CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My Special Forces Team Encountered Something Unholy in Eastern Wyoming" Creepypasta

Episode Date: April 23, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY► by Saint ZanderCreepypastas 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...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA 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

I've seen people torn apart in alleys with their mouth still open in prayer. I've pulled children from buildings where the ceiling came down before the rest of the world could blink. I've been shot at, bombed, hunted through mountains and dragged through the mud and corners of the world where diplomacy meant nothing. I've seen what men do when they're starving and have nothing left to lose. I've watched my team get picked off by camouflaged enemies. I've held friends as they bled out and made promises I couldn't keep. War doesn't change you. That's a lie people tell themselves to explain what they've become.

War shows you what you already were. If there was fear inside you, it pulls it out. If there was rage, it makes it louder. I stopped being surprised a long time ago. And that's exactly. why they picked me. They called us Phantom Echo. On paper, it doesn't exist. We weren't Navy or Rangers. We weren't Recon or Delta. We were the ones who got sent when all the regular tools broke, when whatever needed to be handled wasn't the sort of thing anyone could know about.

I didn't ask too many questions. I'd been in Phantom Echo for three years when it happened. We'd seen some strange operations before. Chemical labs buried under deserts, tunnels that weren't on any maps, places soaked in blood but scrubbed clean of names. But nothing came close to what we walked into that night. We got the briefing in a hangar outside Quantico. There had been a string of killings over the past two months. Isolated. Rural stretch in the northeast, dense forestry.

minimal cell coverage, maybe 3,000 residents spread across a county they used to rely on timber and animal testing grants. The facility in question hadn't operated in over a decade. It had been tagged for demolition twice, but nothing ever came of it. Locals referred to it as the doghouse, which told us enough about what went on in there. Two deputies were sent in after someone called about movement inside. Neither one reported back. When dispatch tried to reach them, radios were dead. That would have been enough to raise concerns anywhere else, but in a town like that, things fall apart without anyone noticing. So they sent back up. Ten more went in, same facility. No one heard from them either. That's when we found out it had hit the desk of our handler.

She didn't say much. She never did. Just told us the official story was that it was a missing person's case, local law enforcement still handling it, and there was no federal involvement unless a body turned up. But some of those missing officers weren't strangers. One had served with Ruth before retiring into a small town police work, Another had trained with Nolan when they were still in the core.

We pushed back hard, told Command we had enough ties to justify insertion, told them we didn't trust local resources to manage whatever was happening inside that building. There was hesitation. They gave us the usual boilerplate about overstepping jurisdiction, about optics, about resource allocation. But we kept pressing. Eventually, they gave us a single directive. Going quiet, observe, report, and get out.

We came in under a thick canopy of early fog. The dirt road up to the warehouse had been overtaken by weeds. Gravel kicked into furrows from where cruisers had pulled off in a rush. We rolled up in two matte black suburban's. most technologically advanced Phantom Echo transport. The vehicles coasted to a stop in silence. Engines off, the second wheels touched the outer perimeter. We ran cold.

That meant we weren't using lights to start with. If something was watching from inside, we weren't going to give it a head start. There were three cruisers parked haphazard across the lot. One was angled sideways, halfway across a patch of overgrave. grown moss concrete. Driver door hung open. Another had its rear light still pulsing red through the mist, casting slow, bleeding strobes against the trunks. Spectre one, dismount, I said intercoms, voice low but steady. Spectre two on me. Three and four take rear approach. Five, six, hold perimeter until breach confirmation. Acknowledgements clicked back immediately.

We moved clean. Spectre 2 came up on my left. Ruith. Quiet, focused, always squared away. Spector 3 and 4 joined us, and we peeled off behind the building, boots crunching lightly against frosted gravel. Five and six stayed near the vehicles, rifles shouldered, scanning the tree line. Nobody said a word beyond call-outs.

That was how we operated. The warehouse stood three stories tall, though the upper floor looked partially collapsed. Gray cement siding, stained in vertical streets from rain and time. A rusted loading dock door was sealed shut by a chain that had already been cut. Bolt cutters still sat nearby, blades rusted at the hinge. The main entry was a double-wide security door, with one panel cracked open, about two inches, long enough to get a boot in. I raised my fist, held it for two seconds, then dropped it forward.

Breach signal. We flowed in smooth, formation tight, rifles up, muzzles low but ready. Interior was cold, stale, the scent of mould hit first, then dust. We swept left and right, corners. ceiling, unders shelving. Light beams moved in unison, cutting through darkness with surgical rhythm. Spector 1, first floor clear on entry. I said, pressing the mic clip to my shoulder, marking doorways, holding for deeper push.

Copy, came back from three, rear sides negative, one broken window, second level, nothing else, clear. We moved room by room. First man slices the corner, second watch is high, third moves through the threshold, the fourth holds the rear, two keep watch on all four. Doors are intact, no forced entries, paperwork still sat in trays, as if a bandit during a lunch break no one ever returned from. Whatever happened here hadn't started in a panic. It had sunk in low.

spectre one to all units i said advancing north corridor staging at interior junction maintain sweep until next ping we had clear the northern section and regrouped to the main junction one person was missing spectre three then his voice came in overcomes contact possible access point south wing utility corridor moving to investigate. Spector 1 copies, echo actual, regroup on Spector 3's position, keep visuals tight, weapons hot. We formed up and moved quickly, clearing the stretch with practice discipline. Spector 3 and Spector 4 was standing in a narrow service hallway, their lights aimed at a collapsed shelving unit that had partially buried a stack of old maintenance crates. behind the debris flushed with the floor was a square hatch metal aged to a reddish brown edges warped with rust a short length of chain hung from the side snapped clean through at the centre it had been locked once spectre six adjusted his grip on the rifle and knelt to inspect the latch blood he said old but not dried looks fresh compared to the rest of this place.

I steps closer, pulling the flashlight from my vest to get a better angle. The hatch was scored along the edges, as if something had clawed it open from underneath. The flooring around it had scratch marks leading inward. Stack up, I ordered. Two and three on breach, four and six secure the perimeter. Five stays on Overwatch. Spector 3 braced the hatch. counted down from three and pulled.

The metal groaned against the frame before lifting with a crack. The smell hit instantly. Chemical rot. Beneath that, something else. Sharp and oily, biting at the back of the throat. We dropped chemlights into the dark below and waited for them to settle. They clinked against concrete, revealing a vertical shaft with rebar, studded rungs bolted into the wall.

Spector 2 went first, then me, then the rest. Air grew colder the further we dropped. My boots hid the basement floor with a sharp slap. The walls were a mix of bare concrete and panels of old surgical tile, greenish-gray, cracked in places. There were drains spaced every few meters. The whole place had been designed for runoff. One main hallway stretched forward, framed by doorways on either side. Heavy industrial fixtures hung from exposed beams above us, most of them flickering, some dead.

The hum of the electrical grid echoed through the walls with an uneven pulse. Some of the lights buzzed as if. struggling against resistance they couldn't overcome. Spectre 1 to all units, I said. Interior secured, basement layout seems consistent. Commence sweep, pairs, gold, blue, red, maintain radio discipline. Teams acknowledged, we broke off. That corridor, long, curved, windowless, disappeared around a bend that none of us. us could see past. It had a feeling to it.

We had no idea what we were walking into. Gold advancing ahead, I said, into the comms, as Spector two and I pushed deeper into the corridor. The curve of the hallway gradually straightened, stretching toward a heavy door at the far end. The other teams peeled off ahead of us, each taking one flank. Our boots echoed across the corner. concrete, the sound swallowed by the close, lifeless air. Blue team clearing room 10, negative on contact. Red team entering storage, blood and walls, no bodies.

I glanced toward Ruith, Spectre 2. He gave a sharp nod and kept low. His rifle moved in tight arcs across the hallway as we advanced. My own breath started to slow. Training made your body. control fear without even noticing. Muscle steady, steps measured. But something about this place started pulsing against that discipline. We reached the final door. It was sealed, heavy with a forced viewing panel fogged from inside. No visible locks, just a steel handle

slick with something red that had dried in sharp-edged streaks. I raised the close fist, signaling the breach sequence once more. Ruth stacked beside me, checking his six and then looking forward. I gave the countdown with my fingers. Three, two, one, we breached. The smell was worse than rot, worse than dead, decomposing bodies. It was the stench of blood broken down in heat, metallic and wet but turned thick by time a meat stench soaked in ammonia and something sour like digestion

the room beyond was wide its walls tiled in the same cracked surgical green and the lights buzzed with a low uneven hum they were all there the missing officers twelve bodies maybe thirteen It was hard to tell if it was even a body. Stung up from the ceiling by their own veins. The tissue had been pulled from wrists, ankles, even faces. Some had cords of vascular tissue looped through eye sockets and threaded into the rafters. Others had their arms opened at the elbow. The tendons spayed and pinned apart, as if someone had tried to peel them into patterns.

One man's legs were bent backward and suspended by ropes of ligature carved from his back, tethered to iron scaffolding like a grotesque puppet. One officer's face had been sliced vertically down the middle, split open to reveal muscle and teeth, the two halves hanging open, draped across his shoulders. His eyes were still wet. Ruth dry heaved beside me. He lowered his rifle for a second, bracing against the wall. What the hell?

What is this? He muttered, voice clipped, trying to stay on Com's protocol but failing. I stepped forward, barely managing to steady my grip. Spector one to all teams, I said, louder now. We've located the officers. They're deceased. Multiple units, heavy mutilation. intentional positioning.

This is a kill sight, repeat. This is a... A burst of screaming cut across the radio. Sharp, violent. Gunfire immediately followed. Rapid bursts. Some automatic. Some staggered and wild.

Contact, contact. Red team has movement. Blue team, we're hearing the fire. Red, report. Then, more gunfire. No return call. I looked at Rueh. His face had gone pale beneath a tactical helmet.

He adjusted his rifle and nodded once. Neither of us spoke. He turned back to the hallway. Spectre one to all units, I said, into the radio as we backed out of the flesh room. My voice was steady, but I could feel the tremor at the edges. We need a regroup, repeat. We are regrouping, meet at center corridor, intersection of sectors. We seem to be compromised.

Copy that, came from Blue Team. No response from Red Still. Ruth was at my side again, rifle raised, scanning every shadow that shifted across the tile. The hallway swallowed sound in a way that made it difficult to tell where gunfire had originated. somewhere ahead but muffled smothered by the bend in the corridor. My boots struck the concrete with a hard rhythm and I get here Ruth's breath catching beside me in short, sharp pulls. We cleared the first curve and spotted blue team moving fast toward us.

Two silhouettes framed by flashlight spill, their beams cutting through haze than I hadn't been there before. There was condensation gathering along the walls, smeared in wide, greasy arcs. The air had grown denser, thicker, as if something had shifted in the pressure around us. Blue Team Status, I called out. Negative contact visual, came the response, hasty and clipped. Something moved across the hall, no silhouette, but the lights went out for two seconds. seconds, full blackout. Red team hasn't responded. We passed their last known location. No visuals, no bodies.

We fell into step. Blue team at the front now. Team gold trailing behind. Formation was loose. Tension had crept in without anyone admitting it. Every rifle was up. Safety's off. We didn't wait for full regroup. The priority had shifted. We needed eyes on red and fast. The hallway's second curve was just ahead, cutting off our view past a column of load-bearing wall and a row of sealed doorways. The overhead lights grew more unstable. Then. Blue Team stopped. They just froze.

One of them raised a hand, flat and trembling. Contact. Front, he said. low and tight through the comms. We held her breath. The other, barely above a whisper, followed with, What the hell is that thing? He didn't finish his sentence.

The gunfire started without another word. Flashlight beams danced across the wall as one of them staggered back, shouting orders we couldn't make out. Rounds ripped through the dark ahead. muzzle flashes lit something massive, tall enough to nearly reach the ceiling, hunched but fluid. For a second, I saw something move, a ripple across flesh where flesh shouldn't have been. Tendons stretched over a bone structure that bent in directions I didn't understand.

Then it vanished from view. Rewith raised his rifle, finger to trigger, but couldn't fire with black. blue team directly in the path. Neither could I. We just watched. And in front of us, the corridor, became a slaughterhouse. The lights above us dimmed all at once.

The hum of electricity dropped into a lower register, as if the voltage itself had been pulled through a filter. Ruth stepped beside me, froze amid aim, his rifle still trained ahead. Blue team stood just ahead of us, still firing. Their muzzles lit brief fragments of something. Then I saw them.

From the ceiling, above the nearest support beam, something began to emerge. Thin tendrils slid down first, translucent and shimmering in the flickering light. They pulsed with a thick fluid movement, undulating in short jerks, Then, more followed. I tried raising my gun, but they dropped too quickly to react.

They hit the floor like ropes soaked in blood. One of the blue team operators, Santos, saw them a second too late. A long fleshy appendage coiled down behind him. It reached across his shoulder, fingers made of living surgical tools, scissors of folded cartilage, syringes filled with ambivaled. colored fluid, barbed hooks embedded directly into pink muscle. The limb moved with no sound, with a twitch of wet tissue stretching under strain. Before Santos could turn, a needle rammed into his shoulder, plunging deep with no resistance.

His scream cut through my headset with such rawness I dropped my finger from the trigger. It wasn't a shout of pain. It was shock, terror, betrayal by his own body. His limbs convulsed. The veins in his neck swelled, black against the skin. Then they began to move. The needle dragged upward, lifting him by his own circulatory system. His body went rigid, arms flailing once before they locked.

Blood vessels stretched from his skin, pulling free with a sickening pop as the flesh tore. He rose into the air, his body unraveling, veins peeling from his limbs like pulled wires, muscles splitting apart in ribbons. His scream collapsed into a gargling moan. There nothing but air moving through torn lungs. I grabbed earth by the back of his vest and pulled him, forcing us both into motion. Our boots pounded against the concrete, water and blood slick beneath our souls.

I didn't look back. I didn't want to see if that thing was behind us. I only wanted walls between it and us. We ran deeper into the corridor, past the junction, past the doorways we hadn't cleared yet. One of them stood half open, the overhead light inside flickering in dull pulses. An exam room by the looks of it. I swung through first, rifle up, eyes cutting across every shadow. Empty.

Lennonian floors, an overturned gurney, a sink still stained with something that had dried into thick, crusty lines. No movement, no sound except the thudding in my chest. Clear, I shouted. Ruth slammed the door shut behind us and braced his back against it. I grabbed a metal tray cart, flipped it and wedged the corner into the handle. Then we both shoved an old filing cabinet against it, scraping it across the floor with a grind that felt bone-shatteringly loud. But we didn't have options.

The lights above us blinked again, slower now. The ceiling fixture pulsed once, then went dim. We were left in the dull wash of emergency lights lining the floor, casting everything in weak red that made our skin look bruised. Ruith's mouth was open. He was trying to catch his breath, but nothing came steady. I wasn't doing any better.

My own lungs felt dry, hollow, as if the air had thickened around us and refused to be taken in. We scanned the room again, this time looking for cover. The cabinets wouldn't do, neither were the table. I spotted a storage closet on the far wall, the handle slightly rusted but still intact. I yanked it open. Shelvin lying the inside. We climbed in and shut the door behind us.

There wasn't enough space to sit. We crouched, shoulder to shoulder, back against the steel wall. I could feel Ruth trembling beside me. I didn't blame him. My hands were shaking too. Then we heard it. Footsteps were something similar at least. The floor groaned beneath the weight of each one. Whatever it was, it wasn't rushing. one step, then another, then a pause, then more, back and forth again and again. It wasn't searching. It already knew where we were. We didn't move. Our eyes stayed locked on the sliver of red light under the closet door.

There was no mistaking what we were hearing. It was waiting twice. Something dragged across the doorframe. Metal scraping on metal. Then something softer. A sound that reminded me of wet skin sliding against tile. The handle never turned. The door never budged. But it stayed there.

Breathing. Rewith leaned in close. His mouth almost against my ear. His voice was cracked and dry. We need to go. If we sit here, we're done. You hear it. It's out there waiting. It's going to get in eventually. I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes. In the dim red light, he looked pale and soaked with sweat. His hands trembled around his rifle, not from fear, from helplessness. If we move, I whispered, we die faster. Ruth shook his head just once. We can't stay here.

I leaned forward, voice even lower now. You saw what happened. I watched Santos dump an entire drum of 762 into it, full auto, chest, arms, center mass. It didn't even seem like whatever they were shooting had slowed down. I paused. The footstep started again. I don't know if it feels pain. I don't know if it sees in the way we do. But I know bullets don't stop it. We try to run. It hears us. You go out there, Ruth. You know what happens. Ruth looked away. Jaw clenched tight. Ruth tapped my leg once, then again. I looked at him. His eyes. were no longer panicked. Something in him had hardened. The sweat was still there and his chest

still moved fast, but his face had gone quiet in a way that I had seen before. A decision had been made. I've got a flash, he whispered. If I throw it far enough down the hall, draw it forward, I can loop back around, pull it away from this side. No. I said immediately. My voice was sharp, louder than I meant. I pulled it back in time. You won't make it. I might, he said.

If I wait for the exact moment between steps, I can time the throw, make the move before it resets, get far enough, before it hears the echo off the tiles. You won't make it, I repeated. We're going to die in here if we don't try something. he said, pulling the flashbang from his vest. He checked the fuse, thumb running across the pin. If I make it out, I call for Evac.

If I don't, wait 60 seconds. Then move. I grabbed his arm, hard. Look, he said, breaking eye contact with me. I'm not trying to kill it. I'm just giving us a chance. I didn't let go of his arm. For a second, we both sat there, frozen.

Then he pried my fingers off, one at a time, and pushed the door open just wide enough to slide through. He paused once in the gap, rifle slung, flashbang in hand. Sixty seconds, he said, wait for the pop. The door clicks shut behind. behind him. I counted the seconds in my head, but I never made it a ten. The flashbang went off, close enough that my ears filled with a solid ring. For a moment, I thought he'd done it. For a moment I thought his plan would work, came the scream, but not human. The air behind the wall

shuddered with it. Something massive struck the ground. hard, a wet slam that shook dust from the overhead duct. Then another scream. This one, human. I dropped my head, clenched my fists, and pressed my back against the wall. The screaming became an animal thing, sharp gasps between gurgling brakes. I heard bones crack, multiple at once. Then a long, dragging scrape.

Ruth screamed again, shorter this time. Then... Nothing. I stayed in that closet, curled tight against the steel frame, hands covering my ears. The silence that followed was worse than the noise. It was filled with a slow dripping of something thick. Hours passed that way. Maybe more.

I don't remember falling in. asleep. I don't even know if I did. My body shut down at some point, but my mind stayed sharp enough to keep me awake on the inside. That kind of exhaustion eats at you differently. It strips away the fear and leaves something slower behind. So, when the sound finally came, it didn't register as real at first, gunfire. Not the bursts we trained. with, not our rifles. These were deeper and heavier, but unmistakable gunfire. Each impact sounded like it had metric tons of weight behind it. I straightened against the closet wall. My hands moved on instinct, clutching my rifle, though I didn't raise it. I heard boots hit the ground

in tandem, orders shouted in clipped bursts, but I couldn't make out the work. words through the ringing that still haunted my hearing. Something massive hit the ground. Then. Silence. This was the silence that comes after impact. The silence that follows certainty. The closet door swung open. My body folded inward before I could stop it. My hands shot up in front of my face. My breath hitched. Every muscle braced for pain. that had already played out too many times in my head, but it didn't come. A gloved hand grabbed my vest collar and yanked me forward. My boots scraped across the tile, and I landed hard on the exam room floor, blinking against the sudden change in light.

A figure stood over me, motionless. He wore matte black gear, textured with a hexagonal weave I didn't recognize. The armor looked dense, layered with composite plates I'd never seen issued. His helmet was sealed. No ice lit, just a smooth black shell with a small set of circular vents over the mouth. Who the hell cleared you for this sight? His voice came through a filtered modulator, deep and level. I opened my mouth.

Nothing came. I tried again. We were responding to a call, local PD, missing personnel. We had... He didn't wait for me to finish. He reached down, grabbed me under the arm, and hauled me upright with one hand. His strength was effortless, mechanical, almost. I stumbled as he pulled me forward, back through the ruined exam room, toward the hallway beyond.

Move, he said. I followed. There was nothing else I could do. As we rounded the corner back into the corridor where Blue Team had fallen. I saw the others. A full squad, all wearing the same armour. Six of them, working in complete silence. Two were standing beneath the scaffolding where some of my teammates and friends had been strung up.

The bodies were still suspended. The veins pulled tight like. wires in a loom. One operative stood on a portable rig humming with faint blue light, using a blade that vibrated faster than my eyes could track. He sliced cleanly into the vascular cords, severing each. The other caught the falling corpses in reinforced sheets of black mesh, wrapping them fast and sealing them with something that hissed when activated. I turned my head to the left. Another figure stood in the centre of the hallway over the remains of what looked to be blue team.

There was almost nothing left. Blood soaked the walls, limbs have been torn into segments. One of the torsos had been fused to the ceiling above, veins pinned through the tile. The operative aimed a compact device at it, adjusted a dial and pressed the trigger. Flames burst forward in a control, stream, blue-white, hotter than anything I'd ever seen. The sound was low and steady, more pressure than raw. I watched the remains break down in real time. They just disappeared. I didn't even get to see Ruth's body.

None of them looked at me. As we moved through the carnage, another operative broke from the group and stepped in front of me. He carried a device in his left hand, small, black, rectangular, with a ring of sensors pulsing around a central lens. He held it up to my face without a word, a sharp light flickering across his eyes. He glanced down, scrawled with his thumb, then muttered under his breath. Minimal exposure, neural strain with intolerance, psyche contamination below containment threshold.

The one who had pulled me from the closet turned to face me directly. Even through the modulated filter, his voice was colder than anything I'd heard in a briefing room. You were never here, he said. I didn't answer. He reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a small black envelope, sealed no writing. He shoved it into the front pocket on my vest, then stepped back without another word. I stood in that hallway, surrounded by the dying echoes of my team's final moments,

and understood something that none of our training had prepared us for. I filed the report less than 24 hours after they pulled me out. Standard procedure. Full after-action debrief. name, date, coordinates, objectives, outcome. Except nothing I wrote down matched anything in the system. My clearance codes failed. My logging access had been restricted.

When I finally made it through to our handler, she stared at me across the screen without blinking. There was no deployment to that location, she said. I told her about the call. She didn't respond. Just tilted her head and clicked through something on a second monitor I couldn't see. Her expression never changed. There's no mission filed under that directive.

You've been on mandatory leave for 14 days. Your team is listed as KIA during a training exercise in Arizona. I told her that was impossible. She continued as if. if I hadn't spoken. Your discharge is being expedited. We'll have a transport arranged within the hour. Further questions can be submitted through the Medical Review Board.

Then, the screen cut out, they seal the identities of everyone on Phantom Echo. Official statement said equipment failure during desert training. No remains discovered. Close caskets, military honors. not listed as present. When I returned to the safe house they had temporarily assigned me, I finally opened the envelope I was given. Inside was a single photograph, black and white, grainy, a figure half shrouded behind a surgical

screen, limbs spread across an operating table that didn't have restraints. body was twisted, long, slick with something that gleamed under fluorescent light. The shape was human at first glance, but the proportions were wrong, too much stretch across the arms. The fingers were extended, curved outward. On the back of the photograph, written in block capitals with a pen that had bled to the paper. The fingers were extended, curved out. On the back of the photograph, written in block capitals with a pen that had bled through the paper.

Containment protocol, marionette. And beneath it, her phone number, the military center psychiatrist. I told him nothing. He checked boxes, scribble notes, and after the fourth session submitted a recommendation for full discharge a psychological duress. I haven't heard from anyone since. I haven't heard from my handler and all agencies screen my calls. I call the number given.

And it was an arrangement to join a private military, presumably the team who came in and rescued me. Deep down, I want out to put this life behind me. But I have a feeling that if I don't join, I'll disappear. KIA during a training exercise and scrubbed from all records.