[Part 1]

Everyone is afraid of something. Some people avoid their fears. Others learn to control them. I had my friends.

They came to me in a moment of overwhelming uncertainty. The unknown made me anxious, and in the waiting, I tortured myself with what-ifs that were more than unlikely, mere figments of my imagination. So I let my imagination take over, and I built five friends: Mister Cocoa, Mister Wuffles, Lulu, Vivi, and Itsy. Where I used to avoid my fear, I learned to control it.

I couldn’t keep a real friend to save my life, but I never had trouble keeping bullies, Danny being the worst of them. That first night, when Mister Cocoa asked what I needed, I thought of Danny, naturally. I thought about the times he’d taken my lunch money. I thought about the times he’d stolen my glasses. I thought about the beatings. I thought about how he’d taken my name from me. I was a quiet kid, so Mouse stuck. Even some of the teachers, I’m sure thinking it a cute nickname, joined in on the teasing. So when it hurt, I thought about his fears. Everyone is afraid of something, and Danny was afraid of dogs.

I knew the story behind it the way any child learns an urban legend: on the playground. When Danny was in kindergarten, he walked to the bus stop with his older brother, Daryl. About a hundred yards from their house, they came upon a dilapidated trailer that belonged to an even more decrepit old man. Mr. Thibodaux was semi-retired and bred guard dogs for a living. He was a grouch who, instead of giving candy to kids, found it fun to hurl insults and keep every ball that flew over his fence. He got his kicks walking his beloved beasts and letting them yank their leashes taut inches from terrified children.

One morning, Daryl thought it would be funny to run ahead as they passed Mr. Thibodaux’s fence. That left little Danny petrified in front of a row of foaming, snarling pit bulls, each tied to a stake with frayed rope. Daryl called back, laughing, that Danny had better hurry up before Thibodaux’s dogs got him. He barely finished the sentence before one of the pit bulls yanked its stake out of the ground, crawled through a shallow trench under the fence, and went after Danny.

Danny took off running. Daryl dropped a few obscenities, realizing he’d just dropped the ball on being the protective older brother. Danny turned around, tripped on his shoelaces, and before his feet could slap the pavement, his face did. The dog ran over and latched onto his ankle. Daryl, panicking, ran back and kicked it as hard as he could to free his brother from its grip. The bus rounded the corner just then, and a busload of impressionable children watched the whole thing. By lunchtime, it had solidified into playground legend.

From that point on, Danny was deathly afraid of dogs. His father had been leaving for work when he spotted his sons on the concrete, one of them bleeding badly. Without turning off his car, he asked what happened, and before he’d gathered all the details, he stormed over to Mr. Thibodaux’s door and pounded on it with fatherly fury. The old man answered with an expression that said he was ready to scold, and Danny’s dad clocked him in the face, dragged his bleeding son into the car, and drove to the hospital. It took eight stitches to close the wound.

The rumor was that the rabies set into Danny’s brain that day and turned him into the vile child I knew. I know now that if it were true, he never would have survived. Maybe bullying was how Danny took control of his fear, but he always avoided the straight way to the bus stop across Mr. Thibodaux’s yard. Instead, Danny always came from the side.

After the chaos of that day, Mr. Thibodaux got even by pressing assault charges against Danny’s father. That sent him down a dirty rabbit hole of alcoholism, and one day, Danny’s mother had enough. With a black eye and bruises, she kicked her husband out of the house. Some say he moved away to work in the plants between here and Texas. All I know is that I never met him, but Danny idolized him. He was one of those fathers who tried to win back his family’s love with love-bombing gifts, the most recent being the Nintendo 64 and electric scooter Danny got for his birthday.

Danny was twelve years old and still in the fifth grade. When he wasn’t hassling kids for money, he could often be seen collecting cigarette butts at the Circle-K down the road. Whatever happened to him that day changed his life for the worse. A boy his brother once described as timid, even shy, had become a pre-teen who reeked of death and defiance.

I was afraid of Danny. Danny was afraid of dogs. And dogs were the beasts that lorded over the wild. That is, until they became man’s best friend. For when we conquered fear, we conquered the wilderness.

The next morning, I must have counted my money over seven times as I waited for Danny to arrive. He’d promised things would get worse if I came up short. As the minutes passed, I felt certain he would turn up any moment. Like a sprinkler, I turned and scanned the yard, waiting for him to come running down the side streets of our neighborhood. My world was growing gray as the dread of the inevitable set in. But before my heart could leap into my throat, I heard the squeal of brakes. The bright yellow school bus, my chariot to safety, had arrived, and Danny hadn’t. I couldn’t believe my luck.

I smiled and kicked my legs in joy as the bus rolled under the awning at my elementary school. For the first time in months, I made it to class with my money and my face intact.

That morning, peace reverberated through the school halls, as my fellow classmates were spared, too. At recess, I learned that Danny hadn’t made it to school at all. Already, rumors had begun to spread. People said he must be home sick playing GoldenEye 007, or maybe he was playing hooky, smoking cigarettes in the woods. But part of me wondered what the truth really was.

I wish I had never found out. Even though I’d felt better that day than I had in ages, the guilt and shame I came to carry proved too much for me. When I got home from school, I found Mister Wuffles lying on my bed, pawing at his mouth as if to wipe away a mess.

“How was school? Were you safe?” he asked, his deep golden eyes playful.

I nodded and smiled uneasily, because it looked like Mister Wuffles had been eating raw pork, which I cared little for.

“Danny was absent,” I said, matter-of-fact.

“Of course!” sang Vivi. She dangled from my ceiling fan, coiled like a spring, with a swollen middle and a small lump resting in her gut. “Did anything hurt you?” she asked.

Lulu and Itsy crawled out of my closet, curious about Vivi’s question, and as they shut the door behind them, I thought I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.

“Not today,” I said. I couldn’t explain why at the time, but I had a feeling that something was going terribly wrong.

“We brought you something!” said Itsy. “Open the closet. It’s for you.” The silky friend smiled a tiny smile, revealing two fangs I hadn’t noticed the night before.

“I don’t like the closet. It’s dark and scary.” I quivered.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of!” begged Lulu. “Here, I’ll light it up for you.” The rainbows from her lamp shot out across my floor, and as I walked toward the closet, my feet stuck and peeled free with every step.

“Why is the floor so sticky?” I asked.

Mister Cocoa began to laugh, a deep and unnerving laugh. “I spilled my lunch, is all.” The smile spread thin across his face. “Go on now, check out the gift we got you.”

I grabbed the doorknob as they all waited in anticipation. I turned it and pulled with all my might, afraid of what I might see. As the door swung open, something fell out onto the floor with a loud thud. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was an electric scooter.

The woman named Cassandra spotted her walking alone again to her apartment as she hid in the shadow of the broken light bulb. Alone and vulnerable and with out so much as a care for the clicking of the heels Cassandra wore as she came out of the shadows to follow her. One toned leg scissoring after the other as her black dress blended in with the shadows. Though not like camouflage as her cutouts were visible from her ample chest to her slightly muscular back to her upper thighs. Her dark blue eyes staring straight ahead as the woman let the complex door shut behind her and Cassandra caught it in time to stop the door from slamming close. That did catch the sandy blonde haired woman's attention as she stopped midstep up the stairs and turned to look back at Cassandra.

The beautiful woman's eyes widened a little at the surprising sight of someone looking like they were going to attend a Supreme ball instead of-

"You're not supposed to be here," the woman's voice laden with abuse from cigarettes spoke quietly but assertively.

Cassandra smiled affably as stuck her foot in the door and she took her hand from behind her back to reveal a white cased cellphone with the letter S emblazoned on the case.

The woman tapped her pockets and then checked in her purse before sighing irritable," Damn it,"
Then her face brightened as she looked back at the mysterious woman with her foot in the door waiting patiently without word and a smile that started to surprisingly warm up to the woman who lost her phone.

"Thank you, miss. I've been so tired lately it's hard to think clearly at all," the sandy blonde haired woman stepped calmly and surely down the stairs before stopping within a foot of the well dressed woman.

"My love," the woman started to speak.

And to the sandy blonde haired woman she thought those two words were heart stopping and in a literal sense as her heart skipped a beat for some reason. A warmth quickly shot throughout her sternum at the cadence as she continued but she noticed the woman caught that little heart flutter as her eyes crinkled in mirth.

"Being tired is nothing to be ashamed of," the well dressed woman eased as she still held the phone.

The sandy blonde haired woman's olive green eyes relaxed at that and she stared into the dark blue eyes of the well dressed woman openly before catching herself with a shake of her head. Something clicked in that stare and she wasn't sure what it was as she felt the sternum heat flash again.

"Oh God I am ashamed. Giving you this much trouble to track me down to return my phone,"  the sandy blonde haired woman bit her lip in embarrassment as she looked down in bashfulness for a moment before meeting that dark blue gaze.

"You look like you're on your way to a Supreme ball or something miss...,"

"Cassandra Cosette," the well dressed woman dared to take the sandy blonde's hand and put her phone in it before turning it over and softly kissing the back of her hand.

There was a dark lipstick mark left behind as Cassandra looked back up at her and asked in a soft voice.

"You don't mind?"

The cadence. The way she disarmed with her looks. The elegance. It was working it's way into the sandy blonde as she looked at the lipstick mark with her lips burning as though Cassandra? Cassandra kissed her there instead.

"I guess you do," Cassandra winked with a knowing smile.

"I don't know what to s-say," the sandy blonde stuttered, trying to hide the blush in her cheeks as she slightly turned her head away.

It was working it's way into her alright.

"You can start with a name...unless you would rather go by your good looks instead Sandy,"

"Shut up!" The woman playfully teased as she put her hands on the woman's collarbone to push her away but instead held her hands there for a moment before realizing again.

She immediately took her hands away and brought a hand to her brow as she quietly muttered to herself, "God I'm a mess,"

"A beautiful mess," the woman softly laughed.

"That's it Cassie, you're getting punished for being so charming," the sandy blonde crossed her arms meaning serious business.

Cassie feigned horror as she gasped in a faux manner.

"Whatever can that be, my love?!"

"Parking your ass on my couch as I bore you to death with small talk, hmph!" The sandy blonde cutely added the last part.

"Oh no! Actually getting to know you! Such a medieval crime!" Cassandra touched the back of her hand against her temple in a swoon as she started to tilt backwards.

But the sandy blonde caught her with a "gotcha!"

"Damn! Small talk it is!" Cassandra lovingly laughed as she looked in the sandy blonde's eyes with a mirth she knew the blonde rarely saw, letting herself be held like that in the foyer openly because she didn't give a fuck who saw.

She gave a fuck the blonde couldn't help but laugh too at the mirth as she held Cassandra in her arms.

"Well damn, Miss elusive, I guess you just want to eye ball me," Cassandra teased as she softly rubbed the blonde's clothed shoulder affectionately.

The blonde stood back up and let go of her as she pocketed her cellphone in her purse.

"Hey, I was serious when I said I wanted to thank you for helping return my phone to me. It was in the Cafe wasn't it?"

Cassandra nodded softly and then she pressed a finger to the blonde's lips as she quietly said," Do you at least bestow the honor of a name to your fair rescuer?"

"It's Savanna. Sorry for-,"

"Stop apologizing. That's disgusting," Cassandra said suddenly serious and serious enough for Savanna to get the point.

"You're right,"  Savanna said as she thought about it again while having this moment to breath.

Savanna wondered what had gotten into her. What made her sternum flare like that, her lips burn like that, that sudden playfulness spring out from her. Especially from another woman. She had a boyfriend out there right now in the night working as construction just a few blocks from their apartment. And she wanted to wait to surprise him with a hug and some coffee when he got home.

But this. This was unexplainable but at the same time never felt so right. Never felt like she was a stranger to whatever frivolous attitude this woman had. And she liked it. Holy fuck Savanna liked it enough to invite her into her apartment.

God I'm so tired, Savanna quietly huffed to herself.

Cassandra huffed too.

"Stop being so cute damn it!" Savanna cried before beginning up the stairs in a hurry and laughing as she was chased by Cassandra Cosette.

But lucky for Cassandra it wasn't much of a chase as Savanna lived on the second floor and near the stairs as she laughed happily and bumped into Savanna as she hurriedly dug into her purse for her keys.

"Oh excuse me ma'am!"

"You're excused...into here candy ass," Savanna smirked before closing and locking her and Benjamin's apartment door close behind them.

"Golly gee wilikers there Sandy. Nice apartment,"

Savanna huffed again and simply said," Sit. I'll make us some coffee,"

Cassandra turned slightly to see the kitchen and the two mugs already there and then her dark blue eyes quickly moved to the portrait of Savanna and Benjamin on the stand near the couch as she gracefully sat and picked up the portrait to look at them together.

She quietly said," I do mean it when I said you have a nice apartment here. Near all the hottest spots like the Cafe and the Solaris. And plus it's the part of town you don't need to carry a gun in,"

"Thank you Cassandra. Benjamin was the one who picked it for us. He lived here long enough to know better. I'm still new to here,"

"Where are you from?" Cassandra put the portrait down.

Face down.

"This quiet little coastal town on the east coast. It's rather beautiful. Lovely actually. I'll show you some pictures on my phone...just wait,"

Cassandra slowly looked from the portrait to Savanna coming to her, and really noticed how well she looked with her breasts filling out her Grey shirt. Her thighs filling her blue leggings to a delicious camel toe. How well her figure was accentuated.

Cassandra softly said," Take your time my love,"

Savanna smiled of course. She couldn't help it as she mentally said fuck it and then grabbed her phone from her purse and came over to the couch and sitting right next to Cassandra as she plopped her legs over Cassandras.

Just friendly convivialness and nothing more Savanna thought as she leaned in with her phone to show her the pictures.

She did not notice the face down picture at all as she pointed out her hometown. She did notice that Cassandra was paying full attention with questions of her own.

Then came the question that made her die of embarrassment.

"Savanna are you always so hot and by hot I mean warm?"

She stiffened and then made a sour face as she said, "You should be glad for your personal heater warming you up from the cold outside,"

Cassandra grinned as she squeezed Savanna's thigh affably before they continued on with a much distracted Savanna.

They oohed and ahhed and laughed sweetly with a few teases thrown in.

And none of the playfulness, the convivialness Savanna was lying to herself with convinced her it was true. And that disturbed her and excited her greatly for a reason more profound than logic. What the fuck is happening to me, she thought as she finally took her legs away from Cassandra's lap. Or rather tried to as Cassandra held her thighs in place.

"Hey there this was fun-," Savanna started before Cassandra interrupted.

"I don't want the fun to end," Cassandra said in a low and sultry voice that immediately aroused Savanna.

Her face a full blush even her light make up couldn't conceal.

And then she did it. It was quick. Too quick. So she did it again and this time it was slower and wonderfully painfully so as she touched her lips against Cassandras. Cassandra let her for a momemt. Let her choose before pushing her against the couch and laying against her as she kissed Savanna back hungrily. Savanna moaned excitedly as she wrapped her thick thighs around Cassandras hips and pulled her against her.

I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

Maja took the roast out of the oven and set the baking pan down on a wooden board in the middle of the table. The aroma of roasted meat instantly filled the dining room. She picked up a large carving fork and began slicing the meat, while Dino watched her hands intently from the other side of the table.

"It looks amazing, Maja," Dino said, reaching for the bottle on the sideboard behind him. "I brought this red. I think it’ll pair well."

"Thanks, Dino. You always remember to bring something nice," she replied, keeping her eyes fixed on the meat.

She placed the first slice onto Dino’s plate, then a second onto Antonio’s, who was sitting at the head of the table. Antonio remained silent. His hands were resting in his lap, beneath the edge of the table, as he stared motionlessly at the plate in front of him.

"Antonio?" Maja called out to him. "Are you okay? You’ve been so distant all day."

Antonio slowly raised his eyes. First, he looked at her—at her clean face and her hair pulled back into a ponytail—and then he shifted his gaze to his brother sitting opposite her.

"I’m fine," he said, his voice completely flat, without a single inflection. "Just tired from work. It’s nothing."

"See, that’s your problem," Dino cut in, already chewing on his first bite. "My friend, you need to slow down. Life is passing you by, and you’re buried in those papers. Look at yourself, you’re too pale. You need to get out more, be among people."

"I will get out," Antonio replied, picking up his knife and fork. "Soon."

Maja sat down in her place, facing Dino. She poured herself some water, then reached for the wine bottle. She filled Dino’s glass halfway, then her own.

"Would you like some, Antonio?" she asked, holding the bottle over his glass.

"No, thank you. I’m sticking to water tonight."

"Your loss, you don’t know what you’re missing," Dino said, raising his glass toward his brother. "To that, man. Cheers to our health."

Antonio raised his glass of water. Glass clinked against glass, the sound echoing brief and sharp in the quiet room. He took a small sip of the cold water and set the glass back on the table, exactly where it had been before, making sure it aligned perfectly to the millimeter with the edge of his plate.

The dinner went on slowly, filled with Dino’s story about his car trouble and a mechanic who tried to rip him off for parts. Maja listened to him intently, nodding occasionally and smiling at him. Antonio chewed the tough meat in silence, watching how Maja followed Dino’s every hand gesture.

When she reached toward the middle of the table for the salad bowl, she extended her arm straight out. The space between Dino’s plate and his glass was narrow, and as she pulled the bowl back, her index finger lingered against his forearm for a second. Dino didn’t pull his arm away. Instead, he kept talking, though the rhythm of his sentence slowed down for just a brief moment—just enough to catch her touch before he finished his thought and laughed.

Antonio watched it all without blinking. He knew about them. He knew about her made-up nights out with friends, and about all those evenings when she would come home late with cheap excuses. Everything was as clear as day.

"Maja, pass me some more bread, please," Dino said.

Maja picked up the bread basket and handed it to him across the table, their fingers brushing once again. This time, they didn’t even bother to hide it from him. Dino took a slice of bread and began wiping the sauce off his plate.

"This is honestly superb," he said, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction. "Maja, you’re a wonder."

Maja blushed slightly, then stood up and carried the empty salad bowl into the kitchen. She returned, sat back down, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, while Dino raised his glass toward Antonio once more.

"Man, compliments to the chef for this dinner. We should do this more often."

Antonio slowly placed both hands on the table, palms down and fingers spread wide across the white tablecloth. The smile completely vanished from his face as he shifted his gaze from Dino to Maja.

"We should, but this is your last one," Antonio said.

Dino lowered his glass, the red wine swirling slightly inside it, and looked at his brother in confusion, then at Maja.

"What do you mean, last one?" he asked.

Maja stared at Antonio; her hand froze in her lap as she held the napkin. "Antonio, what are you talking about?" she asked.

Antonio didn't answer right away. He slowly reached into the pocket of his blazer, which was hanging on the back of his chair, pulled out a small black pistol, and laid it on the table, right next to his glass of water.

Maja caught her breath sharply through her teeth, while Dino went completely rigid.

"Because tonight, you are both going to die," he said. His voice was entirely calm, without any rise in tone. "You are getting exactly what you deserve."

"Antonio, please..." Maja whispered, as a first tear rolled down her cheek, but she was too paralyzed by fear to wipe it away.

"You will expose yourself as an unfaithful wife, killed by her lover because she wanted to leave him," he said coldly, then turned to Dino. "And you... You, brother, will look like a piece of trash to the whole world—the man who stole his own brother's wife, and a monster who ended up killing her. And me? I had to kill you because you attacked me right after her. I’ll be the victim who acted in self-defense."

Dino's breathing was shallow and rapid, his hands clenched into fists on the table. He looked at the gun, then into Antonio’s cold eyes.

"Antonio, you’re crazy, I..." He gathered his strength, pressed his hands against the table, and tried to lunge to his feet.

He remained half-crouched, his palms pressed hard against the edge of the table. His eyes were wide, locked onto the barrel of the gun, which was now raised to the level of his chest. Antonio’s elbow rested on the table, his hand steady and still.

"Sit back down, Dino," Antonio said.

Dino lowered himself back into his chair, slowly, inch by inch. He didn’t take his eyes off Antonio’s finger, which was resting along the trigger.

"Antonio, calm down," Dino hissed through his teeth. His voice was deep and strained. "Put that away. I’m your brother. Let’s talk."

Antonio tilted his head slightly.

"We are talking, Dino. Tonight we talk about your car, about your mechanic, about your wine. Now it’s my turn."

Maja covered her mouth with both hands. A short, muffled sound, like a sob, escaped her throat, and she tried to swallow it down. She looked at Dino, then back at the gun.

"Antonio, please..." she spoke from behind her palms. "You’ve got it wrong... it’s not what you think. Do you really believe that..."

"Don't, Maja," Antonio cut her off, without turning his head toward her. He kept his eyes on his brother. "Don’t waste words on lies that you can’t even finish. I know everything. I told you."

Dino slowly spread his hands flat on the tablecloth.

"Alright," he said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. "You caught us. We messed up, we're idiots, do whatever you want to me. Hit me, break me, but put the gun away, please. We can handle this like civilized men."

"Like civilized men?" Antonio repeated, a barely noticeable, cold smile appearing on his face for a split second. "You want us to handle this like civilized men? You’re sitting at my table, Dino. You’re eating my food, raising a toast to me. And what are you doing behind my back the whole time? Sleeping with my wife. Is that your idea of 'civilized'?"

Maja dropped her hands from her face. The skin around her eyes was red, and her lips were trembling. She stared at Antonio, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze remained fixed on Dino.

"Antonio, please," she said, gasping for air. "If I have to, I’ll leave. I’ll pack up tonight, I’ll go, you’ll never have to deal with me again. Just... please, put the gun down."

"You’re not going anywhere, Maja," he said in a flat voice. "I told you how things stand. Tonight, you both die."

"You can’t kill your own brother, are you insane?!" Dino suddenly raised his voice, anger briefly overtaking his fear. His shoulders tensed. "The same mother gave birth to us, we grew up together, Antonio! We're blood!"

"You're the one who forgot that," Antonio replied. "Now it's too late."

Silence fell over the dining room. Dino’s breathing was heavy and shallow. Maja stared at the gun, then at her husband, gripping the edge of the table as if she were about to collapse from her chair.

Antonio slowly shifted the barrel of the gun, pointing toward the large carving knife that lay next to the empty baking pan in the middle of the table.

"Actually... You know what, Dino..." he spoke, his voice sounding almost relaxed. "Maybe it isn't entirely too late. Maybe there is a way out for you. It all depends on how badly you truly want to live."

Dino looked toward the knife. The blade caught the reflection of the light.

"What does that mean?" he managed to say.

"Take the knife, Dino," Antonio said. He didn’t raise his voice. "Take it and cut her arm. Make a gash. Prove to me that your life matters more to you than hers, and maybe I’ll let you walk out that door alive."

Maja’s breath caught. She flinched backward, pressing her back against the spine of her chair.

"Antonio, no! Dino, don't, please!" she cried out, clutching her hands to her chest as tears streamed down her face. "Antonio, don’t do this..."

Dino didn’t look at her. His forehead was completely drenched in sweat. His fingers slowly began to move toward the middle of the table. Toward the wooden handle of the knife.

"Dino..." she pleaded, her voice a mix of a scream and disbelief. She watched his fingers close around the handle. "Dino, please, don't. You love me... you said you loved me..."

"I'm sorry, Maja," he spoke, his voice completely twisted by terror. "I have to. I want to live."

He leaned over the table. The blade passed right next to the water pitcher. Maja tried to pull her arm back, but it was useless. She had nowhere to go.

The tip of the knife touched her forearm. Dino pressed down. His hand was shaking, but he dragged a cut several centimeters long. The skin tore open, and thick, red blood instantly began to drip onto the tablecloth.

Maja let out a sharp, guttural cry. She clamped her left hand over the wound.

"It’s done," Dino gasped, breathing loudly through his nose. He dropped the knife onto the table. "I did what you asked, Antonio, now let me go."

Antonio didn’t move. He lowered his eyes to the bloodstain, then shifted his gaze back to his brother.

"That was just a scratch, Dino. That isn’t proof that you want to live. That’s proof that you are a coward."

Maja breathed rapidly, keeping her fingers pressed tight over her forearm. Blood seeped between her fingers. Through her tears, she shot Dino a look full of pure rage.

"You piece of trash!" she screamed, her voice trembling. "You sold me out in a second. You talked me into all of this, and now you’re carving me up just to save your own skin. You coward!"

"Shut up, Maja!" Dino shouted, his lower lip trembling. His face was red with fury and panic. "You came to me on your own, I didn’t force you into anything! You were the one constantly talking about how bored you were with him! Antonio, she’s lying! I just..."

"Enough," Antonio cut them off. He didn’t raise his voice, but they both went silent instantly. "I don’t care. Dino, the knife is still on the table."

Dino looked down at the wooden handle.

"Antonio, please..." he whispered, his hand now visibly shaking. "Don't. I did what you asked. Let me go."

"I told you how things stand, Dino," Antonio continued. He slowly raised the gun and aimed the barrel straight at his forehead. "Stab her again. Properly this time. In the stomach."

"Antonio, no!" Maja shrieked. She tried to get up from her chair, but her hand slipped, knocking over her wine glass. The liquid spilled across the table. "Dino, don't!"

"Dino, the clock is ticking," Antonio said, his finger on the trigger tightening slightly. "Choose. Her stomach or your head. Now."

Dino closed his eyes for a second. He let out a short, broken sob, and then pure, primal fear for his own skin completely overrode everything else. He grabbed the knife from the table once more. He stepped out from behind his chair, bypassed the corner of the table, and leaned over Maja.

"I’m sorry..." he muttered through his teeth, his voice no longer sounding human.

He lunged and drove the blade deep into her abdomen.

The knife remained buried in her blouse. Slowly, he pulled his fingers away from the handle. He took one step back. His shoes squeaked quietly on the hardwood floor.

Maja didn’t scream. She only let out a long, shallow gasp, as if she had run out of air. She slid off the chair and collapsed onto the floor.

Dino stared at his sticky palms, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Antonio..." he managed to say. His voice was raspy, barely audible. "It’s over. Let me out."

"Brother, please..." he took another step back. "Let me go. Please."

"You’re not going anywhere, Dino," Antonio replied.

On the floor, Maja let out a low, wheezing sound. The fingers of her right hand twitched once, scratching against the hardwood floor, and then went limp. Her breathing was growing shallower.

"You’re crazy..." Dino whispered. "You’re a psychopath."

"I am," Antonio said. He slowly lowered the gun by a few centimeters, aiming straight at the center of Dino’s chest. "From the moment I found out about the two of you, I’ve been fantasizing about this night."

"What more do you want from me, Antonio?" Dino managed to bring out, his voice cracked with terror.

"Slow down, Dino, what’s the rush? Haste makes waste, and tonight, I can’t afford even the slightest mistake."

"Stop it..." Dino shouted, unable to take the pressure any longer. "I’ve had enough of your sick games."

Antonio just watched him coldly.

"Come over here and hit me."

Dino stared frantically at his brother's face, then at the barrel of the gun.

"What?" he stammered.

"Hit me," Antonio repeated. "With your fist. In the face. I want you to hit me. I know you want to."

"Antonio, are you out of your mind... I’m not going to hit you..." Dino started shaking his head side to side, looking for an exit.

Antonio raised the gun a bit higher.

"Dino, if you don’t hit me, I will shoot you in the head this very second. Choose. Hit me or die right now."

Dino’s breathing was fast and ragged. Pure fear for his life forced his fingers to curl into a tight fist. He stepped forward, swung, and struck Antonio right on the left side of his face.

The sound of the impact was sharp. Antonio’s head jerked to the right, and blood instantly began to flow from his split lip. He slowly turned his head back, straightened up, and looked at his brother again.

"That was weak, Dino," he said, wiping the blood from his lip. "Again. In the right eye. Hit me again. Now."

Dino was sobbing. He swung again, harder this time, and caught him in the right eye. The skin above Antonio’s eyebrow split open immediately.

In that instant, Antonio clenched his fist and struck back. The blow landed flush on Dino’s jaw, and then he swung once more, hitting his nose. There was a dull crunch of cartilage. Dino stumbled backward, a thick stream of blood spurting from his nose.

Antonio slowly raised the gun and aimed straight at his chest.

"Stand right there," he said, his voice flat and muffled.

Clutching his broken nose, Dino stared in terror at the barrel of the gun. He took two steps back, right into the open space between the table and the wall.

"Antonio, don't, please..." he gasped, his voice breaking.

Antonio pulled the trigger. He fired two quick shots. The first bullet missed Dino and embedded itself in the wall behind him, leaving a deep hole. The second bullet went straight through his chest.

He hit the wall with his back and slowly slid down onto the hardwood floor. His head slumped to the side, his eyes remaining wide open, staring at the leg of the table. He didn’t move again.

A dead silence fell over the dining room, and the smell of gunpowder began to spread through the space. Antonio lowered his hand, the gun hanging by his side. He looked at Dino, then at Maja.

He pulled his phone from his pants pocket and dialed emergency services.

"Help..." he spoke into the receiver, sounding distraught. "My wife... He attacked me too... I’m bleeding... Quickly, please..."

He cut the call and set the phone down on the table.

He walked over to Maja’s body and carefully removed the knife, using a napkin to avoid leaving fingerprints. To alter the scene and simulate an attack, he inflicted several wounds upon himself through his clothing, enduring the sharp pain before dropping the weapon. He then dragged himself a short distance away and knocked over a chair to complete the appearance of a violent struggle.

From outside, sirens began to wail. Blue lights started flashing across the walls and the ceiling of the room.

He stretched out on the floor and closed his eyes.

The front door burst open under the impact, and several police officers rushed into the dining room.

Antonio remained motionless as the authorities entered. The show was ready to begin.

It was the summer I had just turned ten that I saw a mysterious object shaped like a saucer cross the hot savanna sky. It was on the path that led straight to the swamp where my cattle usually grazed.  I had gone looking for them.

The object flew above the water, its grey metal gleaming in the blinding sun then its color changed, thinned, and turned almost see-through, as if blending into the air itself. It then swooshed suddenly back in the direction it had come. No sooner had I started running for it that it was gone. I stood dumbfounded, my whip still in hand. I then continued towards the nearby balancing boulders and rested there, contemplating what I had witnessed. I was certain it was no plane, for planes, as I had seen, passed through the sky in a straight line. Then I remembered a word my sister had taught me—camouflage. It was the same word my brother used for his favorite patterned pants, though there was no resemblance between those clothes and this metallic shape. But that was exactly what it had done: hidden in plain sight. I chuckled under my breath.

With the sun sinking and no cattle in sight, I trudged home to my mother’s disappointment. She slapped me twice in anger. I did not shudder in pain. I was too busy thinking of the object to feel the pain of her slaps. That night my dreams were clouded by the object's shadow, and the shadow had huge teeth that threatened to rip me apart.

Monday found me unable to sit still with the weight of my secret. So, when the bell clanged for break, I rushed outside with my two friends, Beka, who was bigger than his age, and Tino, who was thin and tiny and always came to school with his hair uncombed.

After kicking and dribbling our ball, the three of us sat under a tree in the school yard to savor our meals.

"Did you see a flying object in the sky on Sunday?" I asked. "It flew so quickly I didn't blink much and it was gone. You know the place close to those balancing rocks, with the dried-up swamp? It was there that I saw it."

They gasped.

"What did it look like?" asked Beka, chewing his sweet potatoes.

"Can't really say."

"How big was it from where you were?"

"Hard to tell. I didn't have time to see that."

"So how do you know you saw it?" said Tino, eating his fried sunflower seeds.

"I know I saw it. It did this." I stood up, wove my hands in the air, and did a little spin. Beka stared, eyes wide, but Tino looked unconvinced.

"Maybe it was air moving. Air moves like that sometimes."

"Maybe there were witches," Beka said. "You know they like to travel like that. At least that is what I heard."

"I heard they travel at night on the backs of hyenas," I added, "or in reed baskets."

"Well, how do you know? It's hearsay anyway. No one has actually seen a witch fly. If they are to fly they ought to use animals or mats, not any complicated contraptions."

"Better to change into an owl or an insect than to complicate things," Beka said.

"What insect would you change into?"

"A fly." He smiled.

"That sounds horrible."

The bell clanged again and we ran for the toilets, still arguing, and I daydreamed through the afternoon of the object. Had I actually seen it? Did it carry people? Where was it going at such a speed? What was the purpose of visiting my village?

A week passed and I was still obsessed. My cattle still did not come back, and neither did the Mambo’s bull, nor four beasts from the Chief’s herd.

At the cattle dip the adults had begun to talk in the low, hushed voices they use for bad news. There were suspicions that cattle thieves were loose in the area. As for me, I stared occasionally at the sky for a glimpse of the object, without success. A fortnight passed and the village had stopped asking about the cattle. I too had almost buried the incident when I caught sight of the object again.

I had fallen asleep on top of one of the boulders when a piercing light woke me. Above the swamp, the object hung. Heart pounding like a drum, I climbed down and ran toward the water.  Spotting a nearby thicket, I crawled into the tangled foliage, and watched as the earth beneath the swamp opened, exposing a huge tunnel that descended into the ground. The object lowered close to the opening, and out came the cattle, moving down the ramp with stubborn slowness. Ours led the way. I recognized her by the patch over her eye that looked like a spill of milk. Behind her followed the rest: the Nkomo's' bull with his curved horns, and beasts I recognized from the dip tank. They all walked down into the ground as if it were a kraal.

Out of the door stepped four tiny grey creatures. Of the four, three had small, egg-shaped heads, but the fourth one had a head as large as a watermelon. On each of their faces sat small piercing black eyes. The eyes and mouth looked like those of a stingray fish. The big-headed one gestured with a quick flick of its three-fingered hand to the other three and they moved into the veld and standing in a row they casually urinated. Once done, they all climbed back inside. The tunnel closed and the sky reclaimed its color, and the object vanished.

I ran all the way home, falling in the dark as thorny bushes caught my clothes. With bruised knees and scraped elbows, I finally collapsed at the open door of our hut. When I eventually opened my eyes, I found myself lying on a mat in the kitchen, my mother hovering above me. Her eyes carried traces of worry. Beside me, my sister and my brother Musa knelt, clasping my hands.

"Where were you? This is why I say you must come home before sunset." Her voice was both agitated and concerned. "Where did all these bruises come from?"
She took my face in her hands and pressed at the gash on my forehead. I winced as blood rushed out, which she quickly wiped with a towel. My two siblings sat watching silently.
I tried to speak, but no word came out. Finally, I raised myself up painfully and in the presence of my family, I narrated all that I had seen. My mother listened, the towel still in her hand then when I had finished, she said,

"You fell. That is all this is. Don’t go about telling people this story for they will think you have gone mad." My brother said nothing. My sister was the only one who asked a question.

"Did you see the brand?" she said.

I said yes.

She did not say anything else, and that was worse than if she had called me a liar. I had seen what took them, and I knew my mother was wrong.

The fire blazed as cold wind swept through the encampment, whipping the flames and sending embers into the dark sky. The surrounding trees swayed in the wind, their leaves rustling alongside the sharp cracks of burning timber.

“You know, there’s one I haven’t told anyone else yet,” Soren said calmly, his voice rising just above the sounds of the camp.

A gust of wind caught the pages of Venn's weathered notebook, revealing rows of crude markings that recorded the days spent at the encampment. It was the only means they possessed of keeping track of the ever-elusive passage of days.

Every three months, the camp had to move. Dwindling food supplies and exhausted resources made remaining in one place impossible.

But there was another reason.

The fear of what had happened to the others.

“You’ve told us the same stories hundreds of times and you’re just sharing this now?” Faeya inquired.

Only four of them remained after the most recent losses. Faeya sat perched on a tree stump carved into a stool, her silhouette outlined by the firelight. They had found her wandering alone years earlier. Since then, she'd become family.

“This isn’t another one of those made-up stories now, is it?” Ashen, the oldest of the group, asked.

“No...” Soren trailed off, fighting the memories tied to the explanation.

“This one came from my grandfather.”

The shadows continued their restless dance around the gathering, indifferent to the somber silence that had settled over the camp. The corner of Faeya’s usually upturned lips fell as an unfamiliar apprehension settled across her face.

“My grandfather’s grandfather told this originally, before the world went dark,” Soren added, tossing an electronic scrap into the fire, causing the flames to briefly turn blue.

Venn, the fourth member of the group, had remained silent. He winced as the electronic board disappeared into the flames. Beside his pack lay a collection of old components, each carefully wrapped in soiled linen.

"Some stories are better left in the past..." Venn muttered, turning a small, smooth coin between his fingers.

"As though there's any truth to these old stories," Ashen scoffed.

His gaze shifted toward the collection beside Venn's pack.

"And you're wasting valuable space hauling that junk around."

Venn carefully wrapped the coin in a scrap of linen and tucked it away, shooting Ashen a look of annoyance.

"Well... get on with it!" Faeya chirped, shifting her weight forward.

Soren watched the flames curl around the remains of the electronic board, the unnatural blue glow slowly fading into the familiar orange.

For a moment, only the crackling of the fire disturbed the silence.

"My grandfather told me this as it was told to him," Soren finally said.

"He always insisted I tell it the same way. As though I were the one who lived it."

Soren leaned forward, casting shadows across his face.

"So that's how I'll tell it to you."

 

 

 

It was a day like any other. My parents had given me a little money and sent me to the market, with strict instructions to return directly home. Except, on this particular afternoon, I decided to take a shortcut through the park on my way home. At the center of the park stood an enormous oak, its branches stretching so far in every direction that they seemed intent on swallowing the field around it. I wasn’t supposed to stop here alone, but I figured a quick cut through would be okay. Then I saw it. A man. A man I knew. I wanted to run because I had been caught. It was the uncle I had always been closest to. He would visit us a lot. I knew he would go straight to my parents, however, and let them know I broke the rules I was meant to follow.

I walked right up to him at the base of the tree and didn’t quite get the response I was expecting. He remained motionless, seated back against the base of the tree with his hands in his lap. He appeared okay other than the very blank expression that projected from his eyes. There was no injury, no blood, just nothing. I knelt down so that our faces were level and his gaze appeared to pass through me as if I wasn’t even there. His eyes were fixed on something that wasn’t there to see. I called his name softly. My stomach tightened. I truly didn’t care if he had caught me anymore. Our faces were roughly six inches apart, and his face slowly scrunched as if he was just learning how to use his muscles.

One corner of his mouth began to rise.

The other followed a moment later.

It was a smile, but nothing about it suggested happiness.

It looked like something he had long forgotten how to do.

I stumbled backward away from him. I dropped the bags and ran all the way home.

That was the last time I saw my uncle.

Once I reached the end of my street, memories of the games my uncle and I had played together flashed through my mind. I threw open the front door so quickly that it struck the rocking bench beside it with a loud clang. This alerted the entire home that there was urgency of some kind brewing in the front room. My parents promptly greeted me.

“Where are the groceries?” Mom asked with concern.

“I... uh... I... dropped them on my way in,” I stammered. “I saw Uncle Binker at the park. I think something is wrong.”

“Why did you go there?” my parents questioned in unison.

Mom pulled the door open and glanced down the street. She slammed it shut, threw the deadbolt, and hurried to close the blinds. She continued to whirl around the house, unable to find a still moment or a chance to catch her breath, almost as if she’d been holding it this entire time.

My dad took a seat at the dining room table, staring off into the kitchen. The chair groaned on the floor as he sat, which he usually carefully avoided. Dad just gripped the edge of the table with his hands like he was trying to fold the solid wood in half.

It felt like a year before either of them said anything else.

“What did he say to you?” Dad finally asked.

He hadn't even mentioned the food I'd abandoned. We'd lost nearly a week's worth of groceries, and he didn't seem to care. A tightness spread through my chest. Until that moment, I hadn't realized just how frightened my parents were.

“He didn’t say anything... He just stared at me and then had this really creepy smile on his face.” The words quietly spilled out of my mouth.

Mom stopped moving for the first time since I had entered the house. She became entirely frozen in place.

"It wasn't just Sharon."

Her lips had barely moved.

“NOT NOW!” Dad boomed across the kitchen.

His voice seemed to rattle inside my skull. Dad almost never raised his voice, especially not at Mom.

I fled down the hallway and shut myself in my bedroom. Through the wall, I could hear my parents arguing, their words too muffled to understand. I curled into the corner of my bed and pulled the blanket tightly around me.

Sharon lived next door. She was always bringing over something she'd cooked or stopping by to spend the afternoon with Mom. But a couple of weeks earlier, she'd stopped coming around. I hadn't thought much of it until Mom mentioned her name.

I couldn't get the image of my uncle's smile out of my head. Even as I drifted off to sleep, I could still see it.

When I woke, the house was empty.

 

 

 

“Empty!” Faeya exclaimed. “So they just left him there?”

Soren glanced toward her, pulled from the trance of his storytelling. The crackling fire and rushing wind seemed to return all at once.

"I suppose that's what the boy thought."

“Convenient. Everyone always ends up disappearing in these stories,” Ashen muttered.

A shudder passed through Venn as the wind swept across the camp. He pulled his cloak tighter, his eyes never leaving the flames.

Soren followed Venn's gaze into the fire.

I ran into the kitchen, where the smell of breakfast normally filled the room and Mom would cheerfully ask how I'd slept. The kitchen was dark and cold, and something smelled off. It appeared dinner from the night before had never made it into the cooler. Then I checked their bedroom. The bed looked untouched, as if it were part of a model home. They either got up really early or hadn’t slept in it last night.

There was no note. There was no message. Mom and Dad were just gone. Mom was almost always home, and Dad had been spending more time around the house lately because things weren't going well at work.

My heart sank. I grabbed a bagel from the kitchen and hurried outside.

Stepping out of the dark house, I was caught off guard by the blinding sunlight. Its warmth spread across my skin. I didn't know where my parents had gone, but I couldn't stop thinking about what Mom had said about Sharon. I walked down the sidewalk until I made it to the front of Sharon’s house. Sharon had always kept the bushes along her walkway neatly trimmed. Now their branches had begun to spill over the path leading to her front door.

I took a deep breath and crept up the walkway to the front door of the house. There was a faint glow coming from the little stained glass windows beside the door. Nervously, I rapped on the door, but no one answered. I looked down the side of the house and noticed one of the windows was partially open. I rounded the corner and glanced around to make sure nobody was watching. Then I dragged a bin beneath the window, climbed onto it, and cupped my hands around my eyes to block the reflection on the glass.

It was very dark, and I couldn’t make anything out right away. Across the room, a television flickered in the darkness. A cheerful voice drifted through the window, repeating the same words over and over. It sounded like one of those advertisements that always seemed to be playing on television. I could now make out a little foldable table sitting in front of the couch facing the TV. It had a plate of food on it. The food was half-eaten, with flies buzzing around the plate.

There had to be someone here for there to be food! Maybe they just couldn’t hear the door over the TV.

"Looking for a brighter future? Join the Pedanza team today! Opportunities are waiting for you." The TV seemed to be getting louder.

I thought of Dad. He'd been having trouble finding work lately. Maybe this was something I could tell him about when he got home.

My eyes strained hard to try and pick up any more details in the room. It was so dark and everything appeared to be fuzzy and slightly out of focus. I decided the next logical move would be to call out through the window.

“Hey! Is there anyone inside?” My voice came out louder than I'd intended, drowning out the television for a moment.

Something shifted on the couch.

At first, I couldn't tell what I was looking at. Then, against the darkness, I made out a row of yellowish teeth.

Someone was smiling at me.

I froze. It reminded me of the time I'd stepped into a fire-ant hill and looked down to find hundreds of them crawling up my legs. That awful moment before the first sting, when I knew what was coming but hadn't moved yet.

The television flickered, catching a little blue badge hanging from the edge of the table. A name was printed across it in large letters. It looked like the kind Dad used to wear to work.

I looked back toward the couch.

The yellowish teeth were higher now. Much higher.

Whoever was smiling had stood up.

I jerked backward, lost my footing, and fell off the bin, landing flat on my back.

The fall knocked the wind out of me. I gasped for air as I scrambled through the bushes and trees separating our houses and burst through the front door. Without even thinking, I locked the door and rushed from window to window, shutting the blinds tightly. I was doing exactly what Mom had done the night before.

 

 

 

"The blue thing," Venn said, breaking the silence. "The one with the name on it. What does it signify?"

"The blue thing?" Faeya exclaimed. "What about the teeth in the dark?"

"Oh, come on. The yellow glint could've come from anything." Ashen shifted closer to the fire.

"A mark of belonging," Soren finally replied to Venn.

He stirred the embers with a stick, sending a handful of sparks into the night. For a moment, his eyes followed them upward.

Then he continued.

It took a while before I felt safe moving around the house again. I was truly scared, and there was no sign of my parents returning. I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen. That smile, of course. First Uncle Binker, then Sharon, and now Mom and Dad. And then I remembered the badge. It looked just like the one my dad wore. I needed to find my dad. He would know what to do.

I found one of Dad's work papers lying around the house. The name Pedanza was printed at the top, just like in the advertisement I'd heard playing at Sharon's house. Beneath it was an address, so I entered it into my GPS. Dad's office was only a ten-minute walk away. I'd never been there before, and it wasn't a part of town I knew. By the time I was ready to leave, the bright morning sky had turned gray. Rain began falling as I stepped outside. The black umbrella from the closet kept me mostly dry as I followed the directions on the device.

Strangely, there were hardly any cars on the road or people on the sidewalks. It was very quiet. Even beside the highway, all I could hear was the rain tapping against my umbrella.

As I continued walking, the sky grew darker. I was beginning to worry about the approaching storm when I noticed a glow up ahead.

It was the building I was looking for.

Tall glass walls stretched across its front, spilling bright artificial light onto the darkened sidewalk.

Through the glass doors, I spotted the first person I'd seen since leaving home. A woman sitting behind the front desk. She looked perfectly normal.

"Hello, sweetie!" the receptionist greeted me, her face lighting up as I entered.

"Hello, miss," I replied. It felt strange to speak. I'd only said a handful of words aloud all day.

"What can I help you with today?" she continued cheerfully.

"I'm looking for my dad," I said. "I think he's working today. His name is Daniel Mercer."

"Just one second! I'll look him up right now!" she said, her fingers tapping quickly across the keyboard.

She clicked and typed for a moment before her cheerful smile faded into a look of concern.

"Oh, sweetheart." She looked back at the screen. "Your father hasn't worked here for a few weeks. I'm afraid he was laid off."

"Do you know where he might be?" I asked, desperate for an answer.

"I'm afraid I don't know where he might be. Is your mother home?" she asked gently.

I hesitated. I wasn't sure how much I should tell her.

“Well... my mom isn’t home either, actually. They were both gone this morning when I woke up, and I went to the neighbors, and there was someone in the dark just smiling in there...” The words came faster than I could think, and eventually I trailed off.

The receptionist stopped smiling. She glanced toward the front doors before looking back at me.

“Sweetie, please come with me. I am going to try to find you some help!” She stood and began walking to an elevator.

The elevator doors opened before she even reached the button. It was almost as though it knew we were coming. I followed her inside. She pressed the button for the fourth floor, and the doors slid shut. The click of the button was the last sound I heard before the elevator began to rise.

She led me to a small room with a few tables, chairs, and vending machines. She handed me a couple of dollars and gestured toward them.

"Go ahead and get yourself a treat, sweetheart. I'll be back in a few minutes," she said.

I hurried over and bought myself a chocolate bar and a soda. For the first time all day, I felt like things might be getting better.

I tore open the wrapper on the chocolate bar and took a large bite. The sweet crunchy goodness filled my mouth. I sat at the table and looked around. There were motivational posters featuring cats hanging around the room. I was just about to take another bite when I heard the faint murmur of someone talking through a vent on the far wall.

I stopped chewing.

Was that the receptionist?

I set the chocolate bar down and walked closer, hoping I might hear something about my parents.

"Yes, I'm sure it's Daniel Mercer's boy. I checked the records."

The receptionist's voice came through the vent, muffled but recognizable.

"No, I haven't contacted anyone else."

A pause.

"Okay. I'll keep him here until we hear back."

Another pause.

"I doubt the boy would know that."

Her voice faded, and I couldn't make out anything else.

I heard just enough for the comfort to wash away and the fear to set back in. I had to get out of this room, and out of this building. I quickly opened the door and slipped down the hallway.

I knew the lady said Dad didn't work here anymore, but maybe she'd made a mistake. I didn't know where else to look.

There were a lot of cube-shaped offices, but not a lot of people around. I wandered into the center aisle to look and see if maybe my dad was there. I heard a strange noise coming from one of the offices on the far wall.

It sounded like screaming. I ran over and put my ear to the door. This was a trick I used when my parents were talking about a surprise.

A man belted, “I don’t want that! Get away from me!”

The door pushed open slightly as I leaned on it. Without making a noise, I was now able to see what was happening inside. In the room, a man was strapped to a wooden chair. Behind him stood something tall and black. It was almost like a shadow, but thicker, and I couldn't tell where its body ended. Its arms were long. Too long, I thought. One was stretched around the man's head, and the other seemed to be moving near his ear.

"Please," the man whimpered. "I don't want it."

The thing bent closer. The man suddenly jerked against the straps. His shoes scraped across the floor, and the chair rattled beneath him.

"NO! PLEASE! STOP!"

His back arched, and his head twisted to one side. I thought his neck might break. The thing didn't seem bothered by his struggle. It just stood there, its long fingers moving slowly around his head.

Then the man began making a sound I had never heard before. It wasn't quite a scream. It was a long, terrible moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. He drew in a shaking breath, and the sound came again, louder this time.

I wanted to cover my ears, but I was afraid to move.

The man's whole body was trembling. Tears ran down his cheeks, and his mouth hung open as he struggled to breathe. He tried to say something, but all that came out was another awful moan. The thing leaned closer.

For a moment, I thought I saw something stretching between the man's ear and the creature's hand. It was thin and pale, almost like a strand of spiderweb, except it seemed to glow in the darkness.

The man let out another scream. The pale strand grew longer. I couldn't understand what I was looking at. Whatever it was, the man wanted it to stay inside him. I could tell that much. His legs kicked against the chair one last time. Then they stopped, but the moaning didn't.

He sat there with his head hanging to one side, making these little sounds through his open mouth. Each one was quieter than the last. The thing kept pulling. I watched the man's eyes move toward the door. For just a moment, I thought he was looking right at me.

His lips moved.

"Help..."

It was barely louder than a whisper. Then his eyes stopped following anything. The last little moan escaped his mouth, and the pale strand disappeared into the darkness. The creature straightened out. The man sat perfectly still. I thought he was dead, but then his head slowly lifted.

His mouth began to move. First one corner, then the other, until his lips stretched into a wide, crooked smile. It was the same smile I'd seen on Uncle Binker's face. And the same as the one I'd seen in Sharon's house. I knew what the thing had done to him.

I didn't know how, but somehow, it had taken him away without taking his body.

 

 

 

A log cracked sharply in the fire. Faeya flinched, and for a moment, nobody spoke.

"Well, that's ridiculous," Ashen said, his voice barely above a whisper before growing louder. "A shadow pulling something out of a man!"

Nobody answered.

"That's impossible," Ashen insisted.

"Yeah? Then why are you sitting so close to the fire?" Faeya retorted.

The wind howled through the trees.

Soren continued.

I was still standing outside the office door. I didn't know what to do. The man sat staring at me with that big, crooked smile. Behind him, the shadowy figure remained perfectly still. Then, without warning, the door swung open. It slammed against the wall with a terrible bang.

I jumped backward.

There was no way the thing hadn't noticed me now. I thought I saw it turn toward me, but I couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, it didn't seem interested. Instead, it turned back toward the man in the chair, moving its long fingers around his head.

It appeared to be placing that long strand into a small, decorative box. Whatever it had taken from the man, it was putting it away for safekeeping.

I stumbled backward into the main aisle between the cubicles. The office had been nearly empty when I'd first walked through it.

It wasn't anymore.

People were standing at their desks. Some had risen from their chairs, while others leaned out from behind the cubicle walls. There must have been fifty of them. Every single one was looking at me. And every single one was smiling.

I stumbled down the center aisle, away from the open office and toward the other end of the room. With each step, their smiles seemed to grow wider. Every face remained turned toward me.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

I wanted to run, but I was afraid that if I did, they would start running too.

With each step, my brain was screaming at me to get out. But the closer I got to the hallway, the more I realized there was no way around them. I was going to have to squeeze between the smiling people.

I turned sideways and carefully stepped between two of them. Their bodies were cold. I could feel it even through my clothes. Up close, their smiles were worse. Their eyes seemed to look right through me, even though their faces were turned directly toward mine.

The elevator dinged. I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the receptionist. She grabbed my arm, pulled me through the open elevator door, and held the close-door button. I took a good look at her, and she wasn’t smiling.

“Why did you run off?” she asked. She sounded angry, but her hands were shaking.

“I… I was worried about my dad, and the people… What is wrong with the people here?” I stammered.

"I don't fully know," she said, glancing nervously toward the hallway. "But it's gotten worse. We need to get out of here."

“Listen, honey, your dad… He saw something he wasn't supposed to see. That's why he doesn't work here anymore.”

“What did he see?” I asked.

“I don't know.” She glanced at the elevator doors. “But I wasn't supposed to be on that floor. Neither of us were. Most of the fourth floor was supposed to be closed for renovations.”

“Then why did you take me up there?” I asked.

"They told me the break room was still safe. I thought you'd be okay there."

She looked down at me, then quickly away.

"When I came back and you weren't in the break room, I got worried. I called your dad. He's on his way to get you."

My body wanted to melt into the wall. He was okay, and he was coming to get me. The elevator hummed as it brought us to the bottom entry level. It seemed like she was also trying to figure out the next steps for herself. The elevator opened to the same bright lobby. She brought me to the desk and sat me down on her chair. She looked around to make sure it was just us in the lobby. I felt something in my pocket that I hadn’t noticed until now. A coin. One of the smiling ones must have placed it in there while I was squeezing through the crowd. I kept turning it over between my fingers, wondering how it had gotten there. Outside, the darkness had grown thick. I kept watching the windows, desperately waiting for headlights to appear.

The car I had been waiting for finally arrived.

The receptionist wished me good luck as I hurried toward the doors. I recognized our old red station wagon immediately. I ran outside and pulled open the back door before the car had even come to a complete stop.

"Mom! Dad! You're here!" I shouted.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm here, I'm here," Dad said, reaching back to make sure I was okay.

“Where were you?” Tears welled in my eyes. “I looked everywhere.”

"I know, buddy, I know." Dad had tears in his eyes. "We thought we could stop it before it got to you... but we were wrong." He looked over at Mom.

Mom hadn’t said one word since I got in the car.

“Mom?” My voice started shaking.

Slowly she turned to face me.

Her eyes were empty.

And she was smiling.

"What's happened to her, Dad?" I asked.

Dad looked at Mom, then back at me.

"I don't know, buddy."

"Is she going to be okay?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I don't know," he said again.

Dad pulled away from the building, driving faster than he normally would. I looked back at the bright windows of Pedanza until they disappeared behind us.

"I saw something upstairs. Something I don't understand," I said.

Dad's hands tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Dad didn’t say anything.

“There was a big shadowy figure pulling some strand out of a man,” I quietly added, hoping for an answer.

“Did it see you?” He sounded defeated.

“Yes... I think so,” I stammered. “There were a lot of people like Mom in there.”

Dad opened his mouth to answer.

“DAD!” I screamed.

He slammed on the brakes, and they squealed as the car came to a halt.

A tall, shadowy figure stood beneath a streetlight, no more than five feet in front of our car. It slowly began approaching us. I looked out the side window and saw another one. Then another appeared behind the car. They were coming from everywhere.

Before long, there must have been fifteen of them surrounding us. I pressed myself against the seat as they approached the windows. Then, all at once, they stopped.

Not one of them came any closer.

It was almost as though something was keeping them away.

Dad had squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing happened. He opened them again and stared at the tall figures surrounding us.

Slowly, he took his foot off the brake. The car began creeping forward.

The figure directly in front of us stepped aside. Then another moved.

One by one, they separated, leaving just enough room for our car to pass.

Dad didn't say a word.

Neither did I.

As we passed between them, I looked out my window. One of the figures was standing so close that I could see its long fingers rubbing against the door, causing a faint scraping sound. Its head slowly turned, following me as we drove past. I ducked below the window until I couldn't see it anymore.

I stayed below the window until the scraping stopped.

When I finally looked up, the figures were standing in the road behind us, watching our car disappear into the darkness.

I looked toward the front seat.

Dad was crying quietly.

Mom was still smiling.

Soren stopped speaking.

 

 

 

The wind had quieted, and the trees stood still around the encampment.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

It was almost as though the world had been listening too.

"That's it?" Ashen asked.

Soren looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"What happened to the boy? The father? The mother?"

"I thought you didn't believe in these silly stories," Faeya cut in.

"I don't," Ashen replied. "But you can't just end a story like that!"

Faeya smiled.

"Sounds like you're getting a little scared, Ashen."

"I'm not scared," Ashen retorted.

"Oh yeah? Then why do you keep looking over your shoulder?" she teased.

Ashen quickly looked back toward the fire, and Soren quietly chuckled to himself.

"I told you guys what I know," Soren said. "I know the boy survived. What happened to his parents after that, I couldn't tell you."

"What about that coin?" Venn asked.

The other three looked toward Venn, who had been silent for quite some time.

"What about it?" Soren asked.

"You said someone put it in the boy's pocket," Venn answered.

Soren nodded.

"That's right."

"Did he ever find out why?"

Soren shook his head.

"Not that I know of."

Venn looked down at the small bundle resting in his lap.

Venn unwrapped the bundle and held the coin out to Soren.

“Do you remember what the coin looked like?”

“Not really,” Soren admitted. “But my grandfather always said there was something strange about it.”

“What do you mean?” Venn asked.

“Well, those things had the boy surrounded, didn't they? But they let him go. Maybe the coin had something to do with it.”

Venn turned the coin over between his fingers.

“You think it had something to do with this?”

Venn flipped the coin into the air. Its worn edges caught the firelight before it fell back into his palm.

“It’s just an old coin, Venn,” Ashen said, trying to convince himself it couldn’t possibly be related.

“Where did you get that coin?” Faeya asked.

The group turned to Venn, curious about the answer.

“I got it scavenging through one of the settlements years back. To be honest, it’s been my lucky coin ever since.”

Venn grinned. He wasn't used to everyone taking such an interest in the things he collected.

"I've got some more interesting things in here besides my lucky coin," Venn said, pulling out several other linen-wrapped relics.

"Oh, we're so glad you're showing us all your junk, Venn," Ashen said, finally lightening up.

Venn tucked the coin into his pocket as he began unwrapping the rest of his treasures to find the next best thing to show the group.

“This!” Soren chimed in. “This is a real treasure.” He held up one of Venn’s dirty linens that did not contain any artefacts.

Faeya giggled.

“No, no, no. You must not have seen this,” Venn said, holding up one of his more precious items.

"Now this one," he said, holding up a small object with a cracked glass face.

"What is it?" Faeya asked.

"No idea. But look at these little numbers."

Venn passed it to Soren.

"There's two little metal sticks inside. I think they used to move."

Ashen leaned forward.

"So you found a broken thing that doesn't do anything?"

"Well, I think it used to do something," Venn replied.

"Wonderful. Another treasure."

Ashen’s smile faded into a frown.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking that he must be getting tired, but as they cleared again, he was sure that there was something there, standing at the edge of the campground.

At first, he thought it could have been a shadow projected by the firelight, but as the flame flickered, the figure did not move.

Whatever it was, it was enormous. Taller than any animal they'd encountered. Much taller than a man.

"That smile didn't last long, did it, Ashen?" Soren teased, giving his leg a playful pat.

Ashen did not reply.

“Is something wrong?” Faeya asked.

All Ashen could do was slowly raise his hand and point towards the edge of the camp.

"Oh, come on, Ashen. I knew you were sca—"

Faeya stopped.

She had followed his finger toward the trees.

The figure stood motionless as the others turned toward it. Its long arms hung at its sides.

Nobody spoke.

Venn opened his mouth, but no words came out. His hand moved toward his pocket. He glanced at Soren, then back at the figure. Slowly, he pulled out the coin and held it in front of himself.

The figure began walking toward the fire.

Venn held the coin higher.

It kept coming.

"It’s coming for me," Venn whispered.

The figure passed between two of the tents.

Venn took a step backward.

"Why isn't it stopping?"

The figure reached Venn.

One of its long hands extended toward him. Its fingers slowly wrapped around his wrist.

Venn tried to pull away.

The fingers tightened.

The others scrambled to their feet, but the creature paid them no attention.

With its free hand, it pried the coin from Venn's fingers and dropped it into a small bag.

Then, without warning, the creature pulled. Venn was dragged across the campground with impossible speed. His pack tore open, scattering his treasures across the dirt. Before anyone could reach him, Venn and the figure disappeared between the trees.

Venn's screams echoed through the darkness, growing fainter until only the crackling fire and gentle wind remained.

Venn’s trinkets and his notebook lay strewn about the dirt of the camp.

Nobody spoke.

Soren stared into the trees.

The boy had escaped all those years ago. Venn hadn't.

And somewhere in the darkness, the Collector had finally come to collect.

​

Note: These are recovered internal files from the Department for Transport archives concerning anomalies in Berkshire. These files were found and transcribed during my internship at the Department for Transport, whilst clearing out their archives in Basingstoke ready for a relocation to Manchester.

I am not DI Thorne, and I have found no trace of him in my investigations into the accounts that these files allude to.

I present these files in an attempt to piece together the sequence of strange occurrences in the Berkshire area and make sense of what has happened, what is happening and why.

If anyone has information regarding the whereabouts of DI Thorne it would be greatly appreciated and helpful in my investigation.

(Name redacted)

---------------

FOUND TRANSCRIPT – FOR INTERNAL REVIEW ONLY

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

CASE FILE: TX098

SUBJECT: DI THORNE – WITNESS STATEMENT

LOCATION: IN SITU

DATE: MARCH 21ST, 2026

TIME: 15:07 GMT

Supplemental Statement of Thorne

Subject: Unusual taxi encounter following departure from the police station

Classification: Unresolved incident

Statement taken from: Thorne

I am providing this statement to document an encounter that occurred after I left the police station. I appreciate that certain elements may be difficult to reconcile with conventional explanations. I would ask that the recording from the station's CCTV be considered alongside my account, although I suspect it will prove less helpful than it ought to be.

I left the station intending to clear my head. I had been inside long enough to develop a profound dislike of the smell of institutional coffee, the desk sergeant's expression, and the general impression that my continued existence was becoming an administrative inconvenience.

There was a taxi waiting outside.

I do not recall hearing it arrive.

It was an old-fashioned black cab, the sort that seemed to have survived several decades of neglect through sheer spite. Its paintwork was dull, its windows dark, and the roof light was illuminated despite the fact that the vehicle appeared to have no driver.

I was considering whether to walk when the rear passenger window descended by a few inches.

"Going somewhere?" asked the driver.

He was a thin man, perhaps in his sixties, although I found it difficult to settle on an age. His face had the grey, papery appearance of someone who had spent too long indoors. His eyes were pale and watery. He smiled at me with the weary familiarity of a man who had delivered the same joke to thousands of people and was still waiting for someone to find it funny.

"Not particularly," I said.

"Best sort of passenger."

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes. You'd be surprised how many people don't know where they're going until you ask them."

I looked at the cab. The interior was dim, but I could see the outline of the back seat. It appeared to be covered in cracked black leather. Something about the vehicle made me reluctant to get in. It was not an obvious danger. There was no knife-wielding lunatic in the front seat, no smell of blood, no sinister music drifting from the radio.

It was simply wrong.

The sort of wrongness that makes you look at a perfectly ordinary staircase and wonder whether the bottom step has moved since you last saw it.

"I'm not going to make a wish," I told him.

The driver's smile widened.

"I haven't asked you to make one yet."

"You were going to."

He gave a little laugh and turned his attention to the road ahead.

"Clever fellow. You know how these things work, then?"

"Enough to know that wishing for a taxi ride is rarely the worst decision a person makes. It's what comes afterwards that tends to cause trouble."

"Ah." He nodded thoughtfully. "You're not the usual sort."

"What is the usual sort?"

"People who've given up hope."

He said it casually, as though describing a preference for cash fares or passengers who didn't smoke. There was no malice in his voice. That made it worse.

I looked at the cab again. The rear door was unlocked. I had not heard it unlock.

"Who sent you?" I asked.

"Certain parties."

"Specific parties?"

"Very specific. I'm afraid I can't be more helpful than that."

"Convenient."

"Extremely."

He seemed genuinely pleased with himself.

I should have walked away. In retrospect, I can identify several points at which I might have made a sensible decision. Walking away was one. Calling the police was another. Going back inside and asking the desk sergeant to arrest a taxi driver for being unpleasant would have been a third, though I accept that this last option would probably have resulted in a rather different kind of trouble.

Instead, I opened the rear door and got in.

The interior smelled of damp fabric, old cigarette smoke and something faintly sweet that I could not identify. The smell reminded me of flowers left too long in a warm room. The seat was cold enough to make me shift away from it.

The door shut behind me with a soft, final click.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"Just drive."

"Excellent."

The engine started. I did not hear the ignition.

We pulled away from the station.

I watched the building recede through the rear window. The desk sergeant was visible behind the glass, hunched over his paperwork beneath the fluorescent lights. For a moment, I had the distinct impression that he was looking directly at me.

Then the cab turned a corner, and the station disappeared.

I waited for the familiar sounds of the town: traffic, distant voices, the rattle of a delivery van over a drain cover. Instead, the noise of the engine seemed to become the only sound in existence.

I leaned forward.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere you need to be."

"I'm fairly sure I didn't ask for that."

"No," he said. "You asked me to drive."

I sat back.

Outside, the streetlights had begun to stretch. Not physically, exactly. Their reflections elongated across the windows, lingering long after the cab had passed them. The buildings grew indistinct, their upper storeys seeming to lean towards the road as if listening to something beneath the tarmac.

I looked at the driver's mirror.

His eyes were fixed on me.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"Where are we?"

"On the road."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one that matters at present."

I turned towards the window.

The town had gone.

In its place was a long, empty stretch of road beneath a sky that looked neither day nor night. The horizon was a bruised grey, mottled with dark clouds that did not move. There were no trees, no fields, no buildings, and no sign of anything living. The road ran straight ahead, its surface black and wet, though I could see no rain.

White lines divided the lanes. They were too bright, almost luminous, and they seemed to continue beyond the point where the road disappeared into the distance.

A sign stood at the roadside.

L303

Nothing else was written on it.

I turned back to the driver.

"What is this?"

"L303."

"I can read."

"Then we're making progress."

I watched the road for several seconds. I have seen enough strange things in my life to understand that panic is rarely useful. It encourages mistakes, and mistakes are generally expensive. I decided to remain calm, although I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tightening.

"Is this some kind of road between places?"

The driver gave a low whistle.

"Very good."

"Between towns?"

"Between realms."

I looked out of the window again.

There was something moving in the distance. At first, I thought it was a bird, but it was too large and moved in a way that suggested it had never needed wings. It crossed the sky above the road, briefly blotting out a patch of cloud. I could not make out its shape. My mind seemed unwilling to settle on one.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"It means the road goes places."

"Which places?"

"Worlds. Realities. Dimensions, if you prefer the word. Different places with different rules. Some are quite pleasant, I'm told. Some are less so."

"And the road connects them?"

"More or less. It's a conduit. A passage. A bit of infrastructure, if you like."

I stared at him.

"Interdimensional infrastructure."

"You'd be amazed what gets built without a planning application."

Despite myself, I almost laughed. It was an absurd thing to say, and absurdity was reassuring. It implied that there were still rules, even if they were rules I did not understand.

Then I noticed the signs.

They appeared intermittently at the roadside, each one marking an exit. Some were ordinary road signs, with white lettering on blue backgrounds. Others were made from materials I could not identify. One was a slab of something pale and porous, covered in symbols that seemed to crawl when I looked directly at them.

The first sign I could read said:

EXIT 14 — THE KINGDOM OF THE UNFINISHED

The next was simpler.

EXIT 22 — DO NOT STOP

Farther along, a sign stood at an angle, its surface stained with what looked like rust.

EXIT 31 — HOME

I felt my stomach tighten.

"Home?" I asked.

"Some people like to go home."

"Some people?"

"Most, eventually."

I looked more closely at the sign. Beneath the word was a smaller line of text, barely visible in the dim light.

HOME IS WHERE WE KEEP YOU.

I turned away.

"What happens if you take one of these exits?"

"Depends on the exit. Depends on the passenger. Depends on what's waiting on the other side."

"Are these places inhabited?"

"Oh, yes."

"By people?"

The driver laughed.

"Sometimes."

I waited for him to elaborate. He did not.

After a while, he continued.

"Some of the things out there hunt. Some stalk. Some like to play games. Some prefer to trap you and see how long it takes you to realise you're trapped. There are places where you can spend an entire lifetime being chased by something that never gets any closer. Places where you'll meet people who know everything about you, including things you haven't done yet. Places where your shadow belongs to somebody else."

He paused.

"And then there are the ones that don't care what happens to you at all. Those are often the worst."

I found myself watching the windows for movement.

"Why bring people here?"

"Because they're wanted."

"By whom?"

"Whatever happens to be waiting."

"Is that what you do? Deliver people to monsters?"

"I provide a service."

"That's a very generous description."

"I'm a generous man."

There was a silence.

"Are you one of these things?" I asked.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror.

"One of what things?"

"One of the entities that uses the road."

He laughed. It was a genuine laugh, warm and almost human.

"I suppose I am now."

He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. His hands looked ordinary enough, except that the skin around his knuckles was stretched too tightly, as if there were more joints beneath it than there should be.

"But I wasn't always."

"Explain."

"I was from your world. Your sort of world, anyway. I found this road years ago. I don't know how. I was driving, same as you might be. One minute I was somewhere familiar, the next I wasn't."

"How long ago?"

He considered the question.

"Hard to say. Time doesn't behave properly here. I've been driving for what felt like a few months. It might have been years. It might have been longer than that."

"And you couldn't leave?"

"Not at first."

"What happened?"

He looked ahead, and for the first time his expression changed. The smile faded. The grey skin of his face seemed to sag, and something passed behind his eyes that made me wish I had not asked.

"I drove to the end of the road."

I waited.

"What did you find?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"No?"

"You don't want to know."

"I'm already here. I'd prefer to know what I'm dealing with."

"You think you would. That's the problem."

His voice had become quieter. The engine seemed to grow louder, filling the space between us.

"There are things that can be described, Mr Thorne. There are things you can look at, and things you can be told about, and you can fit them into your head somehow. You might lose sleep. You might drink more than you should. You might spend the rest of your life wishing you'd never heard of them. But you can still understand them."

He glanced at me.

"What I found at the end of the road wasn't one of those things."

I said nothing.

"I can't explain it. Not because I don't want to. Because I can't. I've tried. I've had people ask me, and I've started to tell them, and then I've watched them stop understanding English. One woman forgot how to breathe. Another spent three days insisting that she was a door. A man laughed until his teeth came out."

He paused.

"I don't know if they were mad before I spoke to them. I'd like to think they were."

I looked at the road ahead.

The sky seemed lower now. I had the uncomfortable feeling that the clouds were not above us at all, but beneath something vast that was leaning down to inspect the cab.

"What happened to you?" I asked.

"I made a deal."

"With the things at the end of the road?"

"With the people who manage it."

"People?"

He gave me a sideways glance.

"Would you prefer I called them something else?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll have to be more specific."

I decided not to pursue it.

"They offered me a way to keep going," he said. "A purpose. A job. I drive people where they need to go. Or where someone else wants them to go. In return, I get to stay on the road."

"Forever?"

"Forever is a very long time. I prefer not to think about it."

"And if you refuse?"

He smiled again, but the expression looked wrong now. It stretched his face without warming it.

"I don't refuse."

I glanced at the mirror. For an instant, his reflection seemed to be looking at something behind me, something sitting in the back seat that I could not see.

I turned sharply.

The seat was empty.

When I looked back, the driver was watching the road.

"There are others," he said. "Drivers, I mean. A few of us. I've never met the others. I've heard things, though."

"What sort of things?"

"Stories."

"Tell me one."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're in my cab, and I'd prefer you not to start screaming."

"I'm not going to scream."

"That's what they all say."

He drove on.

I asked him what happened to the people who made the journey with the other drivers.

He did not answer immediately.

"Some arrive where they're meant to go," he said at last. "Some don't."

"And the rest?"

He shrugged.

"Depends on the driver."

I looked at him carefully.

"You think I'm lucky to have you?"

"I know you are."

The road stretched endlessly ahead. A dark shape appeared beside us, keeping pace with the cab. It was tall and narrow, with limbs that moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm. I could not see its face, but I felt certain it was looking at me.

I watched it through the window until it slipped behind us.

"Did that thing just—"

"Don't look at them," the driver said.

His voice was sharp enough to stop me.

"Why?"

"Because some of them notice."

I faced forwards.

A few seconds passed.

"Did it notice me?"

The driver said nothing.

I did not ask again.

Eventually, the road widened, and a service station appeared on the left. It stood beneath a canopy of flickering lights, its windows dark, its forecourt cracked and uneven. The building looked as though it had been abandoned for decades. Rusted pumps stood in a line beneath the canopy, and a sign above the entrance hung crookedly from one remaining bolt.

The lettering was faded, but I could make out the word REST.

Something had scratched deep grooves into the wall beneath it.

The taxi turned into the forecourt and stopped.

The engine cut out.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

"Here we are," the driver said.

"Where is here?"

"A service station."

"I can see that."

"Then we're making progress again."

I looked through the windscreen. The forecourt extended into the darkness beyond the station, though there was no visible road leading away from it. A single light flickered above the entrance. Every time it went out, I had the impression that something stood in the doorway.

When it came back on, the doorway was empty.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Your fare is due."

I turned to him.

"What?"

"The fare. Payment for the journey."

"I didn't agree to a fare."

"Everyone pays."

"Not everyone."

His smile disappeared.

"Everyone pays, Mr Thorne."

He said my name as though it were a thing he had tasted and found unpleasant.

I reached for the door handle. It did not move.

"Let me out."

"Not until we settle up."

"I never agreed to be driven anywhere."

"You got into my cab."

"You offered me a lift. I told you to drive."

"Exactly."

"I did not wish to be driven."

The driver stared at me.

For the first time since I had entered the cab, he appeared genuinely uncertain.

"You asked me to drive."

"I did. I did not wish for a journey. I did not wish to be taken anywhere. I did not wish to arrive at this place. I gave you an instruction. You chose to interpret it as consent."

"That's not how it works."

"Isn't it?"

His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"You got in the cab."

"Yes."

"You knew what I was."

"I suspected you were a problem. I was right."

His jaw shifted. For a moment, I heard a series of small clicks from somewhere inside his face, like the sound of a lock being opened one tumbler at a time.

"You owe me," he said.

"I owe you nothing."

"Everyone owes me."

"Then you must be very busy collecting."

His eyes changed.

I cannot adequately describe what happened to his face. The skin seemed to loosen and slide away from the structure beneath it, revealing something that was not bone. His mouth opened too far, the corners splitting upwards towards his ears. His teeth lengthened, becoming thin, black and numerous. His eyes sank into his skull, leaving behind two dark hollows in which pale lights moved like distant stars.

His hands unfolded around the steering wheel. There were too many fingers. They were long and jointed, their tips ending in small, blunt hooks. The skin between them was translucent, and I could see something moving beneath it, something that pulsed in time with the engine although the engine was no longer running.

The air filled with the smell of wet earth and rotting flowers.

The driver leaned towards me.

His face was inches from mine. I could hear him breathing, although the sound came from somewhere behind his head.

"You will pay," he said.

The words seemed to arrive from every part of the cab at once. The windows trembled. The dashboard lights flickered. Beyond the windscreen, the service station lights began to go out one by one, starting at the far end of the forecourt.

I felt something press against the inside of my skull.

It was not a thought, exactly. More like an invitation to stop thinking. To accept that I was trapped, that the driver had brought me here, that there was nothing I could do except comply.

For a moment, I understood why people gave up hope.

The driver was not simply frightening. He was offering relief from the effort of resisting him. He wanted me to believe that the fight was already over, that resistance was an inconvenience I could put aside.

I refused.

"You're making a mistake," I told him.

The thing in the driver's seat made a sound that might once have been laughter.

"You are in my cab."

"I am in a vehicle you offered to drive. I never made a wish. I never agreed to your terms. Whatever arrangement you have with the people who manage this road, it does not include me."

His mouth opened wider.

"I can take you."

"No. You can drive me. You can frighten me. You can make threats. You can show me whatever you like. But you cannot collect payment for a bargain I never made."

The pressure in my head increased. For a moment, the interior of the cab seemed to stretch away from me, the seats receding into a darkness that was not physically possible. Something moved in that darkness, something large enough that I felt rather than saw its passage.

The driver reached towards me.

His hand stopped a few inches from my chest.

He strained. I could see the tendons in his wrist tightening beneath the translucent skin. The fingers twitched, opening and closing as though they were trying to grasp an object that existed just beyond their reach.

Then he recoiled.

The change was immediate. The pressure vanished. The cab snapped back into its ordinary dimensions. The thing in the driver's seat withdrew its hand and stared at it in disbelief.

"You didn't wish," he whispered.

"No."

"You didn't ask."

"No."

"You didn't give me anything."

"I gave you an instruction. You made the mistake of assuming it was a contract."

He stared at me for a long time.

The thing that wore the driver's face began to change again. The black teeth receded. The mouth closed, slowly and reluctantly, as though the flesh were being pulled back into a shape it no longer fitted. The extra fingers folded into one another and disappeared beneath the skin. The lights in its eye sockets dimmed.

Eventually, the old man was sitting in the driver's seat again, breathing heavily through his nose.

He looked exhausted.

He also looked furious.

"Get out," I said.

He turned towards the windscreen.

For several seconds, he did not move. Then he started the engine.

The taxi reversed out of the parking space and turned towards the road. We drove away from the service station without another word.

The journey back was worse than the journey out.

I could no longer pretend that the driver was simply an unpleasant man with a talent for theatrical intimidation. I had seen what was beneath the disguise, and I knew it had not shown me everything. The road seemed to understand that I was watching it now. The signs passed too quickly to read. Shadows moved at the edges of the headlights. On one occasion, I saw a figure standing in the centre of the road, its arms hanging at its sides, its head tilted towards the cab.

The driver did not slow down.

The figure remained perfectly still as we passed through it.

For a brief moment, I saw it in the rear window, standing on the road behind us. Then the road was empty.

"You were lucky," the driver said at last.

"I've been told."

"You don't understand what you've done."

"I understand that you tried to frighten me into paying a fare I never agreed to."

"That isn't what I mean."

"Then explain."

He shook his head.

"You've made yourself interesting."

I considered that.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"On this road? Yes."

"Who have I made myself interesting to?"

He glanced at me in the mirror.

"Certain parties."

I sighed.

"Of course."

He gave a short, humourless laugh.

"You think this is over because I couldn't touch you? You think that means you're safe?"

"No. I think it means you couldn't touch me."

The driver's face hardened.

"There are other drivers, Mr Thorne. Other ways to travel. Other ways to make a person agree to something. You might not be so clever next time."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"You should."

He drove in silence for a while. Then the road began to change. The black tarmac softened into grey, the sky lifted, and the distant horizon acquired the indistinct shapes of buildings. The streetlights returned, one by one, their familiar orange glow spreading across the road.

I recognised the town.

The taxi slowed.

The police station appeared ahead of us, its windows glowing under the fluorescent lights. The cab pulled up outside the entrance and stopped.

The engine fell silent.

I reached for the door handle. This time, it opened immediately.

Before I got out, I turned to the driver.

"I have one piece of advice for you."

He stared straight ahead.

"Do I want it?"

"Probably not."

"Then keep it."

"I would suggest you choose your passengers more carefully."

He gave a slow, thin smile.

"And I would suggest you be careful where you walk, Mr Thorne. Roads have a way of remembering people."

I got out.

The door closed behind me. When I turned back, the taxi was already moving away. Its rear lights vanished around the corner, and I was left standing outside the station with the cold night air against my face.

For several seconds, I could not move.

I had the sensation that something was still watching me from inside the cab, although the vehicle was long gone. I could almost hear the driver's voice in the back of my mind, repeating the words about roads remembering people.

I went inside.

The desk sergeant looked up from his paperwork.

"Back already?"

"Yes."

He glanced through the window.

"Where did you get to?"

"Nowhere."

He frowned.

"What do you mean, nowhere?"

"I got into a taxi. We didn't go anywhere."

He looked at me for several seconds, then glanced down at his paperwork as though deciding whether the question was worth pursuing.

"Right," he said eventually.

He went back to his work.

I stood there, wondering whether I should tell him what had happened. I decided against it. I had little desire to explain an interdimensional road to someone who would probably ask whether I had consumed alcohol and then refer me to a local mental health service.

I checked the time.

Less than five minutes had passed since I left the station.

I checked it again.

The time had not changed.

I asked the desk sergeant whether I had been gone long.

"Couple of minutes, maybe," he said. "Why?"

"No reason."

I sat down and tried to put the experience into some sort of order.

I could still smell the cab: damp fabric, old smoke, the sickly sweetness of rotting flowers. I could still see the driver's face as it changed, the impossible arrangement of his mouth, the dark hollows where his eyes had been. I could still feel the pressure inside my skull, the quiet suggestion that resistance was pointless.

Most of all, I remembered the road.

The signs. The exits. The things moving beyond the headlights.

And the sense that the road was not empty. That it was crowded with places, and that those places were crowded with things that had been waiting a very long time for someone to arrive.

I was still sitting there when an officer came over and asked if I was all right.

I told him I was fine.

It was not a convincing answer, but it was the best I could manage.

Later, I asked to see the CCTV footage from outside the station.

The recording showed me leaving the building and approaching a black taxi. I opened the rear door, got in, and closed it.

A moment later, I got out again.

I stood beside the cab for a second, looking at it. Then I turned and walked back into the station.

The taxi drove away.

The entire incident lasted only a few seconds.

There was no evidence of the road, the service station, or anything that had happened between those two moments. The footage showed an ordinary street, an ordinary taxi, and an ordinary man getting into a car and immediately getting out again.

I watched the recording several times.

On the final viewing, I noticed something I had missed before.

As I stepped out of the cab, I turned my head towards the rear passenger window.

I could not see the driver's face in the footage. The glass was too dark, the angle too poor.

But just before the taxi pulled away, the rear window descended by a few inches.

I could not hear the recording clearly enough to make out any words.

I do not know whether the driver said anything.

I do know that, as the taxi disappeared around the corner, I was smiling.

I have no recollection of doing so.

I have no recollection of the journey being brief.

And I have no recollection of leaving the taxi.

I would like to conclude this statement by saying that I believe the incident is over. I cannot, however, honestly make that claim.

I have since found myself checking the road signs whenever I travel. I have become reluctant to enter taxis, particularly black ones. I have also developed the habit of looking at the rear passenger window of any vehicle that passes me slowly.

This is not because I expect to see the driver again.

It is because I am beginning to suspect that the driver was telling the truth about one thing.

Roads remember people.

And somewhere, beyond the roads I know, there is a stretch of black tarmac beneath a dead grey sky. There are signs pointing towards places that should not exist. There are exits waiting for passengers who have given up hope.

And there is a driver who knows my name.

I do not believe he has forgotten me.

I am not certain the road has, either.

---

DEPARTMENT FOR TRANSPORT – ANOMALOUS INCIDENT DIVISION

INTERNAL MEMO – EYES ONLY

FROM: Agent [REDACTED], Field Operations

TO: Director [REDACTED]

DATE: January 9th, 2026

SUBJECT: RE: THORNE STATEMENT – TAXI ENCOUNTER – 28/12/2025 – WITNESS M. ANDREWS – UPDATED

Further review of the Thorne statement suggests our initial assessment was mistaken.

Thorne is not merely an unauthorised investigator with an unfortunate tendency to interfere in matters beyond his comprehension. He appears to recognise certain patterns. More concerningly, he seems to understand that some things are best left unobserved.

His encounter with the vehicle designated simply as the Taxi is particularly troubling. The driver offered him a wish. Thorne declined to make one directly, instead exploiting the wording of the offer to obtain information about the road itself. This indicates either prior experience with similar entities or an instinctive grasp of the rules governing them.

Neither possibility is reassuring.

I have reviewed the driver's description of the L303 as a conduit between realms, with exits to locations that do not appear on any recognised map. The terminology is consistent with three incidents officially recorded as transport infrastructure failures. None involved a road. All three resulted in the permanent loss of their investigating officers.

Thorne has, apparently, returned.

I do not consider this evidence of good fortune.

There is a distinction between surviving an encounter and being permitted to leave it. Thorne does not yet appear to appreciate the difference.

I have begun to suspect that the Taxi did not fail to collect payment. I believe it chose not to. The distinction is significant, and I do not like where it leads.

The driver told Thorne that he had made himself interesting. I have reviewed the file on what happens to people who become interesting to certain parties. The file is incomplete. The sections that remain are difficult to read. The sections that are missing were removed by someone with higher clearance than mine, and I have been unable to determine who authorised the redactions or when they were made.

What I can confirm is that none of the individuals referenced in the surviving pages are listed as deceased.

They are listed as ongoing.

I have located one of them. Or rather, I have located what remains of one of them. The individual in question was a surveyor named Ellison who encountered a similar vehicle in 1998. He is currently residing at an address in Reading. He does not leave the house. He does not answer the door. His neighbours believe he died years ago, and I can understand why. When I looked through his window, I saw him sitting in a chair facing the wall. He was not moving. He has not moved in some time, according to the neighbours, though they cannot agree on how long.

The wall he faces is not a wall. It is a door. It has always been a door. The neighbours cannot see it, but I can. I wish I could not. The door is slightly open, and there is something on the other side that is watching him. It has been watching him for twenty-seven years. It will continue watching him for as long as he sits there. He knows this. I could see it in the way his shoulders were set, the way his hands were folded in his lap, the way he did not flinch when I tapped on the glass.

He was not afraid. He was waiting. I do not know what for. I do not want to know what for.

I recommend continued observation, with no direct contact unless authorised by this office. Under no circumstances should Thorne be informed of the material recovered from the Windsor-Slough site. He has already demonstrated a capacity to turn incomplete information into actionable decisions, and I would prefer not to discover what happens when he has the complete picture.

There are indications that the Windsor-Slough material describes procedures. Not for containing anomalies. For negotiating with them. The distinction matters, and I am not certain Thorne would use that knowledge wisely. I am not certain anyone would.

I have read parts of the material. I should not have. There are diagrams. There are names. There are instructions for what to do if you find yourself inside a vehicle that should not exist, travelling on a road that should not be there, with a driver who is not a driver. The instructions are written in second person. They are written as though the reader is already trapped. They are written as though the reader has always been trapped and simply has not noticed yet.

One passage describes the sensation of being driven. It describes the feeling of the seat beneath you growing warm, as though something has been sitting there before you. It describes the sound of breathing that does not belong to you. It describes the moment you realise that the driver has not been speaking to you at all, but to something sitting beside you that you cannot see.

I have not been able to sleep since I read that passage. I have not been able to stop checking the back seat of my car. I have not been able to shake the feeling that something has been sitting there, waiting, for a very long time, and that it is growing impatient.

For the record, I have amended the case classification.

This is no longer a matter of unauthorised access to an anomalous route.

It is a matter of determining what has noticed Thorne, and why it has allowed him to continue.

I would also advise that all references to the L303 be removed from the accessible incident database. Someone has been querying the file from a terminal that does not exist on our network.

The queries began three days before the road was first reported.

The same terminal has since queried Thorne's service record. It has queried the names of his immediate family. It has queried the location of a primary school he attended as a child, which closed in 1987 and was demolished in 1994. The queries are timestamped. Some of them are dated after his encounter with the Taxi.

Some of them are dated before he was born.

I have attached the access logs. Do not open the final file.

I did.

I would rather not discuss what I saw.

What I will say is this: the final file contains a list of names. Thorne's name appears on it. So does mine. So does yours.

The list is not organised alphabetically. It is not organised by date. As far as I can determine, it is organised by how long each of us has left.

I have not been able to determine the units of measurement.

I have not been able to determine which direction the list runs.

I have, however, noticed something else. The list is not static. Names move. They shift position when I am not looking. I have checked the same entry three times and found it in three different places. I have begun to suspect that the list is not a record of who is going to die.

I believe it is a record of who has already been collected. The names at the top have been waiting the longest. They have been sitting in their chairs, facing their doors, listening to something on the other side that never stops watching. They have been waiting for someone to open the door. They have been waiting for someone to let them out.

Or perhaps they have been waiting for someone to join them.

I have stopped checking the list. I have stopped looking at the back seat of my car. I have stopped sleeping entirely. It does not help. The feeling remains. The door remains. The thing on the other side remains, patient and patient and patient, and I am beginning to understand that patience is not a virtue in the places the L303 connects. Patience is simply the ability to wait longer than the person you are waiting for.

I do not know how long I have been waiting.

I do not know when I started.

I am not certain I am the one who is waiting.

END OF MEMO

Leathernecks vs Monsters: Observe and Report, (Episode 1)
Seattle, Victoria, and Vladivostok, December 1918 to January 1919

The sleet came off Elliott Bay sideways, and half the faces on Railroad Avenue were masked by squares of white gauze. Gunnery Sergeant Nathaniel Boone Adams stood under the clock tower at the Colman Dock with his collar up and his own mask hooked over one ear. The city had lifted its mask order in November, when the Armistice came, half the city had kept wearing them anyway, because the dying had not stopped. Adams had watched the influenza go through a troopship at Brest in October. He wore his on one ear, as a courtesy.

Beside him Sergeant Olaf Johansson chewed tobacco behind his mask. There was a brown stain on the gauze the size of a silver dollar.

"That's a disgrace to the uniform," Adams said.
"I'm not in uniform, Gunny."
"Disgrace to the mask, then."

Johansson had a trombone case standing between his boots. There was no trombone in it. The Office had shipped the gun in it from New York, crated on the eleventh of November for a war that ended the same morning.

The Victoria express boat had docked at nine. Her passengers had come down the gangway in their masks, and none of them was a Czech officer with a dueling scar and a blue scarf, which was the description the Office had wired.

At a quarter past ten a man came down alone.

Blue scarf. No mask. He walked with one hand inside his coat. He looked back at the boat, then scanned the crowd. Two men were pushing through the crowd, bowler hats, good overcoats, gauze over their faces. They moved like sharks circling a school of tuna, they did not hurry.

"Them two," Johansson said.
"I see 'em."

The Czech saw them too. He turned north along the waterfront at a walk that wanted to be a run, past the shuttered fish counters and the freight sheds, and the bowlers followed him, and Adams and Johansson followed the bowlers.

The Czech took the market stairs two at a time. Up top the stalls were closing under the gas lamps. A Japanese farmer was stacking cabbages. A boy was hosing fish scales off the planks, and the water was turning to glaze where it ran. The Czech went through it and kept his feet. The first bowler went through it without once looking down.

Adams slipped. He came up with fish scales on one knee and the .45 in his hand, a woman in a gauze mask shouting at him to fetch a policeman.

"We are the police, ma'am," Johansson told her, which was not true, and ran on.

The Czech went into the packing house at the north end, where the fish went onto ice. A door banged. Another.

Inside it was colder than the street. Ice stood in blocks in the sawdust, salmon lay across the blocks in rows with their eyes turned up. One electric bulb hung from a cord. The Czech had his back to the far wall and a revolver out, the first bowler was walking toward him across the sawdust with his hands at his sides.

The Czech shot him twice in the chest.

The bowler staggered, then kept stalking forward.

Adams fired from the doorway. The round took the man high in the back and spun him half around. He looked at Adams over the top of his mask with perfectly calm icy blue eyes. Despite the cold of the ice house he gave off no breath mist.

He reached up and pulled the mask down.

A young face. Clean-shaven. Blue at the lips. It was cold enough in the packing house that Adams's breath hung in front of him in a cloud, and Johansson's, and the Czech's, three clouds under one bulb.

The young man opened his mouth. Nothing came out of it.

Johansson had the Tommy gun out from the trombone case. The drum magazine held an alternating mix of Dr. Barclay's Manchurian Special rounds and copper jacketed slugs. He fired from the hip at six yards.

The five round burst took the man across the chest and the magnesium-silver nitrate of the Manchurian Specials caught. For most of a second the man was a lit up like a Chinese lantern. They saw his ribs and spine through the overcoat. Then the light went out of him and he folded into the sawdust with smoke coming off his collar. There was a smell of hot metal, burnt flesh, and scorched wool, and under it something older and colder, the ozone smell of old stagnant sea water.

Footfalls behind them. Johansson turned whipping the gun around. The second bowler stood in the doorway behind them. He fired again, but his boots slipped on the icy concrete floor. The rounds stitched the wall and shattered block ice, but missed the man.

Johansson ran after him down the stairs and out along the pier in the sleet. The bowler hat never looked back. At the end of the pier he leapt into Elliott Bay without breaking stride. The black water closed over the bowler hat, and that was all.

They stood at the edge breathing heavy, ears ringing from the Tommy gun fire, with their breath going white.

"Water that cold," Johansson said, "a man comes up hollering."

He waited.

Nothing.

When he got back to the packing house he saw Adams crouched over the Czech who was sitting in sawdust against the wall his shirt open. He had not been shot, he had been touched. A black frost bitten hand print was burned on his chest. His face had gone the white of the ice blocks, and there was frost in his eyebrows and in the stubble along his jaw. Adams was talking to him, trying o keep him lucid. The man's eyes were wet, and the wet had frozen in their corners into two small beads.

It was forty degrees in the street, thirty in the ice house it wasn’t cold enough for this.

"Captain Novak?"

”Dah, yes,” his voice was strained, his veins and arteries were turning to ice “Don’t trust Whites, get to Dragonov, he will help... You must stop the madness…Vektor.”

The Czech took Adams's gloved hand. His grip was strong and very cold. He pressed something flat into Adams's palm and closed Adams's fingers over it. He could not speak anymore. When he opened his mouth Adams saw rime on his tongue.

His breath came out in a small cloud. Then a smaller one. Then it did not come out.

Adams opened his hand. It was a stiff yellowed card the size of a playing card, punched through in rows of small square holes.

"What's that? Looks like a player piano sheet." Johansson said.
"Don’t know, but nothing I’d like to dance to."

They came out onto Pike Street into the sleet. On the far corner a man in a logger's coat stood on a crate under a streetlamp, bareheaded and unmasked, addressing six other men who were unmasked too. A Wobbly, Industrial Workers of the World, unionist radicals and not people Adam’s had time to deal with.

"There!" he shouted, and pointed. "There's your capitalist police, fellow workers! Look at them!"

"We're Marines," Adams said.

The Wobbly thought about it. Saw the barrel of Johansson’s Tommy gun protruding from under his great coat. Thought better of pressing his luck.

"That's worse," he said. “You soldier boys best git, you ain’t wanted here.”

#

The Butler Hotel had kept the best bar in Seattle until the state went dry in 1916, and it had kept the mirrors afterward, out of hope. Wang Che had taken the private dining room on the second floor in the name of N. B. Adams, Incorporated. When Adams came in the next evening he was pouring Canadian rye out of a blue willow teapot.

"You are late," Wang Che said. "Also you owe for the teapot."
"I don't own a teapot."

"The corporation owns it." He slid a paper across the cloth. It was a bill, made out to N. B. Adams, Incorporated, San Francisco, and it listed one teapot, rye, Canadian, cups, six, and a last line Adams could not read.

"What's that one?"
"Discretion."

Wang Che, the smuggler and Gunn runner turned entrepreneur, had grown prosperous in San Francisco and wore it across his waistcoat in a gold chain. He owned half a block of Chinatown in Adams's name. 

The rest of the team came in out of the sleet one at a time.

Johansson came first, and put the trombone case under the table and his boots on the trombone case. The bayonet crease along his jaw, from a night behind the Austrian lines in 1916, had gone white in the cold. It did that.

Talbot the Times Picayune Correspondent and reckless adventurer came in limping. He said it was the Marne. But it might have been a Paris taxi on the Boulevard Haussmann with Talbot drunk in the back and the driver drunk in the front.

Corporal Dunn sniffed then sipped his rye but could not smell it. He had smelled and tasted nothing since the gas at Belleau Wood. But he could still feel the burn of the whiskey, he nodded to Wang Che in appreciation of at least that feeling.

Corporal Sheehan sat with his left hand under the table and flexed it where he thought no one could see. Haiti 1915, and a run in with a voodoo priestess and her undead minions had left it numb from the wrist down. 

Private First Class Chavez held his cup with the three fingers Mesopotamia had left him and drank slowly.

Private First Class Smith, who was not actually named Smith, sat with his back to the wall. 

Private First Class Hunt sat beside him writing a letter to a girl in Emporia, Kansas. Adams knew about the girl. Everybody did. She had died of the influenza in October. Hunt wrote to her anyway, every night, and folded the letters into his breast pocket, and nobody said a word about it.

Miss Thorpe, the British Agent, came in off the Canadian train in black wool. She had worn black since the autumn of 1915, since Loos, where her brother had gone over the top into the gas and the wire and not come back. She kissed Adams on the cheek. It surprised him. From her face, it surprised her more.

Lieutenant Colonel Alaric Quarterburn, who had been sitting quietly in the back, stood when she came in. He did it with his left hand on the back of the chair. Thorpe looked at the right-hand pocket of his coat, and then at his face, and sat down without a word.

Ms. Bridgette ‘Cherry’ Muldoon came last and loudest, a rifle case over one shoulder and a grudge over the other. The grudge was Adams. He owed her four dollars from a wager in Port-au-Prince.

"You want it now?" Adams said.
"I want it with interest."
"Put it on the bill," Adams told Wang Che.
"It is already on the bill," Wang Che said.
"When was the last time we all sat down together," Talbot said, "was it East Africa Dar. Es Salaam?"
"It was the Rufiji," Muldoon said. "Pretorius ate a crocodile to win a bet off you."
“You ate a crocodile?” Asked Wang Che.
"It was a small croc."
"It was a big bet," Johansson said, the group laughed then remembered, Moore somberly, “ Right before we lost Clark to those Hun zombies,” and that was the last anybody said of Africa.

At the foot of the table there was a chair nobody took and a cup in front of it. Adams filled the cup from the teapot and set the teapot down, and for a while nobody said anything at all. Barclay would have lectured them about their livers. He would have been right.

The colonel had been there before any of them. He sat at the head of the table with his back to the wall and the window where he could see it, lean, gray at the temples, in a civilian tweed suit that did not make him look civilian. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his coat. Adams watched the pocket all evening. The hand did not come out.

Quarterburn stood.

"Upstairs," he said. "If you please."
#

Novak's coat lay across the bed in Quarterburn's room with the lining slit along with the punch card. The sheet that had come out of it was onionskin, covered on both sides in groups of five letters. Behind it, sewn flat, had been half a ruble note, torn corner to corner.

"Czech Legion field cipher," Thorpe said. "The Office gave me the tables in November. They were very pleased with themselves."
"The words under it are Russian," Wang Che said. "Bad Russian. Just my kind."
"The words under it are whatever the tables say they are."
"The tables are wrong."
"The tables are from the finest British code breakers, Mr. Che."
"Yes," Wang Che said. "That is what I am saying."

Forty minutes, arguing the whole way, she and Che worked the cypher. When they were done Thorpe read it out.

"The last engine of Bakanov is running. The station is called Vektor, above the headwaters of the Suchan. Those who pay for it sit inside the White supply commission at Vladivostok. They have decided that if Russia will not be theirs, it will belong to no one. Our people cannot reach it. Yours must. Contact at the Blessing of the Waters. She will carry the other half."

"Blessing of the what?" Hunt said.

"The Russians cut a cross into a frozen harbor on the nineteenth of January," Quarterburn said. "A priest blesses the water. Then the devout go into it."

"On purpose?" Adams said.
"On purpose."
"And they call us heathens."

Thorpe turned her attention to the punched card. She held it over under the lamp and looked through the holes at the light.

"Jacquard," she said. "A loom card. Except that it is not for a loom, it is for a Bakanov-Baggage device. I’d thought we had gotten them all."

She set it down squared to the edge of the table, and Adams saw her hand stop over it a moment before she took the hand away.

Dunn had the wooden box open on the washstand. Barclay had built it in 1916 out of a naval direction finder, a telephone headset, and parts nobody had asked him about, and since Barclay nobody had been able to make it do anything. The needle lay dead on its pin.

Dunn set the card beside the box.

The needle stirred. It swung a quarter inch, and came back, and swung again, and from the headset lying on the washstand there came a small dry tick. Then another. Evenly spaced.

The radiator knocked. On Second Avenue a streetcar went by with its bell going. Nobody in the room said anything for some time.

"Well, call me a rooster," Adams said. "Doc's box likes it."

He had sipped his tea, nodding appreciatively.

Quarterburn stood at the window with his back to them. He looked around the room “The Turks built one for him and we closed it. The Austrians built one and we closed that. This is his last, and it is his own. If it opens, what comes through will not stop at Siberia." He turned from the window. "The war that ended last month will have been the dress rehearsal."

"Rehearsal," Adams said. "She-it, ain’t nobody ready for that show.”

"I will say this once," he said. "Bakanov must die, and his infernal machine with him,” he paused, his right hand a fist in his pocket, “at all cost.”

#

They took the night boat to Victoria on the twentieth, and in the morning Fort Street was full of Canadians soldiers who did not want to go to Russia.

The 259th Battalion was marching from the Willows Camp to the Outer Wharf, and halfway down the hill a platoon at the rear of the column sat down in the road and would not get up. French Canadians, conscripts, most of them boys. They had been told in November the war was over, and they had believed it. An officer shouted. Another fired his revolver into the air. The rest of the battalion was ordered to take off its belts and drive the sitting men back into the column, and it did, and the sound carried up the street between the shops.

The team stood on the curb with its baggage.

A Canadian captain came past them with his revolver still in his hand. He looked at the trombone case, and at Muldoon's rifle, and at Wang Che.

"Who the hell are you people?"

"Detail #7 International Military Observers," Quarterburn said handing the Captain his credentials holding the Canadian Governor's seal, and speaking in his strong but patient voice “and that's who the hell are you, Colonel.”

The captain looked back at his battalion going down the hill with its own bayonets at its back. 

"Observers,” he looked over the mixed group, noted the Marines uniforms and the womens’ militarized and rugged mufti. “Well, sir,…begging the Colonel’s pardon, I hope you’re observing goes a fat site better than this load out." he said. “I’ll have my Sergeant show you to your breathing but, you’ll have to carry your own kit aboard, this lot would probably throw it in the drink.” 

The Teesta sailed on the twenty-second with a dozen men in irons in her hold. They sang songs of protest in French for three days and then stopped. Off the Kuriles the rigging iced until the crew went aloft with mallets. 

#

The Golden Horn was frozen from shore to shore. An icebreaker had ground a black lane through it, and the Teesta came up the lane on the twelfth of January past the gray bulk of the Brooklyn, locked in the ice at her mooring, her Marines stamping on the quarterdeck in fur hats. On the hills behind the city, under the snow, lay more than a billion dollars of Allied stores bought for a Russian Imperial army that no longer existed: shells, wire, rails, boots, stacked in warehouses of their own and rows of unused motor trucks rusting in fenced cantonments.

Every flag the Entente owned hung over the harbor. There were Czech sentries on the station platform in patched greatcoats, Japanese patrols in pairs on every corner, Canadian military police on the quay, French colonial infantry from Tonkin stamping in the snow in kit cut for the tropics, and an Italian armored train breathing steam in the yards. Prices came in yen and dollars and the rubles of three governments, some still in uncut sheets.

At American headquarters a staff captain with a head cold explained General Graves's instructions. The United States took no side in Russia. The United States guarded railways and stores. The United States did not fight Bolsheviks or Cossacks or anyone else if it could help it.

"And as far as this headquarters is concerned," the captain said, "you are not here."

"Assure the General, we will be discreet, it is our byword." Quarterburn said.

The captain wrote that down and then crossed it out.

#

The White Russian stores commission sat in a requisitioned bank on the Svetlanskaya. Colonel Prince Vsevolod Obolov received them in an office with no fire in it, behind a desk the size of a coffin. He did not rise. He smoked the whole time, each cigarette lit from the last, and the smoke hung in front of his face in the cold, and Adams, watching his own breath fog the air, could not have said where the Prince's breath ended and the smoke began.

"The motor trucks," the Prince said. His English was Oxford. "The motor trucks are the property of the Russian Imperial Army."

"Then the Russian Imperial Army is no more, it will not mind," Wang Che said.

The Prince regarded him for a long moment through the smoke.
"No trucks," he said.
#

At four o'clock that afternoon, in Quarterburn's room at the Hotel Versailles, someone knocked twice, waited, and knocked twice again.

Major Sir Alistair Higgins came in with a spirit stove under his one arm and a kettle hanging from his little finger. His left sleeve was pinned to the shoulder with a gold safety pin. He set the stove on the writing desk and lit it and put the kettle on before he said a word.

"Four o'clock," he said. "Hello, Alaric. Hello, Adams. You look terrible. Everyone does. It's the country."

Behind him came a small square Frenchman in a colonial greatcoat with a haversack on his shoulder. Sergeant Pierre LaFontain put his ear flat to the wall beside the door and stood there with his eyes shut for half a minute before he shook anyone's hand.

"Good wall," he said at last. "Nobody behind."

"The Hejaz," Muldoon said. "Romania. And now this."

"Now this," Higgins said. "The French lent him to me. They were very gracious about it. I believe they were relieved."

Pierre simply grinned and pulled route maps of the Suchan and the upper rivers, drawn by hand, the passes marked in red ink, from his rucksack. “But Mon Cher, Cherry, I bring gifts. 

In the street below the window a closed Packard Motorcar went by flying a White pennant. Higgins stopped with the kettle in his hand. He scratched at the pinned sleeve, slowly, where the arm had been, and watched the motorcar out of sight.

"Whose is that?"

"The Prince from the stores commission," Wang Che said. "The one who said no."

Higgins made the tea.

#

On the nineteenth, the Feast of the Theophany by the old calendar, the whole city went down onto the ice.

They had cut a cross into the harbor ice below the Admiralty quay, a cross the length of a whaleboat, and stacked the cut blocks at its head into an altar, and the water in the cross lay black and smoking in the cold. Priests in gold stood at the head of it. Behind them stood the city: merchants in beaver, soldiers of eight armies, Cossacks, Koreans, Chinese, women with children on their shoulders, thousands of people breathing out, and the breath of all of them rose together into a single white cloud and hung over the ice in the sun.

A knot of Japanese officers stood near the quay with their hands behind their backs. They watched the Americans more closely than they watched the priests.

Wang Che andd Adams stood on the edge of the broken ice, Wang Che had the  half ruble. He said a word in Cantonese that Adams knew. Adams looked up.

The old woman stood at the foot of the cross in a red shawl, with half a ruble note pinned to the shawl where anyone could see it. The two men began to work their way toward her through the crowd. Wang Che reached her. She pushed the half ruble into Wang Che's glove and said something in Russian. Then she went into the cross, red shawl and all, and the water closed over her. 

“Russians, they are crazy.”

Wang Che took them sideways along the frozen shore under the warehouses, through a door in a wall that had no business having a door in it, and down into Millionka.

The Chinese quarter went down into the hill under the city in cellars and passages dug for opium and gambling and kept for everything else. Two Chinese soldiers with rifles stood at the first turning. Wang Che said a sentence to them and put something into the nearer one's hand, and both soldiers turned around and studied the wall.

They went through an opium room full of men lying on shelves in the smoke. Not one of them looked up. Adams checked each one going past. Every one of them was breathing normally, as normally as anyone chasing the dragon.

In a room at the bottom of a stair, beside a brazier, Wang Che opened his fist.

"Tsemukhe road," he said. "Verst forty. That is what she said."
"That's all?"
"She also said we were late," Wang Che said. "I did not think that needed translating."

#

The stores of the White commission stood on the Churkin shore behind barbed wire, in sheds and in the open under tarpaulins and snow. Four Ford one-ton trucks stood in a row with canvas over their beds and the drifts to their hubs.

The gate had one padlock. The shed had three. LaFontain took heavy bolt cutters from his haversack, and said a name over each one and snapped them clean.

"Saint Barbara," he said to the first. "She is for the gunners. Saint Rita. She is for impossible things."

Talbot sat on the running board of the first truck with a pencil and a Russian form he had got from God knew where, and wrote out a requisition for four motor trucks in the name of the International Military Observervation Mission, United States Marine Corps, and signed it C. H. Lauchheimer, Brigadier General, in a hand Lauchheimer might have mistaken for his own.

"Needs a witness," Talbot said.

Higgins took the pencil in his one hand and signed beneath. "Witnessed," he said, "on behalf of His Majesty."

There was no alcohol for the radiators anywhere in the commission's stores. There was vodka. The commission had seized it in November from a Chinese bootlegger and stacked it in the same shed as the trucks. Forty-two bottles went into four radiators. Adams poured the last one himself.

"I want it wrote down," he said, "that I objected to this abuse of alcohol."
"So noted," Quarterburn said.

The trucks caught on the third try, and the fourth, and the exhaust came out of them in white clouds, and the radiators steamed, and the whole yard smelled of a Russian wedding.

#

They left the city by the Suchan road before midnight with the headlamps dark, and lit them past the last guard post. The road climbed. The snow drifted. In the lead truck Wang Che counted the verst posts aloud in Russian, and Higgins corrected his pronunciation, and Wang Che corrected Higgins.

At verst thirty-nine Private Dunn settled Barclay's box across his knees. The needle had swung hard to the northeast, and the ticking in the headset came very fast.
At verst forty the headlamps illuminated men. 

They stood across the road in a line from snowbank to snowbank, forty or fifty of them, in sheepskins and army greatcoats and fur hats, with their rifles up. Every one of them was breathing. Adams saw that first, from habit. Then he saw the rifles.

Somewhere in the dark beyond the line a gramophone was playing. Horns, climbing, and a drum beneath the horns. Muldoon, who had toured the capitals of Europe with a Wild West show before the war, said the name of it under her breath. Strauss.

A big voice rolled out of the dark in Russian, and then in bad English.

"Americans! Welcome to the Revolution!"

Fifty bolts went home together.

"Fire!"
###

You can see accompanying artwork, “field sketches” here: https://www.reddit.com/r/WorldsEdgeDispatches/s/zY84BdJ64u 

“Yurvan was a gentle and foolish young man,” started Varya, toying with a hazel twig, “although he never lacked for cunning. Compared to his siblings, his Artistry was unremarkable, a fragment of the inherited power that overflowed in them. His family expected nothing from him, recognizing Yurvan as the least of them. Despite this, his heart and belly brimmed with desire, while his mind wove the most frenzied fantasies around it. He dreamed of wonderful and terrible deeds – an achievement that would make him worthy in the eyes of his beloved.

“Only she, Yurvan believed, could mend him. She was a creature of fearsome power and presence. Her feats were whispered about throughout the forested lands, her beauty unmatched by any of her sisters. Her coven was known for its Sanguine Arts and prodigious appetite, its lust for life unending. Yurvan longed to impress her. Foolishly, he wished to be her equal one day. But what could a simple man like him offer to a witch of such severity?

“Yurvan committed his limited self to alchemy and the lesser pursuits – that means Sorcery, Yaro – deciding to fashion the perfect gift: a flower, a living thing, that would never deplete and would always keep her sated. Its pistil was a deep ruby, pulsing softly and innocently like a heart.” One of the leaf-buds swelled between Varya’s fingers, its imbricate green scales opening and closing. “It was a mystery, this gift, the culmination of his mad strivings. Despite the dismay and ridicule of his family, Yurvan was unrelenting. His body and ardors – even bits of his marrow, supposedly – flowed into the creative ordeal. Little remained of poor Yurvan once the flower was ready.

“When his fervent work was done and his home quieted, he traveled to the witch, hoping to earn her favor. The coven’s hold was deep within the birchen grove. The weakened man struggled to find her, but she awaited him. He presented the bleeding flower to her, expecting praise, even reciprocity. Her pale palms–”

“Don’t make her sound like a sunk,” Yaro interrupted.

Varya sighed. “Her pale palms were soon slick and scarlet with the essence of Yurvan’s offering. She smiled approvingly, but her amusement disturbed him. The witch spoke kindly of his efforts while her eyes remained cold and curious.

“Before he could reconsider, she ensnared him. He fell to her feet, betrayed and bewildered. His beloved explained: ‘A considerate gift, without a doubt. It is the blood of your own kin that flows through this thing of beauty, is it not? Yet not even they can satiate us. You have given us a single flower, but we require a bountiful garden.’

“Thereafter, Yurvan was made subject to the coven, bound to care for the bud of his own flesh and its festering progeny. It fed and delighted the witches, adorning their domain with its ceaseless crimson streams. The flower spread its leeching roots into the nearby villages and far beyond. He had given too much of himself; his hope was spent and his mind unrecoverable. Reduced and hollowed, he bore the weight of his own creation.

“The little red flowers sprouted from the wandering puppet and stained their lands. The witches started calling him their gardener. His beloved mended him many times. Yurvan endured in her care, blooming and withering dutifully, for she had called his gift beautiful.”

Yaro watched through his binoculars. “What a sap,” he said. “Really was a fool.”

Varya squinted at him. “Why?” she demanded.

“Decades of work. For what? A flower?”

“For love,” answered Varya, throwing the branch at him. “You just don’t understand it, Yarik.”

Yaro lowered the binoculars and gave her the sort of smile that made mockery difficult to resent. He was a handsome Vanaha boy in an ordinary way, strong without being broad, with short dark hair and a nose that had healed cleanly after a break. The old field jacket exaggerated the soldierly impression he cultivated, though his clean face and nineteen years did their best to undo it. “It’s villagey fairytalk, Var. Maybe there was a Yurvan, maybe there wasn’t. Maybe the witch made it herself and a random guy took credit. Doesn’t change anything. It infested Morvin Mir and is making nectar out of their buried. We can get some of it. That’s what I care about. Also, weren’t they related?”

“Who?”

“Yurvan and his witchie darling. Cousins or something like that.”

Varya frowned. “So what?” she demanded. Yaro made a face and shrugged. “It was the fifteenth century when it supposedly happened. Besides, that doesn’t make what he did less beautiful.” She had dressed sensibly for the cold: black cargo trousers over heavy boots, a dark sweater and a striped athletic jacket at odds with the rest of her sunk outfit. Her hair compensated for it, dyed an emphatic jet black around a fawnish, fine Vanahan face, as did the black around her eyes and the chipped varnish on her nails.

“What do you think?” she said. “Ilya.”

While Yaro and Varya argued, Ilya had wandered to the nearest tree. He had discovered a rounded object in the moss and mulch below a tree trunk, too smooth and pale to belong there. He picked it up. An egg, blue-green with a sparse freckling of brown. There seemed to be no crack on it. Ilya investigated the hazel tangle above them. The first buds had begun to loosen, but there was no nest that he could see.

“What is it?” Varya asked.

“Blackbird, I think. Early.” He pressed it lightly between both palms and reached with his Art for whatever life might be hidden inside. He felt nothing certain.

“Are you going to put it back?”

“If only I knew where it belongs.”

“Maybe you can cook it,” said Yaro offhandedly.

Varya watched him search the branches a while longer, then smiled. “Well, what do you think? About the story.”

When no nest appeared, Ilya slipped the egg into his coat pocket. He was the youngest of them, long and narrow where Yaro had already filled out. His tawny hair had grown past the point where it stayed neatly parted, and his brown Vanahan face tapered sharply after the cheekbones. A bottle-green cable-knit sweater showed under his unbuttoned gray coat. “He made it for her,” he said uncertainly. “To gain her love and trust. He even presented it to her knowing that neither was guaranteed to him. To me, that’s beautiful. It’s one of the nicer versions of the story.”

Varya looked at him with quiet approval. “See, Yarik? He’s younger but he gets it.”

Yaro said nothing and kept surveying the land through the binoculars. Their slope flattened to a thicket of hazel, hiding them from the road and graveyard below. Sol had already slumped somewhere behind them and the sky was agloam. Morvin Mir lay quiet under them. At its stream-edged skirt lay the graveyard. It occupied the low hill beyond the last houses. It was much larger than the village seemed to require, spreading around the church. The Vampiric Extirpation Division had sectioned off one part of it with temporary fencing and strips of yellow tape. White lamps were erected among the graves. The VED personnel were packing up, cases being carried to the dark vehicles along the road. Then engines started in rapid succession. The remaining policemen had little left to do except watch the road and keep the nosy villagers away.

“They're clearing out,” said Yaro. He tracked the departing vehicles through the binoculars. “Give them two minutes. Then we move.”

 

*

 

They went down the far side of the hill, away from the village, through the hazel, then pivoted along the slope. Yaro had scouted the route before solset and picked the easiest crossing of the stream. It added several hundred meters, but kept them out of sight of the road and the last houses of Morvin Mir. Leaf litter slid beneath their shoes as they descended sideways.

The stream was enlarged by thaw and rain, carrying the smell of black mud and wet leaf mould. It ran brown between banks of pebbled earth. A frog kicked away through the flooded grass. Yaro crossed quickly and helped Varya and Ilya. “Don’t step on them, Ilya,” he whispered. “They might hear it.”

The ground rose again on the other side. The church and rectory appeared intermittently through the branches above them, the black timber and cupola rising above a slumped stone barrier. The fence was old iron at the front, but along the wooded rear boundary it had been bolstered with wire mesh. The stone wall was an older, defunct border. Yaro stopped them with a raised fist. “Down.” He brought up the binoculars.

The nearest police car had gone, but not all the police. One walked slowly along the lower path with a flashlight, stopping now and then to inspect the graves. Another was farther away near the gate. Portable VED lamps still burned at the site of the graveburst, though the specialists themselves appeared to have left.

“Why are they still here?” Varya whispered.

Yaro watched. “Security detail. Veddies probably told them to hold the perimeter.”

They waited. The policeman on the lower path disappeared near the rectory. The other remained near the gate, a cigarette appearing and disappearing as a tiny orange point. “Now,” said Yaro. After a short sprint, he found a section sagging between two concrete posts. He threw the shovel and backpack over, climbed, then held the wire down with his gloved hands.

Varya and Ilya dropped quietly onto the other side.

From the hill they had seen an orderly grid of graves. Now they saw the tangle of tombstones facing different angles and standing at different heights, fitted wherever earlier generations had left space. The newer plots nearer the road were edged in concrete or enclosed by low iron rails. Their stones were polished and square, their fronts carved with twelve-part rings around photographs, names and dates. Plastic flowers and votive cups crowded the bases. The same twelvefold pattern repeated in the ironwork, little circles divided by twelve radial bars. Farther uphill, an older order remained, but only in ruin. Older stelae, with epitaphs effaced, leaned into one another or barely protruded from the flattened sward and early crocuses.

They kept low. Yaro moved quickly from stone to stone whenever the lower path was hidden. Varya followed. Ilya kept glancing toward the church. It was smaller from here than it had seemed across the valley. Rickety, even.

All three stopped as a flashlight passed between the bilobed tombstones and monuments. The beam wandered over the row in front of theirs, illuminated a lichenous Saint in weathered sage-green plaster, verdigrised spear raised, then passed. Footsteps and coughs followed. The policeman seemed in no particular hurry. They waited behind the village kenotaph, a broad stone monument to the unrecovered dead, until he moved on. Yaro flicked two fingers forward.

The VED equipment made the graveburst easy to locate. Yellow tape enclosed nine plots. Temporary metal stakes had been driven into the soil around it. The middle one had been opened. The odor was not the thick rot Ilya had expected. A sweet note lingered in the air, like stale rice. The plot was completely excavated and widened; the tombstone was knocked backward in the process. Heavy clods of earth, splinters from the coffin and other debris, as well as dozens of footprints, littered the neighboring plots. A whitish sludge had gathered in one low corner and been partly covered with white sorbent.

Varya leaned over the tombstone. “Radavan Kolitka.” She wiped the damp grit from the inscription. “Nineteen twenty-one to eighty-five. He hasn’t been here long. Saints, I didn’t know gravebursts were this violent. It’s like it detonated.”

“Not a detonation,” said Yaro, inspecting the surrounding damage. “If this were a charge or a shell, you’d get a cleaner displacement and more fragmentation. Slow internal pressure, maybe over weeks, then rupture through the weakest point.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Varya. “We know what did it.”

“Right,” he said and nodded at Ilya. “You’re going in.”

The smell thickened inside, rot admixing with the sweetness. He brushed aside loose earth and examined the cut wall. Most of the roots were ordinary: fibrous, woody, dull. The parasite’s haustorial rootlets were smoother and almost bluish, with vascular interiors. But those were not what he wanted. The overfeeding that led to the graveburst should have bloated the conduit as well. An earthworm worked free of the side he was searching and curled near his wrist. Ilya frowned and recoiled, flicking it away into the dirt.

“I think I have it,” said Ilya, groping the area under the tombstone. He uncovered more of it. The root was dark red-brown, smooth except for faint longitudinal ridges. Clear exudate had beaded at the severed end. He took his compact knife and shaved away a thin section. Fresh sticky droplets welled up immediately. He smelled it, cheek against the dirt. Almost floral, but too faint and mild to resemble perfume. Beneath it was fermenting fruit and the iron tang so familiar to all Sanguimancers.

For a moment, the grave was very quiet.

“Anything?” Yaro asked.

“Yeah,” said Ilya. “I found the one feeding the burst.”

Ilya returned to the rootlet, inhaled and scooped some of the sweet droplets. The sound above changed. The scuff of shoes on grass. He glanced up. Yaro and Varya were gone. Light appeared beyond the lip of the grave. A flashlight. He crouched immediately.

The beam crossed the yellow tape and widened over the disturbed soil. It passed over one of the VED markers, then along the opposite wall. Ilya held dead-still in the grave. Unhurried footsteps approached. The light stayed fixed for several seconds somewhere just beyond the grave, then moved away. After a while, Yaro appeared at the edge.

“Keep going,” he mouthed.

Ilya nodded as Yaro disappeared. He brushed away more earth around the root and pulled at it. The thicker section descended diagonally into the wall, then vanished. It had been taking from the corpse. So he nicked his fingertip with the knife and pressed it to the wounded end. It imbibed him gladly but patiently, as no animal can. Ilya squeezed out more. The root took that too.

His Art was meagre, but he knew his own blood. First there was only the prick in his finger and the warmth teeming around it. Then parts of him were elsewhere. The sensation passed from the wound into the root and away from him. He followed it uphill. A narrow vessel joined another, then broadened. His trace thinned – and in moments he could not distinguish himself clearly from whatever already circulated there.

The dark earth was against his face. The root he held was not a pipe between corpse and flower, nor some blood-hungry beast, nor the fabled Mul-Rasatala, nor Yurvan himself. Subterranean channels crossed, narrowing around individual coffins and widening where several dead contributed to the same flow. Matter passed through all of it; harvested, altered, sent elsewhere and returned. His own trace entered it and became difficult to separate the further it travelled. Some channels felt ancient. Others were new, exploratory runners reaching blindly for recent burials. Not the simple order of roots spreading wherever earth permitted them, but pullulation subdued from within. The plexus abandoned poor paths and strengthened rich ones. It circled rock and masonry effectively, found flesh and redirected nourishment in its direction. As the simple, thoughtless thing drank of him, Ilya could not help but consider it beautiful, even brilliant.

His few drops were almost gone now, diluted into a vast pool, but their last recognizable trace drew uphill through two converging branches. Both entered a concentration unlike anything else he had felt – a node, he quickly realized. His blood touched its margin and disappeared into its circulation. Beneath, a hundred buried currents made one wave; under many sepulchral shallows, the dead are one.

The shadow of the boy-soldier crept over the grave. “Well?” he said into the hollow below. “Is it done?”

Ilya startled when he noticed Yaro staring. “Uphill,” he said hazily. “There’s a knot there. The flow mixes with tree sugars, so probably under one of the oaks.”

“The rhizosoma?” asked Yaro. “The root-body?”

“I doubt it,” said Ilya. “But I’ll find it.”

Yaro smiled, lowering his hand for Ilya.

 

*

 

Ilya led them toward the church. His first attempt had carried him far enough to know which way it ran. What remained of it had dispersed into a busy confluence somewhere nearer the older plots. He followed the remembered pull between the graves until it brought him to a broad tree growing from the corner of a family enclosure. The tree itself looked healthy, and its lower branches were budding while the others nearby were still bare. Ilya examined the root flare, found a soft place and nicked the bark. He reopened the cut and pressed it to the wound. The blood returned easily. This time there was no hesitation in him and the current was stronger than before. For a moment it spread around the node; then a branch of the flow broke from the tangle and continued uphill. He followed the trace until it weakened and died out.

“This way,” he said.

They crossed the remaining graveyard in stages. Twice Yaro stopped them as a policeman’s flashlight moved along the paved path. Nearer the church they had to lie flat behind a broad slab while the two policemen stopped to talk. Marble, granite and concrete disappeared on the other side. The paths narrowed and finally ceased being paths. Low footstones bearing indistinct names and wooden stakes carrying duodecimal rings were planted among last year’s bramble and fresh nettle shoots. Downhill stood a truncated ossuary, a mouldering building with a sagging roof and corroded iron door. Boscage had swallowed much of the rear boundary.

Ilya slowed. The trace pointed to the closest oak. He stopped beside it and put his hand onto an exposed runner. The absorption was more intense, drawing from him more hungrily and steadily. They crossed to another oak, then a third nearer the rear woods.

Yaro and Varya watched him as he roamed furtively from tree to tree, over the graves and mounds.

“You lost it?” asked Yaro.

“It’s close,” said Varya. “Isn’t it?”

The major runners converged between three cankered oaks. What Ilya had mistaken for another node was only the outer circulation of a larger mass. It was at the rear of the ossuary, in a slightly uneven stretch of land where no discernible tombstones or monuments remained.

“It’s here somewhere.” Ilya sounded strained. “Sorry, I can’t be more precise.”

“That’s fine,” said Varya. She pulled out a small juice carton from her knapsack and held it to him. “Here, it’s blackcurrant. You’ve spent plenty of yourself. It helps.”

Ilya took it with a muttered thanks, smiling briefly.  “I think I need to sit down.”

“We haven’t found anything yet,” said Yaro. “Only a place to start digging.” He was already taking off his pack. He unfolded the shovel with a metallic click, locked the blade straight and drove it into the soil.

Ilya had given him a direction, not an exact point. He sat at the foot of one of the oaks with the juice between his hands. Yaro paced out the likely line of the buried flow, marked a short strip from the ossuary toward the woodland, and began cutting across it. He sliced the sward into rough squares and stacked the turf beside the ditch, green side upward, as though he intended to put them back together when they were done. Varya helped first by clearing loose branches and old bramble from the strip he chose, then moved the squares of turf as he cut them. The weather had softened the topsoil, and the shovel entered easily. Below the turf the earth remained colder and firmer. He threw the loosened soil aside in black heaps. The cut lengthened into something resembling a shallow field trench.

Yaro had opened a narrow trench nearly two meters long and no more than thirty centimeters deep when the shovel finally met a thing other than soil or stone. He pressed down, testing it. His grin appeared immediately. “There you are.” He dropped to a crouch and scraped the flat of the blade across it, shaving away the clinging soil.

“Wait,” said Ilya. “Let me.” He dropped beside the ditch and cleared the loose clay. It appeared gnarled and hard where the shovel had polished it.

“The rhizosoma,” said Varya.

“Only the uppermost part. The mass I felt is below it. But this should do.”

Clay had compacted around the growth and came away reluctantly. They worked along its sides rather than through it, widening the hole until the buried mass started to show its shape. A broad ridge emerged, then a shallow depression and another prominence below it. Several curving struts branched from a single line at regular intervals and disappeared into the soil. A broad triangular plate lay across part of them. It could have been part of an upper back. The surface was sallow and swollen, resembling a caudex.

Yaro crouched beside them. For a few seconds none of them said anything.

“Those look like ribs,” said Varya.

Yaro laughed once, quietly. “Yeah… Like somebody just curled up and died. But these aren’t bones.”

“Find the spine,” she said. “That’s where I can tap it.”

Once Yaro and Ilya had uncovered the long, segmented taproot, they made room for Varya. She climbed into the dugout and crouched over the exposed mass. Her touch traveled across it slowly. “Yaro, give me your knife and prepare the bottles,” she commanded. “Ilya, bring me a scion. Long enough to work with, healthy bud.”

Both nodded and obeyed. Yaro gave her the knife and prepared the four clean plastic bottles he had brought, squat and translucent. He had also brought a funnel, sealed inside a plastic bag. Ilya wandered around, searching for the right species. Even by night, life spread out sarmentose; over the ossuary stone, it waits to be reborn.

Soon enough, the pale girl had a suitable rose. “Perfect,” she said, “except for the one thorn.”

“Sorry,” said Ilya. “I don’t see it. I’ll get more.”

The other rose cuttings Ilya brought were nearly the length of her forearm, bare except for a few tight reddish buds at the nodes. Varya pared the scions one by one, fitting each into the incision and supporting it with her Art. The first three failed. The fourth was accepted by the rootstock. Her face beamed before either of them saw anything. Then the bud fattened visibly. Its scales loosened, a green point pushed through, and the new growth lengthened between her fingers. Only then did the petals begin to part. The pedicel stiffened, then bowed beneath a new weight.

Yaro stood above Varya now, feet planted on opposite sides of the dugout. “Is it working?” he whispered.

The flower opened only halfway. Its corolla tightened around the swelling pistil. A bead rose slowly from the folds. Soon it was a ruby, dark crimson between the pressed petals, trembling without falling. Varya smiled, standing from her work. Yaro caught her around the waist and lifted her up, kissing her neck and cheek as he held her. She laughed and tried to wiggle away. “You’re brilliant,” he said.

Ilya busied himself with the funnel, but the first drop fell onto his skin before he was ready. He rubbed it between index and thumb, admiring it beyond its Artistic utility. Made of the same stuff that flowed through him but refined beyond comparison. He smelled it, wanted to taste it. Another bead had begun forming at the pistil. “Ilya,” said Yaro. He was watching him, arms still around Varya. “Don't waste it. You’re playing with real money there. Almost a hundred fifty Eisenmarks for a hundred milliliters.”

“Eisenmarks?”  jeered Varya. “Since when do you look to the West?”

Yaro eyed her up and down. “And where do you think the sunk look came from? Nagarvan’s sunken districts?”

“Are you calling me a trend-chaser, Lieutenant Yarovan?”

“Of course not, Varvara.” He grinned. “I just know a guy who goes to Eisenstadt once a month. He can get us a better price there, even after his cut. They don’t have the flower growing anywhere near there.”

Varya watched the bottle fill. The red drops were beginning to cover the bottom. “We’ll discuss that later.”

Ilya counted the other bottles. “That’s seven hundred and fifty each, right?”

“If there’s enough to fill them,” said Varya.

“There will be.” His grin was greedy and gleeful. “I’m taking you somewhere good when we get back to Nagarvan.”

“With whose money, I beg?”

“Mine, of course.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

“Couldn’t have done any of this without you, Ilya,” Varya said. “You should come with us.”

The first bottle continued filling, one beautiful drop at a time. It took longer to fill than Yaro had expected. By then there was nothing for any of them to do except watch the graft bleed the rhizosoma. “We need someone to keep watch. A sentry.” Ilya followed his gaze to the church. “You can see the lower path from there,” he said. “And the gate.”

“Why him?” Varya asked.

“Because you have to make sure the tap stays on.”

“You could go as well. Or take turns.”

Yaro smiled. “If someone comes, I pack. You pull the graft. He watches.”

Varya looked at Ilya. “It’s fine,” he said.

Yaro pulled the binocular strap over his head and held them out. “Go uphill. If either of those cops starts coming close, signal us.” Ilya took the binoculars. “Two flashes. One if they turn around.” He took a small flashlight from his jacket and handed that over too. “Hurry.”

 

*

 

The ground rose sharply before the ossuary. Ilya crouched by the corner of the church. From there he could see surprisingly far downhill. Both policemen were near the gate, smoking. Neither seemed inclined to come any closer. After a while they started in the direction of the graveburst site. No danger there. He trained the binoculars on the thin copse below the ossuary. He could not see Yaro or Varya anywhere else. Ilya moved a few steps sideways and tried again. Nothing. He considered going back down and telling them that the police were staying near the gate.

There was no reason to pursue the thought surfacing in his green, maculated mind. He was alone on the watch, and could easily have dozed off, or at least rested.

No reason to do it again.

Ilya checked the path once more through the binoculars then put them aside. A strange, appetitive mood had already overtaken him. He was flushed, ashamed.  

No reason. Again.

He went to the nearest oak; one they had skipped following the trail. He uncovered a promising root facing the church and reopened the cut on his index finger. It accepted him immediately. His blood dispersed and he made no effort to follow its course this time.

Within moments he could no longer tell where he ended and the others began. They all met and merged somewhere underground, drawn to the same wellspring. Hiving, brought together, manifold and serried – neither visages, nor vessels, nor wills remain. One inevitable flow for the pricked and buried, life and death, both tributaries of the vernal vein. A composite circulation, gathering and refining until all those separate streams became a single, sublime substance: the raktic nectar of the vampiric flower.  The sheer pleasure of it surprised him. It teemed and abounded yet made room for him.

When he finally pulled away, he had to lean on the trunk. His pulse seemed to continue underground for several seconds after the link had been severed. He chuckled once under his breath, dizzy. He finished the carton of blackcurrant juice from his pocket as he rested below the tree. He wiped sweat from his brow and shrugged his coat down off his shoulders.

A blackbird sang from the bare canopy above him. Ilya looked up at the sharp, repeated call. After a moment, he remembered the egg in his pocket. He drew it out and turned it between his fingers. It had warmed inside his coat. Although he was exhausted, he tried to probe it again. It answered through the thin turquoise shell. He could make out the beginning of a web of vessels spreading across the yolk, not yet properly a bird but no longer merely a possibility. Its nascent life fluttered weakly in response to his Art.

Ilya’s face tightened and his eyes watered unexpectedly. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his other arm. He looked up into the branches, searching more earnestly this time. Still no nest. The blackbird had moved farther away and continued calling from another tree. “Sorry.” There was nowhere to put it back. Ilya crouched beside the tree. He found and widened a hollow between roots. He lowered the egg into it gently. Only a faint greenish speck remained. “You belong here now.” He drew the earth over it and pressed the leaves into place.

He turned to go and the church was right there, beside him the whole time. Only now did he see it properly. The sill beams were black with damp, their grain raised and split. Several had been repaired with shorter boards of visibly newer wood. The low foundation was stone, unevenly mortared and mossed. The steep roof overhung the walls, patched with sheets of metal where the old covering had failed. The narrow belfry rose to a sharp point.

Ilya circled it.

The building was hardly larger than one of the houses in Morvin Mir, the rectory adjacent even smaller. Ilya looked through one of the windows and quickly jerked back. For an instant he had thought it was in the middle of mass. He waited, embarrassed though nobody had seen him, then returned to the glass. There were no people inside, only flowers. They occupied the nave in such quantity that the darkness had given them the semblance of a congregation. Roses rested in jars and metal pitchers along the walls, hothouse blooms far too lush for the season. Bundles had been laid before the iconostasis. Others filled the ends of benches, crowded the window ledges and gathered around the stands before the icons. Pale blooms caught what remained of the evening through the opposite windows; darker ones disappeared almost completely into the interior.

There must have been hundreds. Ilya stared captive.

Then he remembered the date. Of course, the spring equinox – The Feast of Saint Marcelin. There had been a service that day. People from Morvin Mir and the surrounding villages would have brought offerings with them. Roses especially. Marcelin was impossible to imagine without them. He moved to the next window. Narrow benches occupied either side of the nave. A battered wooden lectern stood before them, still draped in the green of the feast. The floor appeared to be bare boards.

Ilya glanced downhill. The policemen were at the gate. Yaro and Varya were out of sight. He turned off his flashlight. Mud had dried in overlapping footprints across the boards at the entrance. Ilya touched the door handle, expecting it to be locked. The latch withdrew with a dry click.

IN TWO PARTS

PART ONE

Two dragons are captured and sent into orbit round the Earth.A little-known story about the 1960s space race, which has been kept secret because of the terrible consequences, still extant today.

Chapter One

1957

Somewhere faraway, well, from the West anyway, there is an island called Dragonscale.

The inhabitants of this paradise in the East (somewhere) were not humans at first, but, as the name suggests without a great deal of thought, a race of dragons, called the Firelizards.

It is commonly assumed that there aren’t any real dragons. Of course, they might have existed in a bygone era and become extinct, some might say, and the absence of any fossil evidence is not a conclusive proof that they didn’t, fossilisation being a rare occurrence.

It could, then, be speculated that it might be possible that there were such animals inhabiting this planet many eras ago, and following from that it is not a huge leap forward to consider that there might be a very isolated island where a race of such beasts survived and evolved.

In fact, contrary to widely accepted beliefs, the Firelizards were a known reality, and it was their isolation that kept them from wider knowledge of their existence.

There were reports as far back as the first Millennium about an island in the far East occupied by 'firedevils', as they were called. No attempt to visit the island was made on account of the expected dangers involved, however.

Now, the usual image of dragons is not a favourable one, involving belching huge bursts of flame, enough to outdo any flame throwing weapon devised for military purposes.

The Firelizards did not fit this description at all.

They were a happy peace-loving race which lived by a strict code of conduct, according to accounts from the few humans who visited the Island, as to be related later in this Chapter.

This could be summarised as follows:

1. Love your fellow dragon.
2. Behave towards your neighbouring dragon in a manner which you would wish them to act towards you.
3. Honour your mum and dad.
4. Only use your flame throwing abilities for peaceful purposes, and never in a way which could result in harm or distress to anything else, of whatever kind. It was explained that the flame-producing ability was given to them to enable them to set a pile of wood and sticks on fire to keep them warm in cold weather.

This was, therefore, a happy community, but there was a problem. There wasn't a lot to do on the island.

The most exciting event, which took place bi-annually, was the flame throwing competition, open to all comers.

The contestants were required to stand (front feet) a given distance from its target, which was of standard size and made of a suitably combustible material, and set it ablaze. Times were recorded for the target to be reduced to a pile of ashes. Points were also awarded for style of flame delivery, shape and width of flame cone.

This was just round One. The ten with the highest points then progressed to Round Two. The distance from the target was increased and the target made less combustible. The best five then went on to Round Three. After further changes in distance and constitution of target, we were left with the two finalists, and the winner received great acclaim.

Unfortunately, in the mid-1950s a passenger plane happened to pass over the island whilst this contest was in full swing, and even from its considerable height the flames were clearly visible and impressive. This was a significant contribution to the conviction amongst humans that these were dangerous animals.

There was also a sports day, the highlight of which was the Great Dragon Race. Details here are not outlined as the title is self-explanatory. The clear blue sea was also always an attraction, and the Firelizards were adept underwater swimmers.

Sadly, these diversions were not enough to satisfy the adventurous spirit of some of the younger dragons, and excursions to the mainland were not uncommon.

Here, of course, they encountered humans, who had rarely ventured onto Dragonscale, and those that did never came back. The visitors went with the intention of acquiring a nice dragon rug for their lounge, but in fact they had all decided to stay in this peaceful environment, and were happily tolerated by the Firelizards. On the mainland, though, the worst was assumed.

The incursion of these younger members of the race onto the mainland was a different matter. They never did any harm, abiding strictly to the rigid code of conduct deeply instilled into their psyche.

Unfortunately, the very sight of them scared the shit out of the locals, especially the very young, and the dragons were not treated kindly. Let us just say that none ever returned to their homeland, and dragon meat was not a rarity at the market stalls.

On the other hand, the younger generation on Dragonscale deduced that the immigrants were all having a fine time, and that this was the explanation for their continued absence, and so still they ventured into the unknown, in increasing numbers.

Over the years, plans for invasion were often raised, but it was not until the invention of protective fireproof clothing that such plans were to come to fruition.

In 1947, action to stop this inflow was deemed to be necessary, and a committee comprising 10 respected elders was formed to decide on the best policy.

That this took 10 years to publish its findings is perhaps not too surprising in view of the regular need to replace members who had died, or suffered from some debilitating illness. The new intake often had different viewpoints from their predecessors, and so it was one step forward and two back. Nevertheless, despite these major obstacles, a report was issued in mid-1957. Its recommendation can be condensed into one word:

Invade and Exterminate.

Sorry, that’s three.

Invasion

The absence of any signs of flame throwing activity by the immigrants on the mainland before being led to the slaughterhouses had not apparently been registered to any degree by the human inhabitants, because the army assembled for the task was fully equipped with the appropriate protective fire proof clothing.

As soon as they landed they set to work with their dart guns (their meat always tasted better when fresh), and the dragons dragged onto the ships. Some tried to flee but were easily outpaced by the military jeeps taken with them for just such an eventuality.

A few firelizards are thought to have fought back and overcome their peaceful natures and the surprise of the attack, but if any casualties were suffered by the invaders, details have not been released.

What about the few humans on the island? Well, they decided not to intervene, partly through cowardice, the army being armed with more lethal weapons than the darts, but also because of the thought that they would now have the island to themselves. A brief consideration would have sufficed to tell them that that wouldn’t be for long.

It is, though, to these human inhabitants of the island that we owe our knowledge of the dragon's life style, as outlined above. The description of the races and competitions seem authentic enough, but their assessment of the moral code of behaviour may be thought to be taking things too far, although these conclusions were the result of close observation of the animals over an extended period.

The existence of such a code of behaviour may or may not be valid, then, but there was no doubt in the minds of the human observers that this was a well-ordered society and with a complex form of communication.

It is sad to report that efforts by these human occupants of Dragonscale to stop the carnage, if there were indeed any made, fell on deaf ears. This would have unfortunate consequences.

The setting now moves to the other side of the globe.

Nasa

On the 3rd of November, 1957, the Soviet Union launched a space craft called Sputnik 2 (it being the second of its kind to be built, presumably). The important thing here is that it managed a low orbit around the earth, and inside it was a dog called Laika, who died a few hours into the flight. This nevertheless sent shock waves throughout America, and led the following year to the combining of the various related agencies in the U.S.A., and Nasa was formed.

The first meeting of the new organisation soon took place and a main item on the agenda was which animal could they stick in a craft and orbit the earth and outdo the Soviets.

There were three main criteria.

1. It had to be BIGGER, a LOT bigger.
2. It had to be something which the American public would find acceptable, so, for example a bigger dog wasn’t an option.
3. It had to be returned to earth alive.

There was much head scratching, many proposals were put forward and rejected, and a gloomy silence was enveloping the room.

Then a young engineer spoke up.

"Have you read that news item about a race of dragons on some isolated island in the far east? Well, they have invaded it and captured the lot. They are destined for the dinner table, it seems, but they may not have eaten them all yet, and there might still be some awaiting their fate. If so, we could make them an offer and get them over here, and dragons in space would make good publicity and show the Soviets what’s what."

"You ARE talking about living dragons, I assume? I don’t think sending a dragon carcass into space would set the pulse racing."

"Yes, of course. They like their dragon meat fresh, so they are kept alive until their turn comes, at least as far as I understand it from the news clips I have seen."

"Right," said the Chairman, "get in touch with these people and find out if there are any living dragons left."

The difficulties in achieving contact having been overcome, it was discovered that there were just two left still alive. Having agreed on an exorbitant price, these last two Firelizards found themselves on a ship and heading for the U.S.A.

Firelizards hadn’t bothered to give themselves names, as they thought that this would be too pretentious, so their captors had to decide what to call them.

Again, outdoing the Soviets was a major concern. They were accordingly christened Lincoln and Roosevelt.

Nobody had as yet considered how they were going to fit a dragon, let alone two, into the available space crafts.

Chapter Two

The Ship

The two Firelizards were kept under heavy sedation during the long sea voyage, and so had no concept of where they were going, why they had not suffered yet the same fate as their fellow dragons, of which they were well aware, or what lay in store for them when they reached their destination, wherever that might be.

The crew having been warned by the mainland locals that they were dealing with very dangerous animals which could burn down their ship with one blast of fire, the sedation of the two dragons was not considered sufficient guard against this eventuality.

The technology by which the dragon produced its flames being a bit of a grey area, it was decided to cover their faces with fireproof masks. They wanted to keep them alive, though, so you will be pleased to learn that a few holes had been inserted.

The hold where the two former U. S. presidents’ namesakes were contained was lined with layers of fire proofing materials. Should one of them regain consciousness long enough to let forth its stream of fire, a further safeguard had been installed. The slightest wisp of smoke now automatically set forth a very efficient sprinkler system.

Although they were firmly locked inside their prison, it was further deemed necessary to have a guard armed to the proverbial teeth standing outside at the ready, 24/7.

You will not be surprised to learn that Lincoln and Roosevelt were in a pretty sorry and confused state when the ship finally arrived at Houston, Texas.

This would have been an appropriate point, perhaps, to instal a photo of a Firelizard to help the reader to visualise the scene.

In fact, although there was no shortage of media footage initially, these were legally banned after the ensuing events, to be related later, with draconian measures resulting from any violation. There may be some copies of film stored in an attic somewhere, and if anybody does have access to any images of Lincoln and Roosevelt (not the Presidents) please do send them, and they could be inserted here, the restrictions having been lifted in 2016.

Conference

Back at Nasa, a further conference was in progress, preceding many others which were to take place at different centres before launch.

The first and vital consideration was size of the animals c.f. size of capsule needed to accommodate them. The typical American space capsule at that time was about 11 feet tall and about 6 to 7 feet diameter. The dragons were of a smaller variety, being 7 feet in length.

"It’s going to be a bit of a squash squeezing the two inside," remarked the chairman, "considering that we have to leave room for all the electronics," he added.

"Why do we need to send both, anyway?" demanded the director of publicity.

"We think providing them with company would help considerably in avoiding any adverse psychological effects of the extended isolation in such a confined space, and also it doubles the chances of bringing one back to earth alive," replied the chairman.

"As far as fitting two into the capsule is concerned, I’ve been looking into this," the mission director told the assembly. "They will have to curl up a bit, but they should be reasonably comfortable."

"I must point out a few things," announced the director of animal welfare. "Firstly, and most obviously, we need to bring them back alive and in good condition. Two dead dragons in the recovered capsule won’t do our image any good, and the Soviets would be laughing their socks off. The best way to achieve this, in my humble opinion (she was a very modest lady) is to try to make them as happy as possible when they set off. They will, of course, need extensive pre-flight training to adapt to space conditions. They will need to get used to confinement in a small space like the capsule, trained to know how to accept the food provided, and acclimatised to gravity changes using a spinning centrifuge. At the moment, they must be desperately unhappy in their fireproof cages. If we don’t give them some more pleasant environment until the launch, and especially some adequate level of exercise, I wouldn’t bet on their survival till next week, let alone the launch date."

"We could build an enclosure with fireproof breeze blocks," suggested the chairman.

Which they did.

When completed, the dragons were led to this newly built enclosure, which had a concrete floor, and armed guards on patrol, wearing the usual protective clothing.

The effect on the well-being of the proposed future astronauts was precisely zero. The allocated space was barely enough to enable them to stretch their legs, and they both remembered the similarly clad and armed humans who had invaded their island paradise. The response was therefore not at all as had been hoped. Lincoln and Roosevelt just lay on the concrete, hardly moving, and just giving the occasional growl.

Dr. Annie Walker, the above-mentioned animal welfare director, was discussing this problem with the chairman, Mr. Arnold Webber and mission leader, Dr. William. J. Pyke.

"This just isn’t working," she exclaimed. "We need to provide more space for them, and I have been observing them closely, and interviewed all the guards on watch, and it is agreed that not once has either attempted to use their flame throwing ability to burn down the walls and escape."

"Well, that wouldn’t have achieved much anyway," remarked William.

"They wouldn’t know that," pointed out Annie. "I'm beginning to wonder just how dangerous these animals are. I also have an idea that they would be far happier if they had grass under their feet, say a large field, for example. Oh, and another thing, Roosevelt is female. I find it hard to believe that nobody noticed, although it must be admitted it isn’t all that obvious, if you see what I mean."

"I think that would be very risky," opined Arnold. "Suppose they escaped and created havoc, it would be a disaster, not just for this mission. It could put all our future ones in jeopardy. As for the name, what do you suggest we call him, sorry, her, then? Hilary?"

"I think we should leave things as they stand, they have shown reaction to their names, and I don’t think that Roosevelt will be offended. I don’t think either that escaping should be a worry, we could still have an extensive guard patrol, kept out of sight, and with orders to shoot to kill if necessary."

The three having reached agreement, an isolated field of considerable size was located and deemed ideal for the job.

Chapter Three

Training

Linc and Ros, now the commonly used truncated handle for the two dragons, were immediately much happier to be shown their new surroundings. Instead of their more or less motionless existence in the previous concreted enclosure, they now had grass, and most importantly, much more room. This enabled them to indulge in their favourite pastime, which was dragon racing, even if there was a rather limited supply of competitors. The guards were hidden well back out of sight, but humans often make the mistake of assuming that out of their sight automatically ensures that anything else would also be unable to see them, and Linc and Ros were well aware of their presence, their sense of smell having no problems in their detection and position.

The biggest problem with the training was the food. They had no idea as to their usual menu, and so it was a hit and miss affair. Eventually a gelatinous concoction was formulated which they both seemed to find acceptable, and which was thought to contain all the necessary ingredients to keep them healthy. They then had to be trained to use the feeding tubes which would be the source on the capsule. This presented further problems, it being very hard to explain to two reluctant Firelizards why they had to feed in this way, and why they had to shove the stuff provided down their throats in the first place.

The subjection to close quarter confinements for increasing times also caused adverse reactions in the pair, taking in the form that a human might refer to as sulking. After a while, they appeared to accept the ordeal without too much protest.

Perhaps surprisingly, the dragons found the Johnsville centrifuge terrific fun, and were often reluctant to get out.

One incident caused some considerable adjustment to the general attitude of their captors to the two trainees. Although the surrounding hedges had been lined with barbed wire to prevent access of other animals, inevitably, perhaps, a stray dog (not Laika) found its way through, and immediately issued a barrage of powerful barks, which left no doubt as to its disapproval of the occupants of the field. Consternation followed at the prospect of a charred pet or ashes thereof, and guards rushed in to prevent such a disaster, but were then amazed to find the dog happily romping around with the dragons, who made no attempt to deter the dog with a burst of flame or by any other means.

It was time for another conference. This involved the heads of every conceivable aspect concerning the mission, and each was asked to report in turn, giving their appraisal of the current status of their particular task force.

The electronics had been tested over and over again, and back-up systems installed. The food dispenser device was in full working order, and the animals were thought to be as ready as they ever would be. This reporting of confident readiness was only spoiled by the temperature control system for the capsule interior, which had a few glitches to be ironed out.

"That is a critical matter,” declared the chairman. “One of the big factors on putting one over the Soviets is to bring these animals back alive. We need maximum effort here, and I am now committing us to a launch date of March the 26th. Can you assure me that your problems with the heat control will be solved by then, with full confidence?"

"Yes, sir, that we can."

"March the 26th it is, then."

Launch

The launching site being Cape Canaveral, the astronauts now faced a tedious 1,000-mile trip to Florida, not something to put them in a good frame of mind, although they had three days to recoup prior to the launch.

The launch itself was unexceptional, running as smoothly as one could wish. The actual launch produced the expected awed reaction from the numerous onlookers who had travelled to see the spectacle, but what they really wanted was a glimpse of the two dragons. Nasa being well aware of the need for this publicity, Ros and Linc were led docilely in full view of the spectators and media, including live television. Their appearance certainly aroused some reaction from the crowds, and the ascent of the lizards into the capsule was accompanied by a storm of clapping and cheering.

This happy mood was not shared by Linc and Ros, who were beginning to think that they had been subjected to a rather dirty trick.

It should be explained that this journey towards the capsule had been rehearsed several times over the last two days, in secret, of course. The dragons had been led across the tarmac and strapped down in the capsule, left for a few minutes, then released and taken back to their enclosure.

The success of this strategy was confirmed by Ros’ and Linc’s unresisting procession towards the capsule, and the strapping down inside it, it having being hoped that they would assume that this would just be another exercise like the previous, and that they would expect release after a short time.

The launch itself having been successful, the mission controllers breathed a sigh of relief, and there were congratulations all round concerning the extensive coverage and interest in the media.

Chapter Four

Communications

As far as is known, and who knows how far that it is, the human race is the only species with the ability to communicate by what we call speech, although this is being rapidly superseded by the use of the thumbs.

Nevertheless, it is evident that other species do so by various means. Even plants and trees communicate by sending chemicals through the air, as a warning to their neighbours of the presence of a leaf-eating visitor, for example. The adjacent trees can then produce a deterrent chemical in defence. This is a fascinating subject and it is necessary to delve into it in more detail as it has bearing on the story to come.

Think of the wood-pigeon, not everyone's favourite bird, it must be confessed, but it has interest. Consider the implications of their monotonous 4-note cooing. Some places might be lucky enough to enjoy wood-pigeons which have calls stretching to 5, or even more notes, perhaps.

Now, on first consideration, you might conclude that these 4 notes are just to inform another pigeon or pigeons where they are. So, their conversation could be transcribed thus:

"Morning, I’m over here."

"Well, I’M over here."

Another pigeon: "Can I join you?"

"I’m over here now."

"I’ll call you later, then."

Yet another pigeon: "I’m here and I’m not going anywhere."

On the other hand, a careful listen reveals some subtle variations in pitch, exact length of notes, volume differences, and so on. Their conversation might then stretch to the following:

"Keep a watch out, there’s a sparrow hawk around. Poor Billie is now just a ring of feathers on the lawn. What are your plans for today?"

Well, perhaps that’s stretching things a bit.

More seriously, there are certainly other species with complex communication systems, such as the Orcas, for example.

We now turn to the Firelizards.

At the time of the space adventure, it had already been noticed that they could produce a wide range of sounds, some resembling a high pitch whistle even, others a deep growl. It had also been observed that Linc and Ros did seem to be ‘talking’ to each other using these different tones. No success resulted from attempts to try to interpret them, however.

Now, it so happens that in order to help monitor the health and condition of our unwilling astronauts, a sound system was installed in the capsule, and a recording of every sound issuing from Linc and Ros during the orbit was made. In view of later events, like the other media restrictions, these tapes were not made public, and gathered dust in the Nasa archives, where they were discovered in 2024.

In view of the advances in computer technology over the past 70 years, it was decided to attempt an analysis of the various noises in the capsule on these tapes, in the hope that some idea of the meaning of the 'conversations might result.

The conclusions that it reached have just been published, and the astonishment they have induced everywhere can be well understood, because the computers produced what amounts to a transcript of the sounds of the dragons converted into the English language. Translations into other languages are available on request and filling in the necessary forms.

It was even possible to distinguish the individual dragon ‘speaking’, because of the somewhat higher pitch of Ros’ noises, the position in the capsule enabling identification of ‘speaker’ from the direction as picked up by the microphone array, and often by the simple deductions made from the conversation content. It should also be pointed out here that many days of the orbit were without any ‘conversation’ at all.

Reproduced below is the exact transcript.

Day 1, just after launch:

Linc: "++++ this for a game of soldiers."

The actual translation here might be deemed to be too unseemly to publish on the hallowed pages of Reddit, so it has been left to the reader to insert a word of their choice at the start of this utterance.

Ros: "I don’t mind a joke, but ++++ a pantomime. I think we’ve been had. All those trips over the last two days back and forth to the capsule, and locking us inside for a few minutes, that was just to make sure that we thought this was just the same, but I did wonder about all the crowds cheering their heads off, and thought that there was something fishy going on."

Linc: "You weren’t wrong there."

Again, it has been left to the reader to fill in the blanks.

Day 2: No translatable conversation.

Day 3

Linc: "I’m getting a bit pissed off, just lying here."

Ros: "Tell me about it, I have an itchy tail and I can’t scratch it, they’ve got us tied down so that we can hardly move, and the smell in this thing is starting to get a bit iffy, are you pulling the disposal lever when you’ve had to go?"

Linc: "Disposal lever?"

Ros: "Oh, my God, you mean we’ve been out here for three days and you haven’t used it once? No wonder the air here could hardly be described as rose-like."

Again, it must be stressed that these are the exact words of the computer analysis.

Linc: "Oh, you mean this stick thing by my foot, I’ll give it a shove--"

Ros: "No, no, don’t touch that…."

At this point, the instrumental records coincide with this unfinished sentence from Ros by the indication of a violent rotation and shaking of the capsule, lasting a full 35 seconds.

Linc: "Not that one, then?"

Ros: "Bloody hell, it isn’t enough that they lock me up in this thing and treat me like ++++, but I have to put up with a blithering idiot for company. Have you forgotten everything you were taught in those lessons we had to attend where they showed us what was what?"

Linc: "I’m sorry, I must have fallen asleep at that bit. He did have an incredibly boring voice, all on one monotonous tone, even less melodious than a wood-pigeon, and that’s saying something. Which lever do I have to pull, then?"

Ros, with a sigh: "By your front foot, you can’t mistake it, it is painted bright red and has an icon by it indicating ‘flush’."

Linc: "Ah, yes, I see it, I thought it meant eject in an emergency."

Ros: "Well, you could say that given the stink in here. Now, can you please give it a push?"

Linc does as she asks apparently, because the noise recorded here is compatible with the exit of three day’s waste disposal from a Firelizard.

Ros: "Well, that should at least make it slightly more bearable in here, and if you thought it was an ejection lever for us in an emergency, what good did you think it would have done us to be thrown into space and probably go into orbit ourselves? We wouldn’t last long out there, where there is a distinct shortage of grass, I’d say."

Linc seems to have gone into a sulk then, as no more exchanges were decoded that day.

Indeed, this show of petulance seems to have lasted until day six, the intervening three days picking up not the slightest hint of any further chit-chat.

Day 6

Linc breaks his silence.

"How much longer are we going to have to stay in this thing? Are they going to leave us here forever?"

Ros: "I have no idea, but I can’t see the point in sending us orbiting the earth for eternity, they must want to bring us back down at some point."

Linc: "I’ll probably be dead by then, my back is killing me and my pulse rate is through the roof."

Ros: "That goes for me, too. It is quite nice, though, looking through the window they kindly provided for us to be able to view the cosmos."

Linc: "I agree, that blue round thing is quite pretty."

Ros: "That’s the earth, dumbo. It’s where we came from. In fact, next time you see it, look out for a big blue patch with a tiny oval-shaped spot on it. That’s Dragonscale."

Linc: "Really! You mean we were down there and now we are way up here?"

Ros: "Got it in one."

Chapter Five

More meetings

Meanwhile back at Houston, progress was being assessed. Arnold, William and Annie were in deep conference.

"How’s it going, then," asked Arnold.

"Very well, so far," replied William, "although we were starting to get concerned after three days when the instruments gave no indication that Linc had pulled his lever to eject his outputs."

"You mean piss and shit, then?" offered Annie.

"Well, I was just being polite in the presence of a lady. Anyway, it seems that he did so and hopefully the prospect of a capsule filled to the brim with noxious fumes seems to have been avoided, although there was a moment of panic when he seems to have given the capsule rotation lever a hefty kick."

"I find that a bit worrying. Didn’t we show them in the lessons we gave them which lever to pull?" asked the chairman.

"We did, indeed, but it has to be admitted that Dr. Bishop has a rather boring speech delivery, enough to put even the most alert of dragons into a deep sleep," Annie responded.

"Let’s hope that Linc remembers to exit his waste from now on. How about the general health of the dragons?" asked Arnold.

"Their medical condition as indicated by the electronics attached at various points along their bodies seems to be holding up well to the stress. There is a slight worry over pulse rates, though, as both dragons show a consistent and significant increase there," William stated.

"Is it thought that this might be life-threatening, then? We must avoid at all costs having two dragon corpses in the capsule when we fish it out of the sea."

"We just don’t know," replied Annie, "we have no idea as to what point an elevated pulse rate in a dragon should be the signal to bring out the red flag."

"You mean we don’t know when we should get worried, then?" Arnold sarcastically remarked.

"There is one very interesting aspect emerging from the microphone outputs," said Annie. "It is hard given the alternation of the noises from one to the other to avoid the conclusion that they are engaging in conversation of some sort. If so, we have no idea as to what they are communicating, of course. I think we made the correct decision about the absence of fire-retardant face masks. They are intelligent enough, I think, to know that if they set the capsule ablaze they would be in deep shit," she concluded.

"I take it that that there are no problems as far as the capsule and instrumentation are concerned?" demanded Arnold.

"No, none at all, so far we could not have wished for a smoother mission," William re-assured him.

Silence

Day 7: No identifiable interchanges or remarks from either dragon.

Day 8: No identifiable interchanges or remarks from either dragon. Annie was now starting to get a bit worried about her pets.

"We have heard no trace of any kind of sounds from either Linc or Ros for three days now. I am starting to get a bit concerned," she remarked to Arnold.

This is of course not at the same meeting as the one described above, as we are now in day 9.

"The instruments all indicate no cause for concern and their pulse rate has dropped a bit as well," William informed them.

"I am mainly concerned about the psychological aspects of the mission, and how it might effect their behaviour after recovery," exclaimed Annie.

"What ARE we going to do with them, anyway? Perhaps we should give that some thought, don’t you think?" the chairman considered.

"I assumed that we were just going to do away with them, humanely, of course," William thought.

"That would cause outrage, the American public wouldn’t like that at all, I don’t think." declared Arnold. "How about a zoo, there might be some interest there. Annie, can you make some enquiries about that possibility, please?"

"Yes, of course, Arnold, that seems like a good idea," replied Annie.

Day 10

Firelizard deductions

Things suddenly start to liven up inside the capsule.

Linc starts things off, exclaiming suddenly, "Why are they doing this, that’s what I’d like to know, I mean, if I knew what the object of sending us in orbit around the earth was, then it would make it easier to bear the discomfort, and this gelatinous stuff they feed us is not doing my insides any good, either."

Ros: "Well, make sure you keep on pushing that lever, as you say, it’s hard enough to bear all this as it is. I keep on thinking of that day they invaded, with those weapons that sent us all to sleep in seconds, and then they took us to the mainland and killed us all off."

Linc: "I’ve been thinking about that, too. The thing that I can’t understand is why they killed us off in batches, and kept you alive until your turn came. Why didn’t they just kill us all straight away?"

Ros: "I think I know the answer to that one, but I don’t think I should tell you, you won’t like it."

Linc: "Oh, come on, I’d really like to know, I have been trying to figure it out for the last two days, and it’s driving me crazy."

Ros: "Well, O. K., but you really aren’t going to like it, so promise me that you will keep calm. If you get into one of your tantrums you might shake this thing into pieces. That might not be a bad idea, on second thoughts.

Anyway, if you must know, and remember that this is just my interpretation, there might be a different explanation altogether--"

Linc: "Oh, for heaven’s sake, get on with it and tell me the worst. I can take it."

Ros: "All right, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. The reason that they kept us alive until they killed us off was that they like their dragon meat to be fresh before cooking."

Linc: "You mean, YOU MEAN!!!, THEY EAT US!!!"

Ros: "Steady, keep calm, getting wound up won’t help things at all."

Day 11

Linc has calmed down, a bit. He puts a question to Ros about another matter which has been causing him sleepless nights.

"Have you any ideas as to the reasons why we have been sent spinning round the earth?"

Ros did.

"I have come up with one possible explanation. I stress, it is only a pretty wild theory, and I find it hard to believe it myself, but I noticed that they were putting humans into those spinning things down there, and my idea derives from that, as it might fit in with the existence of a project of which the objective is to land a human on the moon."

Linc: "Why on earth would they want to do THAT?"

Ros: "A very good question. Because it’s there, I suppose."

Linc: "That seems a bit unlikely that they would go to all this trouble just to land on the moon. What use would that be?"

Ros: “They might eventually develop weapons which could travel from the moon to the earth and destroy your enemies.”

Linc: "Well, I could believe that bit, quite easily, but I still don’t see why they have used us on this trip."

Ros: "I think this is just a part of the programme building up to the moon landing. As to why they needed to shove US in this space from hell I have no idea."