CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 TERRIFYING Military Horror Stories to march en route into your nightmares

Episode Date: January 15, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "4th Special Forces Group encountered something in west Tennessee, it was pure evil" Creepypasta►47:08 "There's something in the mountains of Afghanistan, and it doesn't want us there" Creepypasta►1:25:49 "My grandpa served in both World Wars. He died dozens of times" Creepypasta►2:05:51 "There's a fleshpit in the middle of the desert" Creepypasta►2:21:47 "Black Site 7" Creepypasta►2:44:15 "My Squad Received a Distress Call From Watchtower-1. What I Saw Haunted Me Ever Since" Creepypasta ►3:14:38 "I was a soldier following orders, hunting those who hid underground" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►shenpei wu: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/w6...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

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Book you tickets on NMBS International.com. I'm part of the United States special forces, the green berets, and have been for several years now. In my tenure, I've deployed multiple times to Afghanistan, Iraq, a few months in Syria, several African countries. I've been to all four corners of the globe, and I've seen my fair share of the good, the bad and the ugly that comes from being part of Socom. I've got plenty of stories, some more interesting than others, but almost. All of them are heavily classified behind red tape that will never be declassified until I'm dead and gone. However, there was an incident a few nights ago that stuck out from all the others. Mostly because one, unlike all of our other operations that took us the combat zones across the distant hemisphere,

this one happened right at home in our own backyard. The enemies weren't a foreign proxy, a group of insurgents. It wasn't even human. Stuff from that night And it's not like command Is the reason I'm bypassing everything I've been told Disregarding and putting my ass on the line

Even if I use false information And withhold names Plenty of innocent people have died As you'll find out An upper command would sooner bury it Then acknowledge the deaths And give their families closure I don't have all the answers

I don't have all the answer in that western Tennessee national park but I do have enough to let people know the truth semi-truth anyways for safety and privacy purposes I stated previous I'm withholding a lot of personal information

such as names, exact locations and unit information referring the smaller stuff that I don't think even the scary three-letter groups could really trace even if they cared I hope they don't. Like I said, I'm part of a SOTOM green berets a team. You all know who the green berets are. You should. My team is nicknamed Raider, a general theme in our company, naming things after warrior-culture-esque terms. Raider, Artemis, Barbarian, Centurion, etc. It's a ten-man element. The team lead, a way too salty Georgian captain with a warrant officer. a medic, a combat sergeants, a captain decided,

was best. We're all in one piece after our last mission. He was right. Our weekend was calm and boring as we rotated on QRF, quick reaction force, for the month. QRF means that if someone, somewhere, needs the green-eyed buggymen of the Western world, we were ready to kit up and be there at a moment of the moment of the world. be there at a moment's notice. It just so happened right when some of us were getting to head to the bar and have our two singular authorised beers of QRF month, we were called.

When we raced back to our COP and got our stuff ready, the captain came with some surprising information. We'd be able to probably make it back for those beers because we were heading to west Tennessee. of all places. We didn't know what the status was yet. Command didn't give us any information, what the op-for was, what weapons they had, what the layout of the area was.

Nothing. But being QRF team, Raiders still kitted up and we were at the HLZ in less than 20. While we waited for our transport, the captain finally got some information. Apparently, a facility in the middle of uninhabited restricted, a national park had activated a distress signal. The woods it was a large park in, like I said, western Tennessee, with a long history of disappearances on its now

frequently closed and blocked off trails and campsites. This raised a few questions. What was this facility? Why was it in a national park? What happened to need to roll out the angriest Green Beret team this side of the East Coast? to act as its backup. Why were we going there when in an hour, someone in Libya or someone across Eurasia might need us to back them up? The captain acknowledged all of these questions, but assured us that's all he knew. He's been with our team for years now, several deployments to the box and back, and he's always been straight with us. It's how we knew he was lying. Our transport finally arrived. 160th Saw. Night Store. Night store.

an aviation unit, an airs has been around for nearly 40 years, having dragged every single kind of Socom unit to every single part of the world. We expected the Black Hawk they brought, but the armed escort of two birds that came with them was a surprise. We were in domestic America. We were going to Tennessee. Why were they here? Even with the nightstalkers flying at top speed across several states, it still took a couple of hours to reach our land. landing point. The inside of that bird going full throttle was deafening, even with the electronic headsets we were sporting. It was ear splitting. And yet, while sitting next to the captain, I could tell he was speaking to someone on a different frequency. This was off, because normally he'd go to the comm sergeant and have to use the radio, but he had a side channel filled in his radio,

talking to someone, writing down information. I was able to peek over and saw some of the things he was writing. Mascal. Close quarters up four. No blue four on X. The birds touched down in the middle of an empty parking lot outside of the local ranger station. We filled out to the open area.

The birds took off. The captain chimed in on our team net. Rader Romero, this is Rader. lead. Get on the net and have them hold orbit in case we need close air, break. He then broke transmission and talked to us. All raiders hold outside and take up security. I'm going to get the damn Ragnar. Prepare for a hasty-ass ramp brief. I just got more information. We all took positions behind some of the parked vehicles the Rangers would use. Just to clear things up, our team was outfitted with GpNVG, also known as Quadnods. Four-barrowed night vision

optics that provided an almost daytime-of-like view of our surroundings. Couple that our P-EQs mounted on our rifles allowing us to see and shoot anything at night. As the military says, we own the night. The tree line in front of us was lit up like a goddamn operator rave party as the captain walked back, nods down as the ranger currently on shift followed him. He keyed into our net and we could hear him through our headsets. All raiders, this is lead. new information states that the facility has suffered mascal. Mascal means mass casualties.

Enemy op-4 unidentified. However, outgoing net during distress call indicates that op-4 is extremely dangerous and engages a close range, break. There is no blue 4 on site. I repeat, Mena stated there is no blue 4 on site, and we have to drop any and all packs we see. A few seconds passed as the captain looked back to the park ranger. Any additional comments, Ranger Clements?

The man, maybe in his mid-forties, balding. He scratched the back of his neck, clearing his throat before speaking. I heard a lot of gunfire coming from down there. And don't split up. Whatever you do in these woods. Don't split up. Ah, medic laughed. Well, that's just comforting.

The captain nodded to the man as he held back in. Everyone watches sixes, twelves and fives. Let's go. We picked up and moved out. Everyone had their own kind of final moments type of readiness drill. They did before they stepped onto the path into the woods. Same stuff we did, stepping off out of the FOBs and compounds back east. I let out one final breath of hot air in the cold.

Our medic slapped the side of his helmet, hyping himself up. The captain pulled out and kissed a small crucifix necklace from underneath his combat shirt. We headed down the pathway, following the captain in a staggered column. Our IR lasers scanned the trees, rocks and foliage around us, looking desperately for any hostiles that lurked in the darkness. Though to our paranoid readiness, nothing appeared. But something was definitely following us. When we move through forest environments, you listen to the

the crickets, the birds, how fast. Moving down that path, I couldn't hear a goddamn thing. It's common when you're a group of heavily armed green men moving through a forest at night that some of the squirrels and birds will run the hell away. But not the crickets or the birds songs in the world. or the birds' there's a certain level of ambience, even if they detect,

there was none of that. Nothing. Not a cricket, a bird, a cicada, nothing. Silent professionals. It's in our name. So, when I could hear a friendly, 10 meters ahead of me,

breathing as we moved through that dead forest, it told me that something else was here in the woods, with us, a predator, and that the forest was more afraid of us. After a long stretch of marching down the trail, the captain held a hand up, signaling a halt. As it got down to my part of the column, the middle section, he called over the radio. This is lead on me, time now. We quickly rushed up to what we saw was a metal chain link fence. Four of our weapon sergeants and the medic took up security, as I and the wood-uping the captain. The barks trail carried on for a few more meters before stopping dead into some trees.

The dirt path broke off and formed a gravel one that led into a sectioned-off area behind a chain-link fence and gate. That, no trespasser sign, hung high, and just beyond the gate we could see a small guard shack. The captain tried to signal whoever might be in there by switching on the shore-fire attack light on his rifle, shining it and lasso waving it all over the booth. However, upon stopping and centering on the doorway, we saw a large amount of blood splashed on the back wall and pulled over the room, an arm laying halfway out the doorframe. The captain looked to the other weapon sergeant with us. Get your kit.

He nodded, slinging his rifle as he dropped his assault pack, digging out a small pair of bolt cutters. Each of our weapon sergeants carried a different load out depending on what we needed. One could be a gunner, another's a grenadier. I can't name him, but breach man, as I guess I'll call him, always carried a breach kit just in case. He walked over to the lock, but just as he got the blades of the cutter around the lock, we heard it. It sounded like it came from everywhere, and yet far away at the same time. maybe it was the echo of the forest. Maybe something attributed to its abilities.

It sounded like a woman yelling in pain, in agony, and yet the voice was half gargled, like it was morphed with that of a dying animal as it had an underlying low-tone pitch beneath it. It got under the skin of everyone. Bowes pulling security immediately jumped. scanning a left, up and down. Hell,

Big stocky dude, he was as he was as yoke as all hell when he got to our unit. The guy who once stuck his finger into a man's neck to plug his blood, looked around nervously. The hell was that? Our weapon sergeant, with the M-46, shook his head as he scanned the far-off terrain, muttering in a low voice.

Some horror-moving nonsense right now. I remember holding my rifle's grip tight. Everyone was equally unnerved. Everyone. Except the captain. He just told us to press on. For goodness sake, loosen your job straps. Let's go.

He snapped the lock off. Immediately the captain and I moved in and cleared the small booth, as two more weapon sergeants and our medic took up covering down the gravel road. It was a guard, no name-tape or company logo, decked out in a black plate carrier. The plate carrier of which had been torn into, as a large hole covered the entire area of his solar plexus, which was now fragmented and broken inside of his mulched upper body. No bullet entry or exit wounds. Just a large stab wound that looks like he got ran through by a damn lamppost. My breath

My breathed to clear it The captain stepped out of the small booth Spitting hard into the grass shaking his head The medic prodded him What was it like He grunted Walking to the front of our formation

Doesn't matter Doc We formed up and moved down the gravel road In a wedge column The captain and the three weapon sergeants in the front wedge the medic, and two other weapon sergeants in the back one. The comm sergeant in the middle. We entered the facility lot.

Immediately, the comm sergeant linked up with the captain and I could hear him alerting main. This is Raider. Lead, we've reached the building. Though it makes me wonder, if he used the com sergeant's radio

to reach our HQ, who was he talking to on that other channel? The lot was clear. and we got a good look at the facility. it was a grey concrete rectangle, maybe the size of a small gas station. Flood lights mounted on the bottom illuminated the gravel lot

after the dense, shadowy woodline that laid just beyond the chain link fence, the woodline that was still quiet. The mass gold carnage we were told about was present outside of the building. Several guards, all in various states of mutilation, similar to the gateguard, was strewn about the gravel lot.

However, unlike the gateguard, strangely, they were in heavier body armour, with rifles capable of going automatic and spent brass everywhere. Me and some of the other guys got online and cleared out the back, exasperated breaths,

and muttering came from all of us. The captain chimed in. Raiders on me. Time now. We hauled ass. back to him as we stacked up at the door. Flowing in, we were greeted to a lobby, torn up, furniture thrown everywhere, impact marks from rounds hitting the concrete-lined walls and ceiling. One dead guard slumped against a red-stained part of the wall, the other in a crumpled heap.

A woman at the desk, not a guard. Just the damned staff member sat back in a chair, her entire torso area torn apart. As we passed by her and headed through the double doors behind her Her empty, dead eyes met mine The com sergeant eyed her as well as we moved through the door Sir, she was unarmed I can see that, keep chattered to her minimum We cleared through the double doors

To be greeted by a porcelain hallway Leading into a set of stairs heading to a sub-level The entire surface, ceiling, walled floor was lined with ceramic white tiles. Seramic white tiles that like the rest of the scene so far. Stained with blood, guts and even brain matter of the unlucky guards laid out all the way down the stairs. I counted eight. 17 so far. A flickering light could be seen through the wireglass windows of the double doors at the bottom. The captain ordered us to flow in through both sides.

We did. Pushing in, we could see we entered into a T-style hallway. It gets a bit complicated here. Either end of the T ended, while the middle one shot forward, far down, into the hall, leading into two reinforced blast doors at the very end. Two immediate laps on either side were reinforced with more wire glass, and despite several crates, impact marks, bullet holes, and even holes made in the glass, they held. They held. This stuff can't be ballistic glass, a comm sergeant muttered. Why didn't they just take cover in there?

The medic said. The captain sighed. Seems to be pointing to a surprise attack from the inside. Emphasis on surprise, jackass. The medic fired back. Well sure, but it's just a door. While the hallways outside were a mess of blood, gore, guards thrown around, as they were ripped apart, creating a mess of bodies, and more spent brass.

The laptecs had their white coat stained with their own blood. My blood, and I think everyone else's, started to run cold as the pieces came together. Whatever killed them did so indiscriminately. We formed a rolling tea heading into the hallway. I was on the right with a gunner taking centre and another guy on the left. The captain pushed forward, leading us from behind. The windowed half-theirred, with two solid-door near the double doors on either side, leading to closed-off labs. The captain had us pull guard on both of the side doors as the gunner aimed back down the hallway.

Everyone else took up security wherever it was needed. The captain eyed the door, feeling the cracks and lines of the blast door, looking for gaps that didn't exist. Blood had slowly leaked from the bottom, causing him to pick up his boot and eye it. And yet, no openings existed. An electronic pad was positioned at the right side of the door. The captain eyed it. It was a hand scanner. I didn't even think those actually existed.

He jumped on the private frequency I keep mentioning. I'm at the doors. Yeah, at the far end, as a hand scanner. He waited a few seconds of deafening silence. He made an internal chuckle as he walked over to the dead body of a guard, kicking its arm. Got one right here. I'm sorry, repeat last. Alive?

He rubbed his face, cursing under his breath. Damn. He shook his head, turning on the white light of his rifle and scanning the corpses. This place is a goddamn slaughterhouse. How am I going... A crash emanated from the white lab done. door to the right of the one I was covering. everyone paused for a second as the second

aimed his laser at it. The captain turned his head, aiming his laser at the door as he approached. Might have one or might have up four. Wait, one, over. The captain formed up as the first man in the stack, an unusual practice but everyone else fell behind. I was the second man, two more made third and fourth. A weapon sergeant felt the edges of the handle, then tried the handle. He trying the handle must have alerted whatever was inside, because a voice bellowed out.

I... I'm in here. Please, I'll let you in. Just don't shoot! The doorman looked to the captain, who nodded. Might have blue four inside. Stay sharp. Wait on me to fire. There wasn't supposed to be any blue four on sight. The door's electronic lock opened. The doormant grabbed the doorman as the four of us entered the room. We pushed through.

The captain hooked left. I pushed forward. The other two followed one of us respectively. Our lasers entered the room and a pair of hands emerging from behind a lab table. Please. The voice weakly shouted.

The captain stormed over. Hands, now! I'll shoot you. I swear to God if you don't put your guard. God-up! As the person stood up, who saw the hands were connected to a scientist, possibly late-thirties,

stringy hair with circular glasses. Glasses that flew off when the captain closed the distance, shoving him against a metal cabinet, spittle flying from the bearded mouth behind the NVs as he barked at him. ID, where is it? Show it! The captain began roughly searching the lab tech

as he pulled out his ID. He grabbed it, shoving him to the weapon sergeant on his side of the lab tech was kicked down to his knees. The captain jumped back on the frequency. I'm back. Possible Blue 4. Prepare for ID code. He read it off in phonetics before he got the response. He looked at the weapon sergeant guarding the lab tech. Get his ass up. Please, I don't know what's going on. I was just running some chemical tests. We've got to get out of here before. The captain got in the man's face. Shut up. You know what you've been doing.

I know them doors now. The man was shocked as the captain continued. Open the damn doors now! With a point from the captain, the weapon sergeant shoved the man forward into the doorframe. The man crumbled a little bit as the captain laughed. Take your sweet time, Doctor. Let's go. I picked him up by his shirt collar and dragged him over to the blast doors. The captain pushed him, shoving his face,

The door. Now! As the captain grabbed the man by his wrist, the lab tech struggled to get free. Please, I don't have access. I hurt my hand trying to hide. Let me go. The medic winced at the sight a bit. Uncharacteristically of a green beret, especially for a jaded-as-held medic, he spoke up.

Come on, the captain just turned, staring daggers into the monster. man as he wrestled from the man's wrist. Just wait till you'll see. As the man struggled against the captain, the weapon sergeant came up from behind, shoving the man into the blast door, allowing the captain to easily place it on the scanner. The scanner lit up in a bright blue as several lines traced and looked over his handprint. It then flashed green as the electronic lock of the blast doors began to open up. The captain dropped the man. Well, goodness gracious, what do you know? The door slowly pulled open.

The room was dark, red flashing emergency lights flashed all around as the sound of broken glass scraped against the door. A stream of murky blue liquid mixed in with a blood of several guards' bodies that were revealed as the doorway leaked out into the hall. The captain grabbed the lab tech by the collar, dragging him to his feet. You all know these men, Doctor. Friends. The captain shoved him through the doorway. The lab takes slipping in the fluids and glass, cutting his right hand with a wince. We flowed in and... Jesus. I said this at the start. I've been all over. I've seen mass graves that terrace cells have used in far-off countries filled with entire villages' worth of people. I've seen killed ends inside tunnel systems. This surpassed all of that.

Every horror, multiple times over. A series of glass tubes lined the walls, walls made out of monitors, hard drives and computer systems. The path of carnage led through the pile of guards at the doorway. That makes 24 armed personnel that were taken out by something. What really bothered me was that in those murky, green and blue, glass tubes, as big as a refrigerator, refrigerator,

to a port, tubes and the top and wires connecting to. the captain shoved the lab tech into a glass tube. The pop of the man's nose echoed off the empty area as he grabbed his nose. Well doc, which one was it? Which goddamn tube?

Tube? What was he talking about? How did he know? Who was on the frequency? The lab tech spit out blood, leaking into his mouth as the captain standing at six foot five, a giant, even amongst his team,

s-o-o-f operators, picked him up by his colour of his blue undershirt. I don't. Two weapon sergeants ducked out of the way as the captain got in his face, shoving him against the left side wall, causing the monitors and computer systems to beep and light up. Oh, you don't know!

And yet your little hand opens the room that you didn't have access to, he roared. abandoning all silence and discretion now as the man began to sputter and sob. Please, please, I... The captain gritted his teeth. He quickly flipped up his nods and stared daggers into the man's soul. How many people did you snatch off that trail?

How many? What kind of butchering you do to those kids before you stuck them in there? Which one escaped? Kids. Butchering. Something in my mind stopped, and I switched on my rifle's attack light. A heavy pit in my stomach formed as I flashed it on the tubes. There were people in those tubes.

They were people. Wire and tubes now poked into seethru and murky flesh as the bodies of the kidnapped floated, mutated, dissected and changed. One person's skin ran reptilian-like up their left arm, before merging with a strange, their skull protruding out of their head. my breathing stuttered a bit, glass-crunching under my boots.

Curses muttered by the others in the room as we all began to look. Another one's mouth was sealed at the front. Two more jagged, messed up sets of teeth poked out either side. Their eyes were sealed, skin covering defined sockets in their head. The medic flashed his on one, where their spine stuck out through their back.

The vertebrae was larger than a normal person's. The bone sticking out inches longer in some areas. Jesus, man, this is... He gagged a bit, coughing as he looked away. I had to pry my eyes away. My mind was frying, just looking at... They'd better be dead. Oh, I swear to the Lord himself if they ain't...

The captain said sternly, as the man sobbed and nodded. Yes. The captain raised an eyebrow. You sure? Yes. They died during surgery. If you're lying to me, I swear to God, I will make you euthanize every single one. The captain shoved the laptec forward into the center of the aisle.

I looked down, shaking my head as the images of those things burn into the film of my brain. Where's she gone, the captain said, sternly, squaring up to the man who sobbed as he shrugged. I... I... Where is it? The man continued to cry. He escaped. He killed everyone.

It cut through the guards. It cut through everyone. All of my friends. This caused the captain to nearly bust a blood vessel from the look he gave him, balling up his arm and driving the gut into the lop-theck, this caused the smaller, weaker lab-tech to buckle over, dropping to his hands and knees, now favouring an injured hand and probably a burst spleen. Your friends?

Your friends? You mean the friends that kidnapped a 22-year-old girl and a 14-year-old son, and turn them into monsters? What about them? This earned only more sobs from the lab tech, as the captain did not. turned, hands on his hips as he scoffed. He looked at the medic, who only stared back through his nods. The captain turned to look at him. You got to the count of ten, and if you don't give me a single whereabouts of this thing, I will start grabbing tools and cutting

your little weasly ass up like you did to these kids. The captain loomed over the man, grabbing him by his hair. Sir, sir, please, the lab tech pleaded. One. Two. The captain counted. Some looked away. shook their heads. There wasn't a man in the room who wouldn't do what he did right now after seeing

them. It's... It's in the woods. You heard it. It did it. Freaky yell just like ten minutes ago. The captain laughed, letting go of the man's hair as he whipped his head forward.

You'll hear that. It's in. No woods. He pulled out his M17, his 9mm, pulling the slide back a bit to make sure he was chambered. Four, five, six. The man stood up and at this point, I kicked out his extended leg, dropping him back to his knees. The man looked at me, then at the captain. You can't do this. This is illegal. Before the captain could finish his count. We heard it. It echoed all the way down the facility halls, reverberating off the tubes in the room. That half-feminine, half-monious cry, except this time it didn't come from

far off mountains or trees. It came from the stairs. Then the lights went out. I don't know if it was prior damage to the facility or electric works or something else, but they zapped out. The lights in the lights in the lights in the lights in the lights in the lights. All of it. It cried out again and this time I think I heard it say. Help me. Anyone who had their nods up, flicked them down. All of us trained our lasers down the dark hall beyond the door. The slight shakiness of all the green lasers told the same stories. All of the death, all of the stuff. All of the stuff. from the tanks, everyone spooked. The captain came up alongside me and the medic. He looked back to the lab tech. You run, you die. The man swallowed and smothered his misery. I, I know. The captain corrected him in a low tone. No, you really don't. The creature cried out again. The sounds of something hard impacting the tile floor sounded out as it approached us through the dark abyss. More footsteps, then another cry.

The gunner let out a shaky breath as he cracked his neck. More footsteps, then another cry. It was maybe five metres from the door now, Almighty, the captain muttered. I couldn't see much in that darkness then, but I saw what everyone else saw. I saw enough. Its body Its body Two gigantic

Boney, That were dark Steps into the doorway Its head was smooth Its large teeth Shining in the darkness And its eyes glowed Like an animal

Its eyes glowed It could see us We all froze We had rifles trained on it A damn machine gun trained on it A room full of green Bray's, the best of the best. Everyone froze.

The captain was first of fire, slamming his trigger as he shot 223 death into that crime against existence. The gunner opened up as well, and then the medic. Two more weapon sergeants also shot. It yelled at us, cried out, like an agonized woman pleading for help. Then it lunged. running and slamming through a test-glasses, causing several of us to shield our faces as the water flooded the floor, and the deformed body that was inside flopped down near our feet. A horrendous, rotted smell filled the air.

Jesus! The medic spotted out, gagging a bit as he kicked it away. The creature now screamed. As a rifleman that it jumped in here backed up, it leapt on top of him, shoving that bony mandible into his left shoulder, pinning him to the ground as he screamed thrashing his elbow into the thing as he kicked its stomach. But it didn't attack him. It just eyed the scientist. He attempted to run for his life, but the thing jumped on top of him, pinning him face first

into the murky, wet floor. That's when I noticed the six smaller, human-like arms on his torso. Its main mandible pinned him to the ground, the arms, some normal, some with bony sparse, bikes for fingers. Others just lined with sharp teeth began to rip into the man's back. The lab tech screamed. His lab coat was torn open as he began to dig down into his back. Some still fired shots, but it didn't even react. It didn't even move. Just continued to tear into that vile but poor son of a gun. The captain's voice lit up the comms as he and the medic rushed to pick the man up. and heave him on the captain's shoulders. We can't engage him here, outside,

he was right. It thrived on close quarters. It ran guys through before they could pick it apart. We all ran, nerve shot, weapons hot from firing into a thing that didn't react. The power off, so we couldn't close the blast doors. All we could do was run. I nearly slipped on the glass, firing some desperate pot shots into the with the gunner. The lab tech screams echoed throughout the hallway as we booked it up the stairs. It was gonna be done with him soon. The gunner and I cover the captain as we broke out into the open air, the smell of rotten death replaced by the open pioneer of the forest. Several men broke out road flares,

tossing them everywhere, giving us much needed light in the form of greens, blues, reds and purples. The captain dropped the man behind a beaten up and wreckedad as the medic began to patch him up. The gunner deployed his bipod and aimed at the doors of the facility from the car's hood. The captain positioned different men to where they could all fire on the door, far enough away from the things grasp. Romero, get on that damn net and calling that air! I took aim behind a large SUV with several others. We all aimed at the door. The screen screaming.

The silence was broken by its bony mandibles, it rushed out into the open air, and with all the flares and chemlight, and even the captain's tack light, we finally got a good look. Its skin was a mix between pink, from its exposed muscles, to a see-through clear layer covering other parts.

Boney, calcium-like armor, had formed over a lot of its body, and its back to legs formed smaller, mandible-and-like features at its head, and its head, all to human eyes, peering out in a rage as its larger, unhinged jaw opened, and it roared out its deafening cry at us. The gunner was the first to open up. A blast of 5.56 tore through the armour on its mandible legs and torso.

The thing recalled at first, and then hissed as it charged forward. The captain ran from his place in front of the, the sedan side. The thing stuck its two large mandibles into the roof, badly denting it. The medic quickly covered the wounded weapon sergeant, shielding him as the thing peered down at the two. The captain quickly got his attention, aiming fire at the back of its head. It roared with a vengeance as it charged at the captain. He fell back to the sedan, running out of our line of fire as the thing barreled towards us. The thing stuck a mandible inside the hood, impaling it, and then another just.

to my left. I circled around and behind it, it cried out. now pouring from its calcium plating was cracked and falling off en masse. The thing turned to me, and as I flicked my amphithe-o-to-o-oed-oed into it, it just bowled at me, shoving me to the ground. Its smaller, demonic hands reached for me as I kicked them away. Its jaw snapped as I held my rifle in the way, shielding my face as it gnawed on the metal. The gunner then blasted a chunk of its exposed skull away, staggering it turned. The captain whipped his stock into the thing's head, then backpedaled as he fired off another burst of rounds.

The thing turned at him, roaring viciously as the captain dropped his empty mag. He slapped in a fresh one as the thing lunged at him, both mandibles raised. The glass exploded out of the SUV's windows as the captain dropped levels, firing into its stomach as he circled out back in to the open. The creature roared as it went to move for him again, but it couldn't. Its large mandibles were stuck all the way inside of the vehicle. The captain let his rifle hang slung on his front as he reached for something in his kit. An M-67 fragmentation grenade. Get back! Everyone who was in the open ducked for cover. The gunner and several weapon sergeants retreated behind a series of concrete jersey barriers.

I ran and slid behind the sedan, helping the medic to shield our wounded battle buddy. I heard the distinct sound of a spoon flying and the whistling of the grenade. The captain vaulted himself over the car hood with the comm sergeant, covering his radio operator's head as they both went prone. The explosion was thunderous. The shockwave of the grenade shook everyone and even rattled me a bit from being so close. trapnel and fragments, impacting the concrete barriers, the building, and the windows in the sedan that weren't already broken, were shattered.

A few seconds passed as we all hesitantly started to lift our heads, then dropped them as the SUV's gas tank seemingly erupted and detonated, engulfing the wreck in a fireball so large it felt like the flames were touching my face. The captain popped up, aiming on top of the hood of the car. and several others joined him, peeking from behind our points of cover as we looked to see if that had done it. The SUV was a burning skeleton, an inferno from all of the ignited gasoline covering the frame and the ground around it. And the beast, as it defiantly pulled its last remaining mandible, its front left one, the only appendage it had left, and stumbled out from the flames. Its skin popped, its muscles boiled, and with all of the see-through skin and bone-plating torn and burnt off.

It gazed around. Its eyes ruptured and melted. The gravel crunched as its charred and still burning body slumped forward. The captain emerged from behind the vick as only a few of us dared to approach the thing. He lifted his nods, this time pulling his M-17 back up and aiming at the thing's head. Three shots The damaged The damaged

Caves' Caving in A circle of light illuminated us As the rotary blades of the Blackhawk Sounded out overhead I shouldered my face

And lifted my nodes To avoid the spotlight blinding me Up 4 Actual Down Building Secure The ensuing hour Was one

That was just shrouded in I don't know Mystery I guess The captain went against prior missions of telling us to go-prone and poor security, putting the gunner at the sedan by the gate and telling the rest of us to watch the woodline.

When the van showed up, that's when he told us to chill out. They weren't really vans. They were more like armoured trucks. Now, for the sake of being classified and remaining anonymous, I can't divulge a lot about them.

I'm definitely not saying the black shirts wearing black multicam combat uniforms with kits, and gear available that would definitely a private sector group. I'm not saying their uniforms were sterilized with all patches, logos and markers stripped. I'm also not saying the hazmat suits looked way beyond anything our

Mope system has. I'm not saying they brought several metal cases in from their armored vix, and I'm not saying they brought in advance surveillance drones with them. I will say, they weren't really hostile. Damn, one even offered us a cigarette. The bird landed at the opposite side of the building. The open lot where they eventually told us to head. We prepared our guy for case vac on a litter with a black hawk

and loaded up as the captain finished talking to some guy in a suit. He was much shorter, maybe 5'8. He bore the look of a younger, but still weathered man. His hair was slicked back and had a hard part. A slight bump He was armed The captain eventually As soon as the aviation crew

He popped his helmet off Muched to their anger And slumped back in his seat When we touched space And got back to the COP Our sister team Artemis replaced us on QRF I've been thinking about this for days now

About what those people did to them In that lab what the captain said. They kidnapped them, cut them, change them. All for what? Some sick fantasy. Who even owned the lab? There were no US markings, no logos, zip. Like I said before, there's still a lot I don't know. But what I do know is that those guys got exactly what they deserved. That thing. crying out for help, pleading for us to make its suffering end. The more I think about it, the more it makes me sick. I don't know who the hell those guys were that relieved us, but they didn't have any markings.

Some of them were speaking German if my memory serves. But whoever they are, I hope they learn from their mistakes. And never tamper with that evil again. I'm back back to Amsterdam. Why? They're 2 hours. Doy. Tohast it direct.

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I don't know how long this will stay up for. Three-letter agency spooks are usually pretty good at finding these sorts of things and shutting them down before I can spread too far. But hopefully, I've left out just enough trigger words to keep their automatic software from picking this up immediately. But that probably won't be enough in the way. probably won't be enough in the end. They'll find this, and me.

That'll be the end of that. You should also know that I've changed the names of everyone involved here, as well as some other details for the sake of security and privacy, at least for as long as I still have it. Some of these guys had family, and I don't want any of them stumbling across this. It's always difficult to decide where to begin this story. No matter how many times I've written this draft without hitting submit, but I suppose that everything really kicked off when my unit was deployed in Afghanistan. We'd been rotating in out of country for going on three years by that point. Despite what the talking heads in DC said about drawdowns and sending troops home, there were more active operations in that part of the world than most people would imagine.

They'd just gone under the radar. More clandestine activity, less open warfare than before, secret squirrel stuff, as our CEO like to put it. I won't say exactly who we were, with the nature of our job, but to keep things broad, our unit fell under the purview of the United States Joint Special Operations Command, or JCOC, a catch-all command structure for certain special forces units in the American military.

Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, hell, I'm pretty sure there were even a few Coast Guard guys floating around in there somewhere. We weren't the kind of guys that just walk around patrolling villages or sweeping for our A. That wasn't in our job description. I still remember what one of my instructors said to bad things to bad people. You didn't get into the special forces because you wanted to win hearts and minds. Most of our missions were pretty cut and dry, at least as cut and dry as clandestine operations can be. Rage, HVD capture slash kill stuff and lots of intelligence gathering. I lost count how many hours we wasted sitting on some frozen mountains.

side, staring through a spotting how many times some potential insurgent went out to feed his goats. But in January of that year, we all got thrown for a loop when some CIA Grand Branch agents showed up at our forward operating base, F.O.B., seemingly out of nowhere, telling us that we were tasked with the most critical mission of the past 50 years, even more so than the Bin Laden raid. I'll admit that not many of us believed him at first, but as he showed us recon photos, phone transaction, transcripts, all the pieces, all the pieces, and we all nearly crapped a brick. According to him, the CIA had been tracking a terrorist cell operating out of Afghanistan, who were trying to get their hands on nuclear material, either to make a dirty bomb or a proper nuke, it didn't matter. Now, this wasn't news to us.

Al-Qaeda had been trying to obtain a nuclear bomb for decades at this point, but this group, simply known as the Brotherhood, had actually succeeded. on CIA intelligence, they got in touch with a former Soviet general who had access to a non-travel amount of nuclear material, specifically weapon-grade plutonium. They'd gone into Tajikistan, done the deal, and were now on the way back to Afghanistan. CIA and other assets had tracked them as far as the Afghan border, and then they disappeared into the mountains, seemingly without a trace. And that's where we came in.

Operation Condor All in all, it wasn't a terribly complex mission. Find the bad guys, kill the plutonium, but simple didn't mean easy. The area was god off all mountain terrain, with almost zero friendly forces in the immediate vicinity and with a strong enemy presence. We bounce ideas back and forth for a good few hours until settling on a plan. One team of ten guys inserted via helicopter near the last known location of the target. They would hike in, The enemy, secure the asset, And then extract

It was tempting In every warm body we had For the extra firepower But more men on the ground Met more prominent signature for the enemy It's much easier to sneak 10 dudes into a spot Rather than 40

I didn't hesitate to volunteer It wasn't out of bravado Or wanting the glory Or hunting for their next adrenaline search Or anything like that I'd just gotten bored of doing nothing for weeks on end.

I'd attention for dealing with CPR so it made sense me to tag along. After the team was picked, we spent most of the night harming out the details, trying to think of every possible contingency

and how to plan for it. But we all knew there were going to be things you just can't see coming in advance. In the words of the great Mike Tyson, everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. The moon was full

The next night We got our gear together And boarded the helicopters Thankfully the snow had stopped Though it was still bitterly cold I tried to bundle up as best I could In the back of the Chinook As it rumbled to life

A scream of the rotas soon drowning out the podcast I've been blaring through my headset Some guys just sat Others talking over the communication system on board But I just tried to sleep You never knew When those extra few minutes of shut-eye would come in handy later on. Joey, our team lead, woke me when we were ten minutes out from the landing zone.

I checked my equipment one last time and pulled the night vision goggles down over my eyes, flicking them on and blinking as my vision was filled with a pale green light. The airframe shook under us as the helicopter dipped below the mountain summits, winds buffeting the aircraft and shaking it like a tin cannon a hurricane. But to his credit, the pilot did his job and we touched down a few moments later. rushing out into the rhodour-up, as the rhodoury of snow and ice. As soon as the last man cleared the ramp, the chinook lifted off, blasting the squad with one last torrent of wind before disappearing into the night sky. And, as the sound of the rotors faded to nothing more than a faint rumble in the distance, we were left in nearly total silence, save for the low moaning of the wind through the mountain pass.

The snow was up to my ankles, a light powder that seemed to vanish as soon as the winter. caught it. We started moving right away, making our side of the mountain with only our night to see. It was just after three in the morning when we reached our first checkpoint, a rocky crag jutting out from the side of the mountain. Carlos, our radio guy, stopped to get the message back to command as we all took a knee and tried to catch our breath. I grew up in the mountain to Colorado, I was no stranger to hoofing it long distances, but the altitude here was another beast entirely. I was still panting as he gave us the thumbs up and relayed the return message from command. No new intel. Stay on mission. The sky to the east began to lighten as we

made it to the next checkpoint a few hours later. Almost three hours of hiking and we covered less than two miles. Already we were tired and sore, but everyone put their discomfort aside to focus on the task at hand, descending into a long drawer that led down towards a the last known target location, the terrain began to change around us. Barron's snow and rock gave away to thin forests of pine and shrub, offering us some concealment from any hostile eyes that may be watching. But, if anything, we were growing more anxious by the moment. Daylight was when the insurgents came out to play, especially around dawn. Joey called us together an hour later and we took a knee, talking in hushed voices.

All right, he said, lancing between each of each of a little. us. We've got two options here. Either we keep going to get caught out in the daylight or wait until dark, but it's going to be a pain trying to find anything once the sun goes down, even with NODs. Thoughts? I pursed my lips for a moment. On paper, Joey was the one in charge, and it was entirely his decision to make. But we operated under a slightly more informal set of rules than standard group troops. It might be his call in the end, but Joey wasn't one to ignore input from his team. Our medic, Andy spoke up first. I say we keep going. Trying to navigate this terrain as tough enough as is. Doing it in the dark is just suicidal. I nodded in agreement. While our night vision

made it possible to see in the dark, they also completely ruined any sense of depth perception. It would be all too easy to take a wrong step and tumble off the side of the mountain. Carlos seemed to share the same opinion. I'm with Andy and Dave. That mess was banning. enough when we came in. I don't want to be looking for some nuke when we're stumbling around out there. In the end, we all reached the same conclusion. Push on and tried to complete the mission, even if that meant doing it in daylight. Joey nodded. All right, let's get a move on then. Dave, you're on point. He gestured to me. The landscape glowed with a faint gold tint as the sun finally crested over the horizon, taking advantage of the long shadows cast by the

trees around us, we moved through the slopes while surveying the slopes on either side, searching for anything that seemed out of place. Easier said than done. Al-Qaeda and other insurgent groups were experts at hiding camps and gun emplacements in these mountains, invisible until it was too late. Short of thermal optics from drones or planes overhead, they could be nearly impossible to spot,

and the going was getting rougher. Loose shell rocks crumbled underfoot, making each step treacherous. It didn't take long for my own luck to run dry. I took a step and felt the rocks slipping out from under my boot, shooting my arm out to reach for a tree branch, but there was nothing there, just empty space. I cursed under my breath and tried regaining my footing to no avail. One foot slipped, then the other, and then I was skidding down the slope. I tumbled once, thankfully landing on my pack with an oof, as the air was driven from my lung. frantically, and finally, and finally my arms wrapped around a thin,

and I dug my heels in, grimacing as the spindly tree bent and bowed, but thankfully held. Taking a few deep breaths, I finally hoisted myself back up onto my knees, checking my body and equipment for any damage. Aside from some minor scrapes, everything appeared in order.

Damn, you good dude? Joey suddenly appeared to my side, reaching out to grab my hand. But as I sat with it, he froze, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, staring at something over my shoulder. I turned and very nearly lost my footing again, heart leaping into my throat and adrenaline shooting through my veins like ice. Lying beneath a small rock outcropping, not five feet from where I stopped, was a man, clad in traditional African dress and very obviously dead. blood spatter coated the rocks around him, from what I could only assume were the wounds he had suffered leading to his death. The left side of his skull had been caved in, the eyeball hanging loosely and dangling against his cheek. His jaw was twisted and snapped in an unnatural angle, and three of his ribs jutted through the fabric of his winter jacket, soaking the beige fabric in crimson.

I winceded the sight and took a step back, suddenly realized I'd race my rifle and had it trained on his forehead. I lowered it and let out of breath. Christ. And he moved up, poking the corpse a few times to ensure the man was well and truly dead. He doesn't look like he was shot, he mumbled, turning the body over and holding up an AK-47 that had been pinned underneath it. Pulling out the magazine, he scowled. Empty. Who's walking around out here with an empty rifle? Nobody smart. One of our machine gunners, Thomas piped up. Think you fell, Doc? Maybe he busted himself up hitting all these trees and rocks and stuff.

Andy began rummaging through the man's pockets, finding nothing more than a canteen. Maybe, it would make sense given the injuries. I've seen it before. I summoned my nerve and leaned forward, pointing. If he fell, I asked, then what the hell did that? Turning the body over onto its side, Andy swore at the sight of a gaping wound on the side of the man's neck. A ragged hole, almost the size of a baseball, that went all the way down to his spine. He paused for a moment,

letting the corpse slumped back into place. Could have been a coyote, or a big cat or something that found him after he fell, decided they wanted a snack. Stay focused, guys. It doesn't matter whatever took a chunk out of him. We've still got a job to do. Joey brought us all back to the moment.

Let's move. We set off again, taking more careful steps this time. But some small part of my mind wouldn't stay quiet, even as I knew I knew predators. If they'd have they wouldn't have just taken a single bite. The body would have been ravaged, and there hadn't been any other obvious bite marks.

I forced those thoughts aside and got myself back into the game. The mountains beginning to wake with a chirping of birds and the soft howl of the wind. Much to my relief, the terrain began to level out slightly as we moved into a ridge running around the mountain, though it was still rough going. Using the trees to pull ourselves and steady our pace, we had to pause

as the altitude and strenuous marching punished our lungs and legs. It was almost nine in the morning as Joey called for us to stop for another fiver. I found a spot to conceal myself in between two bushes, drinking deep from one of my canteens. And that was when the first shots broke

the morning quiet. They were fairly distant, just muffled pops and cracks, But we all reached our rifles and hurried into a perimeter peaking out to the forest. No one spoke as the gunfire continued in the distance, fading from a constant roar to just a few scattered shots here and there in the span of 30 seconds. And then silence. For another minute we simply laid there waiting for more, wondering if the next ones would rip over our heads. But none came.

Carlos reached up to Keyes Radio. To your seek. Viper 3. We've got gunfire near our position. Do you have any air assets in the area that might be able to take a look? The reply came a few moments later. Viper 3. TOC. There's a negative on air. They're all tied up. Are you in contact? Joey grumbled before keying up again. Negative TOC sounded like it was about a click away, not in our direction. Copy that Vipa 3. Stay safe. TOC out.

Well, a lot of help of her, Carlos grimmed. They might even spare one of their fancy drones to help us see what we were walking into. What, like you were surprised? Joey offered him a rare grin, clapping the larger man on his shoulder as he stood. Come on, let's get moving, eyes up. The next hour passed, much like the last few had. Quiet and still, savoured the occasional gust of biting wind or the chattering of forest animals. He didn't hear any more shots, though we kept our weapons at the ready,

and paused every few moments to stop and listen for any signs of danger that might be coming our way. We began to ascend the ridge, turned into a long sloping valley leading up towards the side of the mountain, ending a few hundred feet below the summit. I tried not to let out an audible groan at the thought of climbing up that monster of a hill, but that complaint vanished as Joey suddenly held up his fist, taking a knee. See that? he said, pointing up toward the top of the valley. I squinted, reaching into my vest for a small set of binoculars and, cutting them to my eyes. There, clear as day, was the entrance to a cave. It was small, a little more than a black speck against the rocks and snow, but there nonetheless.

But that wasn't what made my heart skip a beat. Nistled between two large boulders near it sat the sandbagged machine gun nest, barrel pointed towards the sky. I frantically scanned the surrounding rocks and trees for any sign of enemy fighters. There was nothing. Joey took the binoculars to look for himself. Now that's weird, claring up at the cave entrance. These guys aren't the sort to leave a machine gun post-exposed like that and unmanned too. Any other day, we would have been getting lit up by now.

I nodded. Taliban and Al-Qaeda fighters were experts in camouflage and often used scouts to signal when we were coming within range of their guns. To find a machine gun completely unmanned and exposed was definitely not in the norm. So, what's the game plan? I asked, scanning the hillside.

For a moment, glaring back at the rest of the squad before standing up. Let's at least go check it out. If nothing's there, we can always mark this place for the flyboys to drop a bum later, make sure they can't use it again. We began the arduous task of ascending this steep valley up towards the precipice, coughing for each breath and nearly having to crawl on hands and knees at some point. It was slow, all of us, all of us, before we passed out from exhaustion. The entire squad froze as Joey halted and lifted his hand, before pointing off to a stand

of trees about fifty yards ahead, and topped the fabric sticking out from between the tree trunks, something wet coating the ground underneath it. I swallowed, lifting my rifle and sliding to advance along with him. We closed the distance, and, a few moments later, the squad was kneeling in a semicircle pattern around the object with looks of grueled. him fascination. Another body, even more disfigured than the last. One of the man's arms had been ripped or sheared off of the shoulder, his abdomen torn open as though he'd lost an argument with an angry lawnmower. Meat and bone lay exposed to the cold mountain air, blood coating the rocks around him

in white swaths. I tried to block out the look of abject terror frozen on his face as I leaned down to pick with a rifle at his feet. The barrel bent almost 90 degrees like it had been twisted in a vice. empty, holding up okay, what the hell, thomas, hefting his M240. Something came right here.

This is weird. Joey and I exchanged glances and for the first time since I'd known him I saw something strange in his eyes. It wasn't fear, it wasn't hesitation. It was confusion. Like he just couldn't put the pieces

together and figure out what was going on. He took a few, deep breaths before stepping back from the corpse. Let's keep moving, he said, voice barely above a whisper. We found more bodies the higher we ascended, scattered among the trees and rocks. Some looked as though they'd been in a car wreck, twisted and mangled in unnatural ways. Others were almost ripped apart, long slashes carved through their flesh or missing limbs. We found one implanted on a tree branch nearly 20 feet off the ground. His blood was still dripping as we passed underneath. For the first time, I began to hear the tinkling of shell casings underneath my feet, hundreds of them littering the ground near empty rifles and machine guns. Some of the

weapons had been almost totally destroyed, barrels twisted, or receivers crushed like a tin can. I'd faced death plenty of times. Friends had bled to death in my arms. I'd watched men be vaporized in IED blasts. I'd seen the life drained from men's faces after I'd shot them, and seen what was left after, the hands, I felt fear, and bullets snapped by my or a mortar landed just a bit too close. But this was different.

There, in that valley, I felt terror. Something, deep down, in my most basic of instincts, was screaming at me to turn and run and never look back. This was a place of death, and I didn't belong. But I forced those thoughts aside.

The rest of the team was counting on, me to do my job and I expected the same from them. He finally reached the machine gunnest, having passed at least a dozen disfigured bodies on the way up. I found the gunner himself, at least what was left of him, sprawled out in the snow behind the sandbags. He'd been torn almost completely in two. I suppressed the urge of the gag and spun around as a voice called out. Joey, we got a live one. Andy was gesturing frantically as he disappeared behind an improvised hut, nothing more than some propped up against a large boulder.

We all rushed over to find him kneeling next to a man, whimpering and crying, blood dripping down his chin while he tried to hold in his guts, which had spilled into his lap from a massive hole in his abdomen. Aaron! Joey waved his hand, taking a knee next to the dying man.

Aaron was a translator, and a good one. All the dialects in this area differed, but he had figured it out. Jogging up to the scene, Aaron took a moment before shuffling forward. He spoke softly, resting a hand

on the man's shoulder. They talked in hushed tones, the insurgent occasionally raising a shaking arm to point to the cave entrance. I could see the light starting to leave his eyes. I'd seen it plenty of times before. His words became softer and softer as his eyes shut,

melting into incoherent murmurs before he slumped over, letting out one final breath. What did he say? Did you ask him about the plutonium? Joey asked. Aaron stood slowly. He was from Texas with a bright smile and a seemingly perpetual tan. But at that moment, he was as white as the snow around us.

Blinking a few times and shaking his head to clear it. He... He cleared his throat, suddenly staring intently at the cave entrance just a few paces away. It was no bigger the door and a conventional but the inky blackness inside might as well have been a portal into another dimension.

He said that they brought the plutonium here to make a bomb. We all bristled, visibly tensing. But he said it wasn't to use on us. What?

That doesn't make any damn sense. Thomas glanced down at the dead man eyes wide. Aaron continued. He said that the tribal elders warned everyone to stay away, but his commander didn't listen. They wanted this mountain as a scouting position and decided to set up camp here. They were going to use the caves to hide from us. And that's when...

He said that's when they... Woke it. It? What's it? Joey scald, breath fogging in the cold air. He said... Okay. Here's the thing. Some of these tribes up here. They've been around a really long time. We're talking people for Alexander the Great and they've got stories that go all the way back to before religion, before written language, before all of that. And some of these people believe that these mountains are sacred and that there's something in them. They want to keep it that way. And when these guys showed up to set up camp, Aaron gestures to the scene of carnage around us. It got angry.

Though it only lasted a few seconds, the silence that fell seemed to last for hours. It was Joey who spoke first. We've still got a mission. There's a crapload of plutonium inside that cave somewhere. He pointed out the gap in the rocks, and we've got to find it. So we're just going to ignore the whole thing about some mountain spirit messing up these guys and going there anyway? Thomas asked, gesturing to the dead man at our feet. I mean this, with all the kindness to my heart, Joey, but that sounds like a stupid idea.

Look, we can't save a certain what killed these guys. For all we know, they ran into some opposing force, gun ambushed, whatever. And frankly, I'm not going to stake this entire mission and a potential nuclear attack on the ramblings of a guy who was knocking on death store. You all know, as well as I do, that some of these people are superstitious as hell. We've got a job to do, and we're going to do it. I need four guys with me, the rest of you, pull security. In the end, there were no more arguments.

Aaron, Andy, Carlos and myself, volunteer. here to go in. I checked my rifle one more time, making certain that there was a round in the pipe, before flipping my NODs down and following Joey into the cave. My heart pounded like a jackhammer, and the sweat felt like a cold hand on the back of my neck as we walked into the darkness, using the infrared illuminators on our rifles in conjunction with the night vision to light our way. Whereas outside, the wind and cool air helped the dampen the scent of death. Inside the cave, it was almost overpowering. I almost gagged,

But the clawing odour forced its way And throat regardless I moved in single file Down the narrow path, deeper and deeper Walking at a half-crowch To stop from banging our heads on the low ceiling Our beams of infrared light Only visible to the night vision goggles

Lit up the path ahead It didn't take long to find the first bodies At least what was left of them Most just scraps of cloth And streaks of gore standing the walls occasionally we found part of a head, maybe some arms and legs. more than once I almost slipped in a pile of viscera and had to catch myself, taking in lung falls of the damp, putrid air.

The corridor slowly began to widen until we were standing in a circular cavern with two more pathways forking off to either side. My heart sank with the thought of having to split the team, very much aware of the horror movie trope that we were walking into. That was, until Joey took my shirt, shoulder, shining his eye-a-a-aum and a wooden crate took behind one wall. Even with a grainy view of my night-vision goggles, it's hard to miss a giant radiation warning symbol painted in bright yellow. I cautiously approached the box, slinging my rifle and taking off my pack. I could hear Joey and Carlos starting to

set demolition charges to blow this face once we were finished. The hinges on the box creaked as I slowly opened it and winced of the sound, staring at the contents inside. A metallic sphere. maybe as large as a grapefruit, nestled snugly inside a bed of foam. Despite its uses, plutonium is actually perfectly safe to handle, even with your bare hands. The particles it admits won't even penetrate your skin. It only becomes truly dangerous if you inhale or ingest the material, or, you know, put it in a nuclear bomb. But that didn't mean I was just going to throw it in my pocket and call it a day. Fishing around inside my pack, I produced a finely woven cloth bag, to keep any potential dust or particulate contained.

slipping it inside the pouch, and then stuffing the whole thing into my pack, I stood and turned, suddenly feeling as though my feet had been nailed to the floor. I had seen a lot of arguably terrible things during my time in their teams. Men blown to pieces, soldiers screaming for their mothers as they died, an enemy combatant charging at me with a bayonet intending to ram it into my stomach.

You never get used to it, but some parts of your brain starts learning how to handle that sensation of overwhelming fear and terror, how to push it aside, leaving that is yet another suitcase of emotional baggage to handle later on. But, and of all the things I witnessed, there wasn't anything that could have prepared me for what meant my gaze. My brain just short-circuited, refusing to accept what I was seeing as reality. I blinked once, then twice. That thing was still there. And that's the only way I can think to describe it. A thing

Not a man But something in between Shaggy Ferry hung from its hunched shoulders As it crouched in all fours Unnaturally long limbs bent At odd angles I could just barely make out the glint

Of footlong hooked claws clattering softly against the stone Every time it shifted its weight Had it stood on all fours It would have been at least ten feet tall Though it sat hunched With all four of its freakiously long arms and legs Some distant part of my brain realised that it wasn't breathing

Whenever it stood perfectly still Not even the subtle rise and fall of breath But all of that paled in comparison to the thing's face There was nothing there Just an empty black void in the vague shape of a skull Or maybe a beak or some awful creation of hellish sort But there was one thing I could see for certain Row after row of teeth

glistening in the dark, dripping something, I don't know how long, but finally, something snapped me out of my mind-searing reverie. It was Joey, hissing under his breath at me, one hand holding up his rifle to keep it leveled at the thing, the other clutching the detonation switch for the explosives they'd already laid. He dared not move, only flicking his eyes towards the corridor from where he came. I wanted to scream at him.

Are you insane? But that seemed like a terrible idea, However, however, It seemed like a only option. And so, I took a single step, my boots squelching on what I could only assume To have once been part of someone's digestive tract, Now just a smear of gore on the rock. The reaction was instantaneous.

The creature braced itself against the wall With a series of jerky, snapping motions, And let out a sound that will haunt me forever. It was the sound of a thousand men dying at once, A shriek that reverberated and echoed through the small chamber In wave after wave of pure hatred and contempt I screamed in return Terror floating through my veins like shards of ice

We were all screaming But our voices may as well have been flecks of sand in a hurricane Drowned into nothingness by that roar I'm still not sure who shot first I think Joey did but it's hard to say In a space that small the gunfire should have been simply overwhelming But I never heard it I saw the flash from his muzzle, soon joined by the other three, lighting up the cavern like a flashbang.

And yet that thing seemed as if it were made of living shadow, closed in darkness, save for its savage teeth. Carlos was yelling at me to run, to get out, reaching over to grab my arm. He was snatched out of the air as his fingers touched my sleeve. I never saw that creature move, but suddenly there it was, one set of claws hoisting him up by the throat and the other speared him through the abdomen. under his vest and coming through the back, a spray of blood. Carlos led out a low, shaking and squirming and trying to bring up his rifle

as the thing lifting him off the floor. He never got the chance. He was ripped in two, his legs slamming against one wall as the rest of him hit the other side with a wet slap. I had just enough sanity left to flip the selector switch to fully automatic, bringing up my rifle and letting off a long burst as that creature lunged forward,

swinging one of its appendages in a long sort. sweep an arc. Aaron never stood a chance, collapsing to the floor as his head tumbled away. Andy only caught a glancing blow, but that was more than enough. One of those whistling claws caught him the throat, the momentum from the impact hurling him into the wall with a sickening crunch of bones, shattering. Whatever coherent thought I had left evaporated. I was screaming, emptying the last of my magazine, and starting to reach for another. The thing turned to face Joey and I, teeth gnashing, and bloody claws, once again, right, right, and again, right as I bounced, right as I slammed home, and hit the bolt release. A burst of my rounds hit it right in the face, or at least

where its face should have been. Sparks flew as bullets rich shade of his teeth, closing in right on top of me. I was expecting the burning agony of claws sinking into my stomach, or a sudden light-headed sensation as my head was separated from my shoulders. But instead, I was knocked back off my feet. Something heavy crashed. into my chest. I skidded backwards, blinking away the sweat and blood stinging my eyes. Joey was lying crumbled against the wall, his vest torn away to reveal the four ragged holds in his abdomen where his ribs were peeking through. He gasped and spotted for breath, blood forming a fine mist every time he coughed. The beast had turned at him and circled

around for yet another strike. It looked between both of us, teeth, clicking like iron nails on granite. Joey locked up from the ruin that was his torso, head bobbing back and forth. He still clutch his rifle in one hand, trying to bring it to bear. Our eyes met, only a few feet apart. Weasing and gurgling, he lifted his left hand. The detonator was still in his grasp, and he flicked off the safety catch. He couldn't speak, his throat filling with blood, but he managed to mouth one word. Go. I wasn't even aware that I'd begun to run, the the sound of gunfire roaring in my

as Joey emptied the last of his in one long burst. There was a second of deafening silence, louder than anything I could have imagined, and then a noise like a clap of thunder inside my own head. It was all around me, inside me, pushing and pulling on every fibre

of my body. Something was shoving me out of the cave and towards daylight. Yet again, some distant corner of my mind realized it was the pressure away from the black, and it might very well kill me, but I couldn't process that. All I could feel was Joey's hand in my back, pushing me forward, screaming, go, go, go. Whatever it was threw me at least a few feet out of the cave and into the searing light of day, landing with a thud and rolling the last few feet. Rocks and debris rained down on my head, and all I could do was curl into a ball and wait for it to end, choking on long pools of dust and sand. Pain had become my master in that moment. Everything hurt.

My head was screaming. All I knew was the searing ache shooting through every nerve ending in my body. Time slowed down. Or sped up. I'm not really sure. Adrenaline and shock are funny like that. But eventually reality began to take shape again, like I was crawling my way out of the mud and back into dry land.

Only when I felt something grabbing me did I truly come back all the way, kicking and punching and yelling, frantically reaching for my pistol. my belt. I was going to die with an empty magazine. Thomas slapped me. Hard, hard enough to make my vision blur and my whole body go numb for a few seconds, hard enough to finally pull me out to my stupor, blinking away the dust in my eyes and seeing his face staring at me from above. Eyes wide and mouth agape. He was saying something, but I couldn't hear him, only the pounding on my heart and the rush of blood through my veins. He pointed frantically, and I managed to roll onto my side, fully expecting to see that thing crawling out and come kill us all.

Instead, I was met with a beautiful and terrible sight. A pile of rubble now stood where the entrance had once been, clouds of dust and smoke still rising between the stones. Forcing myself to my knees, I stared, slack-chored and wide-eyed, simply unable to process the sight. and I stayed like hours, simply kneeling in the shattered rocks and trying to understand. It was only when Thomas

my shoulder and shook me that I found enough cognizance to scrape myself together. We're getting out, he was saying extraction is on the way. The first sound I heard as my hearing returned

was the distant thrum of helicopter blades as we made our way out of the canyon. I was joined by the ever-present never-ending moaning of the wind carrying the sounds of dead you will probably

you will probably never read on Operation Condor. It's classified and probably will be for the next 20 years of course the military put out a press release which was even more watered down it would tell you that Aaron Andy Carlos and Joey died during the gunfight

in a Taliban cave system in northeast Afghanistan they were all posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Medal We were all sworn to Of course Most of the guys They all wanted to agree I did too

But I can't They know something happened in that cave Something horrific But they don't know the truth And I don't want them too Nobody else needs that burden I left the military As soon as my contract was up

And that's why I'm telling this story now Those government spooks and secret agents are going to do whatever it is they do. but somebody has to tell this story. And it may as well be me. Because the truth has to come out. There's a lot of things to be afraid of in Afghanistan. I'm just to go.

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And that's meant modder. And so, came Kim to come to comforated com, a comfortableable luget, oh, so, knus, and Lupeart print regalarze. Miao! Now,

now has Kim's not going to make over the modder, just like that that's the dancing mottraman there. Oh, wait just even,

has he now only modder on? Oh, yeah, only modder. Drove blithe? Goar for. Find what you need But one of them.

But one of them unlike anything We've ever seen When I was a kid I never really knew my grandfather Carl Not only was he an ocean away Living in his home country While I grew up in America

He had died a few years before I was born Nixing any chance of a meetup Grandma kept his house and things locked away For a long while Until she too finally kicked the bucket About six years ago We managed to get a little money managed to get a little money, but more important

was all the old stuff collected over the years. You see, Grandpa was a fighter through and through. He'd spent a good portion of his adult life as a soldier in both World War I and two fighting for Germany, collecting a few medals to his name. My mom told me he never liked to talk about it though, said he always had this vacant, depressed look in his eyes, even when she was a little girl. There was more than one time she would get up in the middle of water, only to see him sprawled on the living room couch, a bottle in one hand, and a weeping face cradled by the other. I could only imagine what he went through. Until now.

Like millions of other people in the current circumstances, I found myself stuck at home without a whole lot to do, waiting for college to reopen and life to get back on track. With so many people comparing the current pandemic to past ones, the Spanish flu getting name-dropped the most, He got me wondering how my grandfather dealt with it. So, I went up into the attic to go through some of his old things for some kind of clue, not really expecting to find anything. Pouring through old files and documents, I came across a battered envelope, unmarked.

Opening it up revealed a handwritten note. I still retain enough German from my mother and school lessons to read some of it, so I started without asking for help. The contents of the note were far different from anything I expected. When I didn't know if I had read it right. Quasily, I took it upon myself to be the sole translator, for I do not know how others would feel and would not like to be publicly associated with its contents. Thus, I share it here with you folks in the hopes that someone can make sense of this insanity, and perhaps someone else out there could tell me whether or not they've heard of something like this before.

It read, The first time I remember dying was in the fields of But I'm getting ahead of myself My life was unremarkable before my time in the army My family used to own a little farm out in the countryside Where we grew wheat and potatoes Toiling for hours a day to scrape by When I was about nine

Our father sold the farm When we moved into an apartment in the city Where we took at work in snarling pollution-ridden factories melting steel, back in those days. even the small children were expected to work. So I went too. Sometimes I would have vivid, agonising nightmares of heavy machinery, searing my flesh to the bone

or crushing my skull to a bloody pulp, instilling a terror to do my best and make no mistakes. Maybe that's where all this started. I don't know. When the war first broke out, I was 15 years old. In those days, there were few alive who had seen what war really meant. most people only had vague notions of our crushing victory over France

decades prior or of insurgencies in the African colonies. Quick, easy victories. When things stored out, we were assured that the stored situation was only a set back, even as this dragged on for years and as foodstuffs became more scarce from British pockades. I got called up from service a little after my 18th birthday in August of 1917.

Training was expedited, and in September, I was shipped to the front of Flanders. Our train stopped at some French or Belgian town. We were shaken awake and then marched off to the front. We were sent in under the cover of darkness as Artelieu strikes in the daylight made things too risky. Immediately I wanted to go back home. Within the first few hours, my ears were ringing painfully from all the artillery shells. Every time a flare shot into the night sky, I and the other new guys could see the long lines of the long lines of the air. dead and wounded getting carried out from behind the front line trenches. Each time I got a peek, I wanted to vomit. In some way though, the darkness was worse, because all you could hear were screaming agonized whales and unheard pleased the God. Our CEO sent us to our different positions.

I entered my assigned dugout with three or four others, where by dim candlelight we were face-to-face with aged veterans. One older man, thin and wrinkly, with jowls hanging down his cheeks stared at us the same way a normal person would stare at a flea-ridden rat. So these are the newbies? He said to us. A few hesitant affirmations, and the man averted his gaze and took a swig from his cup. These kids are just dead weight. A stocky man, wide-shouldered and tall, with a big black beard hugging his face, stood up and said,

Don't mind Rudolph. He's been in since the very beginning. I'm Max. He shook all of our hands and gave us a quick one. rundown on what to expect out there. He was a kind, funny man, and we could tune out the drone of shells blowing chunks out of the landscape while he told us about how he used the box. I think he knew we weren't going to be able to get any sleep that night, even if some of us tried. We were all on edge, sitting around, waiting for something to happen. In the afternoon, the shelling suddenly stopped

in our area. Moving further behind the lines and giving our battered ears some respite, Max and the the veterans jerked their heads upwards, listening intently, the piercing sound of a simple order filling all of us with dread. It's an attack, assumed defensive formation. We rushed out of our dugout and filed into our firing positions. I didn't think I had any adrenaline left to expend at that point, yet my racing pulse informed me otherwise. Some mortars were still going off all around us, where we could see British troops, bug-sized at our distance, steaming towards us. Thousands of rifles all went off at once, and machine-gles rattled away. If my hearing wasn't damaged before, it certainly was now. Despite the firepower we could muster, the British advanced further on, which shook me to the core.

I didn't think it would be possible to live through a barrage so deadly. What before appeared as cockroaches, slowly crawling along the ground, now looked like men, and they were starting to shoot back. I heard a couple people cry out in pain as bullets hit them, and under the corner of my eyes, I saw a A man collapsed, Fragically, I fired, worked at the bolt, more clips, the more I fired, the more I felt like I was doing something, even if I wasn't aiming near half the time.

In a split second, I saw one of them tossed something, and it landed right behind me. I spun around recklessly, seeing it only seconds before a white-hot flash enveloped me. Just enough time for my brain to think, grenade. And then I felt myself, getting shaken

awake again, back on. the train. I jolted upright, blurting out, where am I? What kind of hospital? I promptly shut up, taking in all my surroundings. It was the train car all right, and everyone I had disembarked with. The asylum's further down the tracks, buddy. Someone joked, prompting some cruel chuckles.

I had no idea what was happening. Touching my face and the rest of my body, I couldn't feel any wounds, so I reasoned the black must have knocked me out somehow. But my head didn't hurt either. Had I had I comatose? I pushed the whirlwind of confusion down into the back of my mind and dumbly proceeded as our has told us. We marched again, went down the same trench again, and went to the same exact dugout. Rudolph was waiting for us just as before and recited word for word what he had said to us the first time. So these are the new kids, he said. Even though he was older and a veteran, I was still mad. How could it be so stupid as to not recognise me? What are you talking about? I was with you just yesterday. I think. Nobody told me what happened. I spotted Max and pointed at him. Max, you remember me right? The farm boy. You told me about your days as a boxer. I stopped because everyone was looking at me with wide open eyes or cocked eyebrows. Max had practically turned white. He visibly swallowed.

like there was something stuck in his throat. And he asked me, how do you know all this? Nervous energy, sending waves of static through my body. I told him plainly. You told me all this, before the attack in the afternoon. What the hell is this? What the hell are you trying to pull on us? Rudolph sheltered, frantic movement sloshing the beer around his cup.

Screw this, I'm getting out of here, before you bring bad luck to me. He pushed his way past all of us, muttering about witchcraft and dark magic. Stunned, I slumped, while everyone else just stared, like I was a filthy beggar trembling into a noble ballroom. All of us spent the night in relative silence. Just as before, we were ordered to take our positions in the afternoon. Everyone was spooked, especially me. Why was everything the exact same way? I couldn't dwell on such matters for long as the British came forward.

I hammered away, once again, spraying lead into the air with the air. reckless abandon. As before, I caught a split-second glimpse of a soldier tossing a grenade at my position. Having more awareness of the initial threat, I tossed myself to the side, but regrettably it wasn't enough. After a deafening boom, I was thrown hard to the ground, rendered into bloody mulch scattered across the trench walls. Disoriented, I could also feel a stinging pain in my right arm and my stomach. Shrapnel aggressively lodged in. As the chaotic sound of battle raged around me, I could only moan in pain, hoping that someone would take me out of my misery. I do not know how long I had laid there,

my perception of time and space getting hazy from blood loss and agony, until mercifully the darkness enveloped me. And I hinted up right back where I started, at the train again. If I hadn't been disturbed before, I certainly was now. When they shook me awake, I came up screaming and grabbed my rifle. Calm down, boy, calm. You're not at the front yet, With shaky hands, I lowered my rifle,

It slung it over my shoulder. I'm sorry, I just had a nightmare, that's all. The officer walked away, shaking his head. No doubt they all thought I was crazy. It certainly felt like it, the more I went on, going down the same exact path to the same dugout I'd been to twice now to meet the same people I'd already met.

So, these are the new kids, Rudolf said. This time, while the other new guys nodded their heads. He took a drink from his cup and said, These kids are just dead weight. Right on cue, Max got up, saying, Don't mind Rudolph. He's been in since the very beginning. I'm...

Max, I finished. You're Max, and used the box back in Cherbourg. I know. I felt everyone's eyes on me again, but no longer cared. Frustrated, I turned towards Rudolf, I'm angrily told him, I'm not a damn witch, you ought prune, so I don't even think about pulling that with me again. While everyone else was visibly shocked, Rudolf's face turned beet red and his grip over the cup tightened.

You don't get to talk to me that way, he shouted, getting out of his chair and spilling his beer in the process. He made a beeline towards me, but was stopped just in time by Max. The larger man held the skinnier one back, while the former tried to temper the latter's raid. I just stared right back into rudy brown eyes, peaty-contempt. Eventually, and Max turned to me, a bit angry himself. Listen, he said to me, I don't know what's going on here,

but whatever it is, you've got no right mouthing off like that. Max pulled up a chair and crossed his meaty arms. Tell us what the problem is, he said. I obliged. I went through everything as best I could, try not to miss anything. important details while Max stared me down, Stoic. The others, sans Rudolph, who sulked with a new cup of beer,

staring in wide-eyed wonder. When I finished, Max led out a long sigh and asked, So, why is this happening to you? I don't know, I said, exasperated. I've never gone through anything like this before. It only started after I came to the front. God damn gypsy curse, I tell you, Rudolph sneered. Those boogers collect grudges the same way little. little kids collect bottle caps or tin men. I bet you or yours did something to tick one of them off, and now you're screwed. You finished this cup, then got up to leave. Well, Mack said, can you think of any strangers you might have aggrieved, or has anyone in your family done something? I can't think of anything, I said, deflated. Oh God, I don't want to keep going through this.

I don't want to get my legs ripped off again. My legs trembled at the thought, and I struggled to keep my breathing under control. Max stood up and grabbed my shoulders with, huge hands. Hey now, don't think like that, he said, continuing with, the more panic you get, the more likely you are to make mistakes, and the more likely you are to die. And so, he told me a few things he'd already taught before my first death, about taking cover and taking carefully play shots. I listened as intently as I could, mentally went over it until it was all I could think of. The other new guys listened to him too, and a couple of the older guys there supplied their own knowledge.

By the afternoon's attack, I took everything he said to heart. With newfound resolve, I found my nerves cooled, my hemsteady. Everything I touched felt more real. The air smelled sharper, the sounds of the dead, injured, explosives and gunfire, just background noise. Despite my second wind, the British managed to reach our trench anyway. A man to my right was crouched over, about to jump in, when, without skipping a beat, I shot him in the hip.

He half-heamed, half-and-and-and-and-and-and-and-and-a-lawed, ungracefully. Without thinking, I ran over to him and slammed the business end of my boot into his face until I was satisfied he had been subdued. Unfortunately, my victory was short-lived, as another Brit had climbed him behind me in the melee, and I felt a bullet painfully tear its way from my back to my chest. I fell against the trench wall in pain,

just in time for a second bullet to hit me. And so went a third life on that day. But, I didn't lose my I didn't lose my I had before. This time, that the cause of events could be changed, that even if, by some cosmic force of nature I didn't understand, had stacked the deck against me,

there was still a potential way out, and I was determined to find it. This time, upon entering the dugout, I chose not to reveal my secret, and instead presented an affable facade that had the rest of them convinced that there wasn't anything troubling or unusual about me. I even decided to hold out my hand for that cantankerous asshole, Rudolph, which he reluctantly shook. Events proceeded along the same lines as they had before. I successfully picked off several of them before they started a stream in like usual.

One of them had pounced on a young man, Lars, who had come in with me off the train. The Brit was older and sturdier than the skinny Lars, the latter bleeding from a cut on his head or the former punched the kid's face over and over. In a split second, I got off one shot of the Brit, hitting him on the side of the face, and eviscerating his head in a slurry of brain matter. Lars looked at me in appreciation, only for his eyes to widen with shock and for him to quickly point off to my side. I twisted my head around and saw another Brit who had jumped in, readying his rifle against me, but determined not to keep reliving the same day forever and slammed the butt over my cavier right into the other man's face, hitting him at least twice more before eyeing the top of the trench again, anticipating another one coming in. Instead, a half-dazed, from another part of our trench

and chapped his knife into my left arm. Crying out in agony, I battered the enemy on the head with my rifle stock, which he grabbed. Withdrawing the knife from my arm, the red-black inner liquid dripped down the blade and onto my uniform as the Brit shoved me against the wall

and directed the knife towards my face. Before the man could fillet me, last shot him in the back. I threw the Brit to the ground where he simply laid there, breathing laboured, then turned and not. to Lars. Just then, the reserve

to pour into the trench, providing us with reinforcements. Near immediately, the British raid collapsed in our sector. An officer took one look at us and told us to go get some medical treatment behind the lines. While the two of us waited in the procession of screaming, blooded men, Lars spoke up. I want to say thank you for saving me back there. I should have been more careful. Don't mention it, I told him.

You're... We're new. here, I think we should just be grateful to still be alive. As soon as that last part slipped out, I had a smile from ear to ear. I had made it. My fate was not inevitable after all. Do you drink, Lars?

I asked, still a bit lightheaded with jubilence. He shook his head no, and I said, well, you do now. Where's Max? I'm going to buy everyone a drink tonight to commemorate our survival. From here and out, we enjoy every moment like it's our last.

Lars's face turned pale and he opened his mouth, biting it quickly, biting down on his lower lip. What? What's the matter? I asked. A sinking feeling rolled around in my gut and my prior joy was fully torpedoed when Lars spoke next. Max is dead, he said. When I just stood there, glued to the ground in horror, he went on. Some British guy threw a grenade into our section.

He got killed. killed, some of the shrapnel gave me a head wound. Chewing on his bottom lip again, he offered a small apology while my mind just stayed blank. Our wounds weren't serious compared to so many others, so we got stitched and bandaged and sent back the same day. Sitting in the corner of a dugout, I stared at the ground in uncomprehension. The man who had done more to keep me alive than anything else was gone, and I was on my own. I got up to grab some rations to wheat when my Kavir fell to the ground. I'd accidentally dropped it. I stared at the rifle for a good few minutes. I could go back, I thought to myself. I could save him. I grabbed the rifle in both hands,

remove the bayonet from the top and placed the barrel against my forehead. It was just then that Lars came back from getting his own food. He shouted, No, don't! Which caused the others inside who hadn't noticed what I was doing to look over. It grabbed me just before I could reach the trigger. Wait, you don't understand, I pleaded. For hours, restraining me. And all I could do is weep. They did let me go eventually, to rest, and I was only allowed my weapon back after repeated assurances that it wasn't going to try anything like that again. I lied, of course. And when I found a much more suitable spot to die alone, I took the opportunity. But rather than finding myself back in the train car where my journey had started, I rewoke back in the area I'd slept last.

and a mattress in our dugout, watched over by one of our guys who had volunteered to watch me. That put an end to my suicidal inclinations, at least for the time being. But the idea that I could make sure things go their proper course was too alluring to be disregarded. Whenever we went on an offensive or counteroffensive, I'd purposely die several times in a row in order to get a proper feel for the layout, then charge a course of progress that went through the path of least resistance. I was always the one to find that. the thinnest section of the least-the-guided, I could tell, where all the snipers of machine-goodness were in perfect accuracy. The defensive operations were different. The trick that took me a long while to learn was to always let events proceed in a very specific way. If I changed my behavior too much, then the enemy soldiers would change their behavior in turn. However, if I stuck to a rigid pattern and retrace my steps exactly, then the enemy would never deviate too much. With time and patience, I got good at leading their behavior.

into ambushes like chess pieces. Every time I saved a man from a sniper's bullet, or perfectly predicted when artillery or mortar shell would land, people took notice. Rumours were whispered in the nights that I had an angel watching over me, by extension the rest of them. Men who I had seen die or get maimed in one of my prior lives would come up to me and jokingly ask if they were going to make it. Try as a mite though. Casualties were inevitable, and despite my best efforts, I could not save everyone. It was haunting. At some point or another, someone in the higher-ups must have noticed my actions on the battlefield, because once the worst of the fighting around Ypres had stopped, I was selected to become a stern truppen. It was a mixed blessing, as while I could more readily

utilize my ability in their ranks, I'd have to go through even more lives and expose myself to greater danger than ever before. It was easier to forget how much I'd endured when fighting was happening because I could disconnect from it, feeling perfectly hollow and empty. In the spring of 1918, the trepidation I held within me was finally realised. We were to go on the offensive, with our stern trodopan naturally taking the lead. My unit, still stationed in Flanders, took to offensive operations in April. At first we did stunningly well. I hadn't even needed to throw many lives away in the first few days, maybe only two or three in total, and only to perfect our already good margin of victory. It felt like we could take the whole but the more the offensive continued, the more I realized something was going wrong. We kept

outrunning our supply lines, having to wait for the rest of the army to catch up with us. The British kept regrouping every time we had to go through a delay and it was starting to show. Resistance to our attacks only increased more and more, and Osterm-Trippen were the ones who had to deal with it. One day, my friend at the time, brooded me awake. Carl, he said, we've got the order to move up again, grab everything. I'd only managed to get a couple hours' worth of sleep, having decided to take a nap in in between assault, so upon getting up, I was still exhausted. My limbs felt heavy, my mind was foggy and scattershot. My eyes were dried out and stung. With all this weighing me down more than my equipment, immediately, immediately, running, running, running, as I usually did, in order

as much ground as I could, and memorize the layout quicker failed, as each and every time I was riddled with bullets. I decided to take a more measured approach in subsequent attempts. My comrades and I had to approach at a snail's pace and keep our heads down every step of the way. It felt like the bridges were throwing all they could at us. Even crawling around like a rat had its difficulties, I noticed that no matter how far I would still get shot. The first couple of the I thought I was the victim of an unlucky ricochet, but I kept getting killed even had some slight changes to my advance, so I deduced that my adversary was a sniper. Reasoning that I was never going to get ahead without rat hunting us every step of the way, I subjected myself through multiple deaths in order to find his position.

It was no wonder he kept getting us. His nest was hundreds of meters away. in a half-destrored brick house, flanking her entire company. I sprayed bullets in his general direction with my Bergman MP18, but it was certainly no long-range tool, even in the best of times, and with my body weak and my mind impatient and on edge, it was certainly not the best of times. After about three deaths, foolishly focusing on taking out the sniper, I settled for an occasional burst of gunfire in his general direction to keep him suppressed, but that still left the wall of British guns firing at us. minded couldn't focus on the sniper and the front line trench at the both. I died multiple times to both. Impatience was giving way to rage and I ended up stupidly getting myself killed

many times after trying to rustings. In one death I had screamed curses at our adversaries and wildly shooting in their general direction, then took a bullet to the spine and fell face first into a puddle instead of a shell hole. Unable to move my limbs, my lungs filled with muddy water, burning in incredible pain before I died. When I came to again, my anger broke and gave way to pure fear. I started to wonder if I would ever be able to escape this madness, or I would be doomed to cycle through lives endlessly. Halfway into my next attempt, I hid inside of a shell hole

and found myself unable to move. The fear had paralysed me utterly. Volker arrived at my side and tried to snap me out of what looked like the onset of shell shock. Carl, come on, he said, grabbing me by the shock. us and shaking me. We're getting shredded out there. We need you now more than ever. With real desperation in his voice, he said softly. You can't break down now. Please, Carl. That's about when the mortars started hitting us. I hadn't experienced them until now, as I died too soon in each case. One went off close enough to catch us both. My vision went blank, and I felt waves of pure agony

rolling over me. When I did not come back to the pain did not subdue, I came to the horrified conclusion that my face had been blown off by the bomb. Indeed, I found that I couldn't work my mouth anymore. Instead, feeling pain like thousands of glass shards were stuck in me while my tongue tasted the sickening copper taste of blood. I could feel that my right arm still worked, so I retrieved a grenade from my pouch to kill myself with. My left arm was horribly mangled and my fingers wouldn't work. so I held the grenade down with my right, while the right pulled the string. After successfully killing myself this way, I threw up the minute I woke up. Volker was concerned, asking,

I assure you're good to keep going. Yes, I assured. I just ate something bad. It'll pass. I'm good to go. Come on. Sighing, the order man pressed his hand against my head to make sure I wasn't feverish, and upon confirming that I wasn't, we rejoined the others and prepared for our assault.

shamefully, I abandoned my unit when the mortars came down as I dashed back and the perceived safety it would bring a mortar tossed me into the air.

I fell on my arms which produced an unholy crunching sound indicating a fracture. As I pushed myself up to continue running I felt a pulse of pain jolt through my right leg

a piece of shrapnel had got stuck in there below the knee. I limped the way back and collapsed in front of fellow Germans or begging for help. When I came to next, grogly, I noticed I was in an actual bed, and to my sides were others in mutilated conditions occupying beds of their own.

I was in the hospital. I breathed a sigh of both relief and sorrow. I had failed my friends and abandoned my duty, but at least I would be able to live. I later learned from one of the nurses that out of 67 of us, only 14, all wounded, survived the failed assault. Volker had died too, and I grieved for him, damning my own cowardice. Indeed, failure hung over the air in a dusty cloud.

While I loathed around, listening to the whales of those less fortunate than I, I learned how to walk with the crutches. My leg wound would never fully heal. We heard story after story about offensives stalling out, then getting pushed back. Correspondence with my family turned sour as well when I learned my youngest brother, Edmund, and my father had both died from an outbreak. of influenza. My oldest brother, was working tirelessly every day in the factories to support

our aging mother, and I could do nothing from my hospital bed. When the war ended in our bitter defeat and I was discharged from the hospital, I left the home right away and started looking for work, but with everyone else demobilizing and our country in political and economic chaos, it was not easy. For my part, I took to drinking heavily. There were times where I would wake up after a night of slamming back, only to take, only to realise that it was still yesterday

and I died from choking my own vomit. I'd have intense self-loathing. There were times where I stuck my head in a self-made noose and died, forlornly hoping that one day I'd stop coming back from death. One day during the early twenties, when I was busy trying to kill my liver at the local tavern, a couple of red stormed in. Comrats, they shouted, we are looking for revolutionary volunteers for the KPD. They went around, passing out the communist party, and repeating far-left phrases to anyone willing to listen. Finally, they came over to me, and one of them tried to slip a flyer under my elbow. Worker's literature, comrade, I remember him saying. I grabbed the flyer and crumbled it into a ball, tossing it behind me. The red took offense to the gesture and said,

If you are a reactionary type, then maybe it's best you get out of town. We don't need another bootie over the necks of the workers. Rage cooked my body into an inferno, and impulsively, Maybe it's you who should get out of town. If it wasn't for lazy, entitled dicks like you, maybe we would have won the war. I gave my money to the tavern keeper for the liquors I had drunk and shoved past the reds disgusted. Hey, they shouted at me. I was halfway down the street before one of them grabbed me by the shoulder.

Before I could tell them off again, I felt a brick slam into my cheek. I felt teeth come loose, blood run down my throat. I was assailed with clubs, fists, kicks when I fell to the floor. After my head was bludgeoned a few more times, I came too in my bed. My rage from before had turned to pure wrath. To murder me over something as petty as politics, it defied belief. I wanted revenge. Instead of drinking myself into a stupor, I waited in an alley outside the tavern and waited with a knife in hand.

When I pounced, I had the first one in the stomach and sliced him open. He had just enough time to look at me in wide-eyed shock before he spluttered to the ground, before he spluttered to the ground, clutching his intestines. His partner turned and ran, but I followed. Even though my leg protested vehemently at the strain, I caught up to him, tackling him to the ground and pressing my knees into his back. I slammed the knife into his neck over and over again. He died gurgling on the crimson tight. that flowed from his injury. When I stood up, dazed. It's not every day that one commits murder

in broad daylight. I looked to my left to see a grinning man on the sidewalk. He came up to me, gently took the knife from my hands and just as gently pressed a flyer of his own into my hands. Get out of here before someone sees you, he said. And just like that, he walked away. Fearing prosecution for the murder of two Reds, and ran away, fast as I could, back home. hours later, after frantically trying to wash off all the bloodstains from my clothes, I took a look at the flyer the bystander had handed me. It contained a picture of a blonde-haired man, clad in a brown shirt uniform, holding up a red flag, with a white circle in the middle that held a black shape. Not long after that, I started going to the rallies instead of drinking myself stupid. Fritz and I drifted apart.

All I wanted was a confirmation of the torturous deaths I went through and the comrades I failed to save, along the way, despite my gift, were not for nothing. And when they started winning the nexting neighbours without a shot fired, I felt vindicated. I was part of the Uzzatia, Reserve Army when the Second War began, training others and carrying out administrative tasks on the home front. As things dragged on and millions were swallowed up in the fighting, we all wondered which of us would be next.

When I received orders to go to Italy, I felt as sinking feeling in my stomach. I was stationed in what was a quiet sector, leading a small company of men in an Italian backwater hamlet. We were third-rate replacements for people sent to more pressing fronts, and I

knew it. Locals stared at us with daggers in their eyes and hating their hearts. Discipline among the men was poor. Everyone knew the war would be ending soon. So many took the drinking, oogling women, and what have you. It was under these conditions

that a private went missing. After a 15-a' He found his body, Heavoured in a ditch, After I'd in a ditch like garbage. After I heard the news, I excused myself, found a quiet spot from prying eyes,

and blew my brains out. When I came to again, I frantically shouted to the men to do a head count. They didn't understand my urgency until they noticed the missing man. Just this frantically, I had them run to the spot

where I found him last. Unfortunately, he was still dead. I cauldron of anger bubbled inside me. I was done losing people needlessly. As was standard procedure back then, we took hostages, 23 in all, and demanded that the partisans who killed our man revealed themselves. When none came out, we filled the screaming, crying, begging hostages with lead. When it was all over and I had the chance to calm, my throat tasted bitter and I felt self-contempt. A rampant of security and instilled a sense of discipline into the tip, the tip, and the tip, and so did our hostage-taking.

We must have killed well over a hundred from our reprisals. My insights felt like they were churning knives, so I started taking to the bottle again. I had to dull the pain. Things were getting terrible going to 1945. The partisans had become bolder than ever, and the skies were dominated by American planes. One night, and decided to get through by a candlelight. An hour and a half I heard fringesage shouting and gunfire.

Grabbing my coat and sidearm, I dashed out there, asking anyone who could hear what was happening. Partisans, I was told, there must be dozens of them. I tried my best to lead a proper defence, but events were chaotic in the darkness. A bullet hit me in the stomach, and I dropped to the ground in agony, and familiar dance.

Returning to this mortal coil, I remembered which direction the partisans struck us from. Accordingly, I had a platoon set up well-hidden firing positions and booby traps. When the wannabe freedom fighters came into the killbox, they didn't know what hit him. Some were killed running into our traps, but most were simply shot. They were rooted without a single casualty in our side. When it was over and we inspected the battlefield, we counted 12 bodies and 8 prisoners, five of whom were injured. Darkly energized by victory, I had all the prisoners stripped naked. The wounded ones, those two crippled to walk, were doused with water and we left them to freeze.

That left six. We took them to the cellar of some farm's house and we interrogated them. We wanted names, locations, everything. They spat in our faces and called us names, fascist pigs, butchers, sons of whores. We unleashed our hatred upon those young men, whipping them raw, burning their skin with hot iron pokers, and gave out old-fashioned beatings, clubs and boots. We had them executed the next morning, hung to death. God, it makes me sick now, thinking about it.

The last partisan attack I went through, a sniper shot me right in the rib cage. I ended up having to go to an actual hospital to get the bullet out. When I was sent back, the war was in its last months. The company I led was a shadow of its former strength, at only 44 men, and we were getting put near the, the front. Artillery hit us everywhere. There were no German cannons left to contest them. Likewise,

American planes flew unimpeded, bombing and strafing whenever they liked. Under these conditions, one of our soldiers tried to desert. We captured in, though, and the men asked me what should be done. At this stage, desertion could be punishable by summary execution, and after having put myself through hell to make sure everyone got back home safely, this man's attempted desertion felt like a slapped to the face. Despite my anger, I couldn't bring myself to punish him. I knew all too well what it was like to lose one's cool under fire and showed mercy to the poor man. Had my more fanatical superiors found out, it could have meant my job, but I was prepared to take the risk. I felt as though that moment made me realize that there was a way of making sure those under my command could come home.

When Americans advanced in opposition and demanded our surrender, I had the men to arm. Not long after the war ended and we slowly got repatriated back to Germany. There was occupation, rebuilding, restructuring. The post-war years for me felt unreal at first. I feared constantly that the next war was right around the corner that I'd relive yet more deaths again. And when West Berlin was blockaded and the Korean War broke out, I felt like I was counting down the seconds. But it never came. In 54, I decided, I decided,

I could not live in fear forever. I married, had a child, and though I always had fear of a new conflict, I didn't let it dominate my life. I do often think about my gift, or curse, or whatever you want to call it. Looking back in my life,

I wonder if perhaps there was some higher purpose that I was supposed to fulfill that I did not, or if it was supposed to function as penance of a sort. I research precognition to the interwar but records of anyone, but records of me are scarce, much less a meaning to it all.

Here, at age 92, with a Germany now reunited, I have hope for peace and future generations and, well I can't say for certain, I have a feeling that the next death will be my last. There's so much I can't tell you. makes it hard for me to begin. I can't tell you the place, other than it's a desert in the US, far from any city. I can't tell you my job, other than I'm a soldier, have been since Marty Mulhoan

stole my lunch money in the third grade. He went home with a black eye. I went home for a week. I joined up at 18, blew through basic and threw on fatigues for three tours in deserts far from the one I'm stationed at now. I've seen a lot of things. IEDs take legs, a little girl a stray bullet, go down a head, trailing ribbons of brain, like gruesome streamers. I've never seen anything.

Like the flesh pit. My superiors are probably reading this. I'm sure they'll have it scrobed from the internet long before it's breached the stratosphere. Not that it matters to me. I'll be dead by the time it's over. I'm going to end myself. It's not the answer.

Suicide never is, but I want to be in control of my death. You'll understand why soon enough. It's growing, even as I write this now. It's injuring its way towards the taxpayers we're supposed to protect. But we can't protect them from this. Not the flesh pit. We don't know what it is, where it came from. We don't know how to destroy it. Not yet, anyway. We only know that it grows. That it is. It eats. It's a massive sinkhole in the desert crossed, a fleshy, expanding every day, minute, second. It's miles wide now. Wasn't that big when I first got here? It was no bigger than a swimming pool. Its fleshy walls caving down into a deep, sunken cavity that bubbled, shifted, moved like melted cheese in a simmering pot.

Looking at it made my stomach curl with nausea. But the smell I've known Of the sense of brain matter blackened by gunpowder Of disembowed guts cooking on the desert pan After an ID Tudor Humveita scrap

This Was worse A damp, rotten reek That tunnelled up your nose Down your lungs And settled into your chest nesting there Like a dead thing in the walls of the house

A smell that usurps all others Wingering Even when you've left a flesh bit behind. You'll never smell anything else again. I've been here for five days. Got here two days after he's discovered. By then, checkpoints were scattered around its circumference. Sandbags, tanks, coils of concertina wire, four men high. Over night, that was all gone, including the two dozen seasoned grunts stationed around the perimeter. The flesh bit had taken Uncle Sam's sanctioned guns and assimilated them into its living walls. No one knows how it only know. They only know that by morning it was the size of a football field.

It was going faster than we could blink, ever expanding, eating away at the cracked desert skin, turning it into a shifting layer of flesh. Higher ups wondered it contained, needed it contained, destroyed preferably. It was only a matter of time before the media circus fell out of the clown. cars and protected this living nightmare. that was where I entered stage right. sort of. Like I said, I can't say much more than I already have. They'll know who posted this. But it's not for my safety.

It's for yours. The less you know, the better. Which means you shouldn't go poking around for the SEA. That's the supernatural enforcement agency. I'm only telling you, of context. Other than that, you do best to on what you already know. the media talking heads do their dirty work.

It's their job after all. You might be wondering how I got involved with the SEA. It's simple. I'd seen things overseas. The usual horrors of war. Death, torture, ruin. But I'd seen other things too. Dealt with them in a way that promoted me to an acronym agency after I'd finished my toll.

That was how I found myself in the SEA. Not to say I wore a tie in aviators smoked over my eyes. I still wore a uniform, with medals, made me seem important, which I guess is true. I was, after all, the one they brought in when a perfect town, the one that lived on no maps, went up in flames, and when the ocean devoured a seaman on a mission down a ladder. If I do die, which I suspect I will,

you'll be hearing more I have a dead man's one said to release to the ether because despite the flesh bit the worst of the horrors there's other things you deserve to know about to be prepared for

if nothing else the siren sounded at midnight it cracked the darkness in half a keen and cry that sent 400 armed soldiers flooding out of barracks and into formation all of them

jittering. Someone with nerves, with the knowledge, the shirming siren meant one thing. The flesh pit was here. The impressive maze of mobile buildings, tents and watchtowers that comprised base camp alpha and sat behind a chain link fence

three miles south of the flesh pit was alive with activity. CPO screamed orders to their men. Magazines were pumped into rifles. A wall of guns fell into place along the chain link fence. sited out, or,

what used to be the desert. I wasn't there, but if I was, I would have called a full-scarer retreat. What else could we do? As I took my place atop the foremost watchtower, angered guns on either side of me,

their belt magazines cold up like steam-bunk snakes. I saw the desert was gone. In its place, stood a sunken, shifting concave that radiated and piqued that awful, fetid reek. The flesh pit had melted away the desert sands.

The flesh pit was all I saw to the horizon and back. Flood lights clicked on along the fence, planting bars of cold brightness out across the 50 feet desert separating us from death. The flesh bit had gotten deeper. I could tell by the way darkness spilled out of its center like it had punctured Mother Earth's heart and blood that looked like a shadow

as she died. Should I I hesitated. I my thoughts solidified before they formed. Up until now I'd merely dealt with the aftermath of disaster, not the catalyst of it. It made it hard to think. It made it hard to an arm shut up over the rim of the flesh pit,

grasping for purchase. It pulled out a body, one of which looked like a man and moved like a man who'd forgotten how to walk. He found its footing ground, took an uneven step, another, another, staggering forward like a zombie in an old black and white picture. A soldier's called it out. I watched it slowly get the hang of movement. Its footing becoming more certain, powerful, like its astrophied muscles were solidifying with strength. Permission to fire, the gunna beside me called into his headset, finger nuzzling the trigger of his mounted lNG. A guardwood voice came back, and his finger left the trigger with a pang of disappointment.

I watched the thing approached, a lurching silhouette moving just beyond the range of light, quickly nearing the fence line separating us from it. A nearby mounted loudspeaker, aimed at the pit, came to light with a squeal. Identify yourself. A hollow, roared out. The vigor continued forward, moving like a marionette in the hands of an unskilled

puppeteer. I squinted. Then it stepped into the light and a bolt of horror slugged me through the centre like a clenched fist. Jesus Christ! The gunner beside me hissed.

Jesus! The man who moved like a broken toy was made of nothing but flesh. Faceless, featureless, and twisted parody of a human being, cast in melted, and given life

given life by something alien and awful. A voice filtered through the gunner's headset and his finger found the trigger once more. I plugged my ears

as gunfire split the night and two. A spray of bullets cut the fleshmen apart. His top half fell forward with a heavy smack bubbling out across what remained

of the desert ground like liquid meat. But he didn't stop. His bottom off, picking up pace, breaking into a heavy sprint toward the fence line. As his pale feet, each hairless, knellless, trembled through the puddle of goo, it sucked up into its form like a sponge. His top half re-grew as he took an impossible leaping stride toward the fence. He impacted it with a metal clang and skittered up, more arms sprouting from his form, turning him into a flesh spider as it cut up through the razor wire.

The harp still scraps of bleeding meat from its body, but it didn't stop. It fell over the fence and onto the knot of soldiers below, tearing through them as gunfire erupted and chaos fell over base camp alpha. My hand found my side arm as I watched the flesh pit. I could feel something brewing deep within it. It vibrated up through the soles of my feet, shaking my lungs and teeth above them. An army of things filtered up over the rim, flooding out like a chasm of an arm. plants fleeing a drowning hive.

Flesh men. Flesh things rust the fence line like an army of meat. Tanks of skin drove up over the lip and fell forward, charging towards us and blowing meaty clubs of liquid goo into the light. It assimilates and copies, I thought, as my word broke like a vase dropped from six stories. It's John Carpenter's the thing. Then I fell down the tower stairs.

and ran like hell. the night was a disco, gunfire and blood, grenades went off left and right, sprays of desert pan flew up on fireballs, riding them like geysers of heat. The fence light folded like paper as the army of meat drove through it.

Flesh things, spiders, dogs, men, tore through the ranks, vaporizing soldiers, engulfing them in bubbling meat and turning them against mankind. Gunfire rattled to the air, as screaming troopers fell away from the fence line, and the expanding flesh bit. I belted down a row of tents, past the young man with his surface pistol tucked up against his mind. He squeezed the trigger and dropped like a sack of flower. His thoughts and feelings sprang out in a gory fountain.

I ran towards my digs, ran for all I was worth, my breath, whipsawing, legs pumping and aching and... Something swept into view ahead of me, and I stumbled to a halt. My heart was beating against the walls of my ribs, beating and desperate to get out. My stomach knotted up as I stared at the thing blocking my egress. It was 15 feet high, a juggernaut of raw muscle, its head like the top of a tank, a massive meat barrel jutting out from a hexagonal slab of flesh. Its thick, grubby hands culled up into meaty fists.

Every muscle and its incredible forms strained out Going tense as it redded its artillery To blow me away in a burning gob of flesh It's going to turn me into a flesh man I mused as I stuck my pistol under my chin Screw that I had time to think Before I squeezed the trigger Click

The safety saved me from blowing out my brains Which was good Because the instant I fingered the trigger the tankman erupted in a burning welter of flesh. hot ribbons of meat exploded pell-mell as a grenade went off by its feet, taking him down in a fiery flash. All at once, the screams and cries and tattoos of gunfire was replaced by a deep ringing,

like a bell buried deep within my mind had been struck by a sledgehammer. I watched with mounting horror as the splatter remains of the tank man bubbled and reformed, growing into a dozen creatures on either side of me, I found my strength, desperate, desperate, from. hands grabbed me off, pull me off, the alley of tents. I looked up, a soldier looked back, a human one, face painted in blood and grime and

resolve. He said something to me, something I didn't hear over the tin of tinnitus the grenade had left, echoing through my head. What? I cried. He pointed forward as we stumbled along. Just ahead, I saw a black beast lift off into the sky. A helicopter.

Its mounted a fire at the earth below. There were two others still anchored to the ground beneath it. They rotors whipping up walls of dust as they prepared to lift off, to leave the nightmare behind. The soldier, whose name I never learned, shoved me into the black hawk. My ear is still singing, and now wet with what could only be blood. He clambered him behind me, shouldering off his m4 carbine as the ground pulled away from us. He socketed the gun to his arm and began firing off tight bursts into knots of flesh things, shredding through the ground below. I watched like a person in a movie theatre.

My screen, the small sliding door, etched through the belly of the chopper. I watched as desperate men screamed and waved, begging us to return. I watched as they were devoured by flesh things raging through Base Camp Alpha like a place. I saw crackles of light as the off in futile protest of the war against the clusters of flames burned bright, sending flocks of sparks floating up into the midnight sky. Men died, bled, screamed.

As we drew further away from the earth, I saw that nearly half of the camp was gone, crumpled down into the sunken, living pit of flesh. I sat that way with my ears ringing, and my head pounding and watched base cam alpha shrink into the distance. Nothing but the flesh bit behind it as far as the eye could see. And I knew, as I know now, that it would never stop growing, eating. He won't stop until it's replaced the whole world with an ocean of meat.

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I'm sure I'll be dead by tomorrow. But I need to let people know this thing is loose. I'm an agent with the United States government. My station is BlackSight 7. I won't tell you my name. It would probably be useless to you. But this was not how I saw my life going. I spent six years in Iraq, signed up right after high school, and it was nothing like the recruiter told me it would be.

I spent eight years in the blistering heat, hauled my fair share of comrades out of firefights, and saw a lot of hell over there that would make normal people go crazier than I might be. I've had camel spiders calling me while I sleep, watch friends I've known since basic, get decapitated through binoculars, burnt houses full of insurgents and civilians to rubble. and when I was done, they gave me my papers, thanked me home, and sent me home. I know I have no right to complain. Many guys didn't make it back, but home was worse. I'd spent the last eight years in an active combat zone, and now I was just supposed to come home and go back to civilian life. I spent three months home, two of those months spent in a crappy apartment

because my parents couldn't handle the night terrors and the jumpy marine that had come back. before I knew it wasn't going to work. Every carhorn, every firework rattling in the street had me reaching for my gun and breaking into a sweat when I couldn't find it. Before T.J. found me. I was considering suicide. Then one day, he's just at my door with a big cheesy grin he'd always worn. You look like hell, house. Let's get some pancakes. I've got something I want to discuss with you.

T.J. was my platoon leader in the sandbox. They called him the comedian, because he was always smiling. He was a functional sociopath. He was but I always admired his ability to laugh in the face of such messed up stuff. T.J. was not his real name, but since he's still in the mess that I've left behind, I figure the best I can do is not remind them that he's why I'm here. He took me out to breakfast and in the back of a crowded denies he laid it all out for me. You've got it bad house, he said, but that's okay, because good old uncle T.J. has the cure for you. I've got a new job, familiar work that might interest you. Ever hear of two trees? I had. Two trees was a government institution that, on the surface, did a lot of medical research and clinical trials. Underneath, though, they did wet work, and anyone who was involved in covert ops knew about two trees. We'd worked with them a few times in Iraq, and their guys were spooky, you're looking at the new head of Blacksight 7.

I throwed my brow at him. Congratulations? Should I know what that is? Of course not. It's a closely guided government secret, and two trees is paying me a small fortune to keep it that way, too. Problem is, I need someone to curate the site for me. Someone with military training, experienced for the firearms, and a need for some normalcy. Know anyone like that? I knew what he was asking, but I didn't think I was who he was looking for.

I hadn't found work in the three months I'd been back, and most of that was because I couldn't settle into anything. I was constantly jumpy, constantly on edge, and that makes it hard to find work. No one wants you doing security or mining a gas station when every backfiring car was an enemy combatant. What would happen if I had an episode in a government facility? I shook my head.

Thanks, but, I don't think I'm fit for duty Yeah, I thought you might say that. He said, putting a metal tin in front of me. Your medical files read like a benchmark for PTSD. Night terrors, irritability, being on edge. Those irrational bouts of anger, they get you thrown out to your parents' house.

He added with a little smirk. I felt offensive. How do you know about that? You'll be surprised what my level of clearance will get you. Your therapist records are about as hard to get as a beer at a little, well, well, welcome, welcome, he said, indicating the silver case. The case was as big as an altruid's tin. There were no markings, filigree or needless ornament, and a distinctly surgical look. I slid my hand toward it, but it didn't seem to want to touch it.

Every sense I had told me to walk away now, not to touch it and just walk away from this unassuming little case. I forced my hand to pop it open instead. Inside was a pair of pale, grey gel caps. What are these? These are the answers to your prayer. Two of these a day will make you feel as calm and clear as you did when you were a mere lad of 18. No more jumping at every noise, no more reaching for you come when a dog barks or a car backfires. Just peace of mind. I imagine now that this is what metastophily sounded like when he spoke to Faust. What's the catch? These pills are only available through the two trees corporation. Employees who agreed to be part of the clinical trial get them free of charge, but they're only available to employees. He said with a little grin, take them,

take a day to feel the effects and let me know what you think. Call me tomorrow and give me your answer. Enjoy a night of freedom. Then make a decision. I took the pills home with me and, after a few hours of staring at them, I took them with some vodka. The effects were instantaneous. If you've never had PTSD, then it's hard to explain, but it's like having a loose wire that someone fixes, and then you go back to the way you were. My anxiety melted away, my fear dissipated, my unease and dread were gone, and my anger seemed like a distant memory. I was sitting in my crappy apartment surrounded by the trappings of my depression and my anxiety, and so, Suddenly, before I had before I had before I had before I had to basic training. I was finally comfortable in my own head, and it was like coming back to a comfortable place

after years of running from danger. After the first good night's sleep I'd had since shipping out, I called T.J. and told him I was in. One question, I asked. What's in the pills that make them work so well? He was silent for a long minute before saying, You really don't want to back your stuff. There'll be a truck to move you to West Virginia in the morning. And that's how I came to work at Black Sight 7.

I must have looked like a junkie by the time I pulled up in front of my new home. I didn't have much. The truck had taken all four boxes into the deep woods as I followed in my old compact. The journey was about 16 hours and by the time I got there I started to feel the anxiety creep back in. I became angry at how slow the truck was going, afraid that this whole thing was a trick so they could kill me, and found myself wanting to die when I saw TJ standing at the gates of what looked like an old military checkpoint. He flashed that knowing smile and handed me another silver case. I dry swallow the pills without a word and felt the inner piece worming back across my brain. Then he showed me to my quarters.

It was a little bunk room with a bunk bed, a kitchenette and lockers of my own. for clothes. There was a foot locker my personal stuff and I was told to keep the space clean. I would be responsible for the site and his security. He showed me a little terminal off the bedroom with monitors and camera feeds.

The compound had cameras all over the place but I appeared to be the only person actually there. The site is mostly for storage these days but is what we get up to here at night that may interest you. That's why you're here. I need someone I can trust to watch the site 24 hours a day

seven days a week. Four times a year, you'll be relieved, but other than that, this is your new world. That didn't bother me. I had no problem being alone, but I was curious to what I was doing out here. What am I looking for exactly? T.J. pointed at three buildings on the camera. Keep nosy people out of there, lethal force is authorized, and don't ever go in there, or I'll have to show you at black citators. He said it with a smile, but the smile didn't cross his eyes. Don't worry about being vigilant, though. If anything bigger than a mouse moves out there, the alarms will let you know about it. He told me that my food will be delivered once a week, mostly MREs, and I could order

anything I wanted from the terminal in the living quarter. There was a workout yard near the second building, and I could move through the woods if I chose, as long as I took my phone with me, so I could get alerts from the console. By the way, hand me your phone. He said, And when I did, he put it in his pocket. And then he's your new phone. I'll take the keys to your car too and put the money from it in your account. This is your life now, house. Don't take this job lightly.

If you leave the grounds, we'll know. If you try to update social media or try to tell anything on the outside about what you've seen here, we'll know. If you want to marry or feel like you need out, arrangements can be made after your first five-year tour. As far as anyone is concerned, you no longer exist. Don't be stupid You'll reassess your He grinned again He grinned me in the arm

Enlighten up This will be the easiest five years of your life From that point on I was an employee of two trees Tj had been right though The first five years flew by I lived in the site Spending my days working out or watching TV

Playing the latest video games And watching the newest movies and, guarding this black sight I never tried to get into the warehouses. I had been a soldier long enough to know to check my curiosity and the scares were minimal. The food kept coming,

the pills that kept me in my right mind kept coming, and it was pretty peaceful, all told. The alarms, to my knowledge, I only went off three times in that first year and two of those times it was a deer who had wandered too close. The first time it happened, I had slunked out in a panic,

service pistol and hand. and boxer shorts flapping, as I ran out of the first warehouse, who darted away before I could draw a bead on her. It was kind of a special moment for me. I had never seen a deer up close, and as it ran away, I was glad I hadn't shot it. The third time, it had been a person. The first person I had seen in three months. I had been sitting at the console one night, watching a Marvel movie, when the alarm went

off. I paused the movie, expecting to see a bear in the monitor, but my eyes went wide when I realised it was a person. He had a crowbar, and he was attempting to pry open the door. He must have come out to the woods, because if he had driven up, I'd have known about him much sooner. It had been three months since I'd seen a person, not since Agent Docherty had come to relieve me for a week of R&R in September, and the idea of seeing a person not connected with two trees, made me feel weird. Even when you went to a company resort, or a company place full of company people, so you didn't get a little too drunk and talk about all the stuff you did for your country. I took my pistol outside and crept up on him in near silence.

When my foot came down on an extra crunchy stick, he turned his head and noticed me, raising the crowbar as if to attack. The gun went off without me having even spoken to him, reflexes taken over and dropping the threat before he could become a real danger. his left eye popped like an overripe fruit, and he fell down on the hard December ground. I called T.J., and he had some other men in suits come and assess the damage. You did just right, House. He was a threat to the facility and needed to be put down.

Don't think for a minute that this reflects Paul Yunya. What will you do with him? I asked. T.J. smiled. Immediate disposal, house. Think you've got the stomach to help us. I found that I did, and once he was doused in gasoline, we set him ablaze on the edge of the property. They gave me an extra week of R&R, and when I came back, T.J. decided that I was worthy of being brought in on certain things. The alarms went off a week after I came back, and I saw T.J. stepping out of a black car and waving at me.

I slid my shoulder holster on and went out to meet him. As I approached the vehicle, two other men in suits were bringing a man with a bag on his head out of to the car. He was wearing scrubs, his hands bound behind his back, and I could hear him crying beneath the black hoodie wore. I looked between them, waiting for an explanation, and TJ threw an arm around me and walked me towards a spot where we burn the trespasser. House, I think it's time we bring you in on the second reason for this black sight. You see, sometimes Tudrice has assets that need to be eliminated. The black sites are often used for these purposes, but it's always the responsibility of the

to carry out these eliminations. Why wasn't I told I asked, feeling indignant? I'm no murderer. Oh, well, those combatants in Iraq will be glad to hear that, weren't they? He said, almost snidly. That was war, T.J., this is murder. Think of this as War II house.

These people are the enemy, and they need to be eliminated for the good of public safety. It's part of the Job House, a part I know firsthand that you're capable. of. They put the man on his knees, and he knelt, and he stood around him, "'Put him down, house, that's an order,' T.J. said. I looked at him, icily. And, if I won't, the two men with him drew their guns, and T.J. grinned. Then I'm afraid that these men will have to execute both of you. Come on, House, don't throw this away over some nobody. He's no

different than the man outside the warehouse. I wish now that I'd just let them shoot me, but I guess if I had, you'd never know about any of this. Instead, I drew up my gun and put a bullet in his skull, glaring at TJ as his buddy's put their guns away. You made the right choice house. Who knows, you might not have to do this more than a dozen times in the next four years. I executed an asset a month after that. There were mostly people in scrubs, people in lab coats, doctors, people who would likely try to steal from whatever facility they worked at. There were men and women, old men and scared 20-somethings. I never bothered learn their names. They were just assets to be eliminated and I became kind of none to the process. We burned them afterward. Gasoline and fire

made it like they were never there and the spot near the edge had a childlocked it after a while. At the end of five years, T. T. T. I asked if I wanted to re-up. What happens if I walk away? I asked. I was eating dinner when he'd come by, and he sat down to over plate of fettuccini with me. Given my free time, I had learned to do a good number of things I couldn't before. I became a pretty good cook, learned to play guitar, read every book on the shelf, and there was a chain-sor-out back, along with some sculptures I'd made with it. I couldn't say I had had. I couldn't say I had to hadn't enjoyed, the killings aside, but I was curious to know if they'd actually let me leave.

You'll be allowed to return to the real world, your bank account fuller and your retirement substantial. Just watch what you say out there. I'd hate to bring you back for your replacement to put a bullet in. I ended up signing up for another five years. I shouldn't have done that. I was eight years deep when they brought the girl in the black bag to me. It was 2 a.m. and I started to think about bed when the alarm went off. I liked with T. He was not the one who climbed out of the black town car. This guy had his hair slicked back and his suit was an immaculate blue pinstripe. He did not wave at me and I felt a sense of dread as I grabbed my gun. Somehow I expected T.J. to be under the bag this time. The man's name was Stein and he didn't have T.J. under the bag. What he did have was a kid

with a thick, and I couldn't tell at first, if it was a girl or boy. They were dressed in baggy clothes, Salvation Army rags that a homeless guy would be embarrassed to wear, and they were crying loudly under their hood. Two familiar men had the kid, and they looked stoic about the whole matter. Stein didn't say anything, just led the procession over to the chart spot and put the kid on their knees. When he made no move to remove the hood, I did it myself. He wince,

This was my place My job, and I garnered a reputation A professional, a reputation I was about to ruin. The bag came off, and the little girl's tear-street face came into view in the harsh fluorescence. Her hair was cut short, dirty blonde and hacked pieces,

and her face was covered in bruises. The nose looked broken, and her lip was split, the blood trickling like red tears. I sighed, looking at Stein, as the gun stayed at the hell is this. Stein looks surprised. It's an asset. DJ said, you handled these for us.

Handle the asset. This is a kid, barely old enough to wipe her an ass. What could you have possibly done? Stein's face was stony. Yours is not to question, soldier. Liquidate this asset or be liquidated. I looked at the kid, her whole face shaking as the tears and blood fell. and thoughts about watching a head pop like a grape.

This wasn't some scared adults, some stoic old man, some praying woman, or some cursing thing with shallow skin. This was a kid. I'd killed many people, more in my time here than I ever had during the war. But I was still a professional. And professionals had standards. No, I said.

Stein blinked. What? No, I won't kill a kid. Do it yourself. The two men drew their guns, and I was transported back to the first time. I was standing there, two days after Christmas, watching T.J. Grin and tell me the rules. Now, I was standing in the woods, the autumn leaves carpting the ground, feeling sure they would soon drink both my blood and the girls. I will give you till the count of three to kill the girl. After that point, you will both be executed.

One. The guns were unwavering, but so was my resolve. Two. I closed my eyes. Three. I heard the sound, Like wet concrete splitting open. It was followed by a high-pitched scream and a pair of bodies hitting the ground. I opened my eyes and saw Stein running towards the town car, the two men who'd be holding me at gunpoint bleeding out on the ground from large grisly neck wounds. As I watched Stein run, a rust red something snapped out and caught him the back of the neck, dropping him inches from the town car.

I looked back in the thing had snapped out from and saw that the girl was now a mass of red spikes, segmented like spiders. Her face had split long ways, forcing her face into a grizzly sideways more. The area between the teeth gloated deep red and I could see the eyes of the girl's face blinking erratically.

The two hars of a smile grinning at me. I figured for the second time that day that I was going to die, but she scudled off into the woods instead, walking on a strange spider appendages as she crashed to the trees. I stood there for a few minutes, not quite sure I believed I wasn't dead. And then I started running too. I crashed through the woods for hours, running in no particular direction, sure that at any minute, the creature or a helicopter from two trees would follow me and either rip me apart or blow me away. I had blended off with no wallet, no cell, just my gun and the clothes I've been wearing. was the phone how they tracked me. T. T. T. T. Hasn't said much, maybe. And the ground went from under me. I felt the air drop out of my lungs. I felt five feet off a mud ledge and skinned my hand. My knees hurt where I landed on them,

and I realized pretty quickly that I'd fallen onto a road. If I thought it might be an illusion, the headlights that pinned me to the ground a moment later left me with little doubt. Thankfully, the truck stopped, and after a short conversation with the driver, he offered to take me That's how I came to be here. In this dingy hotel that just happens to have a computer in the lobby. Sold the gun for about $500 and I figure

I'll disappear soon as I'm done writing this. They know I'm gone by now, but I don't know if they think I'm dead or if they think I fled. Either way, they'll find me, I'm sure. I'm more worried about that little girl that's loose in the woods and whatever it is that's living beneath the surface of her. if you see a young girl with short,

dirty blonde hair, do not approach her. I don't know if she killed those men to get away, or if she killed them because she wanted to, but she should be considered dangerous if you encounter her in the wild. And if a man from two trees offers you a job, do not become the curator for BlackSight 7. The job is definitely not all it appears to be. The Deepwater Horizon was one of the biggest man's,

made disasters in the infamous title, holding the largest disaster in the history of the US, ever since its fatal explosion in the Gulf of Mexico 41 miles offshore from civilization. What they don't tell you is that the deep water horizon, caught in one of the worst disasters the world has seen, wasn't the only one, like many others recorded in the documents and files, known to the press and public. For highly classified and non-disclosure agreements that I've signed, I am expected not to be revealing this publicly. Unfortunately for me, I do not have much time left in this world. Recently, I've been diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer from specialists and doctors alike,

with the excessive heavy smoking that I'd picked up as a stress reliever to get away from the memories and nightmares that had been plaguing me ever since that damned surgeon rescue operation to Watchtower 1. Speaking of which, Watchtower 1 wasn't the original name for the Earl Rig, as they had changed its names several times to avoid whistleblowers. As such, I, unfortunately, cannot disclose the true identity of the facility to avoid those who poke their noises into the operation that I had longed and yearned to forget. This is purely my recount and guilt reliever to get the weighing matters off my chest before I leave this godforsaken world for good.

You see, on November 4, 2018, I joined the CDC, also known as the centres with the mindset with the mindset and pretext, giving medical attention relating medical supplies to those who are living in disease-ridden third-world countries.

For the first two years, that was the case. Baving my way through college and earning my biomedicine degree after the army, naturally, the CDC seemed like a good job offered to take up with it being the apex of healthcare professions after my graduation.

When they had examined, except to my job application, I was thrilled, nonetheless, I would not be working for them as a standard health scientist, during which I was informed that a field in the CDC was lacking in manpower and workers, demanding that if I were to take up the job offer, I would be part of a security task force team, specialising in crucial search and rescue missions, and escort of personnel from the CDC and civilians alike. It wasn't the kind of work that I had in mind when I joined the CDC, but it was a high-paying job. for a beginner like a good job offer, so I had just thought that I had been in the military, so I was pretty well suited for the job.

The third field assignment that I had received earlier came with skepticism. Codename Operation Hammerdown, alongside with my team of five personnel in total, consisting of four security officers and me, was supposed to receive a distress call coming from an offshore deep-water oil drilling rig, also known as a Watchtower 1 in the Atlantic Ocean to rescue and the rest of the rigged personnel who were on board at the time of a seemingly aggressive encounter with an unresponsive mutilated figures coming aboard the platform from the vessel that has been seen to have fatal injuries covering the entirety of their bodies exhibiting rabid and hostile behavior in terms of jerky

and shuffling motions towards the crew. Those who would try to establish physical contact with the figures have been seen to also exhibit sudden violent and aggressive tendencies within a couple of minutes, and therefore have been quarantined and separated from the rest of the crew on board. The massive scientific research vessel had coincidentally crashed into the drilling rig during a hurricane-like storm in the sea at 2,200 hours, and had gotten stuck and lodged into the pillars, as documents and recorded information about the call state. The distress call came in at around midnight, as the connection had abruptly halted from unknown reasons, possibly from the storm itself, gearing up my issued equipment and loading up into the M4 carbine, I strapped and tightened the bulky black tinted gas mask around my face

as I dunder heavy, yellow rubber hazmat suit with an accompanying tactical vest at the outside, strapping considerable lengths of heavy-duty duct tape around my wrist and legs and sealing them up to prevent air from entering and escaping. I exited the decontamination chamber, drenched in the cleansing water and the heavy downpour of the rain as the roar of the raw of the as it resounded throughout the slippery

with occasional thunder that boomed in the distance. The rest of the security team waved to me, all clad in the same yellow protective suits, sitting in their respective seats. Upon boarding the helicopter, the ground crew outside gave the helicopter one last exterior check before giving an all-clear thumbs up to the pilot and co-pilot

before shutting the metal door in a quick and swift slam, locking it into play. place. Torrents, the size of the top, pelt at the top, the helicopter vigorously, sounds at their impact drowned out by the blade of the helicopter as it gradually hovered above the ground before taking off. Call signs, background static, and garboured voices chatted over the communications radio built into a hazmat suit, as the shaky chopper ride to the oil rig was carried out, mostly in silence, apart from the constant droning of the radio and the howl of the helicopter

blades. I thought that our weapons would protect us. I thought that this mission was just a simple extraction operation. I was so wrong. Rudely stirred from a short power nap by the shrill announcement of the pilot, implying our arrival, the helicopter shuddered against the force of the unrelated downpour of rain, stealing a glance at the electronic clock hanging on the wall of the helicopter.

It read in brightly lit red numbers, 3.23 a.m. The exterior window of the helicopter was covered in a thick layer of water, as the world outside the helicopter was shrouded in vast, thick and black void, with nothing except the mesmerizing wave-stricken ocean as far as the eye could see through the dense curtain of rain. Vulture 2-2, platform coming into view. Feet dry in 20 seconds, the pilot radioed. The surrounding void of darkness engulfing the sea gradually became brighter and brighter, as a massive behemoth of a structure, seemingly rising out of the sea,

came into view outside the blurry, window. Ah, we have an unvisual status on personnel in the rig. Break? The words came over the radio, slow and drawn out as the helicopter circled around the brightly lit drilling rig with a massive visible black reefer vessel half sunken and stuck into two of the platform pillars, causing it to slightly bend and tilt over to an unstable angle.

My jaw hung agape as another unsettling image of the rig soon came into view, this time at the off-pad. The offshore helicopter used to transport from the shore to the rig was seen sprawled flat on the landing pad, wrecked tail dangling over the edge, and the body of the rest of the helicopter torn to shreds with the chopper's blade hanging loosely at its sides. Scratches and damage could be seen visible on the wrecked metal bird laying on the pad, as giant violent waves slammed against the concrete pillars of the rig, causing the lights of the infrastructure to flicker each time. from the impact. Copy that. Radio check

switch the secure channel over. The co-pilot radioed. The overhead door buzzer sounded as the interior of the helicopter lit up in a dazzling red light. Two of my squad mates, Corporal Jackson and Sergeant Volcker's stood from their seats with assault rifle strapped tightly to their vest as they simultaneously gripped the handles and heaved both of the adjacent doors open with grunts. Gosts of stormwind and rain whipped around in the interior as I'm in the interior as I'm not as I'mult as I'melighted in the handles. and the rest of the task force prepared ourselves for insertion. Greenlight, go, go. Thick, black fibre ropes dropped down from the top of both helicopter doors as Corbel Jackson and Sergeant Volkers were the first to grab onto the ropes and slide down.

I followed suit after them as the rain violently pelted against my fogged up gas mask, obstructing most of my view. Swiftly sliding down the rope as my boots slammed onto the metal platform. I quickly drew the M4 assault rifle and switched the safety off, As I noticed my other two teammates who were already in position, assault rifles trained on a rusty metal steel door a couple of feet away. Sounds of sliding and boots hitting the wet ground could be heard behind me, as the other two squad members, corporal staples and specialist Maxion rendezvoused with us,

assault rifle's crackling and clicking into place, as the whole team filed into combat stance, weapons drawn at the ready. Whiskey 3, this is Vulture 2-2 at Bingo Fuel. We're bugging out of here for refuel and resupply. Godspeed. Over. The helicopter hovered above us for a second, before rising up and circling the rig for another minute, before soon flying back into the distance, the sounds of turning blades quickly disappearing and masked by the incessant pinterbatter of rain and thunder. The surroundings around me were grimly lit by the overhead lights of the rig as a loud, stressed, groan of the infrastructure echoed throughout its walls and floors. Sarge raised his hand and motioned for us to toggle the flashlights on our guns to operational, as he was a loud.

took the lead, with the metal door, with the rest of the team still vigilant and following after him. Approaching the worn down and corroded metal door, we stepped aside and divided ourselves into two sections, each on either opposite sides of the door, and pressed against the crime-coated wall, awaiting further instructions. Breathing heavily through the fogged up mask, I could still make out the powerful lingering smell of decay and decades of rusting metal as the platform squeaked noisily under our weight. Sergeant Volker's motioned hand,

while carrying his rifle in the other hand, as we mentally steeled ourselves for a breach into the facility. On my mark, 3, 2, 1. Breach. The metal door flew forcefully open on its hinges with a slight dent in its body, from Sergeant's leg kick, as we noisely chambered through the doorways,

guns and eyes transfixed on the front as everyone piled into the small corridor, dimly lit with constant foot, flickering of overhead lights. Room cleared. The small corridor, basked in yellow-green hue by the lighting, led to a metal-graded flight of stairs leading downwards as we cautiously stepped over the debris stream flooring, the sounds of constant dripping rainwater leaking from the metal walls fading into the background as I followed behind Sergeant Volker's, with the rest of the team trailing in a single file after us. Upon descending down the flight of stairs, we were instantly hit in the face with an unmistakable,

sickly, a smell of blood, concentrated enough to permeate and filter through our gas masks, causing one of the team members training behind us, Specialist Maxine, to bend over and gag as he used as a saw rifle to leverage to keep himself from falling over. Jesus Christ, what in the world actually happened here? Specialist Maxine remarked through the radio, the distinctive sounds of his coughing mixed with a fuzz and the white static emitted through the speakers.

I shone the weapon tight in my hands, I shone the flashlight attached to the barrel of the gun onto an unlit section of the corridor, with the beam of the light falling upon a frame of a person dressed in a matching orange reflective taped jacket and pants lying against the wall. I momentarily started my tracks as I stared in shock at the scene that lay in front of me,

dread gripping tightly at my sides. Figure spotted 11 o'clock, I briefly announced, Stepping towards the figure, weapons still drawn and aiming down at it with a barrel flashlight. Advancing towards this person, I'd noticed that the surrounding walls and floors he was lying in were coated in a sickly, crimson red liquid, and the sickly smell of blood, growing more and more concentrated, the lingering, oppressive feeling of dread, growing densely in the pit of my stomach the closer I stepped, the sounds of my boots softly clanking against the floor. The rest of the team stuck behind, guns trained on the body.

Sir, are you all right? I kneeled down, as I gently shock him. The rifle clutched in my other hand. No response. As I slowly tried to lift up his face, I held one gloved hand around his chin for better support, as I repeated my question.

Sir, do you... Oh my God. I record backwards in disgust and terror, letting go from his chin as he limply slumped back forward, hordes of tiny, wrigglingling. maggots and brownish-grubling out from his mouth and onto his lap as they wriggled about vigorously in protest to the beam of light that shone upon them. What the hell?

What the actual hell? What happened to him? Corporal staple said in disgust through the radio, his expression turning sour. Eyes glued upon the dead body lying in the corridor. Sergeant Volkis exchanged glances with specialist Maxine as he inspected the dead body, leaning in for a better look. Poor guy He's likely, most likely,

on board the rig. He said, bending and picking up a small identification card and slung loosely around the worker's neck, examining it. Let's get moving. We've got business to attend to. After a couple of minutes, I'm making a way to the end of the dimly lit corridor, we came across another huge metal door, this time with an accompanying faded label,

which read, cafeteria. I tried the greasy handle as the huge door remained wedged, suddenly. Suddenly, a shrill, feminine, ear-pacing scream, an animalistic howls could be heard coming from the other side of the door as soon as I tried to jingle the handle

for the second time. I flinched by instinct as the whole team jolted weapons trained on the door. But as soon as the chilling screams and howls resonated through the corridor, it had stopped as quickly as it had started. Hello, Miss, please respond. We are here to help you.

I shouted through the metal, holstering my weapon, as I cupped my hands against the door to amplify my voice. My pleas for a verbal response came empty-handed, as the muffled sounds of shuffling feet, and slow metal scraping against the floor could be hurt from the other side. Damn, we've got to get to her. She might be injured. Corporal Jackson said beside me, stepping forward as he lifted the barrel of his rifle and aimed in the direction of the metal handle. Breach as it illuminated the crammed, in dazzling, and the sparks flew from the handle itself. The heavy metal doors swung wide open after two consecutive kicks, and we quickly filed into the pitch-black caveteria through the doorway, breath's panting as the beams of light from our weapons shook around violently

violently in our horrid states. As we fully composed ourselves and calmed down, the entire cafeteria became eerily quiet. Apart from the muffled thunder outside and our breathing through the masks, We scanned our flashlights around in the pitch-black room, in search of the source of the screams that came earlier. I was still breathing heavily through my mask, the steam from my breaths, quickly blocking and quickly limiting my view from the eye-holes. The whole room was deathly silent for a full minute, with nobody saying a word with bated breaths. We stood in our positions and used the narrow beams of our flashlights to scan around and illuminate the surroundings,

as light fell over a scene of broken tables, twisted, twisted, and shattered coffee mugs. Suddenly, quick dozens of flashes of motion were caught in the corner of my vision as I jerked around with my flashlight, trying to get a glimpse of whatever is in the room with us. The beam of my flashlight shone around wildly from one spot to another, where I'd last seen the movements. Hello? Is anyone there? Specialist Maxine announced loudly into the room, but, before he could finish his sentence, his entire body was abruptly caught by a darting figure lunging onto him and propelled both of the darkness, causing him to drop his m4 onto the floor and killing the flashlight from the gun.

Help me! I can't see him! Get it off of me! He's cries for help screeched in the pitch-black distance, and suddenly, deafening sprays of gunfire erupted from my right, as another one of my fellow teammates, Corporal Jackson, opened fire blindly in the general direction of a sudden figure that a dashed past his beam of light. Contact, he quickly yelled, as Sergeant Volcker and Corporal Staple started wildly opening fire as well, and several other figures that he quickly run past their lights, causing the entire cafeteria to momentarily light up in a blinding mixture of yellow and white flashes. Time seemed to crawl to a halt as I blanked out in the heat of the moment. The gunfire flashes irradiating the attacking figures as I caught a glimpse of their misshapen, malformed bodies,

similar to that of burned victims, with brownish red spittle flying out from their jaw that hung at an unnatural angle. What are we fighting? Corporal Staples yelled in panic whilst blindly shooting, as his entire body was abruptly grabbed onto and yanked forward into the darkness. His desperate screams for help muffled in the deafening background gunfire. Snap out of it! We've got to get the hell out of here! Sergeant Volga's yelled from the left as he started sprinting back towards the metal door,

with Corporal Jux and Hart on his heels, turning around for the last time and firing back into the inhuman screeches. there I stood, both feet froze into the ground in shock and fear from the events that had unfolded right in front of my eyes, as the gruff command from the sergeant snatched me out to my trance. I considered helping my other two teammates for a second, before silently uttering an apology, and ran after Jackson and the sergeant back through the metal doorway. Howls, and angry, out of the corridor

as the huge metal-the-door vibrated and held under the bashes and attacks that came from the other side. I was on my knees, panting and breathless as I clutched the rifle, my hand trembling in terror. Sergeant Volkis held the door shut, along with Corbel Jackson as the unrelenting bashing from the

other side of the door kept up with their siege to break in. The three of us knew what had to be done next was inevitable, as the bashing and thumping of the door started to grow stronger and louder by the second. Sergeant Fulkes was the first between the three of us as he handed me his dog tag without saying a word. Let's do me a favour. Find those geneticists and get the hell out of this hellhole. I'll hold these guys off. Hurry.

Corporal Jackson protested as he tried to change the sergeant's mind from his sacrifice attempt. The metal door inched forward in a desperate push to break in as Sergeant Fulgus shook his head and slammed it back into place with a loud grunt. He reduced two fragmedes from his vest as he clutched one in both hands. There's no time. Either you wanted those two of the deaths to be in vain or the whole goddamn team. Go now, that's an order. The howls in the background faded and mixed into the howling of the wind

as we passed the previous body lying against the wall in a running sprint and climbed the metal stairs, reaching back onto the top side in mere minutes. Slamming the metal door shut behind us, the distant rumble of explosion resonated and echoed through the rig, as the entire platform started to gently shake, after the blast. damn, corporal jackson yelled furiously through the suit as he kicked the oxidized metal wall beside us,

causing it to slightly dents from the impact. Their deaths could have been prevented. We might have come up with something else if it wasn't for my goddamn idea to breach in. No, no, you did the right thing in trying to save whoever was behind the door. That was the original mission for the entire team. I tried to assure and empathize with him, as the sudden loud clacked both of us reminded both of us.

that the mission wasn't over yet. Hello? Is this a rescue team? We're currently hold up and trapped in the control room. There's a couple of those things trying to break in. Upon hearing the announcement from the system, Cable Jackson and I glanced at each other, exchanging subtle nods before taking off jogging towards a metal doorway further down the platform. This time with a directory map nailed to its side with faded description labels.

I briefly scanned over and examined the directory with my gloved fingers as it unconsciously trailed down and pointed to a small location in the map which had an accompanying label that reads control room. Over there, Corporal Jackson examined, catching my attention as he motioned his fingers to point in the direction of a woman, clad in a white lab coat waving at us from a window, situated in a sizable two-story tower. As we hastily made our way to the giant platform tower, the radio built into both of our suits suddenly burst. the life, beeping in a quick and rhythmic manner. Whiskey three, this is Volger two to a maximum fuel. We'll be on station for Eback and ETA ten minutes, out. I sighed in sheer relief as Corporal Jackson grinned from inside of his mask as we reached the smashed and warped metal door leading to the tower. I'll take lead, watch my six, he muttered as we ascended a spiraling grated stairwell, with the stone, and tiny pieces of decomposing flesh littering the metal,

both floor and walls. The distinct sound of banging, blood-curling screaming and howlings soon came into focus as we near the top of the stairwell, as I tightened my grip on the handle of the rifle. As we ran in the corner in a spiraling sterile wall, we could make out a couple of figures, turning back towards us as they continued their relentless rampage on a metal door, with visible damage and denting on its exterior. The figures, clad in the same, working orange uniforms and construction helmets, were seen aggressively and violently bashing their heads into the body of the door, as one was seen repeatedly running into it with his body at full force,

grooms and red blood spilling all over the place, and white tips of rude-cage bone protruding from his back as it continued with the act as if nothing has happened, while screaming and howling frantically. Jesus, what the hell? Corporal Jackson whispered, as the figures abruptly stopped in their actions and spun around faster than we could react as they're dead, glazed over eyes stared right into us, dilated pupils twitching randomly. Nobody moved for a split second, and as the once human figures finally registered our presence with them, they started frantically dashing towards us at full speed before we could even react and pull the trigger. In a split second, one of them was closing in on Corbel Jackson, her upper movement's journey. turkey and convulsing. I pulled the trigger without thinking in my shock-filled state, the 5-56 rounds

impacting and tearing through her decomposing shoulders and up her head as she was sent barreling through the air and tumbling past Corporal Jackson rolling down the stairs. Corporal Jackson opened fire on the other figures as they were stopped in their tracks by the hail of bullets and tumble to the floor, still spasming and gurgling out blood as they slowly succumbed to their fatal injuries. panting and taking a breather, I cautiously stepped over the floor, riddled with blooded holes as a small pull of blood emerged from under them, as I gave the metal door several loud knocks. I opened up we were the CDC.

I called out, lowering my weapon as a motioned Corporal Jackson over to me. Sounds of unlocking could be heard from the other side, as the door slowly inched open, leaving a tiny gap, as an eye peaked out and examined me and Corporal Jackson before swinging wide open, revealing a dark-ed female scientist, dressed in a blood-stained lab coat. Her hair ruffled and dishevelled. Behind her sat a rig worker, clad in the same dirty orange uniform, and looking quite rather exhausted.

Thank God you guys had finally arrived. We hungered down here in the control room when the rig went into lockdown. My other partner went out and made the distress calls from the comms room, but she hasn't returned since. Corbel Jackson shot me a pitiful glance. As we both knew deep down, She was already dead. You're the work in geneticist, right? I cautiously inquired, as she confirmed the statement by nodding ahead. The Evac helicopters should be here anytime soon to gate guys out. We are...

My words were quickly muffled out by the roar of a colossal explosion resounding and bouncing off the walls, as the entire control room shook violently, throwing us off our feet. Mugs, keyboards, computer monitors clattered and smashed under the floor around us as the light suddenly went out. The room shook once more as the facility fire alarm started blaring. The wailing of the shrill alarm echoed all throughout the vicinity, as we laid on the debris-stricken floor, groaning in pain. Our radios screamed to life as a familiar voice blared to the speakers, vibrating from the intensity.

Vulture 2-2 is at the station and in position. We have confirmation visuals of flames on the rig. Get your asses out of here before the place blows up. The scientist groaned as the rig worker stumbled to his feet. holding onto the control panel where he lost balance and fell backwards onto the floor. What's happening? He yelled, as he tried to hoist himself back up. This damn thing is sinking, probably from Sergeant Grenades.

Anyway, we've got to go. Now. Corporal Jackson shouted over the wail of the alarm as he climbed back onto his feet, grabbing his rifle and speaking into the radio. Damn, vulture 2-2, this is whiskey. On your feet, soldier. We're going to get the hell out of here. He yelled as he gritted from a right hand,

posting me up in an instant as he dashed the door. I grabbed my rifle and helped the scientist up to a feat as a construction worker stood up and followed suit after us through the doorway. Upon exiting the tower, we were greeted with a sight and smell of what could only be described as total anarchy. The metal catwalk bridges ahead of us slung dangerously to the sides, as fiery flames licked every corner as far as I could see through the clouds of smoke. Another smaller explosion resonated from a distance sending fragments of the catwalk

hurling down onto us from above as we covered our heads with our arms and hands the lingering scent of copper and melted wires penetrated our gas masks and into our noses as we ran through the thick black smoke following Corporal Jackson as he led us into a splitting intersection in the catwalk

a distinct and muffled roar of a helicopter could be heard above the sounds of chaos this way go go keep moving He called out, as the fires, as the massive crane, groaned loudly under stress, tilting inwards and coming crashing down onto the control tower that we had just been in earlier. Had we not left it sooner, we might have been squashed like bugs. The impact of its crash came with the result of the platform tilting dangerously to one side, as we were once again thrown off our feet, this time, thankfully, holding onto the catwalk handrail. How far is it to the helicopter?

The workers shouted in frustration as he ran in front of the car. front of me, mouth and nose covered with his arm to prevent inhalation. We're almost there, move, move, Corporal Jackson shouted angrily as the whirring of the helicopter rotor blades came to focus. The smoke parted as I could see the military helicopter in all of its magnificent glory, hovering just above the edge of the platform. Doors slung wide open as the pilot directed the bird closer to the edge, its side scraping against the paint of the catwalk. Get in the trapper, the radio screamed as he ran towards the helicopter, with Corporal Jackson, being the first on board, followed by the geneticist and the worker. I was about to board the helicopter

when I was suddenly throwing backwards with a catwalk breaking apart and bending into two as a massive reek tilted into an angle, which I was now meters away from the helicopter as the pilot desperately tried to hold it together and stabilize. Come on, jump for it! Corby Jackson shouted over the terrified screams of the scientist as the helicopter hovered unsteadly, the distance between me and the helicopter increasing by the second. I took a deep breath and ready myself as I sprinted to the edge of my before leaping with all my might. I fell flat

on my chest onto the helicopter floor my gun clashing to the side as I began slipping on the wet surface of the metal and slid backwards into the edge of the helicopter. My whole body dangled from the edge, but right before I was about to fall off a firm gloved hand gripped my arm tightly

as Cobble Jackson pulled me back on board. I got you. He said as he hoisted me back up from the edge of the helicopter, the sounds of the explosion still audible from behind me. We're all on board. Roger that. Fulcher, returning back to base, out. The co-pilot announced as the helicopter flew away from the rig, leaving behind the stricken ore rig as it commenced this final explosion in the last few seconds, sending out blinding bright light and a massive cloud of detourages and rubble as it broke away,

slowly sinking into the stormy ocean. It has been 19 years since the dismissal of the offshore disaster as a freak accident. The government covering up the whole story is just a malfunctioning drilling system going at Ryan board. I left the CDC and my whole life back there behind for good, given the NDA slip that is kept my mouth shut and prohibited me from even hinting of the existence of this story. My contract has already ended four days ago and I have been debating whether to reveal the story or not from there ever since. Some things in the world are just not meant to be discovered, and we should just remain blissfully unaware of the hidden dangers that lurk in our very planet. I just hope in my heart that the poor souls on board the rig during that fateful night

rest and peace under the sea, alongside with Sergeant Volker's Specialist Maxion and Corporal Staples. That is all that I have for you, and whatever that you do, please don't go searching for Watchtower 1. The festival's segoon is And that beteked Mauder And so, Ging Kim to come

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Oh, wait just even, Have he now only Mauder? Drove Blithe? Goar for. Find what you I ran wild. I was a teenager. Looking back, that joining the army saved me from jail.

That's not why I signed up. I walked into the recruiter's office because I had seen how the most beautiful girls all flocked around the soldier boys in my local bar one Saturday night. Not long before the fight broke out, that left me with a split lip. The sergeant behind the desk eyed me up with a dire expression

That looked like it had been carved onto his face, then slid over a form for me to read and sign. You know which way up to hold a pen, he asked. I wanted the talent to go to hell, but I wanted myself a uniform and a gal draped over my shoulder more. So I buttoned it. In the five years since then, knowing when to keep my mouth shut had been a saving grace for me in the infantry. I'm not the strongest or the fastest, but I've never been a very much. questioned an order out loud, and I've always got to it as quickly as I could. As the truck carried us towards the city, I sat in silence, ready for whatever was about to be thrown at me next.

A storm was hot on her heels, a bad one. It was due to reach the city in a few hours' time, and the authorities had ordered a total evacuation and requested military support. The army did not regard crunts like us as important enough to have a view from our transport, But, the miles passed, the constant sound of the sirens wailing, and the chatter of helicopter blades passing overhead made my skin tingle with anticipation. We disembarked at 1,700 hours. The NCO screamed at us to move it. Out on the street, dusk was beginning to shroud the office blocks which rose around us in darkness.

We lined up and stood to attention as an officer addressed us. us. This is a covert mission. It will not be included in the official records, and you will not talk about it. Drunk or sober are in the throes of passion with the toothless cross-eyed loves of your lives. Do you understand? Yes, sir, we cried out as one. No clearer what our task was, but more wired by the minute, I fell into step behind the man in front of me when the order came. Single file! We moved forwards and I realized we were heading underground. The manhole cover was propped open and the soldiers in front of me were scrambling down it. When my turn came, I descended a narrow ladder affixed to the side of the wall.

When my boots reached the bottom, I could just about make out that I was in a narrow tunnel. My breath frosted in the air and an intense stench of decay made me feel suddenly sick. Further along the tunnel, out of my sight, some wick called out. We help in the rats relocate, Sergeant. The replies shut back, amplified in the claustrophobic space. There are low-life scum using these tunnels to hide in. We're going to flush them out, and when we reach the surface, there'll be a nice surprise waiting for them.

A thousand rounds a minute worth of instant justice, all out to sight of the bleeding-hard civilians. My mouth felt very dry. Using the storm as cover to take out bad guys like this appalled me. But I had my orders, and I would obey. I tried to breathe We set off, Of six,

As the tunnel split and split again, I was the tale of our drab snake. As we progressed, I wondered what kind of people were using this network of tunnels to evade the law, wondered what crimes they had committed To bring in highly trained troops

To deal with them. Whoever they were, Whatever they had done, They did not stand a chance. The soldier ahead of me broke wind. A quiet, y'y-hawed from further down the line. The best of the best, I thought, with a wry grin, as I passed a new tunnel branching off to one side. We had not deviated down it. We were clearly keeping on straight ahead. I glanced down the new tunnel, wondering where it led, and saw.

Movement, I said, clearly into my radio. I'd been able to make out no details, just a blur of something across the far end of the new tunnel, which must, I figure, have led to yet another tunnel which went parallel to the one we were in. A moment of static followed,

then, acknowledged, double-check all weapons live. I have no idea how we were meant to open fire in here if it came to that, without serious risk of hitting each other. But mine was not to wonder why. "'Mine was the do and—'

"'Sargeant. "'The voice on the radio crackled in my headset. "'Eyes do you right, boys,' came the reply. "'I tensed. "'It looked like it was time to flush some criminal dirt "'out into the vengeful light of day. "'The scream filled the tunnel. "'There was a heartbeat of silence

"'and then everyone tried speaking on their radios at once. "'It came out of the tunnel. "'Grapped him. "'Hold your fire, Tchauski. Can you hear me, copy? I could see nothing, just the forms of the soldiers in front of the gloom. I knew Tukowski. He had drank me under the table on more than one occasion, had a goofy grin and a child on the way. I said a silent prayer that he was okay and steadied myself. The call came over the radio again.

Tukowski, respond. He did not reply. I swore quietly. needed to get moving again. If Takowsky had been picked off by hostels in one of the parallel tunnels, we were an easy target. Finally, the order came. Backtrack, we're going to the surface, regroup. But it was too late. Gunfire exploded. The sound in the confined space set off explosions of pain in my ears. Men were shouting. The man in front of me stumbled, fell to his knees. I grabbed him, tried to haul him back, all the while, all the sergeant was trying to hold back the chaos by yelling orders into the radio. He was so much white noise. I managed to get the soldier to his feet, then something torn away from me, pulling back to the ground, and there was a shape

on him. Some body, some thing that held his neck in his jaws and was biting. The soldier's body thrashed and his hands beat at the thing that was attacking him. Moments later he fell still and the thing on top of him looked up at me. Blood dripped from his teeth. It reared up, leapt towards me. I felt the impact. Then, nothing more. I don't know how much time passed before I came around. My eyes were drawn first of the flickering light, the naked flame of a candle. I realized as my sight cleared, the white-white stem was mounted in an ornate holder, which twisted within a shape down to the ground, where bones lay scattered. There were human skulls and ribcages, legs and arms, some broken, some hole, and what looked like skeletons of foxes and rats. All were intermingled and rose to form a platform on which sat a nightmare made real.

She. I say she, because the curse of her chest, visible beneath the top. horn, filthy ragshy wore, rested on a throne of death. I began to wretch. Around a feet lay bodies still wearing military uniforms. The pale skin was tight over the bone beneath, as if the blood that ran in their veins and nestled in their flesh had been taken. My comrades, murdered, defiled. I spat, tried to raise my head into vines, tried to hide the terror I was feeling in every fibre of my being. "'What the hell are you?' I asked. Her skin was wrinkled, and scarred, and danced with fleas.

And when she smiled, as she did at my question, jagged teeth were revealed. She lifted one hand, waved long fingers, each nail of which looked as if it had been decorated with fresh blood. At this, a dozen creatures emerged from behind the throne and advanced on me. Like her, they wore rags over filthy, Puss hung from open wounds on some, as they half crawled, half walked towards me. I saw that one held something clasped in its hand. It opened its fingers and threw a toy soldier at my feet. This was a couple of inches tall, made of green plastic.

I'd played with toys like this when I was a boy, but what were these revolting things doing with it. The creature looked at me. Its eyes were narrow and clouded over, those of a being which favoured the dark overlight. It pointed at the toy, pointed at me. Then a second of the creatures came forward, from its hand through a small wooden block, another child's plaything. There was a question mark painted on the block. The paint was cracked and faded with age. The rest of the things then compounded my confusion by throwing forward more toy soldiers. I don't know what you want with me, I managed to say,

but all you'll get is name, rank and serial number, and a promise to see you burn in hell. The creatures turned to look at the she-thing who sat watching over us. She stood slowly, and, with a twisted grace, descended. This sent the other things into a frenzy of activity. that ended with more wooden blocks laid at her feet. she studied them

and then one by one started to push individual blocks forward with her hands. Each block had a letter of the alphabet painted on it. Seeming satisfied, she stepped back. I read down the line of blocks

how many like you. I answered by aiming what a spit at her. It was short, but I figured she had got the message. There was intelligence here, she was clearly the smartest, the queen of the pack. I figured they had spared me to get intel on the scale of the attack that was being mounted on them.

If I was to survive, I needed to act, and fast. But there was no way I was going to betray my fellow soldiers. To buy time, I pointed at the mould of toy soldiers, and a nod from a hideousness. The other creatures pushed them closer to me. I began to slowly count out plastic figurines. They watched me, seemingly transfixed, grotesquely childlike. I took my chance. threw myself at the knife I'd seen, still in the belt of one of my butcher comrades, freed it, span round and press the blade against the queen's throat. Unless you want a new leader, I suggest you all back off, I told them. They cowered, wait. It seemed for a signal. She kept her hands by her And did not struggle

As it began to walk us away Through the tunnels Until we reached the ladder Reaching upwards I held the blade closer Allowed it to dig into her skin Whispered Don't

We emerged into the street There was no one else in sight No sirens The storm was here And the city appeared deserted Wind and rain battered against us I felt exhilarated. I held her tighter still.

Her skin was hot of fear of the darkness that was forbidden. My pulse racing I led us away into the night. I had escaped with my life. I am off grid now

scavenging what I need and living in a derelict building on the edge of the city. After what happened I cannot live as I cannot live, and I can't live, I can't live, free, free of all the constraints I once knew. I checked there was no one in sight out on the street, and slipped through the broken door back inside the old abandoned warehouse.

It was dark, cold. The mosque of death and decay greeted me. I took the meat I'd stolen from the butcher's van to her. I held the small kite. her mouth and let the blood drip. she sighed, then pushed one of the wooden blocks her lap towards me. Her fingers lingered and the faded rose-red heart painted on it.

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