Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Government Conspiracy Horror Stories

Episode Date: May 28, 2025

Beneath the surface of classified documents and abandoned bunkers lies a terrifying truth—some conspiracies aren’t theories, they’re warnings we were never meant to hear. Author: Jake Bible * * * EXPLICIT CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and graphic depictions of violence intended for adults 18 years of age or older. These stories are NOT intended for children under the age of 18. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nice sleep. Story one of a dangerous mind. Housekeeping. The small voice calls from the other side of the door. I thought I'd put the do-not-disturb sign on the knob, but I can see it sitting on the crappy table by the motel room's front window. Weird. I could have sworn I put it on last night the second I got into the room.

Hello? Housekeeping. I hear the jingle of keys, because a motel like this definitely doesn't have electronic key cards. and I rushed to the door and press my hand flat against it. No thank you! I respond in a voice that is a lot higher than my normal voice. I'm fine.

Tows? No, thank you. So, sir, Shemp? No! I take a deep breath. Thank you. I'm good. Okay. Have a good day.

I place my ear to the door and hear the cart's wheels squeak, as the housekeeper moves on to the next room. It takes her a while, since I think there's only me and one other person staying here right. now. At least, there was only one other car in the parking lot when I got here at two in the morning. What time is it now? Burying to the bedside, I looked for my phone. Then I stop and stand up straight. I don't have a phone. I chucked it a few towns back. Hard to remember things like that.

My head is always fuzzy. I cough and shake my head. Seeing one of those complimentary binders with all the local information sitting on the crappy table by the window, I hurry over and grab it up, flipping through the pages on the hunt. I mutter as I find a page for Mel's Diner, 3654 Highway 99. This motel is on Highway 99. I flip more pages and find what I hope is a semi-accurate town map. Yep, the motel is on Highway 99, and the diner is about a quarter mile down the road, or it could be 25 miles depending on how bad the scale is on this crap-ass map. An image of a gun slams into my head as I look for my shoes.

Startled, I freeze and take a deep breath. It wasn't just a gun. It was a highly modified Sig-Sour P-226, MK-25. A memento from my... From my... The pain squeezes my skull and I wince. Why am I thinking of a gun? And what the hell is a Sig-Sour P-K-2-26?

I don't own a gun. I've never owned a gun. Guns are a national health crisis. Why the hell would I think about a gun? Finally, finding my shoes, I slipped them on, grab my wallet, and head out of the room. The housekeeping card is nowhere in sight. The only other guest must not have needed their room cleaned either. No towels, no soap, no shampoo. As I passed the front office, I glance inside and see the same clerk there who checked me in last night. Either he's on a very long shift or just started. I give him a nod and a wave. He replies with neither,

only stares at me as I head out of the parking lot and to the highway. Not even a quarter mile away, the diner is across the street. Jogging across quickly, not that there's any danger since there isn't a car in sight, I hurried to the diner's front door and yank it open. Grab a scene anywhere, huh? A woman shouts from the back. Be right with you. I find the corner seat and plop down with my back to the wall so I can watch the door.

Why? Seems a little paranoid. Morning, hon. The waitress says. She's tall, bottle blonde, and as the creases around her bright red lips of a lifetime smoker, her smile doesn't reach her eyes. Coffee, pancakes, three eggs scrambled with cheese, four slices of bacon, I say. And coffee. You already said coffee.

coffee, hun? She replies, writing everything down on a ratty order pad. It's the most important part, I say, and smile up at her. She only nods and says, It sure is. Be right back with the Joe. Turning, she's gone in a flash. That's when I see him. The other customer, sitting at the counter. I didn't notice him when I came in, and I've been watching the front door, so he couldn't have slipped in after me. Where'd he come from? He raises coffee mug when he sees me eyeing him. Then he gets up from his seat and walks toward me. The image of the gun fills my head again, and I actually pat my pockets, feeling for it. May I sit, Mr. Lowe? The man asks.

Excuse me? I reply, confused. Oh right, sorry. He says and clears his throat. May I sit, Mr. Norton. Do I know you? That's a complicated question. He doesn't wait for my permission and sits across for me. I'm just here for some breakfast, then heading on my way. I say and look around the diner, hoping the waitress will come back with my coffee, hoping something happens that can give me an excuse to get rid of this guy. You from around here, the stranger asks. Uh, no, I just said I'm going to be on my way after I eat.

Where are you coming from? Not here, I clear my throat. I'm sorry, but who are you? My apologies, he says, and offers him. his hand across the table. Having made it this far before, I'm Terry Giles, pleased to meet you, Mr. Norton. How do you know my name? I heard you say to the clerk last night. I'm staying there too. Ah, the other guest, right. Yep, the other guest, he laughs. The place isn't exactly hopping, is it? I didn't see you in the lobby last night when I checked in. You didn't? I was there,

sitting in the corner. You really didn't see me. I shake my head. He nods. Well, I'll have to make a better impression this time. This time? I'm sorry, Mr. Giles. Terry.

Terry. Yes, well, I'm sorry, Terry. But I had a restless night last night, and all I need right now is a hot cup of coffee. I'm really looking to make friends or have a chat with a strange traveler. Chats with strange travelers are the spice of life, Mr. Norton. He laughs and leans back in his seat, just as the waitress returns with my coffee.

She sets the cup down in front of me with one hand and offers the coffee pot to Mr. Giles with the other. Refill, hon? Don't mind if I do, he says, and smiles at me as she pours. Your food will be right out, hon. You want me to bring it here, or will you be sitting back at the counter? Mr. Giles looks up at her, then looks over his shoulder at the counter, back to her, over to me. lifts his mug, blows on his coffee, sets it down without sipping, and looks back up at her. I'll leave it here. Thank you.

The waitress nods and walks off like he didn't just act like some weirdo. You a serial killer? I ask him, and reach out to grab the sugar from the end of the table. Why do you ask that? I pour a little sugar into my coffee and stir, then set the dispenser back and snag two little creams from the basket. They're mixed in with butter and jellies of different flavors. The butter looks like it's just regular butter flavor. There's honey too, but I ignore all of it and just grab the sealed little cups of cream. You haven't answered my question.

I say to Mr. Giles as he watches me pour cream into my coffee and stir. Are you a serial killer or something? Not the last time I checked, he replies and laughs. I stop stirring and stare across at him. That's not exactly a reassuring response. I say as I take the spoon out of my coffee and set it aside on my napkin. I am not a serial killer, Mr. Giles says and rolls his eyes at me. I'm probably way worse.

Is that so? I nod a few times. Great, great. Somehow I get the one crazy asshole in the whole area when all I want to do is eat some breakfast in silence, then hit the road. Who says I'm the only crazy asshole in the area? He chuckles and sips his coffee. Takes one to no one. What does that mean?

Here you go, hon. The waitress says when she returns with Mr. Giles' breakfast. Denver omelette and two biscuits. Anything else for you, hon? No, thank you. Mr. Giles says as he t-giles says as he t-gowne into the collar of his t-shirt. This looks perfect.

He digs in, and I stare. Is it good? I ask. Looks good. Hey, I have an idea. How about you either? up, then get the fuck away from me. How's that sound? Hold on, he says around a mouth full of biscuit. He chews, choose, choose, and swallows, then says, I've got something for you. He sets his fork down

and wipes his mouth with his napkin, making sure it stays in place around his collar. He takes a sip of coffee and swishes it around his mouth. He says, then leans on his elbows and grins at me. When the waitress brings you your breakfast, you are going to show you. between the eyes. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly

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Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. I have no idea how to respond to that. I sit and just sort of blink at him a few times. I'm sorry. What did you just say? I said that when the waitress comes back with your breakfast, you are going to shoot her between the eyes.

His words echo in my head, and all I can do is pick up my coffee and take several sips before setting it down and looking about the diner. There's no way out, Mr. Giles says. You put yourself back here without checking for the rear exit. He nods toward the small hallway with a restroom sign above it. No exit that way. The only other way out than the front door is through the kitchen. That was a mistake on your part.

He chuckles and pats the table. But you did get yourself the corner seat and put your back to the kitchen. the wall so that conditioning held. What are you talking about? Are you fucking nuts? You can leave. Get the fuck up out of my booth and go, or I start shouting for someone to call the police. You're not going to do that. I'm going to sit right here while you take this pistol and shoot the waitress between the eyes. What fucking pistol? His hand comes up from under the table and he slides a gun over to me. A Sig Sauer, P-226 MK5. What the fuck?

exclaim as I recoil from the weapon. Now, don't be like that, Mr. Norton. You know this gun. It's your gun. You've held it a million times. Fired it ten million times. You've killed with this gun before. Many, many times.

So why so squeamish now? Not wanting to take a gun from a stranger isn't being squeamish, say and stand up. You're fucking nuts. His eyes watch me carefully. Then he sighs and shakes his head. Well, we tried, he says and starts to grab the gun. My hand shoots out, and I snatch the pistol up before he moves even a centimeter.

I have a round chambered faster than I can register what I'm doing. Then the barrel of the pistol is pressed into Mr. Giles' right temple. Who the fuck are you? Muscle memory is intact, he says, but not to me. It's like he's talking to open air. Arm is steady. Stance is correct. What are you fucking jabbering about?

Here's your food, hunt, the waitress says. Without a thought or hesitation, I pivot on my feet and aim the pistol at the waitress. Well, shit. She says as I fire. A red mark pops between her eyes and her head rocks back. Her whole body follows and she slams to the floor, landing on her back. Plates of what would have been my breakfast splattering and shattering all over her. Time stops.

The world stops. Everything stops. except for Mr. Giles. He stands up and takes the pistol from me. Good job, Lowe, he says to me, and a brief flash of a man in a Navy uniform shreds through my head. The man is me. My name is Lowe, Austin Lowe. But I'm also Alex Norton, except that I'm not.

What is happening? Do you know who you are? Mr. Giles asks. Sergeant Austin Lowe, I say. Bravo team, sir. I'm not a sir, Mr. Giles says. And yes, you are, Lowe. Anyone else? Alex Norton?

I say, very confused. Exactly. The trick is maintaining that conditioning. The trick? Don't worry about it. Now, Lowe, some men will be coming through that front door in about 40 seconds. Do you think you can handle them? Yes, sir.

Still not a sir. Mr. Giles pats me on the shoulder. Handle this, and you'll move on in the program low. You just got to take care of business. Take care of business. I echo and nod. Yes, sir. Son of a bitch, not a sir.

Mr. Giles says, then sits back down in the booth and sips his coffee. 20 seconds. Can I have my weapon, sir? I ask and hold out my hand. No. He says, and sips his coffee again. Sir, I would prefer if you gave me my weapon. I say my hand is still out.

And I'd prefer if you didn't call me sir, he says. I wait, but he doesn't give me my pistol. The bell hanging over the front door jingles. I look that way at the four very large men who walk into the diner. They have guns and badges. Alex Norton, you are under arrest. On your knees with your hands behind your back. They call me the other name and not my real name.

This is all so messed up. On the fucking ground now! One of the men shouts. They aren't local Leo's. They're dressed like feds, black jeans, black t-shirts, black tactical vests, black windbreakers. Before they can shout at me again, I leap into the booth next to me and up onto the table, kicking all the packets of jellies and butter and cream into the air right at them. They, of course, react instantly and open fire as they turn to me.

I'm already leaping to the next booth's table, and the next booth's table, and the next booth's table, until I'm even with the men. They are all shooting at where I was, not where I am, which gives the tip of my left boot a brief moment to connect with the left temple of the closest man. His eyes roll up into his head and he collapses. I fall to my knees on the table and snag his pistol from his hands. Then before the rest even realize that they are down a man,

I take aim and fire three shots. Each shot hits its mark, right between the side seams of the men's tactical vests. The men cry out and fall. I'm off the table and firing into the foreheads before their bodies can even settle on the floor. Clapping behind me gets my attention. That went about as well as we could have hoped, Mr. Giles says. His hands slow clapping as he walks toward me. Even confused by your identity, you still maintained your training and eliminated the threat.

I turn and aim the pistol at him. He keeps walking. This part is the part that we still have to work on, he says. You always go for me afterward. I pulled the trigger or try to. My finger won't move. I strain and strain, desperate to get my right index finger to just squeeze a little. But I'm glad that the safety part of the conditioning is still working.

He says as he reaches me and takes the pistol from my hands. Well done, Lowe. Well done indeed. He ducks the pistol into the back of his waistband and then shouts. Exercise over. Reset. The men on the floor groaned and slowly pick themselves up. So does the waitress. People stream from out of the back of the diner. Some start cleaning up.

Others compare tablets and start talking in tech speak, I don't understand. What the fuck? I say to no one in particular. You are almost ready for the field, Lowe, Mr. Giles says, and claps me on the shoulder. A couple more run-throughs as your alter ego and the psychological conditioning should be solid. He takes a deep breath. God bless this country and God bless this CIA.

Then I feel a sharp prick in my neck and the world starts to spin. I wake up with a jolt. The small voice calls from the other side of the motel door. I sit upright in the musty, dusty bed and look about the room. I thought I'd put the do not disturb sign on the knob, but I can see it sitting on the crappy table by the motel room's front window. Weird. I could have sworn I put it on.

last night the second I got into the room. Hello? Housekeeping. No thank you. I shout and ease my feet over the side of the bed. Time to get the day going and go find some coffee. Story 2. All the President's Lizard men. I've known Bonnet for years. We were recruited to the Secret Service during the same administration. President Prentice was the man in the Oval Office then. Not that we ever saw him. No. When you you join the Secret Service, they don't put you on the most important detail right out of the gate. You have to earn your place next to POTUS. You have to prove yourself. That's what we did. We proved ourselves. Investigations into smuggling. Investigations into counterfeiting. Investigations into threats made against politicians, including POTUS, plus any number of civil

servants that someone, somewhere, doesn't like. And there are a lot of someone out there who don't like civil servants. We did our time together. We came up the ranks together, which made shooting bonnet three times more painful. Watching the realization come into his eyes when he knew I wasn't going to put the gun down, when he knew I was at the end of my rope, when he knew I was going to squeeze the trigger. It was heartbreaking. But I shot him anyway. I had to. When you realize your longtime friend and colleague is a lizard man, you put two in his chest and one between. It's not in the manual or anything. They don't teach that to you at the Academy.

You don't get a Friday email memo mentioning the policy. It's just what you do when you see strips of flesh, hanging off a man's face and underneath isn't muscle and sinew, but hard reptilian scales. Two in the chest, one between the eyes. His blood is green, not red, which doesn't make much sense. Lizards, real lizards that scurry around the place, the place, they have red blood, iron-rich blood, just like humans. Shit, just like all animals.

For their blood to be green, they'd need to have copper-rich blood instead. And nothing on earth has copper-rich blood, except for some crabs in shit. Bonnet wasn't a crab, that's for fucking sure. I stare down at the still body and watch the green blood pool out around his corpse. Then I hear footfalls coming toward me, and fast. I'd usually have a hundred voices barking in my ear, but my comm's piece was ripped out by bonnet when I found him down here doing whatever it is he was doing. I looked past the body at what I can only call eggs? Yeah, eggs. They have to be.

They filled the storeroom floor from wall to wall, and they sure as fuck aren't chicken eggs. No, these are leathery and dark green with brown and tan splotches. The shells move slightly as whatever is inside each one. Juan shifts position. No, these are not chicken eggs, or any kind of bird eggs. These are reptile eggs. Shouting from outside the storeroom, down by the stairwell, pulls my attention away from the disgusting nest.

I hear Lohan's voice shouting orders, and I don't know what to do. Can I trust her? She's the senior agent on Podus's detail, so technically she's my boss, even if she is almost 10 years younger than I am. Then I hear Reynolds barks something at her, and she barks back, literally. The two are barking in some language that I don't understand. Gutteral, throaty, wet.

Nope, can't trust Lohan, and can't trust Reynolds either, apparently. I checked the magazine in my Glock 19. Three in bonnet and two misses from earlier mean I should have one in the chamber and ten in the magazine. Looks about right. I slapped the magazine home. and slowly pull the slide back to double-check the chamber. A round is in there and ready to roll. The barking gets louder and I look around the room.

It's a basic storage space, just one of several dozen beneath the West Wing. So, other than the lizard eggs, all I see are shelves of paper products, toilet paper, napkins, paper towels of various shapes and sizes. All very flammable. Even though I told my wife that I quit smoking last year, which I did, but it didn't last long.

I pull out my pack of Marlboroughs and the disposable lighter tucked between the cellophane and the pack. I flick the bick and turn one of the shelves into an inferno in seconds. Then I drag Bonnet's body over to the left so that it's the first thing anyone sees if they come in this room. The guttural bark gets louder.

Then their pitch turns from aggression to alarm. McLaugholdo! Lohan shouts from outside the room. That must be Bonnet's name in whatever fucked up language she's speaking. Or it could mean fire. Either one is fine with me, because the result is that Lohan bursts into the storage room and goes straight to Bonnet as he lies between the eggs.

I ease out from behind the door and take aim. She must sense me, because her entire body stiffens just as I squeeze the trigger. I managed to tag her in the right shoulder, but it's not the headshot I was going for. The door slams all the way open, and I jump back as Reynolds comes right for me. His arms outstretched, the tips of his fingers nothing but razor-sharp talons. I stumble backwards, lose my footing, and begin to fall when he reaches me and grabs my suit coat by the collar,

ganking me close to him. He shouts in my face. Then he loses that face as I jam my Glock up under his chin and squeeze off two rounds. His head turns to pulp, and I shove him aside, turning my gun on low. But she's gone. The smoke is getting thick, and I can feel it filling my lungs. Heading for the door, I drop to my knees and crawl to the threshold. I duck my head out once, twice, then scurry into the corridor.

No low hand. Behind me, the eggs begin to burst from the heat, and I hear screeching. Fuck those baby lizards. I scrambled to my feet and run down the corridor, heading northeast, toward an exit I know will get me out for the What I know will get me out from under the White House in seconds. But as I turn the corner, I see that Lohan is a step ahead of me. Stop right there, Baldwin! Lohan shouts at me, her Glock up and ready.

It ends here! What does? I shouted her, my Glock in my right hand, and hanging down by my thigh. If I twitch, she'll put three in me just like I did to bonnet. What the hell is happening, Lohan? Who are you people? What are you? We have always been, she says.

When we crawled out from the center of the earth, we saw that humanity had spread like a virus while our kind, the original people of this planet had been sleeping. So you're going to kill us all? Is that the plan? That? You're speaking past tense, Baldwin. The plan has already happened. We have taken over the governments of every major nation.

We have been ruling for decades. And everything we have put in motion has come to fruition. Humans are butchering each other by the tens of thousands. The environment is being destroyed. The planet's temperature is rising and rising, getting closer to our ideal surface temperature. That is the plan, Baldwin. And it's working. Fuck you!

Someone shouts from behind me, and my left ear goes deaf from the gunshot right next to my head. Lohan looks at me and frowns. Then her eyes drift past me, and her lips turn up in a snarl as green blood slowly drips down from her hair line. Right before she collapses to the ground, her two tongue darts out and licks some of the blood away. It's not a human tongue. You good, Baldwin? A man shouts at me. I turn and stare, then realize I'm looking at Tachir, a recent recruit whom I just met a few months ago. I bring my gun up and press it to the space

right between his eyes. Whoa, whoa, whoa! He yells. I just saved your ass. Cut your arm. I yell. Show me the red. He starts to argue, then he glanced. at Lohan and nods. Slowly, he pulls a knife from his belt and flips it open. Then just as slowly, he shoves his suit coat up to show me the white of his shirt sleeve. His eyes meet mine, and I nod. He unbuttons the shirt sleeve, shoves that up, then slices into his forearm.

I've never been so happy to see bright red blood. Thank God, I say and lower the clock. I thought you might be one of them. Seriously? I just shot Lohan. Tukhir says and rolls his shirt sleeve back down, pressing it against the small wound. Fair enough, I say. Thanks. We both stare down at Lohan's corpse. We are talking about lizard people, right?

I nod. Fuck. He says and lets out a long breath. We need to get out of here. I point at the door on the other side of Lohan's corpse. This will take us out into the bushes by the east parking lot. There's some shouting from far off down the corridor. We need to hurry.

He nods, and we skirt Lowhan's corpse. Then I plug in my keycode. The door pops open, revealing a high spiral staircase. How many floors? 23, I say and get to climbing. By the time we reach the top of the stairs, the shouts from below are echoing up at us. Move ass!

I hissed to Kear, and shove him out the door and into a bramble of cedars, holly bushes, and azaleas. We work our way through the foliage, then find ourselves standing on sun-baked asphalt. Row after row of black SUVs are in front of us, offering us a multitude of choices for escape. Except we can't use any of them.

They can be tracked easily and also disabled remotely. We'd just be putting ourselves inside our own jail cells. This way, I say, and skirt the parking lot until we reach a chain-link fence running perpendicular to the lot. We follow the fence until we reach a gate and two Marines. Agent Baldwin? One of the guards, Eggers, asks, confused. Then he looks at Tikir, and his confusion turns to worry.

Something going on? I'm about to respond when the other Marine turns as M-4 on Eggers, and fires point-blank into the side of his face. Blood and teeth shower me and Tikir. I must be getting all. because my reaction time is severely lacking. The other Marine is swinging his M4 at me before I can even think of raising my Glock.

Three shots ring out, and the Marine looks down at his chest. He grins at the ineffective bullets embedded in his Kevlar vest. Then he frowns and coughs. Green blood sprays from his lips right before it begins to pour from his neck. Takir pushes past me and puts a round between the Marine's eyes. Where's your car? Is it this way? He asks me as I shake off the insiniscences. of everything happening.

Yeah, I say and take the lead again. We have to wind our way through two more parking lots before we get to the one I always park my car in. It's surrounded by agents. Now what? Takir whispers. Where's your car? The next lot?

But they're probably on it too. Not if they don't know you're involved. They know about me because of Lohan, but you killed her before she could report. Is it worth a shot? Worth a shot. We stay crouched and hustle around the edge of the parking lot, moving from one end of a vehicle to the other in order to maintain cover. When we get to the next parking lot, Tekir sighs with relief.

We're good, he says, and crouch runs between the cars to a fairly new-looking Subaru. He doesn't use the keyless remote, which is a good idea since it'd make the car beep. He slides the key in the door lock and twists it. All of the car doors unlock, and we slip in some. the car, staying low so we aren't spotted. Ready? He starts the car and throws the transmission into first. Then he guns it and whips us through the rows of employee cars until we reach the gate.

A single Marine is standing by the gate. He glances at us, then he stands up straight and approaches quickly. Tekir looks at me and I mouth the words, Play it cool, roll down the window. Tekir rolls down the window. Marine asks as he walks up to the driver's side. driver's side. Heading to Treasury, I say as I lean across Takir so I can look the Marine in the eyes.

Takir has the barrel of his Glock pointed at his door, ready to pull the trigger if things go sideways. Treasury? He asks, then nods. Oh, right. I can never keep it straight what you guys do. We keep America safe, just like you. I say and smile.

Roger that, he says. Then taps the top of the car. You two have a good day. Stay safe. Same to you. We watch as he walks back to the gate and lifts the crossbar blocking the way out. The crossbar is really just for show.

If an unauthorized vehicle tries to enter or leave, they'd be blown to a million pieces by all sorts of hidden armaments. I give the Marine a quick wave as we drive through. Then we're out and in the thick of D.C. traffic. We are miles away and driving over the Potomac River by the time either of us speaks. Now what? Tekeer asks.

You're married, right? I reply. Yeah. Call your wife and tell her to pack only the essentials. I'll call mine too. We've got to get out of the city. He doesn't argue. Just nods and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

I realize my idiocy and snatch the phone from his hand. Open my window and toss it out. I do the same with my phone. There's a liquor store up ahead. I say and point at a street to the right. Turn here. To Tecir's. credit, he doesn't get mad about the loss of his phone or argue about stopping at a liquor store.

We pull into the lot and I point at the payphone. I'm going to use that to call my wife, I say and hop out. I go inside and break a dollar so I can get quarters for the antiquated machine. My wife answers on the first ring. Hello? I can't explain, but I need you to grab the go bags from the back closet and meet me in front of the house in 10 minutes. Sounds bad. How bad is it? worse than anything you can imagine. We hang up and I motion for Takir. He hops out and calls his wife while I get back in the car. I scan the area, looking to see if we've been noticed,

but the street is pretty much dead. When Takir gets back in his car, he says, My wife will meet us at your house. We only live a few blocks from each other. We do? Remember? We talked about it at the holiday party. Shit, you're right.

Sorry. It's been a day. I forgive you. I laugh the nod at the road. Let's go get our wives and get the fuck out of here. We race through the back streets of northern Virginia until we come to an older suburban neighborhood framed by low hills and tall pines.

My eyes scan the area, looking for signs that we've either been followed or that we've been anticipated. Right there, I say, and point at the sky blue house with white trim. Pull into the driveway. He does, and I'm jumping out before the car. car is fully stopped. My wife, Jenna, opens the door and steps out onto the front porch.

Where are the backs? I say as I reach the steps. Jenna? We gotta go now. Misha? Tekir says behind me. I look over my shoulder as Tekir's wife walks up the driveway toward him, with a pistol in her hand. I'm sorry, my love, Jenna says, and I slowly turned back to her. There's a reason we never had kids. I look at her, study her face, the way she holds her mouth, the sad look in her eyes. Then I glanced down at the pistol in her hand. I don't understand. I say, what is this shit? Survival of the fittest.

She says and lifts the pistol. My father warned me not to marry a human. He said it only caused me pain, but here we are. I hear three quiet shots behind me. I don't turn around. I know what's happened to DeKir. My entire body deflates as my eyes shift up from the gun to her face. Why? I ask.

Like I said, survival. She gives me that smile that attracted me to her in the first place. Survival for us, though. Not for you humans. The sound of the pistol firing is almost a relief as it overtakes the sound of my heart-breaking. Story 3. A jab of unreality. The syringe's large gauge needle, shone like lightning under the brief, fluorescent lights of the clinic's lobby. Marshall watched it approach.

His eyes glued to the tiny green drop of liquid, bubbling up from the tip as the nurse hurried his way. I don't want this, Marshall says, scooting as far back in his chair as possible. You don't have a choice, the nurse says when she reaches him. Either you get vaccinated or you stay here for the next six months for monitoring. This is against my constitutional rights.

Tell that to them. The nurse snarls. Their eyes going to the piles of sheet-covered corpses stacked against the clinic's walls like firewood. They look busy, Marshall says, his eyes avoiding the gory scene. You're going to be a problem? The nurse asks. Marshall stares at the needle, then looks to the nurse's face. Her features are haggard and drawn. If he asked to guess, he thinks she's in her late 40s, maybe early 50s.

But the reality is she's probably in her early 30s. Life's been hard lately. Do I have a choice? Marshall asks. Of course you do. You can be a problem. I call security, and we do this the hard way. Or, you can be a decent human being who cares about others and just take the fucking shot like a fucking man. A few heads turn as the nurse's voice rises, and her cursing cuts through some of the cacophony that is the clinic's lobby. My friend says the vaccine has. I do not give two flying fucks what your friend says, unless your friend is an epidemiologist who has been working

the front lines for the past few weeks. Marshall shifts in his seat. Is he an epidemiologist who has been on the front lines for the past few weeks? No, Marshall admits. And what does he do for a living? Works at best by? Right. So unless he's talking about how to mount a flat screen TV to a wall, he can shut his

fucking pie hole. The nurse waves the syringe at Marshall. Easy way or hard way? Hey, I want to help, but why are you even used? if you don't want the goddamn vaccine. I have an ingrown tone now. Marshal points down at his foot. The nurse looks down, then back up at him, frowning.

His shoe and sock are still on. I was going to tell someone. Then I got hurried over here, and now you want to stick me with a vaccine that obviously will get the guv. Hard way it is, the nurse says, then looks up and nods. A pair of very large hands grabs Marshall from behind,

immobilizing him no matter hard he struggles. Let me go. Marshall shouts. He tries to catch someone's eye, anyone's eye, but no one even glances in his direction. You bastards! The nurse sticks him in the upper arm with the needle, depresses the plunger, then slides the needle out. All done, you big baby, she says, and tosses the syringe into a hazardous waste bin before walking off as if Marshall didn't exist anymore. Sorry, a deep voice says, and Marshall cranes his neck around to see the source of the voice.

The man behind him is enormous. He's well over six and a half feet tall and has to be close to 300 pounds. That wasn't cool, Marshall says as he stands up. Then he winces and sits back down. No one looked at my toe. Ain't got time for toes. The big man responds.

People are dying at the plague, man. That's what they say, Marshall shrugs and waits for the big man to argue with him. He doesn't. Instead, he reads. Beaches into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. Be at this address at 8 on the dot, the big man whispers, handing Marshall the slip of paper. It doesn't have to be like this.

Then the big man is gone as someone shouts for security, leaving Marshall alone with a slip of paper that has an address on it. My foot still hurts! Marshall says to the first person who passes by in scrubs, then to the next person, and to the next person. Everyone ignores Marshall until a nurse comes by and shouts, We need this seat! Get the fuck out! Jumping up and avoiding the stairs he gets,

Marshall limps his way out of the clinic's lobby. Outside is bedloom, pure chaos. The parking lot is crammed with cars that have been parked haphazardly and left behind. The street is filled with cars trying to get to the clinic. And this is only an urgent care in a strip mall. Marshall knows that the actual hospitals are a million times worse. The floating death. It's called that, due to the fact that the virus can hang in the air for over 48 hours before it slowly starts to die.

From the news reports, Marshall has heard that over 6 million people have already died from the virus, and that's just in the United States. The rest of the world is doing considerably worse. Marshall heads for the bike rack to fetch his road bike. It's gone. He shakes his head, thinking it's a mistake. But maybe he locked his bike up at a different rack. He turns, but doesn't see a different rack.

This was the one he'd used. Then he sees his lock on the ground, cut cleanly in half. Assholes, he mutters and starts walking, skirting the parking lot chaos as much as possible. But the chaos spills out of the parking lot, and Marshall is soon limp running to get away from the mad scene. People screaming, cars crashing into each other, police grabbing drivers out of their seats and throwing them to the ground. Doctors and nurses who are desperate to help everyone, but are only able to attend to a handful of those who have made it from the lot to the clinic's front doors.

Marshall lowers his head and tucks his chin to his chest. He wants the world to go away, or to go back to how it was. A car honks its horn at him, and he looks up. Move, dickhead! The driver screams. Marshall looks around. He's standing on a strip of grass that divides the sidewalk from the parking lot's far side. What?

Marshall asks, very confused. The driver whips the wheel around and guns it, aiming straight for Marshall. He scrambles out of the way at the last second as the car jumps the sidewalk, rips over the strip of grass, and crashes into the parking lot, shearing off the bumper of an old Honda Civic. Police swarm the car as Marshall picks himself. up and limps as fast as possible away from the nightmare. He's a block away when gunfire erupts back at the strip mall.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Marshall tucks his chin again and stares at the sidewalk as he limps his way home. Then he feels it. The slip of paper the security guard had given him. Taking it out, Marshall reads the address scrawled on the paper over and over. He knows the place. It's the roller rink just outside of town that closed down a couple of years before all this shit hit the fan. With no car and no bike anymore, Marshall is not so hot on walking the couple of miles out to that old highway.

He's less hot on showing up at a closed-down roller rink while a massive pandemic has the whole town acting like crazy people. He stuffs the slip of paper in his pocket and keeps walking. By the time he reaches his small apartment, Marshall's toe is throbbing. so hard that he's forgotten all about the shot in his arm. That is, until he trips coming in the front door, and his upper arm smashes against the door jam. Oh, fuck! He cries, grabbing at his arm. Oh, Jesus! White Hot Pain shoots through his body, and he has to take several deep breaths to keep them passing out. When he finally feels steady, he steps all the way inside, slams the door, and locks it behind him. A few limping steps later, and he's in the

in the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He also snags an ice pack from the freezer, then hobbles into the main room, plops down on the couch, and studies his shoe. He is not happy about trying to take it off. Marshall knows his toe is swollen to all hell, but putting the ice pack on the outside of his shoe won't do too much.

Downing the beer in three gulps, Marshall tosses the can aside, undoes the laces on his shoe, and then yanks as hard and as fast as he can. fast as he can. The pain is so much that the world spins, and Marshall is pretty sure he is losing consciousness every half second. The ice pack slips from his fingers. Then a voice says, Connection is back. Subject must have impacted the injection site. At first, because why not, Marshall thinks the voice is coming from his swollen toe. The pain is that bad that a talking

toe is not outside the realm of possibility. He glares at the toe. It's twas. It's twas. twice the size it should be, and the skin is tight and bright red. The thought of touching it makes him shiver. The thought that the toe is speaking to him makes him want to puke. Virus is being tagged and subject is ready for tracking, the voice says. Marshal realizes that the voice is coming from his TV, not from his toe. He sighs with relief and eases back into the couch cushions. Then he sits upright and stares at the TV.

from the TV isn't a whole lot better than voices from his toe. Uh, hello? He calls out. Then there is a long pause. Then? Subject appears to be trying to interact with his television. What the fuck? Marshall exclaims.

He would have stood up and gotten the hell out of the living room, but that is not in the cards. Not with his toe the way it is. So he pushes his back further into the couch cushions, his eyes never leaving the television. Subject is possibly aware of monitoring. Please advise. Who the fuck is talking? Marshall shouts at the TV. Who is the subject?

Me? Am I the subject? Subject is definitely aware of monitoring. Going dark until a full reset is possible. What does that mean? Hello? Marshall shouts at the TV. There is no response.

He sits and waits for five minutes, 10 minutes, an hour. When his bladder says it can't wait any long, Marshal struggles to his feet and limps to the bathroom, giving the TV a wide berth. It isn't even dark outside yet, but by the time Marshall is done pissing, he just doesn't have the strength to go back to the living room. So he downs a handful of ibuprofen and crawls in bed, hoping the pain will be better in the morning. Prep to location. Marshall stirs.

He's coming too. Move ass! I am! Marshall's eyes flick open and he looks about the dark bedroom. Hello? A black shape moves quickly toward him, and before Marshall can do anything, he sprayed in the face with a bitter liquid, then it all goes black. The next morning, Marshall wakes up late. Why late?

He should have gone to work three hours ago, but his alarm didn't go off. He scrambles to call his boss. Hey, it's Marshall. He says as the soon is answered on the other end. My alarm didn't go. Forget about it, kid. his boss at the convenience store says. An highways clogged with morons who think they can get away from this fucking

place that ain't got air call you when I need you. His boss hangs up without waiting for a response. Marshall sets his phone aside and gets up to piss and brush his teeth. When all that is done, he limps into the living room and screams. Sorry. The big man from the clinic says, holding his hands up as he sits on Marshall's couch. When you didn't show up last night, I think. I thought I should check on you.

So you broke into my house? Not really a house, the big man says. It's an apartment. It can be a fucking wood shed, and you still can't just break in here? The door was unlocked. Marshall knows he locked the door. The memories of being awakened in the middle of the night come back to him and he takes a step back.

The big man sighs. They've already been here, haven't they? He asks. Who? The men in black. I don't know. Have you heard voices? Marshall nods.

In your mind? Not in my mind, just out loud. The big man sighs with relief. Okay, that's good. Once they're in your head, then it's all over. What's all over? Autonomy. Once the voices are in your head, then they own you.

That's when the monitoring becomes mind control. What are you talking about? The vaccine, dummy. Pay attention. Sorry, sorry, Marshal says, holding up his hands. This is all a little much. If you come to the meeting last night,

then all of this could have been avoided. The big man stands up, Marshall gulps. All of, uh, what could be avoided? Marshall asks, wondering if he can make it to the front door before the big man can get to him. It's a tough decision. The front door is only a few feet away,

but Marshall's toe is already starting to complain even worse than it did yesterday. What if he tries to make a break for it but falls? Then the big man pulls a knife out of his back pocket and flips it open. The decision is made, and Marshall sprints to the front door. He makes it there before the big man can catch him. But when he yanks the door open, it hits his toe, and Marshall's vision swims as he screams at the top of his lungs.

This is for your own good, the big man says, pulling Marshall down the hallway after slamming the front door closed. It'll be easier if you hold still. if you hold still. Marshall does not hold still and thrashes as much as he can in his weakened state. You like doing things the hard way, don't you? The big man says, just as he punches Marshall between the eyes. All thrashing ceases and Marshall hangs limp as the big man drags him over to the couch.

He tosses Marshall down, then gets on him, straddling his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. What are you doing? Marshall asks, slurring his words. Getting the government out of our business. Marshall sees the knife, then loses sight of the knife. The bright, excruciating pain in his upper arm tells him where the knife went. Marshall screams. All done, all done, the big man says.

He has something pinched between his thumb and forefinger and shows it to Marshall. Aren't you glad this is out of you? Marshall blinks at whatever it is. It's about the size of a grain of. of rice, but most definitely not a grain of rice, since a grain of rice is not made of some sort of metal. The big man gets up off Marshall and walks to the bathroom. As Marshall pushes himself up onto his elbows, he hears the toilet flush. That'll confuse them for a few minutes, but they'll figure it out quickly. Back some things, we need to go. The big man says,

Go? Where? And who is confused? Marshal asks. I mean, other than me. The government, dummy, the big man says. I just took the monitoring device they implanted with the vaccine. They could track your every movement and log every thought. Uh-oh? Yeah, uh-oh.

You think this virus is an accident? No fucking way, man. It was released on purpose so that the government could subjugate us all. The vaccine? What? That thing was in the vaccine? Yeah, it was in there. The government saw its opportunity to finally smoke us out, man, by putting trackers in the vaccine and requiring everyone to be vaccinated. They were finally able to get to us. Us? Who is us? The big man cocks his head. Us man, us. Yeah, you keep saying us, but I don't know who us is. The big man frowns. Touluthians, from KORLog 5, who are people, man.

Touluthians? From KORLogh V? Yeah, man. Marshall Gulls. Are you talking about, um, aliens? The big man recoils. Man, don't say the A word. That's derogatory.

You're not one of those self-loathing Touluthians, are you? Because I don't get why some of us hate who we are. Yeah, we come from outer space. Yeah, our goal is to take over the planet and force the human race to be our slaves. But so what? Us or them, right, man? You think I'm an alien? We both are.

I saw your blood work at the clinic. It's obvious you're one of us. Why are you acting like this? The big man narrows his eyes. What's your name again? Marshall. Marshall Pollock. Yeah, yeah, Marshall Pollock.

The big man says as he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. Got your message. identical records right here. Yeah, you were... Oh. Oh? Oh, what? Um, yeah. So I saw Marsha Pollan's records, not yours, the big man says, turning the screen toward Marshall. She's the Touluthian, not you, my mistake. Um, it happens, Marshall says, glancing in the direction of the front door. So you can go now, right? Wish I could, man. He reaches into his pocket. and comes out with something that looks like a remote control. Marshall has a feeling it is most definitely not a remote control.

The good news is this won't hurt, the big man says, pointing the remote at Marshall. The bad news is it's going to kill you dead. Sorry. What? No! Marshall yells and leaps up from the couch. Then he stubs his toe on the coffee table. Marshall's entire existence is screaming,

his toe being on fire, and falling back toward the couch as a red light even, as a red light emits from the remote control. A beam of light hits him squarely between the eyes. His last thought is, the government is controlling people through a vaccine in order to weed out aliens, and I can't even get someone to look at my in-brown toenail.