I worked as a social worker for twelve years out on the East Coast.
I saw children who were mistreated, women that were abused, and plenty of
others that had mental health problems, bad judgment or worse luck. So many
people suffering, and you get invested and try to help and then have to
leave it at the job so it doesn't eat you alive when you go.
And for the most part, I was good at compartmentalizing that stuff. But
then five months before I quit and moved across the country, I met a
young traumatized woman and everything changed. Her name was Hattie McGovern and she was
a college student who had been attacked the night before as she crossed through a
park on the way to a neighborhood. When I saw her, she was
on the first day of three days of observation. She had injuries, sure,
but there were largely cuts and abrasions to a scalp, and what she
was saying didn't entirely make sense. When we were alone and I was finished
telling her about the government services she might benefit from, I asked her if
she wanted to talk about what happened. I'd heard enough from the nurse outside
to know it would be wild, but I had no idea of the details
until she began to speak in a soft, hoarse voice. She said she'd
been halfway through the park, walking at a fast pace because she planned on
taking a shower and then heading back out to meet some friends, and was
running behind when she realized an older man was walking next to her, well
not next to her, she said, about fifty feet away, traveling across
the grass, stepping over hedges and sidewalks without slowing or even looking at where
he was going. Instead, he was just keeping pace with her, step
for step and staring at her with a wide smile that made him look like
a skull between his pale skin and his bald head. This freaked her out,
of course, and she began walking faster. She didn't run, she
said, because she felt like it was kind of like running from a bear.
You shouldn't show weakness or fear, but just get away before things went
from weird to bad. So she turned to look to where she was going
and to see if she saw any people closer than her apartment complex ad block
away. There was none, and when she looked back to where the man
had been, he was gone. That when she felt the hand plunging into
a long blonde hair and pulling her to the ground. Known he was going
to be something about her hair. Her injuries, other than a bruise on
her throat and a couple of other scrapes, were all on her head,
dozens of oozing places where the strange board man had held her down and roughly
cut off all her hair with a straight razor. Crying softly, she showed
me a picture of her the week before, long curly hair the color of
summer honey framed her. Then smiling face. I passed her that didn't know
what was about to happen. The version of her before me looked ten years
older and broken in some fundamental way. Sniffing back tears, she said that
when the men yanked her to the ground, the breath went out of her,
but she immediately started trying to get up and get away. That he
had grabbed her by the throat and held her back down, but just for
a moment, just long enough that he could spit in her face. Hattie
said it made no sense, but after he did that, she couldn't move
anymore, not at all. The girl told me the doctors had tried to
say it was shock or fear, but she said that was nonsense. She
was paralyzed by the thick, foul smelling wad he'd spat onto her face,
and even him producing the straight razor from a hidden pocket didn't get a move
and again, beyond the hammering of a heart, he never said anything,
just smiled as he began gripping handfuls of her hair and scraping them off a
scalp. I asked her if it hurt, and she gave me a warty
laugh. She said that sure it did, but that wasn't the worst part.
He was feeling so violated and having a part of her taken away,
even more than the fear of what he might do to her after the feeling
had been the worst. When he had rolled her over to her stomach to
cut the rest of her hair off, she felt the first tingles of movements
starting to come back, not enough to really move, but some small,
stirring twitches. She decided to wait, let it come back more, and
then tried to run when the opportunity came or he was distracted, not that
she was just sitting and waiting for him to do whatever he wanted. Every
moment she was tensed to try and fight if she saw the blade coming for
her neck, or if he tried to take her clothes off. She just
knew that she couldn't really move or fight yet, and she wanted him to
either go slow or just stop and leave her alone. He chose the latter.
When he had cut off the last of her hair, he scooped up
the pile next to her head and walked a few feet away out of a
line of sight. She heard some kind of gasping, choking sound then,
and while it took all her strength, she managed to turn her head slightly
to see what he was doing. He was eating her hair, all of
it. Golden fistfuls were crammed in one after the other as he chewed and
gasped and choked and swallowed. The sound was disgusting, but seeing it was
worse. She said, it scared her worse than before, though she couldn't
have said why. And it was then, as she lay frozen and horrified,
that the man suddenly let out a gasping groan and toppled over under the
grass. He lay there, twitching for what felt like a minute or two,
and though from her angle she couldn't see his face. She felt like
he was either having a seizure or choking to death. She hoped for the
latter, but didn't dare rely on that. Forcing her limbs to move,
she got to her hands and knees and started to crawl out of the street.
Everything felt weird and slow, but she started making progress, periodically looking
back to see if the man was still out. First time, still down
and twitching. Second time he was sitting up and staring at her. It
was at this point that she started shaking and crying harder. So after waiting
a couple of minutes, I asked the question to prompt her. Did he
come for her again? No, she said. They looked at each other,
He gave her another smile, and she started crawling faster or screaming her
head off. The guy was jogging down the other side of the street and
came over to help. When she looked back the next time, her attacker
was gone. Thank god, I said, and she nodded in mute agreement.
But I could tell there was something more. When I asked, she
paused a long time before shaking her head. You'll just think I'm a crazy
liar, like they do. I had to reassure her that I wouldn't think
any such thing several times before she finally told me the rest when he sat
up. When I saw him that last time, he wasn't bald anymore.
He had long, curly hair, blonde hair just like mine. He ate
my hair and stole it from me. Over the next couple of months,
I checked on her case. Hattie had moved back to Wisconsin to be with
her family, and while her physical wounds were healing well enough, she still
had emotional issues she was working through from the attack. When I called her
mental health counselor at a new college, she tried to talk very broadly and
not give me any details, But toward the end of the conversation she did
let one slip. The poor dear, it's so strange how her hair won't
grow back. It was another month and a half before I saw the graffiti.
I normally took a bus home to just two blocks from my work,
but one day my normal bus line was delayed due to an accident, so
I had the choice of paying for a taxi or walking further to a different
stop. I picked the latter, and while the neighborhood I traveled through didn't
seem especially rough or dangerous. It was more run down than the places I
worked or lived, more closed businesses and unkent blots and graffiti scattered along the
walls here and there. It was, when I was nearing the bus stop
that I had to walk under an overpass bridge that I had colorful drawings and
sayings, insults and boasts. Yet among that riot of lines and squiggles,
one thing stood apart, as though none of the rest wanted to be close
to this single line, written in simple letters of dark red, he I
only eat the best of us. A year earlier, I would have laughed
at the line, wondering if it was a social commentary or a line from
a movie. But walking through that patch of shadows, as the words burned
down at me from above, my mind immediately went a hattie, and I
walked faster until I reached my stop. When I reached it, I looked
back, and that's when I saw him, a thin, pale man with
long, flowing blonde hair. I might have let out a little scream right
then, I don't remember. I do recall turning back to the street,
thinking I needed to call a taxi or get someone's attention. When I saw
the bus turning the corner, A blocked down and I nearly cried and really
running to meet it. I jumped on as soon as the doors opened,
and when I looked back, I saw no sign of the man anywhere.
Heart pounding, I scanned my pass and took a seat in the middle of
the bus. It was only half full, but the comfort of being around
other people, even total strangers, was undeniable. I felt like a gazelle
hiding in the herd from a stalking lion. The dramatic flare of the thought
made me laugh. Wasn't I overreacting? Had I really seen the man?
Or had I just imagined it because I was tired and taking a strange route
that made me uneasy. Glancing at my phone, I guessed my nearest stop
to home would be about twenty minutes away. After a moment's debate, I
set my phone alarm for fifteen in case I dozed off, though that seemed
unlikely given the panic I had felt a few moments before. I might not
ever sleep. I woke up to words being spoken right next to my ear.
Few have lovely eyes. I jumped to my seat and started to turn
round when I froze. The evening had fully come on by now, and
the windows of the bus were all black with the growing night outside. In
the reflection of the window closest to me, I could not only see myself,
but who had spoken to me. It was the old blond man,
leaning against my ear like a whispering lover. In the reflection, my terrified
gaze found his milky eyes hanging like infected moons above his sickly sickle smile.
He held me with that look for a moment before rasping out the words again,
you have lovely eyes. My fear broke the spell this time, and
I jumped out of my seat and rushed to the front, yelling for the
driver to let me out. Let me out now, goddamn it. Looking
surprised and irritated, he pulled at the curb, even as my phone alarm
went off. I was just two blocks away now, and I wasn't above
running the entire way, so that's exactly what I did. I jumped off
the bus as the doors opened, pulling off my heels and running barefoot down
the sidewalk for two blocks to my building. I never looked back the entire
time. And it wasn't until I was behind my door and the dead bolt
was thrown that I took a breath or dared to look back out through the
peep hole. I saw no sign of anyone out there, and when I
went to my windows to look for any sign of the old man following me,
I found none. Good it was maybe a coincidence, but even if
it was Hattie guy, he couldn't have followed me all the way home,
not with how fast I was. There was a knock at the door,
stifling another scream. I crept back to the door, not wanting to betray
that I was home. Looking back through the peep hole, I saw nothing.
Maybe he had been a mistake and the person had realized they had the
wrong door and went on. I waited for a couple of minutes, watching
and listening for someone, and there was nothing. It wasn't until I turned
to go into the living room that a new knock returned, this one more
rhythmic and familiar. Knock knock, kN knock, knock, knock knock.
I gave a shudder as I realized I recognized what that was. Shaven a
haircut, two bits, biting my lip, I went back to the door
and stared out again through the hole. There was still no one out there
that I could see, not that I was about to open the door to
fully check. What if they were just standing to the side waiting for me
to crack the door. I debated calling the police, but I wasn't sure
what to tell them, or if they'd even come for something so small,
so instead I called the building's handyman. George told him I thought a creepy
guy might have followed me into the building, and now someone kept knocking on
my door. I asked him, did he mind coming up and just see
if he saw anything. He sounded sleepy and irritated initially, but when he
heard the fear of my voice, he said he'd be right there. Less
than five minutes later, there was a new knock on the door, for
this time who was quickly followed by George's voice, Miss Castillo. There's no
one out here. Now. I'm going to double check the other doors,
but I think you're okay. Someone did leave you something out here, though
I unlocked the door and opened it part way left something what. George pushed
the items through the crack and handed it to me. There that's for you.
I guess. I think you're okay, but you be careful. Okay,
there are some bad things out there. I noticed that he said things
instead of people, but I let it pass. George, it's something wrong.
He looked a little paler as he forced a smile and shook his head,
never raising his eyes to me. No, I think everything is okay.
Just keep your door locked, okay, and let me know if you
have any more trouble. I gotta get back downstairs. I thought about reminding
him to check the other floors, but then he was gone, shutting the
door back and locking it. I decided it didn't matter. I had a
feeling he wasn't going anywhere except down to his own apartment to turn his own
dead bolt. That feeling only grew when I turned on the lights and looked
more closely at what had been left for me. Maybe it had been a
mocking threat or a warning, but I knew what it felt like a promise.
So the next day I gave my notice and move most my stuff into
an extended stay hotel. Three weeks later, I was driving a moving truck
across the country to my new home. The first thing I set out in
my new house was the gift I got that night. I hate looking at
it, but I need to see it, be reminded of it, like
a head or heart full of scars, or the red letter scrawled underneath a
bridge. It warns me to never let my guard down, to never assume
that the darkness has nothing but empty fear waiting for me in its depths.
Even now, I can see it on my mantle, gleaming a dull gray.
I think it's made of pewter, and it feels very heavy and old.
The few times I've been able to make myself touch it, not that
I need to any more, I still see it when I close my eyes.
A thick handled metal spoon with a deep round bowl. The tabors to
a sharp edge on the outer rim, not by initial design, but by
use of wet stone or a grinder. It's more of a razor, now,
hard and cold and bitingly thin, shaped for cutting and digging. And
I know, without checking that if some one were to stick it into my
eye socket, they could sliced through the lid and scoop out my eyeball like
a bit of over ripe melon. My hands are shaking as I tell you
this. I can't quite look at the mantle any longer, so I look
out the window instead. It's not dark yet, but the shadows are growing
fatter with each passing morsel of the day. I forced myself to keep looking
into the deepening twilight, and some nights I even tell myself, I'm not
still afraid, but the whisper in my heart is enough bravery or strength.
It's the dreadful double thrum of the gazelle's heart, looking out into the darkness,
not looking out of courage, but out of terror and necessity and weak
trembling hope, hope that when we look out into the darkness, nothing looks
back or is drawing near. We'd all heard the urban legends, heeded the
warnings, followed the rules. To a t well of us there is Christian
and I weren't like normal kids. We were always getting into trouble, from
playing hockey to shoplifting to going on joy rides. We did it all.
We were, without a doubt, the most despised preteens in town. Little
do we know or that mischief would inevitably lead us to the worst day of
our lives. God, I wish I could take it back, people in
my town were always very superstitious. Not like, oh, you spilled the
salt, throw a pincher over your left shoulder superstitious. No, something happened
here a long time ago, something sinister, something that still bears its burden,
and the townsfolk half a century later. You see, back in the
seventies, kids started going missing. The disappearances always occurred at night, always,
and always in the same fashion. Parents would lock their homes down tighter
than Fort Knox, only to find the front door hanging wide open the following
morning. The kidnappings were beginning to pile up at the same time that nightly
reports of an ice cream truck circling neighborhoods began to flood into the police station.
Every time the authorities were called, the truck would be gone when they
arrived, no matter the response time. The strange thing was, we didn't
have an ice cream truck in the seventies. Well we still don't. This
has always been the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, and none other
families in town have ever owned an ice cream truck. Naturally, people began
to associate the truck with the disappearances. Obviously, people tried to catch the
mysterious abductor behind the wheel. That when the adults started going missing, no
one whoever confronted the driver was ever seen again. The fear was beginning to
reach a boiling point. People panicked, families with children started packing their things.
Even some people without families at all were looking at relocating. And then,
just when nearly half the population was about to split, it stopped the
almost nightly kidnappings, the sightings of the ice cream truck, all of it.
The townsfolk never truly recovered. I mean, how could they. After
that, most families of the victims moved away, eventually losing any hope of
ever seeing their loved ones again. Can't say have blamed them. I wouldn't
have stuck around after that either. The ones who did stay grew paranoid,
so they did everything in their power to ensure that nothing similar would ever happen
again. That unfortunately manifested into an extremely strict set of rules. Girls aren't
allowed to walk anywhere alone. The doors and windows that every house must remain
locked at all times, and of course, no one is allowed outside after
dark for any reason. The town shuts down well before sundown as a not
so subtle a reminder. Growing up, I always thought the stories when nonsense.
I thought it was just another lazy excuse for parents to keep a close
eye in their children to prevent us from causing mayhem. I should have listened,
Sarah for the last time. I'm not sneaking out with you tonight.
You know the rules, Christian whispered, tapping the eraser on his pencil against
his notebook absent mindedly. Come on, this is the one rule we haven't
broken yet. You spray painted off as a Dawkins police cruiser, and this
is what you're afraid of. I'm not scared. This is different. It's
something sacred. You've lived here for just as long as I have. You
should know that, he hissed, pretending the dial into Missus Huckabee's my numbing
lecture on mitosis. Aren't you at least a little curious? You can't seriously
tell me you've never wondered about going out at night. There's got to be
something more than they're letting on, Sarah. I'm not going with you.
If you want to risk your life by going out after dark, go right
ahead, but leave me out of it. Christian said, with a sternfire
in his tone. I never seen him so serious about anything before, and
that frightened me. Remodeled to the remainder of the class in silence. Christian
gave me the cold shoulder all day. I was beginning to wonder if I'd
overstepped. I'll give you some time to blow over. I had just finished
cramming my textbooks into my locker when Christian approached me. I jumped, nearly
dropping my backpack. I hadn't expected to see him again that day. What's
up, dude? Thought you were going to make me walk home alone?
He locked eyes with me, sending a chill creeping up my spine. A
bit of determination was scrawled across his visage. I'll go with you. I
was taken aback. It'd been so adamant earlier. What changed? Are you
sure? I mean, I don't want to go if you're not comfortable with
it. I'm sure I have to know, he said, averting his gaze.
Okay, we'll meet at your house at midnight. Sound good? Yeah?
Christian sheepishly glanced up at me. And you didn't seriously think I'd let
you walk home by yourself, did you? I giggled, flashing him a
grin. No, I guess I didn't. Christian was seemingly back to his
old self. On the way home from school. I listened intently as he
babbled on about his latest revenge scheme. He was planning on setting off a
fart bomb in Becky Nelson's locker for snitching on him. I didn't care if
I was being suckered into another one of his devious pranks. I was just
happy that things were back to normal between us. I'm gonna make a pay,
christiansted, smashing his fist into his palm. Can't wait to see the
look on her ugly ass face. Anyway, I'll see you tonight, I
said, as I trudged up my driveway. You bet. We waved goodbye
to each other, and I watched as Christian continued down the sidewalk. Midnight
couldn't come quickly enough. I giddly awaited nightfall. I felt as though my
heart would burst from my chest at any given moment. My adrenaline always spiked
before one of our little misadventures. I was watching the time like a hawk.
My parents had already turned in for the night, so I was left
to my own devices. That was a dangerous game. My eyes were glued
to the numbers of my phone screen. Eleven fifty eight pm. It was
so close, yes, and that's when I heard it clunk. Something hard
pelted my window. My eyes grew wide, and a smile inched across my
lips. As I raised to the sauce. Christian was standing outside, his
arms cocked like a quarter back. Oh there you are, hey, he
said, dropping the rock in his hand. Dude, you skat the hell
out of me. Weren't we supposed to meet your place? And why didn't
you just text me like a normal person. Sorry I got restless, he
muttered, staring at his feet. My parents took my phone last week.
Remember. Oh yeah, I'm not sure I've forgot Coming down, I said,
cautiously, climbing out and steadying myself on the step ladder that I strategically
placed below my window. I hopped down from the last step, landing in
the grass. The soft thumb ready, I said, eager to set off.
Yeah, let's go, Christian said, taking my hand. I blushed,
and he quickly recoiled. Even in the dim yellow light provided by the
street lamps, I could tell that his face was bright red. I'm sorry.
I didn't mean to do that. I just want to get going,
is all. No, No, you could I get it. There was
a long, awkward pause before Christians spoke off, So where are we going?
Ah? I don't know. I hadn't thought this fire ahead. Where
do you want to go? How about the park might be kind of fun
with no kids around the park. It is lead the way, I said,
dramatically, extending my arm. A big goofy grin plastered itself and Christian's
face as he willingly apblo. We walked in silence, drinking in the scene
around us. We passed by dozens of houses, their looming presents lending and
unsettling air to the stillness of the night. The faint light cast an eerie
glow that glinted off their windows, making my blood run cold. Another strange
thing I noticed was that it was deathly quiet. The only sounds we heard
were our own light footfalls against the pavement and the blood rushing in our ears.
There were no noises from creatures of the night, no bugs, no
frogs, nothing. We couldn't even hear any crickets chirping, and that sent
a chill down my spine. I was sweating bullets by the time we arrived
at the playground. Christian looked and fazed, but I highly suspected that he
was putting on a front. And don't get me wrong, Christian was one
tough cookie, but truth be told, I was the braver of the two
of us. Usually, if I was feeling on edge, he'd be ten
times worse off. We plopped down on adjacent swings. I cringed as the
rusted metal swing set creaked and groaned under our weight. Even though we were
alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, like something
sinister knew we were there. I shuddered at the thought that something evil might
be lurking in the darkness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I
told myself that I was freaking out over nothing, but I couldn't stop intermittently
peeking into the shadow veiled trees behind us. I was seriously beginning to regret
leaving the safety of my home. So, Sarah, is it just me?
Or is this place, this town? Does it feel like there's a
presence, you know, like we're not the only ones out here? He
kept his voice hushed, like he was afraid that someone else would hear him.
Yeah, I feel it too. It's really creepy, I said,
sensing the oppressive way to that feeling slightly lift from my shoulders. It was
nice to know a Christian felt it too. Christian stared off into the mulch
at our feet. He looked lost and thought as if his body was there,
but his mind was in some far off dimension. You know, I
wasn't originally planning to come with you. There's a reason I chose to come
out tonight, he sighed, and very ambition written across his features. There
was something who was hiding from me, but I cood sense that he was
slowly mustering up the courage to tell me what it was. So, I
know you've all heard the stories about the ice cream truck that went around abducting
kids in the seventies, and I know that you'd think it's all a pile
of steaming nonsense. But it's not. He paused, searching my face for
a reaction. How can you be so sure we went a life back then.
So my uncle was one of the children who were kidnapped. My heart
plummeted into my gut, not for the fact that Christian was related to some
one who was taken, but that the stories were true. Christian, I'm
so sorry. I I didn't know. I it's okay, he said,
interrupting me again. Here was three when it happened. It's been decades,
but I don't think Dad ever really forgave himself. He was only five at
the time, but he feels like he should have done more. He won't
tell me that, but I know I can see it in his eyes.
It still tears him up even now. The tear began to trickle down Christian's
cheek, but he quickly swiped it away. I know it's stupid of me,
but I just had to know if it was true, if that thing
was still around. I was honestly sort of hoping that it would be.
I know I don't stand much of a chance of killing whoever's behind it,
but this might help a bit, right, He gragged a smile and flashed
the sharp black switchblade. Yeah, I think that would help your chances a
bit, I juckled. You know I wouldn't let you fight alone either.
Hate the bursty bubble, though I don't think we will run into that thing
tonight. Yeah, you're probably right. Christian said, standing from his swing,
Let's go home works for me. I've seen enough. I joined him
and we began to make our way back towards our houses. We'd only made
it to the street when I heard it, a jingle. The sounds sliced
through the silence like a rusty knife. It was slow, melodic, but
something about it was wrong. Christian and I glanced at each other, eyes
wide as saucers. My heart thumped furiously against my chest as it grew closer.
It blared, the tune of London bridges falling down, intertwined with the
sound of a jack in the box cranking up, sending waves of panic rippling
through me at every interval. And then it slowly rolled into view. A
white truck rounded the corner to the street where were standing. On a comically
large pink ice cream cone was perched to the top it, facing the sky
like a rocket ready for left off. The windows were tinted to the point
that I couldn't see who or what was behind the wheel. I wanted to
run, to scream, to hide anything, but I was paralyzed with fear.
The truck crept closer and closer. Dread seaped into my bones. I
didn't know what to do. Eventually it passed. I guked at it,
drinking in all the different selections pasted on the side, and then it stopped
directly in front of us. The music cut out, bathing the night,
and that all encompassing silence. My breath hitched in my throat, waiting for
something to happen. Without warning, the back doors of the ice cream truck
swung open. I looked at Christian. His horrified expression had melted into one
of curiosity. He began to make his way toward the open truck. His
legs moved like they had a mind of the roan, dragging himself closer and
closer. To this day, I don't know why, but I didn't even
try to stop him. Now I joined him. I can't explain it,
but there was something alluring about that truck, something that effortlessly took hold of
me and pulled me in, and I was powerless to stop it. We
both tentatively walked closer, coming to a halt directly behind it. I paid
inside, my mouth agape. It was spotless, a sparkling white interior with
rows upon rows of freezers shined inside. You boasted every flavor of ice cream.
You could imagine at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to step
into the back of that truck and try every variation of ice cream had had
to offer. Nothing bad would happen. It was just an ice cream truck,
after all. Christians stepped in before I could react. He turned back
to me, out stretching a hand to hoist me up. I didn't even
have a chance to take it. The doors suddenly slam shut, locking Christian
inside. I'll never forget the lock of abject fear on his face In that
split second before the doors closed, I was ripped from my stupor as the
ice cream truck flowed it down the road. Its tires squealed as it went,
leaving me standing alone under a street lamp. I broke down, fat
tears streaming down my cheeks as I bolted home. I couldn't lose Christian.
It was the only real friend I'd ever had. I burst through my front
door, spewing nonsense to my parents as I crumbled to the ground of their
feet. I didn't care if I'd get in trouble anymore. I just wanted
to find a way to bring my friend back. The police were called,
Christian's parents were notified and a search party was assembled. I don't think I
need to tell you, but they didn't find them. Christian is still missing
to this day. I was never the same after that. It didn't matter
how much time passed, how many therapy sessions I attended, how hard I
tried to forget. That image of Christian's terrified face is still burned into my
memory. But there's something that chills me even more than that look of pure
dread scrawled across my best friend's countenance. Something that I still can't comprehend.
When I peered into the back of that ice cream truck, there was no
one behind the wheel. So why am I telling you this? Why?
Now? Well, my son went missing last night. I awoke with a
start next to my snoring husband. A sinking pit of dread sank into my
stomach. When that horrible tune met my ears, London Bridge is falling down.
I raced to the front door. It was wide open. I watched
helplessly as my baby boy climbed into the back of that truck. I couldn't
even scream. I was rooted in fear, just like I had been on
that night two decades ago. A surge of panic coursed through my veins like
venom. Because as the ice cream truck sped away with my child, I
noticed that the window was rolled down, and I swear, for a split
second I saw Christian wink at me from the driver's seat. I've always preferred
nights. Something about being up while everyone else is asleep feels great. That
and I can't sleep. Ever since my fiance passed away, sleeping became a
luxury I couldn't afford. I used to lay in bed, tossing and turning
the entire night. My eyes would be bloodshot. When sunlight peeked through my
blinds, I rose up and off my bed like a zombie. Melatonin never
helped. I guess my body grew an immunity to it over time. I
mean, why wouldn't it. I'm surprised they'd did an overdose taking ten pills
a night. Herbal teas that help you sleep are rubbish, nothing but a
waste of money. Don't even get me started on those intense sleep routines.
Shut off all the electronics, slash artificial light thirty minutes before bed, don't
eat an hour before bed, read a book, and whatever nonsense they have
you do. That may work for some people, sure as hell didn't work
for me. I even resorted to counting sheep well, my version of counting
cheap imagine millions of alternative realities. With Vanat was still alive, I laid
awake, smiling like a fool up of the popcorn ceiling. My imagination got
so vivid that I would see a silhouette in a corner of my room for
seconds at a time. I wanted nothing else but to believe it was really
her, to believe she came back just to say one last proper farewell.
The logical part of me knew that what's dead will always stay dead. The
other part of me found loopholes in that saying what's dead may never truly die.
In my mind, the sleepless nights and hallucinations took a toll on my
mental health. I contemplated ending things many many times. Maybe I'll be with
her in the afterlife. I thought, she's waiting for me. Thankfully,
the logical side of me one and I attended therapy. My therapist was and
still is the kindest woman I've ever met. At first, I thought she
was getting paid to act nice to me, pretending to care about my feelings.
But no, she truly listened and understood. When I told her about
my sleep problems. She recommended that I get a graveyard shift job. It
never occurred to me. I live in a big city, the city that
never sleeps. There are over night jobs everywhere, the perfect solution. I
could just sleep throughout the day. I applied to every graveyard job I could
find online. Some rejected me, saying my work experience at a grocery store
wasn't enough. Have you called me in for interviews? Which went bad?
I guess since I never got a reply. Only one job was willing to
take on an inexperienced employee. It was a warehouse job for a well known
grocery store in my area. The pay wasn't too bad, Plus I just
started getting experienced. Somewhere, I got word from my new boss that two
other people were starting on the same night as me. That was somewhat relieving.
I wouldn't be the only new guy. I always got stupidly nervous before
starting new things, a job, college, the gym, everything. I
feared the unknown. My mind would cope by imagining every possible scenario by the
time I pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse, I thought of one
hundred and seventy five scenarios that could go down. Blue moonlight shone down on
the warehouse. It had a gray steel exterior with a ton of light poles
lining the sidewalk. It was as if they wanted to recreate the sun with
how many light poles there were. Just thinking of the electricity bill made my
head ache. Maybe the absurd amount of black coffee I drank played a part
in that. I glanced at my malfunctioning radio, which displayed the time eleven
forty five. The closer got to twelve, the faster my heart beat it.
I pulled down my car's sun visor and looked in the mirror. Only
then did I realize what that late my pupils were. Damn, I drank
too much coffee. They're gonna think among drugs and fire me, my overthinking
God. Interrupted by a sudden knock at the window, I jumped at the
sound, nearly jumped out of my own skin. My head hit the car
ceiling with a thud. To my left, I heard some giggling. I
turned to see a woman's face smiling, her eyes were caramel colored and hinted
at joyfulness. She had thick eyebrows like mine, yet hers were well lined.
She wore the yellow company polo, also like mine, but hers fitter
bodied perfectly. Mine was baggy since they didn't have a men's medium size.
Bracelets rattled on a wrist as she waved. I felt extremely bad. How
did someone as beautiful as her end up homeless? I cranked down the window
of my beat up car and gave her an awkward little smile. Ah,
hey, sorry, I have no money. This is literally my first day.
Huh. She tilted her head at me and looked around as if I
were talking to some one else. She looked back at me and smiled with
realization. Please just some change would suffice, sweet sir. She giggled.
My cheeks burned up, and I stammered, I'm so sorry. I smiled
and scratched the back of my head. I even noticed her yellow polo.
Gee, I'm stupid. I take that as a compliment. She backed up,
giving room to open the door and get out. Being mistaken for a
homeless person is a compliment. I stuttered, like a fool. This was
not one of the scenarios I expected on my ride here. Of course,
She balanced herself on a concrete planter. I leaned against my car, struggling
to find where my hand should go in my pockets crossed. Homeless people are
the freest of all, but they don't really have anywhere to settle down,
I said, look around. She spun ahead exaggeratedly, like a pirate ship
navigator. They can settle down anywhere, as long as they don't get kicked
out. Of course, She hopped down and stared me in the eyes.
I yeah. My eyes started back and forth, averting eye contact. Hmm,
are you Refrayel or Remy? I'm wait, let me guess. Hmm.
She shrugged a chin. Raphael, and that's me. Let's go,
she celebrated, as if she had won the World Cup. I knew it.
You don't look like a Remy, how so I don't know the curly
hair suits. Someone named Raffa. As soon as she said Raffa, I
wasn't there anymore. In my mind. I was running through an open flower
field with v neat being back lit by the rising sun. Raffa, she
called out, sounding close yet so far. Rafa. Her voice was as
soothing as a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer. Rafa. Her voice
sounded like a million screeching insects. Raffa, she said the woman in front
of me. She glanced at a watch. Shall we get going? It's
eleven fifty. Don't call me raffa. I turned to walk to the warehouse.
She jogged to catch up, bracelets jingling, and walked next to me.
Why just don't, I looked down at our shadows. We approached the
huge metal doors. Two cameras glared down at us, red lights blinking.
The woman next to me waved the camera and yelled out, Hi, we're
the new people. I'm Karen. Here's raffa. The metal doors clicked and
unlocked. Karen skipped forward, pushing it with all her might. She held
her back against it and waved me ahead, Thanks, I said. The
door shut behind us. The warehouse was lit up like a fire. Numerous
fluorescent lights hung overhead, buzzing like millions of invisible flies. Looking around,
there didn't seem to be any shadows. Tall shadowless shelves lying the entire interior,
resembling a maze. Two shadowless people walked around this maze, hulling electric
jacks with loaded palettes. The beeping of forglyphs reverberated through the warehouse, overpowering
the lo fi music playing in the intercoms. No one paid us attention,
except for a big board guy marching towards us with a clipboard under his armpit.
He wore a yellow company pollo, same as everyone, but his was
stretched to its last string because of his muscles. Go ahead, clock in,
then follow me, he said, as kindly as his deep voice allowed
him. He pointed at the wall where we had just ended from. There
was a wall mounted tablet awaiting us. Karen skipped towards it and punched in
her employee number from the card they gave us new people. I punched mine
in out of memory. We followed her new boss, navigating through the maze
like aisles. You two work in the far corner helping hands stack pallets since
you haven't taken the test for the electric jack usage. God damn o sha,
he grunted. We arrived at the far right corner, where a tall,
lanky man with bowl cut hair was already stacking boxes. Here you are,
he pointed at the two empty pallets next to the ball cut guy's pallette.
If you have any questions, feel free to call me on that intercom.
There. He pointed the wall behind the pallets and towers of boxes where
a landfhone was mounted. If you need to use the restroom, it's located
on the far left. If you do use the restroom, never, and
I mean never, turn off the lights. Got it, yes, sir,
said Karen, standing with his shoulders pin back like a cadet. I
nodded very well. He said, off you go. We walked to our
pallettes. Karen took the middle one hight, the one to the right,
furthest from the bowl cut dude. Stocking boxes left and right. Got tiring
for my back. Just a few minutes in. I looked at Karen and
the bowl cut dude, who I assumed was Remy. They were quick to
stack. Karen stacked a palette neatly, putting the bigger ones to the bottom
for support and the smaller ones to the top. Remy valued speed over neatness.
He was on his second pallette. I copy Karen neat and quick.
When Karen finished the first palette and it was taken away by someone with an
electric jack, she decided to make small talk. Remy right right, he
said, not once looking up from his palette. Nice to meet youa I'm
Karen and he's Raffer. She pointed at me. Nice to meet you,
co workers, said remy. Karen took the hint and looked at me with
eyes that said he's a jerk. I smiled, reassuring her I knew what
she meant. Time passed slower then a sloth walking under water. When my
second pallette was stacked, I got the sudden urge to pee the absurd amount
of coffee wanted out of my bladder. I'll be back, I told Karen.
If the boss stops by, let him know him in the bathroom.
Please, got it. You won't turn off the light romy cut off,
Karen? You won't, of course I won't. I looked at him,
confused. I knew you were was? He shrugged. I played along with
his little game. Curiosity killed the cat, I replied, good thing.
I ain't no cat, he said, finally, looking up from his palette.
He had a deep scar across his fright eye. Straightening up his body,
he was even taller than I imagined, at least six feet three inches.
He towed over my five feet nine inches self. He sure has helld
toued over Karen, whatever you are, curiosity will kill that as well.
His eyebrows forehead gotcha, I thought. His expression turned straight and he went
back to work on his palette. I felt a presence behind me, knowing
full well it was the boss. Based on Karen's smirk, I turned around.
The Boss glared down at me. His resting face gave the impression of
being mad all the time. Off somewhere. I suppose, bathroom, sir,
restroom? He corrected, Yeah, that very well, he said,
stepping aside to let me pass. I walked away, feeling his stare dig
into the back of my neck. Chills shot up all over my body.
I entered the bright and narrow hallway in the far corner of the building.
There was only one unisex bathroom, hard for a building of this size.
I twisted the doorknob, pushing the door open and stepping in. It was
the cleanest bathroom I've ever seen. The chessboard looking floor reflected light as if
it had been freshly waxed. The two mirrors reflected a four K like image
of myself, maybe even eight K. It was as if there was another
me staring back intoad of a reflection. I quickly did my business and washed
my hands. The soap dispensers actually worked. It amazed me. As I
was on my way out, I reached the light switch out of instinct,
I stopped myself, remembering this wasn't my apartment and I didn't have to worry
about the electricity bill. The thought occurred to me at that moment hard.
I thought, if they didn't want anyone turning off the lights, why not
remove the lights which completely It sounded like common sense to me. Maybe they
never thought of it, or maybe they have but decided against it for some
odd reason. I shrugged and continued to the door. The door swung open.
It banged against the wall. The thought reverberated in the small bathroom.
The floor rumbled with angry footsteps. I locked up. It was Remy.
He marched right up to me, grabbing my shirt and twisting it. You
think you're funnier, smart ass. The door shut behind him. The stitching
of my polo shirt teared slowly. The ripping sound was the only thing I
could hear. It infuriated me. My blood boiled. I grabbed his wrist,
digging my fingernails into it. He let go of his grip and let
out a grunt. With my other hand, I grabbed his palm and bent
it back. He squirmed around. Don't move, I said, I'll break
it. With his free hand, he swung. It was a haymaker,
a sloppy punch. I had plenty of time to dock. I dogged,
letting over his wrist for a second, encountering the left hook to his liver.
He grunted and his body struggled to stay upright. I grabbed his wrist
again, bending it back even further. Don't test me, I'll break it.
He let out a yelp. Looking around for an escape, there wasn't
any I could break his wrist at any He reached for the light, managed
to flick the switch, but the lights stayed on. The buzzing of the
fluorescent light grew loud, as loud as a boiling teapot, louder than that.
I let go of his wrist and clamped my hands over my ears.
It was a poor attempt at blocking out that deafening screech. The lights flickered
slowly. The rhythm they had resembled laughter. How in the world there were
lights laughing at us, mocking us. The screech grew even louder. I
felt paralyzed. I wanted to dash for the light switch. I couldn't.
Somehow I knew if I let go of covering my ears, I'd be deaf
for the rest of my life. I groaned and yelled. Either me or
Remy called out for help. Maybe it was both of us. I couldn't
even hear my own voice over the sound. Eyes started left and right,
and I froze. My gaze on the mirror. It was warping, rippling,
like a portal from a game. He called out to me, called
out to us. She called out to me for neat. I felt a
presence in the rippling mirror. A voice overpowered the screeching, offering me an
end to all my pain, present and past. Yes, I thought I
want it. I judged the mirror, hands still clasped over my ears.
It felt as if I was knee deep in quicksand my bones were stiff.
The only way I could continue forward was as if I waddled, so I
did. I stood in front of the mirror. My reflection and I were
the only ones in the world. It or I smiled. My reflection rippled
and morphed into something else, some one else. Vneat her sky blue eyes
stared at me, full of life. Her thin eyebrows scrunched together as she
smiled, the face she always made. She could never truly be mad at
me. She had a smile. On the rare occasion she was mad.
She wore a heavy eye lin her. When she used to cry, the
tears left black streaks. I remember that was the cutest thing ever. Vinie
was so sensitive. I didn't deserve her the stubborn man like me. Out
of instinct, I reached out to touch her cheek. I stopped. I
heard faint voices calling out to me, but I wasn't there any more.
I was in an open flower field, and Vinite was close, now closer
than ever. All logic escaped to my grasp at that moment. Or was
logic worth compared to the neat She was priceless. My fingers were within an
inch from her cheek. She blushed, hocking her lips to the side,
as she did when I would caress her hair. I felt a heavy hand
on my shoulder, two heavy hands. They climbed down like a vice grip
and yanked me back. I fell down, head banged against the floor.
My vision was hazy. I laid against the cold, tard floor, staring
at the flat ceiling. Where was I Not my apartment, not my popcorn
ceiling. Blurred faces hovered over me. Faint voices called out my name.
A bald headed man waved frantically. Bracelet covered arms halved over my eyes.
I tracked them back and forth for neat. I murmured, Karen. A
faint voice said, Karen, you new coworker. The blurred face smiled.
My body got lifted up and placed on a soft, thin bed. My
eyes were fixated on the blood figure who said her name was Karen. I
smiled. My vision went dark. When I awoke, I found myself staring
up at some blinding lights. Four still wards surrounded me. This isn't a
hospital, I thought. Voices spoke and hushed whispers. I heard my name
a few times. He's awake, said Karen. He survived the test.
Can we keep him? Keep me? What? Hmmm? Said a deep
voice. Very well, I suppose he did prove himself worthy. Yes,
Karen celebrated. She came into view, looking down at me with caring eyes.
Okay, things are going to get real crazy now. She smoked.
What I murmured, Can I tell him Dean? Please? Karen looked back
at the boss for approval. He nodded. We're fighting a war against the
Mirror Dimension, and you're a part of it now. She grinned. Oh
damn, I said, I need some sleep. Dean and Karen laughed a
contagious laugh. I couldn't help but laugh myself. Dean's smile vanished. No,
but seriously, we need your help. My eyes rolled back and my
vision went dark again. And that's my story how I came to fight for
our reality against the mirror dimension. Karen was right, things got crazy real
fast. We're on a break from fighting now, so I figured I might
as well share my story, our story. I never truly forgot about Vanite.
That's a fight I don't think i'll ever beat. Fighting helps me postpone
those emotions, but they're bottled up, ready to burst at any moment.
Karen, she helps me out a lot. I'm truly grateful for her,
even for our boss, Dean. I guess you're wondering what happened to Remy
Well, he got swallowed up whatever he saw in that mirror managed to lure
him in. I don't blame him venit almost succeeded in luring me. I
dread the day I have to face her again. But with Dean, Karen
and the other coworkers at my side, I have a better chance of beating
it. Until next time, make sure to stay away from mirrors in the
dark. I have a better chance of beating it. It was supposed to
be an opportunity for science. Instead it brought us an unspeakable horror. Everything
started out perfectly normal, with a capsule detaching from the spacecraft exactly on schedule,
tracking its progress as it entered the atmosphere. We watched through infrared cameras
as its streaked through the sky over the West Coast at twenty seven thousand miles
per hour. With its heat shield keeping the payloads safe from the heated plasma
created by its re entry, the capsule was able to safely descend back to
Earth. After two minutes of falling, the atmosphere managed to slow down the
capsule to one thousand, seventy four miles per hour. At that point,
the capsule deployed its drogue parachute to further reduce its speed, entering a special
use airspace over Utah. We kept track of the capsule and triangulated his position
using radar. Sitting in a helicopter that circled the landing ellipse, I tried
my best to scan the skies for any sign of the capsule. To say
that I was excited was an understatement. This mission had been years in the
making, and now two years, eleven minle months and four days after collecting
samples from an asteroid, we would see the return of the capsule and its
precious payload. As a member of the ricovery team, I would be among
the first people to see and touch the capsule after its return to Earth.
It was a great honor, and although my role was small, I knew
I was playing my part in a larger system. Main chute deployed the spacecraft.
Comman team called out on the radio. Looking out of the window of
the helicopter, I began searching for the chute and smiled when I spotted it.
It's there, just to our east, I called out to my team
leader. Descending and eleven miles per hour, the capsule hung under its main
parachute as it went through the final moments of its journey, moving closer towards
it. We circled the descending capsule and watched as it made a touchdown.
Once the capsule was firmly on the ground, we then descended and landed a
few yards away from it. We were joined on the ground by three other
helicopters, which contained the safety team and the environmental sampling team. The first
person to approach the capsule was a military officer. Since the landing zone was
in the middle of the Department of Defense Test and Training range, there was
a small possibility that there were unexploded ordnance on the location. Luckily for us,
none were detected and we were given the green signal to approach. Following
our carefully rehearsed procedure, the environmental team moved towards the capsule and began testing
the air around it, as well as marking and taking samples of the ground.
Meanwhile, us in the recovery brought a mittle crate and placed it on
top of a cargo net that was connected to a nearby helicopter thanks to a
long line, the crate will act as a cradle for the capsule during its
aerial transport back to the airfield, where our temporary clean room was Once in
the clean room, the capsule would be dusted off, this assembled, and
the sample canister removed and placed into a nitrogen glove box for nitrogen purging.
Getting close to the capsule and looking down on it, I couldn't help but
smile. This object had traveled billions of miles in space, saw things humans
can only dream of seeing, took samples from an asteroid, and now it
was back on Earth. It truly was a marvel and a great accomplishment for
space exploration. However, I didn't let my owe an admiration distract me from
my task. Following procedure, Dan and I, my partner for this part
of the recovery, moved to stand next to the capsule before gently lifting up
the one hundred pound object, making sure not to drop it. We took
our time carrying it towards the crate. It was at this point I noticed
something strange. While lifting the capsule, I thought I heard a tapping sound
coming from inside it. This surprised me, since I knew that it wasn't
supposed to be making such noise. However, as suddenly as it started,
the ticking noise immediately stopped, making me wonder if it really happened or if
it was just my imagination. Seeing that Dan didn't react to the sound,
I decided that it was most likely my imagination. Keeping quiet about it so
that I won't embarrass myself, I returned my focus to my job and slowly
lowered the capsule to its crate. Once it was secure, we then began
tightly wrapping a tarp around the capsule and sealing it with tape. With that
done, we secured the cargo net and signaled that the capsule was now ready
for transport. Within a few minutes, the helicopter took off and slowly lifted
the capsule into the air. We watched as the capsule and his precious cargo
hung under a long line as the helicopter carried it back to the airfield.
With our job done, we began packing our gear and heading back to our
chopper, leaving behind the environmental team to continue the job of Clayton ground samples
around the landing zone. By the time we arrived to the airfield, the
capsule was already inside the clean room. My technicians were clean and open up
the capsule so that the curation team can purge it with nitrogen and protect the
sample canister from possible contamination. With nothing more to do, us in the
recovery team moved to one of the nearby hangers that was temporarily converted to act
as our breakroom, grabbing food and taking a seat next to the Dan.
I gave him a quick pat on the back and congratulated him for our successful
recovery. Just like the rehearsals, I told him with a smile. Yeah,
he said, cheerfully, before suddenly frowning. There is something bothering me
though. This speaked my interest as I raised an eyebrow and stared at him.
What is it. It's the capsule, he said. I'm not sure,
but I thought I heard something from it. I heard something, I
muttered. Was it a tapping sound? Dan's eyes immediately widened as he nodded,
Yeah, you heard it too. I did, I told him,
but I shrugged it off when it stopped. I ignored it too. At
first I thought it might have been loose samples within the canister shaking as we
moved it. But then I heard it again after we wrapped the capsule and
got it to cure on the cargo net. I swear I heard the tapping
again. I don't know if you heard that too, you were busy going
through the checklist at the time, but I heard it. I don't know.
I'm not sure if it's anything of concern, but it just seems odd.
Maybe I'm just overthinking. But the rest of what Dan was about to
say was cut off when the sound of a sudden commotion curred on the other
side of the hangar. Turning around, I saw that one of our team
members was being tackled by a man who wore a white BioSuit. Seeing the
protective equipment on the man, I quickly realized that he was from the curation
team. But what he was doing here and why was a mystery. Getting
up and moving towards the scene, I saw our team member frantically attempt to
get the other man off of him, but to no avail. The other
man seemed to be stronger and kept him pinned. Reaching the two first,
then quickly grabbed the man from behind and lifted him off our team member.
As he did so, the other man struggled and flailed his arms as he
gave out a hiss. And he never thought a person could ever make Wrapping
his hands around the man. Dan did his best to keep him restrained as
I moved forward to help him. However, I suddenly stopped in my tracks
when I saw the man's face. The man's eyes were wrong and they were
bulging out of his sockets. In fact, his eyes looked too big to
fit in his eye sockets as they were stretching them to the point of tearing.
Standing there, frozen in sudden fear, I looked on with horror as
these unnaturally large eyes stared at me. I was only snapped out of my
catatonic state when I heard Dan's struggle and call out for help. We need
to pin him on the ground. Dan said, he's fighting harder than I
expected, and I don't know if I can keep this up. Returning my
attention back to the situation, I nodded my head and moved towards them.
By that point, the other members of the team had arrived, as two
of them began helping the man who was attacked. Meanwhile, another one was
rushing towards a nearby exit, shouting that they'll call the security team. Broke
us in my attention on the attacker, I took a step forward and prepared
to grab the man's arms, which continued to fly around. However, before
I could put my hands on him, I suddenly jerked back when I saw
a spider like legs sprouting out of his eye sockets. These legs then helped
each eye pop out of its sockets, allowing it to crawl on the man's
face, letting out a curse. I stared in disbelief as his eyes crawled
away, leaving behind a deep empty void where they used to be. However,
they did not remain empty for long as a new pair of eyes crawled
out of its depths. This pair soon exited the eye sockets too, and
crawled down his face as they followed the path the previous two took. Meanwhile,
the initial two pairs crawled down the man and were now moving to Dan's
arms, which was still wrapped around him. At that point, the man
was still flailing his arms and struggling from Dan's grip. However, the moment
he felt the eyes crawl up one of his exposed arms, he immediately let
go. What the hell, Dan remarked as he saw the two eyes that
managed to get on his arm as they crawled. I couldn't help but notice
Dan wincing in pain as they moved on his skin. In an attempt to
get them off, he used this free arm to swat away the pair going
up. However, this only resulted in him letting out a hiss of pain.
As the eyes remained on his arms. It seemed like their long spider
like legs was stabbing the skin of his arm, making it difficult to get
them off. Seeing him struggle, I moved up to try to help him,
who was immediately blocked by the man, whose eyes still released these unnatural
little horrors. Standing in front of me and with eyes crawling all over his
body and staring at me, I felt frightened and unsure what to do.
Then, without warning, a couple of the eyes leaped from the man and
headed straight towards me. I was lucky enough to react quickly to this,
resulting in the eyes landing on the concrete floor. However, these little creatures
were persistent and quickly turned the gaze back towards me. Slowly backing away,
I felt that there were only moments away to make another leap, but before
they could do so, John, another member of the team, rushed forward
and began stomping on the eyes. As he did this, though, the
remaining eyes that were still crawling on the man leapt on him, landing right
on his head. Moving his hands on his head, he tried his best
to pull them off, but their legs had dug into his skin, making
it impossible. Screaming in pain, John was helpless as the eyes began crawling
down his face before settling on his eyes, borrowing themselves in. They broke
through his pupils and planted themselves inside his socket. It was a terrible sight,
which was only made worse by John's screams, They're in my head,
They're borrowing into my brain. This was mixed with dance screams who I heard
calling out for help. At that point, I ran, I feel ashamed
for abandoning them, But what could I have done? Those creatures were too
deadly and too horrific. I wouldn't have been able to help. Heading towards
the nearest exit, I ran as fast as I could, praying that the
eyes wouldn't catch up to me. By then, most members of the team
were running away also, and some having already fled, including the first one
who was attacked. Reaching the door, I allowed myself to make one last
glance towards the horrors behind me. I wish I hadn't on the floor with
Dan and John, both of whom had their faces covered by their eyes.
John was still screaming in pain as a stream of them forced their way into
his eye sockets or Dan was silent and unmoving, not wanting to see any
more of it. I turned around and ran. I wasn't sure where I
was supposed to go, but I followed the other members of the team who
were fleeing the scene. Eventually we met up with the military security of the
airfield and informed them about the situation. In respond they quickly dispatched teams to
search the various facilities all over the airfield, while ordering us to stay in
the security building. As time passed on, more people from around the airfield
were gathering into the building. Talking to some technicians who arrived after us,
I learned from them that the clean room was a bloody mess. Passing by
it and their way to the security building, they saw the large bay doors
open and various parts of the capsule, including the sample canister, on the
floor. This brought to chill of fear through me, as I realized that
something must have came out of it. I then remembered the tapping sound that
Dan and I heard. Once military security was certain they got everyone they could
find, they then did a headcount to see who was missing. Among those
who weren't there was Dan, John and the high curation team, as well
as five other personnel. We were then held in the building for a while
as military and NASA personnel from other facilities were discreetly sent into the airfield so
that they wouldn't attract outside attention. As far as everyone in the public knows,
the transport aircraft that arrived was part of the team that was tasked with
transporting the sample canisters that Texas. One by one, all of us who
had been in the airfield were examined by a team of medical professionals, stripped
of our clothes and checked thoroughly. They wanted to make sure that none of
us had those parasitic eye creatures on us. After we were cleared, we
were forced to sign an NDA. I say forced because we were threatened by
government officials to do so. If we didn't sign, or if we revealed
anything we encountered that day, they said that they will make sure we will
lose our jobs and any credibility we have in society. I signed it because
I knew they wouldn't let me out if I didn't. However, I'm not
keeping my silence. NASA says that the recovery of the capsule was successful and
that the samples are secure and safe within their nitrogen filled boxes. But this
is a lie. They're trying to cover up the truth. What really happened
was a disaster out there. There are dozens of individuals walking around filled with
parasites. So if you see someone with bulging eyes walking towards you, you
must run the other way. I'm never quite sure if I was just stupid
when I missed the signs, or if I'm just a normal person. Sarah
was very sweet on the surface. She ticked all the boxes, even if
she was a bit awkward, But so what people are awkward? I tried
to look past the little things. I mean, we can all be a
bit weird, can't we, especially when we get nervous. But Sarah was
odd in a way that, in hindsight, maybe I should have taken more
seriously on their own. All the little signs seemed quite innocuous at the start.
She was very hands on during dates pinching and grabbing and winking. She'd
make these hilarious innuendos and constantly towed the line of what was and wasn't appropriate.
I like a woman with a dark sense of humor, and she had
that in spades. But she pulled away if I tried to reciprocate. And
I realized early on that intimacy wouldn't be on the cards for a long time.
And I was fine with that. I wasn't in a hurry. And
yet she continued to send mixed signals. She'd asked for photos almost every night.
Girls don't normally ask for full length. It was weird, and taking
a good picture wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. I always
thought I looked weird in that kind of full body, vertical picture, but
she was always happy with what I sent. She had a lot of requests.
One was to see me lying on the floor, eyes closed, arms
to either side of my back. She liked that. One one time she
made me stripped tease with a white sheet, slowly pulling it down in one
picture after the other. This went on for the first month. I'd say
I sent her pictures, she sent me some. We talked a lot about
what we each wanted. It was kind of fun and kinky, like we
were taking turns being each other's long distance model. And as a guy,
I don't usually get to enjoy the feeling of being a promiscuous object. I
normally feel like my sexiness is tied to some kind of performance. It was
novel and exciting to be valued as just a physical being. We never really
figured I had an exhibition hist streak, or that that was something that women
wanted much of, but she did and I didn't dislike it. Sharing all
this, we continued to meet up once or twice a week for food.
It seemed like we had a little thing going that might one day become something
real. We never did spend the night together. First time I thought it
was going to happen was after I sent a photo of me lying on my
kitchen floor, the white towels freezing my ass the whole time. An hour
after I sent the photo, she appeared on my doorstep without warning, hair
soaking, wet and smelling of booze. As soon as she saw me,
she grabbed me, guided me to the sofa, then climbed on top and
started kissing me hard. She was handsy, but it never went past over
the clothes stuff, just hot, heavy and well, not all that good.
Do you ever wonder if some people are bad at intimacy stuff because no
one tells them the truth. It was like she was trying to suck the
air out of my lungs. I've had better kisses off my dog. She
got a lot of points for enthusiasm, and don't get me wrong, I've
never had anyone grote me and touch me with such raw passion before. But
whenever I tried to match her energy, I got the sense she didn't really
care for it. She never reacted or moaned or gave off nonverbal cues to
be like do that more. It was all about her touching me, never
vice versa. After maybe twenty minutes of this over the clothes fumbling, she
asked me to lie down on the floor. I had no idea where this
was going, so I did. Can you hold your breath, she asked
as she looked down at me. All of a sudden, I felt very
small, and there were lots of thoughts going through my head. I'm pretty
sure there was nothing I wouldn't have done for her in that moment, Although
not necessarily because I wanted to. There was just an intensity to us there
shrunk me down until I was the size of an ant. So I held
my breath. I held it so long my lungs burned and my head swam
until I couldn't do it any longer. When I opened my eyes, she
was looking down at me with so much hunger in her eyes. I actually
got a little scared. Admittedly, I sort of liked it. She paused
for a moment, drinking me in, and then said she had better get
going, she had work in the morning. Rekissed at the door, and
her hand roamed all over my back. I was called by that point,
and her hands felt so warm. I swore something was about to happen,
but she simply left me standing there. It was confusing and frustrating so much
so didn't call her back. But she had a kind of commanding energy about
her, a deep awareness of what she did and didn't want. That It
was just enough for me to keep replying to her text after that night.
I always laid on my kitchen floor when she asked for a photo, but
it never really had the same effect of getting her to my doorstep. Still,
she became a regular fixture in my life, and pretty soon I hoped
we might get close to something a bit more serious. I looked for signs
that she thought the same thing, but the going was damn slow. By
the time winter rolled around, we'd been on and off for six months,
and just about the only thing that actually changed was the way she kept holding
my hand. She'd take my cold hands between her own and hold them against
her cheek and neck, maybe even a chest at times. It was quite
nice. It took a while, but I managed to swing her around into
another home visit. You can guess what I was hoping for, but she
actually made us spend most of our time out on the balcony watching the stars,
cuddling together in the freezing cold. She made me give her my jacket
as well, even when I offered to get a one from inside, it
had to be the one I was wearing, and she wouldn't let me replace
it. By the time we went back in, I felt like I was
close to getting pneumonia, and the shock of the warm air left me feeling
dizzy. Lie down, she begged me, lie in the floor. I
have an idea. I was shaking by this point, the tips of my
fingers ice blue. When she came back over, she had a glass of
red wine. She stood over me, warming the glass in her hands before
giving me clear instruction. Sip some, she said, and keep it in
your mouth. Close your eyes, don't open them, and don't swallow the
wine. I don't even like wine, and I was pretty irritated by the
whole thing. But there was a tension in the air, something about her
electric anticipation that infected me. I didn't know what was happening, and in
the past, when I felt that way, it sometimes led to me having
new and exciting experiences out of nowhere. She kissed me, pushing her tongue
into the lukewarm wine until it dribbled messily out of the corners of my lips.
At the same time, and in one swift motion, she pressed the
heel of her hand into my diaphragm and pushed so hard that the wine gushed
out of my mouth and into hers. I started coughing. She did too.
Reaction was that kind of irritation you can't hide. It actually ticked me
off. It was surprising in all the wrong ways, and given what I
may be hoped was coming, it just meant all the disappointment turned into outright
frustration. All I'd wanted was a normal kiss, some sign of basic normal
affection. Did she even realize how terrible I felt? Have to freeze my
ass off on the balcony so she could feel like some gentlemen was given her
my jacket. I pushed her off, me gently but firm. Let's not
do that again, I said, choking at the words, what were you
trying to do? Nothing? She cried, It was nothing, just something
different. She seemed sincerely, regretful and sorry, but I was half naked,
horny, irritated, and freezing cold. I didn't ask her to leave,
but she clearly sensed the change in atmosphere and made some excuse. I
wiped myself down while she went to the toilet, and when she emerged,
I greeted her with a handbag and keys. I didn't even walk her to
the door instead, and she looked at me with a sort of sad power
from the door. I simply ignored her and began to mop the kitchen floor.
Looks like a damn murder scene, I grumbled. She may have said
something before she left, but I didn't look up until I heard the door
close. After that, we didn't speak for a while. Now, this
is a very typical thing for me to do, but over the next few
days I did a little retrospective on our dates and realized I'd been the one
putting in all the work. It was always me escalating, asking for dates,
calls, trying to move things between us forward. I figured if there
was any chance of a real relationship, then she'd have to just come back
and apologize and explain her behavior and be the one to reach out for once.
Of course, at the exact same time, I couldn't get her out
of my head. Maybe she'd just been clumsy. I thought maybe she was
nervous. I couldn't get my head around the wine thing. It seems so
random. I'm more familiar with the usual BDSM stuff people like. If I
could have pinned her actions down to some specific kink, I could have more
confidently figured if we were compatible or not. But without more information, I
was just well and truly confused. I wanted to like her, but if
there was no chance of us working out, if we were just incompatible,
then I wanted closure. As it was, I didn't have a clue what
we were, but what the hell we've been doing either way. When she
finally text asking if I'd like to pick her up after work, I agreed.
I wanted closure, and maybe I imagined it, but something about her
tone seemed a little contrite. Her feeling was reinforced when I met her in
the parking lot of the hospital where she worked, and I found her sitting
on the hood of her car in a breath taking red dress. As soon
as I was out of the car, she took my hand and told me
she'd set up a little date for us, something special, and that she'd
finally make it all up to me. The way she kissed me, the
way she guided my hand along a waist, there was something so utterly different
about it, so committed, that I immediately knew she wanted to go the
whole way. I could just tell she finally made a decision, a threshold
had been crossed, and I wanted to go see where this would lead.
She didn't work at the hospital itself, but rather took me off to a
building on the same ground. It was a quiet, little red brick thing,
just two floors from the outside, and I wondered what it was exactly
that she did. Inside there was a chemical smell I was pretty overwhelming,
but at first glance it seemed like a simple GP office. There was a
little reception area with one or two chairs, a small countertop with some computers,
and a bunch of back offices. This was after ours, so no
one else was there only a few dim lights in the reception area. Everywhere
else was dark. She quickly disappeared upstairs, telling me she was going to
slip into something more comfortable, and I settled down for a short wait.
She locked the door behind us so no one else could come in. I
took that as a good sign, but I still felt pretty uncertain. Where
were we and why the hell did she pick this place for our date.
I tried to sit down, but it felt too strange, like waiting for
the dentist, so I stood and shoveled around a bit instead, listening to
the muffled dumps of whatever the hell she was doing upstairs. Outside, it
was starting to get dark, Fewer and fewer cars were going past, and
it was raining heavily, all of which made that little room feel even like
a lonely little corner of the world, well hidden and out of the way,
even though the hospital was clearly visible. With heavy traffic not far behind
it, there wasn't much else to do except snoop, and I quickly noticed
the door had been left ajar, like someone had forgotten to shut it.
It was the only door I could reach without climbing over something, so my
curiosity got the better of me. I approached it and got maybe two feet
away before I realized it was the source of that damn chemical smell. Once
I realized that I had to take a look inside, just so I could
know for sure what the hell it was, I tried pushing it open an
inch or two and peeking inside, but it was pitch black in there.
So I pushed it open a little further, and using my phone light,
I saw that there were a set of stairs going down into a basement.
More thumps from upstairs told me she wasn't going to come down anytime soon.
I had time to check, so I went down a step and tried seeing
if that helped, but there was nothing. So I went down another and
then another, until suddenly a set of automatic lights came on, with a
loud thunk and the rising whine of fluorescence coming to life. I'm not sure
what I expected for what I saw. At first it left me dumb struck,
but then I dun'no. It was a sterile room with white speckled tiles,
a few countertops running along the walls covered in silver instruments I didn't recognize.
One wall covered in a regular grid of metal cupboard doors, and three
steel slabs in the center of the room. One of them was occupied a
vaguely human shape covered by a white shroud a lone foot of a man sticking
out of the bottom. Something about the strange coloring and texture of the skin
immediately let me know he wasn't having a nap. That and the toe tag
was a pretty obvious clue. It was a morgue. She worked in the
morgue, and it was here, of all places, she'd decided to set
our final date. My initial reaction was to want to go upstairs and confront
her, get angry, let it out, and just leave after making her
unlock the door. But something stopped me. I can't say for sure what.
As quickly as it came, the anger left me, and I was
left with a kind of horrified curiosity, an idea I couldn't even put to
words in the privacy of my own head. Instead of turning around and leaving,
I waited a few seconds to make sure she wasn't coming down right behind
me, and I began to descend the rest of the way. The walk
to the body felt like a ten mile hike. Every step was too loud,
every breath a nervous shivering exhulation. The velicant might burst into a gasp
at any moment. I was terrified. I couldn't help but imagine that faceless
shape turning to look at me was sitting upright in one smooth motion. I
quickly realized why ghosts I stereotypically portrayed his walking sheets. Some one must have
had the same thought. I had the imagined scene of a shroud covered body
moving swiftly towards you in the dark. Hell of a time for my brain
to play those kinds of games with me, But that curiosity drove me on.
I couldn't walk away, not now. Before I knew it, I
was stood by the body, and with a shaking hand, I pulled back
the sheet. He looked like me vaguely. I think we would have probably
been a close match before the bloating same hair, collar, same face,
shape, same ethnicity, age, so on. For a moment, I
considered the idea that maybe Sarah was just a very weird woman. People get
desensitized to this kind of stuff all the time, and to her, the
building Brewin might just be a nice, empty place to bring a date.
But that body on that slab, I don't know how to describe it,
but it set something off in me, a kind of slow rising dread.
I'm not sure why I did what I did next, but I couldn't stop
thinking of that strange night when she pushed against my chest and sent wine dribbling
out my mouth, so utterly bizarre. But maybe I placed my hand against
the man's cold flesh, healed to the diaphragm and applied pressure. He animated
like a puppet, a brief gasp of air, followed by curdled blood flowing
out of his mouth. Black and yellow and red halletts, platelets, and
plasmas separated with time into a thick soup. When the smell hit me,
I couldn't help but be sick, and as I hunched over the nearby drain
and emptied my body of all my vomit and bile, images of my time
with Sarah flashed through my mind, the photos of me nude lying on the
white tail floor, the use of the blanket to cover my chest, her
vexation, and my cold hands. A night spent freezing in my balcony,
filling my mouth with wine and forcing it back out with a shove to the
chair. I looked at the body and quickly understood how and why she discovered
what happens when you apply pressure to the chest. The image was crystal clear
in my mind. The mental image of her slender frame straddling the bloated man
before me was as unpleasant and inescapable as nails on a chalkboard. Unable to
shake it, I hunched over once more and was sick again, this time
until my eyes watered and there was nothing left but saliva and bile. I
felt violated. I wanted to leave. I no longer felt angry or confused.
Instead, every moment of the last six months fell into place, and
a pattern emerged that terrified me. She wasn't meandering or clueless. Everything she'd
done had been moving towards this one night, with me here, locked in
this place, with no one to call for help, I'd blundered into what
might just be the most dangerous situation of my life. And now I was
too deep into the trap to just blindly panic under ground and inner room with
only one exit. I had to be careful. She was up there somewhere,
maybe clueless about what I'd realized, maybe not. She seemed small enough,
but a cursory glance at some of the glinting blades on the nearby work
surface told me she didn't have to be a bodybuilder to hurt me. Any
One of those razor sharp instruments could work its way into the meat of my
neck with very little effort. Sooner or later she'd realize where I was.
Sooner or later, this plan of hers had to have an endgame. I
looked up the stairs. If she came down from the top floor, she'd
see the lights from this room, and it would be obvious to anyone where
I'd gone. I was torn. Do I go up and pretend I saw
nothing? I thought about having to go up there and lie my way through
some awkward encounter. Oh, I'm feeling a little unwell. I have to
skip polite smile nod. Could I stomach even that brief exchange? And that's
if she bought it, and it required that the next step of a planet
involved me conscious or alive. I thought of her attacking me out of nowhere
with a scalpel, silently dragging it across my throat, letting that surgical blade
bite into cartilage. She was small, but so what. I had no
idea what she was planning or where she was lurking. Walking into an ambush
and toughing it out didn't seem like the best of plans. What I wanted
was distant. I just needed a door or a window. I just had
to avoid her. My first instinct had been to get out of the basement,
and I wanted to go with it, but the strange sounds coming from
upstairs made me think she might have finally come to find reception empty. Terrified,
I looked around, desperate for some way out or maybe even a good
hiding spot. Just about every bad idea you can think of went through my
head, including swapping myself out for the corpse. I nearly laughed at the
stupidity of it, for my attention had been pulled to the mog drawers,
and with a sinking feeling in my gut, I slowly realized there was nowhere
else in that room large enough to hide a person, Michael. The voice
was muffled and distant, but I could tell she was finally looking for me.
This was really fast becoming a now or never moment. With a deep
breath, I pulled at the first draw I saw and felt bittersweet relief that
it was empty. I wasn't sure I could go through with this, but
at least it hadn't been already occupied with a rising gorge. I climbed inside
feet first, slid myself back into the darkness, try my best not to
think of a pair of cold hands snatching my ankles, and then quickly pulled
the door shut. I'd barely heard a click when there came the sound of
footsteps down the stairs. They stopped halfway, and I clearly heard a hiss
damn under a breath before turning back around and returning upstairs. She must have
figured I'd seen the bodies and run off somewhere else. Wherever that might take
her, it had at least brought me time. I opened the door using
the internal latch, while pushing aside more bequestions of why that feature was even
necessary, and stepped out as quietly as I could onto the tile steps.
After that, I scaled the stairs as silently as I could manage, and
made my way to the door at the top of the basement. She had
thankfully left it a char once again, bit of a habit of hers,
I assumed, and peeped through into the darkness beyond. In the time I'd
been in the basement, the sun had fully set, and now there were
only the lights of passing cars to illuminate reception. Bright and ber light with
hard edges swept across the room, one after the other with strange irregularity.
They made for an unpredictable insight into the room's components, a chair, a
computer, a countertop. I had to squint and wait patiently for a few
of them to go by before I realized one of the back office's doors were
open, and there was the sound of frustrated footsteps coming from within. She
was distracted, and this was my best chance of getting out. I tiptoed
out of the basement and listened carefully. She occasionally hissed an angry refrain to
herself, opening what sounded like cabinet doors. Why doing this, Michael,
she whined, and I was surprised that she sounded not malevolent but sad and
pitiful, like an upset teenager. She was genuinely confused by my reaction.
For a brief moment, I dared to wonder if my imagination had gotten the
better of me. Right there on the counter was a bottle of wine and
two glasses. Maybe she really was just into a normal date and I'd made
connections that were never really there. But in my mind I saw that corpse
bloated and bloody once again, and ultimately decided I was better safe than sorry.
A quick check of the front door showed who was still locked, and
so with nowhere else to go, I went off another floor, careful to
stop every step or two and listen for signs she had changed course. Thankfully,
I was at the top step by the time I heard her leave the
office and enter another Come on, she cried, why are you being like
this? I wasn't sure what my game plan was. I figured my best
chance was a window. I was already trying to start tearing the top floor
apart when I was stopped dead in my tracks by what I saw. There
were a few rooms in the top floor, but only one one of them
had an open door, and the lights turned on. What I saw inside
hit me so hard I stopped dead in my tracks and led out a gasp.
It was covered in plastic crap top to bottom, floors, walls,
and ceiling. The small white table had been set up in one corner,
and on it lay three open pill bottles, a hack saw, and several
scalpels. Seeing all that stuff, getting such an unfront sight into what she
had planned, it all made my damn skin crawl. That and the bottle
of lotion made me want to be sick. Suppressing the urge to gag,
I decided none of that really mattered, because and this wasn't a great surprise.
She had picked a room with a large and easy to open window.
I pushed the side the plastic sheeting and opened it to find the drop below
was in anywhere near as bad as the thought of spending another second in that
damn room. I began to climb out, got one leg through, carefully
balancing so that if I fell, I'd minimize injury. When I heard a
sound by the door, the crinkling of plastic, the gentle glide over door.
I turned and saw her standing in the dark hallway beyond. It was
hard to see, but she wasn't grinning like a maniac or waiting with a
knife. More than anything, she just looked disappointed, maybe even frustrated.
In hindsight, it made sense she'd spent a long time setting this up,
not just the room with a plastic sheeting, but the entire relationship had been
built carefully around that night. I expected her to crack break, come at
me, screaming and slashing with some hidden black but she only shook her head
and quietly mewed, It's not my fault. I considered her reply, but
found none to be fitting. I jumped and landed safely below with a bit
of a knee shaking thumb, nowhere near as bad as the shin splintering worst
case scenario I kept imagining. Then, with a deep breath, relishing with
the smell of fresh air, I ran as quickly as I could towards the
hospital and the lot where my car waited. You know, you might not
be too surprised to learn this, but there wasn't actually much I could prove
when it was all over. By the time the police visited the morgue,
it was apparently back to normal. Her side of the story was that I'd
insisted on visiting the morgue out of curiosity and got upset when she didn't want
to stick around. It was kind of hard to prove anything else. I
had no injuries, no evidence of intent, or anything else other than a
suspicion of some pretty mess behavior. In the end, the best the police
were willing to do was hook me up with a lawyer who dealt with restraining
orders, and he told me I need some evidence of actual harassment. Well
that and the main gist of his advice was actually for me to stay away
from her, because, if anything, it'd be a hell of a lot
easier for her to convince people I was the problem and not the other way
around. I didn't have much choice in the end except to move on,
and all told, I was just happy to have made it out alive,
even if the thought of her out there made me deeply anxious. I had
to assume she'd go looking for another target since I'd wised up, although I
hoped that maybe the close encounter with me would stop her from trying again.
As for me, I deleted my Tinder profile, having decided that internet dating
would never be a thing for me again. But the nightmares persist and I
often think of her standing there in the doorway. She didn't look half as
upset as I might have thought. The whole thing was like I'd been a
bit naughty. There she was an aspiring murder, moments away from executing a
plan that had been months in the making, and she'd stood there like it
was all nothing but a minor set back. It just didn't make sense,
and like everything with Sarah, I struggled to move on from this peculiar behavior
until I got an answer. Well, today, I finally got it when
I woke up and felt something strange by my feet. I pulled back the
sheets and saw something that made my heart sink and a cold sweat form on
the back of my neck. I was wearing a toe tag. I think
I might have underestimated her patience, and I am starting to appreciate just why
she found that night in the morgue to be a little more than a set
back. On the tag itself, my name is scrawled on one line,
and on the date of death below, she had simply written in just a
few days, Jackie was a werewolf, Pete was a vampire. Oh he
kept referring to himself as a Dracula just to annoy me, and I was
a witch. Ooh. Admittedly the outfit was just a half ass modification from
my initial idea of girl Gandalf after my older brother Kevin set fire to my
beard the week before. We were too old for drucker treating and we knew
it, but that was part of the point. After a five year hiatus
on free candy because Halloween was for babies, we'd come back around to the
idea that so long as we leaned into it being a prank slash game slash
social experiment instead of just teenagers begging for candy, that we could just drive
to the store and buy it was cool again. The idea was this,
we would drive up to every house, not hiding the fact that we were
old enough to do so. Beat and I were seniors, and Jackie was
home from a first year of car and between his beard hurt it to my
height, no one was mistaking any of us for children. That being said,
we had a rule that we had to dress up in legit costumes and
couldn't act weird or ass wholey when we went up together. Candy just polite
trigger treating there as to do anything else. It would affect the bet because
this is where the game park came in. Before we got out of the
car, At each house, we would each bet whether that house would give
us candy or not. The odds were always in favor of yes. Most
people might get irritated and all the teenagers coming for candy, but so long
as we were polite about it, it was hard for them to get past
their default position of honoring hallowing customs. So the scoring work like this.
If you bet a house would give us candy, you got one point.
If you bet that a house wouldn't give candy and you were wrong, you
lost one point. But if you bet a house wouldn't give us candy and
you were right, that was worth five points. So long as he didn't
do anything overtly rude or whatever to make sure things went your way. Sarcastic
tone of voice was okay, so were fake accents. But you couldn't say
or do anything that was really impolite or highlighted our age beyond our obvious appearance
and ability to drive up in the first place. No thanks, dude,
got to get back to the wife and kids now, or any kind of
thing. In other words, reasonable lying was fine so long as it was
done courteously. When we were done for the night, whoever had the most
points got to divide up all the candy, and best of all, they
got to pick the first three things. The other two eight didn't matter how
gross or sketchy. They had to eat it if someone gave it to one
of us during the night had to have high stakes after all. So far,
Pete was somehow ahead. He was a good guesser, he always had
been, and it was irritating. I was only two points behind, but
it felt like we were running out of houses as we moved further and further
out into the dark countryside. That had been part of our plan go out
to places that had lights on but were more remote, as they were less
likely to have many Trugger treaters. They'd also be less likely to have candy
at all. But most of the houses with decorations and lights on gave up
something, even if it was from their own private stash. Jackie was one
point behind me, though I still thought her strategy for the evening was done.
She was voting no candy on every house, based on the idea that
five points when she was right, would override the one point losses. The
rest of the time. I tried to point out that we were only stopping
at a house that looked like decent candidates to begin with, and that always
voting the same wasn't really playing the game. But she wouldn't budge, and
I hate to admit it, but her strategy hadn't totally sucked so far,
and one no candy house would put her back in the lead. That's why
I complained. When she started turning on to the driveway at the end of
c R thirteen, she giggled as she completed the turn and gave me a
grin. Her fur covered face green and sinister in the meager light of the
dashboard. It has jack a lantern's out the fence gate with burning candles in
them that count as decorations and light. Pete gave a groan, Damn Whinnie,
she's right. Jackie had started down the driveway that was paved, but
with thick hardwoods on both sides that obscured the way forward as the path curved
to the right. Irritated, I shook my head. It's supposed to be
decorations in the house not a mile away at the road. This doesn't count.
Jackie shrugged. Well, we'll see then. If the house is dark
or has no decorations, then we'll turn around and leave. I'm not trying
to cheat, but I'm not turning down a good prospect either. Sighing,
I slumped back in my seat. Fine, but I wouldn't be surprised if
there's not even a house back. Oh my god, that last comment had
been from Pete, and I didn't have to ask what it meant. We
just rounded the last corner, and instead of more woods were just an empty,
overgrown there was a large Antebellum mansion with brick walls of dark gray and
tall white columns that line the front like long teeth. We saw most of
this from the sweeping light of Jackie's head lights, but they weren't the only
things lighting up the night. Behind the hulking shadow of the house, I
could make out the shifting orange glow of a fire, and up on the
porch there were four more jack O lanterns to match the ones out on the
road. Jackie turned and gave me a satisfied smile as she pointed first to
the glow of the firelight behind the house light, and then the pumpkins and
the porch and decorations. I sniffed. I mean, technically, yeah,
but does this place look like somewhere we want stuff from. It's dark and
creepy. They probably have a bucket of razor blay candy in there. Pete
laughed. It's Halloween. This is the kind of house we should be visiting,
and it's in the razor blade thing more of an urban legend. Jackie
shook her head. No, that happened to my cousin once. But it's
okay because I confidently bet we will get no candy here. I rolled my
eyes. What a shocker, What old strategy there? She squinted at me.
If you're scared, just say you're scared. I floated my middle finger
around in front of her as I did a wave in ghost voice. Screw
you, just don't come crying to me when I give you a poison candy
bar covered in rat turts to eat. Snorting, Jackie turned off the car
and got out, Come on, sure, losers, it's Jackie's tying to
shine. I bet no candy too. I couldn't see her face as we
approached the house, but I could still hear Jackie's smirking, decided to back
a winner. Huh, smart play won't help you in the end, but
I respect you for acknowledging my awesomeness. Ah whatever, Pete, what's your
bet? Hmmm, candy? These people have to be loaded, right if
there even the porch like came on as we started up the steps home,
and then under my breath, damn, Pete was already on the porch,
grinning back down at us, always bet on the dracula turning, He walked
over and rang on the ornate doorbell next to the equally intrigly carved black door.
Far away, we heard a small bell chime. This was a weird
house. Everything about this felt weird. Why couldn't they see that? I
was about to suggest you just give up the game and declare Pete the winner.
When the door's locked clicked and it swung open. On the other side,
a dead woman stood smiling at us. Pete must have been right.
Whoever these people were, they had to be kind of loaded because her costume
was movie quality, not because it was over the top or really elaborate,
but because it was so subtle. The blue dress she wore was faded and
curled at the edges with what could have been age or rot, and her
skin had a faint blue tinge that stood out in the porches overhead light,
but wasn't cartoonish or overdone. The only other sign that she wasn't just an
attractive middle aged soccer mom was a left ear. Her long, dull brown
hair was artfully pulled over on that side, revealing a gnawed stop instead of
whole flesh. Damn, you look awesome. Pete was right, though it
was hard to tell from his lingering gaze on her breast if he was talking
more about a zombie outfit or her generally being kind of heart. Jackie apparently
thought it was the latter, as she nudged him in the ribs and stepped
forward, holding out her open briefcase shrike or treat Oh. I stifled a
sudden nervous laugh the briefcase thing. Jackie had brought a briefcase instead of a
normal trick or treat bag. At first, Pete and I hadn't understood why,
but once I saw how she was betting against candy every time, it
made more sense. She thought using something that wasn't halloweeny or immature would tilt
the scales towards annoying someone, so they wouldn't give us anything. I couldn't
say for sure if it had worked. But at the two houses that had
told us we were too old, they both looked at that damn thing.
Still, it didn't seem to matter as to this lady. She just gave
a soft laugh as she looked at each of us in turn. Well,
well, I appreciate the compliment, and I accept the commencement of bargaining as
well. Still chuckling, she took a step back. I have all manner
of treat in the kitchen, and will brook no tricks on this holy night.
All I ask is that you tell me what you are before you pass
my door, suggested back down the hallway to a kitchen. I was dancing
with yellow candlelight, I shot Pete concerned. Look, ma'am, we don't
normally go into people's houses. She nodded. I understand, but I just
finished cooking, and I'm afraid I have too large a variety to bring out
here. Shrugging, she started to close the door. But if you refuse
the offered treats, we can close the back. Pete stepped forward. No,
no, ma'am, we're happy to come in. He glared at me.
Forgive my friend, She's just the sore loser. The woman smiled wildly
at him as she moved the hair behind the other perfect dear so glad to
hear it. Her face suddenly became more serious. Now, what are you?
Pete hesitated a moment, and then bared his plastic fangs. To be
fair, they were expensive and looked good other than being a different shade than
his actual teeth. I, madame, I'm a dracula. I expected the
woman to laugh or look angry, but instead she just nodded, very well,
you may enter our home. Pete stepped in as she turned to look
at Jackie, and what are you? Jackie had lowered a briefcase again,
and even through the tufts of fake brown hair glued to her cheeks and forehead,
I could tell she was worried too. Still, she wouldn't quit playing
so long as one of us kept going either, so, giving another small
howl, she stepped closer to the door. I'm awarewolf, ma'am, very
well, you may enter our home. The woman looked at me and you.
I started to speak, but something held me back. This woman wasn't
right. I couldn't say what the problem was with her, and I didn't
know enough to make the others leave. But there was a weight to everything
the woman was saying and doing, as though this wasn't some kind of campy
Halloween role play but part of something real and serious. And she was still
staring expectantly at me, heart hammering, I stepped forward. I am I'm
a girl dressed up as a witch. I was supposed to be female Gandalf,
but my jerk brother burnt my beard. The woman stooded me for several
moments before smiling again, very well, you may enter our home. Closing
the door behind me, the woman led us back to the kitchen. It
was massive, eight burners set into a large wooden island, and a long
table along one end, filled with a variety of cookies and candies and muffins
and cakes, along with candied apples and punkin tarts and others that I didn't
recognize. Holy crap, I mean, dang, you've got quite the spread
in here, the woman chuckled. Thank you. We don't get many visitors
out here, and my boy is a finigy diet, so I always wind
up overdoing it. But it is Halloween, after all, Please take what
you'd like. I felt a stab of panic and leaned into Jack's ear.
None of this stuff is wrapped up, you good of anything in it?
You can't eat this stuff? Calling back, she gave me a frown.
How's that different to anything else? You think? Someone can't rewrap candy or
incheck something through a wrapper? And how often do you get to try fancy
stuff like this? Pete leaned into the conversation. I don't think I didn't
notice your whole I'm a girl dressed like a witch. Thing you've lost.
Give it up, don't mess up the best meal I've had him like ever,
he grinned at our host, So like, how much is okay for
us to take? It? All looks so good? She beamed at him.
As much as you want, of course, there are plates and balls
at the end, so feel fear to semple here, and I can make
you bags to take with you as well. As I said, I have
far too much. The woman frowned as Pete reached towards some kind of potato
fritter piled on a platter at the table's edge. Oh no, that's not
for you, though, Pete pulled his hand back and looked at her questioningly.
Oh sorry, she waved her hand. Not at all. It's just
that I prepared those with garlic, and I wouldn't want you to get sick.
Pete stared at her blankly for a moment, and then let out a
loud laugh. Oh right, yeah, I guess I should have a selective
diet. He picked up a small crystal glass containing what looked like dark layers
topped with whipped cream. Is this okay for me, you think? The
woman nodded. Yes, of course, blood moose with a bit of caramelized
baby fat for texture. She picked one up and handed it to Jackie.
This should be good for you as well. Glancing between us, Jackie picked
up a spoon. Sure, thanks, it looks delicious. The woman turned
and patted my arm. All the food on the left side of the table
is meat free, my dear, I gave a slow nod. Well,
I mean, I'm not a vegetarian, but the cookies and muffins look great,
I pointed toward Pete as he was eating the first bite of his moose.
But those don't really have some kind of meat in Pete spat a dark
wad on to the floor as he began to wretch, lady, what the
hell is in that? When he looked up, he didn't look at her
but me, his eyes watery and fearful. She frowned, just as I've
said, congeal blood quite the favorite of your kind. He was hardly listening,
hocking and spitting as he tried to get the taste out of his mouth
without trusting any of the various drinks on offer as a way to clean his
palate. On his fourth spit, one of his fangs flew out and landed
in the middle of a plate filled with bat sugar cookies. What is that?
The woman's tone was icy, Look at me, show me your mouth.
Pete stared at her slight George, his lone fang still dangling there.
What the hell are you talking about? The woman's expression darkened as she turned
to Jackie, who would set her own moose back down. And what about
you? The treat not to your liking, ma'am, This isn't funny.
We're just going to go out. Let go, our host that grabbed Jackie's
arm, gripping it hard as she pulled her closer. You answer me now,
are you truly aware wolf stepping forward. I tried to shove her away
from Jackie, but she didn't budge or even look my way as she held
my friend tight. Jackie was crying a little now as she shook her head.
Of course not, it's a costume. It's not even a good one.
And where wolves aren't real? You crazy woman? Let me go.
The woman did as she was asked, after a fashion, slinging Jackie in
Pete's direction and sending them both careening into the nearby wall before tumbling to the
floor. I moved to help them, but then the woman was in my
path. And you are you a girl dressed as a witch. I could
barely breathe as I squeaked my words out. Why why are you doing this?
And to me? Now? Yes, yes, I'm just the girl
dressed as a witch. She nodded, giving me a satisfied smile. Very
well, you have maintained the covenant that your companions have broken. You may
pick any treats you like from the banquet table. We just don't want to
go. Go. They can't go. They've broken covenant. And on a
holy night, no less, there would be no falsehoods in this house or
in my family's bargaining. Her eyes went to jack in Pete even as shadowy
figures began to approach between the flickers of candlelight. One looked like a dragon,
another a twisted skeleton, while the third was a ruby mass thick with
clawed tentacles. The woman looked at them lovingly before giving me a warm glance.
My boys. The glow behind the house had been a large autumn bonfire,
stacked high with wood and mounds of colored leaves that somehow never fully burned.
More long timbers of wood lay to one side, and it was two
of these that the monsters bound Pete and Jackie as they thrashed and screamed.
I think I could have left before then, but I couldn't abandon my friends,
even if the woman wouldn't let me intervene to save them. I did
try once, but after that a firm but gentle grip bore down on me
heavily enough that I knew there was little I could do but shake and cry
and tell them I was sorry. This seemed to trouble the woman somewhat,
and as a monstrous offspring finished lashing my friends down, she spoke to me
again. I hope this doesn't seem cruel to you. My family passed through
the Omago some time ago, but we are still old fashioned. We keep
to the ways of bargain and pilava, and we especially revere Halloween as it's
one of the few times the world drops some of its pretenses. I had
no idea what she was talking about, but maybe if I talked to her,
I could convince her to let us all go pretenses. She nodded that
the world is safe, that monsters aren't real, and that the truth that
lay in the dark can't hurt you. Despite my plan to calm down,
I could hear the angry panic in my voice. We were just wearing costumes.
That's what Halloween is a Why are you punishing us for it, she
frowned. Not you, just them, You are honest and lying. It's
certainly not what Halloween is about. That's just what fearful people have told themselves
and taught their children another lie. Her lip curled, the gums around her
teeth dark and withered in the bonfire's light. And we always burn liars.
Here, I turned as I heard a fresh set of screams. The horrors
of the bonfire had picked up the timbers, Pete and Jackie were tied to,
effortlessly swinging them up into the dark October sky before pitching them down into
the roaring heat of the flames. I let out one last scream, letting
my painful cry fill the void left by the fading of their dying breaths.
I squeezed tight to the ground, wanting darkness to take me, begging to
wake up and realize this was all some terrible nightmare. I felt something shift,
both in my head and the world around me, and when I opened
my eyes, the night had turned a day. The remnants of the bonfire
was still there, but no sign of any bones or bodies, and when
I turned around, I saw the house was gone as well. Instead,
it was just a large clearing, empty except for the large pile of smoldering
wood, and next to me a large jacker lantern, painted black and made
of some kind of red fired earth. Choking back a fresh sob, I
reached over and pulled off the stem lid and looked down inside. It was
halfway filled with candy, corn and chocolates, and resting on top of the
suite was a small note on orange paper. Pulling it out, I read
what was written there, don't forget your treats. Happy Halloween. I woke
up at the sound of a woman's voice asking me a question. The voice
was familiar, but only a little had I just met her? Where were
we at? I was on a bed, wasn't I? Had we screwed
everything up when the railroad closed down the line through Tulsen. I don't know
if that was true or not. Other than big shipments, they were too
heavy for planes or trucks. Did anyone used trains anymore? Either way?
It was five years to the day that they ran the last train down the
track that the killing started, and no one could leave town anymore. They
called it the death train, which made no sense for a number of reasons.
First of all, it wasn't a train. It was Harvey Stark in
his old conductor's outfit riding around and Jeff Humboldt like it was a prize bull.
Stark was a little guy, sure, and Jeff was built like a
brick house, so he could tote Stark around on his shoulders with no problem.
If that was all it was, people would have giggled and went about
their day. But Jeff had on one of those strap on headlamps, and
Stark had that whistle he would start blowing when he felt the need to warn
someone that the train was coming. Except instead of a train, it was
a four hundred pound naked man shaved clean and slick with sweat, a machette
in each hand and hard on him between making goddamn train noises while a little
assole on his back two to the horn and spurred him on like a prize
stallion. You'd think people would see it coming and run away, but no.
The first three or four just stood there, staring in confusion as the
pair master blasted their way toward them and started hacking them to bits. By
that point, the police had tried to stop them, but nothing put them
down or even seemed to hurt them for long. The cops had fired until
the train turned its glowing iron them, and then even the ones that tried
to run got run down. The next day we found forty or so bloody
and deformed bullets in the street, like the old death train had just crabbed
them back out. Maybe it had, but none of this made sense,
did it. I didn't live in this place, and yeah I knew and
remembered all this stuff. But what kind of nonsense was it? And had
it really happened to me? What was it all just a dream? I
needed to wake up, man, I'm trying to give you a chance.
Here, I gasped as a small hand slapped me across my face. Why
jeez, what's going on? The small lamp turned on next to me,
and I saw the girl sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes
narrowed as she stared at me. I remembered her. She was cute.
I had met her at the bar and snap out of it. Okay,
you awake, you with me? I felt myself, wanting to go back
to sleep, but fought the urge she might slap me again. You hit
me. Rolling her eyes, she let out a sigh. Do you feel
something crawling on you? My eyes widened as I realized I did. Panicking,
I began frantically brushing off my chest. What is it? Get it
off me? I don't see anything. She nodded, Oh, it's there,
we just can't see it or touch it this early. But you've got
bigger issues what you were just in. It's called a hatter's dream. It's
not a normal dream. And if you let yourself you can get trapped there,
lose your mind there. I stared at her. What how why?
She started to speak, and then lowered her gaze before she went on.
The short version is that I roofed you. We didn't do anything. I
just drew on you gesture to a spot in my arm. There was a
small black circle connected to a black rectangle that flared out at the bottom.
What you drew? What is that? The woman gave a little laugh as
she held up her hand to show a similar, more refined tattoo on the
back. It's a keyhole. I'm not much of an artist. Just made
it with a marker and well, a bit of my blood and spit mixed
in. I pushed away from her as I sat up more in the bed.
What the hell, what are you sick with? Her expression was unreadable
as she met my eyes. Me nothing now, I mean thanks to you.
It's not like a normal disease. It moves around but doesn't leave anything
behind. You give it with a keyhole and the spit and black thing.
I started shaking my head. You're crazy, she laughed again. No,
I don't think so, not anymore. It stopped crawling on me as soon
as I put myself into the drawing. But my father was crazy. He
was crazy for nearly two years before i'd listened to him. I saw she
was crying now. He told me these stories about a madness he'd found,
not a problem with the brain or the mind, but a living thing that
hunted and crawled from person to person until they were drained dry. When I
finally got desperate enough to have him back, I started to pay attention,
and it didn't take long before I believed he wanted me to help him escape
the hospital so we could find someone to give it to. But I knew
that would never work, and I I could see his grip was slipping.
She wiped out her eyes, So I finally convinced him to teach me what
needed to be done and give it to me, just for a little while.
He made me promise to find someone cruel and evil that deserved it.
But how do I know? And I couldn't stand feeling it on me,
knowing that it was boring into my brain. I shuddered. She was right.
I could feel it still, like a faint breeze that wasn't there,
not just on my chest, but in the dark, behind my eyes,
rustling around, feeling for cracks and wounds to exploit. Geez, stop,
she grabbed my hand. No, I need you to understand, so you
have a chance. I didn't do this to mess up or ruin your life.
It's not personal. I did it to save me and my dad,
and you can do the same thing that I did, and maybe you can
find someone that actually deserves it. Just stay awake, get tons of caffeine
or pills or whatever. I grabbed around back, clenched my teeth. Why
don't I just put it back in you? She shook her head and she
waved her other hand again. It won't work, Dad says, it won't
take the same keyhole twice. Standing up, she pulled away and stepped to
the other side of the room. Still. I figured you'd be mad.
That's why I'm going to leave before the drugs were off enough for you to
chase me. I tried to move my legs, and she was right.
They were there and I could feel them, but everything still felt loose and
liquid below my waist, You asshole. The woman nodded, yeah, I
guess I am, and I am sorry. Good luck, and then she
was gone. It was another thirty minutes before I could get up and walk
to the door. We'd been in a cheap motel room not far from the
bar I remembered going to. But this late, all the bosses were gone
and taxis were few and far between. I wound up sitting on a bench
for nearly an hour waiting for a ride chair to come, dipping in and
out of strange dreams the entire time. I debated calling the police, but
I wasn't sure what to tell them, and it was embarrassing drugged by some
cute but insane woman that drwun me and made up some bizarre story. I
decided to just get home, get some sleep, and decide what to do
the next morning. Except I didn't wake up the next morning. Instead,
it was three days later. I was laying in a bed covered with dried
pea and feces, and I was so dehydrated that I had to crawl to
the bathroom to drink out of the toilet because I couldn't reach the sink.
I remembered where I'd been. It wasn't just one place. Some other time
I was back in the town that was being terrorized by the death train.
Other times I was underground somewhere crawling through a tunnel littered with wrappers and bits
of candy. I spent several hours in a building with fleshy walls that bled
when you touched them and groaned with every step you tuque, something lived in
those walls and was after me. So I had to keep moving, despite
the stink and the noise and the blood, on and on through one terrible
thing and then another, and the entire time my unseen invader was crawling all
over me, probing me and lightly biting, as though testing the flavor of
its new found meat. I say all of this because I want you to
understand that I believe you now, and I want you to know that,
like you said, it's not personal, it's not going to work. I
already told you. I laughed a little, turning on the headlamp so I
could see better in the darkened room. I finally found her hold up in
after weeks of tracking her down. I disagree. I've given it a lot
of thought. I can still give it to you. I just need to
get rid of your little keyhole. She was crying hard now as she tried
to pull free from her restraints. It's a tattoo, he made me.
Get a tattoo, so I couldn't get it back. After I got rid
of it, I grinded her, stinging, sweat streaming into my eyes,
but that was okay. The pain made everything sharper, just like the machette.
I made it extra sharp for a clean cut. I pulled the blade
out from my rucksack and she began to struggle harder. Then he should have
told you to put it somewhere less expendable. No, no, no.
I could hardly hear her screaming as a piercing whistle filled my ears. Raising
the blade in both hands, I took a small practice chop before lining up
the final cut. It would all be over soon, and would I miss
it? I'd be lying if I said there wasn't two minds about it.
Tightening my grip on the sweat slicked handle, I let out all as I
brought it down. Wasn't as terrible and musical as the high pitched thrilling in
my ears, but it still felt right. Chew, chew, cheo.
The walls shake, The secretive mechanisms of the machine rattle all around us,
muted like distant thunder. The six of us are gently rocked, highly conscious
of the reverberations. It sounds so far away, Zeemon matters in his thick
polish accent. I lock up at him. Kim responds with an uneasy chuckle.
I was just thinking the same thing. The two smile at each other
reassurance. I think she glances at me, then adjusts her weapon. I
reach a hand to my forehead to rub away a thin sheen of sweat.
Before embarking on this particular mission, I did not admit to the others the
intensity of my claustrophobia. I grimace and look around at the windowless inner walls
of the submarine, and I try not to think about the enormity of the
weight of the water above our heads, the weight growing heavier and heavier by
the minute as we sink deeper and deeper into the depths of the Atlantic.
Ten minutes still docking wobbles a distorted voice through the overhead speaker, accompanied by
a dim red light. An unseen cloud of anxiety flows through the cabin like
gas, and I scratch my jaw, discomfited and unsettled. It reeks in
here. It smells like rank, stale pool water and sweat, sweat with
metallic undertones. Simon slides off his glasses, then rubs them on the material
of his military fatigues to little success. He mutters something to himself and polish
as he pushes them back up onto his nose. The six of us have
very different backgrounds, but what we share is our common station and NATO barracks
at the edge of Germany nearly time. Now, says the man to my
left, Blaine, a Scotsman who lives in my quarters. I let's get
the show on the road, shall we. I raise my eyebrows at him
and give him a grim half smile, but no one replies. Directly to
his left is Rudy, an American keen to tell anyone who will about his
German heritage, despite having O'Reilly as a last name, which I get some
personal amusement from. I'm married to a German myself, a wonderful woman called
Nina, but the only actual German natives amongst us this evening are Kim and
Manny. Kim's a good friend of Nina's, though we're not actually particularly well
acquainted. I see her around the barracks, but we don't have much in
common. When we speak, we tend to speak about my wife, which,
aside from the army, is our only real point of shared investment.
Kim sometimes jokes that she knows Nina better than I do. I'm not sure
how I feel about such jokes, but she's nice enough. Beside her is
the other German, born and bred, and that's Manny, currently snoozing.
Manny's an old boy, a grandson in fact, of one of the men
who helped from the installations we're about to visit. He's sleeping for now.
Not sure how he manages it, but he's a trooper. I look down
at my boots and reflect on the objectives at hand. Exit the submarine,
enter into the bunker, gather intel, report back. Simple enough, I
suppose. But the bunker is one of several a relic from the Second World
War and kindly left behind by the Germans, near unreachable at the bottom of
the Atlantic Ocean. There aren't many pictures of these bunkers, and of the
pictures that do exist, it's difficult to determine scale horse eyes, but by
all accounts, the bunkers on monstrous things, massive installations of concrete and metal
and god knows what else, spread in a rough half circle around the entrance
to the Mediterranean. Earlier to day, the six of US flew out from
gailic Kershen transferred to submarine at the lease On Naval Base, and it's been
a long, miserable rout west from there. Every team that goes to the
bunkers reports back the same thing, that there are no major threats, there's
nothing to be found of interest, and since they're causing no environmental damage,
impose no strategic threat, NATO might as well leave them be. Operations out
into the ocean to destroy and clean up the wreckage are expensive and time consuming,
and let's face it, there's always something more important to deal with.
And some forgotten concrete halls at the bottom of the sea. Some busy,
buzzy native no pen pusher must have noticed the bunkers were years overdue a visit,
and I guess kicked up a fuss, and so the papers were shuffled
and pawns moved around the board. And here we are, on the way
down, down into the deep. I try not to think about the tight
metal confines of the submarine. I pray that I will be afforded more space
to move and think and breathe. When were actually inside the bunker. The
little red light by the speaker flicks back into life, and the jumbled voice
comes through once again, this time louder, with a whiplike electronic crackling.
Five minutes to go, it says, as I start with alarm. Manny
is frightened out of his sleep. With a gasp and a raspy exclamation,
he splutters out a name that I do not recognize, that means nothing to
me, Friedrich, he calls out into the gloom, jumping to his feet
in panic. I hear some of the bones in his legs click as he
does so. Jesus Zeemon mutters, reaching a hand to his chest, scare
the life out of me. The eyes in the submarine regard Manny warily,
this is not the first time he has had such an outburst. Friedrich Many
mumbles again, looking around the vessel at his fellow passengers, expression glazed confusion
marked across his face. Kim reaches up for his arm. The dreams again,
Many, she asks, gently, beckoning him back down, and he
just stares at her for a moment, then relents, slowly sinking back onto
the bench, rubbing at the gray around his temples. Warily yes, apologies.
I don't know what comes over me. They have been getting worse.
What was it this time, Kimmie asks him. He shakes his head.
It's already fading, but I believe it was similar to before. The people
I saw in the dreamscape were none that I have actually met. I do
not recall having ever seen them, not in his life. In my dream,
however, I knew them. I knew them all. They were important
to me. We were in a field of long grass and there was a
young man, Frederic. He was going to war. Kim choose her cheek
a little as she considers this. I don't think I expected him to come
back, Manny says quietly, as the submarine rumbles. I knew that he
was being sent to his death. They're connected to your grandfather, Kim says,
with self imposed certainty. I'm sure of it. That's why they're getting
worse. Ever since you volunteered to come on the mission, your subconscious and
knew you'd be getting closer to him, to his place of work. Lord
of bull Crap, Rudy chimes in, his hair flopping as he leaned forward
over his gun. Kim, you got to stop with this supernatural nonsense.
It's all in your mind. Many. In fact, Kim, you hit
the nail on the head just now. It's all in your subconscious manner.
Just let it go. It'll be some repressed German guilt or something. He
chaps a finger towards Manny and forows his brow. I've said it before,
and i'll say it again. You aren't guilty of any kind of World War
II crimes just because his granddaddy was an SS officer or whatever. Many sighs
warily. He reaches his hand into a pocket and produces a handkerchief, which
he used the ab his forehead. I'm well aware of this, he responds
dryly. My grandfather was not in the SS. But I appreciate your passion
on this matter. Damn straight, Rudy replies, leaning back in his seat.
Plaine and I exchange a look. I can empathize at least a little
with Manny's internal struggle regarding his German grandfather. I mean, my wife shares
his burden. That's her own great grandfather. What was a colleague of his?
They both work together in a close capacity, I am told, or
at least that's what the records indicate. Prepare for docking crackles the voice through
the speaker, and for a second or two, the light in the submarine
falters, shrouding us all in temporary sickly darkness. I suppress a shudder as
we get ready to disembark, and the rumbling all around us wave us intermittently
between louder and quieter, louder and quieter. The sounds of the engine rise
to the greatest volume since we left the port at Lisbon, then fade to
a soft and steady background. Murmur. Plane rises to his feet. Let's
check this place out, then the first bunker reckon. We'll find anything fun,
semon joins him, stretching as he does so. I doubt it.
They reac on this place every one ten or so years, and they've never
brought back anything interesting. I doubt we'll see any more than a collection of
dusty World War two ruins. You don't find that interesting, I ask,
as I prepared to disembark. More bit sure, but not even a little
interesting. Makes a noise of disgust and mutters something to himself. I find
no interest in the droppings of vermin, he says, and turns away.
The cynic in me sees Semen shoots a quick glance at Manny before he does
so, and this cynical part of me is keen to interpret it with dark
thoughts, but that would do the man a disservice. Semon is a good
fellow, hard working. Plane heads through the narrow inner body of the submarine
towards the ladders, and Semen follows on. Behind Behind him goes Rudy,
flicking his hair from his face, and he's followed by Kim and Manny.
Manny places a hand on my shoulder and gives me a tired smile as he
passes me by. I return it. Then, with a deep sigh of
relief, I say goodbye to this room in the submarine. For now I'm
looking forward to a little more space to breathe. One by one, we
ascend the ladders and out through the circular hatch in the submarine's roof. I
allow in a great lungful of air as I do so, squinting through the
darkness. As I fumble for my torch, switching it on and joining its
yellow gold beam with the others. We stand on the cold metal roof of
the submarine, half visible, protruding like an iron whale. From the black
waters below, lapping hungrily at its sides. Ahead of us is a steel
rail and a vast concrete platform that extends into shadow. The bunker from the
inside has the look of an enormous hangar. Kim taps my shoulder, then
gestures up towards the back of the hall, closer to the ceiling, and
I follow her gaze and raise my light. Our beams fall upon a colossal
eagle carved into a sheet of rock, itself embedded in concrete. The eagle
is angular and cold as it sits proudly upon its logo. Seamen crosses himself
and spits into the water, before taking a few long steps and leaping from
the edge of the submarine's roof to the concrete platform, his boots scraping against
the side. He hauls himself up with the aid of the steel rail,
and we listen to the sounds of his boots against the ground as he looks
for the mechanism which will release a bridge for safer passage. He was in
the file, so it shouldn't be too hard to find. I glanced down
into the water below. The smell of salt is thick in the air.
I am unable to keep from my head the fleeting thought of a sudden slip,
of tumbling down into that dark and rightly rippling water, its softness,
a dark mass to conceal the terror of its icy depths, an unforgiving pull
hidden away beneath. I shiver and look away. A few cold moments pass,
and with the eventual rattling of gears and springs, a bridge begins to
extend from the side of the concrete out towards our spot on the sub plane
tests it first, and then one by one we cross, joining Simon and
the platform proper. We begin to cross the floor, making our way towards
the gritted double doors at the hall's far end, At present, only gloomy
rectangles in the distance. I feel very small in here, even as a
part of a team of six. I can't help but feel insignificant, dwarfed
by the intensity of this deserted lair. This is a sick place, Many
says in a low voice, his eyes flashed momentarily as a straight beam of
light passes across his face. Do you feel it, Oliver? After a
beat, I nod in agreement. There is something wrong here, something on
a level. I can't quite grasp just yet. I glance up to the
Eagle as we walk beneath it. This is no passing fancy historical sight.
Are you are right, I ask him, yes, he replies, for
now, I don't know exactly why many volunteered for this mission. He's the
only one who volunteered for one thing. The rest of us was simply ordered.
I think he hold some strings and cashed in some favors, convinced the
brass he'd be of use given his knowledge of an experience in decommissioning warmer German
World War Two sites and places of relevance. It's true what Kim was saying
earlier as well. His grandfather was prominent in World War II, vanished without
a trace one day. There's no record of his death, but he did
work down here, at least for a time. That much is known.
One of the first reacon teams down to this bunker recovered some old files.
Manny's grandfather was one of the listed names found within. You reckon we'll find
any bodies playing, calls back over his shoulder, just a little too loud
for the environment. I cringe, but Rudy replies, undeterred, I should
think, so I find myself and skull to take home as a souvenir.
We reached the metal double doors at the end of the hall, and with
a look round the group, Plane presses his shoulder against them and forces one
open. We slipped through the gap in formation, checking down the long,
dark corridors that branch out before us and beside us, disappearing into the void
on our left and to our right. No Manny, says, his voice
echoing down between the walls. The reports made no notes of any bodies found,
German or otherwise. Whatever they were doing here, they didn't stick around.
So then where did they go? Simon ponders aloud, arking his weapon
around as he steps into a deserted room nearby, perhaps once used for briefings
or meetings. They wouldn't have just vanished into thin air. We might see
a body, says The group looks at her. A man was killed during
the last expedition, a soldier French. I think, oh yeah, Rudy
mutters, rubbing his nose. How'd that happen again? Freak accident? Right,
that's right, Plaine says, That's what I was talking about. Really,
Apparently the poor bugger got knocked clean cold by a falling pipe. Might
have been a ceiling panel or something actually, but whatever. The report read
that he was face down and drowned in a puddle. When the rest of
his team found him. They didn't have the capacity to remove the fallen material,
so they were forced to just leave him down here. Don't believe he's
ever recovered, since we're the first guys to walk these corridors in over a
decade, so they just left him down here. Seemon asks, that's cold,
inhumane or most I don't think they had a choice. Sigh, Kim
says, nudging his arm. Maybe we'll have to leave you down here.
Hey, not funny, he says, but he chuckles as he does so.
I'm not particularly amused myself, to tell the truth, I feel sick.
Unless they're hiding it better than we are. It's possible that only Manny
and myself are actually comprehending the weight of the monstrosity of this place. The
others haven't really thought about it, I don't think. But we're in one
of six bunkers, this particular one it is the easiest to reach, supposedly,
so it's the one that commands keeps sending their teams too, But something
of the size, something as massive as this, hidden away in the darkness
at the bottom of the ocean. It's hiding a secret, a terrible,
frightening secret, and I don't even know what it is. The place is
cold, and chills ripple across my exposed skin as I glanced from left to
right, peering into the shadows of the open doorways. As we walk the
length of the central corridor, deeper into the middle of the complex. Strategically,
a bunkle like this would be better off in the Mediterranean, surely,
shallower waters, for easier construction, position between Italy and Libya, for instance,
for maximum tactical value. But the Germans took the time and trolled constructed
out here in the Atlantic. And for what Why would they do this?
Where did they go and what exactly did they leave behind? Silence falls across
the group. There is no sound but the clamping of boots, the long,
low breaths of my comrades echoes round the walls. At the very edge
of my hearing, a noise shivers fast down the length of the hall.
My heart rate quickens and my ears sharpen. The simple creak of an old
structure, I should think, but it almost sounds like whispering, an almost
imperceptible whisper at the very threshold of sound. It's so faint, however,
that I decided not to bring it up for fear of looking like an idiot.
But I share another pointed look with Kim just beside me. She heard
it too, Maybe the others did as well. I glanced to my left
as Blaine pulls his mask up and around his nose and mouth. Simon crosses
himself and he rubs his forehead. I see that it is covered in beads
of sweat. We press on. We'll head to the central room. Then
we'll split into two teams. Blaine says through his mask. We get this
bunger checked out. We reconvene. He's met with murmurs of ascent. As
we push through another set of double doors, smaller this time, and step
into some kind of lobby, Manny produces a map and unfolds it, and
it becomes clear that this lobby will if we continue head through the complex is
center. We are halted, however, by the strength of our own sudden
awe. We stand in the entrance to a wide room with a high doned
ceiling. The walls around us are covered, much to our surprise, in
plaques and paintings, and in the room's middle is a now dead fountain,
the centerpiece of which is a colossal statue or series of statues, depending on
your perspective. I crane my neck, struck with disbelief. The statue depicts
three men of varying age, with expressions solemn and eyes pure white. A
long and fish like serpent, carved from the same foundation, winds itself between
and around them, way up towards the ceiling, its straws wide and teeth
sharp. A dark circular symbol can be seen on the foreheads of each of
the three men, stark against the relative paleness of their stone skin. Disht
Sony many mutters, taking a step towards the shadow. He is hauntingly small
by comparison the Black Sun. Simon repeats, staring up at the centerpiece with
horror. What does it mean? Rudy asks, glancing around the group,
and what the hell is this thing? Anyway, it ain't in the damn
report. You'd think at least one of the teams would have mentioned seeing something
like this. The Black Son was one of the many symbols utilized by the
s s many replies, still staring up at the great statues. It has
been employed by many cultures, but in this instance it was the symbol of
the Vivelsburg Castle. He turns to us, the dark home of the German
World War two foray into the occult led by none other than Heinrich Himmler,
German occultists. Rudy responds. Then he puts out a hand and makes a
dismissive gesture. No, no, come on, don't messing with me with
that summer natural nonsense. Again. We're dealing with people here, just ordinary
evil people. He shoots another lock up to the statue of the three men
and the creature. Well, he falters, maybe not that ordinary, but
you catch my drift seemen grunts and shakes his head. Not ordinary and not
people. This place is the husk for a den of long dead rats.
Look, come on, man, I get your hatum. You are alone
in this, but open your eyes. Rudy throws an arm out to the
statues beside him. You aren't even a little impressed or released, I don't
know. Curious semen scars, then walks away. Turning his back to the
statue as he continues his passage around the perimeter of the room. I take
another long look at the statue, then head around on its left hand side,
the opposite to Seamon. I come up alongside Blaine, admiring a painting,
and I stand beside him. I read a little plaque on the wall,
one celebrating a visit made this bunker by Himmler in nineteen forty one,
and then I consider the painting. It is housed in a frame of dark,
rich wood, which is comprised of a host of grim, swirling colors.
The scene, despite its lack of vibrancy, is vivid and powerful.
It depicts a churning sea and enormous feels as if I am there myself.
In a way, I suppose I am here in this bunker, at the
bottom of the ocean. The waves are gray and black and tinged with the
darkest of blues, frothing angrily as they crash and cascade into and over each
other. At the paintings far left is the silhouette of a shadowed city of
ruins, protruding faintly from the surging sea and lost behind the spiraling clouds overhead.
I am vaguely aware of a low conversation taking place between Siemon and Kim
somewhere far behind me, but in the moment they are overwhelmed by the impossible
roars of these silent waves. A lighthouse stands at the far right of the
painting. Its beacon and eye and the flash of painted gold looks out over
the storm and cast alone, solemn beamed towards the fallen city. The lighthouse,
upon a closer inspection, is comprised of bodies, hundreds and hundreds of
broken bodies intertwined with torturous new purpose. It's awful, isn't it, Plaining
murmurs, and I'm snapped back to reality with a blink. Yes, I
reply, after a beat, glancing down to the little silver tag embedded in
the painting's frame, the nine thousand, it's called, or in English a
thousand awful, I repeat, but still Aye, Blain grunts. It's a
quality painting. There's a pause, not something I'd ever hang up in my
bloody bedroom, though personally, I chuckled dryly, and we move on.
Our footsteps are heavy against the concrete below. Rudy made a point just now,
I say out loud as we walk. Blaine waits for me to continue.
He said that the statue room, actually, it's entirely omitted in the
report. This is meant to be an uninteresting, unassuming lobby. Instead it's
filled with the intricate paintings and giant statues. Why wouldn't this have been mentioned?
Seems obvious to me, mate, Blaine replies, because despite what Simon
says, this stuff is interesting, and when somebody finds something mysterious and interesting,
everyone in their grandma wants to come and have a lock. He hoists
his gun a little higher, clears his throat. I'm guessing that this was
all omitted because the recon teams decided they didn't want people coming down here.
I swallow. And why would they do that, hum, I asked him
rhetorically. Why wouldn't they want anyone else coming down? Why keep it all
so cryptic and silent? Plaine shrugs. Couldn't say. There's something wrong down
here, I mutter. I'm sure of it, something very very wrong,
and every part of me hates this place. Aye Blaine says, I've started
feeling a little like that myself. It's getting worse. Actually, the deeper
in we go, I nod. We're going to find something terrible down here.
I finish. But to this Blaine says nothing, leaving the statues and
the defunct fountain behind. We push through the doors at the hall's opposite end
and head through into a long, wide room with two simple doors. We
are joined by the others. The door on the left has a plaque that
reads their control Ram, and the door on the right is marked only with
the same symbol. On the foreheads of the stone giants, the black sun
my stomach turns, has a look upon it, and a wave of cold
nausea passes through me. My heart rate quickens and I roll my shoulders,
attempting to release some built up tension. Mannie brings a hand up to his
head and gasps, and the group turns to him. Manny Kim says,
with concern, are you all right? Mannie pats her hand, then steps
away a little closer to the control rum. I keep seeing, he falters.
I'm seeing in my head what I can only describe as flashes of memory.
But the memories are not mine. He gestures to the control raum door.
There is a man in there, he says, simply, then looks
back at us A dead man, I believe, he rubs the side of
his forehead. And I've also come to believe that I was wrong earlier.
I no longer think this place is entirely deserted. He points to the door.
A man's last memories are held behind that door. Then he strides towards
it. Manny. Rudy calls out, wait, but the man does not.
He approaches and grabs the handle, swinging the door outwards into our corridor
and shines inside his beam of light. He steps into the room and we
follow him inside. Christ Explain mutters as we enter, I guess you found
your German skull, Rudy, Why didn't you go and grab it up?
Rudy doesn't respond. He simply looks down at the sight before us, a
skeleton surrounded by dust and empty cans, slumped back in a chair against the
wall. The bones are wrapped up in the threads of an old German World
War II uniform. None of this is supposed to be down here, Rudy
says, eventually, why do you commn keep all this stuff from us?
It's not command, Blaine replies, echoing our earlier conversation. It's the recon
teams. The recon teams write the reports. So why amid all this?
Rudy says, as he throws up his hands. I don't get it.
This is ain't no ordinary bunker, and I think we've all realized that by
now. Kim ignores him. What is it, Manny, she asks.
As the man crouches down beside the skeleton. Manny regards the remains of the
skeleton. He looks down to the brown banded book on the desk beside him,
and he considers the iron cross on the front of the uniform. A
hint of a chain can be seen spilling from one of the front pockets,
and Manny reaches over to take hold of it. Hey, should you be
doing that, Rudy asks, But Mannie continues and slowly draws from the uniform
a golden locket in the shape of an oak leaf. He turns it over
in his hands. I know this man, he says, simply, what
you mean, Kim asks. His name is Hands. He has a wife
and a young son, A son who is no older than eleven or twelve
at his death. I don't suppose he'll be that young anymore. Manny playing
grunts, giving the skeleton's boot a light kick. A cloud of fine white
dust bursts out into the room. I imagine he looks like his father.
Ere Manny sits the locket on the desk and Kim reaches out to open it
up. Inside it's a picture of a square gewed soldier with closely cropped hair.
Beside him is a woman dressed in the style of the nineteen thirties.
The picture in the locket's other half is of a young boy, the couple's
son by the look of him. Geez Rudy murmurs with dismay, looking from
the picture to Mannie and back Mannie, Mannie, how did you know that?
Mannie stands back up with a small grunt, his legs creaking as he
does, and he takes the journal and the desk up into his hands and
begins to carefully leaf through the pages, even though it likely belonged to a
monster of a man. He begins, I can never bring myself to be
anything but gentle when it comes to the box. I was instilled into me
a deep respect for the written word. He cautiously turns to the first page
and points to the name that has been written in the front margins hands it
read, yes, Manny says, quietly, this is him. Sieman and
Blaine have begun to rummage to the room, searching through papers and charts and
various records. Most of the files have been emptied, and those that remain
seem to detail only the structural side of the complex, aspects of the engineering
and the architecture, though nothing can be found about the purpose of or meaning
behind the intricate statues in the central lobby. As Kim and Rudy and I
talk slowly amongst ourselves, and as Manny begins to read through the journal,
Sieman takes a little time to skim through a letter he finds amongst the others
dugged away on a sh shelf. He snorts and shakes his head, then
holds the paper up for us look. Take a look at this, he
says, slapping the paper down under the desk beside the skeleton. Have a
read, he says, before jabbing his finger onto a couple of choice lines.
This was written by the German commander of the bunker, he says,
by my guess, and it's directed and our little rat hands here. What
is it? Asks Kim, as she leans over to read. It's a
promise, a false promise that they will return for him. Simon mutters,
a promised that his comrades will come back for him when they are able.
From where Blaine asks and Simon shrugs. It does not say, does it
matter? It was clearly a lie. He kicks the legs of the skeleton
a little harder than and the skeleton slumps lower down in its chair, with
another accompanying cloud of dust. They clearly lied to him. He did his
duty like a good little soldier and stayed behind us who god knows what,
And they forgot all about him, and he died alone in his chair at
the bottom of the sea. He got off, lightly, seeming grimaces,
and kicks the thigh of the skeleton as hard as he can, and with
a shower of white mist, the skeleton crumbles and collapses into a pile on
the floor. For goodness sake, what do you do that for? Rudy
splutters and coughs idiot, don't talk to me like that, Simmons retorts,
then leaves the room, shaking his head, and he waves a hand around
his face, dispersing the dust, squinting as he scans the pages of the
mysterious journal. Simons's guess seems to be right, he says, as he
turns the pages of the journal. This man's job was to keep the power
running. He was an engineer and was, it would seem, tasked with
repairing and maintaining the system, to prioritize where the energy should go. He
points to a passage written near the bottom of one of the pages. You
can read this, many, Rudy asks. To his credit, the journal
is written not only in German, but in intricate cursive. Many nods,
of course. He points again to the passage, and I do my best
to read what is written. As Many continues. Here, he begins speaking
about a necessary diversion of power and how he dislikes how cold the bunker has
become. He also makes references to fixing and repairing. What kind of guy
was he, Rudy asks. He was full of pride, Many says,
as he carefully turns the pages. It says he was one of several volunteers
for this role. He was happy to do his duty. He gave him
purpose. We are quiet for a moment as Manny turns the pages. Hans
expressed in this journal, his excitement at being reunited with comrades. But despite
the loneliness, he knew that they would return for him when Haure was ready,
that he too would see the truth, that he would keep the power
going for as long as they needed. Wait, hang on, Bayine interrupts.
This guy kept the power on for how long? And for what?
Why exactly was he keeping this place active? There is a pause, and
Blaine looks around the room. Is it still active? To this? Of
course we have no answer. That's a good point, though, says Kim.
Does it say what the purpose of the bonker is in there? Many?
Does hands write about why he had to keep the power on? Many
chooses tongue in thought. He flicks to another couple of pages. His writing
is somewhat cryptic in that regard. Perhaps he feared that the journal with angry
superiors a potential breach of state secrets. He writes only that his work ongoing
was to protect He points to a sentence at the bottom of a paragraph.
Despite the calligraphy, the words are quite clear. The nine thousand, Many
reads aloud, and a chill shivers across my body. I made cold eye
contact with Blaine Manny I begin, but the man continues. He grew angry,
many mutters, turning page after page, scanning them as quickly as he
can hands. He grows impatient and becomes guilty because of his impatience, He's
frustrated, anxious. Yes, here he notices fear. He expresses true worry
for the first time, worry that they will not return for him before his
supplies are exhausted. Manny's eyes dart from left to right across the page.
We watch him do so. I find that my heart has begun to pound,
And eventually Manny turns to the final entry. Many regards us one by
one, then reads the passage aloud. I resent what I have done,
many reads, and I now question if I have been made a fool,
and if my superiors were either unable or unwilling to return. It matters not
which is the truth, for they demonstrate the same ends. And besides,
it is too late. This is likely to be my last entry. What
could have happened? If, as promised, my life was destined to be
part of something truly greater, then I would have not been left behind like
this and forgotten. I have given everything to the cause, and now the
end approaches. I will not be granted a passage to the truth. Maybe
I deserve this fate. I once considered D ten thousand to be animals.
Perhaps they still are vermine and of a lower standing than myself. But even
if this were true, to do what we have done, even to animals,
no animal deserves such torment, surely human or otherwise. I cannot shut
the project down, even though it might force my comrades return. I do
not know what they face. I cannot betray them, not now. I
have come too far, and so as this is the path I have chosen,
I don't doubt I'll be made accountable for my crimes, not in this
life. If not in this life, then the next to shut the project
down would be to admit that it was all for nothing. And I cannot
do this. I must do what I believe to be right. Manny finishes,
reading aloud, then closes the journal with a dull thoud, placing it
back on the desk. Dean thousand Kim repeats aloud, what could it be?
I have a theory or two? Many begins, but he is again
interrupted. Siemon leans around the open doorway, his expression dark. No need
Many He says, I believe that I have found it. He disappears,
and hurriedly we follow on, leaving the control room behind, and catches him
on up. As he passes through the second door, the one marked with
the black sun, we step into an enormous room, shrouded and flickering green
and watery light. Simon strides to the room's middle, and his shadow is
thrown out long behind him and across the floor. Oh Kim, murmurs,
a breathing growing shallower and shallower beside me. Oh no, oh no.
My eyes widen, and I take a step forwards, caught in the clutches
of terror. Wayne swears, and Rudy does likewise, across the room to
catch up with Zimon. Despite the cold, Manny is now sweating profusely,
and I can seem shaking in the corner of my field of vision. But
each and every one of us stairs at the towering centerpiece of the hall,
there is no statue. We stare at a monstrous translucent box of thick glass,
refracting it's green in a light across our faces, across the walls,
bizarre and ever shifting shapes and shards. It bubbles softly. It whirs,
and pipes overhead creak warily in the darkness. It is a tank of sorts,
filled to the brim with an unknown green liquid, and inside, drifting
like wraiths as if caught in the wind, are hundreds and hundreds of body
their nude warped. Their eyes are completely blank, shimmering green through the liquid
through the light, their mouths hung open, and figs with expressions of shock
or of silent horror. Perhaps bubbles form across their skin. Many of the
drifters have developed tendrils or frills that float behind them, like the arms of
a jellyfish. I look at their faces behind the glass. It's difficult to
make them all out, but I get the strong impression that some are old
and some are young, Some are male and some are female. These are
people from all walks of life. And here they are drifting in the shimmering
green light of the tank, way down here with us beneath the waves.
The in thousand whispers, the tank thrumbs and whirs. The bodies within drift
aimlessly across and around in the fractal grin light of the water. Although it
won't be water, of course, it'll be something else, some other substance.
I step closer to the glass, my heart hammering. I've never seen
anything like this before, of course, none of us have. I peer
into the tank. I study as best I can the phases of the corpses
within, or are they corpses? I squint. They make me feel ill.
The distortion of the glass and the light and the liquid makes it difficult
to tell if the people inside are breathing, But they certainly don't appear alive
in the traditional sense. Their expressions are fixed in place. Dark veins have
crept up their host's neck and have begun to streak across their faces. Whenever
I think I can see a twitch and a muscle or in one of those
mutated veins, I am met with a doubt that it was perhaps nothing more
than trickery. In the light, watching them all drift by, it makes
my head spin, a release of breath i'd forgotten I was holding, and
retreat with a hand on my forehead. This is it, right, Rudy
says, turning back to face the group looking rapidly between us. This is
the thousand, the thousand. I think about the painting I saw back in
the lobby, and I meet the gaze of blame beside me. It's clear
his thinking about the same thing. Rudy swears and runs his hand through his
hair. I didn't sign up for this, man see Man unclasps and raises
his weapon. He takes a step forward. Hey, hey, Rudy calls,
as voices rise around the group. Wait, Many bellows, his voice
cutting through the clamor. An uneasy quiet holds the group and check for a
moment, and Manny speaks, let's all just calm down. We are trained
professionals. Act accordingly, and frown flickers across his face and he winces,
furrowing his brow. A sweat begins to leak down past his hair line.
Many Kim says, reaching out, but Manny gently shakes his head, walking
towards the tank. What does it do, Kim ponders aloud, her eyes
wide. I mean, what's it for. There was a painting in the
room with the statues, I say to her and the group. It was
called the Thousand. It showed a lighthouse made of people looking out over a
storm, and there was a city. Blaine ads as we approached the nearest
glass wall of the tank, or at least I think it was hard to
tell ruins really dark and broken spires. There was a painting with the same
name on the other side of the hall to see my nads. It showed
a ruin from above, and the layout of the ruin was the same as
the black sun. The alien green light reflects off his glasses and obscures his
eyes. The shape was surrounded by six golden eyes. We reached the edge
of the glass. A large metal panel had been embedded here, easily taller
than myself, and is connected to a series of pipes some mechanisms, many
of which feed through the floor. A plaque of gold and black has been
screwed into the panel. It depicts a faded brown photograph alongside a name and
what appears to be a handprint, alongside a list of details written in German.
The name is that of Manny's grandfather, and he reveals this to the
group. Damn. Rudy mutters, this is insane. Plain grunts. I
see some resemblance Manny, perhaps a little Manny, says, his eyes scanning
the information recorded here, though personally I've always felt I take more after my
mother's side of the family. He reaches up a hand and places it against
the handprint of his grandfather and instantly recoils with a gasp. Clutching his head,
he catches his breath, then fourws his brow, looking up at the
tank. This thing is an insult to humanity, he grunts, a tumor.
Almost every fiber of my being wants to see it destroyed. But yet
there is something else as well. What came? Asks? What is it?
I keep seeing, Many begins, then falters. I keep seeing glimpses
of the water, as if I am in there amongst them. I see
myself through the glass, distorted, just quick flashes. Seeman sucks some air
in through his teeth. I think we shut this down. I don't know
why it has been kept active for so long, this disgusting secret. What
do we even suggesting? Here? Is many able to see through the eyes
of these bodies in the water. Are they alive? His final word echoes
around the room and his loss to the thrum of the old machinery. He
clinches his jaw, then repeats himself. I say we shut it down,
and I say we shut it down. Now. The tank was built by
the enemies. What more do your people need? You think it's something to
be preserved? He turns and begins to stride around the side of the tank
into the watery shadows thrown by the structure's eerie light. Kim hurries after him.
Wait, Eman, don't you think we should wait and try to work
out what it's for or why it was built? Blaine turns to us.
I think I might go back and grab that journal. Couldn't make much sense
of it myself, but Manny can read it. He might have missed something
important. But as he makes the leave, we hears him and call his
name, Blaine. He shouts back through the darkness. God, another skeleton.
Are I think it's the one you were talking about? We head over
ask tiny specks in the glow of the green tank, and as we approached
Siemen and Kim we find them standing by the side of a skeleton, a
skeleton adorned in western military fatigues and sprawled across the floor. We consider it
for a moment. They sent one of them, obviously, Rudy murmurs,
crouching down and running his finger around the collar. He lifts an arm to
look at the sleeve. French. He says, this will be the guy
from the report. Wait. Kim mutters, no, that can't be right.
The report read that he was killed by fallen pipewright, drowned in a
puddle. Wayne and I take a step back, and we cast the beams
of our torches around the surrounding area. A few of the beams are raised
to the high ceiling above. There is no sign above of any disconnected piping
or paneling, nor is there any sign of something having fallen. Aside from
the skeleton itself, the ground is unmarked. There is also no logical place
from which a puddle might have formed, or from where such a puddle might
have leaked. This guy wasn't killed by no falling debris, Rudy says,
Take a look at this guy's He lifts his torch and the light falls across
the skeleton's head. It illuminates a single hole the size of a bullet in
the back of the skeleton skull. Shot in the back of the head.
Seeman murmurs, anger rising in the back of his voice. All right,
enough of this, he shouts, standing straight up. Enough enough of this
ridiculous murder mystery. He chaps a finger towards the tank. That thing makes
me sick, and I'm shutting it down now. He takes his weapon in
hand and strides past the skeleton back towards the tank. Hey hold on,
Kim says, reaching out for a sleeve, but he shrugs her off.
Rudy positions himself in the man's way. For God's sake, Man, just
calm down. What the hell's the matter with you? Got a screw loose
or something? What would you know of this? Seman snorts, trying to
shove his way past. You don't understand a thing, no matter how much
you try to pretend to. And what exactly is that supposed to mean?
Huh? Rudy challenges, voice raising. Wayne attempts to get between them as
an argument breaks out, leaving Manny and myself beside the skeleton. We look
at each other. They are all manners of curiosity. In that plaque,
he says to me, after a beat, alongside my grandfather's picture and his
name, it listed his blood type, other statistics that I cannot discern the
meaning of relating I believe to activity in different parts of the brain, Manny,
I say to him, rubbing my jaw. Please be frank with me.
Do you know what this is? Do you know what these bonkers are
for? Manny shakes his head. I do not, but I am grown
in confidence that the people inside the tank are alive. I believe that the
dreams of which I'm cursed, well, this might be a long shot,
but I think they might come from the drifters inside the tank. Goose bumps
ripple across my skin. So what do we do? I ask? Is
seemun right? Do we try shut it down? I think we have no
choice? Many replies, So how do we do it? I ask him?
The guy who wrote the journal said even he couldn't do it. I
believe that the fellow in the control room was constrained mentally. Oliver Manny says
to me, not physically, And we have access to technology. They did
not controlled explosives, for one thing. We can't use an explosive. Many,
I tell him, we have no idea what the stuff in the tank
even is. If we use too much and we break the glass, of
course, of course, many interrupts. I'm not a fool. There will
be a way to open the paneling. There is a power keeping them locked.
Shot, how can you tell there was a light coming through the cracks,
but there was no keyhole nor slots for screws. I think there may
be some kind of magnet keeping the panel connected to the body of the tank
and released something on the inside. So all we need is a way to
open the panel have a look inside. And even as I say the words,
I notice for the first time the position that the skeleton beneath us is
actually in. He sprawled across the ground, yes, but he was clearly
heading in a certain direction after the side, towards the great pipes at the
room's edge. I raise my torch and I step around the poor for garden
soldier, walking in the direction that he'd been heading before he was before he
was shot. Manny accompanies me, and at the very edges of the room,
nestle between two enormous pipes and rattling with a faint whir is some kind
of ancient power box, the generator of swords. And this thing actually has
a door locked up tight. I look at Mannie, and he nods and
takes a step back. I raised my weapon and fired two quick, careful
shots into the door side. It cracks open, and the sounds of the
argument behind us cease at once. The hell are you guys doing? Rudy
calls over and After a smattering of boots and cold concrete, we are joined
by some of the others. All right, good, now, hold on
a moment, Many says, as he pulls open the busted door with a
clank, examining the inside of the generator. I've seen machines like this before
in my career. Not identical, of course, but similar enough. Just
give me a moment. We're shooting these things now, Seeman shouts over.
He remains across the hall bathed in green as he stands by the tank.
So much for waiting and using caution. I guess why don't we just blow
the hell out of this thing? Look, perhaps we're all getting carried away.
Wayne cuts in. Are we actually considering destroying the tank? We don't
know what it is now. I don't know why the previous reco teams decided
to keep it a secret, but they obviously knew something we didn't. Perhaps
we spend a little more time looking around. At least we should report this,
Kim says. Let's just get the hell out of here and tell command
everything we know. Got it, Manny mutters to himself as he makes a
decision, then reaches out and flicks a switch. He unplugs a cord,
then pulls down on a lever on the right hand side. There is a
low groan that rumbles throughout the bunker. The green light flickers momentarily and with
a cloud of dust and a metallic clattering. I see the silhouettes of several
panels falling from the side of the tank. Now, Manny says, rubbing
some dark grease from his hands, Let's take a look at what we're working
with here. As Blaine suggests, there is clearly more to learn about this
place. We take a slow and measured approach to this. We have no
idea what we're working with, so we consider every juncture with caution. We
cannot rule out simply giving a full report to command. But there must be
a reason as to why we've never heard about all this before. He looks
between us, from Playing to Kim, to Rudy and myself. Oh,
I have some theories regarding the people in the tank. I catch a movement
in the corner of my eye, and I see the silhouette of semen working
hurriedly away in the freshly exposed inner mechanisms of the great green tank, formally
hidden behind the panel. Hey, I mutter, then a little louder,
Hey, Ziman, what are you doing? Simon does not respond. He
simply slams something into place and then makes a break for it. He hurries
over to us, his expression hidden in shadow. Simon kin begins as a
low beeping becomes suddenly audible. Simon, she repeats, a little more urgently,
what have you done? The man comes into view, and as the
shadows swim across his face and the reflected green flashes over his eyes, I
catch a glimpse of his expression, a wide, manic grin, eyes wide
and fierce. He tilts his head as he runs and presses a finger against
the ear closest to the tank. What follows is the sound of an explosion,
loud and sharp and clear, cutting through the murmur and whir of the
bunker like a blade. Shadows of metal and rubber, and god knows what
else burst with a sudden force from the place that Simon was tinkering, and
the green of the tank begins. The falter a grimace and WinCE as a
low ring begins the chime in my ears. I bushed my way past the
man and run towards the front of the tank. The entire panel with the
picture of Manny's grandfather and the information alongside, has been blown to shreds.
Staring into the dark hole that Zimon has blown in the mechanism of the tanks
filter, I'm not sure what it is, but looking inside, at the
steadily grinding gears, the deflating pumps, and the leaking ooze and grease and
fluid, it's like looking into the open wound of a monstrous, dying animal.
I retreat, looking up in shock as from this fresh wound, a
dark, thick sludge begins to leak into the glowing green waters. Manny gasps
aloud and collapses to his knees, holding his head. Kim rushes to his
side as the rest of us watch the sludge disperse and billow out like a
slow toxic cloud throughout the water. The drifting souls, it seems to me
that they try their best to avoid it for as long as they can,
in the manner that a jellyfish might try to avoid a beam of light in
its slow and meandering way. For one by one they are enveloped, and
the green liquid turns steadily gray and then black. I watch in horror as
the hundreds upon, hundreds of bodies begin to melt. They lose whatever sense
of orientation they might have once possessed. They are washed against each other,
and where they touch, they dissolve. There's no other word for it.
Pieces begin to break away, sinking slowly and singing to the base of the
tank, where they are gradually lost to the darkness. I air a scream,
and I wheel around. Kim clutches the manny as the guy begins to
shake, Manny Blaine asks, squatting down to grab the man's shoulder. Manny
Simon watches on his grin now gone. He is paled, and I can
see his chest rising and falling as he looks at our seasoned comrade. Mannie
opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead comes only a rasping breath.
Clear liquid begins to pour from his eyes, liquid that turns quickly gray
then red. It pours over his uniform, staining it and splashing across the
floor. His eyes roll up into his head, and seconds later the seizing
stops. He slumps to the concrete ground, utterly lifeless, and just like
that, he is gone. Manny Manny Whine shakes the dead man's shoulder Rudy
crouches down behind him. They test this breathing, but there is no response.
Damn, Rudy shouts, jumping to his feet. What the hell have
you done? Sieman? What have you done? Zimmun only shakes his head,
stuttering, No, that's not possible. How could these things be connected?
You acted too soon, idiot, Plain barks, shoving Sieman in the
chest. What the hell are we supposed to do now? Manny my mutter
looking down at the body of my friend. One minute he was more or
less just fine, I guess, And now he's dead. He's done.
A terrible groan rises from the black sewage like tank before us, and the
hairs rise up across the back of my neck. I look up to it
and realize that, despite the decay that now seeps through the tank, the
glittering green light is not entirely gone. I can still see traces of it
above us, reflecting faintly against the edges of some of the pipes. I
can see it tinging the edges of the great steel girders and beams that support
the ceiling. I can still see more light. I say to the group,
what if there's another tank, another tank? Ruby splutters Oliver manny is
dead. Who gives a damn? We gotta get out of here. But
I ignore him. Heart pounding, I stride round the edge of the tank.
I ignore the cause of the others as I head deeper and deeper into
the gloom, towards a slither of that same green light spilling through a crack
in the far wall. This hall, it seems, goes further when we
had anticipated. The illusions formed by the flickering shadows distorted our perceptions of the
distance. Hey, comes a voice from behind me, along with quick,
heavy steps. Hey, it's Blain and he takes a breath as he catches
up to me, striding alongside. You're right, he asks, sure,
I replied, grimly, head spinning. Where are you going? He asks
me, and I gesture to the slither of green light through the crack at
the room's opposite side. What there? He notices it for the first time.
Oh damn, what do you think it is? I don't want to
think about it, I reply, as I stride on, the shadows rippling
around me like the water of the accursed tank. I clenched my fists to
see. I need to see it for myself. I hear the pounding of
footsteps behind us. Rudy calls for us, but still I march onwards through
the dark and secretive haze to the crack at the back of the hall.
Another door, doors, doors, doors. I shove right through it,
and the echo of the creaking metal scratches painfully through the air. I step
out onto a gridded steel walkway suspended high above a long, wide floor way
below. The floor extends into the far distance, and I cannot see the
back wall. My boots clang against the steel as I walk to the edge.
The fall to the floor below is blocked by a sturdy guardrail. I
take in the view and with a long, low breath, the cold,
stale air in my lungs is gradually released to my left and embedded in the
concrete of the wall and very partially obscured by enormous steel beams supporting the roof.
Is a colossal stone monolith. A thing is ancient, cracked and heavily
water damaged. Across its body, however, are visible a collection of long
forgotten glyphs and symbols. This thing is far older than this bunker, far
far older that much is obvious. Perhaps by hundreds or thousands of years.
I could not say for sure. Was it transported here perhaps, or is
the bunker built around it? Six enormous in disembodied eyes are carved under the
top of the monolith, and in the middle, stacked almost like a totem
pole, are a series of crude faces outlines really with eyes and mouths.
The only real additional features are lines carved around the outside edges of their eyes,
wrinkles or crows feet, if you will. The face at the top
has a multitude of wrinkles. Beneath this face, a long series of markings
like veins or roots have been carved, and they creep down to connect to
the face below. This face is more angular. The wrinkles beside the eyes
are fewer, and it too has root like veins, and as with the
others, they slither down to the face below. The lowermost face is the
roundest. It has no wrinkles besides its eyes, and below this final face
are more incomprehensible glyphs, a series of symbols that mean nothing to me,
unknown shapes, and twisted signs. Blaine steps up to the railing and puts
a hand upon it. He gives the monolith only a perfunctory glance. Geez,
he says, as he looks out over the scene below. We are
joined by Rudy and Zimmun. Below us, at regular intervals, and extending
her way into the gloom, are more of the same tanks. Great green
glass boxes connected via pipes, all whirring and hissing, fall to the brim
with drifting souls. There must be hundreds, hundreds upon hundreds of these monstrous
devices, perhaps even one thousand, Blaine mutters. He points to a plaque
embedded in a control panel to our right. Eat the ten thousand, the
one thousand, Rudy repeats quietly. So it didn't refer to the people in
the tank, He falters, and Deemen finishes his sentence. It refers to
the tanks. We consider this in silence, and a long low whisper echoes
from the tanks and down the hall towards us. Below the plaque of the
end thousand, he is a passage written in German. I take a step
towards it and scan my eyes across the words from fattersom son blood for blood,
it reads, and I read it aloud in English, from father to
son blood for blood. I pledge my soul, and I will open the
eyes of the souls of my linen. We will guide the way for the
fatherland and our place in eternity. As I read these words, it is
almost as if I can hear them repeated back to me, spoken proudly from
the hearts of rows of devotees, stark in their dark uniforms against the cold,
pale walls behind, standing tall in the shadow of the trio statues ringed
by Leviathan himself. Vision is fleeting and passes as quickly as it came.
There is a heavy silence that follows, the silence filled by the flow of
the groans and sighs of the tanks below of nine thousand. Simon walks past
me, his boots clank against the metal as he heads towards the console to
our right. I don't fail to notice the presence of a large box similar
to the one that man he disabled, connected to the controls. Simon stop,
Blane orders, but Simon does not. He turns to us, and
I see his face is streaked with tears. The atmosphere freezes around us into
my horror. He raises his gun. Please put your weapons down. He
says, what the sim and Blane cuts in and just in his grip,
so it's the better take hold of his gun, but Simon rattles his own
and suddenly shouts his voice like a bell ringing through the darkness. Put your
weapons down, he bellows, now slow any motion that I deem dangerous,
and I will fire. Rudy takes a step forwards, Simen, what the
hell's gotten into you? Just? Simon swings around his gun cocks it.
I will not ask again, Rudy winces. He curses under his breath,
but he does as he is asked. As the rest of us remained motionless.
Rudy carefully unstrapped his weapon and slowly lows it to the ground. Simon's
eyes are fixed on his every movement. Once he has done this, Simon
gestures the Blaine and then to myself, and the two of us do likewise
and place our weapons on the ground. I'm sorry, Simon mutters, before
stepping towards us, and with a few sweeping motions with his feet, he
kicks the guns off the side of the platform, where they fall into the
shadowed concrete far below with a clatter. What the hell's gotten into you,
Zimmon, Blaine asks, you couldn't have known that what you were going to
do would kill many. You acted bloody, recklessly. But it's not your
fault. Man is dead. But we got to just stop for a second
to process this, all right, mate, work out what it all means.
We're clearly dealing with something way beyond our pay GRADEA. You're not thinking
straight. I have to shut this thing down now, Simon tells us I
realized that this is something that I must do the nine thousand. I need
to shut the whole thing down. Rudy tries to the cut in again,
but Simon speaks over him. They are alive in those tanks, the man
says, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands. They're alive. Manny was connected
to them, right, He could see their dreams. He was connected to
the tank through the sins of his grandfather. His whole family line is cursed.
And that's not my fault. It's not it's theirs. Simon throws out
a hand and gestures to the bunker as he rubes a hand across his brow,
and in the corner of my eye, I see a small subtle motion
from Rudy without moving my head and look his way, and following his deliberate
glances, I notice that the man still has a pistol attached to the back
of his belt and out of Zimen's direct line of sight. Rudy gives me
a pointed look, and I nod almost imperceptibly. Just don't do anything stupid,
I tried to transmit to him. Though whether he interprets this or not,
it is difficult to say. Simon continues, these tanks are the products
of the enemy. What cruel promise do They serve exactly nothing that will benefit
humanity. I am sure of it. The people are trapped, I have
no doubt in perpetual suffering. The cages in which they are held need to
be shut down immediately, and this is something I'm going to do. I
took a look in that box that many disconnected. I can work out how
to finish this seemen, I chime in, raising my head. The tank
you destroyed was, as you said yourself, connected to many. There's something
horrible about the way these tanks work. This mantra, the connections I've heard
of. Various images flashed through my head. Three statues, the Black Sun,
the terrible painting, and the concrete hall. I see the ruined city
in the waves and the shining eye. I shoot a glance over the monolith
embedded in the wall to are left, at the veins and roots that connect
the vases. I repeat the words and the plaque from father to son,
blood for blood, I pledge my soul, and I'll open my eyes to
the solvels my lineage. We will guide the way for the fatherland and our
place in eternity. My throat has gone death dry, but I continue,
simon, what if what you did killed Many's son as well? What about
his brother? Does the man have any cousins? How far does this thing
go? And even as I speak, a terrible cold thoughts strikes deep into
my core. I think of Nina, my wife, and I think of
a heritage Manny walked alongside Nina's great grandfather. Was he too involved in this
project? I turned to look out over the rail and down at the tanks.
Below is a picture of Nina's great grandfather marked into one of these tanks,
alongside a handprint and a blood sample. And god knows what else.
I feel the blood drained for my face and my line of reasoning falters.
My words die in my mouth. Semen scoffs, what are a few lives
when weighed against this? Oliver, he shouts back, this is sick.
This is the work of rats. Blaine tries to speak again. Just don't
be rash, Semen. The previous Rican teams chose not to report on this.
They left the tanks unharmed. Shouldn't we at least consider their reasoning,
take a little time to think as a group. But you don't get it,
Blaine. Simon chokes, that's exactly the point. He wandered quietly to
himself in Polish for a moment, and wiped his eyes beneath his glasses.
If I dither and delay in my mind might be changed. I might be
swayed to a decision that goes entirely against my moral compass. If every single
Recontein before us left the thousand standing, then logic suggests will do the same,
right right, But but I can't. I just can't. It's not
right. So I have to shut it all down before something changes my mind.
Once it's done, it's done, Simon starts rambling. He pass up
and down. He spits over the rail, The energy and his voice renewed
whatever it is, whatever it's for, it's done. It ends here,
and he spins on his heel and strides to the master console. He fires
a series of bullets into the box and tears the metal door from its hinges.
Simon wait Blaine roars as a ringing echoes in our ears. There is
a sudden clamor, and then a sharp, fiery burst. One final bullet
is released from its chamber. I swear and jump and shock as a whole
appears in the back of Ziman's head, a cloud of blood who rubs through
his forehead and splatters across the console. He collapses at once, All motion
control instantly lost as he slumps against the controls, collapsing ungracefully onto the ground,
where he twitches, then lays still as blood pools steadily across the metal
and drips and leaks down through the metal grates. My chest rises and falls,
adrenaline coursing through me. I turned to Rudy in utter disbelief that he
would resort to such drastic measures so recklessly. But I am shocked to see
that Rudy's pistol remains firmly in his belt hand, poised beside it, as
if preparing to draw with a pistol nonetheless remains affixed. Rudy looks at me,
then passed me, and I turn around to follow his gaze, and
there in the doorway is Kim. She stands, cold and silent in the
darkness, her features illuminated in that ghostly green, jaw clenched, her eyes
fierce. In her hand is a rifle. She slowly lows it back down,
and she releases a long, calm breath, with clouds around her face
in the cold. Solemnly, we retreat back to the main lobby. There
is a sickness here. That much is plain. Our minds are not working
as they're supposed to. It is as long as we can bear in the
shadows of such evil, and we eventually decide as a group to leave the
nine thousand operational. We do not know if this makes us heroes or villains
or neither. But we just don't know the true extent to which these machines
are connected to the people back home. It is not a decision that fills
me with pride. We have no idea to what purpose the tank's continued existence
supports, besides the hint given by some vague and cryptic clues. We do
not know why they were built, We do not know what happened to the
people who worked here, and we do not know where they went, nor
how exactly we would find them if we wanted to. But what we do
know is that both Manny and Simon died the same way as the fallen French
soldier. The report will read that they suffered tragic accidents, crushed by fallen
debris. We can't have command sending sizeable task forces down here, not yet.
Anything could happen, and as it has been proven, the balance is
the delicate one. If command learn the truth, then the power is taken
resolutely out of our hands. We'll have no say in what happens next,
and what happens next could be monstrous. Our official reports will note that the
bunker is dangerous when disturbed, that lives will be put at risk if attempts
are made to formally decommission and deconstruct it. But with that being said,
the bunker, as per our exploration, is otherwise a non threat and is
of no particular interest. No need to send any more recon teams down anytime
soon, that's for sure. The bunkers are better off left alone, we
trudge back to the dock of the submarine in silence. To me, it
comes down to one simple fact. I can't risk losing Nina. So the
machines will stay operational in the thousand, will continue to drift hidden away in
the dark at the bottom of the sea.