In an old wood, long ago, there was a sequestered house upon a small hill, in which lived a boy with his father. They boy could not have been more then eleven, and he was strong and lively, and felt more so each day.

His father was a careful man who had taught his son to fend for himself in the surrounding woods, which were known to be an unpredictable place, and full of mystery. They rarely ventured throughout except to travel into town to trade with the commonfolk, whom viewed them with a wary curiosity. However the boy was of curious nature, and despite being forbade, was able to conceal his joyful ventures into the deeper wood without his father’s suspicion. He walked farther and farther into the wood each time he left, and gradually mapped his journeys.

It was one such time he came upon a gentle clearing, with clear light and moss underfoot. However, it appeared to have been cleared by no animal, but by purpose. It was confusing, since no other was known to enter his familial surrounds. 

The boy considered the strange place, and wondered why he had not found it before. As he sat upon the moss considering this, he heard a very odd noise; a grating squeak which began as quietly disturbing, but grew to a deafening screech so horrible he could not think or or speak. His legs were numb and seemed to move on their own, as he ran along the exact trail he had come, gripping his trusted knife with shaking hands.

As he came back to his home he entered his father’s workshop and told him had had happened. His Father said “My dear boy, the forest is a very old place, and there is great darkness within it, such that we cannot fathom. You would do best not to disturb it”.

The boy went to sleep and contemplated. Stubborn and of noble spirit as he was, he resolved the next morning to confront this thing that had frightened him so. He returned along the path which he had laid out, and came once more upon the strange clearing. He clutched his knife and sat upon it, awaiting what must come.

Soon enough the same awful sound erupted through the wood, but he had prepared by putting cotton wool in his ears. Trembling, he opened his eyes. He had always considered himself brave, and in this moment felt himself a liar, and as such decided he must look. As he turned he was met with a sight which set needles upon his skin, and turned his limbs to string. A lank grey form of bristles and bulges shuddered before him. Eyes seemed to bulge from its very skin and pulse underneath its lank hair. The boy was overcome yet held close to the purpose which drove him to this place, and walked over to the horrible thing.

As he thrust his knife within its writhing form, the sound stopped with a muffled gasp, yet a clear voice rang out from the dissolving mass: ‘My child, you do not belong here. Why do you come to disturb us”.

The world rumbled, causing me to tumble towards my porches railing. I swayed over causing my body to fall to the rocky surface below. THUD. I smacked into the ground. In a daze, I looked up seeing a crumbled structure in front of me.

The brick building that was once a mediocre three floor apartment complex was now in ruin. The structure was caved in, as if the building had sat for hundreds of years. The once red bricks were now bleached by the sun. Interestingly only my door had survived the shake, even though it was barely attached.

I began to gasp for air, the shock from colliding with the ground began to wear off. My chest screamed with pain as the rest of me ached. I couldn’t explain to myself how I’d managed to fall over the railing. What would have happened to me if I hadn’t?

I began to slow my breathing, my heart still throbbing. I managed to sit myself up, which I know medical professionals recommend not doing. But what am I supposed to do in this situation.

I looked around, the other buildings in the complex showed the same demeanor as the one I used to call home. Was this a dream? Maybe a smacked my head really hard. Did I have a concusión?

The grass around me was longer and more lushes, as if it hasn’t been cut for centuries. There was a deer drinking from a now full river. The stream banked across the edge of my apartment complex and out of sight. The vegetation covered the surroundings in a thick coat of green. The wild flowers slowly swayed in the wind producing vibrant red, yellow and white poke dot across the blanket of green.
As I rose to my feet, I began to look around some more.

“Hello?” I called out.

The once ignorant deer raised its head to look at me. Locking eyes with my own, it was almost as if I and the deer had come to a mutual understanding. On some weirdly deeper level. I shook it off.

“HELLO!” I shouted.

The abrupt noise caused the deer to run away. I brushed off my clothes and made my way towards the stairs to my apartment. Each of the 15 old cracked concrete slabs that led to the second floor, displayed a foot print of a well traveled road. The Romans may have had the best concrete in history but concrete is concrete. Just like styrofoam. I wonder if there is styrofoam now that everything is all old.

I cracked open the ancient rickety door, my apartment was mostly the same. Photographs hanging on the wall, some slightly ajar or missing. A banner against the other wall, different then the one I had hung in the same spot. The square room had almost the exact same layout. Except a lot of things were completely gone. The table, the chairs, pretty much everything not on the walls. The sofa, weirdly remained put. I made my way through the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

My roommate was asleep inside when whatever this is happened. I turned my head toward the direction of the door to his room. It was gone, I rushed forwards and arrived at his bed. He was gone, is he dead? What happened to him? What happened to everything around me?

(Part 1 of 2)

An ornate obsidian knife rests in the hand of an unknown man. Sunlight reflects off the jet-black blade, the jagged edges sparkling like stars in the night. His eyes are transfixed by the intricately carved handle. Unblinking. His jagged, dirt-caked nails trace the precise etchings. He pants, a mix of fear and excitement. His hand grips the handle so tightly the blood drains from his knuckles. He extends it out at arm’s length, trembling slightly as he turns the blade towards his chest. One deep breath. Then another. He looks out at the forest that’s been his home his entire life one last time. He closes his eyes and plunges the knife inward…

*****

Ey, Tití me preguntó

Si tengo muchas novia’

Muchas novia’

Shit. Patli “Pat” Ortiz woke up 23 minutes later than he was supposed to. He was so excited for the overnight trip that he forgot to set his alarm. Instead, he was yanked awake by his brother Abe (real name Abund, but only their abuela called him that) screeching Bad Bunny in the apartment’s tiny, shared bathroom while doing his new morning routine: combing what he calls a mustache and applying aftershave to unshaven cheeks. He could hear his parents chatting with his abuela in the kitchen. The smell of coffee, frijoles, and eggs fried in lard wafting through the air. On a normal school day his mom’s cooking would be the only thing that could get him out of bed. But today was not a normal school day. Today was the annual 7^(th) grade overnight field trip at the Met. It was also Halloween. Pat had been looking forward to this since he was a fifth-grader and his brother came back the next day saying it had been the best night of his life. That probably had more to do with the handjob he claimed he got from Sophie Tremper in the Egyptian Art wing than any of the other activities, but Pat had been waiting for his turn ever since.

Still in bed, Pat rolled over, using his pillow to muffle “SHUT UP!”

Ever since Abe started high school, he’d been insufferable. “These high school chicks, man. You just don’t get it. Something happens to these white girls when they get to high school. It’s a whole different world.” So yeah, Abe was the worst. But he was also the only insight Pat had into the experiences that awaited him. His dad was always too busy or too tired to talk to him, and Pat would rather die than talk to his mom about girls. So, Abe it was.

Pat made his way into the kitchen, bedhead still in full form, just in time to catch his dad running out the door, coffee thermos in hand. “Have a great time on your field trip, mijo! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” His dad was always saying that, but Pat had no idea what he meant. He figured it was something dads just say.

“You got it!” Pat yelled back, but his dad was already out the door.

He plopped down into a chair next to his abuela at their kitchen table and his mom put a plate of food down in front of him, immediately turning back to the stove. “Big day today. Make sure you’re not going with an empty stomach.” Pat rolled his eyes to his abuela who responded with a kind look and quiet encouragement.

“Eat, Patli. A crop without sun feeds no one,” she said as she heaped more food on his plate. His abuela was always talking in riddles, mostly about how he needed to eat more or he’d die. Sometimes they rhymed. He loved her, but that didn’t stop him from getting annoyed.

He picked up his fork as Abe strolled into the room still humming the song from earlier. “Enough with the Bad Bunny!” their mother begged without turning around.

“Sorry for having pride in our heritage?” Abe responded.

“He’s Puerto Rican, you idiot. We’re Mexican!” Pat barely got the words out before his abuela swatted at this hand.

“We’re Mayan, Patli. Your dad is Mexican. And don’t call Abund an idiot, even when he’s being one. There aren’t many of us left. We need to stick together,” she said.

For some reason, she always got a weird look in her eyes when she talked about their Mayan heritage. When Patli was younger she had told him a story about an ancestor of theirs who had cut his own heart out of his chest as a sacrifice for his family. Pat barely slept for weeks after that. Even now, he’d occasionally wake up in a sweat after dreaming of the man with a still-beating heart in his hand.

“And tomorrow is Día de Los Muertos!” his abuela continued as she pointed to the calendar on the wall behind her. “It’s no time to dishonor your family.” Pat ate breakfast beneath the brightly painted Mayan calendar every day, but rarely gave it much attention. Today he found himself entranced. He traced the

serpentine carvings that encircled the heavy round block of wood. His eyes locked with those of the ghoulish figure at the center, who seemed to be looking right back at him. Almost through him. How had he never noticed this before? A chill went down his spine. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. Why couldn’t he move? Fear began to creep through him, then panic. Then relief as the trance was graciously broken by his abuela clearing her throat next to him. AGHEM.

“Uhh of course, Abuelita. I’m sorry,” Pat said as he shook off the strangeness of the moment before.

“Good. It’s ok to be nervous about your big field trip, but that doesn’t give you an excuse to be rude,” she said while diving back into her breakfast. The fried eggs were splattered with so much hot sauce it looked like a crime scene. With each bite, little bits of egg whites stuck to the corners of her mouth and drops of hot sauce speckled her cheeks. Watching his abuela eat was a gruesome sight.

“If you really are afraid for how the night will go,” she continued, “I do have something that should bring you courage.” She rummaged around her pockets.

As a 12-year-old boy, Pat was forbidden from admitting he was afraid of anything. “I’m not afraid,” he insisted. No one was convinced.

“Of course not,” she responded kindly, “but if you were, that would be ok too. Even our most heroic ancestors were not without fear. These were warriors famous for their courage! They just had to find a motivation greater than the fear. Their love for their families and the pride they knew they brought them gave them strength. Sometimes they were given a token to remind them of that. Ah here it is.”

She must have checked every pocket twice before finally finding the leaden ring. The shimmer of the biggest green gem Pat had ever seen was the first thing that caught his eye. It had to be fake. His abuela never wore jewelry and most of what his mom wore she had made herself. Last year, Pat had to beg his mom to get him a simple chain when the other boys started wearing them. It made his neck green, but that didn’t stop him from wearing it.

Did his abuela just have jewels she never told them about? She handed him the ring. It was even heavier than it looked. From a distance it had looked metallic, but upon closer inspection he realized it was actually made of stone. It must have been an antique. Pat examined the engravings on the band. Once distinct, they had been smoothed with time. On one side was a sun – on the other, a crude skull.

“My father gave me this.” She opened her mouth to say more, paused, then decided against it. After a moment, she thoughtfully added, “Whenever I’ve felt lost or scared, or alone, I look at this and remember my family. As long as you have your family, you are never alone. Remember that, Patli.”

He felt the weight of it in his hand. “Yes, Abuelita. Thank you so much for this.” Pat knew she meant well, but it had clearly been a long time since she was in 7^(th) grade. There was not a chance in hell he was wearing this around his classmates. As incredible as the stone was, Pat’s daily goal at school was to get as little attention as possible. A giant sparkling ring would not help with that.

Pat smiled at her as he got up from the table. Turning to head out to the bus, he looped the ring onto his necklace and tucked it under his shirt.

As if she could see right through him, she added, “Be proud of who you are, Patli.”

******

Pat leapt up the stairs of the bus, turned the corner, and immediately glued his eyes to the floor as he walked to the back. He passed his ancient teacher Mrs. Meyhew on the left who marked his attendance and the chaperones Mrs. Carpenter and Mr. Berkowitz on the right, both recently divorced though not from each other. The two were engaged in a deep conversation and barely looked up at him as he went by. Pat made it to the back and took his seat next to his best friends, Ben and Devon. “Dude you’re going to eat shit one of these days. You know Catherine isn’t going to know you like her just because you make eye contact, right?” Ben greeted him with a laugh.

“Well, she will if you don’t keep your voice down, asshole.” Pat replied sheepishly. “He’s not wrong,” Devon added in support.

“Yeah, well neither am I!” Ben replied. “The guy has been in love with her since we were in first grade and he can still barely look at her. If tonight’s going to be the night we’ve been talking about for years, he’s going to have to nut up. My brother told me girls love confidence.” Ben’s older brother Nate was a freshman at NYU and had always been the cool older brother Pat wished Abund could be. Hanging at Ben’s hadn’t felt quite the same since he moved into the dorms.

“This is also true,” said Devon, ever the conciliator. “Amari told me that’s why girls always go for older guys. They have more confidence having already done all the stuff. Though I guess that doesn’t really help us out now…”

“Didn’t Nate say you don’t know if you’re a real man until you’ve been in a fight?” Pat added. “He said you don’t know who you are until you’ve been punched in the face… and punched back.”

“Why are you quoting my brother like he’s some source of wisdom? I’ve seen the guy shit his pants on no less than four family road trips. Do you know how high a ratio that is to how many road trips we’ve taken? It’s batshit.”

As the bus approached the Met, the three were interrupted by Mrs. Meyhew standing up to address the class. “Alright kids I know how excited you all are for the Halloween, but that does not give you the excuse to be little lunatics and cause absolute mayhem in there. I intend to be invited back next year and I will not have our school thought of across this city as unruly. At all times you will listen to myself, Mr. Berkowitz, Mrs. Carpenter, and our guides from the museum. Is that understood?”

Mrs. Meyhew was met with a meager, yet near unison “Understood”. That was with the exception of perpetual asshole, Billy Thompson, who alone yelled “Understood this dick!” then laughed his ass off with his little crew of cronies. Meyhew either didn’t hear him or more likely stopped caring years ago and moved on. The kids all stood, grabbed their backpacks and sleeping bags, and giddily deboarded the bus.

*****

Pat, Ben, and Devon walked into the Great Hall with the rest of their class. Mrs. Meyhew had them stand to the side and shuffled over to a ticket counter adorned with expensive but dated Halloween decorations. Pat stared up at the domed roof. This much space felt like a luxury compared to his tiny, cramped apartment in this giant, cramped city. For a second he allowed himself to daydream about the potential this night could have for him and imagined about the different version of himself that could walk out these doors the next day. He fantasized about staying up late with the cool kids playing Truth or Dare or Seven Minutes in Heaven and how he would finally tell Catherine how he felt. If all went according to plan, he’d leave tomorrow having had his first kiss.

The fantasy was interrupted by none other than Billy who ran his shoulder into Pat’s back, knocking him to the ground. “Watch where you’re going, douchebag.” Billy said with a laugh.

“I wasn’t even moving. I was literally just standing here.” Pat replied as he was helped to his feet by Ben and Devon. Ben moved to give Billy a shove but backed down when his cronies stepped to his side. The boys had gotten the attention of Catherine and a group of girls nearby. Some let out nervous giggles, others kept their eyes glued to their phones, but Catherine just looked on sympathetically as Pat dusted himself off. Pat looked up and their eyes met. He immediately turned a bright shade of red and looked anywhere but at her. Catherine did the same while tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Mrs. Meyhew walked back over to the group with two equally ancient tour guides. They both looked like they had worked at the Met since it opened. “Attention please! Attention please!” Meyhew summoned the kids. CRACK CRACK she snapped impossibly loud, the sound echoing off the high walls. It silenced the remaining murmurs from the group. Eyes whipped up from phones to her. “Class I’d like to introduce you to Shirley and Fred. They will be our guides tonight at the Met and I expect you to treat them with the same level of respect and deference you do to me.” Giggles from the class were silenced with a stern look from Meyhew. She continued, “Shirley and Fred know this museum better than anyone and you will give them your focus and attention. To help with that we will also be collecting your phones so you

can learn more about the museum and less about whatever the latest TikTok trend is.” Interrupting the groans she added, “Don’t worry you’ll get them back in the morning. Be present! If any of you need to call your parents, you can come and find me or your chaperones and ask to use our phones. Ok let’s count off 1’s and 2’s and break into groups for the day.”

The boys filed into the line of kids forming, making sure to have one person between them all. Pat frantically tried to look ahead to see if Catherine was going to a 1 or a 2. In a perfect world she’d be in his group and Billy the Dick would be in the other.

1

2

1

2

1

2

Shit.

Barely 20 minutes in and the trip was already not going according to Pat’s plan. Now he wouldn’t get to see her until dinner and to make matters worse, Billy was placed in their group. The only bright side was that he and his cronies were too dumb to stagger themselves and got split up. They had numbers on him if nothing else.

The two groups separated, each heading to opposite wings of the museum. Mrs. Meyhew and Fred led Catherine’s group, while Pat’s group had Shirley and the parent chaperones who continued to be more interested in talking with each other than interacting with any of the kids (including their own). Just outside the Great Hall, Shirley showed them where they could drop their bags and change into their costumes if they wanted to wear them around for the day. No way in hell Pat, Ben, and Devon decided after quickly surveying the room and seeing the cool kids were staying put. Some of the less socially competent kids rushed to put on their costumes. Devon was the most tempted to join them, but a quick look from Ben and Pat dissuaded him of that. After a few minutes, Fred brought the kids back together to start their tour.

“Students! AGHEM. Students please make your way over here!” he half-shouted, though it looked like it took all of his energy to even reach that volume. Pat thought Mrs. Meyhew was old, but if she had one foot in the grave, Fred had two. He let out a mucus-filled cough into a brown splotchy handkerchief that may have been white in the 80s. AGHEM. Each cough sounded like it rattled his ribs as if one hard cough could snap them in half and burst out of his chest.

“Students if you are ready, please follow me. We have a brand new exhibit here at the Met courtesy of Mexico’s National Council for Culture and Arts. Your class will be the first group who gets to see it. Some of the items you’ll see on display today were found as recently as this summer! Girls, there’s some incredible jewelry you may particularly like. I’ll point it out to you. This is likely the most extensive collection of Mayan artifacts in the world! It truly is a treat.” Fred said before taking a break to catch his breath and letting out a few phlegmy coughs. Pat blushed at the mention of jewelry, checking to make sure the ring was safely tucked away. Ben nudged Pat and gave him a smile, acknowledging his Mayan connection.

“So, you’ll know all this stuff already, yeah? We can ignore the boomer?” Ben asked.

“I mean, my abuela has told me some stuff. But I’m never sure how much is true and how much she’s just trying to scare me. She likes to do that sometimes.” Pat shuddered as the thought of his nightmare sent a chill down his spine. “She mostly tells me the same story about an ancestor of ours she said sacrificed himself by cutting his heart out of his own chest…”

“What the fuck??” Billy said, eavesdropping. “So, your ancestors were a bunch psycho monsters? I figured you came from savages given that haircut, but Jesus Christ.”

Pat’s face flushed red, and he instinctively matted down his hair. He dropped his hands to his side, clenching his fists. Anger spreading throughout his entire body.

“Oh did I make you angry? You wanna do something about it?” Billy continued, stepping towards Pat. Since his growth spurt last year, he towered over the rest of the boys. Pat looked up at him with hate in his eyes, but after a moment looked away and backed away. “Yeah that’s what I thought,” Billy added, laughing as he turned and walked away.

“You just have to ignore him,” Devon told Pat. “Besides, he’s one to talk about families. I’m pretty sure his parents are first cousins.” Pat couldn’t help but crack a smile and unclenched his fists.

“Nah that’s not right,” Pat replied with a smirk. “I’m pretty sure they’re brother and sister.”

*****

Seemingly using his cough as sonar, Fred led the group into the dimly lit hall housing the Mayan exhibit. Fake torches lined the walls. With each flicker they cast otherworldly shadows, specters dancing across the room. Against one wall was a line of glass cases containing obsidian tools, masks featuring looks in varying stages of agony, and a stone tablet with indiscernible symbols and glyphs carved in rows. On the other side was a roped off display of incredibly life-like human figures performing some sort of ritual. To the side of them was a jaguar that looked so real it was like it could pounce at any moment. It extended a clawed paw and exposed fangs the size of Pat’s thumbs. He walked over to the platform to get a closer look.

At the center was a man lying on his back atop a large stone table. His head rested flat against the table, staring at the ceiling, so Pat couldn’t make out his face. What he could see were the faces of the men who surrounded him. The light of the torches seemed to make their appearances change from moment to moment, each looking increasingly deranged. The lines etched deep in their cheeks as they smiled wildly. There were four of them, each at a corner of the table where they held down one of the man’s limbs. All had broad shoulders and long, jet-black hair. The sinew in their wiry arms bulged beneath simple cotton cloaks tied around their necks. Besides that, they wore only loincloths.

All except for the man standing alone at the head of the table. He seemed to be some kind of chief or priest. The exhibit panel called him “Ah Kin.” He wore brightly colored ceremonial clothing and held a large obsidian dagger in his hand. The black of the blade looked cloudier than Pat had remembered seeing in his textbook. Maybe it was just dusty in the room. Then, Pat noticed something on the hand gripped in the knife. On the man’s right index finger was a stone ring with a brilliant green jewel that looked exactly like the ring his abuela gave him! Seemingly simultaneous to him spotting it, he felt an

intense pain at the center of his chest. His skin felt like it was on fire. He grabbed at it immediately, feeling the ring between his fingers. The moment he lifted it away from his skin the pain dissipated instantly. It left so quickly, he questioned whether he had imagined feeling it at all. This was too wild to be true. He squinted for a closer look. He could almost make out the engravings on the side of the band. One did look like a skull. What a crazy coincidence.

He looked back at the man’s face, focusing on his grotesque smile. Pat had never seen one look so full of pain. It felt unnatural. As horrifying as the other men were, nothing compared to the crazed look in his eyes. Pat couldn’t help but stare into them, completely hypnotized. For a moment, the room completely faded away and Pat’s ears were filled with a low, rhythmic chanting like the sound of a drum but somehow made by human voices. BOOM boom BOOM boom BOOM. Pat felt as if he was falling into a trance, tracing every line on the man’s face. His smile filled with wild terror and excitement. Pat felt paralyzed. He wanted to leave, but his legs wouldn’t move. The chanting getting louder and louder in his ears.

“Why is it so dark in here? This shit is creepy,” Ben whispered. Although quiet, this seemed to snap Pat out of his state. He looked to his friend with gratitude, though he couldn’t articulate what had just happened to him.

“Maybe that’s the point? It’s Halloween after all!” Devon replied genuinely.

“Ehh maybe they’re just cheap. Can save money on the electricity. Whenever we go somewhere like this, all my dad can talk about is how big their energy bill must be,” Ben countered.

Both boys were oblivious to the look on Pat’s face. All color drained from his cheeks. Before he could attempt to explain what had happened, Fred summoned the kids to the display. He took a deep, wheezy breath and braced himself against the wall as he prepared to deliver his spiel.

“Ok kids, eyes up here please. You might find this interesting! The Mayans are one of the most fascinating and confounding civilizations we’ve ever discovered. The abandonment of Maya cities is one of the greatest unsolved mysteries in archaeology. Large, elaborate urban centers were mystifyingly deserted without a trace. But why? Leading archaeologists have a host of conflicting theories. One I’ve always liked describes the years before collapse as being dominated by ‘theater-states.’ Having lost practical control, the ruling elite, or Holy Lords, were relatively hands-off with respect to the economy and daily function of their communities. To maintain power, they legitimized their political and religious authority through elaborate rituals and monumental constructions. Each individual city-state would compete to build taller and more ornate temples, costumes, sacred objects. As stability waned, they resorted to increasingly extreme rituals of body mutilation and human sacrifice—like the one you see displayed in the exhibit behind me. Those who performed the most horrifying and maximal rituals were held in the highest esteem among their peers. In one of the most powerful states, it was said that their leader would pull a barbed rope through their tongue, gushing as much blood as possible without being fatal. We felt that was a bit too intense for this exhibit, heh. In many states, the removal of a still beating heart became a common form of human sacrifice in the Postclassic period. They would offer the heart to the gods alongside the mutilated body, usually dismembered or burned. Despite the brutality, it was seen as a moment of great honor for the individual sacrificed. However, the dedication of resources for such elaborate productions was highly taxing. Depleted resources alongside a severe drought are the most likely factors that led to the complete collapse of this culture – leaving it to disappear from the world with little to no trace.”

Pat tried everything he could not to look at the priest in the display while Fred spoke. He couldn’t explain why, but his eyes felt magnetically drawn to him. No matter how hard he tried, his head turned back to face his unhinged eyes. As he moved across the room, it was almost as if the eyes were following him. The chanting rising again in his ears. His eyes darted around to see if anyone else could hear it, but all he saw were oblivious, if not slightly bored, looks. Was he going crazy? How was he the only one who felt this? It was almost too much to bear. The drumbeat in his ears getting louder and louder, like a beating heart about to explode out of his chest. And then, relief. Light from the hall washed over the group as Fred opened the curtain and led them out of the hall. The drumming in Pat’s ears quieted, but did not fade entirely.

*****

Pat should have been exhausted from the full day walking around the Met, but he felt a surge of energy as the two groups came back together for dinner. Now closed for the night, the kids had the museum entirely to themselves. Despite his excitement, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something slightly discomforting about being there after hours. In his experience in the massive space, he had always been surrounded by lights and noisy visitors. Now it was dark and eerily quiet. The other students must have felt it too, most of them whispered despite there being no need to keep their voices down. Every small sound echoed throughout the hall. Even his own breath seemed to bounce off the walls and come back to him, like ghosts breathing in his ears.

Mrs. Meyhew set out pizza boxes and paper plates with help from Shirley and Fred. Mrs. Carpenter and Mr. Berkowitz had snuck off 15 minutes ago under the guise of setting up a Halloween activity for the class. Pat surveyed the room looking for Catherine. He spotted her standing with a group of her friends, all having already changed into their costumes. Catherine wore a tiara and a pink dress splattered with fake blood. It must have been a reference to something. Pat wasn’t sure what. Whatever it was, it was mesmerizing.

“Why the shit aren’t we wearing our costumes?” Pat asked Ben and Devon. Devon raised his arms exasperatedly like I said this hours ago!

Ben laughed. “Ok loverboy let’s go put them on. But let’s do it quick because I want to get pizza before all we’re left with is veggie.” The three of them walked over to the next room to grab their bags and quickly changed into their costumes – Mike, Dustin, and Lucas from Stranger Things. When they got back to the Main Hall the kids had all lined up to grab pizza. Spotting Catherine at the end of the line, Pat motioned for the boys to hurry up. Just as they walked up, she turned around to face them.

“Wow love your costumes guys! This season was so good. So much scarier than season 3. I can’t believe we have to wait until next year for more episodes. It’s going to feel like forever!” Catherine’s smile could have knocked Pat out. For a second he stood there too stunned by her attention to speak. Ben elbowed him in the ribs to bring him back to reality.

“I, uh, love your costume too!” he said a little too loud. Catherine’s smile grew even wider thinking he knew the reference. Too late to walk it back now, he took a chance. “It’s, uh, one of my favorite… movies?”

“Really?! You’re the first person besides Mrs. Meyhew and Shirley to know I was Carrie! Finally, someone with good taste in horror movies,” Catherine said excitedly.

Was this actually happening? Pat could not believe this was going so well. The shocked looks on Devon and Ben’s faces said the same. “How could I not know Carnie? It’s a classic!” Ben added. Catherine didn’t seem to catch him flub the name. He looked at her costume searching for more to talk to her about. “These new horror movies, uh, aren’t nearly as bloody as the classics?”

“Right? Wow I’ve always said that but you’re the first person I’ve heard say the same. Maybe we could hang out and do a horror movie marathon?” Catherine said excitedly, before immediately feeling insecure about the display of vulnerability. “If you want that is,” she added sheepishly.

Pat stood there, mouth agape. “I, uh, would love that!” This new level of confidence puffing his chest out a bit. Was he going to do this right now? He added, “You know, I’ve actually always wanted to tell you…”

BUUURRP

Billy stepped in between them, releasing a stomach full of Sierra Mist right in Pat’s face. “Oh, how cute! Mexican Mike Wheeler met his psycho Eleven.” Billy and his cronies laughed. Pat wanted to die. He’d never been more embarrassed or angry. He’d rip Billy’s heart out of his chest if he could. He clenched his fists again at his sides, this time truly preparing himself to swing. Just then, Fred walked up to the group, sensing the tension.

“Don’t worry boys there’s plenty of pizza for everyone. And besides, this isn’t how we settle conflict. You know in the Mayan culture they would play a ball game to resolve disputes between rival cities. Sometimes this would be a proxy for war to spare unnecessary bloodshed. The Mayans saw this as a battle between the gods of death and the gods of life. The game in and of itself was a reminder of the Hero Twins, who overcame death and became demi-gods themselves. It’s said all Mayan people alive today descend from their lines.” Fred gave Pat a sly wink as he walked away.

“You hear that? Don’t test me. We wouldn’t want any unnecessary bloodshed.” This may have been the coolest thing Pat had ever said. No, it was definitely the coolest thing he’d ever said. He felt like he was in a movie. Ben and Devon couldn’t believe their eyes. Billy, being stood up to for possibly the first time in his life, was too shocked to come up with anything good in response.

“Well, uh, fuck you, you chode. Hah. Bunch of losers,” Billy said as he tucked his tail and walked away with his buddies.

Catherine beamed at Pat. He stood taller than he ever had. Devon patted him on the back supportively. Maybe tonight could be everything he had imagined.

*****

An hour after dinner, Mrs. Carpenter and Mr. Berkowitz came back to the Main Hall looking disheveled and told the class the Halloween activity was set up. They were told to break into pairs for a Halloween Met themed scavenger hunt. There would be candy and treats along the way, but the winners alone would get a special prize. Excitement rippled through the kids as they whispered about what it might be.

“I bet it’s a rare artifact! Probably something Egyptian,” one boy exclaimed.

“You really think they’re going to give us an artifact?? We’ll get a replica at best. More likely it’ll be some kind of branded merch they found in the gift shop. Like a poncho,” Ben said matter-of-factly. He turned to Pat and Devon. “Ok so how do we want to do this? You think they’ll let the three of us be a team?”

“Uh, sounded like they were pretty strict about us being in pairs. Maybe the two of you team up and I could maybe see if Catherine would want to be my partner?” Pat replied.

“Patli, you dog! I have never been prouder of you than I am right now. I know Mexicans and Mayans don’t get to have bar mitzvahs, but in this moment, you are a man. Mazel tov,” Ben said as he hugged his friend.

“They have quinceañeras! Though I guess that’s just for girls, which honestly seems kinda outdated. Someone should say something about that,” Devon added.

“Alright well I guess it’s now or never.” Pat steeled himself and crossed the room to Catherine. “Uh, hey!” He said as he gave her shoulder a poke.

“Hi!” she replied, turning to him. “What’s up?”

“I, uh, well I walked over here to you know. Well Devon and Ben are partnering up for the treasure hunt – well scavenger hunt actually. I guess a treasure hunt has like one prize at the end with a series of clues along the way and a scavenger hunt is more of a quest where you have to find items and complete goals from, like, a list. Shit.” Pat was rambling, but for some reason Catherine seemed to find it endearing. She smiled and quietly giggled, giving Pat the confidence to say what he came to say. “I, uh, wanted to come over here and ask if you had a partner and if not if you’d want to be mine?” Ok he did it. He told himself no matter what she said, he was just happy he had the courage to ask. That wasn’t true at all, but it’s

what he told himself in the moment.

“Oh that is so, so nice! I really would want to, but I already told Sarah I’d be her partner. I’m sorry Pat, it really would be so fun to go hunt for treasure together.” The joke softened the blow, but Pat was no less dejected.

“Oh yeah of course that’s no problem at all. Totally get it. Know you and Sarah go way back so totally makes sense.” He knows they go way back? Why would he even say that? They’d all gone to school together since kindergarten. They all went equally back. “Guess I should find a partner so I can win that special prize. And destroy you! I mean destroy the competition! Which is you, but also others. Ok gotta go!” Pat turned as quickly as he could and bolted away.

Catherine, also flustered by the interaction, yelled out, “Not if the competition destroys you first!”

Back with Ben and Devon, he debriefed them on the conversation. “Well that went fucking terrible. Of course she partnered with Sarah, what was I thinking? They’ve been best friends since they were in diapers. I am a moron.”

“Hey man you tried! That’s more than a lot of guys would do,” Ben consoled his friend. “Plus now the three of us can be a team just like we’re meant to.” CRACK CRACK. The boys jumped as Mrs. Meyhew’s snaps echoed through the Main Hall.

“Alright kids has everyone formed a pair? We’ll start the scavenger hunt in a minute.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, spotting Pat, Ben, and Devon standing together. “Boys have I failed you as an English teacher? Do we not know the meaning of the word ‘pair’?” Giggles emerged from the class as she turned her attention to Billy also standing with his two friends. “It seems this concept was harder to grasp than I thought. Ok boys a pair is a group of two. I see six of you so let’s do some quick math here and split into three groups.” The boys didn’t move. “Ok it sems you need a bit more help. Pat and Billy, you two are now partners. Now let’s please get this started. It’s already nearly my bedtime.”

Pat couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. It was 8:30pm. He begrudgingly walked over to Billy who was staring daggers at him.

“Boys is there going to be a problem?” Mrs. Meyhew asked, her teacher’s intuition in full effect. “Nope!” the boys said in unison.

*****

They were nearly done with the scavenger hunt and had managed not to kill each other. Despite everything, the fun of the game and their competitiveness had made them enjoy themselves. But that didn’t mean they were friends.

“Ok Patricia just one thing left to find on our list. Let’s hurry up and finish this.”

“Trust me, nothing would make me happier than to get to stop hanging out with you,” Pat responded.

“Oh yeah because I’m having a great time with you! When I left home this morning, I remember saying I hope I can spend two hours of my night one-on-one with the biggest loser in New York. Let’s just get this over with already. The only room we have left is the Mayan exhibit. Let’s return you to your homeland.”

The mention of the Mayan exhibit sent a chill down Pat’s spine. The drumming returned to his ears. Was anyone else hearing this? Was it just the sound of his own heart beating? No, he was sure he heard chanting in the distance, but no one else seemed to notice. “It’s, uh, this way I think,” Pat said as he pointed down the hallway. As they walked, their footsteps echoed across the large, empty room. The sound of the other students had disappeared completely, yet it sounded like there were more than just the two of them walking through the hall. Pat’s eyes searched the darkness for others present. He did not feel alone. His legs trembled as he felt fear spread through his body. Did that shadow just move? No, he must have imagined that. He told himself his eyes were just playing tricks on him. He spun around, scanning the room for the unseen presence. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another shadow move.

“Did you see that??” Pat asked Billy.

“See what? It’s dark as fuck in here,” Billy replied. “Can we keep this moving? This isn’t exactly how I planned to spend my night.”

Pat shook off the unsettling sensation. They arrived at the entrance of the hall and pulled the heavy velvet curtain to the side as they walked through. It shut behind them leaving them in near dark. The two of them were completely alone. The only light in the room came from the flickering torches on the display. Pat’s eyes were drawn to the man holding the dagger at the center. Did he look different than before? Pat could’ve sworn his face had changed. His visage had morphed into an even more monstrous smile. Like he was overjoyed to be delivering such pain. Pat stared at him intently, making his way down his left arm to the hazy obsidian dagger. Wasn’t it in his right hand before? Pat looked for the ring but couldn’t spot it on either of his hands. Pat couldn’t have imagined it, could he?

“Are you going to help me or just stare at your family up there?” Billy asked, his eyes searching the room as he reread the clues on the sheet in his hand.

“Does he look different to you? I could swear the dagger…and his ring…” Pat trailed off as he pointed at the man. He wanted to finish the question but was sure Billy would call him crazy. Hell, Pat would call himself crazy.

“Different from what? Why the fuck would I know? I don’t have a personal relationship with him like you seem to. I wasn’t invited to the reunion,” scoffed Billy. Then something clicked, and he sped over to a display case in the corner. After a few seconds of searching, he found the small card they were looking for. “Got it!”

Pat felt an odd sense of relief and disappointment. Happy he could leave the room, but also a strange kind of melancholy. As the boys departed the hall, a dozen pairs of eyes followed them.

*****

An old man limped through the waist-high weeds to the safety of the tree line. Drying blood caked the remains of his right trouser from at least a dozen cuts. His lungs stung from smoke and exertion. The man collapsed just beyond the dark shadow line. The smell of earth and moss filled his nose as he deeply inhaled. Ringing still filled his ears as he lay on the soft ground.

The attack was swift. As the early morning fog rose from the river bordering the village, several low ships slid past any watchers. Like a flood they poured over the shallow bank into the heart of the settlement, the main push rushing straight to the longhouse.

The old man dragged himself slowly to a wide tree, wincing as he sat against its trunk.

The market was quickly overrun, massive fur-clad men flipping tables, grabbing purses, and putting to the axe any opposition. The man's own stall sat on the north edge of the square, providing him precious time needed to run to the temple bells. When the alarm rang out over the village, three men charged toward him.

He peeled off his overshirt, tearing his sleeves into strips to dress his numerous wounds. The flow of blood was nearly stopped but he would need to find an apothecary soon to stave off the rot. His hand trembled from pain and age.

In his day, he was a warrior, a true warrior, knighted by His Majesty of Harsheld for his prowess against the armies of the western Isles. None had been his match in sword or pick. His day had long since passed.

He provided little resistance as the men dragged him through the streets to the longhouse, casting him into the mass of crying women and screaming children.

He felt his side, cringing as he applied pressure to his two broken ribs.

When each purse had been plundered and the gold leaf plaque torn from the village high seat, the men exited, boarding the doors. From a high window flew an arrow tipped with a small clay container. It struck the far wall flinging flaming liquid about the hall. The thatched roof quickly caught sending cinders falling on the heads of the condemned. The two high windows provided airflow enough to stoke the flames ever higher and hotter. Smoke snaked into every eye and lung.

The old man coughed violently against his tree. He wiped the sweat and tears from his eyes and leaned back against the hard bark. Despite the silence and stillness about him, the man could still hear the screams.

He tried to get them out. He tried to save as many as he could. There were too many. The raiders had crammed everyone into one hall and in the fiery panic everyone ran around trampling each other and preventing any coordinated escape. The old man was repeatedly knocked to the ground and had to crawl his way to the back of the hall. The fire had burned here the longest and he had hoped a weak spot would emerge. The wall was half collapsed when he rose to his feet and felt the cool air from outside. He turned back toward the crowd and shouted, calling them toward the treacherous exit. They did not hear. They did not listen. He ran toward the throng, but the flame had caused too much damage, and the structure began to collapse. He was struck by a falling timber and sent into the cobblestone floor.

The old man rubbed his beard feeling his throbbing jaw. A breeze gently blew into the trees from the fields and the coast far beyond.

For a time, he sat. As the ringing of his ears fell quiet, he listened to the waving leaves and the drone of small insects. As his nose recovered and shook the smoky smell, the dense scent of moss and damp wood took its place. The forest embraced him, and he drifted into a pained sleep.

Men formed from the mist, giants of condensed cloud bearing axes of ice and swords of flame. Each massive step shook the ground, sending the man running to the square. Graves stood all around him, many young, topped with dark fresh dirt. Some were ancient with crumbling stones marking their residents. Between two familiar markers the man made his stand. The foe approached with overwhelming force. Buildings fell and crumbled, the earth beneath them giving way to vast chasms. Cracks webbed out all around and he was falling, falling, ever deeper into the darkness. The darkness grew a face, the face of a young girl. The girl was familiar but foreign with features unseen in these lands. She smiled and ran her finger softly across his forehead. "Return to me" sang the girl and the man rose toward the firelight above, pulled with an unseen hand.

The man opened his eyes in the soft green light of the sun through leaves. Soreness gripped tightly to every muscle and joint. Aches tore up his leg and from his stiff side. The shade at least provided some comfort to the old man.

He sat enjoying the diffused light and the warmth of the soil beneath his scarred hands. When his strength was finally built up enough, the man shakily rose to his feet. The ringing quickly returned and bright light flooded the man's vision. Bark met his face with violent force.

He came to on the soft mossy dirt staring up at the vibrant green of the canopy. He grunted as he rolled over to raise himself back up. This time he hugged a small tree to aid his stability.

When the light and ringing came, he held tight and waited out the waves. Slowly his vision returned and the ringing subsided, bringing back the soft chitter of birds high above. He took a step, pain shooting up from his bandaged leg. He stood for a time building up courage for his next step. This time the pain decreased slightly, numbed from the previous. The cycle repeated from tree to tree until the pain became unbearable and the man found a nook in the hollow of an oak. He sat trembling from the strain, hunger and thirst adding to the choir of pain. A troubled sleep took him.

A wall of fire stood high before a young knight. Flaming men ran out hurling long spears of light in high arcs across the field birthing new flowering flames where they struck. The knight raised his sword and an army in shining plate crested the hill behind him. The armor reflected the flames, painting the earth in a sea of orange light. The men marched in unison carrying flowing banners and singing the song of war. The proud knight raised a cry of triumph riding before his men. Yet, as the army marched toward the flame, their armor began to rust and fall away revealing charred corpses. More spears flew from the flames striking the soldiers and spreading new fire throughout the field consuming all. The knight turned his horse toward his falling men, but his horse caught fire and turned to ash beneath him, launching him into the charred, thorny ground. The man rose to his knees watching the flames grow higher, ever higher.

As he watched his own armor once bright as day faded and aged. A wave of decay spread from the ground up the knight's armor until he dissolved into nothing. From the nothing emerged a face. The girl placed her hand on the man's charred body, pressing her fingertips deeply into the flesh. "Soon."

The man woke, sharp pain radiating from his chest. He gulped at the air and rolled onto his side as pain filled his being.

The pain subsided long after, leaving the man shivering on the ground, overtaken by his other pains. Birds chattered overhead. When their songs subsided and the chirping of frogs and crickets filled the darkening dusk the man rose to his knees. He did not have the energy to rise so he crawled across the forest floor. The man's eyes adjusted slowly to the dark and every now and then he was blinded by pain. Still, he pushed on.

The thin moon set not long after the sun, contributing to the darkness and making it hard to find good handholds and avoid obstacles. He felt his way across many roots, stones, and shrubs. One he felt had small, clustered berries which he ate quickly, thoroughly scraping his hands in hopes of finding more of the delicacy. If they were poisonous, he could find a remedy quicker than finding alternate relief to the hunger consuming him.

The man crawled one hand after the other, pained leg then not, for unknowable time. The sounds of the night grew louder around him with mammoth frogs seemingly just out of reach and the hooting of night owls above his head. The soft rumble of a stream to his right caused the old man to change course. His legs became too numb to use so he pulled himself from root to root with trembling hands.

When at last he reached the brook, he dove his head in, tears blending with the cool water. He drank his fill and rolled onto his back laughing and crying and laughing again. Fireflies buzzed around him. The bright insects shone like stars dancing around him, forming patterns and constellations, and falling to the ground in great crashes sending flames and stony debris across the battlefield. A scared boy rode a startled pony away from the front line to the lord's tent. He clutched an urgent letter tightly determined it would reach its destination. Still, more flaming projectiles flew. The horse jumped a deep crater landing hard on the far side but keeping its stride. Green flags waved ahead of him. Suddenly the boy was thrown from his saddle landing face first in a grasping thistle. Vines grabbed the boy, thorns like teeth pulling him deeper into its jaws. The boy saw his pony, already consumed by thorns, flies, and flames, and he wept. More fiery stones struck the ground filling the air with grey dust and ash. Out of the haze came a knight in armor of pure white slashing at the vines and freeing the shaking boy. The knight knelt down and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. Slowly they reached toward their ornate helm and raised the visor revealing only an inky darkness. From the darkness came a girl, emerging from the void and embracing the boy. Darkness swirled around the haze until the whole world was darkness, the arms of the girl, and her gentle face. They flew up into the air so high the stars appeared. She released the boy, sitting beside him and watching the bright lights from so far swirling and dancing around them. She looked at him, placing a hand on his. "I'll be waiting."

The man blinked, staring into the woods and watching the fireflies dancing around him.

When the morning sun lit the forest, the old man found himself near the edge of the woods. He quickly decided walking was not an option, so he crawled along the brook. Through a field he crawled, drinking from the stream whenever he thirsted and lying in the sun's warmth when he tired. Around dusk he came across a road lined with red imperial stone. He sat on the side and slept waiting for a passerby to find him.

When he awoke it was as if seeing through another's eyes watching his shivering beaten body being lifted into a wagon. He was taken to a village nurse miles away. For the next week she changed his bandages and administered balms and salves to ease his pains and prevent the rot.

Once the old man could again walk, she escorted him around the village, showing him the market with its fresh fish and harvest fruits, and the green where shepherds grazed their flocks. He enjoyed these walks, meeting the townsfolk and swapping old tales with his new companion. After many months the man would walk the streets unaided, taking in the smells and colors of the town and surrounding countryside. The seasons came and went with the green leaves turning to bright oranges and reds then falling to come once more.

One evening the old man walked back to the nurse's home near the town's edge. The sun had just set, and the fireflies emerged from their daily slumbers, lighting up the quiet night. As he walked down the drive, he saw the door open. Lit from within stood the old nurse waving him closer.

He limped forward toward his young wife and daughter calling him home from the war.

He trudged along toward the loving arms of his mother.

He climbed the steps, reaching a hand to the young girl.

She took it, smiling and walking him gently inside.

“Welcome.”

The old man smiled.

Chapter 1 of 2

A scene very similar to this may occur in earth’s not too distant future. For planning purposes, 2121AD will do just fine.   
A tall, extremely confidant man enters a  room filled with men and women whom he knows as well as any CEO knows a hundred of his closest subordinates. Most are looking expectantly at him.   
At least twenty of them are frantically trying to “catch up,” surreptitiously using their devices and having their names checked off of an electronic spreadsheet that only CEO Mark Branson and his “right-hand girl,” Maggie McMillan have ever seen.   
Maggie, a 70-year old single woman with dark red hair and thick glasses (with frames to match her hair color) nods to her boss who responds quickly.   
Twenty something “twenty somethings” have been notified that their attendance is no longer desired. They leave the spacious conference room quickly and quietly.  Their futures with Time Corp may survive (but they are determined never to have to catch up again).  
“The votes have been tabulated,” intones Maggie. Mark barely winks.  Every device in the room is instantly updated with the totals.   
Aisha Cronkite, a thirty-two year old mother of four, stands up to speak. Her desk mate (facing the opposite direction) tugs at her stylish belt in a feeble attempt to counter her intentions.   
The CEO stares squarely in her direction and simply says, “Speak.”  
Aisha takes a notably deep breath, smiles at her desk-mate Abe, and sits back down before speaking.  
“Ron, Maggie, the results are much closer than I would have expected. I think some of us were thinking that the nay-sayers were the ones who were asked to leave”  
Maggie didn’t explain, but Ron sensed some concern amongst his audience. His gaze was steady as he waited for others to speak up.   
No one else did.   
Ron held up what looked like a large prescription bottle and let them all have time to see it on one of monitors. Seemingly satisfied with the lack of reaction, he placed the plastic bottle in a large cube labeled TIME CORP and then sealed the 1-meter cube by closing its lid and snapping the titanium clasps in place.   
An audible gasp permeated the room. Ron smiled, waited only a few seconds, and then pulled the handle of a sturdy-looking disconnect switch mounted on the side of the cube.   
Nothing seemed to happen. There was no second gasp from the audience.   
Ron wasted no time opening the cube and displaying its lack of contents to all in attendance. They all were waiting. Nothing happened.   
Ali Carpenter stood up. Some murmuring could be heard, but the murmurs were silenced when Ron said, “Speak.”  
Ali took a little time, seemingly focussing on a few of his peers. Then, he smiled at Aisha who smiled back.   
“I, for one, would like to change my vote.”  
Laughter rippled through the room like a large wave washing the tension away. Even Maggie chuckled as she said, “Meeting adjourned!”

The rain in this coastal town never really stops; it just changes intensity, shifting from a fine mist that clings to your hair to heavy sheets that blur the line between the grey sea and the grey sky. I moved here six months ago, running from a life that had felt too loud, too crowded, and ultimately, too empty. I bought a small, failing bookstore on the high street simply because the rent was low and the shelves were already filled with books that smelled like old paper and quiet stories.

I didn’t come here to meet anyone. I came here to be alone.

But on the first Tuesday of October, when the wind was howling down the narrow streets and the rain was drumming so hard on the glass it was hard to see outside, the bell above the door chimed.

He stepped in, shaking water from a dark wool coat, droplets flying like scattered diamonds. He was tall, with hair the colour of dried sea grass and eyes so blue they looked like they had stolen the colour from the ocean itself. He carried an umbrella that was broken, bent at an awkward angle, and he looked as if he had walked through the storm just to get here.

"Sorry," he said, his voice low and rough, like he’d been shouting over the wind for too long. "I just needed to get out of it for a moment. It’s wild out there today."

I nodded from behind the counter, where I was arranging price tags. "It’s always wild here. You get used to it."

He smiled then, a slow, crooked thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I don’t think I ever will. I’m only here for the season. Restoring the old lighthouse up on the headland. The council says it’s heritage; I say it’s just very high, very exposed masonry."

He wandered deeper into the shop, running his fingers along the spines of the books. He didn’t look at the new releases or the bestsellers. He went straight for the back wall, the section I had labelled Miscellaneous, filled with worn hardbacks and novels with missing dust jackets that no one else ever bothered to read.

I watched him. It had been a long time since I’d watched anyone with that kind of interest. Usually, customers came in, bought a thriller or a romance, and left quickly, eager to get back to their cars or their warm homes. But he moved with a kind of reverence, pulling out books, opening them, reading the first lines, breathing in the scent of them.

When he came to the counter ten minutes later, he had a single book in his hand: The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. An old edition, dog-eared, pages yellowed at the edges.

"This one," he said, placing it down. "Do you ever feel like you’re walking somewhere, and you don’t really know why, but you know you have to keep going?"

I looked at the book, then at him. "Every day."

That was how it started.

He came in every Tuesday and Friday, always when the rain was heaviest, always wearing that heavy coat, always with that slightly worn-out look of someone who spent their days fighting salt wind and rust. We didn’t rush into conversation. At first, it was just small talk—about the weather, about the books, about the stubborn nature of old stone. But slowly, the walls I had built around myself began to soften, brick by brick.

His name was Elias. He was an architect, or a restorer, or perhaps just someone who liked to fix things that time had broken. He spoke about the lighthouse as if it were a living thing, a sentinel that had stood watch for a hundred years and was tired, aching in its foundations. He spoke about it with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

I told him about why I had come here. Not everything, not all at once, but pieces. The end of a long relationship that had turned into routine, the realisation that I had spent years trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be, the quiet desperation of waking up one day and not recognising the woman in the mirror.

"You were trying to find silence," Elias said one afternoon, leaning against the counter while I wrapped a book in brown paper. The shop was empty, the rain hammering against the window, making the world outside disappear. "You moved to the loudest, wettest, windiest place in the country to find silence."

I laughed. It was the kind of laugh that felt new, unused. "It’s the only kind that works. Noise that comes from the world is easier to handle than the noise in your own head."

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from my face. His fingers were cold, rough with work, but his touch was so gentle I barely felt it. "And have you found it? The silence?"

I looked at him, really looked at him—at the lines around his eyes from squinting into the wind, at the way his collar was turned up just slightly, at the way he looked at me like I was a story he had been waiting to read his whole life.

"No," I whispered. "Not anymore."

The weeks turned into months. The autumn storms gave way to a cold, crisp winter where the sea turned a deep, freezing blue and the sun set at three in the afternoon. Elias started staying later. He started bringing tea in a thermos flask, strong and sweet. He started helping me carry boxes of books or fix the creaky shelf by the door.

We didn’t kiss. Not for a long time. There was a carefulness between us, a recognition that we were both fragile things, broken in different ways, terrified that if we touched too hard, we would shatter each other. But there was also a gravity, a pull that neither of us could resist. It was in the way our hands would brush when he handed me money. It was in the way he would stand closer than necessary when he spoke. It was in the way the air changed whenever he walked into the room, going from still and quiet to charged and alive.

The night before he was due to finish the lighthouse, the storm came back. It was worse than anything we had seen, the kind of gale that closes roads and knocks down fences. He arrived at the shop soaked through, his hair plastered to his skull, his hands shaking from the cold. I locked the door behind him, turning the key in the old lock, shutting out the wind and the dark.

"The light works," he said, his voice thick. "I finished it today. Tomorrow, I leave."

The words hung in the air, heavy and painful. I went to the small kitchenette at the back to get a towel, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had known this was coming. He was only here for the season. He had a life somewhere else, cities to build, projects to finish. I was just a chapter in his journey, a stop on the road.

When I came back, he was standing by the window, looking out at the black, churning sea.

"I don't want to go," he said, without turning around.

My hands tightened around the towel. "You have to. You have work. You have a life."

He turned then, and his face was open, vulnerable, stripped of all the careful distance he usually kept. "I have work. I have projects. I have a house that is full of things but empty of life. That’s not a life, Clara. That’s just… maintenance. That’s just me fixing things so I don’t have to look at what’s broken inside me."

He walked toward me, slow, deliberate, giving me every chance to step back. I didn’t.

"When I first walked in here," he said softly, stopping inches away, close enough that I could smell the rain and the salt and the wood smoke on his clothes, "I didn't come in to get out of the rain. I walked past this shop three times. I saw you through the window. I saw you sitting here, looking like you were waiting for something you didn't believe would ever arrive. And I knew, right then, that I couldn't just walk past."

He took the towel from my hands and dropped it on the floor. Then, finally, he touched my face, his palm warm against my cold skin.

"I came here to fix a lighthouse," he whispered. "But I think… I think I was the one who was lost at sea. And you… you were the light."

We kissed then, there in the middle of the shop, surrounded by thousands of stories, with the wind screaming outside and the rain lashing against the glass. It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was slow, and deep, and achingly tender. It felt like coming home. It felt like the silence I had been searching for, but filled with music.

He didn't leave the next day. Or the day after. He called his employer, told them the work needed more time, that there were details only he could see. He found a small cottage a few streets away, with a fireplace and a view of the ocean. He started helping me run the shop, reading the books I recommended, arguing with me about poetry, drinking too much tea and leaving his coats draped over every chair.

People ask us sometimes, how we met so quickly, how we fell so hard for strangers in a storm. We tell them it was the books, or the rain, or the quiet magic of this old town.

But we know the truth.

Some people spend their whole lives walking through the wrong doors, reading the wrong stories, standing in the wrong rain. And then, one day, the wind blows you exactly where you need to be. And you find the person who doesn't just love you despite your cracks and your scars and your broken parts…

They love you because of them.

And suddenly, the world isn't grey anymore. It’s colour. It’s light. It’s everything.

There was a man who was walking down the street in the middle of fall and had just resigned from a job. The sky was cloudy and gray; the sun had gone far that day, and he wasn't wearing any shoes. His feet hurt, but he had something to do. A feeling of weariness and that he was missing something important. Never mind that; he stopped by a familiar glass door— one he had walked through many years before. He stepped in with a sheet of paper that only contained scribbles and placed it in front of the lady who regarded him with a pitying look. The man didn't recognize her and simply spoke.

*There was a man* whose voice filled the small space, a voice that sounded far too old to him, "I'm leaving; this job is a strain, and I must have more time to enjoy life with my family, you know, so please, and have a wonderful day." 

There was a man who walked out that door once again, and once again the woman called, and a voice with a defeated sigh came out of that phone. The man wasn't paying attention; he just walked away. He couldn't remember where to go, a simple mistake, but he felt joy to tell his 2 sons that he's here to play. He planned to find another job later, but not before he told his wife that he'd be with her more. And yet again, his face seemed bright; he had a hazy smile, and it was still cold, so he wanted to go home.

There was a man who walked for a while; he looked around many times, and all he saw was unfamiliar houses. He had walked this path before, so why couldn't he find his way home? After a small time of gazing upon cemented bricks, he sat on one of the many gray benches that were around. He sat here before, in this same spot, but he couldn't remember when. A shame, isn't it; he didn't know his way home. It's odd, isn't it, that he's been here before. Never mind that the man closed his eyes and took a breath.

There was a man whose mind hadn't finished wandering off when another fellow came by again. The man wasn't really listening as the fellow took him away; the man just followed. He wasn't sure why, but he wasn't in the right mind to think. The fellow led him to a house, one just down a few blocks. A woman opened the door, and truth to be told, it was his wife. The man remembered something to make him smile as he told her he left his job; she replied she knew, her voice filled with sorrow.

There was a man who went inside his home and spoke once again.

'Where are the kids? I can't wait to tell them the news; in fact, I want to take them to the park they've been asking for.' His voice was…rough again, not like a person in his late 20s should be. The woman only stared, her eyes filled with exhaustion as she remarked, "They're gone, dear… don't you remember, Erik is in college, and Aiden has a family already, please just come sit down." And so he did.

*There was a man* whose mind had gone lost long before, who was once too deep in his work, who had forgotten he had kids and drove them away. But that was many years ago, and no matter how hard he tried to remember, he couldn't. The 'kids' weren't interested in seeing him again, and so the only way he could cope was by doing what he should have done long ago.  
   

And so then, there was a man.

The Man Who Arrived Yesterday

At 2:17 a.m., the doorbell rang.

Arun woke instantly.

He had been asleep for less than an hour, yet the sound pulled him out of his dream with such force that, for a moment, he could not remember where he was.

Then the bell rang again.

Two short rings.

Exactly the same as before.

He sat up.

His apartment was silent except for the ceiling fan, which clicked once with every rotation.

Arun glanced at his phone.

2:17 a.m.

No notifications.

He lived on the seventh floor.

No one ever visited him at two in the morning.

The bell rang a third time.

He got up and walked to the door.

“Who is it?”

Silence.

Arun leaned toward the peephole.

The corridor was empty.

The yellow emergency light at the far end flickered intermittently.

He almost laughed at himself.

Then he noticed something on the floor.

A small brown envelope.

It had been slid beneath his door.

Arun picked it up and opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

His photograph.

He stared at it.

It showed him standing in the exact corridor outside his apartment.

Wearing the same grey T-shirt.

The same black shorts.

The same unsettled expression.

And behind him, faintly reflected in the glass of the emergency exit door, stood a man.

A man Arun had never seen before.

On the back of the photograph, someone had written:

DON’T LET HIM IN.

Arun’s blood ran cold.

The doorbell rang again.

But this time, the sound came from inside his apartment.

Arun spun around.

Nothing.

The living room was dark.

He switched on the light.

Empty.

Bedroom.

Kitchen.

Bathroom.

Nothing.

He returned to the front door and looked through the peephole.

The corridor was still empty.

Then his phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

One message.

You opened the door last time.

Arun stared at the screen.

Another message arrived.

Don’t make the same mistake twice.

His fingers trembled.

He typed:

Who are you?

The reply came immediately.

You.

Arun stopped breathing.

Then the lights went out.

When they returned thirty seconds later, someone was standing at the end of the corridor.

A man.

Grey T-shirt.

Black shorts.

Barefoot.

Arun looked through the peephole.

The man’s face was hidden in shadow.

Slowly, he raised his head.

The corridor light caught him.

Arun dropped the phone.

It was his face.

Older.

Thinner.

A scar ran from his left eyebrow down to his jaw.

The man walked toward the apartment.

One step.

Two.

Three.

He stopped directly outside.

Arun could hear his breathing.

Then the man spoke through the door, barely above a whisper.

“Arun.”

Arun could not move.

“Please.”

The voice cracked.

“I don’t have much time.”

Arun finally managed to speak.

“Who are you?”

A pause.

Then:

“I’m what happens if you open this door.”

Arun stepped back.

The man continued.

“Tomorrow morning, you’ll forget tonight.”

Arun said nothing.

“You’ll wake up at 7:30. You’ll go to college. You’ll meet your friends. You’ll laugh. You’ll think this was a nightmare.”

Arun’s heart hammered.

“But tomorrow at 11:43 p.m., you’ll receive a phone call.”

The man swallowed.

“Answer it.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, everyone dies.”

Silence.

Arun stared at the door.

“Who dies?”

The man’s voice dropped to almost nothing.

“Everyone you’ve ever loved.”

Then he stepped back.

Arun looked through the peephole.

The corridor was empty.

The next morning, Arun woke at 7:31.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains.

His first thought was simple.

What a strange dream.

He went to the bathroom.

Washed his face.

Looked into the mirror.

There was a faint brown mark above his eyebrow.

He touched it.

It did not fade.

At college, everything felt normal.

His friends joked with him.

His professor complained about attendance.

Someone stole his pen.

He laughed.

By evening, the previous night had almost vanished from his mind.

Almost.

At 11:42 p.m., his phone rang.

Unknown number.

Arun froze.

11:43.

He answered.

For several seconds, there was only static.

Then a voice spoke.

His voice.

“Arun.”

He closed his eyes.

“Listen carefully.”

The voice was shaking.

“Whatever happens, don’t go to the window.”

Arun turned toward it anyway.

Something moved outside.

He stepped back.

The voice continued.

“He’s here.”

A silhouette appeared behind the curtains.

Arun’s blood turned to ice.

“Don’t look at him.”

The phone crackled.

“Don’t let him know you can see him.”

The silhouette slowly turned toward Arun.

The voice whispered:

“Because if he knows you’re aware of him—”

The call disconnected.

The figure behind the curtain smiled.

Arun ran.

He locked himself in the bathroom.

His phone rang again.

This time, it was not an unknown number.

It was his mother.

He answered immediately.

“Amma?”

No response.

“Amma?”

A man’s voice replied.

“Wrong number.”

The call ended.

Arun stared at the screen.

Then another notification appeared.

A photograph.

He opened it.

His mother, asleep.

Taken from inside her bedroom.

Another photograph appeared.

His father.

Then his younger sister.

Then his friends.

Each image taken from within their homes.

Someone was watching them.

Someone who had Arun’s face.

His phone vibrated again.

Tomorrow, 2:17 a.m.

Open the door.

It’s the only way to stop me.

Arun did not sleep.

At 2:16 a.m., he stood beside the front door.

His hand hovered over the lock.

At 2:17—

The bell rang.

Two short rings.

Exactly as before.

Arun looked through the peephole.

The older version of himself stood there.

But this time, he was not alone.

Behind him stood dozens of people.

His mother.

His father.

His sister.

His friends.

Everyone he loved.

They stood perfectly still.

Their eyes closed.

The older Arun looked directly into the peephole.

“Now you understand.”

Arun whispered:

“What do you want?”

“To go home.”

“This is your home.”

The older man shook his head.

“No.”

He smiled faintly.

“Your world is my future.”

Arun stared at him.

The man raised the brown envelope.

“You think I’m trying to kill you.”

He slid it beneath the door.

“I’m trying to prevent you from becoming me.”

Arun opened it.

Inside was another photograph.

The city.

Empty.

Burning.

Every building abandoned.

Every street covered in white ash.

And in the center stood Arun.

Older.

Scarred.

Alone.

On the back, four words:

THE WORLD ENDS TOMORROW.

Arun looked up.

The older man whispered:

“Unless you kill the one who started it.”

“Who?”

The older Arun’s expression shifted.

He pointed toward the apartment.

“Look behind you.”

Arun slowly turned.

A mirror hung on the wall.

His reflection was smiling.

Arun was not.

The reflection raised a hand.

Arun did not.

Then it whispered:

“Hello.”

The glass cracked.

Arun stumbled back.

The reflection stepped forward.

Not the image.

The reflection itself.

It walked out of the mirror.

It wore Arun’s face.

But its eyes were entirely black.

The older man shouted from the corridor.

“RUN!”

The creature lunged.

Arun grabbed the photograph and sprinted toward the balcony.

It followed.

The apartment trembled.

Glass shattered.

The creature screamed his name.

Arun climbed onto the railing.

Seven floors below.

No escape.

The creature advanced.

“You can’t escape yourself.”

Arun looked again at the photograph.

The burning city.

The solitary man.

Then he noticed something.

The older Arun was not looking at the city.

He was looking at what he held.

A mirror.

Understanding struck him.

The creature was not the future.

It was the past.

Trapped.

Waiting.

Learning.

Becoming him.

Arun turned.

“You’re not me.”

The creature paused.

“You never were.”

Its face twisted.

Arun lifted the photograph.

“You copied me.”

The creature screamed.

The mirror in the living room exploded.

The creature collapsed.

And then—

Silence.

Morning came.

Arun woke on the bedroom floor.

Sunlight filled the room.

His mother called.

His friends texted.

The city was normal.

No fire.

No ash.

No older version of himself.

No creature.

He exhaled, almost laughing.

Maybe it had all been a dream.

Then he noticed a brown envelope on his desk.

His hands went cold.

He opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

Himself.

Standing in his bedroom.

Taken from behind.

Arun slowly turned.

No one was there.

He looked at the back.

Three words, written in black ink:

YOU MISSED ONE.

Arun stared at the photograph.

Then he noticed the reflection in the window.

Two figures stood behind him.

One was Arun.

The other was smiling.

And somewhere in the city, a clock quietly moved toward 2:17.

​

I was on my way home from my friend's house when I noticed the bus stop.

I had walked past that road hundreds of times, but I had never seen a bus stop there before.

It was almost midnight, and the street was completely empty.

There was one old bench underneath a broken streetlight.

I checked the bus schedule on my phone.

Nothing came up.

There wasn't even a bus route listed for that road.

I probably should've kept walking.

Instead, I sat down.

About five minutes later, I heard an engine.

An old bus slowly came around the corner.

There was no number on the front.

No company logo.

Just a blank black sign.

The doors opened.

The driver looked at me.

He didn't say anything.

I looked behind the bus.

There were no cars.

Nobody else was waiting.

I asked, “Where does this bus go?”

The driver stared at me for a few seconds.

Then he said:

“Wherever you're supposed to go.”

I laughed nervously.

“Okay… how much?”

He pointed at the empty seat beside him.

“Just get on.”

I don't know why I listened.

I stepped onto the bus.

The doors closed behind me.

That's when I noticed the passengers.

There were about twelve people sitting throughout the bus.

They were completely silent.

Nobody was talking.

Nobody was looking at their phones.

Nobody even moved.

I walked toward the back and sat down.

The bus started moving.

I looked out the window.

At first, everything looked normal.

Then we passed my street.

I stood up.

“Hey, I think you missed my stop.”

The driver didn't respond.

I walked toward the front.

“Can you stop at the next one?”

Nothing.

I looked at the passengers.

Every single one of them was staring at me.

I sat back down.

A few minutes later, the bus passed through a neighborhood I'd never seen before.

The houses looked abandoned.

The windows were dark.

There weren't any cars parked outside.

Then the bus turned onto a road covered in fog.

My phone suddenly lost service.

I tried calling my mom.

No signal.

I tried opening the map.

The map wouldn't load.

Then I got a text.

Unknown Number:

Don't get off the bus.

I stared at the message.

A second text appeared.

Unknown Number:

You're the last passenger.

I looked around.

The bus was still full.

At least, I thought it was.

I counted the passengers.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

My stomach dropped.

There were only four people left.

I counted again.

Four.

The seats where the others had been sitting were empty.

I looked toward the driver.

He was still driving like nothing had happened.

I stood up.

“Where did everyone go?”

The driver smiled.

“You're almost there.”

“Almost where?”

He didn't answer.

The bus suddenly stopped.

The doors opened.

Outside was my neighborhood.

My house was right there.

I almost ran off the bus.

Then I noticed something.

My house was completely dark.

Every light was off.

I looked at the time on my phone.

3:17 AM.

I knew something was wrong.

I looked through the front window.

There was someone standing in front of my house.

It was me.

Same clothes.

Same face.

He was staring directly at the bus.

I backed away from the door.

The driver looked at me through the mirror.

“You can get off now.”

I shook my head.

“That's not me.”

The driver smiled.

“I know.”

The doors started closing.

The person standing outside my house suddenly ran toward the bus.

He slammed his hands against the window.

His mouth was moving.

I couldn't hear him.

Then I finally understood what he was saying.

He was screaming:

“DON'T LET THE DRIVER TAKE YOU HOME!”

The bus doors slammed shut.

The driver looked at me.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

“Too late.”

Hopefully Yall Like It! Part 2 Coming Out Soon

A toothpaste commercial gets beamed directly into my head while I'm asleep. It tells me We Live in the Future, but I know that's just a slogan they're using to promote a new kind of tooth-whitening gel. Two rows of shiny, digitally-rendered molars and incisors wiggle in pleasure as Enamel-Safe Bristles caress their heads.

I wake up from the dream drenched in my own piss because the appliance that alerts me when I need to wake up and urinate has disconnected itself from the internet overnight. A voice comes out of a speaker and tells me that a new software update has been released to stop this from happening, but the update isn't compatible with the cheaper model of appliance I have. I lie in my piss for a few minutes while I muster up the strength to get up and strip the bed.

While waiting for my sheets to wash I try to make coffee, but my subscription to the company that owns my coffee machine has expired. I can't find my credit card to renew the subscription, so I break the machine apart and it lets out a voice that tells me I will be fined using the existing credit card the company has on file. I wonder why the existing credit card the company has on file can't be used to renew my subscription, but decide it isn't worth thinking about.

As I drink my manually-produced coffee I turn on the TV the old-fashioned way with a remote, and it's playing the toothpaste commercial I'd been watching in my sleep. I watch the commercial in its entirety, then turn off the TV and sit in silence for about five minutes. The silence is broken when the machine that tells me it's time to go to work tells me that it's time to go to work, so I put on my shoes and do so.

I used to go to work in my flying car, but a few months ago the engine fell out. The news said the men who run the flying automobile company were supposed to go to prison, but instead they paid fifty million dollars to somebody and were given permission to make more cars with engines that might fall out. I was told my insurance policy had been amended retroactively to reflect that the manufacturer could not reasonably be expected to keep the engines on the inside of their cars.

I arrive at work and learn that due to a rounding error I am no longer employed at the company, and for liability reasons my personal items have been carefully placed in a large hole at the back of the building. The man whose job it is to look after the hole tells me that he received the application to retrieve my belongings, but it will take two working days for him to process. I ask why he can't just pull them out for me right now, but he laughs and tells me it doesn’t work like that.

I go home without my personal items, and sit down to try and make a phone call. Before I can dial a number, the telephone plays me a toothpaste commercial and I fall asleep. Two rows of shiny, digitally-rendered molars and incisors wiggle in pleasure as Enamel-Safe Bristles caress their heads.

The Future is a Toothpaste Commercial, and I Can’t Wake Up.

Chapter 1

 

Up until now I could ignore it. The occasional glance at another boy at school, the quick peek I would see in the locker room after gym class, the rush I got sitting with knees barely touching my teammates on the soccer bench. Up until now, these were brief moments. Just glimpses into another world that I was able to push down and forget about. I learned to compartmentalize before I even knew what that meant.

 

"Shove it down Logan." I would think to myself. Most of the time, this worked. 

 

Something was different now though. It was the summer I had just turned 18 and I was starting my senior year in the fall. Thoughts and feelings that I had refused to acknowledge were creeping in and becoming harder to ignore than before. I caught myself looking at the guys on the team after practice more and couldn't understand why I didn't want to look away.

 

Even though I was 18, I had yet to lose my virginity. By this point almost all of my friends had fucked at least one girl at school. I even carried a condom in my wallet; "just in case" my friend said with a wink and a grin as he handed it to me. I really doubted I’d need it, but him handing it to me between classes with an innocent smile— and knowing it was related to sex—made me want to take it. 

 

This summer was my first summer of "adulthood". I was legally an adult in the eyes of the US government. I could vote, buy lottery tickets, join the military, and even smoke cigarettes if I pleased. Regardless of the newfound freedoms, my focus was drawn to other adult activities. 

 

Between soccer practice and helping my parents out on our small family farm, I worked part-time as a grocery store clerk in our small town. It paid minimum wage but they were flexible with my soccer and school schedule and even seven bucks an hour can take you pretty far when you're only eighteen. 

 

By this point I had worked there for around nine months and had grown to enjoy it. I became friendly with the regulars and close with my coworkers. I learned early on that if I played up my southern accent and offered to carry groceries out for the elderly women I could earn a few extra bucks in tips. Carrying out the groceries was a service I offered to every customer out of kindness but rarely did a man take me up on the offer. I think most men felt it was emasculating to have another man carry their groceries.

 

One day, while rearranging the bunches of bananas that a bratty child decided to throw in every which way, I saw a gentleman walk in. 

 

This man was striking in appearance and looked unlike any of the regular customers we typically saw in our small store. He was dignified, wearing a deep navy suit, white tie, and brown loafers. He had mid-length blond hair that was brushed back and gently fell over his ears.

 

I was immediately drawn to him. 

 

It felt like my stomach was doing somersaults and although I couldn't describe why, I needed to get closer. The way his slacks hugged his thighs caught my attention. Before I realized what I was doing, my eyes drifted higher. Once he turned away from me I could see how his suit jacket fit tightly against his broad shoulders.

 

I didn’t realize clothes could look so good on a guy.

 

Now I need you to understand that up until this point, I considered myself straight. 

 

Confused? Maybe. Curious? Most definitely. Concerned? Absolutely. But, nonetheless straight.

 

I had dated girls and had even grown to really care for and love them, but in a way that didn't end in sex. I would usually call it off before things got serious enough for sex and then pretend to be too heartbroken to even consider looking at another girl. This was all a very performative act on my part to keep people from questioning why I was still a virgin. I relied on this “heartbroken lover” act as a way to throw people off my scent. 

 

Until this moment.

 

When this mystery man from the universe of sex appeal, born on the planet of thick thighs, walked into my place of employment. 

 

For once, my seven dollars an hour was worth more than my shift.

 

I scrambled away from the ironically phallic shaped fruits to try and casually get a closer look. Once I felt like I had been sleuthing for an uncomfortably long time I made my way back to my register and prayed to whatever God there was that this man would walk through my checkout.

 

 A few minutes later, and there he was, unloading his cart onto my checkout belt. 

 

I did my best to play it cool, but looking back I'm sure I was as nervous as fish in a shark tank.

 

He smiled at me and asked me how my day was. 

 

I picked my jaw off the floor and managed to spit out “It’s, uh… it's pretty good. How about yours?"

 

He proceeded to explain that he was visiting the next town over for a convention at the community college for the weekend and wanted to pick up some groceries on his way back to the hotel he was staying at.

 

I smiled and pretended to follow along while my eyes kept being pulled to the tuft of chest hair sticking out from his button down shirt. Before I knew it, he was paying for his groceries and without a second thought I asked him if I could help him out with his groceries. I immediately regretted it and was afraid he would think it was odd for me to ask. 

 

He smiled at me with a little confusion but after a short pause accepted my offer. 

 

“I'm not used to this kind of service where I'm from” he huffed as I reached for his bags. 

 

It took all of my strength to muster a “It’s no problem at all sir”. As we walked towards his car I could feel his eyes burning holes in me, still unsure if this was good or bad. I loaded the bags into his trunk and when I turned around he was right behind me. 

 

I could easily see he was a good four or five inches taller than me and probably had around 50 pounds more muscle than I had on my lean frame. 

 

With a grin on his face, he shoved a handful of one dollar bills down the front pocket of my uniform apron, pushing his hand into my chest. 

 

“My name is Greg by the way. Nice to meet you Logan”. 

 

My heart sank and I had a brief moment of panic thinking that this must be some sort of prank or setup. There was no way he should know my name. 

 

Greg could see my eyes were confused and then he laughed and pointed to my name badge.

 

“Oh! Yeah! Sorry, I completely forgot I had that on” I exclaimed with a sigh of relief. 

 

“I'm in town for the weekend but have Sunday free. Any recommendations of things in town I should check out?”

 

I racked my brain but this town had no sort of tourist attraction so I was silent for a moment.

 

“Or better yet, you can stop by my hotel Sunday and show me around?” Greg said quietly, making sure no one that may be nearby could hear. His tongue escaped his mouth as he licked his lips in a non-sexual way, making it all the more enticing.

 

I was dumbfounded but enticed nonetheless. Not even fully understanding what he was asking of me — and even worse, what I hoped he was asking me — had me speechless. 

 

Unsure how to respond, I heard myself say, “Um, yeah sure, I guess”. 

 

Seeing the hesitation on my face, Greg pulled his receipt from his back pocket and wrote a phone number down on it and then shoved it into the same apron pocket that held his dollar bills.

 

“Only if you want to. If you decide you're free Sunday, give me a call”.

 

Then he shot me a wink and climbed into his car. 

 

I stood in the parking lot and watched as he drove away, confused but excited. 

 

The rest of my shift I could only think about how he looked when I first saw him, the way his biceps bulged when he picked up his groceries, and the way he casually spoke to me in a language I felt like I had never heard, yet could understand perfectly. 

 

I would be lying if I said I didn't also daydream about what might happen if I did call him on Sunday. Maybe I would drive over to his hotel… find my way to his room… go inside and find him in just a towel after showering… feel his hands run down my chest and under my shirt until he pulled me closer into his body and I could feel what was hiding behind the thin towel that separated us.

 

“What the hell is wrong with me?”, I thought to myself. 

 

I wasn’t sure why this random stranger had created such a feeling in me. Sure, I had enjoyed stealing looks of guys in the locker room and can't deny that maybe I enjoyed walking through the underwear section at JCPenny's a little more than the other guys, but nothing had ever made me feel alive like this. 

 

As I was wrapping up my shift, I went outside to wrangle up the leftover shopping carts in the parking lot.

 

Like hitting a metaphorical wall, I found myself at a dead stop.

 

I stood there with a shopping cart in my hands. 

 

For eighteen years I had managed to explain away every glance, every fantasy, every excuse. 

 

This time I couldn't. 

 

“Fuck.”

 

I was gay.

Genesis 2:10-15 KJV

“And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads. The name of the first is Pison: that is it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold; and the gold of that land is good…”

“Foraging is foraging.” Said Cain. “I didn’t study the holy writ for nothin’ neither. It’s not against the law any more than any of the fruits of the forest I eat. No one owns the Earth.”

God had ordained all these things for the use of man. Cain loved the ability to sculpt beautiful trinkets and jewelry with ease. The way that his friends would light up at a small, beautifully crafted trinket seemed magical to even him. He loved being able to give from his surplus. In the harvest season, Cain had been taught to collect and store the things that would stand the test of time. Grapes became wine with proper care. This particular bounty was shared weekly, year-round due to the surplus. Without it, illness would quickly spread, but the careful rations kept the water supply safely blessed by the Gods via sacraments.

And now, in this harvest season, Cain squirrelled another bounty away. In all of the special places he knew around the land. Many years and seasons of exploration for the sake of foraging brought many bounties to Cain. Many years and many seasons brought many treasures in many coves throughout the land. Most in areas that seemed bleak at a glance, but were in fact, quite rich!

His logic was this… that any soul who found one of his troves and and knew how to benefit would surely appreciate the location and the fruits that Cain had carefully selected into existence over these many seasons of seed saving. Someone also favored of God, like him, like everyone. He wanted a partner and friend for the process of tasting so many fruits and herbs. He had to taste until he was sick at times. His attempts to get help had cost him friends when he tried to enlist them. It looked like reasonless gluttony to a few who used to call Cain a friend. But, Cain knew these seeds and abundant alcoves would make life better and easier for everyone in town. For generations to come, at that! Even the shepherds lambs that fed the priests had proven to be larger and healthier year-over-year with Cain’s blend of “forest-derived” herbs and grains mixed into their feed. Thus, there was selection to be made, this was the cost. Cain paid it.

His time observing and wandering for forage also allowed him to find other blind spots. Blind spots in the scripture AND physical blind spots that he had carefully procured by sprinkling gold nuggets that he called “seeds” across the land. He knew that anyone who found the spot would likely take the gold and leave. Then, he would know that place was not recluse. Cain littered patches close to town, he littered them further out. He even littered many amongst the trails he found coming from forbidden cities.

And now these little gold “seeds” that Cain spread far and wide were squirreled into these hidden coves. These beautiful, shiny, yellow rocks that could be hammered into anything with the right tools. All the hours of working along side his father at the rock pit whilst child was really paying off. His use of tools made digging easy, and Cain was building favor amongst his family and friends with fine trinkets. It came at the cost of suspicions, sure. But those that knew him, understood how Cain always had a gift to make more of less. Adam’s son could find a dinner-for-4 in a 30 yard radius in most any part of the forest on a moments notice. However, to those less familiar to him, there was a misunderstanding around Cain’s skills that made many think he practiced magic. Those who had not received claimed little golden trinkets help curses from the devil as the source of their beauty. But many were starting to see the bounty around, as many in town had found gold during their time in the forests praying.

Cain never gate-kept his knowledge or observations. He told plenty of people that “magic” was just observations others had not yet seen. Magic was all around, all the time. We were the children of the Gods after all. The world was magic all around them. Yet, most in the village did not have the eyes to see or ears to hear. They said Cain misused his tools and skills. As the son of Adam, Cain should be spending his time doing otherwise. People
Complained to Adam that they thought Cain should leave the plants and flowers to the women in town. Despite all this, Cain placed his hope and actions of faith in a plan to help others see an easier and more bountiful life that they had been blessed with by Father and Mother God. Everyone should tend to the plants and the flowers. The ones of their choosing.

The village only had to look and see they were worthy of this gift all around them. This gift that had followed them from Eden. It seemed the true sins were that the village wasn’t partaking of God’s bounties season-after-season despite Cain’s many attempts to show and teach his fellows. And so Cain “sculpted” a plan from gold. He would give away all the gold he could find and make people see that the gold and the fruits growing all around were part of the bounty and blessing of being alive on Mother Earth. The “knowledge” of these locations just needed to be perceived as God’s magic rather than the Devil’s. So, Cain squirreled. And Satan squirmed.

THE PRECIPICE OF THE NEW WORLD

Let me start by telling you a truth you can’t say to most yuppies without pushback: Not all animals are created equal. I should know; I peel them off the side of the road for a living.

It’s safe to say some animals make a bigger mess than others. No one is calling me to scrape up a squirrel, and we generally let a raccoon decay out there as well.

But if you’re unlucky enough to hit a deer or a black bear and you survive, chances are you’ll see me out there with the EMTs. I’ll be the guy with the flatbed truck, shovel, and the power washer making the side of the road stain-free again.

They call it “Animal Control,” but it’s really just cleanup.

And I’ve seen it all, both dead and alive. None of it prepared me for the monsters. I guess nothing could have, which is why I am so confused about how I got here.

Why was I chosen?

How am I surviving all of this?

Let me start from the beginning.

I was there the day everything changed, 100 years ago… or was it just 24 hours?

It started on a sunny morning. My day began in the front yard of a righteous prick in yuppieville Connecticut, where money has bought these people everything their hearts desire, and they have no idea how to take care of most of it.

Jack Miller, the owner of this vast property, stood between the two giant oak trees at the foot of his half-mile-long driveway. These were old-growth forest, the only ones he didn’t cut down in order to install a stupid fountain and hedgerow out here.

Jack called me frantic, and I had answered.

“You’ve got Gus; animals are no fuss…”

I sat next to Jack in his Quad and took the long ride back to his mansion. He didn’t want my F-250 tearing up his newly paved driveway. Jack took me through the glorious house, modeled after some French castle—I wasn’t listening—and into a storm cellar.

The place reminded me of that wine storage place in that '40s Hitchcock movie my Dad and I watched a few weeks ago. You know the one. In the movie, there was like uranium hidden there.

Anyway, as we strutted past expensive bottles of wine, I heard the loud meows.

Apparently, there was a cat that was stuck between a few loose bricks.

Jack was indicative of a lot of the people who had moved to the New Haven area. He was in charge of a data center they were clearing forest space to put in.

My name was on a dozen petitions to stop him and his company, but I also needed to cover my rent and didn’t want to see his cat get hurt, so I was here to help.

As long as those checks came straight from his personal account and not Bionetic Industries, I didn’t think that made me a hypocrite.

His animals needed help, too.

The life of an Animal Control guy is not a glamorous one, even in the expensive ZIP codes, where all your clients are Wall Street bros and trophy wives who have no idea what to do with all the animals that came with the farms they decided to retreat to once they cashed out.

So I spend a lot of time advising them. And believe it or not, I have sifted through pig shit more than once looking for lost wedding bands and a TAG Heuer watch.

But at least you could charge them more. I had a ton of student loans to pay off. And the F-250 was a splurge, considering I lived in a studio apartment.

That had more to do with my divorce. You don’t want to hear about that now; suffice it to say, it got me out of New York City and out there to the country.

Somewhere I could finally be alone… well, and close to my aging father.

I followed Jack deeper through his maze of worldly goods.

The loose bricks where the feline had gotten stuck were behind one of those old gun closets, the kind you’d see in rural English hunting mansions. It was full of every kind of gun you know about, and a few only insane collectors do.

Being in the country, I was immune to most Second Amendment Stans, being that I also was strapped pretty much everywhere I went out here, with a tame Glock-17 I had for efficiency.

The times I’d used the pistol, I was putting something out of its misery.

Today, I hoped, would not be one of those days.

And I was right; it would be unlike anything I had ever experienced.

The Miller house was indicative of that, but down here, in front of this armory, I was more in shock than in awe; this was a cabinet filled with strategic urban warfare.

I even saw what I thought were Claymore mines.

Jack saw me eyeing them and smirked.

“Oh, they’re real. I know a few weapons contractors. My company has a lucrative deal with them and the government. They hooked me up.”

“What do you use them for?” I asked slowly, hoping this wasn’t some sort of elaborate blood sport I had been lured into participating in.

“I dunno. I just thought it would be cool to have them. Like in Metal Gear Solid.”

Jack’s wealth and ignorance were enticing to me, even as he spoke fluent douchebag in this place. All I could do was nod back with enthusiasm.

Someday, maybe I’d have enough money to be as big of a tool. No, that was just my ex talking.

If I knew then what I know now, I’d have handed him one of the mines and pulled the safety pin. But back then, I nodded along with his bullshit.

I was not going to start any shit; I just wanted to be on my way.

Jack just shrugged. “Guns are just kinda cool. I guess I got addicted after my wife told me no more Pokémon cards. There are so many different kinds, and each has its own experience.”

Goddamn rich people, I thought.

We shifted the cabinet a few inches so I could reach the meows. The cat was indeed back there, but was not stuck in the bricks. She was sitting with a sweet litter of kittens.

I took them out of the wall one by one, and then the scared mother cat, who hissed and scratched, but calmed as soon as I put her in a loose wine box with her kids.

“Shit… you want them?”

I wanted to tell him off, but I just nodded and told him it would cost.

Jack reached for his wallet without hesitation.

I loaded the box with a couple of golf towels I took off a few sets of clubs in the corner. As I looked around, this guy had random collections of all the most expensive things in the world, and none of them made him satisfied. I should find comfort in that, but all I got was jealous.

And a little pissed, because he didn’t want to collect the cats!

I had found homes for three of the ten before I made it back into town, and arranged for all of them to be picked up at a local retirement center. The old people there were going to bottle-feed the kittens first. And that place could use a mother cat to chase away the mice.

That’s when the call came in from my Dad. He told me I had to get to his place right away, and his voice assured me there was something going on I had to see for myself.

My Dad was the most boring guy I had ever met. I had never heard him so worked up, not even when my Mom died.

So I pressed the gas on the truck and burned half a tank speeding to his homestead.

THE HAMSTER BALL

Dad lived in the middle of nowhere, just below Sleeping Giant State Park. He bought a place and moved from D.C., where I grew up, when he retired.

I never knew how to answer when people asked me what he did for a living. He was one of those guys who went to an office and never said much more than his boss was an asshole and they were making him work late that night.

It had something to do with computers, the environment, defense contractors—that’s all I had picked up in the thirty-five years I’d been on this planet.

His passions were our pets, which he filled our house with after Mom died, and which I spent all my spare time taking care of when he was stuck long hours at work.

You could say Animal Control chose me from a very young age.

I parked my truck next to another in the driveway.

That’s why I was so shocked to pull down his long driveway and see Leslie waiting for us. And damn, of course she looked really good in her green uniform and broad-brimmed hat.

She was exactly the kind of woman you’d want to meet at the end of the world.

My history with women was actually a lot like my history with animals. I enjoyed the ones with claws and teeth, even though I always wound up getting scratched and bitten.

Leslie’s line of work fit the bill there. She was a park ranger and worked part-time for the game warden. She told me the only dangerous animals in Connecticut were rich people with new hunting rifles, and that made me laugh so hard I was immediately smitten.

I ran into her a lot in my line of work, but post-divorce and living in a 600-square-foot apartment, I haven’t had the confidence to ask her out.

Even worse, I made the mistake of talking to my dad about that last week during a very sad birthday dinner he bought me. He told me he had a solution for that, and now, standing next to her in his front yard… I was worried he called her here to put the pressure on me.

The sky had darkened on my drive, like we were in store for one of those springtime showers.

As thunder crackled, we both took refuge in my Dad’s open garage.

“I knocked,” Leslie said. “Your Dad told me he was getting a big surprise ready and to wait for you out here. Got any idea what he has in store?”

I tried to respond eloquently, but all I managed was, “Your breath is really nice.”

She laughed at me openly, and I turned fuchsia this time.

Leslie dug in her pocket and took out a pack of Juicy Fruit.

“The flavor doesn’t last long, but it's my favorite.”

I tucked a piece in my jowls and felt my dry mouth dissipate. It was nice being close to her and watching the falling rain. Even the crackle of lightning felt metaphorical between us. This could have been the start of a romantic moment, but that’s when Dad’s voice cut through the air.

“It’s time.”

We turned to see my father look from us up to the sky, where clouds were circling ominously.

“It’s time you get inside the hamster balls,” Dad said, like it wasn’t the most insane thing we’d heard in our lives. He beckoned for us to enter the home.

“Sorry—the what?!” Leslie and I responded in unison.

We followed Dad into the house with all our stuff. He didn’t help us carry anything; he was too agitated. Rain pitter-pattered on the roof, and the thunder was getting louder. We could barely hear ourselves think, let alone listen to my Dad talking.

“I know you two haven’t worked out yet, but you need to get out of your own way. You can’t do this alone… trust me, I’ve tried.”

He kept going on and on about life and needing someone, the kind of rambling that made Leslie and me share a look, and made me begin to feel guilty that I had not been there enough for him.

“I’m here now, let’s focus on that and try to…”

“I invited you both because I want you to be here tomorrow, too.”

“You’re freaking me out, Dad.”

That’s when I felt all the words leave my mouth and the air leave my lungs.

Instead of seeing his rickety old couch, stained coffee table, and ottomans, the whole room had been gutted. The hardwood floors were ripped up and replaced with endless coils of wire leading to various generators around the room.

The floral wallpaper was gone, ripped to shreds, and so was the insulation and the drywall.

Instead, the electrical system was exposed on the walls, and sparks were flying.

In the middle of the room were two clear balls… just big enough for a moderately sized human to stand inside. They had chairs in their center and compartments on the floor, like footlockers.

“Get in.”

These words came out direct and forceful. It was highly unusual for the old coot.

We assumed my father was kidding, but his face said otherwise. In fact, he’d gone very pale, and his eyes were watering, as if he was about to cry.

“I don’t have time to explain, but if you both get in and pack up, I’ll try before they’re here.”

Leslie’s face showed she was as concerned as I was. But we both were having trouble formulating words.

“I’m sorry, I think we should all just take a moment to talk this out.”

Leave it to Leslie to logic through this. I would think she’d know the men in this family are just impulsive doers by now.

Dad tapped his foot, indicating there was no time for that.

“I know you think I’m crazy. I am crazy. But right now, as your father and our friend, I’m doing my best to save your lives. Where you take this from here, well, I wish I could be there to see it, but I know you’ll do well.”

“Okay, Dad, I think we should make you like a cup of tea or something. And also maybe get you away from all this electrical gear because I think it’s affecting your brain.”

Another thunder strike rattled the windows, but this one didn’t go away. It just kept shaking, like we were in the middle of an earthquake. Every time we thought it would subside, the whole world would shake again.

“August, I am your father. I have never asked anything of you. But right now, I’m telling you and this lovely woman to get in the goddamn hamster ball so I can see you both live.”

Neither of us moved until he snapped—“NOW!”

If I had known these would be my last words to him, I would have said something more meaningful. I would have told him I loved him.

I would have told him that every sacrifice he made for me as a kid, all the freedom he trusted me to have, and all the grace he gave me when I screwed up meant the world to me.

That they were a warm blanket that covered me as I mourned my mother, and that I wish I could have found a way to repay him for that.

Instead, all I mustered was “ALRIGHT! CHILL OUT!”

Leslie and I each walked to our respective balls.

“You don’t have to do this,” I told her.

“I know,” she said. “But I’m kind of scared of whatever is about to happen.”

And with that, Leslie entered the sheer casing that seemed to call to both pure senses of curiosity and adventure—and also the chance to step aside from someone you just showed all your cards to, and to be alone.

They had pentagonal entrances on the underside that we had to stoop to climb inside.

We threw our packs into the footlockers below the chairs and then strapped into the pilot chairs as Dad went around the room, turning on all the generators.

The earth was shaking more frequently now, and between the thunder and the generators, you couldn’t hear a damn thing.

Leslie looked at me through her translucent ball, and I looked back at her and shrugged. I touched the exterior, and it felt like very thick glass.

That’s when Dad’s voice hit us through a small speaker in the hamster balls.

“Don’t bother to talk back; this microphone only goes one way.”

He was wearing a headset and carried a thick metal stopper. Before I could protest, he pressed it into the opening of my ball, and it sucked shut.

Then he quickly did the same to Leslie’s ball.

Even if we wanted to get out to yell at him, the chair buckles pulled us tightly.

We both realized we had no control over what was happening.

“My work for the government—well, this is what I was in charge of all those years. I wasn’t sure what they were going to use it for, but I guess they knew this was coming. Of course they knew it was coming, what am I saying? The answers were in front of me. You can’t have one population growing as fast as ours without natural predation. You taught me that.”

There was a gust of what felt like wind, and the roof of the house ripped off. As I looked up into the sky, I saw black clouds… and something flying in them.

“They’re here.”

Rain splashed down on the hamster balls.

And the roar of an animal I had never heard before pierced through our ears. Its bellow broke the glass windows and announced an imminent threat.

Dad looked past the balls toward something we couldn’t see, then he tapped some comfort onto the balls’ thick exterior.

“Special polymer. Unbreakable. Dissolves with the right mixture of liquid chemicals in about 100 years.”

Leslie and I were not having fun with this scientific invention at that moment. And I don’t think he was either. He looked forlorn, resigned to something about to go down.

“The world is going to need you more than you know. When you get out, find each other.”

Dad backed away from the balls, toward the garage.

“It’ll work out. I know it. Just… have a nice nap.”

“The hell it will. Either get in here or get back here. Let us out!”

I was losing my cool, both scared of whatever made him afraid and overcome by the immediate feeling that I had absolutely no idea what was about to happen, but knew it would change me forever.

My Dad didn’t budge; he just blew me a kiss.

“You’re going to need each other.”

I wanted to ask for more, but a giant, scaly foot descended into the home and kicked my hamster ball through the remaining walls and into the sky.

KAIJU WORLD CUP

I’m sure you want to hear about these formidable beasts, but indulge me for a moment. I played all the available sports growing up, and soccer was easily my worst. I liked anything where you could run into someone at full speed, and they frown on that in European football.

Banging into people and walls is sort of how I got out my mom’s death in a healthier fashion than some of the other choices that are available to the youth of America.

So in between my journeys out in the wilderness and school, Dad made sure I tried anything full-contact to get my energy out and to stay out of trouble.

Especially after Mom died and no one was home to look out for me.

My reward for being good and not getting into trouble? Well, aside from complete autonomy, I got to watch Godzilla movies with him at night. We’d curl up on the couch, open some sodas and chips—I was a salt and vinegar guy—and bask in the destruction.

The pizza would arrive halfway through, and we’d pause to talk to each other and recount the descriptions we saw on screen. I vividly remember teaching my Dad about how Godzilla was actually an apex predator we created through our recklessness.

He just smiled and let me rant.

To this day, I think about that when I see parents ignore their kids. My Dad embracing me as a weird little kid was one of the reasons I’m alive… for now.

But the point is, my Dad loved anything with “Kaiju” in it. You know, that fancy Japanese word for big freaking monsters that crash around cities and wreak havoc on the landscape.

That’s why I wish I could have seen his face when we saw the first one. But at that moment, I was like forty feet in the air, sailing like a soccer ball, and I only saw its face because I literally broke the low cloud surface before I fell backward.

And it was gnarly and full of teeth.

The beasts bellowed with an echo like a bullhorn.

Every bit of movement felt strained; they were not smooth but herky-jerky. Even the ones flapping in the sky felt like they were adjusting to life here.

Like the Tin Man in need of an oil can.

But I was about to see them shake the rust off in real time.

I landed hard, but the hamster ball stayed intact, and the seat's shocks provided some cushion against the impact.

Too bad my piece of Juicy Fruit was forced out of my mouth and hit the inside of the hamster ball. It stuck there in a gob of my own spit, but I had no time to wipe it off.

As I gazed out of the contraption, I saw several other enormous animals strutting across the landscape. They had to be a hundred feet, maybe two hundred.

These were different breeds than whatever kicked me.

In fact, they all looked like different animals. Some more mammalian, others reptilian, all kind of herding together, not attacking one another but scavenging for food on the ground.

Sniping and snarfing any person they could get their forked tongue or claw around.

They varied in size, from ones that were as big as a house, to ones whose heads careened up into the clouds.

Each had its own deafening voice. Their screeches and screams were so vile they would send piss down your pant leg.

The only thing that kept me from shitting myself was that my brain was going haywire. These seemed to defy most of what I knew about animals on this planet…

And that’s when I realized there was a strong possibility they weren’t from here.

Or maybe they were, and we had not seen them in a very long time.

And then I puked, because the jostling and rotation of the ball had my head actually spinning, too. The ball was gyroscoped, and it kept me upright, but I had never had a good stomach for roller coasters, and this felt like the ride from hell.

As I got my bearings, I saw Leslie’s ball speeding past me. The sides of her ball were all scratched, like something with big nails had tried to get in.

We both bumped into cars trying to escape, and pinballed until we came to a stop in someone’s front yard.

She took a second to look over, then we both looked back at my Dad’s house, which had been flattened. We saw a long, pointed tail drag over it, demolishing every window and wall.

By the time it disappeared, you couldn’t even tell there was a house there.

We sat for a moment and tried to catch our breath.

She was mumbling words to me, but I couldn’t hear anything. I could see fear in her eyes, so all I could muster was… “It’ll be okay,” which I had to mouth to her twice for her to get it.

She shook her head, “No.”

Even through the thick polymer, I understood her. And I sighed in agreement.

We took the landscape in. From this vantage point, we could see billows of smoke in the distance, and knew this was not isolated to our corner of the world.

This was everywhere, and it was really bad.

On the wooded side, tall trees were tossed into the air like they were nothing. Scars emerged in the forest; our attackers left muddy footprints the size of football fields.

The beasts had spread out over the vista, but there were more flying in the sky. They flapped leathery wings and swooped down like fighter jets, skimming the ground and gyrating away from debris.

I could see them feasting both near and far. They tossed red masses into the air or eviscerated them on the ground. They looked like they were in the buffet line.

My brain was trying to catch up with my eyes to understand what was going on, and that’s when I understood… they were eating people.

One by one, I saw them leap from tree cover, swoop down, and snatch and claw.

This was classic predation behavior, but this wasn’t the Serengeti.

It was fucking Connecticut.

Our hamster balls had stopped rolling in the front yard of some random rich couple. They were outside in their Lululemon active gear, gawking at the destruction.

They had a bunch of horses in their front yard. They were much smarter and had taken off, leaping over their fences and heading toward the woods.

If they were as smart as them, they would have followed.

But modern humans lack the foresight of wild animals.

Instead, they looked from the sky at us, then ran to the balls.

One of those giant things spotted them and swooped from the clouds. Its snout pressed the woman against my ball, wrapped its tongue around her, and then swallowed her whole.

I rocked back and forth as the man charged the beast, but he was snatched up by the claw on one of the giants and lifted into the clouds.

His screams died out as the animal flapped far away; the initial wind from its wings blew us back down the country lane, rolling at a leisurely pace.

We rolled past cars retreating and even a few people in golf carts.

A few of the flying beasts spotted us and landed atop the house to get a better look. They swooped back and forth, taking out stragglers until just our hamster balls remained in the grass.

The roof of the house these winged monsters rested on cracked and cracked under their weight.

As the attic and brick walls caved in, they jumped down and stomped across the yard, long tongues flicking at Leslie’s ball first. Our roll was too slow, and they caught up quickly.

She was screaming so loudly I could hear it through the cacophony of noise surrounding us.

One of the monsters bit down on her ball with its alligator snout.

Its teeth slid off the glass, which I had come to believe had to be some sort of indestructible polymer. The kaiju quickly gave up, but not before its tail smashed into my ball and sent me rolling down the road.

The last I saw of Leslie, a massive foot had pushed her ball deep into the mud of that front yard and rolled her into what used to be a vast koi pond.

I supposed she would be safe under the surface there, but I had no idea how we would get out of these things and how much air we’d have left, too.

My ball bounced off a John Deere someone had left behind. As I grasped around, trying to loosen the straps holding me in, I felt another rumble.

My ball skidded into a smashed Volkswagen and rested.

Perhaps the biggest of these monsters I’d seen was now walking toward me. It had feet the size of 18-wheelers, and its body drooped in long, thick fur.

You could call it sort of a woolly mammoth, but it was leaner, and its eyeballs bulged on the sides of its head and rotated quickly, assessing the situation as it lumbered.

My ball had rolled many miles from where I started. And somehow, I was back where my day began, just down the road from the Miller residence, staring at the two old oaks that remained.

For just a beat, I centered myself and took a deep breath.

That’s when a paw crunched down on one of the oak trees I so loved, but it amazingly missed the one I was now under.

The beast seemed to groan with every step.

As it passed over me, I could see some people clinging onto the fur, as well as long strands of debris caught in its hair. They were dropping and hitting the ground, likely not surviving those falls. I closed my eyes and tried to pivot as bodies fell near me and didn’t get back up.

As soon as the thumping ceased, I opened my eyes and assessed the damage.

The rain was creating incredibly sloppy conditions, and my ball had slid into a part of the destroyed road into a drainage pipe that ran underneath the other giant oak.

And these traipsing monsters left pond-sized footprints that were quickly filling with rain. I saw flash floods of debris and corpses crossing the fields, all headed toward me in this new ditch.

The water and debris hit me with a thud and lifted me and spun me around again until my ball boinked off the stone garden wall.

I was now in another ditch, and mud and grime swirled around me, covering the ball.

Just a few hours ago, I was out here helping a horse. Now I watched as animals I had never seen before marched through the field, toward the town.

They destroyed shopping centers and car parks as they went, knocking into apartment buildings and spraying fire and brimstone when necessary.

I saw a birdlike monster with a bear’s head swoop from the air, pick up a fire truck, and drop it on a church before plucking its inhabitants out and swallowing them whole.

The visceral acceptance of leaving the top of the food chain made me feel clammy.

I caught my breath and tried to wipe the condensation from inside the ball.

There was no sign of anyone out there, and no sign of Leslie. I looked the two hundred or so yards up the lane where I left her ball, but could see nothing.

I banged on the glass inside, but to my surprise, it started to turn grey. It was tinting from the inside. At first I thought this was my doing, but even the bottom I couldn’t reach was changing.

That’s when I heard the hissing. There was some sort of pink liquid filling the ball from tubes hidden in the spirals of the ball.

I looked down, but there were no leaks. This liquid was coming from inside the apparatus and rising; now it was mid-thigh, covering everything in front of me.

The interior of the ball became a computer screen with words that read: “Protective lining released” and then “Cryofreezing initiated.”

“You gotta be shitting me.”

The exterior of the ball was now rock-like and impenetrable. As the pink goop covered my face and neck, I gagged and swallowed some, but soon found I was able to breathe even though I was now completely submerged.

The goo was thick and cold. I could see it freezing solid from the bottom upward. I felt a wave of calm wash over me as the ball's exterior grew opaque, and a deep sleep whisked me away.

My last thoughts were for the world I was leaving behind, and a fear of what I would wake up to see. But nothing would have prepared me for the changes that would occur over the next 100 years. I’d just have to see it to believe it.

And even then, it would take me a while to understand...

​

“And that why I am here to destro-”

There's a tug on my cape.

I have planned EVERYTHING - there are wards and guards and gun turrets and minions manning consoles and lazer-sharks-with-knife-teeth but no, now, someone has broken through enough to tug on my fucking cape?!

Heads are literally going to roll, but I'm curious - I turn, she smiles, and I recoil.

It's fucking Junior Miss Impossible.

“I hate my dad,” she grinningly lisps by way of explanation.

“So do I,” I mumble in an attempt at conversation.

Resources retreat and focus inwards and that's when she gets even more terrifying - nothing is amiss. I have no idea how she got in…

…And also she seems to be a fan of me?

“Dad hates this villain shit,” she sneers, condemnation dripping with each syllable. She's trying so hard to be cool that her words are literally freezing mid-air. I climb past shit and villain to get closer to her. I want to ask her how she did this and shut it the fuck down so I can go about my victory, but the thought and instinct freezes and I find myself unable to move.

I forgot her mother was a telepath.

“You'd better not lie to me, Mister Evil,” she chides and I know I can't.

All I can do is sit and wait, and what she eventually proposes makes me requestion my profession, for she wants to be my apprentice so help me god-

—

I'm unenthusiastic about training but she quickly realizes that and finds ways to motivate me. I'm fortunate to be skilled with icing burns. Molecular Man can control-

"The name is lame," she sneers, and I agree. We need something more punchy.

“You need to find a niche,” she urges me, pushing me to be the right type of evil for my demographic.

Sometimes I wonder who is leading who but then we dive into another session and all I can think about is evading her attacks.

She's skilled in a way I've never seen. It's terrifying - as the training continues, I keep thinking about what someone like HER would be like unleashed.

I had once thought a protege would enhance my own nature and skill, but seeing someone with such raw talent has terrified me.

I want no part of the world she is making.

—

And so I surrender myself, while babbling about her. I'm not the danger - she is.

I can't be a villain in a world where I hate what villainy has become. So lock me up, keep me safe, because I know she's coming for me first.

I trained her.

I made her.

I know her.

And she lies.

—)---

“And how was your day at work, dear?”

She kisses her papa on the cheek and settles into a seat at the table. It's roast lamb with mint sauce - her favorite.

“I think I did well, daddy,” she says, brightly smiling and haloed in innocence.

“Only took five training sessions to get him.”

And then her mouth is full, consumption overriding, as she eats.

She likes lamb.

It all started with a joke i didn't undarstand. A meme about how someone died from having too many teeth. I didn't think much of it. Now I'm anxious about jokes I don't understand.

At the time my mother discovered her overbearing parenting style was uneffective and switched to just not giving a shit. So I dropped out of school and started working at the local Carls Junior.

One day when I was smoking with my colleagues, they started talking about extra teeth killing people. I asked

– What the fuck are you talking about?

So they explained it to me: worldwide people started reporting extra teeth growing on random parts of their bodies. Sometimes they could grow on the inside, cutting through organs and flesh. Some people died from internal bleeding. A tooth could grow on your hand and it would be harmless. It could also grow on the back of your head and cut off the oxygen from your brain. They showed me a picture. It was gross but unconvincing.

Then suddenly the tooth plague became a reality. The state imposed quarantine. People still went outside. Hospitals and morgues were full. I heard that patient zero turned out to be some photographer in the North Pole. He fell under the ice and a prehistoric amoeba crawled into his brain.

My parents did not believe we were all gonna die.

– Just do as doctors say and it will be fine.

Doctors were saying that bacteria passed in unclear water and were getting into humans through the eyes. They recommended avoiding rain and wearing swimming goggles at all times.

Some activist wanted to prove it was bullshit. He posted a video in which he submerged into a swamp. It was funny. Later he suffocated when teeth grew through his lungs. That was even funnier. I was acting like it was stupid, but I still wore my goggles.

I turned 18. My father put candles in a burger, then I went outside and drank beer with my former classmate. My glasses pressed too hard. I took them off. It rained. Next day I was an adult.

An adult with a strange pain in the left eye. I paced around in a bathroom reading symptoms of the tooth plague.   At all added up.   I realised I was dying and couldn't breathe. Now it seems kinda funny. Even if I grew a tooth somewhere I don't know where.

Half a year later roomers began to circulate about the pill that would prevent tooth plague symptoms. It shattered to sand the first subject's bones, but they fixed it quickly. Teeth mostly killed newborns and old people so I decided not to bother.

I moved out and rented an apartment with some friends. I started to smoke. We all drank a lot and everybody got some shitty jobs.

My ex-classmate texted me: our biology teacher died from late discovered teeth in her brain. She was one of the good ones and I wanted to see if I got scared of a dead body. So I went to her funeral. The ceremony was poorly attended. Her daughter cried. Other than that, it went quieter than I expected. It was a closed-cascet funeral.

My friends and I had a falling out. I moved back to my parents. I quit smoking for the first time. Met a girl. Now it's hard to remember exactly how long we've been together. Before acid rains, so it has probably been about five years now.

Where I live we almost don't get acid storms. So when I walk past homeless people with flesh melting off their faces I have to remind myself: I'm lucky, they're not. That's life.

Sometimes before bed or on my way to work I become nostalgic for the teeth plague. Yes, people died and it really was a dark time. But somehow I can't help myself.

The letter arrived at dusk.

Not by post, precisely. Post did not reach the castle in any ordinary sense. It came instead folded into the breast of a frightened man who had been paid too much to ask too few questions, and who left the instant the Count took it from him.

Dracula broke the seal beneath a single lamp.

Messrs. Hawkins & Harker.

His dark eyes moved once across the page.

A solicitor’s clerk would be sent.

Young.

English.

Expected within the week.

For several moments, the Count stood perfectly still.

Then he looked around the great hall.

Dust lay silver upon the unused chairs.

A cobweb stretched between the antlers above the fireplace.

One of the wall hangings had come loose at the corner and sagged with the exhausted air of something that had been waiting three hundred years for someone else to fix it.

Dracula frowned.

This would not do.

He rang a bell.

The sound echoed magnificently through the castle.

No one came.

Dracula waited.

Still no one came.

Naturally.

He crossed the room, opened the door through which a servant ought to have entered, and vanished into the corridor.

The next six nights were extremely busy.

The guest chamber came first.

Dracula stripped the bed himself, carrying the ancient linens away beneath one arm with an expression of grave aristocratic displeasure. Fresh sheets were retrieved from a cedar chest. He shook them out, regarded the result, then shook them again.

He had not made a bed in some time.

After several attempts, he stood at its foot and examined the blankets.

One corner was longer than the other.

His mouth tightened.

He remade the entire thing.

The room was aired, though opening the windows admitted mostly fog and the distant howling of wolves. The Count dusted the furniture with an old linen cloth, polished the brass basin, replenished the pitcher, and placed a small stack of towels beside it.

He stopped.

Three towels.

Too few?

He considered Englishmen.

Four towels.

Better.

Then came the dining room.

Dracula dragged six chairs away from the table and left only two.

Too intimate.

He returned two.

Too formal.

After twenty minutes, the table had four chairs arranged around it, although there would only ever be two occupants.

That looked correct.

Silver was polished.

Candlesticks were cleaned.

The Count discovered, with evident irritation, that one candlestick had developed a green stain near the base.

He scrubbed harder.

The stain remained.

Dracula stared at it.

The next evening, there was a different candlestick.

The kitchen proved more troublesome.

The Count did not eat.

This had certain disadvantages when entertaining.

He opened cupboards one after another.

Flour.

Salt.

Dried beans.

Several onions of questionable age.

A wheel of cheese.

Something in a jar whose identity had been lost to history.

Dracula removed the jar, carried it outside, and threw it into the ravine.

He consulted books.

Englishmen, according to one volume, liked beef.

According to another, they liked mutton.

A third suggested kidney.

Dracula closed the third book.

“No.”

He arranged for provisions to be purchased anonymously in the village.

The following night, he stood in the kitchen wearing a dark waistcoat with his sleeves rolled carefully to the elbow, regarding a joint of meat as if it had personally insulted him.

The meat went into a pan.

Then out.

Then back in after Dracula consulted the book again.

Potatoes were peeled.

One slipped from his hand and rolled beneath a cabinet.

He stared at it.

The potato remained where it was.

Dracula slowly bent down and retrieved it.

Later, he prepared soup.

The first attempt was too salty.

The second was not salty enough.

The third was acceptable.

He poured all three into one pot.

Acceptable enough.

The wolves howled outside.

“Quiet.”

The wolves stopped.

On the fifth night, Dracula practiced answering the door.

He stood behind the great entrance and opened it with deliberate slowness.

Too theatrical.

Again.

He opened it more quickly.

Too eager.

Again.

A long pause. The door swung inward.

Perfect.

“Welcome to my house.”

He considered this.

“Enter freely and of your own will.”

Better.

He repeated it several times until the words sounded spontaneous.

Then he practiced taking a coat.

He had forgotten where coats were ordinarily put.

Eventually he settled upon a chest in the hall, reasoning that no guest would be likely to inquire closely into the domestic arrangements of a Transylvanian castle.

On the final evening, the Count walked through every room Harker was expected to see.

Fire lit.

Wine poured.

Meal ready.

Guest room prepared.

Dining table set.

No dust visible in direct candlelight.

Dracula paused beside the staircase and listened.

From somewhere far below came the faint drip of water.

From outside, wolves.

Otherwise, silence.

He smiled.

An excellent household.

At last, the sound of wheels reached him from the mountain road.

Dracula’s expression changed instantly.

All trace of exertion vanished.

His shoulders settled.

His face became composed, remote, almost bored.

He descended the staircase at an unhurried pace, stopping only once to straighten a cushion he had forgotten.

Then he reached the door.

Behind him, the castle stood glowing with fires he had lit, beside a dinner he had cooked, beneath chandeliers he had cleaned, with a bed upstairs whose corners had taken him forty-five minutes.

The carriage stopped.

A knock sounded.

Count Dracula waited three beats.

Not two.

Two would seem eager.

Then he opened the door.

“Welcome to my house,” he said smoothly. “Enter freely and of your own will.”

Jonathan Harker stepped inside and looked around in wonder at the grand old castle and its mysterious unseen servants.

Dracula inclined his head.

Effortless

Backstage I listen intently as Courtney goes over the years financial successes. Sales are up 60% as a result of the global expansion. Latin American and European markets growing steadily and our new manufacturing deal with Vietnam cut production costs by 30%. PCorp has officially become the most valuable kitchen utilities company in the world. After Courtney, Rob is slated to go on to talk about our next launch. This was big news as we just started designing it a few months ago, and now it’s ready for purchase. It was the fastest appliance product development cycle of all time. This is Rob’s baby and he is clearly very excited. I always liked Rob and Courtney. I wonder how they will respond to today’s news. After the CFO and CTO present, Trevor, our CEO will talk, and after him I come on for a special announcement. 

At some point during the speeches I completely zone out. I’m feeling nervous. I’d spoken at a dozen of these PCorp Texpo’s before. It is at this stage where our company makes its biggest announcements of the year: new products, partnerships, goals, and of course, changes of leadership. A dozen times I stood up there in front of two thousand different eyeballs while reading off a teleprompter and skirting around the spotlight, but not once before was I nervous. My heart was pounding and my hands were stiff; I could not go on stage like this. 

‘Snap out of this..’ I plead to myself. ‘Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out’ I repeated over and over again. ‘Remember what you’re doing this for!’

I first came to PCorp 15 years ago. Back when they were just an acorn of the mighty oak the world sees today. There were 6 employees on one cramped floor of a small office building. I was fresh out of school, on the hunt for my first job. Trevor said he would get me by the door at 3 and my watch read 2:55. I was feeling good for this interview. I was qualified, prepared, and most importantly of all, I was wearing my lucky shirt, the one I wore for every big moment of my adult life thus far. It was an emerald green button up with 12 buttons and white spirals all over. It was different from the type of shirts people usually wore but it was my favorite and it was awesome. 

From the elevator foyer I could see the space in its totality. What it lacked in natural light it made up for with warm bright lighting overhead and the fun colorful lamps strewn about. I saw a couple big computers, and a designer working on an early version of our first big product, the PCorp Ultimate Carrot Peeler. Someone working at a desk across the room gave me a smile and a wave. Other than the subtle odor of paint the place seemed great, and I’m sure I could get used to the smell. 

While I was waiting I noticed my shoe was untied. As I reached down to tie it I felt a very wet sensation when my back grazed against the wall. Only then I realized that the smell I had noticed earlier was from the very freshly painted wall I had just touched, and my back was certainly covered in the stuff. In a panic I tried to wipe it off with my hand, and then wiped my hand on the front of my shirt, which of course in hindsight, was a terrible idea. I started to freak out, not only was I about to go into an interview with pastel blue paint smeared all over me, but my favorite shirt was completely ruined. The biggest and coolest white spiral was barely visible now. I jumped quickly from feeling anxiety to embarrassment to rage. I was furious, why didn’t they put a sign about the paint. 

You would think that this incident would have ruined my whole interview as well as my desire to work for this shirt ruining company. Instead, something weirder happened. Looking down at the paint stains, I felt a rush of energy, unlike anything I’d experienced before. I somehow saw in that brief moment, my entire future: hardship, endurance, success, fame, power, then collapse.  The vision left just as abruptly as it came, my mind became still.  I now had a purpose.

All the anger I felt mere moments ago subsided, channeled into fuel, which became charisma. Trevor came over, saw my shirt and immediately apologized for the debacle, admitting that he forgot to get a sign placed. I could tell he was tense and feeling bad about it so I  immediately made an impeccable joke, disarming him and proving my wit all in one breath; ‘It’s no problem, this is only my favorite shirt…’. We both laughed profusely. Needless to say they hired me that day. 

A burst of applause snaps me out of my reminiscing as Rob comes back off the stage. The crowd must  have loved the PCorp Automatic Melon Scooper System IV. Just as the noise dies down, Trevor runs on stage and the crowd erupts again. He is a controversial figure, but the people who love him LOVE him. To them, he is less of a business man and more of a demi-god. I know better though. Everyone looks great when you see the win; not the corners cut or the people hurt during each move. Trevor was a competent leader and smart negotiator, but at the end of the day he was still a man, and all men have flaws. 

From my first day at PCorp I had always been a hard worker. I would stay late, help where I was needed, and follow every instruction. It was not long before Trevor took me under his wing. He gave me more and more opportunities. I went from building someone’s product to designing the product to leading product designers. I talked to clients, negotiated with manufacturers, and led marketing campaigns. More than anything though, I pushed Trevor to take risks, to do things most people would not think or be willing to do. For the sake of the business of course. Everyone knew I was next in line to replace Trevor one day, but what only Trevor and I knew was that today was that day. Trevor had led us through massive growth, but it was not without sacrifice. We both agreed that it was time for me to take the reins before people saw the truth.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have one final speaker tonight, and he has some very important news. Please put your hands together in welcoming Chief Operating Officer, Josh Stoller to the stage!’ That was my cue. I jump out of my seat and hustle to the stage. I take one final deep breath. ‘It’s now or never, time to burn this mother fucker to the ground.’ I say to myself. On my way up the stage Trevor pulls me aside to whisper good luck. ‘You really should have put a sign up, you ruined my favorite shirt.’ I reply. He gives me a confused look as  I pull away and step into center stage. I face the crowd as they look at me in anticipation, and I talk into the microphone. 
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it makes me so glad to be standing here in front of you all during this pivotal moment in PCorp’s history. I know you must all be so excited to hear what this big secret announcement is. But before we get into that, I want to give you all an exclusive behind the scenes look at what has made PCorp perform so exceptionally these past few years.’ And so I do. 
As I list the many crimes committed for the sake of PCorp’s growth, I rip the buttons off of  my jacket. Financial fraud,  snap, releasing dangerous and untested products, snap, bribery of the Vietnamese labor bureau,  snap, cartel money fueling our Latin American expansion, snap. 
‘AND WORST OF ALL…’* *I let my jacket fall to the floor, revealing a faded green button down with many paint stains and some barely discernable spirals on it. ‘WE LEFT WET PAINT UNMARKED AND RUINED MY FAVORITE SHIRT!’ 
The once roaring audience was dead silent, and by the end of it all, Trevor aged 20 years and grew 4 shades more pale.
Trevor Gordon killed himself 48 hours after the conference. My very public announcement unsurprisingly invited legal investigations. Given that all of the allegations were true, Trevor was sure to have spent the rest of his miserable pathetic life in prison and thus went out on his own terms instead. That left the mountain of responsibility to fall to someone else, and as his number 2 that someone was me. The FBI stormed our office, confiscated documents, and threw me in handcuffs. I didn’t resist, I had accepted long ago that the path I chose would lead me here. I spent 15 years building PCorp from nearly nothing into a pillar of the global economy, and then in 15 minutes; I crushed that pillar to rubble, and Trevor let it happen. It was almost too easy to convince him that the glory of what we built would absolve us of the crimes we commit. But what he thought was his palace, was really my house of cards. Although I do not regret a thing, it’s almost funny  to think that this whole thing could have been avoided with just 3 words. CAUTION: WET PAINT.