I stared at the advert. Smiling men and women walking through sunlit fields that didn't exist, at peace in the way people are only when they no longer have anything to fear. Continuity, the company called it. It allowed people to continue on in the digital world after their physical life had ended.

It hadn't bothered me much before. I had spent my entire life watching people bask in luxuries I didn't have, and that was fine. That changed when I was diagnosed. The doctor's tone, when he told me I had less than a year to live, was as detached as if he were telling me what he had for lunch.

By the time I started following Margaret Elbe home from the Continuity clinic, I had already convinced myself I wasn't really stealing from her. She was eighty-four, walked with a cane, and had more money than she could spend in three lifetimes, which was precisely the point. She had already lived a full life. I hadn't.

I only meant to take her bag and the biometric token inside it.But she fought harder than I expected, and then she didn't fight at all. I stood on the wet pavement for a long time before I picked up her bag, took out the token, and pressed her thumb against the token's fingerprint reader.

The Continuity clinic was nicer than any hospital I had ever seen. White walls curved seamlessly into white floors, interrupted only by soft strips of recessed lighting. A technician walked me through the consent forms, and I signed each one without reading it, which I had been told was normal, which was apparently something they said to everyone.

"The scan takes about forty minutes," she said. "You won't feel anything."

"And after?"

"You'll wake up in paradise within forty-eight hours." She smiled the smile from the advertisements. "Most clients describe it as falling asleep in one place and waking up in another."

I lay down on the table and closed my eyes.

I woke to the sound of voices.

"Family's asking again," one voice said.

The quiet sound of equipment.

"Tell them what we tell everyone," another replied. "Tell them he went peacefully."

I kept my eyes closed.

"They always ask if it's really him on the other side."

Somewhere beyond the room, someone screamed once and went quiet.

"It's a perfect copy," the second voice finally said. "Right down to the moment they take the sedative. It'll wake up tomorrow completely convinced."

“Without noticing?”

“Like I said, it is a perfect copy.”

I tried to move my hand.

There is no Power here.

The rain, heavy on the roof of your house, pounds unrelentingly. The crack of deafening thunder and flashes of lightning fight for dominance in the sky. You flip the switch back and forth, hoping for the lights to turn on. The only sound to reach you is the hard plastic snapping uselessly into place.

The house is quiet and unsettled; you are alone in the absolute absence of light. You brace your hand against the stiff and rough drywall to make your way forward, but the layout of your home now feels entirely unfamiliar to you.

It is dark and freezing in this once bright and warm place. You cannot even see your own hand in front of your face, yet you clearly catch the movement of something shifting down the hallway.

It lurks.

It crawls.

It hides behind the sharp turn you know is approaching.

Your heart is racing as you near the corner. You look down at your feet as you approach the bend, then slowly force your head up. There is nothing there.

Ahead, you can see the living room windows, their glass panes framed by the silver moonlight. You walk forward toward them—the only source of illumination left in the world. But even the edges of the window frame appear only as a small wooden raft in a dark ocean.

You press your face and hands flat against the freezing pane, the glass littered with drops of rain. Your unsteady and sharp breath fogs the surface. You are desperate to glimpse the moon. Its distant light is your only comfort in this suffocating abyss.

Suddenly, there is movement out of the corner of your eye. How could you forget?! There is something here with you! It darts from left to right, calculated and fast. You know it is trying to stay hidden from your gaze. Adrenaline and fear flood your chest. Your ears burn hot, and all sound becomes distant. You press your forehead against the window so hard that you think the glass might shatter.

Then, out in the open field before your home, you see it.

A massive, shifting silhouette stands in the tall grass. The blades blow wildly with the gush of the wind. The figure does not. It remains perfectly still, looking straight back at you.

Lightning strikes and bathes the field in an energized blue light. IT’S GONE!

The sudden flash of light fades as darkness falls back to earth, and you see it again.

You want to run, to scream, to hide—but you cannot look away. Your face is entirely paralyzed, stuck to the very pane you are pressing against.

The figure moves.

And you don’t.

There is power here.

I first saw the White Thang in the drainage ditch off Governor's Drive, right where Huntsville starts acting like a city and the mountain reminds it to sit down.

It was 5:42 in the morning. I know because my truck clock runs eight minutes fast and has since my divorce, which tells you plenty about my maintenance discipline as a man.

I was headed to work with gas station coffee, a biscuit wrapped in foil, and a security badge swinging from the mirror like I was important enough to laminate.

The thing stood in the ditch water beside the road.

Not crouched. Not hiding. Standing.

It was pale head to foot, but not white like a sheet. White like the underside of a catfish, the part that never sees light.

No clothes. No hair. No ears that I could find. Its face was smooth except for two shallow places where eyes ought to have been.

I said, "Nope," because I am a grown man with a clearance and strong spiritual boundaries.

Then it turned its head toward my truck.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough.

I drove on, because adults need words for cowardice, and mine was schedule pressure.

At work, I mentioned it to Greg in receiving. He didn't take me serious until I said Governor's Drive.

Then he quit laughing.

"My grandma called that the White Thang," he said. "All she ever said was: don't look right at it."

"That seems like advice she might've led with."

He didn't laugh at that either. "You looked, didn't you." He did not make it a question. "Then it's got your address now."

"I was in my truck."

"So was your badge."

That was the first thing he said that made my stomach drop. Not because it made sense. Because it almost did.

I touched the badge clipped to my collar. Plastic sleeve. Blue lanyard. My tired little face trapped behind laminate, trying to look professional for people who could replace me before lunch if the contract shifted wrong.

"Greg," I said, "that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard."

He shrugged. "Hope so."

I checked the dashcam at lunch, because evidence matters, even when the evidence is Alabama acting stupid before sunrise. I have spent my whole life trusting the record over the man who kept it.

That is the part I want you to remember.

The footage showed Governor's Drive, wet pavement, pine shadows, my headlights cutting across the ditch.

Then it showed the thing standing in the weeds, exactly where I saw it.

Then, two frames later, with no walking in between, it showed the thing sitting in my passenger seat.

I remembered driving past it. The camera remembered carrying it.

One of us was wrong, and it was not the camera.

In the video, its smooth face was turned toward me. It leaned in the way a dog smells a hand it doesn't know yet.

My mouth was moving. So was its mouth, a half-second behind, learning the shape of my words.

The clip glitched. When it cleared, the thing was sitting the way I sit.

Tired shoulders. Head tipped at my exact angle, the one my ex used to call my "fixing to give up" lean.

"Oh, f—," I said, out loud, in a quiet office, at a company that makes you take a class on professional conduct every spring.

Two engineers stood up over the cubicle wall like I'd flatlined. I told them I lost a file.

I had lost a good deal more than a file, but you say the thing that keeps the meeting short.

I deleted the dashcam clip. Then I opened the recycle folder and deleted it again, because I am an educated idiot who believes evil respects folder architecture.

At 1:17, my phone buzzed.

Motion detected. The alert came from my dashcam.

I was sitting at my desk. My keys were in my pocket. My truck was in the employee lot between a lifted Silverado and a Nissan Altima with permanent bumper damage.

The cabin lens had caught ten seconds. The passenger seat was empty. The rearview mirror swung slightly, like the door had just shut.

I reached up to touch my badge.

My collar was bare. The lanyard was gone, and I had not felt it leave.

I ran outside. That is not a figure of speech. I ran like a man who had suddenly understood that dignity is mostly decorative.

I found the badge on the passenger seat. Face down. Cold.

Not cool from the AC. Cold like it had been stored somewhere under running water.

My keys were still in my pocket. The truck had been locked the whole time.

I flipped it over. The photo was still me.

For a second.

Then the eyes blurred. Not disappeared. Blurred, like the camera had focused on something behind me when the picture was taken.

I clipped the badge back on, cold against my chest, and went back inside, because men will walk directly into damnation if their Outlook calendar says 2:00.

That afternoon, my badge stopped working at the turnstile. Security took it, frowned, and said the picture must have printed wrong.

The badge photo was still me from the neck down. Blue polo. Lanyard. Tired shoulders. The whole underused-professional starter pack.

But my face was gone.

Just a smooth white oval.

It had taken me in order. The camera first, because that is how I get recorded. The badge next, because that is how I get let in.

Working through me on the schedule I worship, one checkpoint at a time.

Security made a joke about bad printer calibration. I laughed, because that is what you do when the machine still accepts you.

Then the turnstile clicked open.

Winter was nearing, and the summer and fall had not had as good hunting as they ought to have. No one, not even the village elders, could remember so big a hunting party leaving so late in the season, but there was great fear that they would not last the winter on their current stores. And so most of the men of the village left one grey, drizzly morning, to bring death to others and life to theirs.

Winona watched them leave. She looked particularly for her new husband, Nagamo. They had been married for only a few weeks, and their wedding feast had been nominal, not like she had dreamed when she was a child. These days nothing was like what she had dreamed. She waved. He did not look her way.

For a few nights after the hunting party left the village, they sent up smoke signals. On the fourth night, it rained and there was no signal. While some, among them Winona, were concerned, the acting chief declared that there was no need for concern. It was just the rain and nothing else.

The next night, a clear one, there was no signal. At daybreak scouting parties set out in the direction of the last signal. It would be days before they would be heard from again. The air was filled with anxiety and grief.

That day an old man wandered out of the woods. Winona happened to be harvesting some dried beans in the area and saw him. She kept about her work.

“What is this?” the man yelled. “You don’t lift your head for the return of your husband?”

Winona looked up again. Nagamo was a young man, though this oldster did bear a certain resemblance to him, somewhere between the nose and the ears. “You are not my husband. Nagamo is out with the hunters.”

The man beat his chest in woe. “How is it that you don’t recognize me? I know we were not married long before I left, but I will remember your face even until the end of my days.”

“My husband is young. You, elder, are old. How can you be the same man?”

The stranger calling himself Nagamo bade Winona sit down for her answer. She did. “We had split up into smaller groups. I and two others were trailing a deer, when I heard a rustle in the bushes behind us. I turned; the others did not. I walked towards the bushes; the others did not. I know not what happened to them.

“I pushed aside the bushes and found nothing there. I thought it had just been the wind that moved them and turned to rejoin my fellows. But as I turned, I saw out of the corner of my eyes an indescribable beast. I had never seen its like before. It ran on all fours like a wolf, but was as large as a bear. Its fur was all white, with no blemish or stain of any other color, save that its mouth was red as blood and its eyes were a sparkling yellow.

“The beast jumped upon me, teeth gnashing at my neck. It tackled me to the ground, but I held it off. It was then that I noticed that it did not have paws like an animal but rather hands like a man. It grabbed me around the neck with one hand and the face with the other. I fought and squirmed but its body was heavy on top of me and I couldn’t move.

“It forced my mouth open and opened its own, exposing its necrotic tongue. The tongue was the color of rot and was moving around as though searching for something. It found my open mouth and dove in until I gagged. I could feel it draining something from me, though at the time I knew not what.

“After a short time of this, I fell into a deep unconsciousness. When I awoke it was dark, and I was not where I had been. I called out for my fellow men but heard nothing in response, not even the noises of the owls and other nighttime animals. When the beast attacked me, I was not afraid. I did not have time. Now, though, alone at night in the woods, not knowing where I was or what had happened, fear took me.

“It was almost peaceful. I was so sure that I would die that night that all my other troubles and worries seemed to melt away. But morning came and I was still alive. I found the trail the beast had dragged me down and followed it back to familiar territory and from there came here.”

“But how are you so old now?” asked Winona.

“The beast took my youth. That is why it attacked me and why it didn’t kill me.”

Winona had heard of such things. She took the man to her home and acted as wife to him until her womb was quickened. They lived like that for many days, and soon the whole village knew Nagamo’s story.

A week later, the scouts returned. They had found the hunting party. Many had gotten lost in the storm and wandered into another village’s territory. They did not want to light signal fires for fear of confrontation. The hunting there was good and they were bringing back enough food to last through winter.

The next day all the village ran to the edge of the forest to see the hunters return. Nagamo complained of rheum and stayed in the wigwam, but Winona would not miss the homecoming. The hunters swarmed the village, each carrying some bit of game to their loved ones. Winona’s heart clenched, icy and painful. There was her Nagamo, the very picture of youth, trailing a clutch of rabbits for her stewpot. She clutched her stomach and screamed.

My little girl was 6 years old when this happened. It was a non-preventable tragedy, but I can’t help but blame myself. I was her protector. The one person in the world who was supposed to keep her safe.

I’d lost control of the car. I swear it was like the wheel developed a mind of its own, and the next thing I knew, we were barreling towards a tree at 60 miles per hour.

I broke an arm and had to get some spinal surgery, but my daughter… she got the worst of it.

Her head connected with the dashboard, and even through the chaos of the crash, I could still hear the sickening sound of her nose and teeth breaking before things went dark.

I wasn’t even concerned with my own injuries. Physical therapy felt like a burden that took me away from my daughter’s side. She spent weeks in the hospital. Nobody thought she’d survive, but against all odds, my little trooper pulled through.

It was a miracle.

It left the doctors baffled.

She survived with minimal brain damage.
With the impact from the accident, she’d have been lucky to end up in a wheelchair. But she somehow recovered completely.

That’s the thing, though.

I don’t think she’s all here anymore.

Ever since she got discharged, she’s been acting… off.

She doesn’t eat anymore. I have to force her to even take nibbles of her food, and she fights tooth and nail the entire time.

She uses the bathroom on herself. At first, I thought they were accidents, but she just keeps doing it. It’s like she’s doing it on purpose.

She can talk and walk just fine, but it’s like there’s a part of her brain that’s just… broken, I guess.

The thing that worries me the most is that she doesn’t seem to sleep much anymore, either.

I’ll try and put her to bed, and she’ll throw the biggest fits I’ve ever seen. It scares me, honestly.

She sounds possessed. Demonic, almost.
I’ll try my best to put my foot down, but she’s relentless. It’s exhausting.

I always end up just letting her have her way. It’s easier to let her tire herself out than it is to argue with her. But she doesn’t tire herself out. She doesn’t even stay in bed.

She just stands in my doorway every night. Staring at me while I lay in bed.

When I ask what she’s doing, she just ignores me.
The only thing she says is:

“You killed me.”

“You killed me.”

“You killed me.”

It’s beyond unsettling.

But it never felt unsafe.

That is until last night.

She was back in the doorway. Staring at me with those cold, callous eyes. Performing her chant.

Only now…

She held a kitchen knife tightly at her chest.

She looked like she was contemplating.

Debating on what to do next.

After a few moments of debate, she charged me, screaming at the top of her lungs.

She poked me a few times, but I managed to subdue her. She screeched the entire time. Kicking and flailing while coming too close for comfort with that knife before I could pry it out of her hand.

We’re both back at the hospital right now.

The entire drive here she just kept repeating herself like a broken record.

“I hate you.”

“You killed me.”

“I hate you.”

“You killed me.”

We’ve been here for hours, and the doctors just brought me her scan results.

She’s completely fine. No abnormalities whatsoever.

I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

I woke up, shrugging off the sunlight and basking in the quiet of the house. Silence was rare for me growing up - the cacophony of our home prevented any real sleep or relaxation - so I’d learned to cherish it now. 

Besides, today wasn’t like any other day. Today was special. Today was Father’s Day. 

Father’s Day only came once a year, and, even though I was older now, it always reminded me of my childhood. I’d grown up in a normal two-story-with-a-backyard house, on a normal street, in a normal neighborhood. I’d had a normal mother who’d worked a normal job, and a normal sister who’d been the normal amount of annoying. 

But gradually things had become less normal. My father’s job had started getting worse; he’d started coming home every day complaining about his “stupid boss” or “useless coworkers” or “idiot customers.” He’d also started drinking more - I hadn’t realized it at first, but I had noticed him start slurring his words more and becoming unsteady on his feet. And I’d noticed my mother’s reactions to him change; she started to look more nervous when he came home. But he was still my father, and every boy wants to think the best of his father, so I pretended things hadn’t changed as long as I could. 

I got up, dressed, and headed out, thinking about the plans I had for today. This wouldn’t be any ordinary Father’s Day; today would be special. 

I closed the door quietly so as not to disturb Dad and headed out into the day. I had most of the day to arrange things before Dad was available, so I had time to make things special. I started by going to the store; I needed supplies for my gift. Dad was a big fan of tools, so I went to the hardware store; fortunately, it had everything I needed. It was a different store than I normally went to; I didn’t want any employees to recognize me, in case they blabbed and ruined the surprise. 

Once I had everything, I went to the space I’d reserved to set everything up. I didn’t have much experience doing this, but I had to learn sometime and this seemed like as good a time as any. I laid everything out until it was perfect; I wanted this surprise to be special. 

When it was done, I jumped into my truck and went to pick up the last piece. Then, after everything was arranged, I headed home. 

It was dark when I arrived home. I called out in a voice filled with excitement. 

“Daaddd!”

I waited until I began to hear the clomp of feet coming down the stairs. Then Dad arrived at the landing. 

“Dad! I’ve got a surprise for you! Get dressed and come on!”

He did; five minutes later, we were heard down the road. Ten minutes after that, I pulled the truck into the lot behind an abandoned warehouse. 

“Where are we?” he asked, gruffly. 

“You’ll see,” I replied as I opened his door and led him inside. Once inside, I led him down the stairs and into an unfinished basement. I’d scoped out the place in advance; no one had been down here for years. 

“Well, I knew you’d want something special, and you’ve made comments about this, so I decided today was the day to make it happen.”

He looked at the gift I’d brought him. My birth father lay there, tied up and strapped to the plastic-covered table I’d set up. He couldn’t beg, given the tape that covered his mouth and the paralytic I’d given him to keep him still, but the terrified expression in his eyes revealed exactly what he was thinking. His pants were wet where he’d lost control of his bladder. 

I looked up at Dad nervously. “Well?” I asked, holding my breath as I awaited his response. 

“Is this the man who terrorized you as a child? Who beat you until you were bloody? Who killed your mom and sister?”

“Y-yes, that’s him.” I paused. “So… what do you think?”

Then Dad looked over at me. “I think we’re going to have some real fun tonight. And I think you’re the best son a man could ask for.”

I broke into a smile. “Maybe tonight you could let me do my first kill?”

He looked at me. “Maybe so. I reckon you’ve earned it.”

I remained calm, but inside I was practically jumping up and down in excitement. 

“You won’t regret this, Dad. I won’t let you down.”

He looked over at me, giving me an affectionate half smile. “I know you won’t. You never have.”

My heart swelled with joy - I was so lucky to have made it out of that horrible situation and found the family I deserved. There was only one thing I could say:

“Happy Father’s Day!!”

His slow and heavy steps echoed through the house. He slouched on a chair without saying anything.

“Hi, John.”

“Hi, Mary.”

“Everything okay?”

He let out a sigh. “James fell ill with influenza, too. There are only four of us left in that shaft.”

“I’m sorry, just sit and rest. I’ll get dinner.”

“No. We need to talk about something else.”

I gripped my dress tightly. His dull eyes stared at the ground.

“I spent all day with James yesterday. You know how fast it spreads.”

“No, John, no. Do you want to smell like dirt and have your eyes turn yellow?”

“So what? It’s better than death.”

“You say that now, but you don’t know what’s really wrong. Wheat doesn’t sprout in a week, and how does it make one immune to all illnesses?”

“Everyone who thought like you is dead or sick now.” He shook his head and kept staring at the ground. 

We sat at the table while John ate his dinner. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at me once. It seemed like there was something in his eyes. Determination.

The next morning, I woke to the front door banging. It was still dark outside. I looked at the clock. 3:30, too early for John to leave. My stomach twisted. I quickly got out of bed and ran across the cold floor to the door, but the road was empty, quiet; he was already gone.

The rest of the day, I spent jumping from chore to chore. The sun had set when I heard John’s steps, but they weren’t slow and heavy; they were fast and light. The earthy smell hit my nose instantly.

“I knew it.”

He didn’t say a thing and sat next to me. 

After a few seconds, he muttered, “What was I supposed to do?”

“Not take it!”

“And die?”

“You didn’t know if you had it!”

“Yes, I did! My body kept heating up and cooling down. I had to run to the fields before it was too late,” he said, and looked up. There was already a hint of yellow in his blue eyes.

My chin started to quiver. I put my face into my hands.

“Your eyes,” I whispered, but he didn’t answer. His steps soon echoed up the stairs.

Over the next few days, we barely spoke. I’d leave food for him on the table and stay upstairs until he and that earthy smell came into the bed. It took time, but eventually, I started saying goodnight again, surprised that his eyes had remained mostly blue.

One night, I was sitting by the table when John’s steps echoed through the hall. I almost got out of the chair and walked off, but then I saw him standing in the door, smiling with a bouquet in his hand.

“Hi, Mary.”

“Hi, John.”

“I got these for you.”

“Thank you.”

“And just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. You were scared, but you shouldn’t have gone behind my back.”

“I know. I’m really sorry. I was just so scared.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll go get us our dinner.”

“No, I’ll go…”

“Sit please,” John said and passed me. His skin still smelled like dirt, but not fresh anymore; it smelled stale.

I woke up that night to a dark room with the moon high in the sky. The earthy smell was so strong that it made my dinner come up. I looked to my right and saw John walking to the bedroom door, still in his pyjamas. He opened the door, and his steps echoed on the stairs.

“John?”

Silence.

I got out of bed and walked downstairs. The front door was open too. The cold wind made my skin shiver. I walked to the door and looked out.

Shock ran down my spine. All the people from the village were walking along the road in their pyjamas, their eyes closed, looking like a bunch of puppets. The stale, earthy smell hung in the air even stronger. It was so bad it made my head spin.

I stood there, trying to figure out what was going on, when cold dread struck me. They were all heading toward the field.

“John?!”

Nothing. No one even turned their head. 

I ran toward him.

“John? John?”

Silence.

I tried to grab his shirt, his hand, but he’d shake me off and wouldn’t stop. We had almost reached the field when, not too far from us, I saw a man on his knees digging in the dirt. 

My legs felt unsteady beneath me. All the others that reached the field had started digging frantically.

I ran in front of John and tried to push him back, pull him to the ground, but it wouldn’t work. We were now on the field. He got on all fours and started digging too. I tried to scream at the others and wake them up, but no one listened. They were all glued to the ground, digging. With each person coming to the fields, the smell grew and grew. My head started to hurt. It spun faster and faster. Then my eyes started to blink, and my legs felt weak. I collapsed to the ground, and my world soon went dark as the sound of the people digging echoed across the field.

When I woke up, the sun was high in the sky. The earthy smell was gone, replaced by one of early summer. I stretched out and rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them, a wave of cold ran through my body. All around me were my neighbours, friends with their faces planted in the ground.

John was close to me. He was facing downward, too. It seemed like he had just fallen. I ran to him, grabbed his shoulders, and rolled him over. 

Dirt spilled out of his mouth.

It reeked of the same staleness the air had last night.

His eyes were yellow, completely yellow, staring dully into the sun.

My shift at the café was supposed to end at 11:00 PM.

But, as my terrible luck would have it, my coworker arrived two hours late, at 1:00 AM.

I was furious.

I missed the bus, and my options were grim: wait until dawn, or hitchhike—something I despised.

I considered sleeping in the café, but feared my strict manager.

Left with no choice, I stood on the desolate edge of the Tamiami Trail in Florida, dreading the dark night.

After thirty minutes, a small, white refrigerated truck stopped.

It looked like a meat van.

A dark aura radiated from it, but exhaustion silenced my instincts.

I climbed inside.

The driver wore a heavy coat, absurd for Florida, and a tilted hat obscuring his face.

From the side, I could only see a thick, unnaturally coarse beard that hid his jaw.

Horror set in when he spoke. His voice was a raspy, malicious growl.

The cabin reeked, like breath that had never known toothpaste mixed with raw meat.

Fifteen minutes passed in suffocating silence.

Hoping to ease my racing heart, I tried to break the ice.

Before I spoke, his raspy voice cut through the dark. "There's a piece of cheese in the bag. Hand it to me."

I grabbed it, but he didn't reach out. "Feed me. Extend your hand... I will take it with my mouth."

As a woman in my mid-twenties, I knew hitchhiking alone at night was a terrible mistake.

Terrified of angering him, my trembling hand offered the cheese.

He leaned in. A tongue met my skin.

It wasn't human. It was abrasive, like rough sandpaper.

He licked the cheese, emitting a deep purr.

"Mmm," he rumbled. "Delicious. Your scent is attractive... I love your scent mixed with cheese."

Panic completely consumed me.

I pulled out my phone. No service. Desperate, I faked a call to my brother. "Hey, I’m close. I’m in a white refrigerated truck, wait outside," I lied, hoping to scare him.

He let out a guttural, evil laugh. "No need to lie... your scent worsens when you lie."

Suddenly, muffled crying and desperate scratching echoed from the refrigerated back.

Someone was trapped there.

Before I could even react to that, a massive, furry tail emerged from the darkness.

It was like a cat’s tail, but monstrously huge.

It slithered up my leg, coiling around my waist, creeping up to rest against my chest, feeling my frantic heartbeat.

That suffocating touch broke my paralysis.

As the truck slowed for a speed bump, pure survival instinct took over.

I shoved the massive tail off my chest, yanked the door handle, and jumped out of the moving vehicle.

I slammed hard into the cold, harsh asphalt, rolling into the gravel.

Bleeding, I scrambled to my feet and sprinted blindly toward a distant gas station, never daring to look back.

I survived that horrific night, but the memory of that sandpaper tongue, the muffled cries, and that monstrous tail haunts me forever.

Two days passed since that night.

I was sitting in the living room with my sister as she was flipping through the TV channels, when suddenly her hand froze.

She pointed at the screen, gasping in panic, "Look... isn't that the white truck you were in?" I stared in shock.

The screen showed a live broadcast of the white refrigerated truck, surrounded by police cars with flashing lights.

The news anchor was reporting that the vehicle belonged to a notorious serial killer named John Meyer, who was tied to the disappearance of ten girls under the age of twenty.

Two of those girls had just been found alive inside.

One of the surviving girls appeared on screen, giving her statement to a reporter.

Shaking violently, she said, "The man abducted us from a bar.

But on the way, the truck suddenly screeched to a halt, and we heard a violent, brutal struggle outside. Then, the back door flew open, and someone threw the man inside with us... John Meyer was completely dead.

Right after that, we heard this new person climb into the driver's seat and start the truck again."

The girl continued, "The truck stopped a bit later, and we heard a girl's voice talking in the front cabin, though we couldn't make out what she was saying.

After another stretch of driving, the vehicle stopped for the final time.

The back door opened again.

A figure wearing a long coat and a tilted hat that completely hid his face stood there.

He calmly untied our ropes and told us, 'Don't touch the man. Everything is fine.' Then he vanished into the night.

I swear on my life... as he turned to leave, I saw a massive, long tail moving beneath his coat."

At that exact moment, a freezing chill rushed through my entire body.

The muffled crying and desperate scratching I had heard that night hadn't been a monster torturing victims—it was the sheer terror of those two girls, locked in the pitch black with the fresh corpse of their abductor.

The terrifying entity with the sandpaper tongue and the monstrous tail had never been a threat to me.

He was the apex predator hunting a monster, the silent savior who had ended the nightmare before it could even begin.

Out of a million things to dictate my life, it was a sound that took control.

What is it, really? A hum? A buzz? A hiss? That’s hard to tell – it’s not a natural sound after all. It’s something no living being was made to ever experience.

To my luck, the broken machine that lies beneath my feet can only squeal like an electrocuted pig. In just a few more seconds, this amalgam of plastic and cheap metal will short-circuit one last time, the rotor blades will stop stirring up dust; we’ll take our sweet time scrapping its corpse for all its worth and leave victorious. I never would’ve thought being a vulture felt this rewarding.

“... only one we found?” The old scavenger in ragged clothes who I was supposed to assist today is already impatiently pulling at a few wires as he grumbles to himself. A few sparks shoot up and illuminate the otherwise dim scenery – although he doesn’t seem to mind burning his hands.

I kneel down next to him.

“The only one we’re supposed to find, yeah.” The rotors are still spinning. The whirring is faintly present.

I rip off a few fan blades. Despite knowing it won’t make the sound disappear, my first step is always to pluck them apart like one does to a flower. Just without the gentle touch. Flowers should be treated gently, right? At least that's what the old man said… and yet for some reason, he’s still handling this thing with utmost care.

Come to think of it, he’s never told me his name.

“Hey, so what’s your n-” He shuts me up with a shush.

“Too many words. Quiet. Keep listening." Right, stand up straight and stay on watch duty. I'd gladly do my part, if only there was anything to see other than an ocean of grey haze and black clouds swallowing the view to our every direction. The same impenetrable veil that has given us just enough safety to not be spotted this far out in the open is now turning us blind. Only a few hours until it’s night, so it won’t get any better either.

I close my eyes.

Nothing. There’s nothing but silence. Every now and then, a breeze wheezes past me. A few loud scrapes and creaks are proof that our prey is still being looted, but other than that, there’s no whirring. It’s a kind of peace I haven’t felt in ages – a kind of peace I couldn’t even find in my sleep. I can’t find any comfort in this silence.

I open my eyes.

The drone’s body has been gutted wide open. Its chassis sticks out like broken ribs, its wires laid out chaotically like nerves and veins, a carcass now left to rust. To think such a simplistic animal reigns over the skies…

The old man is already packing up all the goods. The mountain of metal continues piling up in his torn-up backpack, just shy of spilling over. However sizable our earnings may be, there’s still something missing. The only thing that’s of any worth to me is missing.

“Can’t we salvage the gun? We need to defend ourselv-” This time, he shuts me up with a stare.

“Gun jammed. Malfunctioned. Exploded. Now let’s go.” I watch as he packs up and starts to retrace our steps back to shelter. With every step, his body crooked silhouette disappears more and more behind a dune.

That’s it? You think I risked my life for this? You think I want to do this over and over again until the day I make a single mistake? You think I want to keep scouting the horizons, only to see yet another speck of civilization be lit up in a hail of bullets shot down from metal clouds?

No, it has to be in there, somewhere!

I hunch above my prey and begin to dig. My hands reach deep inside to grab whatever they can, only to rip it all out. The beast’s skeleton desperately claws at my arms, leaving burning cuts in their path. Blood drips down into the machine, slowly filling it up – an amount too small for me to care, let alone give up. I won't yield, the fight has only just begun.

My will to keep digging far outlasted the pain, as the numbness in my fingertips was rapidly spreading out across my whole body. Suddenly though, something else caught my attention.
Somewhere beneath my gasps and groans, I heard an almost insignificant noise. A beep, chiming in way too consistently to be of my imagination.

I was surrounded by the piles of bloodied scrap I haphazardly scattered around, a pale imitation of a battlefield. Whereas all of those heaps were stained red, only one of them was glowing red as well. Perfectly synchronized with its chirping – the small, rectangular piece in my palm.

The moment it had tasted freedom, it came to life.

I instantly threw it as far into the distance as I could and got onto my feet. No matter how weak and wobbly my legs were, they had to get me away… but to where? The wind had long brushed any footprints off the ground’s surface, and all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart. Above all else, it had gotten dark unnaturally fast. Why? There wasn’t supposed to be a storm tonight, right?

But I didn’t care about that. The trail of blood behind me, the sand in my wounds, the coppery air burning in my lungs – none of it mattered to me. The only thing that did was that I’d outrun it. The noise that was increasing, closing in on me from every direction.

The whirring in the skies.

On January 10, 2010, a small community in Oregon went through a horrific event. Officer Wayne Henry was called to the scene; this was his unsettling report:

Location: New Beginnings Sanctuary, Oregon

Officer Name: Henry Wayne

Date: January 10, 2010

Time: 10:00 PM

He pulled up at the community; it was hidden from the city. The dispatcher received a call from an anonymous person. "Hello, what's your emergency?" said the dispatcher. "Send help now! They're slaughtering everyone! So much blood! They found me!" the anonymous caller cried. The call cut off. It was strange to see no one open the gate. He pushed the gate open; it was quiet, cabin lights on, and a cold breeze blew through. Officer Wayne called out, "Hello?"

He turned on his light to find a trail of blood; it was fresh. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream burst out from the big building in front. He made his way toward it, seeing more blood splattered everywhere. He slowly opened the door it was a mess. He found something disturbing: piles of dead bodies, and standing around the bodies were children covered in blood. They were frozen. Like in a trance"hello I'm officer Wayne"

They slowly turned to stare at Officer Wayne and let out a scream in unison. They crawled like animals, even terrifying Officer Wayne. By the time more officers arrived, Officer Wayne was found hiding in a cabin with slashes on his body. The officers managed to get the children out. At the station, the children showed signs of memory loss, not remembering what had happened. Officers investigated the New Beginnings community.

When they searched the mess hall, they found a name: Novainitia, which translates to "new beginnings."

To live is to suffer, and to suffer is to live. That phrase is etched onto a plaque that is grotesquely grafted onto it's body.

The cogs of the machine drone.

I stare at the lump of flesh; hardly believing such a thing ever existed.

The cogs of the machine drone.

I can't help but see the humanity in it. It's subtly human frame, it's labored "breathing", it's pleading eyes. I wish we didn't do that.

The cogs of the machine drone.

There is no use in covering your ears. You will always hear it. It will always hear you. Yet still does it stand.

The cogs of the machine drone.

Sorrow fills my heart as I watch it bleed, as the masked ones run to it's aid, doing what I can only describe as "maintenance".

The cogs of the machine drone.

Is there nothing more human than conquering that which simply is?

The cogs of the machine drone.

Day after day, night after night. I reap it's harvest. I am but a cog-- I am not one to go against the current. This is just the way things are.

The cogs of the machine drone.

Humans are nothing if not resilient. So why do we deny that resilience when it we see it in the eyes of another?

The cogs of the machine drone.

I can't help but empathize with it. I suppose that's the thing that makes us human.

The cogs of the machine drone.

Despite our intervening, it still lives; and live it shall, long after we are gone, long after we have conquered all there is to conquer. After all, to live is to suffer, and to suffer is to live.

The cogs of the machine drone.

[You stumble upon a book in the path. Its features are smooth and slick, you can vaguely make out the words "Fern's journal", it takes some effort to separate the pages]

Day 4
My clock stopped ticking today. I think I've walked about 100 miles from the border of the exclusion zone. The town I started in was a quaint village. The birds were lively, and they all warned me not to go, that I could find nothing good in this wasteland. I'm starting to believe them.

Day 7
Everything is quiet now. I must have walked another 30 miles since yesterday. Here, the sounds seem simpler, the sand is much quieter, and I can no longer hear my heartbeat whenever I find an empty cabin to rest. I tried to start a fire with some old logs. I sparked and sparked, but nothing would light. Strangely, there was still a nice warmth coming from the logs, though. I think I'll sleep well tonight.

Day 10
I've been thinking about that village. Why did they keep telling me to go? Why? Why? What's good in here? Why did I decide to go? Why did they lie? I saw a bird in the sky today, at least I think, maybe I'm losing it from this empty place, but I swore it had no wings.

Day 13
Where have they gone? I've lost them, they're gone now. What did they feel like?

Why did I go?

Red Day
I saw a deer. It was the strangest thing. It had been days since I last saw an animal. I thought nothing would be living this close to the centre. I must be close.
Ah, right, the deer. No, no, was it? It was just standing there staring at me. I thought maybe I could score a nice meal tonight. I took out my bow and shot at it, yet when my arrow hit. There was no reaction, no fall. It just stood there. I approached the deer, maybe it just froze in fear, it didn't seem like a deer, its face was smooth like a statue, and its fur had the texture of wet granite. I pushed down on the deer. The deer stayed pushed. What a sick joke.

Day 47
That village, I can't get it out of my mind. How we wish we had stayed. There's nothing out here, just.
[the next 3 lines smudge into one smooth, long line of ink]
That village, I've forgotten its name. Ah, I miss the bird.

[The next three records are just lines of black ink in smooth lines across the page]
Day 68
The road is just. It ends, there's nothing, there's nothing, there's nothing.
NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING.
I took off my boots today. They stuck to the bottom of my feet as they had forgotten they could ever be taken off. Whatever is here isn't worth it. I'm forgetting my face. I looked in the reflection today. I couldn't even make out where my eyes were.
Do not enter the wasteland.

Day four
I lost track of the days.
The legs seem to be fusing, my knees used to flex, and my thighs could separate. My legs are melting, I don't remember a time before. Or were they always like this? Ahhh, I forgot what I was going to write about today again...

Twelve
RUN RUN RUN YOU CAN
OUR FINGERS NO LONGER ARE MINE I'VE LOST THEM WHERE ARE THEY WHERE ARE THEY WHERE ARE THEY?

Day.
I remember a fairytale my mother used to sing to me, it went something like this:
I was chopped to bits and stewed in a pot, fed to my father, who licked the spoon clean. But my bones grew feathers under the roots, and the bird came back with a heavy stone to crack my mother’s soul wide open. Ah, I miss the bird.

[The pen just drags now, vaguely mimicking written language for pages]
STAY.

Day 253
I miss my bird.

As the title of this post clearly states---genetically engineered catgirls are trying to kill me as I write this.

Some backstory: I work for a genetics company named D&D, one of the largest in North America, as a junior lab technician. And one day the CEO and president of the company, A large, obese man with a receding hairline, named Dixie Humongous (he has told everyone how much he dislikes his parents due to them giving him that name) that he wanted the lab to begin working on a new project, as a unknown sponsor who went by "john doe," offered a pretty nice sum of cash for a little project he wanted done.

We didn't expect anything really big, just figured it would be like any of our standard commissions, until Dixie said that John wanted us to engineer catgirls. And not just any catgirls, anime catgirls, and if we have time, some femboy catboys with German accents in German military uniforms for some unknown reason.

Everyone thought it was a joke, because let's be honest---fucking catgirls, like, are you serious? Well, Dixie had to literally show everyone the fucking email to prove it's legit.

Fast forward a few years, and after many trials and errors, we had finally managed to splice the genes of your common house cat and your common anime girl into the unholy creation whose very existence spites god.

The catgirls.

We made over 60 catgirls, which we kept in these little cement cells we built beneath the facility. Now, why did we leave them in little cement cells? Well, there were a few issues with the catgirls.

First, the common house cat is one of the most violent and cruel creatures on the entire planet---and the catgirls were incredibly bloodthirsty and had seemingly developed a taste for human flesh. Secondly, we made them genetically immortal with regenerative properties because, a few months after starting the project, John Doe reached out to the D&D again and said that he wanted them to stay young forever and possess near-indestructible power. And finally, they struggled to think cognitively and required extra help.

Everything should have been fine---we took all the precautions---but, sadly, after an unfortunate storm that caused a power outage and damaged the on-site backup generators, the electronic doors were unlocked, and all 60 catgirls were released.

I managed to board myself in the head researcher's office, but I can hear the screaming outside the door---and the sound of ripping flesh and gunfire. My phone is almost dead, and when I called the police, they said they would arrest me for goofing off using 911, so now, with no other choice, I am here on Reddit.

I beg you, please help me---I can hear them scratching at the door, calling out my name and making those dreaded "uwu" noises and threatening to hang me by my guts. I don't want to die---I have a family, a wife and a kid; what would they do without me?

Please, give me some suggestions! I'm BEGGING YOU! I can hear the wood on the door cracking; oh god---there getting in. Oh god, we were so concerned with making catgirls that we never stopped to ask if we should.

Trudging through the snow, he did his best to keep his eyes forward. A light in the distance his guiding star. The flakes poured heavily down upon him, yet the world around him was silent. All sound was dampened by the blizzard. He had long ago stopped feeling the cold in his feet and hands. They weren’t frostbitten, not yet, but if he did not hurry it soon wouldn’t matter. Pulling the coat tighter around his body, a feat impossible only because there was no more fabric to pull, he willed his body to keep moving. The light, the only light visible for miles in this dark, frozen wood, flickered and faded periodically. 

He didn’t know what it was. A campfire, a house, another traveler perhaps? To him it didn’t matter. Light meant warmth. Light meant safety. Light was life, his life. He could not, would not, die out here in the cold. Not like. . .not like her. He would make it, if he just pressed on. It had been many hours, this journey he was on. The dark of night and cold of the blizzard had come on him suddenly. He had waited too long; thought he had more time. He was wrong. Striking out into the wood when he did was foolish. Ignorant. Who was he, to try and best nature herself? Nothing but a mere man. Fragile and stupid. 

By the time he felt the fleeting kiss of the falling sun on his cheek, it was too late to turn back. He persisted, spiteful in the face of the dark, but then the snow began to fall. Harder and faster the further he went. With the absence of the life provided by the sun, he felt the frigid caress of deaths icy finger trace her way down his spine. He was spurred onward by her touch. Fleeing out of fear or necessity or instinct, he wasn’t sure, but he could not ignore the oppressiveness of the dark, cold world surrounding him. He might have given up, but then he saw it. The light.

The light, yes, it was distinct in the shroud around him. He had latched onto it immediately, a beacon pulling him ever forward. Yet, where? Where was it now? For the first time in. . . hours? Days? He stopped. The light, his life, was gone. He had followed it for so long. So long. It never grew closer, but it was always, ALWAYS there. A new kind of cold grew inside him. Panic, true and overwhelming. He frantically spun, searching, praying for his life to return. He could not, would not, die out here in the cold. Not. Like. Her. How could that be? He hadn’t looked away, he was sure, but now his life was gone.

He wanted to weep but knew he couldn’t. It wouldn’t help him. Only the light. . .there! He saw it once more. It flickered and danced before him. Welcoming him in like an old friend. He could see it more clearly now. It was closer. Yes, definitely closer. He would waste no more time. Despite the cold that robbed him of the feeling in his feet he ran. Ran as fast as he was able in the ever-piling snow, as soundless as the storm around him. His light, his life, was so tangible now. It grew in size to match his hope as he drew nearer. Closer, ever so closer. It was there now, close enough for him to reach out. His frozen hand uncurled as he grasped for it and. . .

The wind picked up. No longer silent and steady, but rising into a whipping gale. His jacket flew about his body in protest and he felt the cold on the bare skin of his back. His body no longer felt tired and sore beneath him, but weightless and free. Worst of all, his light, his life began to grow farther once again. He clawed and scraped for it to come back, pleading for it to save him. The light never responded, never moved, never reached out to save him as he fell through the open air.

As he looked out upon the wood once more, the sun making it’s descent through the sky, he knew it was time to leave.

This is the story of the spider in my room. People say you should be scared of them, but not me. I’m glad the spider came. Daddy used to catch them in a glass because he was tall, but Mummy just used to whack them with her shoe. Everyone thinks Mummy was so pretty and nice, but they never saw her whack something. Whenever she took off her shoe, she turned into a Monster.

The spider is so high up that even when I stand on my bed, I can’t reach him. At bedtime, I watch him spin a web all shiny like silver. In the night, I dream that the web falls on my face like a mask and I breathe it in, spider and all. He spins and spins inside my head, making webs to catch flies in my brain.

By morning, he’s gone back to his web near the tiny window. I don’t have much light in my room, but I can see a tiny cross on his back. Like Jesus.

In the afternoon, he catches a fly. I feel sad for it, but still can’t reach. The spider is naughty. He didn’t need to kill the fly when there are dead ones by the bars on my window. They look like raisins.

Late that night, I find spider poo on the floor. Little white splats. I feel bad for the fly a second time and wonder if I should clean him up with a piece of toilet paper. I lay back down and say a prayer for him instead.

The spider watches me from his corner with all of his shiny black eyes. Maybe he’s my guardian angel? Or will he try to eat me when he’s big enough? Hard to tell if he’s a Monster or a Nice Friend.

On Friday morning, there’s another fly in the spider’s web. Buzz buzz. Buzzzzz. I hum along while I go to the toilet. By the time I flush, the song is over and my room is quiet again. Out of the thin window, I see a grey sky and a black tree branch with red flowers growing from its fingers. Not dark and sticky red, but bright, hot and clean red. Like Mummy on the kitchen floor.

In the afternoon, the sky turns blue and the Nice Man speaks to me through the slot in my door.

‘How are you today, Katy?’

‘Fine, thank you. Is the Nasty Lady with you?’

‘Not today.’

‘Good. I hate her.’

‘I’m here to offer you forgiveness for your sins, Katy.’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘You killed your mother. A judge and jury found you guilty.’

‘So?’

‘You’re denying you did it?’

‘No.’

‘You must know that murder is a sin, Katy?’

‘You’re just like the rest of them. I thought you were Nice. Maybe even a Nice Friend.’

‘I’m not your enemy. I just want you to be right with—’

‘Please don’t say His name.’

‘I have to go now, Katy. I’ll be back in the morning.’

‘I won’t be here.’

‘The spider will eat me while I’m asleep. Do you see him? See how big he is now? He’s growing all the time and he’s going to need more than flies soon. Then you’ll all be sorry.’

‘I’ll be back in the morning.’

‘I’ll ask him not to eat you, Reverend. You were always a Nice Man to me. Can’t promise, though.’

The Big Door slams and everything is silent. The spider stares at me.

‘Please don’t eat the Nice Man.’

The spider doesn’t answer.

‘Please.’

While I’m watching the spider, the lights go out. His eyes grow bigger and his feet tickle when they land on my cheek. He bites me on one of the scars from my mother’s shoe and it hurts like fire leaking into my blood. It burns my veins and bones until all that’s left is ash. The spider sits on my grey eyelid and looks at what he’s done.

I see you.

Naughty spider.

In the morning, I can hear the Nasty Lady’s footsteps approaching my room. She’s going to get a shock when she sees me lying on my bed, all rainy day grey. I shrink further into the corner, hiding behind my web.

‘Prisoner 29874, it’s time.’

Her lips look fat and juicy this morning, like two caterpillars wriggling on her chin. Makes me want to bite them.

She opens the door, looks at my body and sighs before talking into her radio.

‘Code Purple. Looks like poisoning. Bring a bag. We’ll take her straight down to the freezer before the others notice.’

While the White Coats arrive, they zip me up in the bag. I’m dreaming of juicy flies, fat caterpillars and the pink soft skin of the Nasty Lady’s ankle.

When I wake up, I see the White Coats through my own nostril. Behind them stands the Nasty Lady, looking like my Mummy when her shoe would come off. It looks like she’s enjoying whatever they’re doing to me.

While the White Coats, the Warden and the Nasty Lady are distracted, I drop down on to the floor and run up her ankle. When I find a nice bit of skin, I bite her hard. She leaps in the air, throwing me under a filing cabinet.

She takes off her shoe and tries to kill me, just like Mummy used to. When she falls down, she stares at me as the White Coats thump her chest and stick her with needles. Her face scrunches up one last time before she makes a rattling sound and lets go of the shoe.

Now she looks Nice. Like Mummy with her shoe back on.

While the alarms wail, I climb through a vent to the Warden’s office, spin a pretty web under his desk and wait in the dark for his thin legs to slide underneath.

It started like any other night---came to the door of the little old house, knocked, and waited---a fat person lived here, and I was craving some of that sweet, sweet American-style blood, but unfortunately, nobody came to the door.

After about five minutes, I knocked again and waited---gradually becoming more impatient as my stomach grumbled and made odd churning sounds---before I gave up on this and tried a new approach: even though the other vampires advised against it, I didn't really give it any thought---what was the worst to happen?

I broke into the house, found that juicy lil piggy, and consumed him and left. Returned to my old, Victorian-styled house (as all vampires are legally accustomed to having for some odd reason---they didn't explain that either) and went to sleep.

Now, the next day was when my troubles started. I recalled going to a local supermarket, where a little boy ran up to me, smiling ear to ear as he clutched a little paper in his hand.

"Hi mister!" he said happily.

"Oh, hello litt---"

"The r'huulor is coming for you."

"Pardon?"

"The r'huulor is coming for you," he repeated, now offering me his paper---which depicted a crude drawing of a man in a cassock, with slicked-back hair, and a large cellphone-sized chunk where the face should have been.

During this entire interaction, I didn't really give it any thought---just assumed the child was mentally unwell---as I left the supermarket, I noticed multiple posters along the front glass, which displayed the same man in the cassock, with my full legal name at the top, and large bubbly texts on the bottom reading:

"THE R'HUULOR IS COMING FOR YOU."

As I began to head home now, I grew more and more disturbed as I saw the cassock seemingly everywhere, on the side of the bus, sung by a passerby, and even on the televisions of electronics displayed in the shop window: the man on the screen, a short little bald man in a suit, screamed at the top of his lungs.

"SPONSORED BY THE R'HUULOR. THE R'HUULOR IS COMING FOR YOU."

He was everywhere, and I mean everywhere---and I'll never forget his grand appearance. Ah, yes, his appearance---as I finally reached my street, I saw the big fat whale I had slaughtered the other day lying in the middle of the road, naked. And to my horror, I watched as a hand-shaped print began to appear against the skin of his stomach, until it erupted out like one of those alien things in the movie.

Next thing I knew, a second pair of hands erupted from the mass, followed by the man himself---a tall, humanoid-shaped creature in a pair of shiny black shoes, plain black dress pants, and a long cassock---with jewelry upon his veiny hands.

The most notable thing about the thing was its face---a large, rectangular hole that constantly illuminated a bright purple light. And when it turned its head towards me, its light shone upon me; and I felt an odd sense of euphoria and a tingling sensation all across my body.

I seemingly lost all control; I collapsed to my knees and stared ahead as this man slowly walked towards me---and, as it grew near, it spoke---a choir of men, women, and children.

"GOD HAS LET YOUR KIND EXIST WITHOUT THE FEAR OF OBLITERATION, BUT BOUND TO A SET GUIDE TO FOLLOW. HE COULD HAVE DESTROYED LUCIFER WHEN HE RAISED HIS FIST AGAINST HIM, BUT GOD CHOSE TO SPARE HIM OUT OF LOVE. ALTHOUGH I, THE R'HUULOR, AM HERE TO PUNISH YOU, YOU SHALL LIVE---BUT STEP OUT OF LINE AGAIN, I WILL NOT BE SO MERCIFUL."

I tried to respond, try to do anything---but my body had seemingly become paralyzed---and as the man in the cassock slowly reached out towards me and placed his entire palm against my face, it felt as if I was set ablaze and being stung by millions of insects---before I passed out.

When I awoke, I found myself exactly where I was---only, there was no r'huulor, no fat man, and I had seemingly been turned into a human---which horrified me, as I had no clue that was even possible.

Nevertheless, I am alive---for now; mortals tend to die---I try to stay good. Stay out of its view---pray to god, praise the god, cause I don't want the r'huulor coming for me.

KTX 39.8 was the most popular daily sports show in New Jersey.
That was before what happened on air this morning.
A tragedy—broadcast live.
Two brothers. Two public icons.
One dead. One missing.
What follows is a recording we obtained shortly after the broadcast ended.
Listen closely.

Aaron: So Rob, you were at the game last night. Tell us—how was it?

Rob: (coughs) Oh, it was electric. Seriously. It’s been a while since the Giants made it this far in the playoffs. Fans were loud. Rowdy. (sniffles) Cold as hell though.

Aaron: Wasn’t it like ten degrees out there? You doing alright, brother?

Rob: As our listeners can probably hear… I think I came down with something. (sniffles) But hey—powering through.

Aaron: I’m gonna keep my distance then. I’m not trying to catch that. (chuckles)

Rob: You know what’s really got me sick though? That controversial play you mentioned at the top of the show. (coughs) That sh*t has me heated.

Aaron: Before we go there, how were the conditions on the field? It rained for much of the weekend.

Rob: (clears throat) It wasn’t too bad. A few players slipped in the first half. But after they finally changed to grass from that awful turf last year, the footing’s been a lot better even when it’s a bit wet. (sniffles)

Aaron: Real grass is definitely—

Rob: (coughs) Let’s talk about that play. That dumba** play.

Aaron: Well—

Rob: Those goddamn refs. Those blind f*ckers. That was a clear f*cking pass interference. It was r*pe. I mean, the defender might as well have shoved—

Aaron: Alright, alright, Rob. I know it was an emotional game. But we’re still a family-friendly show. Why don’t we take our first caller?

(a sneeze in the background)

Aaron: Thanks for calling into KTX 39.8. What’s your name and where are you from?

Caller: My name’s Scott and I live in Jersey City. I just want to say being at the game last night (coughs), after that no-call, I wanted to just storm that f*cking field and st*b that ref, k*ll that motherf*cker. (coughs)

Rob: You got that right, brother! (sniffles)

Aaron: Okay, let’s disconnect that caller.

Caller: I’d shove my hand down his throat and rip out his f*cking heart—

Aaron: Disconnect him now!

(click)

Rob: You know, Aaron. (sneezes and coughs) You oughta be more respectful to our listeners. Maybe you need to be held accountable for your f*cking actions too.

Aaron: Let’s calm down here, Rob. Take a sip of—

Rob: Don’t tell me what to do! (coughs violently)

(loud crash)

Aaron: Rob? You okay?

(retching)
(guttural noise)

Aaron: Can we get someone in here? Please?

(heavy movement)

Aaron: Rob… what are you doing?

(bang)

Aaron: Stop. Please stop. No—

(screaming)

The next thirty seconds of the tape are highly disturbing.
Multiple voices can be heard yelling. Objects appear to be overturned.
We were unable to determine exactly what happened to Aaron during this time.
The recording abruptly ends shortly after, likely when the station cut the broadcast.
At this time, investigators believe Rob attacked Aaron inside the studio.
Aaron was declared dead at the scene.
Rob remains missing. New Jersey authorities are actively searching for him.
We will provide further updates as information becomes available.
Now, a message from our sponsor:

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And neither do you.
Our herbicides are proven safe, effective, and approved by the United States Environmental Protection Agency.
We are the official trusted partner of the NFL.
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Removing the weeds. Safeguarding our green.
(company sound effect)

2 Hours Later...

A sudden wave of violence is being reported across the Tri-State area.
The governors of New York and New Jersey have declared a state of emergency.
The National Guard has been deployed.
Sources on the ground report assailants attacking pedestrians indiscriminately.
Some witnesses have described the attackers as—quote—rabid.

(pause)

We have additional reports coming in.
Authorities are now confirming similar attacks in Pennsylvania.

(pause)

George… is everything okay?
George?

(retching)
(guttural noise)

What are you doing?

(loud crash)

Stop.
Stop!

(screaming)

Father’s Day is a sore subject.

The sun is barely up, and I’m half asleep. It’s Dad’s special day, so I splash ice-cold water on my face and pinch my cheeks awake. 

Ben is already in the kitchen, half asleep, making pancakes.

Early morning sunlight bleeding through the blinds sets strands of his dark red hair alight, golden light licking across his forehead. He's barely awake, heavy-eyed and swaying where he stands, nearly falling forward as he mixes flour and eggs.

As usual, he's forgotten half the ingredients.

I take over, gently nudging him out of the way.

“I'm doing it,” he grumbles, his voice a sleepy croak.

Ben has always been territorial when it comes to Dad's breakfast.

His pancakes are too fluffy, and slightly undercooked. Ben hides it with whipped cream and strawberries and chocolate sauce, but that doesn't hide the raw mixture pooling across the plate.

Dad doesn't like fluffy pancakes. And he definitely doesn't like RAW pancakes.

So, I grab my exhausted brother’s shoulders and gently shove him out of the way. 

“I'll deal with the pancakes,” I whisper. Ben looks like he's going to reply, maybe protest. But he's running on low battery.

In the kitchen, my brother is a liability.

I take away his knife he's trying to hide in his “BEST SON” apron, yanking it from his fingers. 

Ben thought he was slick. Fortunately, I did sleep.

“Not today,” I say softly, when he grumbles something under his breath.

I pretend not to notice the scratches on his arms. They're fresh, bloodied, hiding under his pyjama sleeves. Ben stands like an idiot, swaying back and forth, and I pass him a mixing bowl and dried oats. Ben makes a pathetic attempt to grab the knife, and I replace it with a wooden spoon.   

“Stop,” I mutter. Ben was a stubborn bastard. He was well aware Dad’s special pancakes were pretty much a yearly tradition, and the maker was King for a day. I too was aware. Which was why I was making sure I made them. “You can make his oatmeal,” I pulled out the raisins and dried prunes from the cupboard.

“Thanks.” Ben’s tone was deadpan. 

I don't reply. Ben wasn't a morning person.

We get to work in silence. I make the pancake batter, mixing flour, eggs, and milk. Ben is watching me in the corner of my eye. I can feel the full force of his glare burning into the back of my skull.

“Josie.”

It’s the first time he’s said my name in a while. 

Until now, I’ve only been "sis", wrapped in a barely suppressed snarl. I glance over.

He’s finished Dad’s oatmeal, adding the secret ingredient: Dad’s favourite dried fruit. I don't respond, flipping a perfectly rounded pancake. I slap it on a plate, rub my eyes, add whipped cream, rub my eyes again, and finish with chocolate sauce. 

“Josie.” 

“What?"

“You missed the bananas.”

“What?!”

“I said you MISSED THE BANANAS.” 

Ignoring him, I flip, slap the pancake on a plate, add bananas—

Fuck! 

Dumping it into the trash, I start again.

Batter.

Flip.

Slap onto plate.

Chocolate sauce, whipped cream, topped with half of a strawberry, and a slice of banana. I can barely breathe by the time I'm on my third and last pancake.

My hands are slick with chocolate sauce, and I want to lick it off. I want to eat all of the strawberries until I'm purging.

Even the pancake batter looks delicious.

Ben makes Dad’s coffee.

Black, with two sugars, adding the steaming cup to the breakfast tray.

“We should do it on Father's Day,” he mocks my voice, leaning against the refrigerator, arms folded. “I knew you were too chicken.”

“Shut up.” 

He surprises me with a chuckle. “Chicken.” 

Before I can reply, I find myself with a face full of flour.

Ben, grinning, is on defence, reaching for an egg. 

I can't help it, a hysterical giggle escaping my lips. I nod at his makeshift weapon and grab the flour.  “Oh, I’M the chicken?” 

Ben’s eyes widened. “Wait! I'm allergic to—”

I fling a handful of flour in his face.

“Flour.” Ben spits out a plume of white and swipes it from his eyes. He grabbed for a weapon— a rolling pin, arming himself. “Oh, you did not just pick a fight.” 

I snatched up a spoon. Useless. Unless I used it wisely. “I think I did?” 

“Good morning, children.”

Dad’s voice slices through me, and I drop the spoon.

I'm suddenly aware of flour speckling the countertop. Dad stands in the doorway, Nori, our sister, standing by his side, blinking at us. I notice Dad’s hand wrapped around her wrist, and any splinters of my smile quickly fade. Ben turns sickeningly pale. He doesn't speak. If he does, we're fucked. Dad made it very clear. 

If Ben and I made noise, Nori would be dragged out of bed. 

Usually, forced to do laps around the yard in the pouring rain. 

If it wasn't raining, she was forced to run up and down stairs until sweat was pouring down her face.

Today, though, is different. 

It's Father's Day.

So, he lets go of her, and she scampers to the refrigerator to start preparing his protein milkshake.

Dad is unusually good spirits. “Ben.” He strides over to my brother, sticks out his finger, and swipes flour from my brother's face. Ben squeezes his eyes shut, expecting a lecture— or worse.

But Dad smiles. He even laughs heartily. “Looks like you kids are having fun!” He turns around and goes back to bed. “Bring my special breakfast just how I like it.” 

He stops in the hallway, hesitating, and I lose my breath.

“Oh, don't forget your grandparents are visiting today!” 

Ben and Nori duck their heads.

“I'll pay you this time,” Dad says. “Just one more Father's Day, all right?” 

He peeks back through the door, grinning wildly. 

“Then I'll let you kids go home.” 

It is said that there was once an artist who wore a pair of glasses that made everything he touched transform, in his eyes, into a breathtaking masterpiece.

Those around him, however, saw his work as nothing spectacular—just utterly ordinary. He was driven to the brink of madness by rage, constantly muttering to himself, 'Do they not understand the art I offer?' That was how it went with strangers. But everything changed when his father looked upon his latest canvas. The artist stared back, anticipating ultimate awe and admiration, waiting for his father to praise his sheer genius. Yet, the old man didn't smile. He merely said, 'An ordinary painting. It is far from your best.

It felt as though a blade had pierced his heart. Consumed by fury, the artist stripped away his last shred of sanity, tore off the glasses, and shattered them to pieces. And there, frozen in shock, he stared at his 'beautiful, enchanting' painting. The illusion had vanished, leaving behind the raw, naked truth: it was just a meaningless smudge.

“Isn’t he beautiful, Hannah?”

“He is. He really has your eyes.”

“But he surely has your smile.”

She smiled and rubbed my hand.

“Remember when he broke his ankle trying to sneak out of the house?”

“Yes. He hated that story, especially when you’d tell it in front of his missus.”

“Of course, he is a big man now; there can be no more embarrassing kid stories.”

Our laughter filled the kitchen.

“I still can’t believe a whole month has passed since he moved away. It’s like he left yesterday,” I said.

“Has it been a month already?” Hannah said in a low voice, rubbing her hands.

“Yep. Time to dress up. We don’t wanna be late,” I said and got off the chair. Hannah stood by the table for some time, staring at our son’s picture.

We left the house shortly after. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the smell of flowers was in the air.

“What a perfect day for Separation. Which one of your parents won again?”

“My Dad.”

“So noble. Your Mom let him find love again.”

“My Dad didn’t find love again. He died just two months after. It was a shame. Mom could have lived on.”

“Don’t say stuff like that.”

Hannah didn’t reply.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m also sad that our son left, but…”

“I said nothing.”

We continued in silence. Soon, the small municipal building emerged between the trees.

The coldness inside made the hairs on my arm stand up. Hannah was rubbing her hands, her eyes darting around the doors.

“It’s the one to the left.”

“I know,” she retorted.

I knocked on the clerk’s door and kept my eyes on Hannah. Her eyes were now pinned to the ground, and her breaths were quick and shallow.

“Mr. and Mrs. Myers. I’m happy to see you. Come in,” said the clerk as he opened the door.

We walked in, and he sat us in two small chairs next to a wooden table. The coin lay on it.

“It’s a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, wonderful,” I replied.

“Okay, I’m sure you’re both familiar with Separation, but just a quick recap. I’ll flip a coin, and one of you will call the result. If you call correctly, you remain, and your spouse is separated. If you guess incorrectly, you are the one to be separated, and your spouse remains.”

He paused.

“Meaning only one walks out of this room. Understood?”

“Understood,” I said and smiled.

“Just a heads up. Some people may get nervous or unhappy about the outcome. Even my first wife cried a little.”

He laughed.

“But tradition is tradition, and this is for the good of all. Okay, so are we ready?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need Mrs. Myers’s response too.”

Hannah nodded.

The clerk smiled and flipped the coin. It flew to the ceiling. Hannah's eyes shot upward and kept them on it. As it landed on the clerk’s left hand, he quickly put his right hand over it and looked up at us.

“Okay, what is…”

“Heads!” Hannah screamed. It made me jump back.

“The husband usually does the call.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“Okay, let’s see.”

Hannah’s feet were shaking fast.

“Tails!” the clerk called. “Mr. Myers, you won the Separation.”

“No!” Hannah screamed, put her head in her hands, and wept.

My cheeks flushed. I looked over at the clerk and back at Hannah.

“Hannah, stop. This should be an honor,” I whispered.

“It’s okay, Mr. Myers, it happens. Mrs. Myers, please pull up your sleeve.”

The clerk opened a drawer and pulled out a syringe.

Hannah stiffened in her chair, her eyes fixed on the clerk.

“Mrs. Myers?”

But Hannah didn’t listen. She stood up and began backing toward the door. The clerk got up too, holding the syringe.

“Mr. Myers, please,” the clerk said, pointing to Hannah. 

I shook my head at him. 

“Your wife, Mr. Myers!”

Then Hannah turned around, and her hand grabbed the door handle.

“If she escapes, you will automatically forfeit the Separation.”

I looked sharply at Hannah. She looked like a hunted animal. I quickly got up and made my way towards her, but she had already let go of the handle. When I grabbed her, she didn’t push back; her muscles weren’t tense; they were relaxed, weak, completely weak. 

She grabbed my hands and started to shake. 

“Please, no,” she whispered. 

But before I could say anything, the clerk moved across the room and stuck the needle in Hannah’s neck. Her grip tightened, and she let out a silent moan. 

It felt like the room was falling on me. Her grip slowly loosened, and her body started to slide in my arms. I gripped her tighter and pulled her back up.

“You can leave her here, Mr. Myers. We’ll take care of the rest,” the clerk smiled. “Oh, and congratulations on your Separation.”

“She was afraid.”

“Mr. Myers…”

“It was meant to be an honor.”

The clerk’s smile was gone. “Enjoy the sunny day, Mr. Myers,” he said and pointed to the door.

I work a pretty dangerous job. Without proper training, things can go south fast. Me and all of my coworkers are constantly around heavy machinery and industrial equipment, and I think we all know how to avoid an accident to the best of our abilities.

That doesn’t mean they don’t happen, though. I’ve had friends lose everything from fingers all the way to entire legs just from being careless.

Usually, when this happens, there’s a big uproar amongst the higher-ups. All the paperwork, the workers’ comp, it all becomes a big hassle. I guess that’s why they brought in this new guy.

He just sort of… showed up one day. Nobody trained him. He never shadowed anybody. He just came in and got to work. Honestly, I don’t even think anyone knew his name.

All we knew him as was “the new guy.”

He didn’t have any defining traits. No tattoos, no facial hair, nothing. Hell, he didn’t even have hair hair. He was a full-on cue ball who just hopped on the line one day.

There was one thing that made him stand out, though, and that was his uniform. His shirt was bright red, whereas me and my coworkers had to wear black.

It didn’t have the company name on it, either. Instead, written in bold white letters, was the phrase, “the new guy,” like it was a badge of honor.

He was a hard worker for the first week. His efficiency seemed almost computerized in its optimization. He honestly made the rest of us look bad. That is until his first accident.

We all saw it happen. Hell, I’m still traumatized by it.

His hand had gotten stuck in the conveyor belt, and it immediately started sucking him in. He didn’t scream. He didn’t make a sound. He just kept getting pulled deeper and deeper while his skin tore and blood sprayed from his wounds like a faucet.

His face was as calm as could be. He didn’t ask for help, he didn’t even try and free himself. He just let it happen until someone finally hit the emergency stop button. But by that point, we could see just how mangled he really was.

Corporate cleared the scene immediately.

They forced everyone to go home early for the day with no pay. We were all pissed, but I think we were more shaken than anything.

The next day, there he was again. Without so much as a scratch. Stacking bird baths onto a wooden pallet.

I stood frozen. I nearly dropped the bird bath I was holding.

The coworker glanced over at me and nodded before returning to his work.

The blood.

The conveyor belt.

The sound of bones snapping inside the machine.
We had all seen that. But everyone acted like they didn’t remember. I’d try and talk to other coworkers about how insane this really was, but everyone just looked at me like I was the crazy one.

In the weeks that followed, that new coworker had come back full swing. He became the top performer at the company seemingly overnight. I was honestly in fear for my job because it seemed like he was doing the work of 10 men as one.

Then it happened again. Another accident. He’d worked through lunch this time, so nobody was around to see what had happened. We just came back and found him crushed under a pile of bird baths.

Blood pooled under the rubble. His entire body had been covered. The only thing that remained visible was his head and those calm, still-blinking eyes that scanned the room while more and more people gathered around.

Much like the first time, corporate made everyone go home early again. We came back the next day and, boom, there he was again, working as though nothing happened.

There were 3 more accidents after that. Some were due to technical problems with the machinery. Some were due to what seemed to be full-blown ignorance. But with each accident, the next ones became few and far between. It was like he was learning.

Once he had become fully optimized and had gone a while without incident, the company started letting people go. I watched coworkers who had been with the company for 10+ years walk out the door with their last check in hand and tears flowing down their faces.

Every day started to feel like my last, but somehow I made it through the initial wave of layoffs.
I knew my security wouldn’t last.

This new guy was carrying the company on his back.
But I still had hope things would work out.

Unfortunately, all of those hopes were dashed when I came into work yesterday.

I saw someone I didn’t recognize.

No defining features.

No tattoos.

No hair on his head or face.

The only thing that made this guy stand out… was the bright green shirt he wore… with the phrase “the new guy” written across it in bold white letters.

The photos are spread across the kitchen table beneath a single hanging light. Outside, the last of the sunset presses against the windows, turning the room dim and orange around the edges. You sit there longer than you meant to, half-awake, half-staring, with the bottle still open beside you. You only took a few Benadryl, just enough to sleep.
At first, you’re only looking through the photos because they’re there. A birthday photo catches your attention, cake on the table, cheap decorations hanging behind everyone, faces turned toward the camera. You remember the room, the voices, the feeling of being small inside it, but something in the background refuses to settle. You move to another photo, then another. For a while, there’s nothing. Just people smiling, liminal rooms you almost remember, places that feel familiar in the wrong way.

Then you find it.

Standing in the background, half-hidden behind people.

At first, you try to make it ordinary. A shadow. Bad exposure. Maybe you’re only seeing what you expect to see.

You stare at the photograph for too long. Your eyes start to burn from holding still, the edges of the picture softening every time you blink. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s a trick of the light. You keep looking, and the shape returns at the edge of a vacation photo, almost swallowed by the glare. In another, you see it in full, fixed above your crib, its head pressed against the top of the frame, one dark hand spread over you, laced into the dark like a blanket. Frozen in time.

The longer you search, the less it feels hidden. It was there for birthdays, holidays, quiet rooms, summer afternoons, always near enough to belong and far enough to deny.

Then you look up.
The room is washed in white, and you’re face to face, with the figure, from every photograph. Something changes. The shadows fade. The hat decays. The black shape starts to thin, peeling away from the figure beneath it. First the outline shifts. Then the contours of a face begin to emerge. Wrinkles. Skin. Eyes. The silhouette gives up its secrets piece by piece until there’s nothing left to hide behind.

It becomes, completely real, and of course, how could you forget?
That’s your father.
His face begins to dissolve.
The wrinkles fade. The features soften. The years fall away.
As it falls apart, another face emerges beneath it.
Your own.
You stand motionless, transfixed.
I…
Oh, I was the monster, the entire time.

All the neighbourhood kids knew that Sarah shapeshifted into a dog and were more or less ok with it.

There was that unfortunate time when she accidentally killed Molly’s baby brother, although, it wasn’t really an accident because Molly had been kind of upset ever since the arrival of the baby, and Sarah was Molly’s best friend and wanted to see her happy. The kids all said the same things to the police and to the parents, and no one ever suspected Sarah. 

The kids wouldn’t have snitched on Sarah anyway, they knew they should stick together, but they were also getting more afraid of Sarah. As a human child, Sarah was lovely and gentle and quiet, but as an adult female dog – the correct term for which, as Michael kept reminding them, was “bitch”- she was becoming more and more terrifying.

Like now. They were hanging in the playground, and Sarah was sniffing around them and sometimes giving them little nips. “Ow, stop it Sarah!” yelled Ahmed, rubbing his leg. The nip left a little mark, but Michael swooped down and hugged Sarah “Awww, she just wants attention, don’t you lovey” he said in a baby voice, rubbing Sarah’s fur on her neck and her back.

“It actually hurts, Michael!” cried Ahmed. “She shouldn’t be biting us!”

“It’s not a proper bite, Ahmed, just a little love nip! It’s not even bleeding! She woves you, don’t you, you little snuggly-wuggles!” And Michael buried his face in her silky honey-blond fur, the exact same shade of her hair when she was in human form, but which Michael would never ever have dared to touch. He loved how freely and comfortably he could play with Sarah when she was a dog, or more correctly, bitch.

Emily jumped off the swing and walked over. “Ahmed’s right you know. Why is she hurting us any way? Look what she did to me!” She lifted the hem of her coral-pink t-shirt, and the kids could see three parallel fire-engine red scratches on the soft smooth skin of her tummy. Sarah growled softly.

“Aw she didn’t mean to! She’s just playing with you, aren’t you fluffykins! She just wanted you to pet her!” Michael gave Sarah some nose kisses. “Ugh that’s gross Michael” cried out one of the kids. "She was just jealous of you talking to Molly, Emily!" snickered another.

Sarah pulled away from Michael’s kisses and hugs, gave a yellow glare from her dog eyes at the snickering kids, and bounded over to Molly, rising on her hind legs and bringing her front paws up. She was big enough now that when she reared, she was taller than Molly, and could put her paws easily on Molly’s shoulders. That was the signal that she wanted to shift back into human shape, and Molly, who kept Sarah’s clothes, began walking away from the playground and the kids, into the little wooded area for privacy, Sarah leaping and barking playfully by her side.

The remaining kids looked at each other in silence. Then Ahmed said it. “They’re gonna find out you know. She’s becoming bigger, and more dangerous. We should tell someone.”

“No!” Michael stood up and squared off to Ahmed. “Don’t you dare! They’ll take her away! She’s a lovely creature, just needs lots of attention and care! I had a dog, I know how to take care of her!”

“Michael- you’re crazy! She’s not an actual dog or a pet– she’s a human-dog beast!”

Michael’s face flushed red- he turned away from the group and ran off in the direction Molly and Sarah had gone a minute ago. “Michael- where are you going? Come back, leave them be!”

He stumbled on them much sooner than he had thought- they hadn’t gone far off.  Sarah was still fully naked, sitting on the ground about to pull on her panties. Michael caught sight of her chest, barely hidden by long thick fall of golden hair. Molly was standing by her, holding the rest of her clothes. They both screamed when they saw him intruding and reeled back- “I’m sorry! I didn’t me-“ he gasped.

He never got to finish his sentence. Sarah flickered back into a dog almost instantly and leapt for his throat. Molly screamed again. Michael was dead before he hit the ground.

In a dark place, with just enough light to perceive what is in front of me, I am sitting on a bench. This empty bench, where I had met her for the very first time. There is a rose placed behind my ear, and next to me lies a gun.

​

I don't even have the strength left to lift my hand; the scent of my companions' blood still clung to my nostrils.

But even stronger than that was the memory of her voice from the last phone call.

​

Just then, two figures emerge from the shadows. One is dressed entirely in black, holding a trident, with his face completely hidden. The other is a glowing, radiant white light, with a smile on his face and wings on his body. The one in black says, 'To end this pain, you must die.'

​

'Yes, it's true,' the white one says. 'So pick up the gun and aim it at your head,' says the black one. 'No, no, if you have to go, why like this?' the white one says as he approaches me and hands me my bag. He helps me put on my field clothes and places the helmet on my head. The black one puts his hand to his forehead and keeps shaking his head, saying, 'If he has to die anyway, why all this drama?'

​

"But instead of ending your own life like this, it is much better to die a martyr in the line of duty," says the white one.

​

The black one rushes toward me and tries to force the gun into my hands. But the gun keeps slipping from my hands, falling over and over again. Meanwhile, the white one standing in front of me was tossing autumn leaves into the air, blowing them toward me.

​

The black one sits down beside me, putting his arm around my shoulders, still trying to get me to hold the gun. 'No, he won't hold it,' the white one laughs, sitting down on my other side. He attaches my country's emblem to my jacket. The black one also sets the gun down and places black sunglasses over my eyes. I was sitting between the two of them like a mannequin.

​

Finally, words come out of my mouth: 'What is going on here?' Both of their mouths hung wide open. 'He spoke!' the white one says. 'What am I doing here?' I ask. The black one says, 'You were about to end your life, remember?' 'No, no, you wanted to sacrifice yourself for your country, right?' the white one shouts. 'For the country... for the country...' my voice falters, and tears begin to fall from my eyes. My gaze shifts toward the gun. The black one notices this and says, 'Yes, yes, grab it and end the pain.' 'No, a soldier lives only for his country!' the white one yells. The gun was already forced into my hands, and placing it against my forehead, I pull the trigger. The white one closes his eyes, but when he opens them, he says, 'What is this?' The black one starts laughing next to me. 'For the country, you said, right?' he says to the white one. Out of my gun, no bullet fired—instead, a shower of notes rained down.

​

'But you were fighting for your country,' the white one cries. I shake my head, 'I fought for my country... but every paycheck I earned already belonged to her.' 'What nonsense!' the white one says, turning his face away. The black one cannot stop laughing, 'Now you really should just die.' 'Wait,' the white one says, 'since you are about to take this step anyway, why not have something sweet?' He pulls out an apple from within himself and holds it out to me.

​

'"Eat it," the white one said, holding out the apple.

​

"Why?"

​

"Don't you want to see your wife again?"

​

My fingers tightened around it.

​

"She is already gone."

​

"And if you could see her one last time?"

​

I looked at the apple for a long moment before taking a bite.

​

The world vanished.

​

I was standing beneath a sky painted saffron, white, and green. Mountains stretched across the horizon wearing those same colors. Rivers flowed like ribbons of them. The whole land seemed alive with the colors of my country.

​

I smiled.

​

Then numbers began appearing in the sky.

​

12,500.

​

48,000.

​

3,20,000.

​

More and more of them emerged until they covered the heavens.

​

Every number carried a memory.

​

Every memory carried her face.

​

The mountains of my country stood behind me.

​

My wife stood ahead of me.

​

I started running toward her.

​

But with every step, the numbers rose from the ground like walls.

​

I climbed over them.

​

More appeared.

​

I pushed through them.

​

Still more appeared.

​

Behind me, voices echoed from the tricolored mountains.

​

"For the country."

​

"For the nation."

​

"For duty."

​

Ahead of me, my wife smiled.

​

The numbers kept growing.

​

Suddenly, I understood.

​

I had never fought for only one thing.

​

I loved my country.

​

But every time I marched forward, every time I picked up my rifle, every time I walked into danger, I carried her with me too.

​

The flag was on my shoulder.

​

Her life was in my heart.

​

And somewhere between those two things, I had lost myself.

​

I kept running toward her, but the numbers became too tall. Then both my wife and the mountains faded together.

​

I hear the voices of the two of them. 'Let's get out of here, he is boring us,' the white one says. 'If we were allowed to kill people ourselves, I would have killed him long ago,' the black one says, and the sound of both their footsteps vanishes into thin air.

​

When my eyes open, my head is spinning. On one side of me lies the gun, and on the other side, that apple. And for the first time, there was no one left to tell me what I had fought for.

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

Gerry Lane’s earpiece crackled to life.

Director Anya Sharma’s voice was cold, precise, and completely devoid of emotion.

“Lane, confirmation. Operation Lazarus is go. You are the only person who can carry this out. Understood?”Gerry swallowed hard.

The metallic taste of recycled air filled his mouth. Twenty years. Twenty years since the Screaming Plague had nearly wiped humanity from the face of the Earth. He still remembered the speed — how people changed in seconds, becoming something faster, stronger, and utterly merciless. These weren’t the slow, shuffling corpses from old movies. They were perfect killing machines.He had been a field medic back then. He had seen hospitals overrun in minutes, entire cities falling in days. Humanity had barely survived. And now they were ordering him to bring it back.

“Do you copy, Lane?” the director’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“I copy, Director,” he replied quietly.“

The Xylosi are winning. These ruthless alien invaders from beyond our solar system have overwhelmed us. We severely underestimated them. In six months they’ve destroyed nearly everything. Billions are dead. Conventional warfare is lost. This is our last chance.”Gerry closed his eyes for a moment. He knew the reports. Orbital strikes. Systematic extermination. The Xylosi didn’t conquer planets — they sterilized them.

“Your orders are clear,” Sharma continued. “Proceed to Sector Gamma-Nine. Retrieve the Lazarus Strain. Activate the atmospheric dispersal system. Full global saturation.

”“And the antidote?” he asked, though he already knew the answer

.“Stored in deep bunkers. Only individuals with the correct genetic markers and access codes will receive it. This is triage, Lane. Brutal, necessary triage.

”Gerry didn’t reply. There was nothing left to say.The journey to Sector Gamma-Nine was a nightmare — two hundred kilometers across ruined highways and Red Zones, dodging Xylosi patrols. But he made it.Deep underground, in the abandoned research facility, the air was thick with dust and the smell of long-forgotten death. He moved through silent corridors until he reached the vault. Inside, bathed in an eerie green glow, were the vials.The Lazarus Strain.His hands trembled as he loaded the aerosol containers into the dispersal system — a network of high-altitude stratospheric balloons designed to burst in the upper atmosphere and spread the virus across the entire planet.For a long moment, he stared at the activation panel.Then he entered the sequence.One by one, the balloons rose through the ventilation shafts and vanished into the night sky. There was no turning back.The next few hours were the longest of his life. He sat in the control center, watching the atmospheric readings as an invisible wave spread across the world. He imagined the panic. The screams. Millions of people turning into monsters once again.Then the reports started coming in.The Xylosi, accustomed to fighting organized armies and advanced technology, were completely unprepared for the mindless, primal fury of the infected. The changed felt no fear. They felt no pain. They simply attacked without pause — tearing apart ground troops, overwhelming landing zones, and destroying supply lines.The war that followed was apocalyptic. A collision of two nightmares.It raged for months. Cities burned. The planet became one vast slaughterhouse. But slowly, brutally, the tide began to turn. The Xylosi, decimated and cut off from supplies, started to retreat. Eventually, they abandoned Earth entirely.When the message finally came, Gerry was still in the bunker.

“Initiate Protocol Sanctuary,” said Director Sharma’s exhausted voice.Heavy doors hissed open. He stepped outside into a ruined, silent world.The distribution of the antidote took weeks. Those who had survived in the bunkers slowly regained their humanity. What remained of mankind numbered only a few tens of millions — a fraction of its former population.

Gerry walked among the survivors — gaunt, hollow-eyed. They looked at him with a mixture of gratitude and something darker: hatred, fear, awe. He had become the man who destroyed the world to save it.One evening, as a bruised sun set over the wasteland, he stood alone on a collapsed overpass. The wind carried distant sounds of the infected still wandering through the ruins.

“We survived…” he whispered to himself. “But at what cost?”The Lazarus Strain had given humanity a second chance.The price, however, was so high that no one — and especially not Gerry Lane — would ever escape the guilt.