Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep345: Episode 345: Supernatural Military Horror

Episode Date: June 16, 2026

Tonight’s opening tale of nightmarish terror is ‘We uncovered a terrible secret’, a wonderful original story by Sire Boone, kindly shared with me via the Dr. Creepen Sub-Reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission:https://www.reddit.com/user/SireBoone/Our closing tale of military macabre is ‘The Soldier’, an original work by Shadowswimmer77; a story shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Soldierhttps://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:Shadowswimmer77

Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. Military paranormal stories frighten us because they combine two things we instinctively trust and fear at the same time. Train professionals and the unknown. Soldiers are taught to remain calm under extreme pressure, navigate hostile environments and identify real threats. When people with that level of experience become frightened by something they cannot explain, makes the danger feel far more credible. These stories often take place in isolated locations. remote deserts, dense forests, abandoned bases, or war zones, where the normal rules of society feel distant.

The idea that even armed, highly trained personnel can encounter something beyond their understanding taps into a deep fear. There may be forces in the world against which neither courage, training nor fire, by how can protect us, as we shall see in tonight's two feature-length stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution, tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and terrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. We uncovered a terrible secret. Part 1.

Well, writing this isn't helping that book deal stereotype and will probably get me disappeared if I decide to actually publish this. But I figured that someone should know what happened to us. In the end, I hope this finds the right people and it brings some form of closure. Afghanistan, 1,300 hours local time. Tex, hey Tex, wake up. Skipper needs us in the skiff. Petty Officer of First Class Smith spoke

as he cracked open the door to our hoot. The ambient noise from the heavy machinery, accompanied by the Afghan summer heat that smelled of human feces, bled inside the cramped air-conditioned room as he stood in the doorway. The men and women of Camp Rattler were wide awake and going about their day, but it was still night for guys like us who were working vampire hours. I let out a quiet curse and plucked the pair of sunglasses off the stand next to my rack and pulled them over my eyes before getting dressed and shuffling into a pair of shower shoes that were by the door. Ah, this shit better be worth it.

I grumbled over to Smith, who handed me a small foam cup of black coffee as we joined the five other operators who were huddled around the massive fire pit in the centre of the small secluded compound inside the massive F-O-B. Well, consider men you're up now. I assume it is. Smith smirked as he scratched his bushy brown beard before running a hand through his shaggy hair. Oh, I forgot.

You're an old man now, Tex. He grinned as the others talk to mine themselves. Ah, he can still kick your ass any day at the week, Smitty. I shot back as we walked across the courtyard that had a few other SOF teams lounging around and working out or cleaning their gear. We've been in the country for three months. our mission tempo would have been high and kinetic.

It was every operator's wet dream. Do you think this is about that shipback we snatched off the X from last night? The eager voice of Townsendella, newest team member, who just made it through Green Team's grueling nine-month ANS pipeline, spoke out from behind me as we shuffled towards a plywood fort Knox on the other side of the compound. Did you do something we need to know about? I mean, you were the last one with him after all,

I asked, raising an eye. eyebrow at him as we approached two soldiers clad in full battle-rattle, who gave us a nod and waved us through as we flashed our IDs. Noel, Senior Chief, just speculating his art. Townsend finally responded as a pair of F-18s boomed over our heads before they banked off to the sail. Despite the drawdown, the war was still in full swing for the men and women of Camp Rattler. About time, gents. Master Chief Brock, our team lead, greet.

treated us with a nod and gestured towards the secured door behind him. Skipper's inside with some suit from Langley, so play nice here. We all shuffled inside the cramped skiff and took our seats around the table in the center of the room. Despite the lame exterior of the building, the interior was the complete opposite. High-tech equipment lined the walls accompanied by small workstations along with a pair of LCD screens and digital clocks that sat above the skipper and our new nameless guest. "'It's all right for waking you all so soon, gentlemen, but this is very important.' Our skipper apologised and walked to the head of the table.

"'This is Carson.' He gestured towards a man who was wearing a pair of raybands on his head, and looked like he'd gotten lost on the way to the golf course. "'Thank you, sir.' The man shook our skipper's hand with a pearl-white smile and looked around the table with calculating eyes. "'Gentlemen, I'll make this quick.' He pulled out a small black remote from his pocket and clicked a button. A few seconds later, the LCD screens behind him lit up with different images. Some were satellite photos.

Others were ISR feeds, but they all showed what looked like a fortified entrance on the side of a mountain face. According to our humans and recent ISR feeds, we uncovered an old Soviet-era weapons depot. Carson paused for a moment. Now, Intel suggests that the Soviets left experimental technologies on weaponry that are still sitting inside somewhere. We cannot risk the Taliban or any other group getting their hands on what's inside. Another image from an ISR feed showed three heat signatures sitting outside of the supposed entrance around a small fire. Master Chief, your team along with

two members from mine will hit this target site and find out what exactly is inside before sealing the entrance. You have an AC 130 and two Apache gunships on standby if shit hits the fan. I couldn't help but grin at the thought of those angels of death watching over us. With that being said, recent reports are showing that Taliban activity in the area has spiked in the past 48 hours, so expect anything when you land. Carson gauged the room, as we all took notes. Any questions so far? He asked, does Smith raised a finger? Should we expect any of our rusky friends to be on site?

Smith asked as he tapped the table with his pen. Not to our knowledge, and if you do, don't fire unless fired a part. We don't need an international incident here. Carson answered, his voice sounding like an annoyed parent when their kid is asking stupid questions. Sir, what about potential CBRN exposure? I asked next, pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head as my leg bounced endlessly. There should be no life-threatening materials down. down there, senior chief. Does that answer your question? The man said with a condescending tone.

I was about to make a smart-ass remark, but Brock gave me the stop it or get her asses chewed look. After what felt like an eternity, we finally wrap things up as hush voices filled the room. I found myself thinking of the endless potential threats and scenarios that could unfold as the team dispersed and exited the cramped skiff. I'm Luke and this here is race This year I spook in the corner of the room That remains silent up until now Introduced himself and the woman next to him as I passed them

Jason I forced myself to stop and extended out an open hand Towards him with a fake smile Hope you all can keep up The hard-bodied woman with a jet-back hair Who was all of five feet tall Shook my hand with an iron grip And a fire in her eyes

Likewise, you team guys seem to be all tog nowadays, it seems. She retorted as Brock called them over to the table. That was my cue to leave. The hours passed like seconds, and we found ourselves all kitted up with tools of the trade while we waited for further instruction inside the courtyard. Out of boredom, my finger traced over the faded Texas flag patch on my ATAC case as I watched the rest of the team gather around the fire pit under the moonlit sky. These men are my brothers, my family, my team.

Brock tapped my shoulder and pulled me from my thoughts. He cradled his helmet under his right arm and let his rifle hang by its sling. Is everything all right, Jason? He finally asked as he ran a hand over his stubbled face. I'm solid, boss, man. I finally answered and shifted my stance. But I'm not sure about our new friends, though. I gestured towards Rays and Luke.

he were talking with Carson on the far side of the courtyard away from everyone else. Brock just shook his head as he adjusted the contacts mounted to the helmet before looking at me. You have us, brother, he gestured to the rest of the team. Now, get your head in the game. Time to get evil. He held out a close fist in my direction with a wide grin. I grinned back, bumping his fist in response as the ten of us shuffled out of the compound, and towards our wading transport. In a matter of minutes,

we were on a Black Hawk helicopter and tearing over the Afghan countryside under the cover of darkness. Thirty seconds! Rock caught out on the comms over the roaring wind as he signalled around the cramped crew compartment that was bathed in a red glow.

Oh shit, I must have fallen asleep. Thirty seconds, I yelled in response, mirroring the signal around the crew compartment before checking over my kit one last time as my right leg hung limply out of the open cargo door. Feeling satisfied with the check, I snapped down the NVGs mounted to my helmet and peered out over the shimmering terrain

that was now bashed in the greenish-gray monochrome of night vision. I got tired of the blurry mountains in the distance and glanced back over my shoulder to see Rays giving Luke a quick thumbs up before pulling out a small black device from her vest and pressing a button on it before slowly. lighting it back into its pouch. The hello banked hard to the right on its final approach,

causing me to brace myself on the doorframe as the nose of the helicopter flared upward. It touched down in a small clearing and we dismounted in a matter of seconds before being left in complete silence. Two, take point! Rock's voice buzzed in my headset, shattering the dead silence. Moving. I stood up and pushed past Smith

and the other two operators who were covering our six o'clock. I shuffled past Townsend and loop next before finally passing rays who was covering our eleven o'clock. According to the ATAC, the target site was supposed to be right down from the little clearing we'd landed in, only I wasn't seeing anything other than a small thicket of trees in our path. Where the hell is this stupid? My internal rant was caught off when a dark figure shifted positions

in another small clearing to my front. I activated the IR laser mounted to my rifle, followed the figure as it walked back towards us. The faint sounds of talking were being picked up by my headset, but I couldn't tell who or what was talking. The figure finally stopped a few metres inside the thinly wooded area we were in, and the sound of water hitting rock filled my ears. Oh, dude's taken a piss. Without warning, raised drifted past me in a low crouch with a knife in hand. "'Whisky, tangle, foxtrard!' My hand shot out and missed the dragstrap on her plate carrier by an inch.

She cleared the distance between them in a matter of seconds and managed to get the figure onto the ground. There was a small violent struggle before the two stopped moving. A few seconds later, Rays was on her feet and signalled me to move forward. As I got closer, I can make out the typical man dress and a bulky AK ammo rig on the now dead man at my feet. A look of fear was plastered on his bearded face, and a long jagged cut had severed both carotid arteries,

and his trachea as a ragged wet hiss escaped from the new orifice. Rays pointed towards one more fighter with his back to us, who was sitting in front of a dying fire with slouched shoulders. I nodded and unsheathed the Winkler Tomahawk, bound to the back of my kit, as I maneuvered towards the unsuspecting fighter. My heart slammed against my chest like a drum as I closed the distance. Things were about to get very violent, very fast.

I swung the blade down hard. It connected with the fighter's neck with a sickening wet crouch. The violent blow caused his head to snap to the side and almost come off. Gold droplets of blood hit my exposed wrists as the man fell on his side before I hit him in the temple with the spear point. to the tomahawk. What the hell? He's already dead.

We're clear. Ray's voice was delayed in my headset as the rest of the team emerged from the woodline. There it is. Ray spoke as she stepped past me and reached out, grabbing hold of a dark camo net. She pulled it down to reveal an ancient-looking fortified bunker entrance with a faded star with a hammer and sickle in it, painted on the door and over a head slab of concrete. More lucky. Police these bodies. Brock spoke in a whisper. He was holding two AK-47s by their slings as he walked over towards the entrance of the bunker. Gunner, Ike,

Huston, pull security and join the other two and set up the inner cordon. Jack, one of them responded. Brock looked over at me. Jason, you Townsend and Smith are with me in the suits. I gave him a thumbs up before wiping the blood off the Tomahawk on the dead man's clothes before securing it back in the sheet. Luke walked up to the door and began messing with a small rusted panel. A few seconds later, the door let out a loud mechanical, boom. The reinforced metal door swung inwards with a loud screech, and the smell of mildew and rust hit my nose as I stepped up beside him. Ladies first. Rays reached up, tapped my shoulder, while gesturing down the wide stairwell that led down into inky blackness.

I ignored the jab and shoved past her with my rifle at the ready. Doc, and Al for one, we're going internal. Expect issues with calm soon. Brock's voice echoed from behind me as we continued the descent. We walked for another five minutes in silence before finally reaching the bottom of the stairwell. This place was a tomb, if anything. paintings of old Soviet leaders and other communist pieces were on the wall. Some old computers sat on a long abandoned desk at what looked like a guard station off to our right.

To our left sat cobwebbed and duskate lounge furniture and a coffee table with an old cigarette machine next to it. Check this out, Senior. Townsend called out from my left as I looked around the massive room in awe. Senior, he called out again. What? I growled. turned to see Townsend holding up mummified severed arm still clutching on to a tattered teddy bear something bad happened down here bro he wrinkled his nose and dropped the arm as Smith stopped at my side get ready to ditch the NVGs he tilted his head towards the security station and snapped his

NVGs up they're going to turn on the lights smith started chuckling as he walked over to Townsend in the dark. Wish you would have told me we're raiding your place, text. It's a very retro. I gave Smith a single finger salute as we were blinded by a dull yellow flash of light that was followed by a short burst of static from what sounded like an intercom system as the two CIA spooks walked back over to us from the security station. All right, stick close. This place is a fucking maze. Luke spoke as he took point through the door with his rifle raised. Any idea

where we're going, Langley? Downsend asked as he stepped around a toppled chair. According to... Rays was then cut off by a loud crash off to our right as we passed a darkened corridor. She activated the light mounted

to her rifle to reveal a massive rat who was feasting on a mummified corpse wearing a Soviet-era officer's uniform that was leaning against the wall. She let out a sigh and looked back towards Townsend. It's going to be further inside the main complex. Right now we're in the receiving bay. She poked a thumb over her shoulder.

This will go on for another. I stopped listening and scanned off to my left to find another corridor that looked like one you'd see in a hotel. Doors line both sides of the hall with metal plaques with numbers on them. Yeah, they even had the same shitty carpets. "'Great, more walking,' Townsend murmured, as he checked our six. "'This place gives me the fucking creeps.' "'Lock it up,' Brock ordered as we entered a narrow corridor to our front "'that eventually opened up to a massive cafeteria section

"'that had more bodies littered around it. "'The first place we need to stop her should be on our left. "'It's in one of the med-bays.' "'Rays chopped her hand towards a set of double doors next to me. I grunted in response and pushed through the doors with my rifle raised, only to find scattered lab equipment and a toppled gurney with a brown, dried stain on it that turned into a trail as I stepped past it with rays in tow. Hmm, this isn't a weapons depot. The all-familiar putrid smell of death and rotting meat started to worm its way into my nostrils as we follow the trail around the corner to the right, as it finally stopped. another set of double doors that had a black putrid substance smeared on it.

Rays looked over me and gave the nods. Three, two, one, Art two, Afghanistan. O2.30 hours, local time. Three, two, one. We breached the door in unison, causing a thunderous crash to echo through the hall as I cut right with rifle raised. Ray's cut left and cleared her lane as the pale white lights inside the room flickered on and off like some fucked-up rave party. Flashes of metal on the wall caught my attention as I activated the light mounted to my rifle, giving me a steady source of light. In the corner

sat a hunched figure drenched in more of that black liquid that was smeared on the door. I could barely make out the dress boots and faded green fatigues. Must have been another officer or grunt. My thumb was welded to the selector switch on my rifle as the figure shot up to his feet in one jerky moment. Stop, let me see your hands. I ordered in English first while trying to think of the Russian phrase. The figure spun towards me on a heel and began to shuffle about like a drunkard. Hence, I shouted in Russian this time, the figure swayed and kept its course with staggering steps. I flicked the selector switch to bang

and rested the red dot of my sight on its chest. Stop now. At first I thought I'd dry fire it until Rays passed me. She had a small portable camera in hand. She took another picture as the figure faltered and fell to the floor with a wet thart. Rays, what the hell are you doing? I backed up with my rifle still trained on the figure

as it let out a ragged mode. Documenting, she replied coolly, as I tried to comprehend what the hell this thing was, as it attempted to stand back up. Don't get any of that shit on you. She backed up a few steps and snapped another picture. Looks like tar or something. What the hell is it?

I asked, scanning the rest of the room. We were in a morgue or holding room of some sort. Examination table sat a few feet apart from each other. along with a few metal doors with observation slots that lined the wall. Oh, if I know. She stopped as a loud bang came from one of the metal doors lining the wall to our left. Ray's pocketed the camera and swung her rifle towards the door. Shoot it.

But this thing didn't have a gun or pose any real threat at this second. But that was the logic speaking. Well, I shook that thought away and poured the trigger three times. The tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck from the suppressed rifle sounding like miniature nuclear explosions inside the confined room. The thing stumbled backward a few steps. The third round had split the top of its head in half, causing a mess of brain, matter, and skull to spill on the tile floor and the wall behind it. But to my surprise, the thing didn't go down. It regained its balance and let out another wet croak from its ruined head

as the door to our left began to give way. Raise, move. My bat-pedaled as the sounds of suppressed gunfire erupted from outside. Contact, right, contact, right! Townsend called out as the metal door crashed to the ground. A hulking man wearing a sleeveless blood-soaked Telnyashka emerged from the now open door. "'Oerigans!' he bellowed with a hoarse voice

"'as his blood-filled eyes locked with mine. "'I snapped my rifle in his direction "'and fired off three rounds that hit centre-mass. "'He just shrugged off the wounds "'and let out a blood-curdling scream "'while running towards us with outstretched arms. "'He barreled through rays, "'sending her to the floor and into me at full speeds.

"'The world suddenly turned into a blur as I fell onto my back through the set of double doors and into the hall. The sounds of weapon fire and yelling filled my ears as this giant of a man on top of me swung down with a closed fist that slammed into my helmet with a wet crack as he pulled back his mangled right hand with another scream. I couldn't get to the rifle that was at my side, so I left it and covered my face as he landed another blow

that caused stars to float in the corners of my vision. "'Raise!' "'I thrashed around and bucked my hips in an attempt to get the guy off, "'but nothing was working. "'He was locked in and swinging wildly. "'I don't have a shot. Move!' "'Rays yelled back as I bucked again. "'This time the man gave me just enough breathing room

"'to get to the Glock on my battle-belt. "'Just as the Glock cleared the retention holster, "'the man swung down with another close fist "'that connected with my face, causing my eyes to water and a flood of blood to fill my mouth as I struck out with my free hand connected with his chin through tears I watched as the man pulled his fist back for another blow oh shit this is going to hurt I fired off one round that tore a hole through his shoulder that sent him into another screaming fit as his fists came down a flash of black and tang crossed

my vision and the man's head snapped to the side causing his body to follow as the heavy weight lifted off my stomach. Rays pumped several rounds into the man as she situated herself in the kneeling position beside me. The man groaned and clutched his mangled hand while trying to get his feet under him. "'You good?' she asked as she swapped out magazines and trained her rifle down the hall. "'Good,' I stammered as I got up to my feet and steadied myself on the wall before grabbing my rifle up off the floor. Down from us was a scene that reminded me of the old western movies I'd watched as a kid. Brock had hip-tossed a woman wearing a tattered lab coat over a table before shooting her in the face.

Smith swung a plastic chair that connected with a uniform man's face while Townsend and Luke were fighting a shirtless, hulking man wearing a blue beret. What the! I was cut off by an iron grip that clutched onto my ankle, causing me to curse out loud. I glanced down to see the battered and angry face of the man who'd punched me. I just simply tilted my rifle and fired off one round that obliterated his face in an explosion of blood and gall.

His hand, however, still clutched my ankle. Moving. Race caught out as I ripped my boot free from the hand that was still clutching at the air. We cleared the threshold of the cafeteria entrance and began selecting out of the room. typhics while moving. One down. On to the next. My red dot found another target

and my finger pulled the trigger putting another person down. As soon as it started, it stopped. A mass of dead bodies now lay inside the hall and center of the cafeteria surrounded by empty brass casings and bloody chairs.

What the fuck is going on here? Rock yelled over at Luke, It was hunched over and dry heaving. The smell of cordite and blood hung thick in the air and was so strong that it was palpable. Luke just held up a hand and heaved once more, as I checked on Townsend and Smith. This was beyond fuck.

We obviously were left out on some key details here. Listen here, you son of a bitch. Brock suddenly snapped, grabbing the CIA spooked by the straps of his plate carrier and standing him up straight. I'm not going to risk the lives of my man if there's nothing to gain here. Spittle dotted Luke's face as Brock shoved him back. Weapons deep on my ass, I muttered, as Townsend smeared the line of blood on his cheek with the back of his gloved hand.

This is something else entirely. So, what is it? I asked, looking over at Rays. We... She avoided my gaze and began to spit. speak, but Luke cut her off with a yell. Ray's, shut it. Master Chief, you are not in charge here. We are.

Luke emphasized we, as he pointed at Ray's. If you cannot proceed with the mission tasking, then, go back outside and send in another person who will. I was stunned by the bawlsy response from the CIA spook, because he stared up at Brock with no emotion. Where do we need to go next? Brock asked, spitting a streamer. of blood onto the floor. He had a large gash on his right cheek and his right eye was beginning

to swell shards. He, with no doubt, reflected my own busted face. I got what I needed from the med bay. We need to head into the director's office. Ray's answered. Oh, fan fucking-tastic. So if, I mean, if we make it there, what are we doing next? Smith asked, as Brock checked in with the rest the team that was still topside. We'll collect what we need while you pull fucking security. Luke interjected as I walked back into the clearing with my rifle at the ready. Any more questions? Our attackers looked so aged and starved by decades,

but still seem to fight and move with ease. What the hell are these guys on? Jason, take point. Brock ordered, as we moved down the hall and threw an open set of metal doors that led towards a cramped stairwell, leading down into a smaller receiving bay. We walked for another fifteen minutes before we arrived at a blast door that was surprisingly opened. I pied the corner to see another narrow hallway that was filled with more bodies and papers

that were all over the floor. Moving! We cleared the door and were greeted by the sounds of bare feet slapping against the floor to our front. Every muscle in my body tensed as the foot thwarted. as the footfalls grew closer and closer. Finally, after a tense moment of silence, a naked man rounded the corner holding a rustic kitchen knife in one hand

and something else in the other. Oh, no! I fired off two rounds. One struck the man in the neck, and the second hit him in the jaw, causing him to spin like a top before falling to the floor. I approached the corner and took a peek. beyond it was a group of them all huddled together and twitching violently as the rest of the team fell in behind me.

I signalled that there was a massive group and poured a flashbanger from a pouch on my kids. The team gave me the acknowledgement. I pulled the pin and tossed it round the corner. There was a bright flash and deafening thud that slammed my chest as the grenade detonated. The group in the hall went into a frenzy and started attacking one another in the chaos. We put them down with ease and pushed past their twitching corpses without a second glance. According to Rays, we were getting closer to the director's office, but I couldn't tell where exactly we were.

Everything looked the same. Ray's suddenly cut right and headed down a larger corridor that had closed office doors lining each side. This way. She stopped in front of a cracked door that had writing on it that said, "'Treat her in faded black lettering.' Ray's reached out and pushed the door open, only to be shoved back into the wall by an unseen forced, followed by a low boom. My rifle found itself trained on the doorway as a fat man came strutting out with a double-barrel shotgun in hand. The vapors from the black powder trailed up in lazy swirls as he tilted the barrel down at Ray's face.

It all happened too fast. One second the fat man was standing there and the next. He was slumped against the doorframe, missing the top, half. of his head. I was suddenly at Rays' side with my rifle hanging by mine. Fuck, that hurts. She coughed as I did a blood sweep

only to pull back a dry glove. The sappy plaiton, most of her magazines took the brunt of the damage. You all live. It didn't penetrate. I got up and covered our flank while Luke and Brock cleared the rest of the room. Shit, no.

No. Ray's fumbled round the pouches and pulled out the small camera that was now busted. Oh shit, please come on. She poured out a small memory card that was still intact. Yes, thank you, God. Tex, you just smoke-checked Gorbachev's brother. Townsend joked, but it fell on deaf ears as Brock and Luke emerged from the room with an arm full of folders. Townsend poured out a large yellow recovery bag from his assault pack and opened it up. There's more in there. Smith, help us.

Propp stopped by rays and patted her on the shoulder. Can you walk? he asked, eyeing the exposed suppy plate. Yeah, but it hurts like a motherfucker. She responded through laboured breathing. I guess that's karma for talking shit about you team guys, huh? I stifled to charcoal and winced as the sweat on my face made the cuts burn like wildfire. We got it all. Let's move it. Smith called out as I helped raise to her feet. Jason, you look like hell, brother. He grinned as he hefted the recovery bag over his left shoulder.

Oh, feel like it too, I mumbled as he followed Luke back down the hall. I checked my watch to see that we'd been down here for a few hours. The sun was no doubt going to rise soon, and we'd be. be a juicy target for any Taliban assholes who happen to wander over. As we retraced our steps, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling of being watched. Every so often I'd check our six, only to find nothing, but every now then I swore there'd be a small sliver of movement in the peripherals of my vision. Alpha, one, con. The comms picked up a static-filled transmission as we finally made it back to the cafeteria section.

knee, C, A, now, the strained voice yelled. I was about to speak when something slammed into my back and knocked the wind out of my lungs as I landed face-first onto the floor. Contact, rear! Townsend caught out as he let loose a burst of fire from his rifle. Jack's hit! He's down! He pushed past me and continued to fire when the ground shook violently. My vision was washed out in a cloud of grey. as the shooting continued. My long scream for oxygen,

but I just couldn't get the air back into them, no matter how hard I tried. Oh, shit. Was that a freaking grenade? Someone yanked on the dragstrap of my kit and pulled me around the corner and into the cafeteria before letting go. Is he dead?

Luke caught out as a cacophony of gunfire grew with each passing second. We have to go. Leave him. Fuck that, Smith yelled. There's another violent explosion. shook the ground. Fuck, who are these guys? To my dismay, I could only see the ugly orange-colored wall inches in front of me

as I sucked in the air that was thick with dust and cordites. Are I paralyzed? I let out a wet cough that sent a wave of pain throughout my entire body as I attempted to crane my neck. Hey, where the fuck are you going? Brock bellowed over the raging gunfire. Fuck, those CIA spooks. have bolted.

I was rolled onto my side, and I was greeted by the side of Brock, who was now covered in a thin coat of grey dust particles. I need you back in the fight. He placed my rifle in my arms and sat me up against the wall. A large group of tangos down that hall. We're going to pop smoke, okay? I nodded in agreement and tried to stand. This only sent another wave of pain, followed by a sickening nausea as I slump back down.

Listen, I need you. to harden the fuck up and get ready to move. Rock tapped my shoulder and got back in the fight without saying another word. Smith ran to the corner with a limp and let his empty magazine clatter onto the floor as he ripped out another from his kit. Fucker's got a P.K.M.

He winced as rounds impacted the wall. Gonna chew our asses up if we don't take it out. Townsend, move. He yelled. Popping off a few shots that caused the gunfire to dampen for a moment. Townsend ran past us and down the hall in a dead sprint. Covering, he yelled out a second later. Smith pulled out a smoke grenade and pulled the pin.

Moving. The smoke grenade made a puff noise, followed by a stream of white smoke as Smith threw it down the hall. Brought looked back down at me and helped me back up to my feet once more. Move it, he ordered. My brain gave the command to move, but my feet struggled to follow the orders. Each step seemed delayed and sluggish as I stumbled down the hall with rock behind me. Come on, one foot in front of the other.

I didn't dare look behind us as we passed Smith and Townsend. The sounds of screaming mixed with that damn classical music echoed out from behind us as the shooting began to dwindle. Every so often there was a pop of a rifle, but that soon stopped. I passed through the door first to be greeted by race. He was covering the door while Luke typed away on one of the computers. computers at the security station. Jesus, I almost fucking shot you in the face.

She changed positions and covered the other side of the door as I weased. Ignoring the almost fatal blue-on-blue incident, I spun around and posted up on the door to see a horde of people running after Brock and the rest of the team. Close the fucking door, Smith screamed as he began to lag behind Brock in Townsend. Close it. Brock slid to a stop in front of me and spun around on one knee before firing into the massive crowd that was growing by the second

Townsend squeezed through the door and watched our flank before shooting at something I didn't take my eyes off the growing hoard and continued to fire as Smith made it to Brock just as the two men made it through the gap an alarm sounded and the door began to close at a slow pace Oh great Brock cursed and ripped a fragmentation grenade

from its pouch on his kit and prepped it. Fragg out. He tossed a small explosive through the gap. Less than a second later, there was a fom-as the explosion rogged the ground, sending pieces of shrapnel's pinging off the metal door as it was sealed shut. Shit, help, Townsend cried.

From my left as he was toppled to the ground by two decrepit-looking figures that had emerged from one of the rooms. Get them off! He pleaded, as they dragged him back into the, the room. I shifted my stance as four more of the mummified looking people came running out from the darkness and towards Smith and Ray's. The two laid into them with a control burst, dispatching them without issue. I'm out, Ray's called out as she transitioned to her pistol.

Smith, attempting to push forward only to be stopped once more by those freaking things. Townsend, hang on. Townsend's screams were soul-crushing, but more of those things. kept pouring out from the rooms as we emptied magazine after magazine. Hang in there, kid, Brock yelled again as we fought our way down the hall at a slow pace. I breached into the room with Brock to find Townsend sprawled out on the floor, with two of those things tearing at his exposed lower stomach. The coppery smell of blood hit my nose as I shot the one closest to me while Brock shot the other. You're going to be fine.

Brock tore into Townsend's blur, kid. It's just a scratch. He reassured him as Raisin Smith continued firing from outside. Brock shoved most of Townsend's exposed intestines back in and dressed the wound before securing it in place. The bottom two fingers on Townsend's right hand were torn off and his left wrist had been broken at an odd angle, rendering it useless. Jason, help me. Brock gestured towards Townsend as I grabbed a hold of his right arm. I hooked my arm under Townsend's and hauled him up to his feet.

his face was beginning to turn pale as blood began to seat through the trauma pad on his stomach I don't his eyes fluttered it feels so good um I'm sorry guys he slurred the apology as he tried to walk I kinda felt up he coughed up blood that streamed out over his chin I'm gonna die Townsend's struggled to walk as we moved back down the hall Luke had joined the fighting now

and was making his way up the stairwell we'd entered from Don't forget the bag The yellow bag sat against the wall of security station All the way across the room Fuck that Help us, Smith your back Because he dropped one of those mummy things And planted a boot in its skull

Sending a putrid black fluid flooding onto the floor Luke let out a curse and ran across the room, dodging the few stragglers that were still alive. Just as he got to the bag, something slammed into the massive blast door that we'd shut just moments earlier. The door shuttered violently as he slung the bag over his shoulder.

Get your man to prep explosives on the entrance. We need to plug it off. He yelled up at us as the door cracked open. Rock gritted his teeth as we slowly ascended the dark and stairwell. Screams were echoing up from behind us now, and it wouldn't be long before those things were on top of us. Houston, prep explosives for death.

We're closing the entrance. He released the PTT button and activated the light mounted to his helmets. Townsend's body suddenly went limp. His dead weight nearly caused us to tumble backward, but luckily I was able to catch my balance and keep him from dragging us down. Townsend, I need you to walk, buddy. Hey. I tried to get a response, but got none.

He's gone, Brock spoke, his voice roar and hoarse. There was a sudden rush of cold air as we neared the top of the stairs. My back and arms burned and my legs felt like they were weighed down by lead as we reached the entrance. Smoke from a smouldering fire wafted in our direction as the rest of our team all looked at us in shock. There were pockmarks in the door and around the entrance, along with what looked like, damage from an explosion. We need to clear out and... Luke was cut off by a swift punch from Brock.

The blow split the spook's lip up to his nose. Lucky, I helped transport Townsend. The two men didn't say a single word. They just walked over to me and took Townsend's lifeless body from me before laying him down near the woodline. Or gonna... What the hell happened up here? Brock asked the two operators.

who looked like they'd been put through hell. A group of Taliban decided to drop by. We'd die with them. Moa answered as Hustam began fixing the explosives to the weak points on the structure. Charges are set-bass. Austin spoke up a minute later as he led the command wire away from the charges

that he'd positioned around the entrance. I have a one-minute foos set on standby. I finally let out a long, ragged breath and checked over myself to find no life-threatening wounds. Whatever those things were, they didn't seem to be phased by a physical trauma. My gaze drifted over to Townsend's lifeless body. His arms were folded across his chest and his rifle was by his side.

Damn, he didn't deserve this. I finally tore my eyes off of Townsend and they found themselves on Rays, who was tending to loop. Our ride's almost here. Get ready to move. Smith stated as he walked over to the two. this intel better be fucking worth it he glared down at Luke who just shook his head Oh my kidding You're all the same

You just get us killed and get the credit for a job well done Am I right Smith kicked Luke's leg Causing the man to spring to his feet Fuck off Luke growled in response as I pulled Smith back by the arm Let it go This isn't the time or the place brother

I tight my grip on his arm As the rest of the team began to file into the woods Let's go, come on The two spooks trailed behind us without saying a word They had a lot to answer for though And this isn't over yet Art 3 Afghanistan

Time unknown You push through the thicket of trees And made our way back towards the X-Fill point In a staggered column As an eerie silence washed back over us I found myself glancing down at Townsend's body One minute he'd been bitching about the walk down into that freaking bunker And now he was gone

How was his family going to handle this news Would they even hear about it Would these assholes cover it up and say that he died an honourable death Or would they just sweep it under the road Heads down Debt in three Two One

Huston counted down as the explosive charges detonated with a thunderous boom that reverberated through the Afghan countryside. If they don't know that we're here, they do now. One of the operators spoke as pieces of rubble and rock pelted our helmets. A beat later something came crashing through the underbrush towards us as the low familiar. Sounds of our transport helicopter grew louder as it closed in on our location. My heart skipped a beat when a man emerged. It was the asshole that I'd shot in the face.

after the fist fight. Despite all the odds, he'd survived, and it escaped the bunker. He was missing the right arm up to the shoulder, and the majority of the left hand, as he ran towards us with a mouth curled up in a snarl. The bastard was cut down in seconds by the team as another wounded figure appeared next. The helicopter touched down in the clearing behind us,

and the wounded figure darted back into the trees. Move, I caught out, as we were engulfed in dust and debris from the rotor wash. I covered Hustin and Gunner as they moved Townsend. Last man, Smith yelled, as he tapped my shoulder and moved past me. Just as I turned away, Tracer Fire ripped through the treeline and barely missed my legs as one of the rounds ricocheted off the ground and into the sky. Another had found the cockpit window and caused the glass to spider web in all directions

as the pilots yelled into their headsets. The door gunner gritted his teeth and swung his massive gun towards me, returning fire without hesitation. Fifty caliber rounds cut down the small ferns and trees in its path as the gunner laid down the hate. I hefted myself up into the cargo bay and sat in the open door, snapping down my NVGs in the process. The NVGs flickered between a dim and bright glow as I returned fire at a small group of Taliban fighters who'd emerge from the woodline with AKs in hand.

Reaper 6, Neptune, actual. I needed a fire on my target marked by I.R. Be advised, danger close. Brock spoke to the AC130 crew as the bird lifted off into the sky. Copy, Neptune, actual. Stand by. The helicopter lurched upward and banked hard to the left as we gained altitude. Rounds away. TOT, ten seconds. One of the crewmen spoke as a low-based thump, followed by a swoosh cut over the churning of the rotors.

A small patch of land we were in just went up in a dark clowns. of dust behind us as a 105-millimeter howitzer round splashed down. A 25-millimeter gun buzzed next and rained hell down into the area, followed by a few shots from the 40-millimeter Beaufort cannons that sounded like distant war drums. Neptune Natural. Outlaw, one-three. Be advised we have multiple heat-sigs moving through the sticks down towards the river.

A female voice called out over the nets. Outlaw, those are tangos. Smoke. Copy. The gunship fired a salver of its Zuna rocket and let off a short burst from its 30mm cannon as more trace of fire lagged lazily behind us. Damn, the whole valley seemed to come alive at that moment. They're not getting back up from...

The gunship pilot was cut off as an RPG streaked out from the foliage below us and towards them. RPG, RPG! The gunship pulled hard to the left, just missing the... projectile by a few inches as they returned the favour with a long burst from their 30 millimeter cannon that demolished the patch of foliage the RPG had been fired from. Neptune Natural, Reaper 6. We are Bingo Fuel and RTB. Good luck. The AC 130 let out another stream of fire from all weapon platforms before heading back towards FOB. I glanced down to see more muzzle flashes and RPG fire coming from all over the valley. My eyes went

Wide as a trace around scored a direct hit on the gunship escorting us, causing it to spew a stream of fire followed by black smoke from the turbines as the pilot fought to gain control of the aircraft. Shit, we're hit. I'm losing hydraulic fluid fast. Came the gunship pilot's clipped response as our bird was pevered by another wave of incoming fire. Can he make it back, one and three?

The second gunship's pilot asked as they tore over the mountainous terrain on our right flank. Everyone inside the crew compartment let out curses and grabbed on to what they could as the helicopter shuddered violently. It was one thing to be shot out on the ground. We could at least return fire and fight back, but we wouldn't win a fight against gravity. Yep, I think we can,

but she ain't going to hold for much longer. We're going to have to make an emergency landing at Camp Badstock. One-three finally responded with a cough. The shooting stopped, and so did the evening. adrenaline on. My body hurt with a pain like no other, along with my left leg that had caught pieces of spalling from the bullet that had ricocheted off the ground.

Easy day. I snapped the NVGs up and let out a long, ragged sigh, leaning my head against the net bench behind me. The next few hours were going to be hell. The sun was rising now, turning the pale grey sky into a bloody orange colour as we finally arrived back at Camp Rattle. After touching down, we moved Townsend's body to the camp's medical facility where we got checked out by the army doctors and nurses before we set our silent prayers and good-bys to our fallen teammates. Dude, how the fuck are you not paralyzed?

I cast, bluntly, as we made our way back towards the compound for the AAR. He held the sappy plate that was in my back panel. A jagged hole was in near the bottom, where the round from the unseen shooter had gone through and lodged itself in my back, along with the same. chunks from the plates. Lucky, I guess, I responded, while gingerly touching my lower back. I had no clue what round had stopped where it had, but according to the dock, it was a miracle that the bullet had missed my spine. Oh, miracle or not, it still didn't explain how the internal trauma surrounding the bullet

had been close to nothing other than irritation to the surrounding side itself. It was like, well, it was like the wound had healed itself in a matter of minutes. Carson and our skipper had both been present in the talk the entire time we were on target, and it was evident that they'd only seen what had happened on the outside. Well Carson's body language led me to believe he knew more as they began the AAR. It wasn't until we were done with the AAR that Ray's produced a helmet-mounted camera, along with a small flash drive that she handed over to Luke. Brach, Smith, and Jason, I needed to stay put.

The rest of you were dismissed. The rest of the team looked at one another in confusion and anger. They were left in the dark as to what had happened down in that bunker and wanted answers as much as we did. Gentlemen, Carson spoke with a very calm tone as he shut the reinforced door. What you witnessed down there was something you will not speak of under any circumstances. He handed out three sheets of paper to each of us. Please sign your full names at the bottom of each form.

I looked over the document and noted that it was some form of NDA that would land us in some serious shit if we signed it. Oh, here we fucking go. Smith shoved the paper back across the table and stood up. I'm not signing shit. He stood in defiance. You can't do this to us. I joined in as Brock's hands balled up into fists at his side. Dry blood still coated the sleeves and neck of his combat shirt.

I can and will, senior chief. Luke looked over to ask Skipper and shook his head. I know what you're all going through right now. The skipper rested his arms against the table and looked at each of us as he spoke. I need you. The team needs you. Please, he gestured towards the papers. Sir, can we have the room?

Luke spoke as he emerged from the corner of the room, his arms crossed. Asgipper stared down at the man across from him. He wasn't used to being told what to do, especially by some suit from Langley. Carson let out a long sigh full of bear laugh that was void of all humour. I'll just be blunt with you since playing nice isn't working anymore, sir. He planted a finger in Askeper's chest. You men are about to be sent after prison for treason and the murder of a fellow service member. There was a tense moment of silence, followed by a growl from our skipper. I'll be back.

Keep your mouth shut. That's an order. Without saying another word, he walked out of the room, with Luke following close behind it. The Russians were experimenting with different ways to treat battlefield injuries faster. Rays finally spoke, because she took a seat across from us. And the only reason we know this is because the company has been in contact with one of the lead scientists and the director inside that bunker, well, since the Soviet invasion. Brock slammed his fists into the table, causing rays to jump.

So you fucking knew that those things were down there? Brock asked as the veins in his arms bulged. No, we didn't know anything about them. We lost communications with the director as of three days ago, and after trying every possible means of contact, we decided to use an alternative option. Carson butted in. We uncovered a terrible secret,

and if anyone else knew what was going on down there, Well, the geopolitical fallout would be. He was cut off as the door opened. Luke entered and shut the door behind him. A look of worry and fear was plastered on his boyish face. Sir, he's bringing MPs and the rest of their team back here. Carson let out a curse and looked back over to us. If you sign those NDAs, you can continue to operate freely without any issue.

This is just a means of keeping things under wraps. Fear was in the man's eyes and we were drawn to it like sharks to blood. What about Townsend's family? I asked, tapping on the paper with my index finger. His family were all taken care of. They don't have to worry about financial burdens for the rest of their lives. He answered quickly. And what about us? Smith asked, gesturing to me and Brock. We sign these papers and you expect us to live with the fact that you got one of our guys killed for some fucking meat and greet? Look, we don't have much time left.

Carson was on the verge of hysteria, as I tried to make sense of what was going on. Ebola, bubonic plague, saris, smallpox. They're all nothing compared to what they've engineered down there. Luke joined the conversation. The director that you shut in the head was supposed to give up the location of the other bunkers so we could shut this little experiment down for good.

I looked down at the papers and read through them twice. I want in. The room fell silent at my response. I want to shut down every last one. You let me do that and I'll do whatever you want me to do. We can't do. Luke began to argue but was waived off by Carson. Done.

You'll be working with Ray's and Luke's team. Just sign the paperwork and I'll handle the rest of the logistics. A look of relief washed over Carson's face as I put pen to paper. Brock and Smith's eyes were burning holes into me, but I didn't bother looking at them. I couldn't. I'm doing this for Townsend and for the team. I signed the papers and stood up. The door swung open and the skipper, along with the rest of our team and two MPs wearing

multi-cam uniforms entered. Dan down, Carson ordered as the tension in the room began to skyrocket. Everything's been handled accordingly. our skipper looked over at Brock for confirmation. Brock just simply nodded in response as the MPs awaited further instruction with their hands hovering over their drop-leg holsters. I guess this settles it then. Smith spoke next as he stood up from the table and left the room.

I hope you know what the hell you're doing, Jason. Brock stood and walked over to the rest of the team. We're good here, jents. Clear out. He ushered the hell-bent operators back outside, telling them what they wanted to hear, as the searing light from the sun illuminated the darkened interior of the room. I looked down at the other papers to see Brocks and Smith's name scrawled on them. Well, I'll be damned.

Part 4. Afghanistan. Time unknown. I found myself wandering over to a small secluded section of the compound that overlooked the flight line and western section of the camp. This wasn't my first time losing a team member, but it wasn't something you get used to no matter how long you've been in the business.

You want to smoke? A familiar voice asked from somewhere behind me. I'm good, thanks. I twisted around to see the agency woman with a cigarette hanging from her lips. Her hair was let down and free-flowing, like a current attitude. Understandable,

I only smoke if it's been a real, shit day. She smirked, lighting the cowboy killer and inhaling deeply before blowing out a plume of tobacco smoke. What happened? I asked, hoping that our agreement was still being honoured. Well, Carson was able to get you leased out to us after a long fight with your command. Needless to say, they're pissed, but it's done. She took another long drag. Luke and the rest the team are on standby in Paris and waiting for further instruction Paris is that Ariel I leaned back against a stack of connex boxes leaning against the fence

it's starting to look like it our people are still putting together a target package what's our timeline here I asked getting to the point I'll read you in once where wheels are she leaned on a spool of sea wire and reached into the cargo pocket of her combat pants, and since no one else is around to christen your arrival, Ray's held out a small black rectangular patch housing a dark red skull being pierced through the top by a dagger. Welcome to the team, Jason. I traced over the patch as Ray's shifted

positions. I'm going to tell you this now so you don't have to experience it all on your own. She took another long drag from her cigarette while looking me in the eyes. What you will experience while working with us will keep you up at night. It will drive you to the brink of insanity and will destroy everything you hold dear if you let it. What you experienced down in that bunker was just the tip of the iceberg. Her tone was serious despite her relaxed demeanour. Don't let it break you. A look of pity or maybe even longing flickered behind the woman's blue eyes as she stubbed out the cigarette.

the hard-ass cold-blooded CIA spook returning now. Now, make a phone call, say your goodbyes, do what you have to do. We leave in turn. Ray's left without saying another word as two Black Hawk helicopters carrying members of our sister squadron tore over the horizon. Our time here on this ancient blood-soaked stretch of land was coming to an end, and they'd be picking up where we left off for the next couple of months. France

Time unknown We were greeted by an unmarked SUV that sat idling A man with full-sleeved tattoos wearing a Slayer t-shirt stepped out of the vehicle and waved us over As we stepped off our flight And crossed the tarmac

Who's your new boyfriend, Reyes? The man called out As he got back in the driver's seat Ah fuck you, Keith Was Reyes' only response To the tasteless dig As we climbed in and situated ourselves.

Since you've been busy in the raw pile, I'll fill you in. Keith spoke as he drove us towards another group of hangers off to the south. Carson has accelerated the tie line to tonight. He turned the radio up as an RHCP song began to play. Oh man, I love this song.

Get back on task, Ray's growled over the intro of Snow. Well, as I was saying, Keith mocked Ray's with gruff voice. We have six GIGN operators and will be joining us on this little snatching ground. He turned down the radio as you passed a group of people in flight suits who were assessing a helicopter. The higher gun and I will be on assault team one with Peter and you. Keith stopped for a brief moment as he looked in the rear view me.

Hmm, you look familiar. You a team guy. Something like that. You? I am. I am. in response, trying to remember who exactly this guy was, but came up empty as we hit a rough patch on the tarmac. I did a stint in Team 4 before joining the company. A grin spread across Keith's face as we stopped in front of an open hangar to our eyes. Inside sat a line of parked vehicles along with a large group of people in civilian clothing who were huddled in the middle of the barren hangar. Oh, sorry for the hollow. Hit some traffic and picked up a stranger on the way back. Keith jabbed of thumb at me as we walked over to the large group.

No worries, we're just getting started. Luke's voice echoed around the room as he walked out from the group and gestured towards a large whiteboard situated near the wall. Our target has been hiding out at this apartment complex. Luke referenced a photo of an old Middle Eastern man with a cloudy right eye in a local map that detailed the surrounding area. The target building was a massive apartment complex.

complex outside of the major city hub, and from what I was seeing there were multiple means of egress from the blueprints that were provided. Peter, if you will. Luke stepped to the side as a shorter man with short, cropped black hair and a clean-shaven face walked over to the table. Our HVI, known as Toulman, was seen frequently entering and leaving room 105 up on the fourth level here, pointed towards a photograph of the complex's exterior. This place is full of gang-bangers. Most of them are armed with a variety of weaponry, ranging from rifles to handguns, so expect anything. Now, gentle men and woman.

He glanced over at Rays, who just rolled her eyes. There's a heavy civilian presence here, so watch your fire and make sure you PID your targets. Keith bought a hat over his head, causing his shaggy blonde hair to poke out from the sides, making him look like a typical surfer bro from Cali. The weapons we are going to be using a link to a weapons bust, so glove up. Peter turned towards me as he tapped the table. Assault Team 1 will take point through this side entrance here. Expect limited contact until we reach the fourth floor.

Teams 2-3 and 4 will breach from here and here, before setting up the inner and out accordance. He continued with the assault plan as I took in the details from the floor plans and surveillance photos of our targets. Now, the police response time for this area is five to ten minutes, but the cell jammers will give us some extra time. Any questions? Peter asked, gauging the silent room. All right, then. Let's do this. France. Oh, 100 hours local time. My hands ran over my kit in one final check as the rest of the plain-clothed operators in the cramped sedan went about their pre-game rituals. It was time to get some answers.

Team 4 is in position. Team 4's leader buzzed in my earpiece as Keith chambered around in his M4 in the front passenger seats. Copy for One is about to reach Ryan. Stand by. Carson's voice responded as Peter steered the sedan into a parking spot across from the target building. One is in position. All team stand by. Peter released the PTT button. bound to his kit and looked around at all of us. His balaclava sat on top of his head, making him like a fisherman.

It's time. Keith pulled down his mask before adjusting the sling of his rifle and giving Peter a nod. Time to get evil. Rays pulled the skull Blaclava down over her face, and I did the same. All teams go. I exited the car and followed him behind Peter with my rifle at the ready, as he led the way towards the side entrance. Well, our club music thumped from inside like a dull pulse,

as the civilians lounging around outside watch us in all. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked wildly, as a couple argued loudly outside of our view from the dark and archway to our left. Move, Keith ordered from behind me, as he shoved a man smoking a cigarette who tried to stop him. One has made entry. Peter led the way up a cramped spiral staircase to our front, as our radios came alive with traffic.

inside inside he waved off a group of kids playing with a soccer ball as we made it to the third deck the kids finally scattered when threatened one while covering an open door to our right here peter called out from the next flight as he dipped through a set of double doors i acknowledged the call out and cleared the threshold with my rifle at the high ready to see peter moving a woman and her two children back into their room as a man down on the hall seeing a chair spun towards us with a sword off shot gun in hand. Time seemed to speed up as a door to my left opened inward. A man holding a pistol in one hand and a phone in the other filled my vision. Robert, I ordered, in Clip French, snapping towards him with my rifle raised as he began to lift the weapon, a look of anger spreading across his face. I flipped the safety off and fired off a short control burst into his chest, dropping him in the doorway as a woman ran out at the room next door, almost getting shot in the process. I peeled away from the door, scanning for more targets only to see the dead man with the shotgun at the end of the hall, as I caught back up to Peter, as he cut left down another

wide corridor filled with more scrambling civilians. It's in the middle door on the right. He caught out over the screams and familiar reports of M-4s, followed by smaller caliber weapons. Jack, watch your fire. We need him alive. I reminded the Frenchman as he pushed past a row of open windows next to us. All teams be advised, you have more vehicles arriving outside, counting twelve-armed tangles. Carson's voice was calm, despite the unfolding chaos inside the complex. Two men appeared at the end of the hall with assault weapons in hand as Peter keyed his PTT button.

Oh shit! I laid down suppressing fire in an attempt to cover our advancement, as Peter ducked into an open room to our left. Jason, in here. My M-4 ran empty as I fell through the open doorway and on to the harbled floor. Out, out, out, get out, a woman wailed from somewhere inside the room as I scrambled up to my feet. Shut up and get down, Peter yelled back at the woman as the wooden doorframe and pieces of wall exploded into splinters and dust particles as the man from down the hall returned

fire. "'Race, Keith, two shooters at the end of the hall. "'We're pinned in room 102 on the left-hand side.' "'I released the PTT button and thumbed the mag release, "'letting the empty magazine fall to the ground. "'Copy, hang on,' Keith responded over the roaring gunfight "'as I slammed in a fresh magazine. "'Jason, move, we have them pinned.'

"'I slapped the bolt release and slowed my breathing as I pushed back out into the hall with my rifle raised. I took aim and fired at one of the shooters at the end of the hall who'd expose the upper half of his body. My rounds all hit their target, and he fell into a heap on the floor, dead next to his buddy, who was clutching onto his stomach and groin while crying out in pain. Okay, on to the next.

A fat shirtless man with a scrappy beard exited from room 105, holding a handgun as I reached the door. He didn't match the target photo in my elastic wrist-case. Pulled the trigger twice and two rounds from my M-4 connected with his neck and jaw as I pushed past his now lifeless body. The doorway opened into a smaller hallway with two doors that sat staggered across from one another before opening into a larger living room at the end. One door on the right side of the hall opened and a woman holding a baby appeared as I cleared

as I cleared the main entrance with the rest of the team following close behind. Okay, not an active target. Move to the next. I pushed past her as Peter took control of that room. As I passed the second door, a dull boom, sounded from inside as a large chunk of the door exploded outward, sending wooden splinters into my arms and face as something hard slammed into my chest. Keith returned fire through the walls. I fell into the living room. Keith, wash your fire. Tomlm, I be in there. I sputtered as waves of pain shot through my chest. just as I finished speaking another door open from a kitchen area across from me. A tall thin man with a cloudy right eye matching the target photo emerged,

holding a pistol in his right hand and a small black device in the other. My heart sunk as the realisation set in. That's a fucking S-Fest. He's rigged a blow. I cleared the distance in a matter of seconds, ignoring the pain in my chest as the pistol in his hand barred. The concussive blast rattled my skull as flames licked the corners of my vision. It felt like someone had hit me in the side of the neck with a sledgehammer covered in razor blades as we both crashed through the door he exited from.

Oh, this is it. I expected to go up in a bloody explosion, but to my surprise it didn't happen. The man shut up to his feet and attempted to grab for the device again, but I grabbed him in a front headlock and performed a gator roll. We got some distance between the device as I swung down with a closed fist that connected with the man's nose. Blood and mucus spewed down his face and onto his shirt as I landed another blow that hit with a sickening wet crunch. Tallman looked back up at me with eyes wide full of terror as he thrashed around frantically. The rhythmic sound of my heartbeat filled my ears as the blood rushed to my head.

Blas splattered onto his face as I pushed the detonator further away with my boots. With a curse and one final swing, Torman's head snapped to the side. His body finally went limp as the searing pain in my neck became unbearable. My hand shot to my neck, sticky, warm blood pulsed against my gloved hand as I attempted to slow the bleeding, but it wasn't doing much as I fought to stay upright. "'Shia, Jason is hit,' Ray's called out as she entered the room. "'This is it. I'm dying.' She pulled me off of Tormon and secured his hands behind his back with a pair of flex cuffs

before tearing into my blowout kit. "'Hang in there!' She pulled my hand away from my neck and pressed a wad of combat gauze and blood-clotting agent against the wound. "'Keith, get in here.' Ray's sloughed down and tapped my face with her free hand. Jason, you need to press this down for me, okay? I tried to speak, but a terrible wet gurgling sound came out as blood filled my mouth and throat. Keith!

She shouted again, only to be answered by more gunfire in response. Shit, I'm sorry. She reached over and hooked her arm under torments in an attempt to drag him out of the room. All teams, Jackpot. I say again, Jackpot, get ready to move. The room began to spin as Keith appeared at my side. Oh, hang in there, bro. I'm going to get you out of here. He hooked an arm around my chest and struggled to pull me to my feet.

The burning subsided, but the spinning did not. It was like being plastered drunk but tenfold as I struggled to walk into the living room. We're moving, Peter called out, as he pushed out into the hall with rays and the a handcuffed man. The world went black and I awoke in the back seat of the sedan as rays drove like a bat out of hell. We're coming up to the gate now. Have medical on standby. The sedan screeched to a halt and the back door was ripped open. A pair of hands grabbed a hold of my arms and pulled me out at the back seat and onto a gurney, pulling up my balaclava in the process. Another hand tore the bandage off of my neck and all movement stopped.

I thought you said he was critical, the mast surgeon standing above me asked, as he prodded at my neck with his gloved hands. He... Ray stammered as she put a hand on my neck. He was. I coughed and spat out a stream of blood as the group spread out. Oh, where's Tomon? My voice wasn't my own. It was raw and ragged.

Jesus, how work. Peter was taken aback by the sight as I fought to get to my feet. Where is he? I asked again, rolling off the gurney and taking a step with a foot that didn't want to comply. I am. I need to talk to him. The world went black once more. C-I-A black site, oh-900 hours local time. The smell of diesel combined with the salt. coastal breeze from the ocean, causing my skin to burn and my mouth to dry as we entered the

concealed housing area for the high-profile detainees that still had valuable intel to dish out. All around us the sounds of death metal, classical music, nursery rhymes and other musical pieces washed over the screams that were coming from the other buildings within the compound. If hell existed on earth, this place was one step in the right direction. How are you feeling? Keith asked in a barely audible whisper as we approached a reinforced door being flanked by two armed guards dressed in civilian clothing, holding Sopmod M4s across their chests. I ignored the question and flashed my security badge. Rays gave them a simple nod and they opened the door before stepping off to the site as we entered the small holding room housing a

single metal table and a few chairs along with one occupant. Sitting in the metal chair across from us was Toulmong. His face was gaunt and expressionless as he looked up at me with his one remaining eye. He suddenly muttered something in Farsi before falling silent as I sat across from him. Twalk. Toulman's eyes met mine as you look for anything to use, but after a minute of silence, he just chuckled. It worked, he finally spoke. What worked? I asked. scratching at the fading scar tissue that formed where the bullet had penetrated my neck. What those crazy Russians have been trying to perfect over the last few decades?

He answered as I tried to keep calm. Afghanistan. There was a bunker. The old man's eyes narrowed. We went down there and found the aftermath of that little experiment. Whatever they tried to perfect failed. Toulman shook his head in disagreement as I shifted in my side. seat. No, no, no, you are mistaken, American. Oh, they succeeded. The corners of his lips began to curl into a smile. Hmm, and how is that? I asked, intrigued by the old man's confidence.

By the fact that you're sitting across from me. I jumped up to my feet, causing the metal chair to slam into the ground, and the rest of the team to jump as I ran to the table. "'Where are the other bunkers? "'Who's in charge of the operation?' "'I asked next, grabbing Tullman "'by the collar of his yellow prison jumpsuit. "'South America, Africa, and Russia, of course.' "'Tulmon punctuated each word as he spoke.

"'Who is behind all of this?' "'I asked again, giving him a hard shake. "'You're talking to. to him. The Soldier by Shadow Swimmer 77. Part 1. The dream.

You can hear the screams of men and gunfire. I can smell their fear. They know something's in the dark. Something strange, menacing, and very, very hungry. Oh God, black. What the fuck is that? It hurts. Please don't.

No. I wake, trembling in a cold sweat. Sheets tangled around my legs. I look across the bed to the nightstand, the green LED lights telling me it's 4.30 a.m. It was the dream again, the same dream. A glance reproachfully at the remains of a fifth of whiskey and a half-empty bottle of sleeping pills lying on its side by the clock.

I've never quite kept the nightmare from me before, but I still have hope it's just a question of finding the right quantity. My hand's still slightly shaking. I grab the bottle and take a healthy swallow, then drop it empty to the pute green-colored carpeting that passes his decoration in my bedroom. It burns, but that's just fine. Knowing I'll never get back to sleep,

and with only another 30 minutes before I'd set my alarm to wait me anyway, I throw on coffee and jump into the shower. It's cold, but that's just fine too. I stand there, arms bracing me against the wall, Head bowed under the frigid stream of water, and I try to forget. I stay like that for several long minutes. Finally, when my skin is practically blue, I get out and towel off, shivering from the chill. My name is Michael Landry, and today I'm a high school history teacher at Haverbrook Prep School,

on the main line outside of Philadelphia. The shower is just what I needed. Already the vivid horrors of my dream have begun to slowly fade back into my subconsciousness. I know all too well that they'll be back in full force when I manage to finally drift to sleep tonight, but even this slight reprieve is welcome. I look into the mirror and decide the dark bags under my eyes can be attributed as much to a genuine lack of sleep as my ill-advised bender. I quickly run a razor over the rough stubble of my beard and briefly attempt to tame my mop of brown hair

still sticking up at odd angles. Not that long ago I'd have gotten reprimanded if it was half this length. I return to the bedroom and dress in the dark slacks and grey buttoned down a shirt that has become my unofficial teaching uniform. I've worn one uniform or another for most of my life, and consider it a shameful waste of time to spend too much effort worrying about what to wear. Moving to the kitchen, I decide to take advantage of my unexpected time this morning and scramble some ham and eggs to complement my coffee. I note that, besides the few remaining eggs and a half-eaten package of assorted lunchmeat, my refrigerator, is virtually bare, not counting a three-day expired carton of milk and two cases of beer. A grimace at the trash can sitting next to the refrigerator, currently overflowing with

empty take-out containers. Slapping the egg-meat concoction between two slices of only slightly stale red, I throw on my black pea coat to ward off the chill November air, grab my thermos, throw yesterday's graded quizzes into my valet and head to the door. gripping the coffee and valet under my arms and the sandwich in my mouth, I punching the six-digit code to my state-of-the-art security system. I step outside and fumble with my keys to work the three separate deadbolts securing the giant steel slab that serves as a front door to my first-floor apartment. All these extra precautions might seem a bit much,

but Overbrook makes up for its insanely cheap rent with an even more astounding crime and murderate. With that in mind, I probably would have considered upgrading my security, even if events three years ago hadn't shown me exactly how many scary things existed in this world. That experience is also what prompted me to start carrying the tiny glock currently concealed in my ankle holster. I'm on good terms with Gabe Parr, the aging head of security at the school, who generally shares my view on gun control. Make sure you're the one with control of the gun. Gabe had been enlisted 20 years in the army, just missing the tail end of Vietnam and retiring as a master sergeant following the first Gulf War. Sounding like a cross between Sam Elliott and Ernie McDermott. He is all NCO, crusty, heart-bitten, and essentially every platoon sergeant I've ever known rolled into one.

Even after finding out that Havarbrook had no weapon searches to speak of, I revealed to Gabe that I carried shortly after starting the job. I reasoned his position would make him the most likely person to find my gun during the course of a normal workday. Or to my surprise, he was completely supportive. I would later learn some of the circumstances behind Gabe's enlightened opinions. On one occasion, he'd gone out for drinks. He confided in me that his youngest son Billy had been killed two years earlier. His boy had been 16 and carrying five dollars on the way home from evening basketball practice.

when he was approached by a strung-out junkie looking to score some quick cash. The lone witness to the crime said the druggie took the money and then, apparently angry that his efforts had been wasted, shot the boy out of spite. Unfortunately, the witness had been unable to clearly identify the junkie's features in the gathering dark. The murderer was never caught. Suddenly Gabe's unique perspective became crystal clear. The walk from the train station to Haverbrook is a short one, and I find myself walking past the large asphalt parking lot

and up the wide cement-lined path to the main entrance just a few minutes past six. The entire building is a study in architectural extravagance. Enormous granite archways, steepled turrets, and literally tons of red-brown brick make the whole gala resemble more than an exclusive postgraduate university than a college prep school. The official seal is carved into the peak of the entryway arch,

his motto, Mence, Corpus, Animus, proudly emblazoned beneath. A spot gave as I passed through the archway into the entry hall. He's manning the main door himself, as he does every morning. During my first year, I asked him why.

Mike, he told me, a man that Frank is when the shit hits, I wanted to go through me first. Twenty years in, through more action than I can remember, ain't anything in this world can walk through that door if I ain't fought, fucked, I'm blown up more than twice.

So while some Greenhawton busy pissing himself, I've already drawn and put ten rounds in the motherfucker, centre mats. Well, I couldn't argue with his logic. Morning, Gabe, how's it going? It's not so bad, Mike. Only sort of wanted to gnaw through my arm

of the elbow when I woke up and saw wife number three this morning. Still a marked improvement over the last one. He spits into the used styrofoam coffee cup. He is perpetually in hand. A huge wad of tobacco washed in his lower lip. Good to hear. We still aren't for hitting the bar tonight.

Uh, it depends. Still got that youngling bullshit. You know it. When are you going to give that shit up and move to a real American bill? Like bud. Gabe, we've been over this a hundred times. Youngling is a murder. It's brood in Pennsylvania.

Hey, not that I care, but didn't the dean tell you not to dip on the job anymore? I sure did, and I don't. Just own any less, neither. Big you up at nine. After receiving my discharge from the army, I go out in a pretty bad way. Chronic alcohol abuse will do that to you. I applied to Haverbrook in response to a notice that they were looking for a social studies teacher specializing in military history. I figured dropping my name into that particular hat couldn't hurt.

I imagine my surprise when the school not only asked me in for an interview a few days later, but ended it by offering me the job. Fortunately, only writing a slight buzz at the time, I had enough control to take it. Apparently the school board saw West Point graduate and overseas combat experience as enough to move me ahead of the dozen or so certified academics that I was in direct competition with. Two older board members with prior service experience made a case for hiring me to the other eight,

stating that no one was better qualified to teach military history than someone who'd actually seen combat. They argued that competent professional educators would always be available and, worst-case scenario, the board could fire me after a semester and hire one of them. Although I won't say that the Harvbrook job was exactly what I needed to get my life back on track. It's just a job, albeit one with a good salary and better benefits, benefits. It serves two purposes. Pay the rent and keep me in booze. That's all. I won't say the one simple act of getting a job made me get along with my landlord. Made my nightmares disappear, all the world a better place for everyone to live in. It didn't. My landlord, Mr. Pekonby,

is still a prick which I attribute to gratuitous levels of inbreeding. My dreams only became worse, more horrifying with each retelling. My men, are still dead. Officially founded in the early 1900s, Haverbrook can actually claim history back to the pre-revolutionary times when a one-room schoolhouse stood on the very spot. That first tiny structure only occupied one small corner of the total grounds allotted to the school, which actually encompass almost 20 square miles of rolling wooded terrain.

The athletic compound is by far my favourite building at Haverbrook, specifically because one of the many perks associated with being a faculty member is unrestricted access to any and all of the equipment and facilities. Since I no longer have two hours of physical training scheduled into my day by the government, this fact alone has allowed me to stave off the approaching effects of middle age. Today is the last day of school before Thanksgiving break, so I decided to go for a run after class lets out. It's a perfect kind of weather for it,

mid-50s and no breeze, just warm enough not to start out cold, just cool enough not to easily overheat. The main gymnasium contains a locker room for faculty use, complete with a small bank of washes and dryers. Such amenities are convenient since they mean I don't need to be constantly transporting workout clothes back and forth on the train. Distance melts away as the ground speeds beneath my feet. Most days I try to put in five or six miles on the winding forest paths, and there are enough of them that I only need to repeat routes every couple of weeks. Today is one of the more difficult trails I frequent, five and a quarter miles, almost constant elevation change. About halfway into the run, my legs are burning and I feel my breathing shortened as I near the top of a particularly brutal hill. I pause at the summit for a moment

to look back and take in the view. Vast acres of untamed wilderness stretch behind me. The crisp nap to the air makes everything seem somehow sharper, but in doing so only accentuates the grey deadness that is insidiously leached into every aspect of the environment. Hasey translucent clouds rise in front of a pale sun that seems a shadow of its normal self. It sets very early in the day now, and the shadows are already long.

The deciduous trees that blaze like a campfire in the autumn rise up below me, now eerily foreboding in their stark nakedness. The faintest hint of wind stirs the branches. Its passing causes the trees to sway and groan with almost malicious intent. I feel a shiver trickle down my spine that has nothing to do with the weather. These are woods from the darkest fairy tales. These are woods that are alive.

Only the distant third floor of the Harvbrook Library, just peeking up over the treetops, serves as proof that I have been unwittingly transported through some magical doorway into a land populated by creatures terrible and unknown. Unbidden, my thoughts turn to memories of another time, another darkness, and the things I found there. Disturbed, I start running again, faster than before, the sun slipping closer to the horizon. As I descend from my vantage point back into the trees, the darkness grows rapidly deeper, the shadows thicker.

This can be right. Even in wind of the sun doesn't set this quickly, does it? Appearing out of nowhere, thick black storm clouds have replaced the wispy greyness I observed only moments ago. Deep peals of thunder ride wicked through the seething black seas above. The wind, once only a faint whisper, has become a tormented scream, the death cry of a wild beast. The trees no longer gently sway, but thrash and buck white. wildly as if trying to uproot themselves from the very earth that holds them. Massive sheets of icy rain begin to pelt down from the heavens, soaking me through to the bone. Instantaneously, a mild afternoon has been replaced by a savage tempest.

I fly down the hill, the storm raging about me. Branches seem to reach out to snatch at my arms, roots and stones rise up to tangle my feet. Suddenly an incredible blast of pain ignites my road. right shoulder, sending stars shooting across my eyes. I cry out, tumbling to the ground. As I roll, a jagged stump appears in my vision, too fast to avoid. Pain. Blackness. Part two. The storm. I lie there in the middle of the forest, not seeing the jeweling lightning flashing high above the trees, not feeling the drenching rain that continues to pour down on my still fall.

Michael. A voice cuts through my mind. So tired. I just want to lay here. Ignore it. Michael, you must listen. There isn't much time. Go away.

Just a voice in my head. Leave me alone. Events are in motion. The storm is only the beginning. They send it for you. Hopeed it would kill you. They know you have a role, but they can't know how important you are.

They wouldn't have stopped there. They? What are you? There's no time. We have to... Wait. Oh, no. Michael, you need to get up.

You need to get up and get the hell out of there. It's coming. My eyes flutter open. Disoriented. Can't tell how long I've been out. The storm still thrashes crazily around me. I ease myself into a sitting position and gingerly assess myself for injuries. There's a large lump raised above my left eyebrow and I can feel a sizable gash running along my scalp,

although it doesn't seem too deep. I won't be able to tell if I need stitches until I can get to a mirror. Sharp stave of pain beams directly to my brain as my fingers probe the wound, so I quickly stop. Various cuts and scratches from my fall are spread sporadically over my arm, arms and hands, in addition to a particularly nasty one along my left shin. Shoulder still throbs. Not the blinding agony that sent me sprawling earlier, but a dull ache emanating from deep inside the tissue.

Was I struck by lightning? I don't remember hearing any thunder. So what the hell? My head snaps up as a deep, inhuman roar rises above the fury of the storm, reverberating over and over again through the trees. The ache in my shoulder flares sharply. I suddenly remembered the words of the disembodied voice in my head. Still dazed, I uneasily stagger to my feet. Concussion, based hallucination or not, getting the hell out of here seems like an excellent suggestion.

I managed to find the path and haltingly begin to make my way back towards the athletic facility. The storm continues unabated. Bathtubs of freezing rain continue to drench my shivering body, Shearing winds carry the chill deep into the marrow of my bones. Lightning flashes periodically, lighting up the pitch sky as brightly as midday. Dizzy, my foot hits a rock in the past. The whole world lurches as I barely managed to catch myself, the throbbing wound on my scalp making my head feel like an abused bass drum.

I stumble along as fast as I'm able, occasionally pausing to glance behind me. If they weren't soaked through, the hairs on the back of my neck would be standing at full attention. Impossible to see or hear anything over the fury of the storm. Some primal sense held over from my caveman ancestors, blare's a warning at me that I'm not alone out here in the dark. The savage roar I heard shortly after waking doesn't repeat itself, but in truth I don't know if that disturbs me more or less. If I hear it again, that means whatever made the sound exists and is somewhere in the woods with me. me, but at least I would have an idea where. As it stands, I can hope the unworldly sound was

just another delusion brought on by my head injury. I can't manage to shake the chilling feeling that the beast is simply remaining silent, hunting me. At last, after an eternity of fleeting glances and barely avoided falls, I finally emerge from the woods along the path, the school stadium lying before me. The electric lights of the gymnasium several hundred yards down the paved walkway burn cheerfully, oblivious to the violent events of the night. I urge my wooden legs to greater effort and blessedly make it to my destination, throwing open the door and tumbling inside. I sit there sprawled in the facility entryway, trembling from the cold and fear, watching the storm rage outside. After what must have been several minutes, I managed to

gather the will to painfully regain my feet and work my way through the building and down the long corridor to the faculty locker room. The building is deserted. The silence making the noises of my struggling movements seem all the louder. For a moment, I wonder at the complete lack of people before, remembering virtually all sports practices have been cancelled in lieu of the pending week of vacation for the Thanksgiving holiday. Gaining access, I immediately moved to the row of sinks and the mirror to get a better assessment of my injuries. The bump above my eyes is considerably swollen and will soon turn into an ugly-looking bruise.

On the plus side, the cut on my scalp is actually more of a scrape and doesn't appear to require stitches. The cuts on my arms, hands and shin are superficial, but will hurt and itch like crazy while they heal. Suddenly, seeing past the painful details, I struggle to recognize the haggard, a beaten-looking figure returned, my stare from the glass.

Oh, you've had worse. God knows you've had worse. Well, that time, that was a lot worse. I grimace, my reflection, perfectly duplicating the motion. Turning on the faucets, I grab a handful of paper towels and begin to carefully daub the dry blood and dirt around my cuts, not wanting to inadvertently open them again. Satisfied that they've closed up well enough to allow it, I strip off my sodden workout clothes, throw them into one of the dryers and step into the shower.

I set the water to scolding. I stand under the steaming water, trying to rub the kinks out of my neck. A small throb in my shoulder reminds me of the incredible pain that first sent me on the way to my current condition. Reluctantly turning off the shower head, I dry myself, wrap the towel around my waist and return to the mirror. Although certainly cleaner and free of the cake dirt and blood that previously clung to me. I still paint a terrible picture. The cut on my scalp shines red just

below my hairline, and an enormous purple bruise has now begun to complement the generous swelling above my eye. I turn my back to the mirror and move my head so that I can observe my shoulder in the reflection to see the scars located there. Three long marks extend the length of my shoulder blade. The lines are jagged due to the poor nature of the canvas they were inscribed upon. Aside from the nightmares, they're the only proof I have of the reality of the most horrifying experience in my life, the terror and bloodshed that occurred in a Middle Eastern cave three years ago. Tonight, the marks were inflamed and wet, as if I just received them instead of having worn them for so long. Had I not just showered, I'm sure fresh blood would still be oozing from them,

though all my other cuts and scrapes are closed and dried by this point. As if listening to my thoughts, tiny red beads slowly begin to whirl along their length as I watch in the mirror. Without warning, an intense pain radiates outward from the centre of the marks. At that moment, two things happen simultaneously. First, all the lights in the locker room go out, leaving me in absolute darkness. Second, I hear the unmistakable sound of the main entry door closing, and the slow steps of someone or something enter in the building. The otherwise utter silence serving to augment the noise.

The emergency generator kicks in, back up lights humming to life and bathing the room in a weak amber glow. I run to my locker and hurriedly dress, almost tripping myself on my pants, taking care to loosen the glock in its holster once I have it strapped to my ankle. I throw my coat on, twinging at the pain, now continuously radiating from the scars, and grab my valet. The whole process only takes me about 30 seconds, a holdover from years of uniform drills in the army where soldiers who don't make the time limit are met with insidiously creative punishments. I creep silently over to the locker room door and gently ease it open, just a crack, feeling slightly foolish. Odds are the noise I heard is just a student, or maybe a guard Gabe sent to check on the facility. Still, I can't shake the feeling that whatever is now occupying the...

athletic wing with me is somehow connected to the bizarre events that have already occurred this evening. Its arrival and the loss of power to the building seemed too timely to be mere coincidence. I peer out and down the dimly lit hallway through the slit in the door. At first I don't see the thing, not until its eyes catch the light, gleaming a sinister shade of red. My breath catches in my throat as a wave of pure terror thunder. through my suddenly rigid body. My shoulder screams, almost as badly as in the woods. My mind is struck dumb.

Cray's gibbering crowds out all, rational thoughts. God, my God, it's just like that time, just like the last time. Gotta be a dream. Gotta be, can't really be happening. I'm still unconscious on the trail from hitting my head. That's it. Yeah, that's it, but this seems to be so real. What if it's not a dream?

Then I have to move. I have to do something. Why the fuck does this keep happening to me? I'm only frozen for a single long moment until my brain unconsciously kicks into analysis mode. This feeling of unreality is disturbingly familiar, but other than the fantastic nature of my subject, it's not so different from some reconnaissance missions I've been on. 20 hours down the hall, the creature stands on two legs and appears to be about eight feet tall. definitely not a student, not a guard either, unless Gaye decided to try out some biomedical mutants in the rotation.

Other than its immense size, I can't determine any further details about the entity because of the way the shadows seem to bend around it, almost as if light is absorbed once it gets within about a yard of the creature. As I watch, raises its head as if sniffing the air. A chill runs down my spine as I realise that's probably a problem. exactly what it's doing. Its head snaps forward, its incredible blood-red eyes

fixed directly on the door concealing me. Ever so slowly, it begins silently stalking down the hallway, hunched into a hunting posture, moving with the powerful grace of a natural predator. My fight-or-flight response frantically initiates. Logically, I have no knowledge

of the identity of the creature, and the Glock only holds seven bullets. Something that size is possible the gun would be empty before successfully incapacitating it. The military doctrine drilled into me stresses only committing to a fight when possessing knowledge of the enemy, initiative and a decisive advantage. At this point, I lack all of those. I reach the conclusion to conduct a tactical withdrawal. To say I'm retreating sounds so much more cowardly. Fortunately, Hoverbrook has equipped all its locker rooms with multiple exits for use in the case of an emergency, although I hardly think my current situation was considered in their plans.

As smoothly and quietly as I'm able, I gently close the door and throw the deadbolt, locking it from the inside. I have little hope that the flimsy metal will impede the monster for more than a couple of seconds, but I'll take any opportunity to up my odds for survival. level. Wounds throbbing uncomfortably, I hobbled to the far side of the locker room to the emergency exit as quickly as I can and push through it emerging into a utility hallway. No alarm sounds. The electricians must have foolishly attached the warning system to the primary power grid, though it's not as if help would be able to reach me in time anyway.

I break into a limping run towards the shining red exit sign that seems impossibly far away. Just as I reach it, I hear what can only be the sound of a rudely abused deadbolt shearing in two and the locker room door being thrown inward on its hinges. I shove the exit door open, finally reaching the outside of the facility. To my relief, the storm was abated, though in its wake an unnaturally thick and viscous fog has crept in, sinuously enveloping the world in an incredibly dense cloud of white, and reducing visibility to little better than nothing. I consider my options.

I could try to hide somewhere nearby, but it seems the creature is tracking me by smell or some other method and would likely find me fairly quickly. That means my best bed is to try and put as much distance between me and it as possible. I glance at my watch and see that it's just now a quarter past six.

If I push myself, I may be able to make the 620 back towards Overbrook. I make my decision. Pain and exhaustion slowly overcoming my rush of adrenaline, stagger forward towards the station. I really hope the bloody train is on time. Part 3. The Monster. For once the train is on time, rolling in just as I reached the station.

Fertively throwing futile glances back into the impenetrable whiteness for any sign of pursuit. I wait off to the side of the double doors for the train to dissoning. discharge its few passengers. Standing up is an effort. A professionally dressed modulately pretty woman looks up in passing and gives me a startled glance as she readjusts the bag on her shoulder. God, I must look a wreck.

The sickly smile I return only seems to disturb her more. I enter the car and fall onto one of the hard plastic benches facing near the train, roughly dropping my valet next to me. As the train pulls out of the station, I heave a sigh of relief. Whatever that thing was, I seem to have managed to outrun it so far. If my luck holds, I'll be able to get home to my apartment and retrieve some firepower more substantial than the Glock.

The heavy weight of my giant 0.5 caliber pistol would feel remarkably comfortable right now, as would my semi-automatic shotgun loaded with 12-gauge double aught. The real question on my mind is what the hell that thing was? Granted, it isn't the first otherworldly entity that I've seen in my life, but a large part of me still wants to put the last time down to trauma-based hallucination. Besides, this one was physically different, though the strange feeling of unreality is absolutely the same.

I've never heard of anything like this creature outside of comic books and fairy tales. The odds that one man would randomly encounter more than one of these things in a single lifetime have to be astronomical, and therefore logic suggests, there must be some connection between the two meetings. But what? The lights flicker. I look around the compartment and noticed I have it almost to myself. In fact, the only company I have is a homeless man.

I somehow didn't see when I first got on. It's broad unconscious across a bench towards the rear. I can't blame him for wanting to get out of the storm, but briefly wonder how he's managed to avoid the conductor, since he doesn't look like he'd be able to afford a ticket, or even half a ticket. I pour my monthly ride pass from my inner coat pocket and place it into the plastic slot on the back of the seat in front of me. My shoulder sharply throbs causing me to look up.

The first thing I notice is that my formerly sleeping homeless companion is wide awake and sitting at rigid attention. The next is that his eyes are fixed in a blinking stare directly at me. They are remarkably bloodshot, so red that they bear a disconcertingly close resemblance to the eyes of the creature that was pursuing me earlier. The man slowly stands, his unwavering gaze attempting to bore straight through me. I return his stare, matching its steadiness, if not the intensity given by the preternatural colour of his eyes. I can feel the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand erect, and a rash of goose bumps

flush down my arms. I find myself mentally reviewing years of close combat training as my hand, almost most of his own accord, slowly edges down towards my right ankle and the tiny glock concealed there. I take stock of the man twenty-five feet down the car from me. On the surface, other than his startling eyes, there's nothing that would make him stand out in a room full of derelicts. He stands about five-seven with an average build and looks to be in his mid-to-late sixties. His grey hair is as long and matted as the snarling beard that practically explodes out of his lower face. He's wearing grey sweatpants and trashed sneakers, his toes showing through a sizable

hole in one of them. A dark, ratty fleece hat on his head. He's bundled in an old Vietnam-era army-issue jacket, and I briefly pause in my assessment to wonder if he's a veteran. He's carrying no obvious weapons, I can see, but I know many ways for an average person to conceal any number of blades, pistols, and any other violence-inducing implements, many more if that person's clever. Still, with those eyes, that'd be a hell of a coincidence if the two weren't somehow related. I grabbed my shoulder, grimacing as white-hot pain lances through it and brings stars to my eyes. Regaining my awareness, I realized the man has moved the complete length of the train car, impossibly fast, and now looms directly over me.

Before I can think, much less begin to clear my gun from its holster. His hand flashes down and traps my wrist in an iron grip. A crazed, sneering grin on his face. The man's other hand seizes my left shoulder and pins me back to my seat, the whole movement taking no more than a fraction of a second. With his face mere inches from my own, as nauseatingly obvious he hasn't bathed in some time. Dirt and other substances whose identity I fear to guess

are smeared indiscriminately over skin and clothing alike. Several gigantic flies flit about, buzzing continuously and occasionally pausing to alight on his face, hands and elsewhere. A sickening cocktail odor of sweat, ammonia, and something sulphurous permeates the air around him as his breath weases in and out of his mouth through excessively crooked teeth the colour of jaundice.

I notice several are missing. I also note those remaining have been filed into wicked points that look sharp enough to shred skin and tissue like so much wet toilet paper. It's close to them. His eyes aren't merely bloodshot, but glowing. Their unfultering scrutiny becomes an indefensible onslaught. I feel as if my consciousness is being forcibly drawn into some blasphemous other world through a blood-red portal.

For a second, I see a moment. myself struggling, drowning in molten fire that snaps and swirls where his irises should be, growing to the point not the smallest speck of white is visible in his eyes. Realisation hits me like a thunderbolt. God, he and that monster aren't connected. They're the same fucking thing. In the back of my mind, a deeply buried primal instinct tells me that this moment something is profoundly wrong with the world. The presence of this unknown entity whose very being mocks the laws of reason,

a living nightmare that is escaped its realm of sleep. The most unnerving part is that I felt this way countless times before. Once, three years ago, in a dank underground cavern in the middle of a war zone, and every night since, while suffering those horrifyingly real dreams of the impossible things my eyes tell me they saw there.

The long black tongue feeling like rough leather licks the dry blood from my scalp. I sit completely still, shocked beyond movement, mouth slightly ajar. Oh, yes, this the one, the one, yes, this him, the man thing mumbles. I gape up at him. Still, not right, no, not right. Supposed to be in as it. It's supposed to be in, as it, It doesn't be in hazard. No, no. Doesn't be in hazard, but supposed to be in. Where's it being, little soldier boy, eh?

Where's it being hiding, you know? Hiding. I somehow find my voice. I think I'll... I think you must have the wrong man. Sir, I'm not hiding anything. I'm just a school teacher. I teach history in Haverbrook.

So incredibly small part of my brain mentally chastises the rest of my car. consciousness, which is currently in the process of wetting itself to stop being such a silly, helpless little bitch. I used to call myself a soldier. No wonder I didn't make it all the way through to retirement. He, he, call him Beals, sir. Little soldier boy thinking he being a teacher, being a teacher of little children's, teaching histories he's thinking. The man thing giggles. Beals is known. saying that those who can do, those who can't teach, but you can do, little soldier boy.

Little soldier boy can do. Little soldier boy will do if be else would let little soldier boy do. Teaching a history as you thinks you're teaching. History is a man, but not histories, not right histories. Little soldier boy not one to teach him. Little soldier boy wanted to be in doing things like little soldier boy's being doing, if Bail's being ledden him. But Bial's not supposed to be in letting him.

No. But Biel's not sure if Biel's supposed to not be in letting him if little soldier boy not being hazard. Little soldier boy, the one supposed to be in hazard, but something being wrong. Supposed to be in it, but being here not. Where being it, little soldier boy? A small angry spark seems to flare in my mind.

I managed to offer up at least the pretense of resistance. I've always hated it when people get in my face, probably why I had such a tough time at basic training. The non-pants wetting part of my brain gives a tiny cheer. Well, frankly, Beals, or whatever the fuck your name is. A glare at him with what I hope is significantly more confidence than I actually feel. I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I'll get your damn hands off me.

My anger only seems to amuse him. Yeah, damned hands. Yeah, damned hands. Damned hands, damn bills. The dirt smeared leathery skin of his face crinkles around the flaming pools, glowing in place of eyes as he laughs. Little soldier boy does know more than he thinks he knows he does, but no. Little soldier boy not knows why little soldier boy. supposed to know she does not.

What be else to do? Beale's supposed to be finding little soldier boy. Finding little soldier boy Beals Hasba. Little soldier boy supposed to be in has it. Hmm. The man things mouth closes in a hard line as he contemplates this dilemma. I would admit his issue has me completely confounded as well, but for entirely different reasons.

Suddenly his face lights. Red eyes shining ever brighter, like two miniature stars that found themselves trapped within a prison of flesh and bone. The same wicked smile again stretches across his mottled lips, razor-like teeth seeming to glint in the harsh electric light of the train car. A little soldier boy already marked by Dark One, yes. Marked, and so Beales can find again. Find again, Beales can. Little Soldier boys mock from Dark One. them be else can make sure little soldier boy not to do an little soldier boy thing gripping my arm and shoulder the man thing pulls me even closer and hisses in my ear you be lying to dark ones now little soldier boy once you be in has what you're supposed to be in as dark ones being taken that what be lying to them he abruptly releases my arms shoving me back painfully hard against the unforgiving seat The instant I'm free to move, I snatch the glock from my ankle,

jump to my feet and snap into a two-handed shooter's stance. Slightly dazed, I find myself alone in the train car. The creature pretending to be an old man is gone. Part four. The darkness. I sits broad in the overstuffed easy chair that comprises roughly half the furniture in the small area designated as a living room in my apartment. aside from a threadbare second-hand patchwork rug covering most of the floor the only other piece is a squat table supporting my television which currently stares hollowly back at me through its black empty screen

i've been home two hours i'm unbelievably drunk i drop the empty bottle from my hand to join its relatives on the floor on the look of things it's a family reunion and attendance is high people get drunk for lots of different reasons some people people think they become the life at the party when they're wasted. Others want to fit into a particular crowd. And some, like me, drink because the muddling effect of the alcohol occasionally dulls the pain of particularly traumatic events or memories. The really lucky ones are actually able to use it to forget. I have never had that option. God, I wish I could forget. I want to forget. For me, the alcohol only takes the edge off the memories. Well, sometimes. I'm a Most of the time it doesn't even do that. The buzz just sort of gives me something else to focus on.

But, like tonight, if my thoughts happen to turn to that time, to that place, to that thing, well, I shudder involuntarily. God. So much blood, so much pain, so many, screams, so many, so many. Alert shot from the chair and run, staggering to the bathroom, flinging myself at the toilet. I barely make it before an inadvertently. advisable amount of alcohol forcibly removes itself. Twice I stay hunched clinging weakly to the bowl.

God, I'll hail the porcelain guard. Sometime later, satisfied that I finish retching for the moment. I returned to the living room, stopping by the fridge to grab another beer along the way. I just threw up a bunch of alcohol. Need to keep up the pace if I don't want to start sobering up. I settle back into my chair. As always, despite my best efforts, I have perfect recollection of the evening's events.

After my encounter with the unworldly thing disguised an old man on the train, I frantically searched the car for any sign that it was still there, or where it might have gone, or how it got there. I went over the length of the train car for a second time, replaying the sequence of events yet again, trying to convince myself that the whole thing was just a dream, that I'm not crazy, when the overbrook stop arrive. I picked up my valley and exited the train,

the Glock still held in my right hand and concealed in my coat pocket. From that point I think my brain shut down for a little while. I remember the walk home, but it's like looking at it through a thin film of gauze or underwater. The motion seems slower. The time takes longer. Fog still crowded around me, but I hardly noticed the lack of vision its sinuous creeping provided. Well, I've walked the path a hundred times, and my legs worked on autopilot. I was about a block away from my apartment when the man spoke to me. Hey man, that's a nice fucking coat.

I turned slowly towards the voice, aware but not aware. I could feel my body move, but like a puppet on strings pulled by someone else. I dimly comprehended the two men facing me under the muted glow of a street light. Barely more than boys, really. In a different world, I might have taught them history. God knows what circumstances forced them outside. on a night like this. It doesn't really matter.

One stood around six two, and the other a bit shorter, each dressed in the current urban fashion, their clothes is loose and baggy. Both had bloodshot, sick-looking eyes, and builds entirely too skinny, emaciated. A small part of my mind

that still acknowledged my surroundings registered that these two were extremely dangerous. You fucking stupid or something, man. What's that a fucking look you've given me, man? yo, Dio, think our boy here'd be tripping or something. Tink, it might be right, Trey. Look like somebody beat the shit out of this fool already. You tripping, bitch.

Awfully nice looking cold, you'd be tripping. Best be giving that over here. A smaller of the two cautiously approached me from the side. Wary as if I were a sleeping dog that might suddenly wake and decide to take a snap at his hand. In a way, I suppose I was. I stood still, dully looking ahead. I felt a slight pinch from the marks on my shoulder.

The one called Dre gave me a look over. Hey, Tio. What's he got in the bag, man? Think you got some bills in there, man? I see what you got in this bag, man. See if you got some money on you. Tio started to remove the valet strap from my shoulder. A moment later, he was sitting down on the ground,

hand clamped to his mouth, blood seeping through his fingers. One of his teeth lay next to him on the wet pavement. I stared at him in surprise. Looking down at my hand, knuckles bleeding. I realized I'd hit him. Fuck, man. What the fuck? Tio's face was livid.

Dre howled with laughter behind him. You know, Tio, man. That bitch, pop, you're good. Right in your fucking hole. Tio wiped his lips with. the back of his hand and spat, another tooth flying from his mouth. His face was set in a hard expression. Gotta be the last thing he does too, man. Tio's speech sounded off as he tried to talk around two missing teeth. He pulled a knife from his pocket and flicked it open, the street light

catching the small hard blade. Think you funny motherfucker. Think you're just going to hit me? Ain't nothing going to happen? You're fucking wrong, man. You're dead, fine. You're dead. his lunge was wild and sloppy but i would still do serious damage if it connected seeing it through the slow-motion fog that my mind was currently operating in had all the time in the world to sidestep catching the arm holding the knife and tightly gripping his wrist with my right hand i drew my left back and drove my palm against his elbow hard simultaneously jerking his wrist towards me with a sickening snap tio's arm bent the wrong way against the joint, the knife clattering to the ground, and he screamed. Oh, my, fucking God, my arm.

Motherfucker, broke my goddamn arm. I let him go, and he crumpled to the ground, curling into the fetal position. He cried, cradling his broken arm. Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts. Oh, God. Tio. Gray's expression was one of open shock.

Apparently, this was the first time. many of their victims had ever resisted. You crazy son of a bitch. Shouldn't have fought with my homie, man. Just buy yourself a one-way ticket to hell. I bent and picked up the knife, folded it into my coat and stood straight, hands in my pockets,

my face placidly unaware of the whimpering heap at my feet. Dre lifted his sweatshirt and I saw a large 45-caliber handgun stuffed into his pant line. Oh, can I make you scream, bitch. I'm going to make you bleed. You reach for the gun. Emotionless.

I poured my Glock from my pocket and shot him. It's always surprising to me how loud gunshots really are. In shootouts on television, the characters have lengthy conversations punctuated by witty quips while firing gigantic machine guns, explosions going off all around them. In real life, a gunshot is an incredibly loud, harsh thing. when bullets are flying the last thing anyone thinks of his banter. In this case, it took a second for me to regain my hearing enough to recognize Drey's inarticulate cries over the ringing in my ears.

His pistol lay next to him on the ground where he feebly thrashed, shocked at the gaping hole that had, as if by magic, suddenly appeared in his shoulder. I calmly stepped over and kicked the gun away, sending it skittering across the street. I stood over the wounded man frowning. "'Just because things didn't work out for them tonight doesn't mean a thing. "'Next time it might be someone else they try to mark.

"'Next time it might be Billy Parr. "'A bright flash of rage flared up inside me. "'It must have shown in my eyes. "'Grace cries, quieted to soft, helpless whimpers. "'I pressed the barrel of my glock to his cheek "'and roughly gripped his wounded shoulder, "'painfully hauling him to a standing position. I should kill him.

It would easily be justified as self-defense. Already tonight I've seen there are monsters in the world I'm powerless to do anything about. I should take care of the ones I can. Dre's eyes went wild, and he began pleading. Please, man, don't kill me, man. We weren't going to do nothing. Please, man, I'm sorry, so please, oh God, don't kill me. He started to cry uncontrollably.

The harsh metal of my barrel still do. digging into the side of his face. I smelled his bowels as they emptied themselves. Tio silently watched from where he lay terrified on the ground. His broken arm bent unnaturally, fear plastered across his bleeding face. My finger tightened on the trigger. Suddenly a sharp flare of pain emanated from my shoulder, wiping away the fog that had been clouding my mind.

It's as if a veil was lifted. For the first time I observed the situation with perfect clarity. I saw the hurt, frightened boy in my grasp, his hysterical breaths coming in short gasps. I saw myself as I must look to them, a wrecked, half-crazed madman with a gun. My God, what am I doing?

Dre grimaced as I dug my thumb into the bullet hole and leaned in close, talking low into his ear. You and your friend go to a hospital. Stay out of my neighborhood. If I see you again, you'll consider this night a pleasant memory. I let him go and he bonelessly fell to the ground with a cry of pain. Dear, I managed to get enough control of himself to help Dray to his feet again. I nominally watched the two of them stumble off blindly into the fog in the general direction of a hospital,

horrified at what I had almost done. I looked down at the gun still gripped in my hand and shuddered. I re-holstered the weapon. picked up the single piece of expended brass from the pavement and put it in my pocket. The rest of the walk home was uneventful. I took my time, knowing that the frequency of gunshots and gang violence in this neighbourhood would not hurry a police presence. I couldn't stop shaking.

I finally reached my building, opened the front door with my tenant key, and walked down the hall to my door. Moving like an automaton, I unlocked the three dead bolts in succession, heaved open my slab of a door, stepped inside, and disarmed the security system. I dropped my valet by the door and painfully shrugged out of the p-coat that had attracted so much unwanted attention on my walk home.

Hanging it on the hook by the door, I moved through the small living room towards the bathroom attached to my bedroom, briefly making a side trip to grab the first of what would ultimately be many beers from the kitchen. I finally heard approaching police sirens in the distance,

not that I had anything to be worried about. The fog was thick enough that all of our features were sufficiently protected from any potential witnesses. Stripped, tossing the gun in its holster onto the nightstand next to the bed. I examined my shirt. A dark smear of blood from the oozing mark could soak through the shoulder. I checked over my wounds and confirmed my initial assessments. The scalp was ugly but shouldn't require stitches. The lump above my eye wouldn't win me too many beauty pageants,

but once the swelling went down would be fine. I might even look almost normal by the time classes resume after Thanksgiving next week. All my other scratches and cuts were superficial, although the itching as they heal will be considerably uncomfortable. Most curiously, the mark on my shoulder had reverted to looking like it always had. Dead pink scar tissue. Without the stain on my shirt as testimony, I'd be inclined to believe I'd imagined it bleeding earlier.

Even though I just showered before my escape from the school, the insuring events left me with a decidedly unclean feeling. The frigid roar of water from the showerhead was blessedly welcome. I stood there for long minutes, taking deep pools from my drink. Toweling off, redressing, and about 15 beers later, find me in my current position, slouched in my armchair, drunk as hell. As I sit staring into space and contemplating the pros and cons of another drink, A sharp three wraps issue at the door

And caused me to hurriedly lurch to my feet Oh shit, shit, shit That did that thing follow me I've got to get a gun No, no Think logically It wouldn't be knocking Maybe someone saw the earlier attack

Friends of Tio and Dre maybe Gotta get a gun No wait Could be police canvassing the area I've never done that here before Even with that murder a couple months ago Still, if it's cops, I shouldn't answer the door armed. What the hell is going on?

Part 5. The friend. I steadily creep over to my giant slab of a door and stick an eye up to the peephole to find the stony features of Gabe Parr staring back at me. Oh, right. Drinks at 9. Completely forgot. I can't imagine how.

Ah, my head. With a little effort, I managed to work the dead. headbolts and heave the door open enough to admit the school guard. Yeah, evening, Mike. You bowed ready to... He stopped short on the threshold as he catches sight of my trashed features. The hell happen to you, boy. Look like you either decided to challenge a billy goat to a head-button contest

or made a pass of my first wife. Same difference. Getting a fight or something? Me need to go kick some banger ass. No, Gabe. No fights. Well, I guess it was a fight, but that's not where I got these. The fight came later when I kicked the shit out of those guys, a couple of junkies. Good, but one of the blazes did you do to yourself.

It was a pretty nasty gashy guard on your noggin there. I was running the trails at school when it started to rain. Slipped and took a header into a tree stump. It's fine. You shouldn't even need stitches. That's like hell, though. Beer's been helping with that. Gabe sets further into the apartment.

A single raised eyebrow, the only sign of his disapproval, as he sees the heaping remains of tonight's binge littering the ground on my living room. I guess you went and got started without me. Sorry. Totally slipped my mind that we were going out, while with the head injury and all. Pretty sure I should call off going out for tonight. You're more than welcome to hang here for a bit.

Want a beer? There's more in the fridge. I need another one, too. Here, I'll go get him. Ah, hang on there, Mike. Just hang on. I don't want a beer, and you sure don't need any more either. Looks like you already drank enough for both of us tonight anyway.

He takes my arm leading me back over towards my easy chair. Why don't you take a seat over here, and I'll go and rustle up a pot of coffee right quick and help you sober up some. Yeah? What anger flashes red across. my eyes. I hate being patronized. How about screw you instead? What did you think about that, Gabe? I don't want to sober up. It's my house, you piece of... Gabe's grip on my arm becomes suddenly hard

and painful. A dull gray steel slides over the normal spark of his eyes. I'm gonna stop you right there. You've obviously been through some stuff tonight and I aim to talk you in a bit here and help you work through that. But I'm not going to let you be self-destructive about it. Now, you got two options. Either take seat nicely and wait for me to make a cup, or I can put you in a seat and do the same. Same result, different way of getting that. You're smart enough to know which one will be less grief all around. Now, where you start getting ideas about trying to kick my ass to, you should probably consider something. Might be hot stuff with a couple of junkies like the pair you run into tonight.

"'ah, even maybe even hang on to me on a good day. "'Right now, in your condition, "'you don't really have much of a choice in the matter.' "'I became aware that Gabe would put himself in a calculated position "'where he possesses all the leverage "'to make both of our body weights work in his favour. "'So what's it going to be?' "'As he applies the lightest bit of pressure

"'to make sure he gets his point across, "'I feel how precariously overbalanced I am even without the added effects of the alcohol. There's no doubt in my mind that Gabe could put me into the chair as easily as he says. Fine. I turn and slump into the chair sullenly. Asshole. Good choice.

Ah, won't be a minute. And we can talk about what's got you in this state. You should probably think about what you're going to say, because I'll tell you, boy, I've both seen and participated in enough banders, to know. It wasn't getting whipped on by a tree throwing down against a couple of bunks that set this off. You just sat there and think about it. For the next several minutes I sit in my chair, glaring venomously towards the kitchen as I hear Gabe clattering about. Hey, Mike, where'd you keep the

coffee? Grounds are on the top shelf of the fridge. Filters are in the cabinet above the park, I answer grudgingly. I got it, thanks. Finally, I sigh an... inwardly concede defeat. It's obvious that Gabe isn't going anywhere, and I'm in no position to do anything about it. I settle back more comfortably into the chair and close my eyes, mentally trying to halt the room's slow spin. Think about what I'm going to say.

Man makes a good point. I need to figure out how I can successfully appease Gabe's annoyingly friendly concern without coming off sounding like a drug addict or a mental patient. relating the events as I actually remember them occurring sure isn't going to cut it. I found that out the hard way three years ago. All telling the truth then got me with six months of psychiatric evaluations, a lifetime's worth of bad dreams and a truckload of self-doubt and loathing. Trying to tell Gabe that I'd disembodied voices in my head giving me instructions

and was subsequently attacked by a giant nightmare creature, a disturbingly creepy old man and a couple of druggies would go over about as well as trying to throw him out, if less physically painful. Best case scenario, he just thinks I'm crazy, tells me to get help, and I lose a perfectly good friend. Worst, he assumes I'm strung out on something and hauls me down to the drunk tank at the police station to sober up. He abri enters the living room,

holding two steaming mugs and hands me one. He pops open the camp chair I keep against the war for company and positions himself across from me. Taking a sip, he grimaces. Ah, that is some terrible shit. Now then, Mike, I believe you were going to regale me with the facts concerning your current disposition. I look at the man facing me,

and an overwhelming feeling of helplessness wells up from deep inside my chest. There was a time I would have told Gabe everything, but I've been down that row before. Sharing my truth would only cause more pain, and I can't lose one of my only friends I still have. At the same time, although Gabe may talk like a hayseek country boy, he's savvy enough to spot it if I try to outright lie. But maybe a part of the truth will be enough. I stare into the mug cradled in my hands.

I, uh, almost killed a boy tonight. I say softly, almost whispering. The punks who jumped me, there was 16 if they were a day. I almost killed one of them. Hell, I wanted to kill him, or at least a part of him he did. I stopped them easily enough, had him beaten. But then, my gun was to his head. And I thought, just for a second, how easy it would be.

That I could get away with it. That it was maybe even the right thing to do. I look up, tears in my eyes. What I'm telling Gabe may not be the whole truth, but the emotions are real just the same. There's a darkness in me, Gabe. A darkness I brought back with me from that shithole in Iraq. At some point it's going to get out

It scares the shit out of me And what might happen when it does Gabe keeps me fixed in his gaze A thoughtful look upon his face Well You know what your problem is, right? He looks at me expectantly ETSD, eagit

Gabe takes another sip of the horrible coffee And continues Ah shit, Mike That ain't nothing to be ashamed of Hell, half of us grunts That come back in one piece on the surface Got some kind of shit rattling loose up there Who wouldn't?

Now how many folks have seen what we've seen Or felt what we've felt That gets my attention Could gay possibly have experienced the same horrors as me And, um, what's that? I ask. He smiles. Well, combat, of course. Very real notion

That another human being is doing their damned is to make sure you don't come out alive. On the flip side, that you've snuffed out of the potential of another person, everything they could have ever been gone in an instant by your hand. Mike, remember how I told you about Billy Dying? Well, there's a part of that story I may be sort of held back a little. Don't be getting all bent out of shape. Didn't really know you as well back then.

I do now. He shifts in the camp chair, pausing as if to collect his thoughts before continuing. I found him, Mike. I found the son of a bitch that killed my boy. Wasn't hard. Went to a few places, cops are reluctant to go. Spread a little cash.

A few ass-kickings. Those fucking animals will sell out their own for almost nothing. Eventually I talked to the right guy who graciously led me to the flop house my boy's killer was hold up in. When I found him, the little bitch was high on something. laying there. He was in no position to do anything to stop what I was about to do to him.

He was so far gone, he maybe he didn't even know I was there. I had my pistol to his head. Probably pretty similar to how you did tonight. You know what I did? I shook my head. Oh, the goddamn thing. The bastard that killed my boy in my hands

and I couldn't do it. I just couldn't, Mike. her tears welling in the old Encio's eyes, a slight tremor in his voice. I'm going to tell you something. You listen to me good. Wanting to kill someone, especially some evil mother that would probably do. Same and worse to you give him half a chance. That doesn't make you evil. Hell Mike, that makes you a human. Whipes the back of his hand across his eyes. Billy Diane had me torn up for a good long time. But maybe his killer getting the same might be what it took to bring me back around.

Well, in the end it wasn't. It was facing the anger, Mike. Facing the rage and the fear. Then it'd get bottled up inside. Only serve to feed it. Gabe gets to his feet. Now, I don't specifically know what you're done or seen over there. Don't much care either.

The only thing I know is you've got to face it. Made what happened to yourself. It'll destroy you. He moves to the door and opens it, stopping halfway through. I'm going to go home, Mike. I'm going to leave you here. You're a grown-ass man and more incapable to decide on whether you want to keep going down this path. He indicates the pile of bottles or actually try to get better.

You're a good man, Mike. I hate to see anything get in the way of that. My friend leaves. I sit there. staring into the space of my almost empty apartment for what seems like a long time. Finally I make a decision. I get up and throw the bolts on the security door and set the alarm. I go to the kitchen, find a trash bag from under the sink and clean up the remains of my evening.

I throw out the sludge in the pot. Gabe is a man of many talents, but brewing coffee is definitely not one of them. and rest get into bed and lay there for a few long moments staring at the ceiling if only Gabe if only it was another human being trying to kill me that I was worried about Art 6 The Tale Three years ago

Hey Lieutenant Tarhir is at the gate to see you Says it's important Look up from my desk at my platoon sergeant That's what he said last time when he wanted fuel for his truck. And before that, when he wanted plywood for his checkpoints that he ended up selling for a profit, it's always something important with that asshole. Now take Lucas down there and get the details. No, I don't need the turb. Get this. Tahir's speaking English. But he says he'll only talk to you.

This was a new development. My platoon and I had been in Iraq for just over six months, manning a tiny outpost on our own. A slice of hell, we were responsible for was a small shith heel of a town called Al-Sinia up route Tampa north of Tikrit. Officially, Tahrir al-Kasim was the leader of that town, Sahat, basically a neighborhood watch with guns. Un officially, he ran the place. Before the war, he worked as an intelligence officer in Saddam's army. He was smart, cunning, and extremely dangerous. He was also a necessary evil, keeping order in his kingdom through guile when possible and force when required. I suspected for months that he understood English better than he would admit,

but this was the first outward proof of it. For him to wantonly play a card that big, maybe this time what he needed actually was important. Well, Sergeant Troy, guess you'd better bring him in then. I hardly recognise the man escorted into my office. The brash, confident thug I'd grown used to dealing with is gone, and his place is a furtive wreck. Tahir takes a seat across from me and accepts the soda Troy offers him.

I notice there are deep circles under his eyes, like he hasn't slept in days. His hands are shaken visibly, and he has trouble working the tab on the can. Tahir is terrified. I can't begin to say how much that scares me. Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mulazim, Michael. You will of course be realizing that I only... only come to you this way out of grave necessity. His accent is noticeable, but doesn't impede his speech in the least.

The man is fluent. Well, past experiences aside, it does strike me as pretty odd that you'd suddenly reveal you spoke English, Tahir. Especially after all those awkward conversations we had through Lucas about, how you didn't speak English. So I figured there was at least a chance it might be worth my interest. Now, let me guess. Your boys need more plywood at their checkpoints.

Oh, would that it was. I suppose I deserve that. I admit I have certainly taken advantage of certain situational realities in the past. His eyes grow hard. But I would ask that you not make jokes at the expense of the dead. I sit up straight, sir. Are you telling me... All of them, save myself and three others two nights ago.

Tahir, you had more than 50 men. What the hell happened? The broken man continues to face me, but his gaze is far away. Why, just that, Mulazim Michael. Hell happened. It's four hours after my conversation with Tahir, and I'm riding shotgun in my mine-resistant vehicle. There are three more of my trucks in the convoy following.

the Sahwat leader in his beaten-up pickup. All told, I only have 20 of my men, with the other ten needed back on guard at the outpost. I didn't want to lie to my commander, but I didn't want to get committed either. Telling him I needed reinforcements to go monster hunting just wasn't going to fly. I can only hope that this will be enough. Some of the townspeople had come to Tahir earlier in the week. Kit started going missing. The only signs were strange marks, leading.

off into the desert, like something huge and heavy was dragging itself among the dunes. They pleaded with him to send his men after the kids, and he complied. Maybe he isn't quite the bastard I thought he was. But here I managed to follow the marks to a natural cave dug into the side of a hill out in the wastes, several miles from even rudimentary civilization. I'm still unsure exactly what to believe of the rest of Tahir's story. I've known the man for long enough to be sure that something happened, but God, I hope he's lying to me, or crazy.

Bandits or Bahattis factions are one thing. Living nightmares that slaughter and eat your men in front of you, well, that's something else. It's twilight, the moon just starting to peek up over the horizon. Unfortunately, there's some nasty weather heading in. Not uncommon as winters

the only time it rains here, and the clouds are to block any illumination. Damn, but I wish we could have done this mission during the daylight. My gut tells me this could go sideways really fast. If I knew exactly what we were going after, the terrorist cell, say, doctrine supports a night strike since our tech is better than theirs. But going in on half-blind intelligence, and with the insane stories Tahir spouting,

I'm not too keen facing monsters in the dark. My conscience won't let me wait, though. If kids are missing, and I'm sure Tahir is telling the truth about that, it has to be now. I briefed my men exactly what Tahir had told me. It took me a little while to decide whether or not I was going to go, but ultimately, I'd rather they have an idea of what we might be up against. Worst case scenario, I might end up looking like a jackass. Best case, maybe it eliminates hesitation and saves lives.

Like an only hope we're so lucky. For anyone who's only ever lived in a city, it's almost impossible to appreciate how absolutely empty and dark the desert can be. Night has truly fallen now, and with the clouds totally blanketing the sky, only Tahir's headlights ahead offer a faint reminder of day. I've ordered my man to drive blacked out. Convoys at night to pray for even the merely human monsters. We left the road behind 30 minutes ago.

Bouncing along, the dunes rise up on either side of us, too high for anyone but my gunner to see over. It's like travelling down a narrow hallway, walled with sand. It's anyone's guess what's at the other end? A glance over at Robinson, my driver. His face is set, eyes straight ahead, hands tightly gripping the wheel. The banter that would normally accompany one of our missions is nowhere to be found. Abruptly the way opens into a large clear area about 50 yards across and ringed by dunes.

The head the far end of the clearing is capped by a large hillock about 30 feet hard. Tahir's headlights are fixed on a yawning hole at its base that seems to bore into the mound. He stops the pickup. A call over the radio. All right, boys, guess this is the place. Establish a perimeter with the trucks around the clearing, then dismount. drivers and gunners stay with the vehicles. Everyone else meet me in the centre.

Checking to make sure my rifle is loaded and my grenades are accessible in their pouches, I shove open the heavy door of the vehicle and step down to the ground. Since we were driving without lights, I'm already wearing my night vision goggles and the entire world shows up in my monocular sight as alternating shades of black and green.

Move to the middle of the perimeter and wait for my men to join me. Sergeant Troy is the first one there. Sir, he says, I'm again going to reiterate that you should not be going in on this mission. We don't know what's down there and you're too important to risk. I appreciate you the concern, Sergeant, but you know my philosophy is lead from the front. I can't very well ask you to go down the scary dark monster hole if I'm not willing to and besides, I grimace. Leaving two men per truck out here means we only have 12 trigger pullers.

including me. Whatever's down there killed almost 50 of Tar Hears guys. You're going to need all the help you can get. He grabs my vest and pulls me in closer. Damn it, sir. Then swap out with one of the drivers. No, Troy. I'm going and that's it.

Now let go and shut up before the rest of the man get here. Fine, but I've got two conditions, sir. Number one, lead from the front or not. you let second squad go first. Fair enough. What's number two? If shit starts going south in there, we are pulling your ass out of the fire.

Sergeant, if things go south, I don't think you'll have the chance. Letting go, my platoon sergeant reluctantly backs off. The man has begun to trickle in, so he makes himself busy doing final checks of weapons and gear. I appreciate his concern, but there's no way I'm sending my men into this situation on their own. If something happens, I need to know about it.

The strike team is fully assembled. A light rain has begun to fall as I turn to find Tahir standing next to me. You see the hole there, Mulassim, Michael. It is the mouth of hell itself. I wish you the very best of luck, my friend, and for your safe return. Asalam alaikum. As he turns to go, I grab his arm. Oh, I'm sorry, Tahr here.

I think you have the wrong idea of what's happening here. You're coming with us. If it weren't impossible, I'd swear I could see him blanched through my goggles. But you surely jest, for it is very dark in the cave, and the last thing I would want to do would be to draw attention to your party with a light. He smiles nervously. and I do not have access to the wonderful equipment you do. Ah, well, lookie here.

I hold up a pair of goggles. I seem to have found a spare set. Walter here flies into a rage, arms wide, spit spraying from his mouth. No, no, I will not go down there again. You cannot make me, you damned American. He tapers off when he fills the barrel of Sergeant Troy's rifle in the small of his bag. Please, please, he pleads. Please, my friend, do not make me throw my life away.

I leaning close, talking low into the big man's ear. You listen to me, Ty, here. If what you're telling me is really down there, then I'm an even bigger bastard than you for making you go in there again. But here's the thing. I continue. What you're telling me is fucking crazy. For all I know, you sold your ass out to someone,

and I'm walking my men into a nice real ambush. So, I'll give you a choice. Going there with us and I can promise you at least a chance to survive in. Or you can die out here right now. I step back, holding the goggles toward him. So, what's it going to be? Look of pure despair passes across the man's face. Shoulder slumped, he takes the goggles from my outstretched hand, completely defeated.

Putting them on, he turns away and begins walking toward the looming hole. You are wrong, Mulazim, Michael. He calls back to me. I am a dead man, either way. The rain has picked up steadily. Thunder rolls ominously in the distance. God help me, but I hope you're wrong. I say under my breath.

All right, boys, let's go. Make sure you have positive idea on. any targets. Remember, there might be kids in there. Second squad, lead out. With that, my men and I slowly move forward, the sinister entryway beckoning us onward to face what horrors I can only imagine. Part 7. The cave. The whole yawns wide and deep. It's top reaching almost halfway up the mound. Sergeant Brown and the four men comprising second squad cautiously moved forward information. Still sulking, Tahir joins me a little ways behind them while Sergeant Troy in First Squad bring up the rear. The rain has continued to fall and uncharacteristically shows no

signs of stopping. If it keeps up like this, we might have issues getting the trucks out of the sand and back to the road. Well, on the bright side, we'll only have to worry about washouts if I get out of this cave alive. About 10 feet from the entrance is when a familiar, unmistakable, hits me, gave smells of death. Walking through the entryway, the stagnant air intensifies the stench, wielding it like a weapon. Ahead, I hear someone in second squad wretch. The whole itself is actually more like a semicircular tunnel, out 15 feet high and 10 feet wide.

Pushing forward, the first thing I notice, other than the sickening smell, is that the walls are smooth and unnatural. Throughout 25 feet the entire expanse from floor to ceiling is covered with strange cave art, fantastic symbols that bear are passing resemblance to ancient Syrian writings I came across during my studies in college. One small section of the tunnel roof appears to have collapsed, disrupting the otherwise unbroken pattern of art. Whatever ink was used to transcribe the symbols glowed with a faint luminescence giving the passage a disconcertingly eerie feeling. The tunnel seems to be sloping gradually downward. Rather than simply leading into the hill, the whole burrows into the ground itself, how deep I can only guess.

I see movement ahead as specialist barns from second squad jugs up to me. The kid looks scared. Sir, Sergeant Brown says, you need to come and take a look at what he's got up there. Okay, what is it? He said not to tell you. Said it's something you've got to see for yourself. Why didn't he call me on the radio? Tried, sir.

Radio's out. I key my hand, Mike, futilely trying to reach the trucks just 50 yards behind me. Damn it. Must be something in these walls screwing with a signal. Barnes, keep going back to Sergeant Troy and tell him to send a couple guys to let the trucks know they won't be able to talk to us while we're down here. Then meet me up with Sergeant Brown. Come on, Tahir. Let's go see what this fuss is all about.

The Sahu leader sighs residedly. I think you have a very good idea what it is, Mullah Sim, Michael, as I have already told you. We continue forward another 50 hours before I reach second squad and discover the source of the smell. Dozens of bodies cover the floor of the cave. Torsorses ripped open and limbs strewn about in a mess of gore. The blood is dried, but based on the smell, the remains haven't been here long. All of the corpses exhibit wounds that appear to have been caused by something incredibly sharp. Holding my breath against the stench, I lean down to take a closer look at one of the corpses.

The body is headless and missing its right arm at the shoulder, where it was messily torn off. The shredded remains of the clothing left on the body suggests its local. Its stomach has been ripped open and huge chunks of the guts seem to be missing, almost as if, well, something has been eating it. A sharp thrill of fear shoots down my spine as I step back from the thing that used to be a human body. Or tar here, you son of a bitch. I'm starting to think you may have just been telling us the truth. I look around until I find Sergeant Brown who beckons to me from where he stands a little ways further down the tunnel. As I approach him, there's a look of silent rage etched across his face,

one arm outstretched and pointing to a pile of human bones completely picked clean of flesh and tissue. They're so very, very small. I feel my heart break. Led by specialist Barnes, Sergeant Troy comes hustling up from the rear. He takes in the scene before turning to me and holding out a remote clacker. Barnes filled me in. I took the liberty of prepping the tunnel entrance with C4 before coming down here. I highly recommend we withdraw back to the trucks

and seal whatever the fuck is in here to rot. Numbly, I take the trigger from him. Look, there might be more kids down there, Sergeant. Sir, before his voice cracks. You know there's not. I think for a long moment. The gibbering caveman part of my brain tells me there's nothing more it wants to do

than leave this whole far behind and escape back to the relative sanity of the patrol base. By the rational part, the one I've spent years training to perform under incredibly stressful situations disagrees. What Sergeant Troy says is probably true. The odds of there being any live kids down here is almost zero. But on the other hand,

there's no telling where this tunnel goes, or if there are other exits the creature could use to escape if we'd destroy the entrance we came through. If that's the case, there'd be nothing to stop it from kill, again. Nothing to stop it from feeding. There's only one way to make sure that these bones will be the last. Sorry, Troy. We'll see the entrance as a last resort. We have to make sure we stop this son of a bitch for good. By my estimation, the best way to do that is to shoot the fucker

until it's in too many different pieces to be a threat. We keep going. I pause and turn to the Sawa leader. To hear, I'm sorry for doubting you earlier, but it looks like you were being honest with me. It doesn't seem right to drag a civilian any further into this mess. You're free to leave. I can't spare an escort,

but you're welcome to keep the goggles on your way out if you promise to pass them to my driver once you reach the trucks. The big man grips my shoulder, a grave look upon his face. You are a good man, Mulasia, Michael. And I think, in different circumstances, is perhaps a good friend. I shall wait for you at the entrance.

I will pray that if ever Allah watches over the infidel that he do it this night. Moving rapidly, he then disappears toward the entryway. Looking after, Tahrir, Sergeant Brown hocks up flam and spits it to the side. What a pussy. This casual bravado makes me smile. Agreed. But I'll do my best not to judge him too harshly. till we find the thing that did this.

Your squad okay staying on point? Sir. Brown's voice is cold as ice. It'll be my absolute pleasure. I've got a feeling this tunnel is going to be the start of a honeycomb or follow the stench. Radio's are worthless down here, so don't get ahead further than shouting distance. Tell the boys to stay sharp, weapons free. If it moves, shoot it until it stops.

No worries there, sir. Let's go second. He turns and the squad begins making its way deeper down the tunnel. Troy's left standing beside me. I'll keep the rear, but remember what we agreed through, sir. I remember, sergeant. Keep them alert and mark the way back to the entrance with IR chemlights. This whole starts to branch off. I don't want to get lost down here, and I really don't want this thing sneaking up behind her.

I followed close behind second squad. Just as I suspected, the tunnel soon begins to break off into multiple forks, sometimes as many as three or four different paths at an intersection. The darkness is now absolute, a strange glowing markings near the entrance of the cave a distant memory. I reach up and key the IR flood on the side of my goggles, washing the expanse of the tunnel in a beam of invisible light to help my goggles be more effective.

As we move ever deeper into the abyss, I become sharply aware of the crushing weight of the earth around me. I'm not claustrophobic, but down here I may as well be. We travel with what seems like hours, but checking my watch is only about 15 minutes. Brown seems to pick the route at random, right, left, second from the left. I try to keep track, but after seven or eight turns, I know it'll be impossible to remember them all. Doing some quick mental calculation, I realize if this goes on much longer, we'll have to stop and crossload chemlights back with first to make the route that... Well, they'll be running out. I curse inwardly. It would have made way more sense to have the lead element mark the path. But I hadn't been thinking about it at the time. Now I'll have to hope that Troy keeps close, or we'll risk losing him and the rest of first squad at one of these intersections.

I pick up the pace and Troy and halt Sergeant Brown in order to consolidate and reorganize when the latest tunnel abruptly opened into a large subterranean cavern. I have no idea how the geometry of this tunnel system works, because, well, it hasn't seemed like we've been going that far down. The height of the stalactite peppered ceiling, almost lost in the darkness above my head, suggests we must have descended at least a hundred feet. Brown and second squad have stopped up ahead at the foot of a wide pool that dominates the cavern, reaching as far as I can see in either direction. Despite the size of the cabin, the air is closed and thick, smelling of rot.

I look behind me and confirm my fear. Troy and first are nowhere to be seen. This is as far as we can go down this way, sir. Well, she brought a canoe with you. No, I forgot something, Sergeant Brown. Well, we have to go back anyhow. Looks like we lost first somewhere along the way. You kidding me?

How they ever-loving did they... Sergeant? Barnes is shouting. There's something in the water. Brown and I turned simultaneously in time to see a small wave ripple across the pool, something huge moves below the surface. There's a brief pause where all time and motion seem to stop before the water explodes,

an inhuman roar echoing throughout the cavern. Part 8. The Beast. The creature is woven from pure nightmare. Rearing up out of the pool, the thing's head towers 20 feet above us. It resembles nothing so much as some kind of giant centipede crossed with a sea monster, the segmented sections of its body protected by a shiny carapace. Dozens of squirming legs protrude from its sides, each tipped with serrated blades.

Near the base of its neck, two enormous tentacles like those of a giant squid flail about. The thing's head is the size of a small, car. Despite this, its open mouth is simply wrong, too wide, too many shark-like teeth. Its multifaceted eyes stare at us with a keen intelligence and an almost human malevolence. Time stops as I make these observations in the fleeting instant before hell erupts around me. Sergeant Brown acts instantly, raising his carbine to his shoulder and dropping to a knee in one smooth motion, peppering the creature's face and neck with sharp controlled bursts. Smitty, put a 203 grenade down that ugly fucker's throat.

Cortinas, you have two seconds to get the SAW rocking. Barnes and Cook alternate your fire and aim for their eyes. The squad leader's calm control does the trick. The monster roars again, as it is enveloped in a storm of gunfire that goes on for the better part of 30 seconds. At some point, I really really, I realize I've gotten down beside Sergeant Brown and added my own instrument to our deadly symphony. I'm mindless of the sharp hisses passing close by as the cave is filled with deadly ricochets from the solid stone walls.

Dust from hundreds of impacts fills the air, and through my night vision the beast is lost in a haze of green powder. At last, the weapons run dry and the firing stops. I dive behind a two-foot-high rock to my right to try and get some kind of cover. slapping a fresh magazine into my rifle. Around me I hear the men of second squad quickly and professionally begin to reload their expanded weapons. They are nowhere near fast enough. To my left, Cortinas is struggling to load a drum into his SAW. From out of the haze, the creature's tentacles whip out too quickly to follow.

One slaps the machine gun out of his hands, while the other envelopes his head and neck. his yell is muffled as he briefly struggles to remove the hideous limb from his face for the second tentacle wraps around his waist and yanks him out of sight into the cloud now accompanied by wet ripping sounds cortina's screams grow higher in pitch till they're abruptly cut off i can see sergeant brown and barnes a few feet to my right but they've taken cover in a similar position to my own Barnes jumps to his feet and sprints towards the machine gun lying on the cabin floor Brown tries to grab him by the back of his body armor but misses

Barnes, don't damn it. Smitty, get another grenade ready. That fuck is still out there. Cook, help me cover that idiot. Barnes slides up to the SAW like a runner stealing second and ratchets the new belt into the weapon. Barnes, get your ass back here behind cover now, screamed Susses. Sergeant Brown. Roger, I'm... Without warning, the creature roars out of the cloud,

it's more snapping shut around Barnes's head and shoulders. As it lifts him bodily into the air, Barnes squeezes the trigger spasticly. With Barnes being jerked around like a rat caught by a terrier, the SAW in his hand spits death at a rate of 200 bullets a minute. I try to make myself as small as possible behind my rock, fatal hisses and pops sounding all around me. Sergeant Brown grunts as a wayward round

catches him in his lower leg. Especially Smith, raising to a knee to fire his grenade, drops without a sound in a spray of blood. From where I lay sprawled, I can see his unmoving form, a dark pool slowly collecting around his head. The firing finally stops. Looking up, I see the creature has tipped,

its head back and is using its tentacles to push Barnes's still body down its gullet, body armour and all, its neck convulsing like a snake swallowing its prey. I realise we need to get out of here, and fast. Pumped on adrenaline in my own body armour, feels almost weightless. I roll from behind my rock, hop to my feed and take two steps before diving down next to Sergeant Brown. He's managed to get his combat tourniquet around his leg, but from the blood still pushing out of the wound is obviously not tight enough.

Right, we're tightening this tourniquet, then we're gone, Sergeant. Dammit, sir, leave me. Get cook out of here. I'm just going to slow you up with this leg. Not a fucking chance, soldier. Now, try to hold still. This is going to hurt like hell.

I grip the two ends of the windlass and twist. I hear Brown's breath catching his throat beside me and his hand gripping my arm, tracks hard enough to leave bruises, but to his credit, he doesn't scream. When I can't twist any more, I secure the windlass and throw his arm over my shoulder. Blancing up with the creature, all that is left of barns is from the knees down. All right, back up to the tunnel, before our ugly notices us.

Cook, you've got rear security. All right, let's move. We stagger to our feet and begin hobbling back the way we came, away from the horrors of the cavern. Cook trails a short way behind us and throws furtive glances over his shoulder. Sergeant Brown tries to help as much as possible, but he's severely hampered by his wounded leg, and our progress is slow. Far too slow. We've made it perhaps 200 yards when the creature lets out a howl, and I hear the unmistakable sounds of its enormous mass exiting the cavern pool. We stumble into the first of the tunnel intersections, and my stomach drops when I realized the path of the path of the path.

is unmarked. Three openings beckoned from the far side of the intersection. I set Sergeant Brown to the ground as easily as I can and frantically search for any sign of our previous passage that might suggest which way to take, but find none. Oh, shit cook, this is a terrible plan. But I've got no better ideas. We have to find Sergeant Troy and make sure that somebody gets out of here alive so we can alert higher about this thing. You take the left tunnel. Sergeant Brown and I will take the middle. That gives us a two and three chance of picking the right one. If you find the platoon, Sergeant, priority is making it out to get reinforcements. Then worry about coming back for us, got it?

Roger, sir, I won't let you down. Okay, get going. Fast but careful and quiet. Cook takes off down the left fork at a jog. I look over to my wounded charge. Well, looks like it's just you and me, Sergeant Brown. Let's make ugly work for the rest of his dinner. Throw his arm over my shoulder and then we again stagger to our feet. Brown grimaces as we begin to stumble up the middle path.

Unfortunately, sir, I don't think it's going to have to work all that hard. The man is shaking. Now that his initial rush of adrenaline has worn off, it's only a matter of time before shock sets him. If I don't get Sergeant Brown out of here quickly, he's going to be dead whether the monster finds us or not. We haven't gone far when I hear a strange rolling sound, like far off thunder, issuing from back the way we came.

It can only be the noise of the creature's passage. I set Sergeant Brown down behind a slight upcropping on the wall and drop to a knee as the sound gets closer. For all the good it will do, I raise my weapon and wait with my finger poised on the trigger. My hands are shaking, and I realize how terrified I am. The noise grows until it seems that the thing must be right on top of us.

Every moment I expect its grotesque moor to appear down the tunnel, ready to devour us whole, like Barnes. Abruptly, the sound begins to diminish. The monster must have chosen a different fork to pursue us. I struggle to get Sergeant Brown back to his feet again, and we continue our slow crawl up the passageway. Each time it's harder to get him up, and each time he's able to help me stagger along a little bit less. After perhaps two minutes, I hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire issue a few sporadic reports before going silent.

The thing must have found Cook. It'll surely be coming for us next, as the last of the echoes from the gunshots die away. Sergeant Brown's wounded leg buckles and he falls, dragging me to the ground with him. I rest for a brief moment before fighting. to my knees and attempting to stand, but I stumble, both of us falling to the ground again. Growning, Brown struggles to a sitting position. He's back against the wall of the tunnel. It's not good, sir. Round must have hit a damn artery. Lucky I made you this far. Well, we've got a lot further to get you, Sergeant, so we best be going. He shakes his head. No, sir,

I reckon that's not going to happen. We both know I'm not making it out of this cave alive either way. And Troy told me about the deal he was going to make with you before coming in here. Made me agree to back him up on it. He grips my arm. We need to get you out of here, sir. It's like you told, Cook. This thing needs killing at all costs.

And that's more important than you, me or anyone else. You're the only one who's seen this thing that even has a shot of making it. You sure is held the only one that is any kind of chance of convincing hire that it's real. Hey, if I went to the commander with this story, he'd have three MPs caught me off as sampling the local drug market. Then he grimaces. I've got my rifle and some grenades. I'll keep him off you as long as I can.

See if I can't give that son of a bitch to the mother of all indigestion. But you've got to make it out, sir. The Barnes and Cook, the Smitty and Cortinas. those local kids someone needs to know we need to stop this godforsaken thing he lets go of my arm and sinks back against the wall for a moment

before sitting up and beginning to prepare his weapons lining up his grenades and taking out a handful of parachute cord from his pocket he starts to jury rig them so that one solid tug will pull the safety pins from all five grenades I stand

unable to speak knowing that the man is right but feeling like I need to change that simple fact. There has to be some way I can change it. Not looking at me, my squad leader ties knots and continues to talk. Art of me dimly registers that the rumbling sound has started again. It's getting slowly but steadily louder. And one other things, sir, for me,

there's a letter in the side pouch on my rucksack. It's for my ex-wife and the kids just... If you get out, could you make sure they get it? Don't tell them what happened. Just that I was thinking about them and I love them. Even that crazy woman, tell her I should have tried harder. He pauses for a moment and looks up. Please?

My voice hitches. Yeah, absolutely, sergeant. He returns to his preparations then. Appreciate it. It's been a pleasure serving with you, sir. Now, no intended disrespect. Get the fuck out of here. I stand there for a moment.

Unable to move, unable to speak, able only to look at my friend quietly preparing himself for death. Then, before I can change my mind, before I can truly think about what leaving one of my men says about me as a leader, and as a soldier, and as a man, I turn and begin making my way up the tunnel. The rumbling sound echoing of making. my head pound in time to my racing pulse.

All too soon, an explosion rocks the tunnel behind me. The creature's roar of rage so loud it threatens to shatter my eardrumbs. And I run. Part 9. The relic. My lungs and my legs are burning in concert. The breath heaves in my chest and I feel like I'm going to throw up. The incline that was so unnoticeable during our descent

now fights me with every step. At each intersection, I take a path utterly at random. Terra has placed my mind on complete autopilot. I only thought I'd try and put as much distance between myself and the thing as possible. And soon, I'm hopelessly lost. I'm not sure how long I've been going when the rational part of my brain regains control,

but it can't have been very long. Even though the entire expanse of the network looks similar, I'm completely certain I've been down this pathway previously. As I continue forward, I slow my flight a little more than a fast wall. The pounding sound of the monster's passage has faded to a distant throbbing, and the combat gear I'm wearing isn't designed for long-distance running. Best to conserve my energy for when I need it. Even though I know this isn't the way towards the entrance,

something seems to drag me forward. It's not anything particular that I can identify, but some kind of sixth sense, or perhaps a slightly less noxious quality to the air. The tunnel begins to gradually narrow until it's little more than five feet wide. There's still plenty of space for me to make my way unimpeded, but the relatively small size of the tunnel

may prevent the creature from following me. Abruptly, the pathway dead ends in a wall of unyielding rock covered by a blanket of lichen. There's no exit this way, but I could stay here, I could be safe, Yeah, starving to death might actually be worse than letting that thing eat me, or on my hands along the wall searching for any sign of a way through or around, not really expecting anything.

When I notice a small alcove obscured by the vegetation, I reach inside and my questing hand grasped something about the size of a half dollar. Removing the object, I see it's a perfectly round stone, polish smooth to the touch except for a second smaller, slightly raised in its exact centre. I removed my glove and find the stone to be oddly warm, almost as if it was somehow generating its own heats. The geometry is too perfect to have been formed by nature.

It must have been man-made. Whatever it is, someone went to a great deal of trouble to hide it where it would almost be impossible to find. My thoughts returned to the unnaturally smooth walls of the entrance to the cave and the strange luminousine symbols that covered them. as if in response to my thoughts, the edge of the stone begins to softly glow. Upon closer inspection, I see that the same type of symbols have been etched along its outer circumference. The detail is astounding. By my best reckoning, the piece is ancient,

but the markings are so finely wrought that it must have been a truly master craftsman to inscribe them, and tried to put together the messy pile of jigsaw pieces presented to me. There's obviously a connection between the entrance of the cavern and the, stone. Also at some point, someone hit it deep within a twisting subterranean labyrinth and protected it with a giant centipede monster. That means it's somehow important. Unless that monster's not a guard, but a prisoner. Maybe those markings at the entrance were what was keeping it in the cave. There was a break in the pattern where the roof fell in. Maybe that's what started this whole mess. No real point of thinking about it too hard, since it won't do me any good if I can't get out of you.

out. I hear the word in my head as clearly as if someone has spoken it out loud. It stardles me so badly that I almost fall over backwards, inadvertently dropping the stone which falls to rest upon the tunnel floor. Immediately upon leaving my hand, the markings fade away, a stone laying on the ground like any normal piece of rock. hesitantly, I reached down and pick it up again, the markings glowing to life at the touch of my bare hand.

Was that you? I speak aloud. Did you say something to me? With all the weird things that have already happened to me today, a magical talking stone barely cracks the top three. Or you're just losing your damn mind, Landry. The mental shock of giant monsters and having your men eaten in front of you might be sending you over the edge. You should probably accept the fact that you're going to die down here, you're coward, one way or the other, like Barnes and Cortina.

ripped apart in the jaws of that thing. Be a man and accept it like Sergeant Brown did. No stone is going to help you find the way out. Out. The word repeats itself in my head, and this time I managed to keep control enough of myself to avoid dropping the stone. As I stand there, a feeling comes over me

that urges me to walk back down the tunnel away from the dead end. It's similar to the urge that drew me this way in the first place, but is undoubtedly stronger. With no better options, I start walking, soon realize I know how to get back to the entrance. It's not that I can lay out a specific path, but more resembles how a person walks a familiar route

while thinking of other things. The subconscious mind takes over. As I reached each intersection, I know without a doubt which way to take. I move cautiously while listening for any sign of the monster, keeping one hand on the stone and the other, on the grip of my weapon. Soon I reached an intersection where five different tunnels converge.

An I R. Chemlight glow softly by one of the forks. Holy shit, sir. Sergeant, he's over here. Specialist Johnson, one of the members of Fur Squad, is pulling guard from the marked tunnel. Suddenly my platoon, Sergeant, is there, followed closely by the squad leader, Sergeant Parks. In his relief, Troy's usual professionalism cracks just a little bit. bit. Jesus, you had me worried, sir. When we got to this fork, I had no idea which way you went and didn't want a wrist just randomly wandering off down one way or the other, just in case I guess

wrong. I figured you'd realize we'd lost you eventually and hopefully just make your way back to us. Then we heard some gunfire a while ago, but couldn't tell where I was coming from. What with how much these things twist and turn, but, well, I was about to say fucking and head out looking for you and... Troy pauses. His gaze focus. down the tunnel behind me, as if he's just realized something. Sir, I'm... It's brown and the other squads. Dead, dismembered, parts of them roaming around in the belly of the beast.

They didn't have a magic stone, eh? Inside my head, I fight to hold down the part of my brain that threatens to send me over the edge into blursed madness. I grip the stone in my hand tighter. They're gone, Sergeant Troy, and we need to get the hell out of here. You're not saying it. Tahir was telling the truth about all of it.

And this thing, we can't stop it with anything we have on us. Sergeant Brown and the others did everything they could to make sure I made it back. We need to leave now. I turn to my squad leader. Sergeant Parks, get us out of here. The levity of the moment is instantly gone. Park snaps into motion. Roger, sir.

Ruse and Johnson lead out. Sir, you and Sergeant Troy right behind so you can figure out the plan on the go. I've got rear security with Pike and Dominguez. Quick and quiet. We begin moving smartly up the tunnel, back towards the entrance. The gentle mental nudges from the stone

confirming the road laid out by the chemlights. Troy shadows me. Sir, what are you thinking? Get out, then blow the entrance. We can't leave it open to allow this thing free rain to come and go as it pleases. There might be other ways out, but they might not be big enough to accommodate it. Or at the very least, might take it further away from the populated areas. Get back to base, figure out how I'm going to tell higher what happened here.

There's no chance that Brown or any of his boys made it? No. Cook was the only one I'm not a hundred percent sure of, and the risks of leaving the hole open a way too big compared to the odds I'd give him. Besides, we can use that as additional leverage on the old man to make sure we got some reinforcements down here. He might not believe in monsters, but he's sure going to send us some help finding a soldier lost and trapped in a cave. Troy nods his head in agreement. Sounds right to me, sir.

Tell you the truth, I'm hoping we can get it to work as smooth as that. What? Why wouldn't it? well while i had the boys hunkered down waiting for you i heard some weird noises made me think that maybe parts of the tunnel were caving in all on their own robinson's a bright kid though and i'm sure he'll call for help if we don't show up soon i grab his arm and hold him up short sergeant what kind of noises ah hell sir some kind of deep thrumming sounded like it started out near us and then was moving back away towards the entrance. Cave-in was the only thing I could think of that it could be. Shit, Sergeant, we need to stop.

Johnson Cruz, hold up. Everyone bring it in. I look around wildly as the squad converges on me. We're standing in the middle of a rather large intersection, about 50 feet across, with four passageways leading into it, including the one we just came from. Danger.

That thought flashed you through my head as powerful as a bolt of a bolt of, lightning. Apparently the stone is sensitive to certain environmental conditions, and the creature appears to be one of them. Parks jogs up to me. Sir, what's... It's smart. He didn't know which path we were on, but knew we'd go for the entrance. It's lived down here. Probably knows all the different ways through these tunnels. It's circled around us to set a trap. Troy glances at Sergeant Parks before looking back at me. You sure, sir?

That seems a little more intelligent than I'd expect from some kind of animal. Oh, it's different, Sergeant. It's not just an animal. You didn't see it. Didn't see how it picked us apart. It's waiting for us and we're going to walk right into it if we don't. Danger. Now the thought slaps me like a physical force,

strong enough that I reflexively grab my head with my hands. Why can they see? Why can they believe me? We need to set up a defensive position. It's our only chance. Maybe we can get lucky and find a weak spot or... Danger, danger, danger, danger, danger, danger, danger, danger, danger. I scream.

The thought is a nail being driven through my head, a claxon blaring next to my ear. The stone still in my hand, I clapsed to my knees. And the fall saves my light. From one of the tunnels, the creatures, tentacles flash out like spears. If I hadn't been moving, the first would have caught me directly in the back of my head and killed me instantly.

At the same moment the second removed Sergeant Parks' head from his body. As it is, the hideous limb only strikes heavily on my right shoulder. Some insidious design of nature, the tentacle is tipped with razor-sharp spikes that furrow deep gouges into my back, through body armour and all. The force of the blow throws me bodily forward. and I hit the wall face first before rebounding and crumbling to the tunnel floor. I lie on my back, dazed, and feel a cold numbness start to spread from the wound. Whether from the blow or some poison injected by the claws, I can't move.

Helpless, I can only lie motionless and listen to the pandemonium unfold around me. Oh, God, damn. What the fuck is... Oh, God, it hurts. Please, don't. No, no. Part 10. The fury. As I lie paralyzed on the floor of the tunnel, the screams and gunfire seem to extend for an eternity.

Where I'd expect my shoulder to be on fire from the gashes gouged into it, I feel only a seeping cold that deadens the feeling in my entire body. I desperately try to move my limbs to no avail. Maybe it's not poison. Maybe when you hit that wall, you just break your damn neck. Now you wait until your turn on the dinner plate. Suddenly the ceiling starts moving. Sergeant Troy pulling me backwards up the tunnel by my body armor.

Come on, sir. Let's go. I told you I'd be pulling your ass out of the fire. If this thing turned sideways, just didn't figure it'd be so damn literal. I tried to respond, but even my vocal cords won't cooperate. Got to be poisoned then. broken neck wouldn't keep me from talking.

I wonder if it's fatal if the effects are just temporary. I wonder if I'll get the chance to find out. God, how terrible. I might not be able to even scream while I'm being eaten. We don't make it very far. Troy isn't in bad shape by any means, but trying to drag over 200 pounds of dead weight uphill at any kind of speed is almost impossible under the best of conditions,

which these most definitely aren't. After only a few seconds, the last of the gunshots and moans briefly give way to a pregnant silence before the monster lets loose a triumphant roar. Its hunt is at an end. The now familiar sound of the creature's movement starts again. Looking over me back down the tunnel, Troy sees it coming. Almost gently he lays me to the ground

before raising his weapon and stepping over my body, positioning himself between me and the oncoming horror. The rumbling is impossibly loud. I weren't completely numb, I could probably feel the very walls of the tunnel shaking. Troy begins firing. Hey, you ugly motherfucker. You want him? You can have to come through me, you sorry sack of shit.

Oh, damn it. Troy drops his rifle and transitions to his pistol, but the thing is on him, tentacles wrapping around his waist and neck and lifting him into the air towards its slavering jaws. "'Fug you!' Troy empties the entire magazine to the monster's face at almost point-blank range. It roars in fury and reels back slightly

before recovering, whipping my platoon sergeant like a rag doll and slamming him, first off one wall, then the other, again and again. I can hear bones snapping with every impact. Finally, it stops and holds Troy's broken body up to its massive head,

suspended from his arms and how precariously above its open moor. And then, of all the unbelievable and fantastic happenings of the day, the most astounding occurs. The creature starts to speak. Its voice is harsh like a bandsaw cutting through metal and sounds utterly wrong coming from such a being. Despite that, I have no problem interpreting its words.

Ish mortal, you would stand against the other born of the outer dark. We who have ruled this world since time immemorial, you throw your shallow life away. But fear not, your sacrifice is not in vain. Indeed, this one hungers. Your misguided courage will be most satisfying, your loyalty most savoury. Take pride, little morsel, in the sustenance you give your master. and with that it begins to slowly lower Troy into its waiting jaws, taking obvious pleasure in the anticipation.

I redouble my mental efforts, but my limbs still won't respond. Damn it, no, not like this, not like this. No, the word is like a gong, filling and reverberating through the air, even though I know it's only in my head. I feel a blinding heat radiating from my hand, pushing back the terrible cold of the creature's poison. I realize that, incredibly, I'm still holding the stone. Somehow the monster hears the pronouncement as well, causing it to pause and shift its gaze to me.

Impossible. The light is lost to the sleepers no more. Suddenly I can move again. I leap to my feet, the paralyzing numbness of a few moments ago already a distant memory. The relic glows with a terrible light, its raised centerpiece and markings burning, as brightens as the sun. Whether through some reflex or from mental nudges of the stone, I raised the hand holding it toward the monster. The heat continues to build, until it feels as though my entire being is filled with it, too much for me to contain, so much that I'll surely burst if I don't release

it. So I do. Entireity of the power coalesces into a ball, tiny ball, somewhere deep in my chest before shooting down my arm towards the stone. An enormous wash of flame erupts from the centre of the relic and blast the monster full on in its horrific face, its head catching fire. The thing rears back to its full height, its mouth open wide and a silent scream of agony. The tentacles holding Sergeant Troy are nearly seared off

and it drops bonelessly to the ground in a heap. I rush to my fallen platoon sergeant. There's no time to check and see if he's still alive, we need to get out now before the thing recovers. Remains of the power still sing throughout my body, and I pick up Troy and throw him across my shoulders as easily as I would a child. I begin running up the tunnel towards the entrance. I just make the section near the entryway marked by the strange runes where my supernatural strength begins to fade. The open entrance beckons as I struggle towards it, every step harder than the last. Now that the strength of

the relic has faded, all that remains is an overwhelming exhaustion, even more so due to the extra energy I've expended already. My limbs are wooden planks that fight against my mental commands. Although my night vision goggles were broken when the monster threw at me against the wall, the flashing lightning from the storm raging outside, and the still-present mental urges of the relic guide my way. The creature screams behind me. This cannot be. The mother will not allow. impudent child I will feast on your soul With a roar it throws itself forward

In pursuit A chance to glance backwards And see it coming by the light of the storm And the glowing ruins As many legs churning terribly Its eyes are melted and blinded by the fire It's raged the only thing driving it forward It's moving far too quickly

Gaining ground far too fast The last burst of effort sends me through the entrance and out into the howling storm before I stumble and sprawl to the ground, the dead weight of Troy's body pinning me down. Desperately, I tried to roll out from under him, struggling to reach the detonator in my pocket. Feature is only 50 feet away down the tunnel when I managed to grasp the device, disarm the safety, and squeeze the trigger. Sergeant Troy made his preparations well. instantly upon activating the detonator a deep boom emits from inside the entrance

and the tunnel collapses upon itself the creature issues a final scream echoing over and above the fury of the storm as I watch it buried by tons and tons of unfeeling rock I have no way of knowing for sure if it's alive or dead at least for the time being it won't be able to follow us it's over with no time to bask in my victory

I instantly turn my attention to my platoon sergeant. I slip the relic into my pocket before gently rolling him over while supporting his neck. I try to find a pulse. I feel a great swell of relief when I find one, weak but steady. His breath is shallow and he requires immediate medical attention, but Troy is alive. My driver Robinson comes sprinting out from the truck. Oh my God, sir, what the fuck happened in there? Where is everybody? We're the only ones who made it. No time to explain, but we can't stay. here. We have to get Sergeant Troy back to the patrol base and get him on a bird to Sveka ASAP. Then we can worry about the others. Help me get him into the truck with Doc. Then we need to call

back and tell a third squad to get a Medevac inbound. Roger, sir, I think we might have a problem with that. I've been trying to call back for the last hour or so, but don't get any response. I think the storm might be interfering with the comms. Damn it. Okay. But we have to move. Now, me get him up. We managed to wrestle Sergeant Troy's limp body into the truck with my medic who immediately begins working on him. Jesus, he's really bad, sir. If we can get a bird, well, he's got a chance. Might be tricky convincing hire to authorize one in this storm. I don't give a shit about that. Keep working on him, Doc. Let's go. We're wasting time. Everybody mount up. White light the whole way back. Convoy speed is as fast as we can go without flipping a vehicle.

I'll keep trying to reach the patrol base on camps. Fortunately, my earlier fears of getting a truck stuck due to the rain were unfounded. Whether by luck or fortune the ground is solid enough that we make it back to the roadway without any issues and as soon speeding along the highway back towards the patrol base. I continue to try and raise third squad left on guard, but, just as Robinson said, the only thing I can get on the radio is static. If we get back and I find they were screwing off, I might just kill the lot of them myself.

We make the trip in less than half the time it took to get to the cave. Within 25 minutes we roll through the gate of the patrol base. I jumped down and run over to the truck with the medic to help lift Troy down on the stretcher. We'd begin to carry him inside. I think I got him stabilised, sir. We'll get a medevac in here within the hour. I think he's going to make it. But I'm not as sharp as I usually am.

Granted, I'm exhausted, a bit distracted by the event. events that have unfolded already this evening, and I'm currently preoccupied with trying to save the life of my platoon sergeant. Nevertheless, I'd like to think that I would have typically noticed how ominously dark and quiet the patrol base was, the telling lack of a guard at the entrance, or of anyone to greet us as we came in, but for some reason these things don't register. Needless to say, I'm completely surprised when the bomb goes off. Wake up, Mulassim, Michael. A voice urges me out of the blackness.

I have no idea how long I've been out. Surrounded by armed militants, I'm tied to a chair. Looking around, I see I'm inside my command post, the radios and computers stacked in a smoking pile of metal and wires. Across from me, Robinson and Sergeant Troy are tied to chairs in a similar fashion. My platoon sergeant's still unconscious. Next to them stands Tahir al-Kasim. Robinson is awake and has obviously been tortured.

Shallow cuts cover his body and he moans to me through a mouth of mush, his teeth unwillingly removed. Sah, killed others. Sad Guth, Gahar draws his pistol and casually shoots my driver in the head. My head is swimming. Tahrir, you fucking animal, what did you do? What the fuck did you do? The thug smiles.

Ah, Mullah Sim Michael, do I really need to explain this to you? He is forward stinking of sweat and blood. I hate you. You Americans think you know what is best for my country. You know nothing. I would do anything, anything at all, to rid myself of all your kind.

I would go so far as to go into the desert, searching for a beast, a legend, at the barest chance that it might help me drive you out of my home. He then steps away and walks over behind Troy. Marring the runes, holding it in its position, was easy enough. The necessary sacrifices to engage his services were distasteful, I suppose. But I have many more men and I would offer up a thousand children if it means the power to be done with the American occupation once and for all.

As he's talking, I started trying to work my hand free into my pocket. where I can feel the relic still sits. God, if only I can get it. You are supposed to die in that cave, Mullah Sim Michael. Yet here you are alive and whole. He strokes Troy's head, pulling it back by the hair and bearing his neck. Had the Ifred managed to end your pathetic existence, I would never have had to resort to these more direct methods.

With his other hand, he removes a large, a ukri knife from his belt. Alas, it was not to be. Fortunately, I have no problem getting my hands dirty from time to time. Al-Ahu Akbar, death to the infidel. My squirming hand grasped the relic

at the exact moment Tahir plunges the knife into Troy's throat. My vision goes red with rage. Death, the power fills me instantaneously, somehow even greater than before. A star-gone supernovaeuvre appearing in the space where my heart should be.

An explosion, as closely related to the earlier bomb blast as a hurricane to a raindrop, obliterates the chair I'm strapped to, the room and everyone in it. They have no time to cry out, no time to even realize what is happening. The purifying fire is indiscriminate and complete in its destruction. I clas to the ground, the ruins of my command post around me. The roof is mostly gone along with the ground. the walls. The still-falling rain washes over me and begins to put out the smouldering wreckage. Blessed blackness calls, and my mind, exhausted from a night of terror and sorrow, gladly answers.

I fall into unconsciousness, uncaring if I will ever wake up. Epilogue. The knock. I wake up the next morning refreshed, with only the mildest of hangovers from my bend of the previous evening. Since school is off for Thanksgiving, I even take the liberty of staying in bed until late in the morning. This is the first time I can remember since the incident in the cave that I've slept through the night without nightmares. It's still a terrible thing to think about, but maybe Gabe was right. By facing my fears, I may eventually be able to conquer them and come to grips with what happened. Maybe I'll even be able to attach some kind of meaning or purpose to them. And obviously, I came out of my comfort.

coma after the destruction of the command post. It was about two weeks later when I woke up screaming in a military hospital in Germany. It was another three days before I was calm enough for the doctors to remove the restraints. I talked to some kind but professional military police who were hoping to get a few details about the events from me. They filled me in on what they knew. Basically once my outpost had missed its second check-in, my commander spun up one of our sister platoons to patrol over and see what was going on. what they found was me lying naked and unconscious in the middle of the destroyed patrol base. By the look of things, a bomber gone off and destroyed everything for about a quarter mile in every

direction, including ten houses, a mosque, and the local police station. Miraculously, I was the lone survivor. My only injury, three deep gashes down my right shoulder blade. I told the MPs the whole story of what had happened in the cave, about the giant centipede monster, the relic, half my platoon being devout and the other half being slaughtered. during Tahir's betrayal. Not surprisingly, they didn't believe me. Equally surprising, neither did the next group of MPs that talked to me, the internal affairs investigator, my commander,

and at least three different psychologists they had analyzed me. Everyone's best guessed of what actually went down was that Tahir came onto the base, turned his coat, set off a massive suicide bomb, and everyone was vaporized. Neat, easy, and much further within the road. of the rational and reasonable. I tried pointing out the inconsistencies with the narrative, at the very least to get someone to go and try and find the cave to corroborate my story,

but ultimately it was just too crazy. No one would listen. In the end, the doctors and psychologists slapped me with a traumatic brain injury label, and nine months later I was out of the army with an honourable discharge and 20% disability. Oh, and a crippling self-doubt. Oh, how I question myself. Having a dozen professionals tell you again and again how what you're saying is impossible.

And there's no chance on earth that things happen the way you think they did. It starts to wear on your resolve after a while. For a time, I managed to convince myself that the whole thing was actually a lie cooked up by my mind from the shock. But I always came back to the dreams and the screaming and the scars. The one piece of evidence that would have truly helped convince everyone of my story was, of course, the relic itself. But that was never found. I managed to talk to my fellow platoon leader, Lieutenant McCartney, who found me lying in the rubble.

He told me truthfully that neither he nor any of his men had seen anything resembling the stone I described. He's a good man and had absolutely no reason to lie about something like that. So again, more questions were raised than answers. and it's possible they simply missed it in the wreckage, or that it was somehow destroyed in the blast. But in my gut I know that's not the case. Somehow someone took the thing out of my unconscious grasp for their own purposes, who and for what I can only imagine.

I make a fresh pot of coffee to help deal with the lingering hangover effects and sit down at my kitchen table. The sun is streaming in through the window, over the sink, and I take a deep breath, drinking in the aromatic smell of the brew and finding myself truly relax for what seems like the first in a very long time. And there's a knock on my door. I jump up so fast I knock my chair over backwards. I take two steps and dive across the hallway into the bedroom, grabbing my glock from the nightstand. Fertively I creep down through the living room and position myself next to my slab of a door, gun held at the ready.

The knock sounds again. this time accompanied by a voice. Mr. Landry, are you there? The voice speaking is female and sounds tired and more than a little anxious. I moved to look through the peephole and see a woman holding a sleeping child standing in front of the entryway. The kid looks to be about six years old. The woman, a brunette, has bags under her eyes as if she hasn't slept in days, but even those don't keep me from realizing how remarkably attractive she is.

I shout through the door. Who are you, lady? What do you want? My name's Sarah Wilder, and something terrible has happened to my husband. I have reason to believe it's coming from me and my daughter next. Please, Mr. Landry, I was told you could help me. Yeah, who told you that? A woman, some psychic.

It sounds crazy, but she contacted me out of the blue before everything started to happen. She said when I needed help That you'd be able to give it to me I don't know any psychics Mrs. Wilder And you're right, that does sound crazy Sorry that I'm not about to take you on faith here

She said that you say that She also said to show you this A piece of paper slides under the crack of the door A bend to pick it up It's a computer printout of a photo Of an object lying on a table It's grainy but there's no mistaking the round stone about the size of a half dollar, smooth but for the slightly raised bump in its exact centre.

The relic. I disengaged the locks and struggled to heave the door open. The woman squeezes through with her child and I close and lock the door again behind her. The kid hasn't stirred throughout all of this and must be completely exhausted. Thank you so much, Mr. Landry. I was afraid you wouldn't believe me. I sigh. Ma'am. I have a feeling of the fear it hasn't even started yet unless you put the kid down

and get you a chair and some coffee then you can tell me what's happened from the beginning and so once again we reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen

now I'd ask one small favor of you wherever you get your podcast wrong please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.