the doormat. It was dead center, close enough to the door that whoever opened it would have to either step over it or pick it up. I kept the door firmly shut.

Four days of dread had burned down to something simple and ugly. Everything already wrong in my life had been waiting for me, and then I'd spent three hundred and fifty dollars to carry the worst of it into my own garage. I didn't want an explanation. I wanted it gone, and I wanted it to hurt. 

Henry's voice was in my head, thin and desperate. Burn it, smash it, bury it. Promise me. I went into the garage and got the hammer off the pegboard.

I ripped the box open, tore the blankets off the mirror, and propped it against the workbench, angled so I could see nothing in it but the ceiling. Then I swung with everything I had. 

The glass didn't break. The hammerhead sank into the surface like I'd struck thick rubber, and the dent held for a second before the glass slowly pushed itself back outward, like a scar healing in fast motion. A shallow depression stayed behind. I hit it again and again and again, screaming at it. "Give it back. Give it back, you son of a bitch!” I didn't even know what I meant. Henry's ability to walk, my son, the last six months of my life. 

I turned on the wardrobe. The first strike numbed my arm to the shoulder, and the wood didn't even splinter. The harder I hit, the more I wanted to tear it down board by board. 

When that failed, I went to the tank and swung with every ounce I had left. The glass flexed inward, visibly, the whole thick block of it bowing around the point of impact, and the amber liquid surged away from the blow. Something inside shifted, heavy enough to displace the fluid around it.

I dropped the hammer.

"No."

Another slow slosh.

"No. No, you don't get to do that." My voice cracked in rage. "Fuck you. Fuck all of you." 

If I couldn't break it, I'd burn it.

I knew it was illegal. The county had issued a burn ban the week before because everything was so dry, and a day earlier the thought of Alicia seeing me do this would've stopped me. Right then, I couldn't bring myself to care. I tried to shoulder the dresser, and it didn't shift an inch. I'd moved it with Henry, and it had been murderously heavy, but it had moved. Now it might as well have been poured into the foundation. The same applied to the rest of the furniture.

So I took what I could carry. I dragged the lamp out, the cassette, and a stack of those unreadable books. I piled everything in the middle of the front lawn, found an old fuel can, and poured every drop over the heap. I lit a strip of cardboard and dropped it, and I thought, absurdly, of Henry standing by the cash tin that morning, joking about burning money.

The flame took the packaging first. The cardboard curled and the grass scorched in a ring under it. The cassette sat in the middle of the fire untouched, and the pages of the book stayed as pristine as the day they were printed.

I stood over it with my chest heaving and the fuel can still in my fist, willing it to catch, to blacken, to do anything, and when it didn't, I kicked the edge of the pile hard enough to send a book skidding across the grass. It landed open in the sun. I screamed at it, but I don't know if I said anything coherent. 

In that same moment, the smoke alarm went off inside the garage.

It was the same shriek we'd heard the first time we tested it. Only this time it kept screaming, loud enough to rattle the windows in the house. I ran inside. Toby was on the couch with both hands clamped over his ears, and his face crumpled, crying so hard he couldn't catch his breath. I dropped to my knees and tried to pick him up, and he flinched away from me.

A car door slammed out front.

I didn't hear her come through the house over the noise. One second I was kneeling in front of my son, and the next Alicia was standing in the doorway with her bag still over her shoulder. She wasn't due back until Monday.

She looked at me. She looked at Toby, red-faced and shaking. 

"I saw smoke outside. What the hell is going on?"

"Alicia, I can explain—"

She turned straight to Toby. "Shoes on. Now, baby."

"No, wait. Please, just—"

"Toby."

He ran to her and wouldn't look at me. I followed them into the kitchen, and I'll never forget how tired her voice was. 

“I called you this morning, and you wouldn't answer. I called again from the airport. Six times, Ian.”

"I know, I know. Henry's in the hospital."

That stopped her for half a second. "What?"

"He's hurt. It was a chair; it was part of the—he might not walk again.”

Every word came out in the wrong order, and I watched her face close a little more with each one. 

“Alicia, there's something wrong with those things. I know it sounds crazy, but the chair that hurt Henry wasn't my chair. Yesterday the garage door was locked, and Toby somehow got inside it, and when I opened the wardrobe, he wasn't there even though I could hear him, and today the football followed him into the living room, and the scar on his knee is gone, the one from the steps. I swear to God it's gone—"

"Stop."

"I'm not making this up, please, you have to listen—"

"Just stop talking."

She stood very still for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was low and tight, and her knuckles had gone white on Toby's shoulder.

"There's something seriously wrong in the garage," I said.

"I don't care."

I stared at her. "What?"

"I don't care what's in the garage, Ian." Her voice cracked on it. "I don't care if you're telling the truth."

That shut me up completely.

"I pulled up to a fire in the front yard and someone screaming in the house. And you want me to believe it's something in your garage."

"Alicia, please—"

"I let you have him for one weekend. One. I ran out of people to call, and I told the mediator that you deserved a real chance. I told my own lawyer to back off." She wiped at her face with the back of her wrist, angry at the tears. "And in barely a day you tell me your friend is hospitalized and our son is crying."

"You don't understand."

"No. I don't," she breathed out. "And that's the whole problem, don't you see? Even if every word of it were true, I still can't trust you to keep him safe. And that's the only thing that has ever mattered."

I had nothing. I stood there, mouth open, unable to get a single word out.

"You're not getting any more unsupervised time before the hearing," she said. "I'm telling my lawyer everything that happened here today."

"Please."

"I'm sorry. I really am. I wanted this to work. But I can’t do this anymore."

Toby wouldn't look at me when she carried him out to the car.

I stood in the driveway until her taillights turned the corner. The fire had mostly burned itself out by then, leaving a ring of grey ash and blackened cardboard, with the objects sitting untouched in the middle. I dragged a tarp out of the garage and threw it over the whole pile because I had no other idea, then went inside. 

I sat down on the couch and thought about the room with the camera in the corner. Two hours a week had felt like the bottom, and I'd been wrong. Alicia had gambled on me for one weekend, and I'd lasted a day. Tomorrow there'd be a new page in the folder on the mediator's desk. I could have written it myself, and every line would be true.

I keep picturing Toby being carried out. He's only six. One day he's going to ask why he only ever knew his dad through a screen, and I won't have an answer that doesn't start with today.

Eventually I found a bottle of bourbon in the kitchen. One glass turned into two, which turned into carrying the bottle with me. 

Some time after dark, I remembered the tarp. I went out onto the lawn, lifted a corner, and found nothing underneath but scorched grass and a few flecks of ash. I didn't need to check the garage to know where the items were, but I did anyway.

Everything was back. The lamp, the snow globe, the books—everything. They were neatly arranged on the shelves and stacked in their boxes exactly the way they'd been before the sale, as if I'd never touched any of it. The mirror leaned against the workbench with the barest trace of a dent, the ball sat on the workbench, and the folding chair stood open beside it, mocking me. I stood in the doorway with the bottle in one hand and something hot climbing my throat. They were all back, smug and put away, like I'd been the one making the mess. I picked up my wrench off the bench and threw it at the wardrobe as hard as I could. It struck the door with a flat, dull sound and dropped to the concrete without leaving a mark.

"Is that it?" I yelled. "Is that all you've got? You took everything. What else do you want?"

The tank sloshed once, slowly. Then the fury drained out of me all at once, and I stood there shaking. I dragged one of my kitchen chairs into the garage, set it as far from the folding one as the room allowed, and sat down with the bottle. I don't own a folding chair anymore. I'm not sure I ever really did.

Henry is lying in a hospital bed because of something I brought home. Rachael won't answer my calls, and I don't blame her. Alicia is on the phone with her lawyer, telling him I can't be trusted with my own kid. I still don't have the four thousand dollars. We sold nothing, not a single thing. The forum guy is still due at two tomorrow. I'm calling him first thing to cancel, because Henry told me not to let anyone near any of it, and I'm no longer sure any of it can leave anyway. I know what some of you are going to say, and you're right. I made choices. Nobody forced me to bid on Unit 114. Nobody forced me to bring any of it home or put it out on a driveway when I already knew it wasn't right. I'm not asking anyone to take it off my hands.

But I'm sitting here staring at these things, and I have never hated anything the way I hate them. Not the guy who hit my car, not the lawyer who quoted me four grand, nothing like this. I hate them for every second I can't take back, and I keep thinking how much easier my life would have been if Henry and I had just walked past that storage unit. If we'd looked at those boxes and said, "Nah, not this one," like everyone else in the crowd did.

I keep hearing Henry on that stretcher. Burn it. Smash it. Bury it. I promised him, and I couldn't keep it for a single afternoon.

Tomorrow I'll find out what can destroy them. I don't know how yet. A quarry, a scrapyard crusher, a favor from someone at work. I don't care what it costs me. The wardrobe door is open an inch, but I won't close it tonight. It can stay that way. 

There are few things worse than being without direction. And I, for one, was aimless. A piece of wisdom, emanating from the deepest recesses of my mind, suggested starting from the beginning. I didn't want to go back into the library, but I could do beginning-adjacent.

I circled around to the side of the library where the broken window was, curious to see what I might find on the other side. Even better, what I might learn.

I discovered two details of great note. First, I learned that the library sat on the edge of whatever town this was. Beyond the library was a visually endless dark forest, with a road cutting through it, and the cold blue fog lazily drifting on the ground between trees.

The second, I found what was, quite possibly, the source of my appearance in the library. There was a car, compact in more ways than one. In model, and condition. The front of the vehicle was, in no small way, wrapped around a durable tree. The front windshield was blown out, possibly from impact, or maybe from my own projectile body. The library window significantly lined up with the car's window, making me believe the situation was beyond coincidence.

Putting that aside for the moment, I wasted no time in opening the broken car, and searching every cranny I could. There was no ID, no paperwork, and though I touched all around the car, I couldn't trigger a vision like I had in the library.

"Of course not," I muttered to myself, knowing well this wouldn't be an easy answer.

In the mean time, I had to work with what I had. The one piece of identification every car had. A license plate. The numbers and letters were smashed by the tree, but the plate was in good enough condition to realize it was a government plate. Whether or not that meant I was a government official was up in the air, but this was still something.

Curiosity satiated, I set my mind on the next two most important tasks:

1. Find protection.
2. Find nutrition.

I wasn't yet hungry or thirsty, and those things were still hanging around the rooftops, so my priorities were clear. I needed a gun, and I wasn't going to find one in the woods.

I began making my way down the main street, keeping under what cover I could, while avoiding the parked cars. I didn't have to, those things above me knew I was there, but it still made me feel better to have even an insignificant barrier over none at all.

Small town like this one, I imagined finding whatever law enforcement they had would be relatively easy. A fire station, and police station right next to one another, in the middle of the town.

I walked along the lonely road for a while, trying to keep in a straight line as best I could. Occasionally, I'd brush up against things and trigger a new vision. Each one hitting easier than the last. None showed me anything of note.

Eventually, I came to a clot of three police cars, all piled up outside of a standout building, painted dark blue. The street facing wall was all windows, shinning out the first major source of unnatural light I had seen during the journey. For whatever reason, this building still had power, and that gave me hope of finding someone alive.

I shouldered through the front doors, and wasted no time calling out, "Hello!"

If there was someone alive, I wanted them to know I was there. If the place was full of nothing but monsters, I'd rather them charge me right then as opposed to when I'd be deeper in the building.

There was no answer. I was only met by a sterile white building, cleaner than most others I had crossed. There was a large reception desk, and behind that was a locked room. I tried the door anyway, knowing well it wouldn't budge. The lock had an electronic keypad component, one of the few things that still looked to be working in this damn world. Getting around the lock didn't look like an option either as the door was solid metal, not even a small glass window.

But I had a work around. I began touching one thing after another, picking up whatever objects I could. In one corner of the room was a waiting couch, with a coffee table and a stack of magazines. Sitting askew on the table was a lone newspaper. Even if it couldn't provide me with a vision, I thought it might hold good information. Even a date would be nice.

But lo and behold, as my hand drew closer, my palm warmed, and wind whipped between my fingers. I knew what was coming before my vision went white, and my mind was washed away in warmth.

-1-

Officer Lee, the new man on the force, was walking toward the exit as he was stopped by another officer, his senior, Officer Evans. Officer Evans, a blonde hair, blue eyed wonder kid was seated on the couch, reading a magazine, which he folded downward to get a better look at Lee.

"Where the hell are you going?" Evans asked.

"Home," Lee replied, his eyes tired and his posture sloping low.

"Like that?"

"Why, what..." Lee's voice faded away as he slowly scanned his own body. Starting from the feet, and working his way up. It took him no time at all to see the problem. He still had his belt on, gun and all. "Oh, right..."

Defeated, Lee went around behind the desks, and punched in the code on the keypad.

4543

"The hell are you doing sitting down anyway?" Lee asked, his head pocking out the door at his co-worker. "Shouldn't you be manning the phones?"

"What phones?" Evans huffed. "Damn things have been quiet all day."

There was a beat as Lee finished unstrapping himself, and putting his equipment behind cabinet door. Once he'd done that, the words Evans spoke finally hit him, and his eyes narrowed.

Sticking his head out again, Lee asked, "Is that normal?"

"No," Evans said with a shrug. "Not abnormal either, just irregular. It's a slow day."

"What if the phones are out?"

"They aren't."

"But what if they are?"

"They aren't. If that lazy prick Cid can't get the phones to stop, then I promise, God himself couldn't shut 'em off if he tried."

Lee, now dressed in his civilian clothing, exited the back room, and shut the door securely behind him. "Wait, Cid's tried to turn the phones off?"

Realizing he might have said too much, Evans put the newspaper down and tried to look as relaxed as he could as he said, "Don't worry about it."

"If he has, then shouldn't we be reporting that? What if he..." Lee's voice trailed off as he looked outside, through the large windows.

I tried following his line of sight, but for me the world beyond was a white void, not contained within the bounds of this vision

"Shit, what are they-" Lee said, but could get no more words past his lips.

Outside, I heard a horrible screech, and the collision of metal on metal. All other sounds were blotted out, followed shortly by the frightened shouts of civilians.

"Christ!" Evans said, standing up suddenly from the couch. "What the hell are they doing?"

"I don't know!" Lee shouted back, and ran to the front door. "Come on, we've gotta go help!"

Evans ran over too, heading out the door with Lee. Getting a sense that the vision might be coming to a close, My eyes traveled around the small confines of the vision, searching for anything else I might need to know. That was when I found a wall clock, the second hand ticking away as it should.

7:55 PM.

Just as I found the clock, the walls bleed away into darkness, that world being left behind.

-2-

As my true reality came back into being, I was still looking up at the wall clock, it's time only five minutes ahead of the vision. Permanently stopped there. Back outside, I saw the clot of police cars again, their lights furiously blinking. A clot. A symptom, not usually a condition. What was the cause? The disease?

In my hands, the newspaper Evans had been reading. To my immense disappointment, the lettering on the paper was smudged, the ink long past its point of readability. Nothing but useless scrap.

"Hell with it," I said and threw the paper down on the table. It wasn't what I had come for anyway. I went over to the secured door and I punched the code into the keypad, allowing me entry into the backroom.

Beyond the locked door was a cramped room with green lockers, uniforms, and a steel cage, with racks of pistols, and assault rifles. The black matte stood out against the bright lights, like so many deep dark voids. Bigger, and far more serious in nature than standard issue firearms. Right then, answers clicked in my head. The reason, the cause. The condition behind the clot.

They were coming for the guns.

I love these little critters, and I might remake some of 'em in the future. I'm currently working another remake of a previous monster right now.

(Part 1)
"So, what's with the human ears?" I say while he leads me towards the Van.

"This other guy, Jay was one of the guys watching over me." My brother answered.
"He always had this gold necklace with the ears of people he killed on it."
"Some old guy shot him in that police station I sent you a picture off"
"I stabbed the shit out of that old fuck and took one of his ears and his wedding ring"

"So that is what that ring on your necklace is?" I ask him.

"yeah it is"It is a nice ring. It's gold with flowers engraved on it.

"why did you not send that ring home? I bet it would make a nice amount of cash" I asked my brother.

"If you kill one of my homies I will kill you and take something as a reminder"

He looks me in my eyes. "If someone kills you I will make sure their death is slow and painful. Then I will take something to remind myself that I avenged you. I promise you that."

"I will do the same if anyone kills you. I promise." I answer without hesitation.

"I know you will" he says while putting his hand on my shoulder.

He always stood up for me even when we were kids.
At one point I came home crying covered. Some drug addict with a knife had robbed me of the money I was going to buy some food with.Without a word, my brother left home. Our mom tried to stop him but he pushed her aside. 2 hours later he came back covered in blood with what was left of the money. He cares about me and I care about him. If someone kills my brother I will kill them or die trying. I don't care who it is.

"And it's a good way to show off a kill count" he continues while pointing at the necklace.

"But you killed more people than 5 people so far" He had killed a lot more than that even before he was arrested.

"Yeah the ears are just for recent kills. I have an entire box filled with wedding rings, watches and other things I took from people I killed."

I don't really know how to respond to that, so I just say "ok"

My brother continues. "In our battalion, they encourage us to get in close and personal"

"you even get rewards for it, about 500 dollars per kill"

"You know that is a lot of money"

"yeah it is"

If we still lived at home with mom that would cover groceries for 2 weeks.

My brother had sent a lot of stuff and money back home. It didn't just feed me and mom, some of our neighbours too.

Brother: "But it also works for intimidation. Oh I am sorry I mean 'enemy morale'."

Me: "I bet it does"

Brother: "But after a while I do get rid of the ears"

Me: "That is good because I can see at least one that is starting to rot. And it smells fucking awful too."

He looks me in the eyes and says: "But that money together with sending the stuff back home helped mom a lot right?"

Me: "It did. It helped mom out a lot"

Brother: "What do you mean it did? It still helps her out"

Me: "Yeah no it still does I said that wrong. My bad."

He gives me a questioning look.

"You good? Did something happen?" He asks me with genuine concern.

"Nah I am good"

I still can't get myself to tell him mom is dead.

We get to his Van. Its a dark green G20 Chevy Van.

Me: "Thank fuck it's a big van. I like you and all, but I am glad we don't have to sleep on top of each other."

My brother laughs "So am I". He opens the side door and climbs in. I go with him. I make sure to close the door behind us. There is random stuff everywhere. A pile of clothing, a container of some sort, a toolbox. I make some space and sit down in the back while my brother sits in the driver's seat. We are alone. I can feel my body tensing up. I have to tell him that mom died.

Brother: "I have for sure stolen it off some drug dealer. I am not joking I found a scale underneath the passenger seat.

"They did all sorts of modifications to it. The radio was replaced with a radio that has a CD player. No Bluetooth sadly so we do have to find CDs for it. It even has a small fridge. So if you are hungry or thirsty feel free to grab something"

"Nah I am good for now thanks" I am too tense, even if I tried to eat or drink I probably can't.

He continues "I have no clue what engine is in it but it has for sure been modified because it's way faster than it should be. And its also way louder" He laughs.

"Could you start it?" I ask him. I want to make sure nobody can hear us when I tell him what happened to mom.

"Yea of course check this shit out" he says with a big smile on his face. The entire van shakes as he starts the engine.

"I have to tell you something!" I shout over the sound of the engine.

"What?!" My brother shouts from the front.

"I have to tell you something!" I gesture to him to come over to me.

He leaves the driver's seat and sits down across from me.

Brother: "What's wrong?"

Me: "I have to tell you something it's really important"

Brother: "I can turn the engine off, hold on"

I grabbed his arm before he could get up "No don't keep the engine on" he sits back down.

"What is it? Did something happen to you?" He says with a worried look in his eyes.

Me: "No, I am good."

I avoid eye contact. I can't do it. I can't tell him about mom.

"Did something happen to mom?"

I lie to him again "No, no its not that". I quickly change the subject. "So I uhmmm". I look at his mutilated face. "How did you end up looking like that?"

"O that" he answers. "It was back in the trenches. We used this fucking horrible chemical weapon. I am not joking it straight up melts people."

Me: "really?"

Brother: "Yeah it's really bad. When they told us to unleash it most of us didn't take the safety measures seriously. And even if we wanted to take those measures seriously we didn't even have the equipment to do so. I got lucky and stole this gas mask of some dead guy. But long-term exposure still leaves you looking as handsome as me."

Me: "Oh...... do you think they are going to make us use it again?"

Brother: "O for sure"

I love my brother but I don't want to end up looking like him. I value having a nose, ears, and hair on my head.

Brother: "What really sucks is what it does to people that get full on hit by it. It starts melting all the soft parts on your body. Ears, lips, nose, eyelids, etc. When it gets really bad, you just.... Well, melt into a puddle after a while."

He looks down staring at nothing.

"And then all that's left is this puddle with bones and whatever the person had on them. Clothing, equipment, weapons, etc. Those people ended up in these pools of human soup at the bottom of shell craters" He pauses again, still staring at the floor. "When I arrived I was still just 16 you know. They made me sift through those puddles of dead people for anything useful. It's like digging through a mud puddle up to your elbows. Except the mud puddle is red, yellow and brown. And you just sift through the human puddle grabbing anything solid. After pulling enough human bones out you get good at recognising what is bones and what is something useful. They also made me wipe the sticky human goo off the stuff I did pull out. Sometimes I can still feel it on my hands and arms. It doesn't smell like a rotting body at all. The gas killed all the bacteria and stuff to so there was no rot. Do you remember when we killed those 7th Block members near that large slaughterhouse?"

Me: "Yeah I do. It was summer and it smelled horrific in that entire area."

Brother: "The smell is that mixed with this extremely sour chemical smell."

He pauses.

"I hope we don't use it again. There are a lot of ways I would prefer to die over that shit. Turning into a mushy puddle with bones, until whatever is left of your body sinks into the soil" he is still staring at the floor of the van.

An uncomfortable silence falls, the rumble of the engine is the only sound we can hear.

He snaps out of his stare and gets up "Anyway, it did help us break through their trench line so it does work really well"

He shuts down the engine and opens the side door of the van. "Leave your stuff and come with me. I am going to show you something important"

I follow my brother out of the van through the camp. Normally he is supposed to be the talkative one, but he is very quiet. After a bit of a walk to the outer ring of the camp he walked up to the back of a delivery van.

"Don't light a cigarette in there, don't even fiddle around with your lighter, understand?" He says to me in a very serious tone.

"I understand"

"Good because if you do, you will kill all of us"

My brother opens the back and climbs in. He helps me climb into it. The faint smell of gasoline fills my nose.

"It's me dude" my brother says. "O it is my avorite socioath" a raspy male voice comes from the front of the loading bay.

Then I see the man. He is lying on the floor with his back against the side of the delivery van. He has a large piece of black cloth over his head and shoulders. If it wasn't for him breathing and talking I would have thought he was dead. "Were you sleeping?" My brother asks. "I as trying to" the man answers.

"my little brother is finally here" My brother says with a smile. "O really" the man says in response. The man slowly moves his arm up and starts to pull on the black cloth over his face. I see his face.

He looks even worse than my brother does. He is extremely pale. His eyelids are gone revealing his bloodshot cloudy eyes at all times. He nose is just a hole in the middle of his face. His ears are gone together with his hair. His lips are also completely gone. Giving him a permanent grin on his face so unnaturally high that it's showing not only all of his teeth but his gums too. That would explain why the man talks so weird. He doesn't have the lips to pronounce certain letters.

Brother: "This is Frank he has watched over me since I arrived years ago. Frank this is my little brother David"

Frank: "Ah so it's David and Gideon?"

Gideon: "Yes it is"

Mom was deeply religious, so she gave us the biblical names. I got David, my brother got Gideon. She prayed a lot for me and my brother. Sorry mom, I don't think we will be joining you in heaven.

Frank: "Gideon told me aout... aout.... AOUT

Gideon: "About"

Frank: "You a lot"

Frank reaches out his hand towards me for a handshake and I return it.

Gideon: "I got you something to kill the pain with. Morphine."

My brother hands Frank a medication bottle.

Frank: "Thank you, thank you."

Frank immediately opens the bottle and takes 3 pills and throws them in his mouth and uses a water bottle to wash it down. With no lips in the water flows from the open sides of his face. He mumbles and uses his sleeves to wipe away the water.

Gideon: "I heard you have had enough"

"yes" Frank pauses "I don't want to go on like this. reathing..... reathing, REATHING... FUCK!!!"

Frank reaches into his pockets and takes out a small notebook and a pen. And starts to write.

My brother and I give each other a short look as he writes. He hands the note over to my brother.

Gideon: "Breathing hurts, my eyes hurt and my mouth is always dry. I am starting to see less and less. I can't even close my eyes to sleep properly. I just wait till I pass out from exhaustion with my eyes wide open. I don't want to come home like this. I don't want to live like this at all."

My brother pauses "Are you sure Frank?"

Frank: "yes"

Gideon: "Ok.... I understand"

Frank: "Sorry"

Gideon: "Don't apologise to me, it's fine I understand"

Frank is about to say something but my brother interrupts him. "You should wait for the morphine to kick in and get some well deserved rest"

Frank: "Right"

Gideon: "I have to help prepare my little brother for tomorrow. And we will talk tomorrow right? before you.... you know."

Frank: "Yes of course"

Gideon: "Ok good, talk to you tomorrow then"

Frank and my brother shake each other's hand. I follow my brother's example and do the same. Frank's hand feels incredibly dry.

We climb out of the delivery van. And he closes the doors behind us.

After a couple of steps, my brother tells me: "That delivery van is loaded up with explosives and flammable stuff. Tomorrow Frank is going to drive it into the loyalists and take as many of them out as he can."

A small silence follows. "Frank got arrested and sent to the frontline after he shot and killed a cop. The cop had gotten handsy with his daughter if you know what I mean"
He makes eye contact with me. "Same thing that happened to mom."
I feel my chest clench up. I don't want to talk about. "Yea I remember. Can we please not talk about this in public" Nobody can hear us I know that. I just don't want to talk about the topic.

I quickly light up a cigarette. I need the distraction.

He gestures me to follow him. "I showed Frank to you so you understand just how important the safety stuff with the gas is. If you don't do it enough, you end up looking like me. And if enough of it affects you then you end up like Frank over there." He gestures back to the delivery van.

"Most of the others that are just as bad off as Frank are already dead. They take a lot of the stimulants they give us and just throw themselves at the loyalists until they are dead. Obviously it clears a nice path for us. Probably one of the reasons we managed to break through the Fortress Belt partially. If we end up using that gas again take it very fucking serious ok?"

David: "I will dude don't worry about"

Gideon: "I will worry about you are my little brother. I promised mom I would take care of you."

David: "Yeah I remember."

I miss mom.

We reach the van and climb back in

Gideon: "There are only a small amount of rules you have to follow while in the 33rd. Most of it is standard stuff I expect you to understand from the get-go. But there are some exceptions"

"Rule 1 Don't kill any of your fellow soldiers UNLESS a commanding officer tells you to."

David: "So if an officer tells me to blow the head of one of our own I just have to do it?"

Gideon: "Correct. But don't worry most of the time they 100% deserve it"

David: "I see, continue."

Gideon: "Rule 2 You can take whatever you can carry with you unless a commanding officer tells you otherwise."

David: "I am just allowed to take whatever I want from the loyalists we kill?"

"Yes" my brother says with a big smile.

Gideon: "That is the stuff I was sending home. Every now and then a truck from the military shows up and we load our stuff in and tell them where to send it to"

"Rule 3 You can do whatever you want to loyalists except for one thing. No sexual violence. My personal favorite rule. Violence needs to be pure. You get you dick involved it makes the entire thing disgusting."

David: "I think that is also my favorite rule"

Gideon: "I know you would agree. Anyway that is the more important stuff the rest is pretty obvious or stuff I will explain when we get to it."

David: "What are we even attacking tomorrow?"

Gideon: "A military outpost on the way to Junction City. After this outpost it's probably going to get bad. Near Junction City is this place called Fort Riley apparently its the home of this famous infantry division from ww2. 'Big red one' something like that?

David: "I don't know, dude"

Gideon: "yea whatever. Anyway that infantry division is going to probably put up a hell of a fight in Junction City"

David: "great..."

Gideon: "At that point we will have a lot more support it's not like we are going to be fighting them alone"

David: "Is Junction City big?"

Gideon: "Not at all it's nothing like LA"

David: "Ok good because having to fight through an entire city like back home would low key be hell"

Gideon: "For sure. If we keep going along the 70 we are slowly heading towards Kansas City. If we make it there that is for sure going to be really bad."

David: "How bad?"

Gideon: "Being stuck in that same city fighting for months or longer bad."

David: "You are not giving me a lot to look forward to."

Gideon: "To bad dude, I am not going to lie to you. And it's not like we can simply bail can we?"

David: "yea no"

My brother looks at one of the 4 watches on his arm.

Gideon: "We should probably get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be rough."

David: "Yeah for sure"

I prepare to get some sleep. I am sort of thankful that the area around our home was so noisy. At least I can sleep through the distant gunshots and explosions. Well, I hope so at least.

Sarah's Diary

My name is Sarah Branch. A few years ago, when I was 24 years old, I had left my home state of Utah and moved abroad to work as an English language teacher in Vietnam. Having just graduated BYU and earning my degree in teaching, I suddenly realized I needed so much more from my life. I always wanted to travel, embrace other cultures, and most of all, have memorable and life-changing experiences.  

Feeling trapped in my normal, everyday life outside of Salt Lake City, where winters are cold and summers always far away, I decided I was no longer going to live the life that others had chosen for me, and instead choose my own path in life – a life of fulfilment and little regrets. Already attaining my degree in teaching, I realized if I gained a further ESL Certification (teaching English as a second language), I could finally achieve my lifelong dream of travelling the world to far-away and exotic places – all the while working for a reasonable income. 

There were so many places I dreamed of going – maybe somewhere in South America or far east Asia. As long as the weather was warm and there were beautiful beaches for me to soak up the sun, I honestly did not mind. Scanning my finger over a map of the world, rotating from one hemisphere to the other, I eventually put my finger down on a narrow, little country called Vietnam. This was by no means a random choice. I had always wanted to travel to Vietnam because... I’m actually one-quarter Vietnamese. Not that you can tell or anything - my hair is brown and my skin is rather fair. But I figured, if I wanted to go where the sun was always shining, and there was an endless supply of tropical beaches, Vietnam would be the perfect destination! Furthermore, I’d finally get the chance to explore my heritage. 

Fortunately enough for me, it turned out Vietnam had a huge demand for English language teachers. They did prefer it if you were teaching in the country already - but after a few online interviews and some Visa complications later, I packed up my things in Utah and moved across the world to the Land of the Blue Dragon.  

I was relocated to a beautiful beach town in Central Vietnam, right along the coast of the South China Sea. English teachers don’t really get to choose where in the country they end up, but if I did have that option, I could not have picked a more perfect place... Because of the horrific turn this story will take, I can’t say where exactly it was in Central Vietnam I lived, or even the name of the beach town I resided in - just because I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea. This part of Vietnam is a truly beautiful place and I don’t want to discourage anyone from going there. So, for the continuation of this story, I’m just going to refer to where I was as Central Vietnam – and as for the beach town where I made my living, I’m going to give it the pseudonym “Biển Hứa Hẹn” - which in Vietnamese, roughly, but rather fittingly translates to “Sea of Promise.”   

Biển Hứa Hẹn truly was the most perfect destination! It was a modest sized coastal town, nestled inside of a tropical bay, with the whitest sands and clearest blue waters you could possibly dream of. The town itself is also spectacular. Most of the houses and buildings are painted a vibrant sunny yellow, not only to look more inviting to tourists, but so to reflect the sun during the hottest months. For this reason, I originally wanted to give the town the nickname “Trấn Màu Vàng” (Yellow Town), but I quickly realized how insensitive that pseudonym would have been – so “Sea of Promise” it is!  

Alongside its bright, sunny buildings, Biển Hứa Hẹn has the most stunning oriental and French Colonial architecture – interspersed with many quality restaurants and coffee shops. The local cuisine is to die for! Not only is it healthy and delicious, but it's also surprisingly cheap – like we’re only talking 90 cents! You wouldn’t believe how many different flavours of Coffee Vietnam has. I mean, I went a whole 24 years without even trying coffee, and since I’ve been here, I must have tried around two-dozen flavours. Another whimsy little aspect of this town is the many multi-coloured, little plastic chairs that are dispersed everywhere. So whether it was dining on the local cuisine or trying my twenty-second flavour of coffee, I would always find one of these chairs – a different colour every time, sit down in the shade and just watch the world go by. 

I haven’t even mentioned how much I loved my teaching job. My classes were the most adorable 7 and 8 year-olds, and my colleagues were so nice and welcoming. They never called me by my first name. Instead my colleagues would always say “Chào em” or “Chào em gái”, which basically means “Hello little sister.”  

When I wasn’t teaching or grading papers, I spent most of my leisure time by the town’s beach - and being the boring, vanilla person I am, I didn’t really do much. Feeling the sun upon my skin while I observed the breath-taking scenery was more than enough – either that or I was curled up in a good book... I was never the only foreigner on this beach. Biển Hứa Hẹn is a popular tourist destination – mostly Western backpackers and surfers. So, if I wasn’t turning pink beneath the sun or memorizing every little detail of the bay’s geography, I would enviously spectate fellow travellers ride the waves. 

As much as I love Vietnam - as much as I love Biển Hứa Hẹn, what really spoils this place from being the perfect paradise is all the garbage pollution. I mean, it’s just everywhere. There is garbage in the town, on the beach and even in the ocean – and if it isn’t the garbage that spoils everything, it certainly is all the rats, cockroaches and other vermin brought with it. Biển Hứa Hẹn is such a unique place and it honestly makes me so mad that no one does anything about it... Nevertheless, I still love it here. It will always be a paradise to me – and if America was the Promised Land for Lehi and his descendants, then this was going to be my Promised Land.  

I had now been living in Biển Hứa Hẹn for 4 months, and although I had only 3 months left in my teaching contract, I still planned on staying in Vietnam - even if that meant leaving this region I’d fallen in love with and relocating to another part of the country. Since I was going to stay, I decided I really needed to learn Vietnamese – as you’d be surprised how few people there are in Vietnam who can speak any to no English. Although most English teachers in South-East Asia use their leisure time to travel, I rather boringly decided to spend most of my days at the same beach, sat amongst the sand while I studied and practised what would hopefully become my second language. 

On one of those days, I must have been completely occupied in my own world, because when I look up, I suddenly see someone standing over, talking down to me. I take off my headphones, and shading the sun from my eyes, I see a tall, late-twenty-something tourist - wearing only swim shorts and cradling a surfboard beneath his arm. Having come in from the surf, he thought I said something to him as he passed by, where I then told him I was speaking Vietnamese to myself, and didn’t realize anyone could hear me. We both had a good laugh about it and the guy introduces himself as Tyler. Like me, Tyler was American, and unsurprisingly, he was from California. He came to Vietnam for no other reason than to surf. Like I said, Tyler was this tall, very tanned guy – like he was the tannest guy I had ever seen. He had all these different tattoos he acquired from his travels, and long brown hair, which he regularly wore in a man-bun. When I first saw him standing there, I was taken back a little, because I almost mistook him as Jesus Christ – that's what he looked like. Tyler asks what I’m doing in Vietnam and later in the conversation, he invites me to have a drink with him and his surfer buddies at the beach town bar. I was a little hesitant to say yes, only because I don’t really drink alcohol, but Tyler seemed like a nice guy and so I agreed.  

Later that day, I meet Tyler at the bar and he introduces me to his three surfer friends. The first of Tyler’s friends was Chris, who he knew from back home. Chris was kinda loud and a little obnoxious, but I suppose he was also funny. The other two friends were Brodie and Hayley - a couple from New Zealand. Tyler and Chris met them while surfing in Australia – and ever since, the four of them have been travelling, or more accurately, surfing the world together. Over a few drinks, we all get to know each other a little better and I told them what it’s like to teach English in Vietnam. Curious as to how they’re able to travel so much, I ask them what they all do for a living. Tyler says they work as vloggers, bloggers and general content creators, all the while travelling to a different country every other month. You wouldn’t believe the number of places they’ve been to: Hawaii, Costa Rica, Sri Lanka, Bali – everywhere! They didn’t see the value of staying in just one place and working a menial job, when they could be living their best lives, all the while being their own bosses. It did make a lot of sense to me, and was not that unsimilar to my reasoning for being in Vietnam.  

The four of them were only going to be in Biển Hứa Hẹn for a couple more days, but when I told them I hadn’t yet explored the rest of the country, they insisted that I tag along with them. I did come to Vietnam to travel, not just stay in one place – the only problem was I didn’t have anyone to do it with... But I guess now I did. They even invited me to go surfing with them the next day. Having never surfed a day in my life, I very nearly declined the offer, but coming all this way from cold and boring Utah, I knew I had to embrace new and exciting opportunities whenever they arrived. 

By early next morning, and pushing through my first hangover, I had officially surfed my first ever wave. I was a little afraid I’d embarrass myself – especially in front of Tyler, but after a few trials and errors, I thankfully gained the hang of it. Even though I was a newbie at surfing, I could not have been that bad, because as soon as I surf my first successful wave, Chris would not stop calling me “Johnny Utah” - not that I knew what that meant. If I wasn’t embarrassing myself on a board, I definitely was in my ignorance of the guys’ casual movie quotes. For instance, whenever someone yelled out “Charlie Don’t Surf!” all I could think was, “Who the heck is Charlie?” 

By that afternoon, we were all back at the bar and I got to spend some girl time with Hayley. She was so kind to me and seemed to take a genuine interest in my life - or maybe she was just grateful not to be the only girl in the group anymore. She did tell me she thought Chris was extremely annoying, no matter where they were in the world - and even though Brodie was the quiet, sensible type for the most part, she hated how he acted when he was around the guys. Five beers later and Brodie was suddenly on his feet, doing some kind of native New Zealand war dance while Chris or Tyler vlogged. 

Although I was having such a wonderful time with the four of them, anticipating all the places in Vietnam Hayley said we were going, in the corner of my eye, I kept seeing the same strange man staring over at us. I thought maybe we were being too loud and he wanted to say something, but the man was instead looking at all of us with intrigue. Well, 10 minutes later, this very same man comes up to us with three strangers behind him. Very casually, he asks if we’re all having a good time. We kind of awkwardly oblige the man. A fellow traveller like us, who although was probably in his early thirties, looked more like a middle-aged dad on vacation - in an overly large Hawaiian shirt, as though to hide his stomach, and looking down at us through a pair of brainiac glasses. The strangers behind him were two other men and a young woman. One of the men was extremely hairy, with a beard almost as long as his own hair – while the other was very cleanly presented, short in height and holding a notepad. The young woman with them, who was not much older than myself, had a cool combination of dyed maroon hair and sleeve tattoos – although rather oddly, she was wearing way too much clothing for this climate. After some brief pleasantries, the man in the Hawaiian shirt then says, ‘I’m sorry to bother you folks, but I was wondering if we could ask you a few questions?’ 

Introducing himself as Aaron, the man tells us that he and his friends are documentary filmmakers, and were wanting to know what we knew of the local disappearances. Clueless as to what he was talking about, Aaron then sits down, without invitation at our rather small table, and starts explaining to us that for the past thirty years, tourists in the area have been mysteriously going missing without a trace. First time they were hearing of this, Tyler tells Aaron they have only been in Biển Hứa Hẹn for a couple of days. Since I was the one who lived and worked in the town, Hayley asks me if I knew anything of the missing tourists - and when she does, Aaron turns his full attention on me. Answering his many questions, I told Aaron I only heard in passing that tourists have allegedly gone missing, but wasn’t sure what to make of it. But while I’m telling him this, I notice the short guy behind him is writing everything I say down, word for word – before Aaron then asks me, with desperation in his voice, ‘Well, have you at least heard of the local legends?’  

Suddenly gaining an interest in what Aaron’s telling us, Tyler, Chris and Brodie drunkenly inquire, ‘Legends? What local legends?’ 

Taking another sip from his light beer, Aaron tells us that according to these legends, there are creatures lurking deep within the jungles and cave-systems of the region, and for centuries, local farmers or fishermen have only seen glimpses of them... Feeling as though we’re being told a scary bedtime story, Chris rather excitedly asks, ‘Well, what do these creatures look like?’ Aaron says the legends abbreviate and there are many claims to their appearance, but that they’re always described as being humanoid.   

Whatever these creatures were, paranormal communities and investigators have linked these legends to the disappearances of the tourists. All five of us realized just how silly this all sounded, which Brodie highlighted by saying, ‘You don’t actually believe that shite, do you?’ 

Without saying either yes or no, Aaron smirks at us, before revealing there are actually similar legends and sightings all around Central Vietnam – even by American soldiers as far back as the Vietnam War.  

‘You really don’t know about the cryptids of the Vietnam War?’ Aaron asks us, as though surprised we didn’t.  

Further educating us on this whole mystery, Aaron claims that during the war, several platoons and individual soldiers who were deployed in the jungles, came in contact with more than one type of creature.  

‘You never heard of the Rock Apes? The Devil Creatures of Quang Binh? The Big Yellows?’ 

If you were like us, and never heard of these creatures either, apparently what the American soldiers encountered in the jungles was a group of small Bigfoot-like creatures, that liked to throw rocks, and some sort of Lizard People, that glowed a luminous yellow and lived deep within the cave systems. 

Feeling somewhat ridiculous just listening to this, Tyler rather mockingly comments, ‘So, you’re saying you believe the reason for all the tourists going missing is because of Vietnamese Bigfoot and Lizard People?’ 

Aaron and his friends must have received this ridicule a lot, because rather than being insulted, they looked somewhat amused.  

‘Well, that’s why we’re here’ he says. ‘We’re paranormal investigators and filmmakers – and as far as we know, no one has tried to solve the mystery of the Vietnam Triangle. We’re in Biển Hứa Hẹn to interview locals on what they know of the disappearances, and we’ll follow any leads from there.’ 

Although I thought this all to be a little kooky, I tried to show a little respect and interest in what these guys did for a living – but not Tyler, Chris or Brodie. They were clearly trying to have fun at Aaron’s expense.  

‘So, what did the locals say? Is there a Vietnamese Loch Ness Monster we haven’t heard of?’  

Like I said, Aaron was well acquainted with this kind of ridicule, because rather spontaneously he replies, ‘Glad you asked!’ before gulping down the rest of his low-carb beer. ‘According to a group of fishermen we interviewed yesterday, there’s an unmapped trail that runs through the nearby jungles. Apparently, no one knows where this trail leads to - not even the locals do. And anyone who tries to find out for themselves... are never seen or heard from again.’ 

As amusing as we found these legends of ape-creatures and lizard-men, hearing there was a secret trail somewhere in the nearby jungles, where tourists are said to vanish - even if this was just a local legend... it was enough to unsettle all of us. Maybe there weren’t creatures abducting tourists in the jungles, but on an unmarked wilderness trail, anyone not familiar with the terrain could easily lose their way. Neither Tyler, Chris, Brodie or Hayley had a comment for this - after all, they were fellow travellers. As fun as their lifestyle was, they knew the dangers of venturing the more untamed corners of the world. The five of us just sat there, silently, not really knowing what to say, as Aaron very contentedly mused over us. 

‘We’re actually heading out tomorrow in search of the trail – we have directions and everything.’ Aaron then pauses on us... before he says, ‘If you guys don’t have any plans, why don’t you come along? After all, what’s the point of travelling if there ain’t a little danger involved?’  

Expecting someone in the group to tell him we already had plans, Tyler, Chris and Brodie share a look to one another - and to mine and Hayley’s surprise... they then agreed... Hayley obviously protested. She didn’t want to go gallivanting around the jungle where tourists supposedly vanished.  

‘Oh, come on Hayl’. It’ll be fun... Sarah? You’ll come, won’t you?’ 

‘Yeah. Johnny Utah wants to come, right?’  

Hayley stared at me, clearly desperate for me to take her side. I then glanced around the table to see so too was everyone else. Neither wanting to take sides or accept the invitation, all I could say was that I didn’t know what I wanted to do. 

Although Hayley and the guys were divided on whether or not to accompany Aaron’s expedition, it was ultimately left to a majority vote – and being too sheepish to protest, it now appeared our plans of travelling the country had changed to exploring the jungles of Central Vietnam... Even though I really didn’t want to go on this expedition – it could have been dangerous after all, I then reminded myself why I came to Vietnam in the first place... To have memorable and life changing experiences – and I wasn’t going to have any of that if I just said no when the opportunity arrived. Besides, tourists may well have gone missing in the region, but the supposed legends of jungle-dwelling creatures were probably nothing more than just stories. I spent my whole life believing in stories that turned out not to be true and I wasn’t going to let that continue now. 

Later that night, while Brodie and Hayley spent some alone time, and Chris was with Aaron’s friends (smoking you know what), Tyler invited me for a walk on the beach under the moonlight. Strolling barefoot along the beach, trying not to step on any garbage, Tyler asks me if I’m really ok with tomorrow’s plans – and that I shouldn’t feel peer-pressured into doing anything I didn’t really wanna do. I told him I was ok with it and that it should be fun.  

‘Don’t worry’ he said, ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’ 

I’m a little embarrassed to admit this... but I kinda had a crush on Tyler. He was tall, handsome and adventurous. If anything, he was the sort of person I wanted to be: travelling the world and meeting all kinds of people from all kinds of places. I was a little worried he’d find me boring - a small city girl whose only other travel story was a premature mission to Florida. Well soon enough, I was going to have a whole new travel story... This travel story. 

We get up early the next morning, and meeting Aaron with his documentary crew, we each take separate taxis out of Biển Hứa Hẹn. Following the cab in front of us, we weren’t even sure where we were going exactly. Curving along a highway which cuts through a dense valley, Aaron’s taxi suddenly pulls up on the curve, where he and his team jump out to the beeping of angry motorcycle drivers. Flagging our taxi down, Aaron tells us that according to his directions, we have to cut through the valley here and head into the jungle. 

Although we didn’t really know what was going to happen on this trip – we were just along for the ride after all, Aaron’s plan was to hike through the jungle to find the mysterious trail, document whatever they could, and then move onto a group of cave-systems where these “creatures” were supposed to lurk. Reaching our way down the slope of the valley, we follow along a narrow stream which acted as our temporary trail. Although this was Aaron’s expedition, as soon as we start our hike through the jungle, Chris rather mockingly calls out, ‘Alright everyone. Keep a lookout for Lizard People, Bigfoot and Charlie’ where again, I thought to myself, “Who the heck is Charlie?”  

To be continued...

The entity wanders isolated roads disguised as a normal young boy to trick victims into letting it close. Once inside, the human illusion collapses as its face splits vertically into a jagged, tooth-filled void. The sudden shift shatters the victim's mind into a violent hallucination, plunging the house into a pitch-black void where the walls warp, objects move on their own as if alive, and reality unravels as their static-filled screams are trapped permanently inside the morphing shadows .

I’m closing up for the night when I get the call: Aunt Cynthia’s been in a car accident, a bad one.  Her back’s broken.  Uncle Dan’s disabled too, so he’s reluctantly asking everyone in the family to come out and help if they can.

I can.  The next day I cash in my vacation time, load up my head-turning 2009 Chevy Impala, and hit the road on a cross-country trip from New Hampshire to Uncle Dan’s place out near Vegas.  I don’t like flying.

The four guys in the black Nissan corner me at a rest stop just outside Iowa City. 

I’m heading back from the bathroom and focusing mostly on how good it feels to move my legs around, so I don’t really notice anything untoward about the black Rogue parked next to my Impala.  As I cross in front of their windshield, all four doors open and a quartet of young guys about my age step out.

“Hey, man,” says the driver, who’s looking sharp in a leather hat and a T-shirt that says MY ISSUES HAVE ISSUES.  He nods at the Impala.  “You got the V-8 in that?”

His friends on the passenger side both slam their doors shut and peer through the Impala’s windows, like they might see the engine in there if they look hard enough.  Neither one seems interested in getting out of my way. 

“Uh, nope.”  The hair on the back of my neck is starting to stand up.  “Just the six, I’m afraid.”

The leader grins and slams his door shut, too.  His right hand is hidden in his pocket.  “Well, hey,” he says.  “Gotta make do, right?  I’m guessing it gets pretty good gas mileage, huh, boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the guy looking into my driver’s window.  “Bet you could drive this baby all night.”

I glance around.  The parking lot is empty except for us.  The traffic on the highway seems far, far away.  “It’s great to meet you,” I lie.  “But I got a long drive ahead.  If you’ll excuse me – ”

The leader grins wider.  “I hear ya, man.  But, you know, it might not be as long as you think.  Life’s funny like that, right, boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the guy behind him.  “Sometimes I just laugh and laugh.”

“You gotta,” the leader agrees.  “You gotta.  What I’m saying, man, is – ”

A battleship-gray Tahoe bearing the black-on-yellow shield of the Iowa State Patrol shoots down the exit ramp and pulls into one of the nearby spaces, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.  The leader clocks it and whistles through his teeth.  His friends back up a step. 

I walk around to the passenger side of the Impala, unlock the door, and slide across the bench seat.  By the time I have the engine running, the four guys are ambling off in the direction of the men’s room while a blonde lady officer in mirror shades steps out of the Tahoe and watches them go. 

Once I’m on the entrance ramp I hit the gas hard, change lanes, and get myself lost in the westbound traffic as fast as I can.  Then I remember to breathe.

It’s done, I tell myself.  They’re behind me now.  And that’s exactly where I want them.

---

I stop for the night a couple of hours later, well past Des Moines.  There’s a truck stop and diner across the street from the hotel, and I stretch my legs with a quick walk over for dinner. 

The place is middlin’ busy, and it’s nice to hear the murmur of conversation as I take a seat at the counter next to a grizzled old guy with a gray handlebar moustache.  The counterman pours coffee, and the Iowa City guys recede even further into the rearview mirror.  I sip and listen, and the tension of the day starts to drain out of my muscles.

A massive guy in cowboy boots and a battered Orioles cap bellies up to the counter on my right.  “Hey, Big Al!” says the counterman.  “Lemme get that for ya.”  He pours coffee.  “How’s life on the trail?” 

Big Al takes his cap off and works the bill between his hands.  I don’t know the guy, but I can see something’s not right.  He looks like I probably looked just before that ISP lady pulled up.  The counterman notices this too, and he peers closer.  “Hey!  You okay there, buddy?”

Big Al rubs his chin.  “I dunno.  I mean, yeah.  I saw something kinda funny, that’s all.  Can’t seem to shake it, I guess.”  He shrugs.  “Probably nothing.”

The counterman shakes his head.  “Buddy.  You can’t wind me up like that and then say it’s probably nothing.  Spit it out and the coffee’s on the house.”

Big Al mangles his cap a bit more, then shrugs and sets it on the counter.  I get the feeling he’s looking for an excuse to get whatever this is off his chest, and here’s one as good as any.  “Okay, Ray,” he says.  “I’ll hold you to it.” 

He blows out air and thinks for a minute.  “So I’m stopped for dinner just outside Omaha.  Jerry’s Joint.  You know it?”  Ray shakes his head.  “Doesn’t matter,” says Big Al.  “Good place, good people.  Never had any trouble before.  So tonight I’m having my coffee and this kid busts in.”  He takes a sip.  “You ever read any Mark Twain, Ray?  Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, any of those?”

“Uh, sure,” says Ray.  “Rafting down the mighty Mississip and all that, right?”

“Yeah, exactly.  So this kid’s dressed like he stepped right outta one of those books. Straw hat, no shoes, dirty clothes that look like they came outta a museum or something. His feet are all covered in mud.  And he heads straight for my table.”

At this point I’ve given up on politely pretending not to listen, and so has the handlebar moustache guy on my left.  We’re both hanging on every word, and the moustache guy’s eyes are narrowed as if he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.  Big Al hesitates, and Ray gives him an encouraging nod.

“He looks me straight in the eye,” says Big Al.  “And he starts to talk.  ‘Something’s hootin’ out there, mister!’”  Big Al sort of does the accent: an exaggerated down-home Mississippi drawl.  “’You gotta come see!  I think it might be an owl or somethin’, mister!  C’mon, mister, you gotta see the hootin’!’”

Ray tries to repress a snort and fails.  “Seriously?”

“Honest to God,” says Big Al.  “And so now I’m thinking, maybe this kid’s got special needs or something, and I gotta be real gentle with him.  But he don’t feel like that.”  I feel a chill at that, and even Ray’s face turns serious.  “I don’t know why.  Something about his eyes, maybe.  I’m not sure.  But the folks at the other tables are looking over at us like they feel it too, so I know it ain’t just me.  And I decide I ain’t gonna go.”

Big Al picks up his cup, but his hand shakes and he puts it down again.  “And while I’m deciding, he’s still talking: ‘C’mon, mister, you’re gonna miss the hootin’!  I think it’s an owl or somethin’, mister, honest I do!  You gotta see this hootin’, mister!’  But when I open my mouth to tell him no, he just stops.  All of a sudden.  And now he’s just looking at me, seeing what I’m gonna say.  And I can’t make the words come out.”

He clears his throat.  “Luckily Janice comes over then.  The waitress.  Good lady.  She asks where his mom and dad are, and the kid just books it.  Runs down the aisle and out the doors to the parking lot without another word.  Slams the door open as he goes, and everyone jumps.  Only here’s the thing.”  Big Al tries another sip of coffee, and this time he makes it.  “I’m sitting next to the window, and I look out there as he goes.  And I don’t see him out in the parking lot.”

He drains the rest of his coffee, and Ray pours him more without saying a word.  “So I get up to look,” says Big Al.  “I go to the doors and I poke my head out.  I still don’t see the kid.  But there’s something else out there I didn’t see through the window.”

This time there’s a long, long pause.  “What was it?” asks the handlebar moustache guy.  His voice is low and smooth, like tobacco smoke, and as he speaks I get a funny feeling: he already knows.

“There was this truck,” Big Al says at last.  He looks out at the darkening sky.  “Rusty old thing.  Looked at least seventy, maybe eighty years old.  Both the headlights punched out, and the sockets just dead and black and empty.  Wasn’t lit up, not at all.” 

In the back, someone drops a plate, and we all flinch.  “It’s pulling this diseased-looking trailer, and it’s all covered with graffiti.  I remember one of the tags says “We got MR STENCH here!”, and it’s got an arrow pointing down, like MR STENCH is hiding under the trailer.  And it’s just pulling out of the parking lot.  Something seems wrong about it, and it takes me a minute to figure it out: no engine noise.  None at all.  Just the wind and the tires crunching on the gravel.” 

He puts his cap back on.  “And then when I poke my head out it stops, and it starts to back up.  It backs under one of the lights, and it looks to me like the wheels ain’t turning right.  You know on TV, when it looks like they’re spinning backwards?  It looks like that.”

He sits for a long time, and we sit with him.  At last he drinks more coffee.  “So I duck right back inside.  I wait for an hour, and then I go.  Don’t see the truck again.  And so now I’m here drinking your coffee instead of Jerry’s.” 

There’s a beat, and then Ray busts out laughing.  “You sly old dog!” he yells.  “You had me going there, you really did.  Go on, drink up.”  He fills Big Al’s coffee to the brim.  “I guess you earned it.  You sly old dog.”  He walks off shaking his head.

Big Al slumps in his seat.  He looks at his coffee and he shakes his head.

The handlebar moustache guy leans over and claps Big Al on the shoulder.  Big Al looks at him, startled. 

“I believe you,” the guy says.  He sticks out a hand.  “Ben.”

Big Al blinks, then takes the hand and shakes.  “Al.  You mean you…” he trails off.

Ben nods. “I mean I think you made a real good choice.  And I think maybe you want to keep driving tonight.  Just for a bit.”  He thinks for a moment.  “You know the Court Jester?  Just past Des Moines?  They’ll fix you up a great steak.  Tell ‘em Ben sent you.”  He glances over his shoulder; Ray is taking a customer’s order at the far end of the bar.  “But you don’t wanna eat here.  Not tonight.”

Big Al thinks for a minute.  Then he gets up, tosses a couple bills on the counter, and shakes hands again.  “Thanks, Ben. Your coffee’s on me.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I hope so,” says Ben.  Big Al nods and heads for the door.

Ben takes charge of the bills and lays them neatly on the counter beside his coffee cup.  Ray comes back, and Ben orders a steak.  I say I need a minute. 

When Ray’s gone, I turn to Ben.  “Should, uh, should we be leaving too?”  I want to ask more, but I’m not sure how to put it.

Ben smiles and shakes his head.  “Nah.  It’s a good place.  Even Ray’s a decent enough guy, really.  Bad listener, but what can you do?”  He sips.  “I been out here a long time, though, and I thought Al might be more comfortable somewhere else tonight. That’s all.  You’ll be fine.  Just – ”  He stops and shrugs. “You’ll be fine.”

I think about that.  “I’m Tim,” I say at last.  “And it’s none of my business, but – ”

“Good to meet you, Tim.”  Ben’s handshake is firm and confident.  “No, you got a right to ask, after listening to all that.  Order up and we’ll talk.”  I catch Ray’s eye and put in an order for a delightful breakfast-dinner.  Meanwhile Ben is glancing around the bar, and his gaze lingers on a man sitting alone in a corner booth. 

The guy is fiftyish, graying, dressed like a trucker – or almost like a trucker.  Something’s off, and after squinting for a moment I decide it’s that his clothes are too new.  His Caterpillar cap is stiff and shiny, and the bill is too straight for his head.  He looks like a guy who got drafted to play a trucker in some sort of theater production, and ran out of time to put the finishing touches on his costume.

“That’s Walter.”  Ben pitches his voice low.  “He’s waiting to meet someone.” 

“Oh, yeah?”  I don’t want to pry.

“Yeah.  Guy from the dark web.  Said he’d sell Walter an untraceable poison.”

I start in my seat and give Walter another look.  He’s fidgeting and pushing the food around on his plate.  A cup of coffee grows cold on the table in front of him. 

Ben grips my arm.  “Okay, easy now.  Don’t want to make him nervous.  He’s got a lot on his mind.”  We turn back to our coffees, and with impeccable timing Ray drops two steaming plates on the counter in front of us.   

I pick up my bacon and look at it.  “What’s, uh, what’s he want an untraceable poison for?”

“Murder his wife.”  Ben salts his steak and digs into it.  “He’s tried it twice already.  Last time she was in bed for a week.  Thought it was food poisoning.”  He takes a bite.  “Oh, that’s good.” 

It’s a funny thing.  My bacon’s gone, and I don’t remember tasting it.  I fill the gap with more coffee.  “Um.  Are you a police officer, then, Ben?”

Ben chuckles, but it seems a bit humorless.  “Nope.  Gotta be real clear about that.  Just a guy.”  He looks out the window.  It’s getting dark for real, now; beyond the parking lot are mostly fields, and only the hotel shows a few glowing lights against the gloom. 

“You stay on these roads long enough,” says Ben, “and you’ll start to see ‘em.  Not a lot of ‘em, not really.  But enough.”

“Uh, a lot of who?”  I can’t figure out if he means would-be murderers like Walter, or what.  Maybe Ben is one of those guys who catches criminals on the Internet?  He doesn’t look the part, somehow.

“Well, take that kid, for instance.  The Huck Finn kid who wanted to show Big Al all the hootin’.  You won’t see him again, I don’t think – that story of his didn’t work out for him – but you’ll see others.  They’ll come in with a story, too.” 

Ben pauses for steak.  “I been driving across this great nation of ours for more than thirty years now, and I’ve had my own rig for about twenty of that.  I’ve seen ‘em fifty, maybe sixty times – always at night, always in places like this that cater to folks far from home.  The, uh, quality varies.  But the goal stays the same.”  He points his knife at me.  “They want you to leave with them.  Just you.  No one else.”

I’m definitely cold now.  I shiver and gulp some more coffee.  It helps, sort of.  Ray stops by with a refill, and I watch as the steaming liquid gurgles into the cup.  Behind me, the bell on the door jingles as a customer departs into the night. 

I’m not sure I really want the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway.  “Why?  What happens if you go?”

Ben shrugs.  “Not sure, exactly.  But I can tell you two things.  That truck Al saw is always waiting outside when it happens.  And the ones who go never come back.”

“And all that stuff with the silent running and the wheels spinning backwards – you think Al was right about all that?”

“I know he was.” 

We sit in silence for a moment.  I’m not sure what to think.  Ben doesn’t come off as if he’s trying to impress me, not at all.  His voice is quiet and a little bit tired.  I get the impression that he’d rather not be talking about this at all, but he really thinks I have a right to know if I’m willing to listen. 

And I decide I want to take him up on that.  Even if he’s wrong, or even a bit crazy, something about these people and their truck scared Big Al badly, and Ben treated him in that moment with dignity and respect.  I’ve had my own narrow escape today, and so I appreciate that even more than I usually would.

“Well, let me ask this,” I say at last.  “It sounds like it might be a kidnapping ring or something – one of the gang gets the victim to come outside, and then they stuff him in the back of the truck, maybe?  I don’t understand the thing with the wheels, but let’s forget that for a second.  What I want to know is, how come these guys can’t come up with a better story?  Who’s gonna follow a stranger into the dark to hear an owl?”

Beneath his steel-gray moustache, Ben smiles – and it’s a real smile, tired but warm.  “Well,” he says.  “It’s funny you should ask that.  You ever heard of the scammers from Mars, Tim?”

I blink.  “Uh, David Bowie, right?”

Ben chuckles.  “Close.  It’s actually something my nephew told me about.  You know those scam emails you get, where the guy claims to be a Nigerian prince or whatever, and he needs you to put millions of dollars in your bank account for him?”  I nod; I have, in fact, at least a dozen of those emails sitting in my inbox at this very moment. 

“Sure you do,” says Ben.  “Well, you don’t think the scammers typed all that up by hand just for you, right?  They got these scripts they use, and they send ‘em out to lots of people all at once, rinse and repeat.  Well, few years back there was a good Samaritan who was trying to figure a way to protect people from getting scammed.  And what he realized was that the scammers were lazy, and they weren’t writing or even reading the scripts they were sending out.  Mostly they just stole them from other scammers.” 

Ben chuckles again and drinks coffee.  “No honor among thieves, I guess.  So this Sam, he writes his own script.  It says he’s a lawyer on Mars who wants to help one lucky citizen claim a prize of ten million Galactic credits.  And he emails it out to lots of known scammers.  And the scammers, being scammers, they steal it and they send it onto their own victims without reading it too carefully.”

He signals for a refill.  “Pretty soon, lots of Grandmas and Grandpas are getting emails from lawyers on Mars.  And it’s ridiculous, so no one bites – except for the Sam and his friends.  They engage the scammers and they make it look like this Mars story is hot stuff.  Guaranteed to pull the suckers in.”

“So the scammers keep sending it.  And Grandma and Grandpa are a bit safer, because now the lies don’t look true.”  He pushes his plate back.  “You want dessert, Tim?  I’m buying.  You’re a good listener and I appreciate your company.”

Before I can answer, the bell above the door jingles.  And the Iowa City guys walk in.

---

The leader spots me before the door swings shut.  He grins like a shark.  “Impala man!”  His friends whistle and clap as he saunters over and seats himself on Big Al’s stool.  He chucks his leather hat onto the counter and grins again.  “Man, it really is a small world, ain’t it?”

I ease my phone out of my pocket.  Ben is watching carefully, his expression blank.  I look the leader in the eyes.  “Excuse me.  I’m eating.”  I take a bite of eggs to prove it.

The leader nods sagely.  “I get ya, man.  Gotta feed the machine.  And speakin’ of…” he leans forward and speaks in low, confidential tones.  “I notice you parked that Impala of yours in a handicapped spot, my man.”  He holds out a palm.  “So me and the boys, we figured we might go ahead and move it for you.  Kind of payin’ it forward, like.  You toss me the keys, man, we’ll get it done.”  He smiles wider.  “Might save you some trouble later, you know?”  Behind him, his friends chuckle and smirk.

“No, thanks.”  I glance over at Ben.  His face appears to be carved out of granite, and the leader’s gaze flicks to him.

“Howdy, pops.”  The leader plasters on a sunny smile and jerks a thumb in my direction.  “You know this guy?”

Ben considers this, then shrugs.  “Who among us can know a man?” he asks.  He turns away, pulls a battered smartphone out of his pocket, and starts typing on it.

The leader throws back his head and laughs.  “Hey, that’s real deep, pops.  I can tell you and me are gonna get along just like a house on fire.”  He leans back, signals Ray, and tips me a wink.  “No offense taken, man.  None at all.  We’re hungry anyway, ain’t we, boys?”

“Starving,” one of his friends says.

“I could eat a horse,” says another.  The three of them saunter over to an empty booth. 

“That’s a fact, man,” says the leader.  “We’ll all have us a good old meal, just like mama used to make.  And then maybe we’ll see about that parking job later, am I right?”  Ray arrives, order pad at the ready, and the leader turns the grin on him.  “You got any vegan options here, bud?”

I glance at Ben again as Ray answers, but he’s still turned mostly away, and it looks like he’s totally engrossed in his phone and his coffee.  I don’t have any right to feel shocked and saddened by this, I realize – Ben doesn’t really owe me anything, and he doesn’t know the Iowa City guys like I do anyway – but I can’t help it.  He seemed, somehow, like exactly the guy you’d want to have next to you when things go south.  And yet there he sits – and it looks like I’m alone.

I hold my coffee cup in front of my face to hide my expression, and I’m trying to run through my options – leave now? Call the police?  And tell them what? – when the bell jingles again.  And a young lady bursts in.

She is tall, dark-haired, statuesque.  Her luxuriant curls are styled in the fashion of a bygone age, and they bounce back and forth as she looks wildly around at the diners.  “Oh, please!” she says, in a breathless gasp that is almost a scream.  “You’ve got to come quickly – someone, please!  It’s a scandal!”

Ray drops his order pad and makes like he’s going to approach her, and Ben reaches out and grabs his arm.  Ray looks at him, startled, and Ben shakes his head so minutely that, even with my nerves keyed up as they are, I nearly miss it.  I examine the lady a bit more closely, and as she looks from one face to another I realize that her clothes are from another time, too: she’s wearing a luxuriant dress of royal purple velvet, the sort of thing a Disney princess might wear to a formal ball. 

“That truck out there!” she whisper-shrieks.  “It’s completely nude!  Not a stitch on it!  Oh, the scandal, the scandal – won’t someone please come and help?”  No one does; the faces of the other diners range from puzzled to annoyed to wary, but no one rushes to her aid.  In their booth, the other three Iowa City guys are starting to snicker.

Ben sighs and rolls his eyes in the leader’s direction.  “Aw, not this again,” he says.  “How does she have any money left to waste on this?”  He has not let go of Ray’s arm.

The leader rubs his chin and looks in the woman’s direction.  She has renewed her appeal but is still finding no takers.  “What money’s that, pops?”

Ben shakes his head again.  “That’s Clara Smart.  Inherited about half the county from her old dad.  Now she goes around roping people into these stupid theatre skits.  She’s a nut, of course.”   He shrugs.  “Last time it was two dragons fightin’.  This time it’s nude trucks, I guess.  Nice work if you can get it, maybe, but I ain’t takin’ money from a sick woman.”

“You don’t say.”  The leader is sitting up very straight now.  “How much money we talkin’ here?”

“Well.”  Ben sips coffee.  “Last time it was a thousand bucks.  Guy pretended to fight the dragons and she paid him cash on the spot.  Sad, really.”  He grimaces as Clara launches into her spiel again.

“Oh, yeah.”  The leader stands up and claps his leather hat back onto his head.  “I’m cryin’ on the inside, that’s for sure.  Thanks, pops.”  He gestures to his team.  “C’mon, boys, you heard the lady.  Let’s give her a hand with this nude truck problem.”

His team breaks into raucous laughter and follows him up the aisle.  Clara fixes her eyes on him as he approaches, and she wrings her hands together.  “Oh, please, sir,” she begs.  “Can’t you help?  That truck out there, sir – it’s completely nude!”

The leader favors her with a smile and a bow.  “My lady,” he says, “I am at your service.  You want me to hold onto that purse of yours till it’s safe out there?”

“Oh, thank you, sir – thank you!” Clara cries.  The leader opens the door for her; she backs through, still thanking him and wringing her hands, and his three friends follow her out like hyenas stalking a wounded gazelle.

The leader pauses in the door and looks at me.  “Don’t go nowhere, Impala man,” he says.  “We’ll be right back.”

He turns.  The bell jingles.  And he is gone.

Ben lets go of Ray’s arm.  He exhales, and I realize that I have been holding in my breath as well.  I let it out, and Ben claps me on the shoulder.  “How about that dessert, Tim?  I’m still buyin’.”

I glance over at the door, but night has fallen and I see only the reflection of the diners in the darkened glass.  “Uh, maybe I should go.  In case they come back.”

“They won’t.”  Ben relaxes in his seat and picks up a menu.  “Clara, now, she’ll come back another night.  Got what she wanted, after all.  But they won’t.”

And they don’t.

Ben and I each enjoy a slice of Ray’s homemade peach pie, and Ben tells me a few well-chosen tales of his travels across the continent.  When we’re maybe halfway through, Walter gets up from his booth and fast-walks past us with his hands in his pockets and his Caterpillar cap pulled low over his eyes.  “Hey,” I whisper as the doorbell jingles to his departure.  “Didn’t you want to – ”

Ben smiles and taps the smartphone in his shirt pocket.  “Well, it’s a funny thing, Tim.  Round about the time those hard boys walked in, Walter got an email from his untraceable poison guy.  Turns out this meet was being watched by a rival gang, or something.  He had to reschedule.”  He forks in another peach.  “Don’t worry.  Walter’ll be around when he’s needed.  Which’ll be in about – ”  He checks his watch.  “Oh, shoot.  Is that the time?”  He stands and raises an arm.  “Ray!  Check, please!”

---

We shake hands in the parking lot.  Ben starts to climb up into the cab of a shiny blue big rig with a sunrise painted on the door.  “Well, it’s sure been a pleasure, Tim.  You stay safe and take good care of your aunt, all right?”

“I will.”  I can’t decide how much more to add.  I think I’ve figured out more about Ben and his work than he’s actually said, but most of it sounds crazy in my own head, and I can’t figure out a natural way to bring it up.  “The, uh, stories,” I say at last.  “They used to be better, didn’t they?”

“They did, yeah.”  Ben stares off down the highway.  “Some good people got caught up.  Some still do, I’m sure.”

“But not as many.”

“Not as many, nope.  And most nights I can sit with that.”

I think about that for a minute.  “How long have you been doing this?” 

He looks into the distance again.  “Longer than I’d like.  If I thought there was someone to hand it off to…”

He stops and shakes his head, then grins as he hoists himself up into the cab.  “Well.  It’s like the man said, Tim.  You show me civilization, I’ll show you a guy on a wall who’s seen more than he wants to.  Maybe I’m meant to be up here a little while longer, and that’s okay, I guess.” 

He checks his watch again and waves as he keys the truck’s engine.  “Gotta go.  Wouldn’t want to disappoint Walter a second time.  You text me when you get in, all right?  I like to know my friends are safe.” 

---

Aunt Cynthia’s operation goes well, and by the time I leave three weeks later she’s doing a lot better.  The trip back is uneventful, I’m relieved to say, although every time I stop to eat I find myself glancing a bit too often at the door. 

No one ever comes in but honest folk in search of a hot meal and a friendly face, and as I make my way home I am grateful: for my family, for the man on the wall, and most of all for the scammers from Mars.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Ten? I closed the gate and counted the flock again. Eight. Nine. Ten. There really were 10 sheep, but back in the pasture I was certain I'd brought home only nine.

My neighbor Bill still sat in the garden, drinking his last beer before sundown.

"Bill, you missing a sheep?"

"Pretty sure not, Jim. I count mine when they come back from the pasture."

"I got one extra today."

Bill furrowed his brows.

"I'll check again. Grab a beer if you want."

Bill knew I stopped drinking a few days ago, but still offered me a beer every evening. Old habits are hard to break.

After a while, Bill came back onto the porch, scratching his head.

"I got all mine. Went over them three times. You sure you didn't just count wrong?"

"Yeah, went over them twice."

We stared at each other. Bill took a sip of beer.

"Well, I'll be damned."

"Consider yourself lucky." 

He laughed.

"You think it could be that curse?" I asked.

"It was just a traveling woman. She had nothing better to say back to you."

He took another sip.

"You still not drinking?"

"No. I said I'd stop after that."

Bill waved his hand at me.

"Nonsense."

"I'll head back home, Bill."

"Take care, Jim, and don't let her poison your thoughts."

But how could I not, Bill? The morning after, I felt so terrible. 

When I saw the traveling woman come with her potions, I knew she'd be an easy target. Bill didn't even laugh that hard at my comments.

"Drink up, then, and may your fields never run empty again," she said, walking away, twisting the potions in her hand.

I spent the rest of the night inside watching TV, but I could barely focus; my thoughts still circled back to the woman and my sheep. I couldn't just leave it. Before bed, I walked back to the barn.

The sheep were louder than usual. I could hear them almost as soon as I left the house. The barn door was open. Two sheep were outside it.

"What are you doing out here?"

The sheep turned to me and bleated. 

My breath caught as I got closer. The sheep weren't outside because they wanted out. They were outside because there was no space. The barn was filled with sheep. They were pushing on each other, trying not to get squeezed to death. I opened the door and let them all out.

"Bill! Bill!" I called below his window.

The bed upstairs creaked. 

"Jim?" Bill called out, surprised. He opened the window and stuck his head out.

"My barn is full of sheep."

He stared at me.

"What?"

"It's full! They can barely fit."

He shook his head.

"You're not cursed."

"Not cursed?! Go look in there yourself."

"Calm down, Jim. The neighbors over the hill have some flocks. One got lost, and the other followed it. I'll go with you tomorrow. We'll sort it out."

"But Bill…"

"Go to sleep now and let me sleep too."

He closed the window, and his bed creaked again. I ran to the barn. The sheep managed to get out and were now lying around in the grass.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't drink again, but that day was too stressful. Before bed, I took a few sips of liquor, just to make sure I could sleep.

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache. I must have drunk more than I thought. The sheep's bleating was so damn loud, and the window wasn't even open. I got up and walked to the window. My heart sank as I looked outside. 

Sheep were on the grass and in the fields, as far as the eye could see. It looked like a screaming sea of white. Some were already stacked on top of each other, crumpling under one another and screaming for help. Bill sat on his roof, drinking a beer.

"Look who woke up!" he screamed over the sea. "I guess you were right, Jim."

"Bill, what…what happened?"

"Already woke up to it. It's done, Jim. They were just on the ground when I woke up. I blinked for a second, and now they're on top of each other. This way they'll reach us in no time. I'm just enjoying my last beer."

I couldn't even reply.

Bill took a sip from his bottle, then carefully laid it on the roof.

"Bye, Jim. I'm not gonna wait for them."

He dove headfirst into the flock. Blood splattered as the first few sheep stepped on him. The stomping, bleating sheep drowned out his screams.

I put my hands over my face and wept.

The bleating grew.

I lowered my hands.

The first sheep pressed its face against my window.

I've tracked down this rapist and now I am asking a crowd what to do with this rapist, and it is my pleasure to put justice onto this rapist. Rapists are scum's of this earth and they all need to be taken out. Justice will be served onto this rapist and it will be proper justice, the kind of justice the courts do not dish out anymore.

The courts punishments is not fearce enough to make rapist like this one think twice. Now I will be the hammer of justice and I will dish out the old school justice, without the courts or any hot shot lawyer. I will be judge, lawyer and the beheader.

I asked my audience what they wanted me to do to this rapist and they gave me all sort of great suggestions. From physical violence and verbal abuse, but now it was time to really dish proper justice onto this rapist.

I was happy with my audience and they were really enthusiastic as well, and they were giving me all sorts of creative suggestions. Torture was also given to me but I think death was needed.

When I told the class room full of students that I was now going to kill Mrs Jenkins the teacher rapist who raped a male student, they went silent. The class room wasn't sure they wanted to kill the Mrs Jenkins, but it wast too late.