Idestam eyed the clock. The second hand impassively ticked across the clock’s face. He couldn’t hear it, but imagined a bass drum beating out a marching beat to it. Each swipe of the metal hand made another strike on the drum. The rhythm, though in Idestam’s head, accented the monotony. The chair he sat in creaked as Idestam leaned back to look through a door propped open on the other side of the bank lobby.

Christiansen chewed a new stick of gum as he watched the younger agent.

“Places to be, kid?”

Idestam looked back. “No, no. She just said the manager would be here in a minute. It’s been quite a few minutes.”

“Get some shut eye,” recommended the senior agent. “It’s nice to have nothing to do.”

“Well,” Idestam said slowly. “Yeah. But, then again, the lobby of a bank isn’t exactly a great place for a snooze.”

“It’s a bank. They’re white-collar. Any drama here is not going to be in our wheelhouse.”

“Not according to Dreamland,” countered Idestam in a hushed tone. He kept the monitor briefcase against his chest and continued watching the lobby. The interior decoration appeared historic. Gold facades traveled along the walls and ceiling. Oil paintings sat in wooden frames. Even the lighting inside was held in emerald glass sconces. The floor consisted of marble tiling.

A few patrons of the bank quietly conversed with tellers through brass bar windows. A lady in pumps and a pink dress pushed a baby carriage as the security guard held a door open for her. She thanked the man in a heavy, British accent. The security guard, potbellied and gray-haired, welcomed her inside while Idestam watched the two.

“It’ll turn out to be a big ol’ pot of nothing soup. Just like the last two times.” Christiansen shrugged. He settled his hands in his lap and rested his head on the wall behind him. The old man closed his eyes with a slight grin.

“What’s the ratio on… you know, negative to positive… soups,” asked Idestam. His eyes landed on a man hunched over the island in the middle of the lobby. The man wiped at an inflamed nose vigorously with a dirty napkin. Every few wipes, he stopped to pinch at his nostrils with it. Bloodshot, jaundiced eyes flitted around the room as he wiped. A forced, nasally breath into the saturated cloth echoed in the lobby’s raised ceiling.

“Things are going to get a lot less boring for you if you disturb my nap,” cautioned Christiansen with a murmur.

“Right. Right,” said Idestam. He continued his absent-minded surveillance of the bank’s interior. Over here, a young bank teller smiled and wished a businessman a good day as he left. Over there, a woman filled out paperwork at a desk under the eye of an accountant. At the counter, two teenage boys stood waiting on the teller. An older woman, the teller, counted out dollars while smiling at them over the top of her glasses. One boy fidgeted with a skateboard he held at his waist. The other one, taller and more bedraggled, looked from the money on the counter to the door and back again, repeatedly. He ran a hand through messy, brown hair as he watched the lady count and then watched the door. Idestam kept his gaze on the tall one.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” The bank employee from earlier approached the two agents. “Mr. Mosby said if you’d like to wait in his office, I can take you there.” She offered with a polite smile.

Christiansen took to his feet and clapped his hands together. His southern charm persona resumed itself effortlessly as he spoke. “Excellent. I’m sure we could do with a change in scenery. Though my partner was just commenting on the old-timey decor. Very nice place.”

The woman kept her smile. “Yes, it’s one of the oldest in Northern California. Our history goes back to the Gold Rush. We like to preserve as much of the old architecture as we can.”

Idestam and Christiansen followed the employee back past the tellers desk and into a longer room full of cubicles. The gold trim and oak walls continued on in here, though with modern light in place of the old-fashioned lamps. A few office workers tapping away at computers ignored the agents as they were led through the room. Through the room, into another hallway, the men passed a staircase and were brought to a wooden door with frosted glass. The woman opened it and beckoned inside.

A broad, dark wood desk stood inside with a personal computer and several stacks of paper. A coat rack held a brown suit coat and hat. On shelves around the desk, someone had arranged leather bound books and small, statuesque bookends. A large, arching window let sunlight cascade into the room behind the desk. Just beneath the window, a small globe shared a bench with a leafy plant and a plaque commemorating thirty years of work.

“Please, have a seat,” The woman pointed to two, leathercraft chairs against the wall. Both agents nodded and sat. The bank employee left, closing the door behind her. Christiansen immediately stood up again and pointed to the monitor briefcase.

“Crack ’er open, kid. Let’s get started.”

“What if the manager comes back while we’re scanning?” Idestam asked as he undid the clasps on the briefcase.

“That’s why we’re doing it quickly. Besides, they think we’re Secret Service. C’mon. Give me the EMF reader.”

Idestam pulled the thin remote out and handed it to Christiansen. As the senior agent began sweeping it around the room, Idestam pulled the Geiger counter out of the briefcase. He checked its battery before turning it on and pointing it towards the desk.

Christiansen finished his sweep and shook his head. “Not much. You get anything, kid?”

Idestam turned the Geiger counter off. “No. A little elevation, but nothing to write home about.” Idestam slid the device back into its holster inside the monitor. He took the EMF reader when Christiansen handed it back. Into the monitor it went, and Idestam clicked the briefcase closed.

“All right. We tried scanning the parking garage behind the bank. This office is on the back end of things. The Office said they detected a Signal burst somewhere back here. What do you think?”

“I think you’ll be having frozen yogurt very soon,” Idestam said. He looked around the office. “This place feels like a… discount Bond villain’s office. Before he reveals the evil lair?”

“James Bond?” Christiansen asked after a moment’s thought. “Like, GoldenEye and stuff?”

“Yeah, you know it. This is like the front for the evil guy.”

“Well, it is a bank,” said Christiansen as he thought further.

The door flung open. A large man with red cheeks and sweat stains under the arms stood in the doorway. Christiansen and Idestam exchanged a look. Christiansen slowly stood up and offered a hand.

“Hi, I’m Age--”

“--yes, you men are from the Secret Service, correct? Yes?” The man asked breathlessly.

Both agents nodded. Idestam gripped the briefcase against him. He looked the newcomer up and down. The dress pants matched the jacket on the coat hook. A striped dress shirt struggled to remain tucked in around the man’s expansive waist. The man dabbed a cloth across his forehead with deep breaths.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but, erm, could you come with me please?” The man flung both arms in a motion towards the hall as he stepped back out of the office. Christiansen nodded and followed him out. Idestam rose out of his chair and hurried after the men.

“I’m Mr… Mr. Mosby,” the large man huffed as he led them back through the hallway and down the staircase they’d seen earlier. “Apologize for my… present state. We’ve never had this happen before.”

Christiansen looked back at Idestam with a large grin and gave a thumbs up as they descended the stairs. Idestam set his jaw. The concrete stairs echoed their footsteps around them.

“Had what happen, sir?” Idestam asked the bank manager.

The bank manager paused on a break in the staircase. He put both hands on his knees and struggled to draw in a deep breath. The man shook his head as he tried to respond. “The vault timer. Only opens at certain times. We opened it today and…” he righted himself and waved the men on.

They descended the stairs into a bleak, concrete hallway. Rounding the corner, Idestam came to face several security guards from both the bank and an armored car company standing outside a large steel door. The circular door could have been a movie set. It hung open on massive, metal hinges and blocked his view into the vault. The bank guards held pistols. The armored car employee stood off to one side, hand on his holstered weapon. Everyone wore confused, worried looks.

“Excuse me, folks,” Christiansen said. He waved the men back. He and Idestam received perplexed glances, but the security guards obeyed when Mr. Mosby motioned them to. Christiansen walked around the vault door and stopped. He shot Idestam an interested look, put both hands on his hips, and looked back into the vault. “Huh.”

Idestam passed the gathered men and walked to Christiansen’s side. Along the walls of the vault’s interior, steel lockboxes stood in columns on all three sides. A small steel table in the center sat barren. And, in front of the table, a man stood bearing the demeanor of someone both puzzled and inconvenienced.

“Good morning,” the man said hesitantly. His voice sounded like something out of a Hollywood western. His thick mustache and thin spectacles matched his voice. The man’s hands gripped the edges of a frock coat, holding it over his shoulders. The coat flared out at the man’s waist. Straight cut trousers rose up to meet the silk vest and button-up shirt he wore under the jacket. The strangest appearance of the man came in the form of a dusty top hat on his head.

Christiansen stared at the man. Looking him up and down, Christiansen turned to Mr. Mosby.

“So… I take it he wasn’t here when you last closed the vault?”

Mr. Mosby sputtered. “No! Not at all. We had… we had an alarm sensor trip this morning. It detected movement. But I checked the door and it hadn’t been opened since. I figured a passing truck or something set it off.”

“Happen often, rush hour traffic triggering your state-of-the-art security system?” Christiansen asked with a sly smile.

“Play nice,” murmured Idestam.

“We had no reason to suspect this… man to be here!” protested Mr. Mosby. “In all my years here, we’ve never had a problem.”

“And, you didn’t want to cause a fuss or draw attention to your bank,” concluded Christiansen with a nod. He turned back to the man. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“I must say--” The man started, but Mr. Mosby interrupted.

“I-I want this man arrested. Arrested! You’re Secret Service. He’s breaking into a bank. This is clearly a failed attempt to breach one of California’s most historic financial institutions and humiliate us.” Mr. Mosby wagged a finger at the man as he panted. “In all my time here. All my time. We’ve never had such a thing happen.”

“Right,” Christiansen said. He examined the vault with a squint. “This daring cat burglar just broke in here without disturbing anything or raiding any of the safety deposit boxes. He merely waited around to be caught. Right after… seemingly appearing out of thin air.” Christiansen gave a sideways glance to Idestam, who set his jaw and nodded.

“Cat burglar?” The strange man asked. “You must be mistaken. I was with your associate, Mister Spencer, to make a deposit when everything… changed.” He gestured around the vault.

“There is no Spencer here,” countered Mr. Mosby. The bank manager’s breathing steadied, but sweat continued to streak over his balding head. “I would know. I know every employee here.”

Idestam kept the briefcase in one hand as he stepped into the vault. Christiansen followed him in. The stranger took a step back with a glare towards Mr. Mosby.

“I dare say he’s more than an employee. He and Mister Brockheim founded this institution, of which’s services I have exercised for safe storage. Go and fetch him. He’ll recognize me. We’ve never had any problems with this arrangement.”

“Well, this is one, big problem for you, now,” muttered Idestam.

“What did you say?” The man asked.

Idestam didn’t answer. Christiansen turned to face the others behind them. He smiled and opened his arms in a welcoming posture.

“This, in fact, happens to be the man we’ve been looking for,” Christiansen announced to the bystanders.

“I am?” Asked the man.

“He-- Yes, he is,” Idestam caught himself with a nod. “You are.”

“You’re under arrest,” Christiansen told the man.

“You don’t even know who I am,” scoffed the man with a hand on his chest.

“Of course, we do. You’ve been robbing banks all along the West Coast these past few years and now, thanks to the security in this fine institution,” Christiansen tipped his head towards Mr. Mosby and the security guards. The senior agent began to pace in the small space between the vault entrance and the strange. He clicked his teeth. “...we have finally caught you.”

Mr. Mosby tried, poorly, to hide his surprise, but nodded along as Christiansen spoke.

“Bank robber? Bank robber? I am no ba--”

“Mister Mosby!” Christiansen loudly proclaimed, opening his arms wide. “Of course. That was the point of this whole operation. And now we have him. Hook, line, and sinker. All thanks to you red-blooded Americans doing your part,” he motioned to all of the bank employees watching. “And, as promised, there is a reward for his capture. A little something from Uncle Sam to thank you for being such diligent stewards of our economic safety.”

Some of the security guards began to exchange small smiles. A few men nodded to each other. Mr. Mosby cleared his throat.

“A r-reward?” He asked politely.

“Of course! You remember the dispatch the Secret Service sent to you all. I’m sure you can be trusted to dispense it amongst your staff,” Christiansen said with a playful smile. Idestam suppressed a grin of his own as he watched the older agent work.

“After all, this expertly-planned sting operation went without a hit--”

A loud, metallic clang sound barked from upstairs. The harsh noise reverberated throughout the hall. Its staccato report bounced off of the walls and ceiling in the vault. Everyone’s attention snapped towards the stairwell.

“What the hell was--”

“That was a gunshot.”

“Yeah, that’s a weapon!” The guards all exclaimed to each other. Fresh worry deepened their already anxious expressions. The men shifted in place. People looked past Mr. Mosby to Christiansen.

An additional gunshot and several screams came from upstairs. An alarm began to bleat throughout the building. A revolving light in the ceiling of the vault flashed red hues across the walls as it spun into action. The bank’s security froze. Mr. Mosby’s face drained of all color. The massive vault door groaned as it automatically started closing. Christiansen and Idestam exchanged a glance before Christiansen clapped his hands.

“And those would be his partners-in-crime! Gentlemen, hop to!” He rallied the security and walked out of the vault. Christiansen waved them on. The men hesitantly nodded and left. The armored car employee stayed behind. Christiansen gestured for the man to follow. “You too, hero. You got that fancy vest on. We’ve got this man secure. Go on.”

“I’m just paid to get from point A to point B,” the man stammered in a weak protest.

“All right. Congratulations. I’m deputizing you into federal service. First order of business is to go make sure all those civilians are safe with that shiny side iron of yours.” Christiansen pointed in the direction of the stairs. Idestam took the strange man by the arm and pulled him along as they left the vault. The door slammed shut as both men cleared its threshold.

“I really don’t--”

“--either you go help the other guards, or I’ll see to it you do as much time in lockup as the bank robbers for accessory to the crime,” snapped Christiansen. The man meekly nodded and ran after the bank’s security.

Christiansen turned to the panting, pale Mr. Mosby. The bank manager mopped at his head with a handkerchief and stared vacantly down the hallway. His mouth hung open in silence.

“Mister Mosby. Mister Mosby,” tried Christiansen. He snapped his fingers in front of Mr. Mosby and whistled. “Mis-ter Mosby. Come back to us.”

Mr. Mosby’s eyes slide over towards the senior agent. The pupils dilated into dark ovals. He said nothing but continued to leave his mouth hanging. His lower lip quivered.

“Mister Mosby,” Christiansen spoke with a soft tone. “I would recommend you hurry on to your office. It would be safest there.”

“You r-really think so?”

“Yes, of course,” reassured Christiansen. “Someone rushes into a bank free-firing a weapon like that? They’re just after petty cash. No one needs the manager during times like these. Go on and collect yourself. Say, is there an exit on this level?”

“The… the cash car parks in an underground lot down… that way,” Mr. Mosby lifted a shaking finger up the hallway from the vault.

“Very good. No other ways out?” Christiansen asked. His calm demeanor seemed to steady Mr. Mosby who shook his head and coughed.

“We’re still remodeling. Everything down here is going to be storage and offices, but the garage is the only way out down here.”

“Very good, very good. You may go now, Mr. Mosby.”

The bank manager left in a rushed waddle without another word. More gunshots came from upstairs. Christiansen drew his service weapon with a look to Idestam.

“Research and Development are going to have a field day with this. A Class Four burst with him popping out of it? We’re having a great bowl of soup right now,” he remarked.

The man coughed. “I’m sorry, did you say research and dev-”

Christiansen interrupted the man as he took him by the shoulder. “Hey, check it out, you’re about to stay in a fancy hotel. Real swell place. Right this way. Kid, you got the monitor?”

“Right here,” said Idestam. He lifted the briefcase up and shook it slightly.

“Unhand me!” The stranger protested. “Arrested? I have never been treated so undignified! I demand to see Mister Spencer. Go fetch him. This instance.”

Christiansen stopped and leaned closer to the man. “Did you not hear the gunshots?” He asked evenly. “Are you absolutely certain this is a good time to be making demands?”

The man’s face screwed into an expression of anger and frustration. “I have been kept in the dark for God knows how long and now you treat me as a common miscreant. No, sir. No, you shall not.”

“I can leave you here to be shot. A bullet is a gamble. You’ll either die quickly like a farm animal or bleed on the floor as the robbers go through your pockets,” warned Christiansen. “Or, you could come with us. We’ll settle all of this for you. Questions answered and everything. But first, we have to leave.”

The man harrumphed and straightened the ends of his frock coat. “You will expect a harsh word from me to your superiors once outside. Arresting me. What a grave mistake you have made, I assure you.” Despite his protests, the man motioned forward. “Lead the way.”

The three of them traveled down the hallway at a quick pace. Christiansen checked over their shoulders every few steps. The gunfire subsided, though indecipherable shouts still came from upstairs. The security system’s shrill alarm continued its pestering.

“I’m sorry, what ‘service’ did you say you represent?” The man asked as Christiansen forced him to follow with a tight grip on his arm. “I haven’t caught either of your names. What a ferocious sound…” He added with a bewildered glare towards the ceiling.

“Secret Service,” lied Christiansen. “I’m Jupiter. This is Whiskers.”

“I say. A secret service? Is this an arm of the Federals?”

Christiansen gave him a quizzical glance, but he continued down the hallway. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re federal agents.”

“I don’t think I like your tone,” the man said.

“That’ll keep me up at night, I assure you,” said Christiansen.

“You speak with them like a genuine Virginian gentleman, but to me you take on the character of an uneducated factory boy,” the man spat. “I’ll have you know I am one of the top minds at the forefront of scientific discovery in this century.”

“Decade, maybe. We’ll figure out which one later,” said Christiansen as he hurried the man along.

“Decade?” The man asked in an incredulous tone. “Decade?”

“Later,” Christiansen said.

The men passed multiple dark hallways as they approached the garage. Leftover construction equipment sat scattered on the floors. Tarps hung from frames in the walls. A mobile light stand cast a long beam across an incomplete section of drywall.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed the man as he examined his surroundings. What happened to the clerks’ counter? And Mister Spencer’s office? The stagecoach’s relay desk?”

“It is imperative that you shut the hell up, right now,” warned Christiansen with a finger on his own lips.

Christiansen stopped at the door to the garage and motioned for the other two to stand on the other side. He waited for them before slowly opening the door. More crimson red light glimmered through the doorway as he swung it open.

Idestam glanced in. The armored car stood in the garage. Beyond it, a short ramp climbed up to street level. A barrier of metal sheeting stood in the way. The alarm’s red light reflected off the metal security grate. The klaxon’s harsh tones magnified inside the garage.

“Of course. It probably locked down the second someone pulled the alarm,” said Christiansen with an exasperated tone. He checked the hallway behind them.

“We could hide in the construction area and wait for the all-clear,” suggested Idestam.

“No. The Office’s Secret Service aliases are notoriously weak. Any form of law enforcement that sweeps through this building is going to double-check our IDs. Plus, there’s no explaining this guy. We’d get too much heat and probably lose him to the system. Give me the monitor. I’ll take it and him. You take point. We’re going to go up and out one of the fire exits.” Christiansen holstered his weapon and stuck a hand out. Idestam gave the briefcase to Christiansen before producing his own service weapon from out of his suit jacket. Christiansen took the monitor briefcase and then grabbed the man by the arm. “Stay very quiet. We’ll have to go back up the stairs.”

“Upstairs?” The man asked. “There’s no--”

“--there is no time for any of this,” Christiansen stopped him. “We’ll explain everything afterwards. Once we’re outside.”

“I daresay I’d rather an explanation now. This is an entirely inappropriate way to treat me after everything I have done for your bank.”

“Come on now,” Christiansen ordered with gritted teeth and moved to walk back up the hallway. The man wrested his arm out of Christian’s grasp and stepped back. He sneered and tilted his head back, glaring at Christiansen.

“While I admit this turn of events as of recent are unprecedented, I must protest your complete lack of decorum. I have patronized this fine establishment--”

“--Okay, listen close, cowboy.” Christiansen checked up the hallway. “I’ve promised my partner here to cut back on how often I, eh, harm folks in our line of work. But you, sir, are testing my integrity right now. The situation is a mite stressful and your cooperation would go a long ways in easing that.”

“Harm?” The man exclaimed in loud shock. “You insolent--”

Christiansen dropped the briefcase and seized the man in one fluid motion, pushing him against the wall and clamping a hand over his mouth. The man protested in muffled tones. Christiansen checked both ways and then glanced at Idestam. “I might shoot him.”

Idestam, already watching the stairwell, returned his glance. “Could prove quieter.”

“Hey, good news, you managed to get the kid and I to agree on something,” Christiansen hissed at their captive. The man’s eyes widened. “Play nice and we can get out of here safely. Home free, frozen yogurt. Can you stay quiet?”

The man gave a frantic nod and murmured something.

Christiansen broke his focus and smiled. He let go of the man and fixed his jacket for him, tugging at the ends of it. He dusted off one shoulder of the coat and then gave a big smile to Idestam. “See, kid? Character growth.”

“We have to move,” Idestaim said. “They may be coming down for the vault.”

“Right. You, behind us. Quiet. Nice. Home free, got it?” Christiansen asked. He picked up the briefcase.

“Y-yes.” The man agreed.

“Lead the way, kid,” ordered Christiansen.

The men advanced their way back to the stairwell. Idestam motioned with one hand for the others to stay back. Christiansen and their guest halted in the shadow of the stairs. Idestam crept up the barren, concrete steps and peered around the curve of the railing as the stairwell doubled back. He couldn’t see over the top of the stairs. Treading up them with careful quietness, Idestam held his service weapon ready as he reached the end of the stairwell.

A security guard laid against the wall beside a doorway leading to the front of the bank. Dark scarlet stains seeped through the man’s white uniform top. Slow, heavy breathing lifted one side of the man’s chest, with the other failing to rise and fall in unison. The man’s eyes lazily wandered towards Idestam. A pistol sat in his lap. Bloody smearing on the floor indicated how far the guard had crawled. The messy trail led back through the doorway.

Idestam’s head swiveled as he checked both ways before entering the hallway. He noted a fire exit down one end before returning to look at the guard. Idestam crouched and scrambled over to the guard’s side. The wounded man watched Idestam’s movements with sluggish eyes. His lips moved just as slowly with cyanotic blue tones overtaking his skin color.

“How many?” Asked Idestam in a low voice. He looked over the man through the doorway. It opened up into the cubicle space they’d been guided through before. He could see some officer workers on the ground, hands on their heads. Someone, it sounded from outside in the lobby, shouted orders at everyone. Idestam refocused on the wounded guard. “How many are out there?”

The man’s gaze appeared to pass through Idestam. He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he groaned and coughed blood across the tile floor.

Idestam’s training from the Army, from before the clandestine Post Office had recruited him, kicked in. He began to undo the man’s uniform shirt and ripped through the last few buttons on it. Underneath, a cheap vest of body armor bore a gaping hole in its fabric. Idestam grunted in frustration as he tore open the vest’s velcro closures. He passed his hand along the chest until his fingers slipped into the bullet hole. Idestam grabbed the man’s hand and placed it over the hole.

“Here. Hold this here. Stem the bleeding a little bit,” Idestam urged him. “How many gunmen are there?”

“Whiskers,” Christiansen’s harsh whisper came from the stairwell. “Whiskers, what the hell? There’s no time for this.”

Idestam looked back to see the senior agent leaning out of the stairwell. The old man glared and gestured around them. Idestam pointed at the guard and mouthed “He’s wounded.”

“C’mon, kiddo!” Christiansen seethed quietly. “I’m not looking to stick around and end up like him.”

Idestam muttered a curse and turned back to the guard. “Keep that hand there. We’ll send help.” He rose and glanced down the hallway before pointing to the fire exit and waving Christiansen forward. “This way.”

Christiansen left the stairwell with the strange man in tow. The man paused as he took in the wounded man, and he let out a loud “Oh, dear heavens…”

Christiansen wheeled back around and grabbed the man’s arm. “Shut the hell up. Are you crazy?”

“Who’s out there?” An angry voice called from inside the office space.

Christiansen wrenched on the man’s arm and dragged him down the hall. Christiansen's use of force caused the man to stumble and trip over his own feet. Christiansen sped towards the fire exit with the stranger in tow, ignoring his protests.

“Go, go,” said Idestam in a whisper as the senior agent passed him. “I’ve got this.”

Idestam began walking backwards as soon as the other two men left his sight. He heard angry shouting from up the hall, and focused his pistol’s sights towards the office doorway. His heartbeat thumped in his ears. Idestam forced himself to breathe slower and ignore the surge of adrenaline in him. He felt his chest loosening as he took deliberate, long draws of air through his nose.

And then, over the top of his pistol sights, he saw a figure step into the hallway. A red sports jacket. Jeans. A bandana tied over his nose and mouth. The man held a long-barreled shotgun with both hands gripping its wooden stock. He glanced at the wounded security guard in the hallway and then up at Idestam. Idestam fired one bullet.

The man recoiled back without a sound. A puff of red mist flew up out of the man’s chest. The force of the round twisted him backwards in an awkward spin. His body gave a large, dull thud as it hit the floor beside the guard. The noise’s echo became lost in the din of the security alarm.

“James!” Someone shouted elsewhere.

Idestam stopped walking. Kneeling down, he kept his eyes on the doorway. His hand searched the floor until it found his bullet’s shell. He pinched the spent shell casing up off the floor. It burned his fingers as he shoved it into a suit pocket.

Idestam stood back up just as someone else leaned out of the doorway. They pointed a long barrel at him and fired. The weapon belched a quick report. Idestam heard the sound of wasps zipping past him. Something stung the side of his neck. An icy coldness bit into Idestam.

“Goddamnit!” Christiansen shouted behind him.

Idestam fired two more rounds down the hall. He stopped to grab the shell casings again, but Christiansen shouted.

“Kid, help me here!”

Idestam looked back to see Christiansen at the fire exit, supporting the strange man’s collapsed form. He’d dropped the briefcase to catch him. The man braced himself on Christiansen and the wall with both arms. He struggled to stand and instead doubled over on himself.

Idestam snatched up the two brass shells on the ground. Turning, he ran to Christiansen.

The senior agent grunted as Idestam approached. “What, you're policing brass right now?”

“Leave no trace,” Idestam explained breathlessly. He helped hoist the man upright between the two agents.

Christiansen threw himself against the push bar of the fire exit, and the three of them stumbled out into an alleyway beside the bank. The man whimpered gibberish as they carried down the alleyway a few steps

“Hold him up,” Christiansen ordered Idestam as the senior agent let go of the man. He doubled back to the door. Leaning in, he grabbed the briefcase and the stranger’s discarded top hat. Christiansen then pulled the fire exit shut. As the door slammed close, the security alarm’s whining immediately muted. The klaxon’s screeching could be heard through the walls, but now it came out muddled and softened through the stone walls.

“I’ve been mortally wounded,” bemoaned the stranger. Idestam propped him up against the wall. The man rested his head back and furrowed his brow. The stark transition from the building to sunlight forced him to squint. “I never imagined my life ending in such a way. Snuffed out in my intellectual prime. I was going to change everything.”

“Where were you hit?” Asked Idestam. He began forcing the frock coat off over the stranger’s shoulders. “Work with me here. Where were you hit?”

“My legs,” the man feebly answered. “I cannot feel my legs. I’ll never again know what it is like to walk in the fresh meadows.”

Christiansen came up next to Idestam. “Is it bad?”

“I can’t tell. Help me with the coat.”

As both agents wrestled the frock coat off and began stripping the man, he slumped down and sat against the wall. Distant police sirens made themselves known from elsewhere in the city. Christiansen looked up and cursed.

“Have to hurry, kiddo,” he chided Idestam.

“I am, I am.” Idestam leaned the man forward and began checking his back. Only a few spots of frayed fabric presented themselves on his dress-up vest. Idestam ran his hand over it, but found nothing else. The drying blood from the security guard left smears over the stranger’s clothing as Idestam searched. He looked up at Christiansen and motioned for the discarded frock coat. Examining the thick fabric, Idestam rubbed it between both hands. He stopped and chuckled.

“It must have been birdshot. All his layers stopped the pellets at that distance,” explained Idestam. He leaned over the stranger. “You're fine. No blood. You’re fine.”

“Must have been. Looks like you got nicked, too,” Christiansen pointed out.

As the adrenaline slowly wore off, Christiansen’s words brought Idestam’s attention back. The stinging in his neck made itself known again. He lifted a hand to it and checked the wound. “Just a graze. I’m fine. They were firing blindly. Easy miss.”

The man weakly raised his hand towards the afternoon sun. “I am only blessed to spend my final moments in the warmth of God’s own sky.” His voice trailed off.

“No,” Idestam said with some annoyance. “You’re fine. Get up.” Both he and Christiansen grabbed the stranger by the arms and lifted him to his feet. The man wavered on his feet, but slowly regained balance. Christiansen forced the top hat back down on the man's head. The stranger pulled it back up over his eyes and blinked rapidly. The senior agent tossed the frock coat over the stranger’s shoulder.

“Oh gentlemen,” he moaned to the agents. “You’ve saved my life. I fear I must ask of you one more favor, however.”

“What? No.” Christiansen shook his head. Placing his hand on the man’s back, he began to propel the man forwards as both agents walked. “We’re getting you to a nice, safe place.”

“But, my deposit. We cannot allow those ruffians to steal it. I store all of my inventions in the vault before presenting them to investors.”

“Inventions?” Asked Christiansen wearily as they continued on.

“Ah, this one is a most marvelous creation. Gentlemen, what would you say if I told you that instead of telegram, you could talk to someone on the East Coast. Right. As if in the very same room. However, here you’d be in Sacramento. And there your compatriot would be in, say, Boston or Richmond.”

Idestam and Christiansen exchanged a glance.

“What year is it? To you?” Asked Idestam after a moment.

“Why it’s Eighteen Fifty Two. And mark the date, gentlemen, for this is the year we change everything.”

“Right. Change everything,” said Christiansen.

“I shall call it the ‘Dislocuter’, from Latin. Say, which street are we on?” The man looked around them. “I don’t recall such tall, decadent buildings.”

“Right, that will catch on. I think you’re tired. Let’s get you to a warm bed, huh?” Christiansen coaxed the man.

They rounded the back of the building and approached the bank’s parking garage. A blue and white police helicopter rushed overhead, causing the men to hasten their steps. The stranger marveled at the ‘peculiar machine’ and the appearance of the parking garage as a ‘bizarre stable’. Christiansen guided the man to their car.

“Are you sure I’m not wounded? Everything is so alien all of a sudden. Are these carriages? Where are the horses kept?”

Christiansen opened the back door and forced the man into the car. “Okay, I’m getting tired of your schtick. Get in.” He tossed the briefcase onto the seat next to the stranger and closed the door behind him. The senior agent sighed in the new silence.

Turning to Idestam, Christiansen asked. “You all right, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. What’s next?”

“We’ll take him to a safe house. I’ll call it up. This idiot will get a real kick out of that,” said Christiansen with a thumb towards their passenger. “You drive.”

“Of course,” said Idestam. Both men walked to their sides of the care.

“Think that bank manager will make it out alright?” Idestam asked, looking over the top of the car to Christiansen.

Christiansen shrugged. “He’ll be fine. Cops are here. An ambulance won’t be too far behind.”

“Didn’t seem to do too well under pressure,” remarked Idestam as he opened the driver's side door. He ignored the bloody handprint he left on the handle.

“He shouldn’t work at a bank, then. It’s more dangerous than working for the Office.”

----

Hello! This short story is from my fictional work "A Familiar Darkness" and is a standalone story. Think of this as like The X-Files' monster-of-the-week episode, with the main storyline being available on my profile. I also publish on Reddit and Royal Road if those platforms are easier for you to access!

Samuel Idestam hesitated. The sour smell of kerosene wafted up from the floor. A man bound in duct tape tried shaking his head violently. Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks as he did. He tried to plead from his seat in the room’s corner, but the gag in his mouth muffled everything. Still, Idestam hesitated before striking the match.

“Doesn’t look like there’s anything else in here,” Rich Christiansen walked in. “You almost finished?”

Idestam looked up. “Yeah, we’ll be done in a second.”

“We have to go,” Christiansen scanned the room. “Get moving.” He bent over in front of the prisoner. Looking him over, Christiansen grabbed the man’s chin in one hand and forced him to meet his eyes. “Okay, so you learned something today, right?”

The man trembled and nodded hurriedly.

“Don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” Christiansen let go with a harsh push and stood up. He readjusted his suit coat and buttoned. Smoothing the front of his jacket with one hand, Christiansen looked to Idestam. “Get on with it, kid.”

Idestam struck the match, watched a small flame sprout from it, and then dropped the match into the cardboard box at his feet. Inside the box, reams of papers and polaroids sat. Fire erupted in a miniature ball before the match even touched the box. The files inside it immediately curled in on themselves and burned away.

“Great,” Christiansen left the room and called over his shoulder. “I already pulled the batteries in the smoke detector. Let’s go.”

Idestam stood in front of the duct-taped man and grabbed him by the arms. He pulled the man up to his feet. “Don’t run.” He led the man through the tight hallway of the mobile home. They turned the corner to the front door to find Christiansen outside.

Christiansen glowered at Idestam. “Aw, hell, kid. Leave him. He won’t get hurt.”

“You’re right. He won’t,” said Idestam as he pushed their captive through the front door and past Christiansen. Once out on the patchy, yellow, grass surrounding the home, Idestam shoved the man to the ground. The prisoner hit the ground with a huff. Idestam put one foot on the small of the man’s back. “You did nothing. You saw nothing. Understand?”

The man made no sign of hearing him.

Idestam shifted his weight onto the man’s back more. “You did nothing. You saw nothing. Or we’ll come back and burn everything and everyone down next time, understand?”

The man nodded and tried to speak. Idestam lifted off of the man and left him on the lawn. He walked to Christiansen, waiting by the car. The senior agent raised eyebrows with a finger towards the man behind Idestam.

Idestam shrugged. “He got the message. No need to go any further.”

Christiansen nodded without another word. He spoke again once both men sat in the car, buckling their seatbelts. “I’ll call Dreamland and have them keep an eye on the sheriff’s department. A hillbilly tied up outside his burning house is going to cause a little bit of a ruffle.”

“But,” countered Idestam. “Not enough of one. No one’s going to take his word for anything.”

Christiansen nodded. “You’re learning.”

“Somehow. Where to next?”

“Maiden, Idaho. Get on the freeway, I’ll direct you from there. After I make this call,” said Christiansen. He pulled out their clamshell, cellular phone and began dialing.

After a few hours on the road, the agents found themselves pulling up to the lot of a two story motel. Its neon sign flickered and advertised vacancies. Idestam felt relief wash over him as he pulled into the empty parking lot. Both men exited the car and took a moment to stretch.

“So, what’s the deal?” Asked Idestam. He pulled his suitcase out of the trunk.

“I’ll tell you inside.”

After checking in at the counter, both agents hurried to their room. Both dropped their suitcases, and Christiansen sat on his bed. He started pulling his shoes off while he spoke.

“Basically, the Office caught a burst in the mountains near here a few days ago. Gulch says they figured it was remote enough to be a class one. No need to worry. We’d swing by when done with that socks-and-sandals fellow and check things out. But, there’s been nine missing persons reported since the burst.”

“Shit,” said Idestam with raised eyebrows. “That’s a baseball team. So, local authorities are already tracking this?”

“Luckily, we’re not completely sunk here. Given the, ah, political climate of this area, the local sheriff has been trying to handle it locally. They don’t really appreciate having any reminder of the federal government’s existence here.”

Idestam gestured between the two of them with a finger. “So, our covers are not going to go over well here.”

“I’ll get to that. The only reason we’ve become aware of the missing is because the latest was a child. Mother is dissatisfied with the sheriff’s office and how they’re handling it. So, she drove to Boise and spoke to the State Police. We have maybe a few days before troopers roll up here.”

“So, what’s the play?”

“I’m thinking we’re US Marshals here to lend a helping hand. It’s not great, but we already have a few aliases with them.”

Idestam considered it for a moment. “Could be decent. Still, they don’t really trust the government.” He snapped his fingers when a thought occurred to him. “You know who these people do love? The military. You and I are soldiers visiting the area on a fishing trip. Got some extra leave days to burn, a buddy of ours grew up here but couldn’t make it out. We’re just red-blooded Americans wanting to help save the children. They’ll eat it up. What do you think?”

A half-smile grew over Christiansen’s face and he nodded. “Smart thinking, kid. I like that. Only problem is, I’m a bit old for jackboots and a crew cut.”

“We’ll say you’re a master sergeant, about to retire. This is a last jaunt with a young soldier you’ve taken under your wing.”

“You got those civvies I told you to pack?”

“Jeans and a long sleeve,” nodded Idestam. “I don’t have fishing gear, though.”

“I don’t know if we’ll need to sell the bit that hard,” Christiansen said. “Get some sleep, kid. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

The morning came, much to Idestam’s chagrin. Both men dressed down in civilian clothes. Christiansen seemed surprisingly at home in a pair of denim work pants and a buffalo check flannel. Both he and Idestam helped themselves to the instant coffee at the front desk before driving into town. A few blocks down its mainstreet and the agents came across the Maiden Sheriff’s Department.

“How can I help you folks?” Asked the woman. She held onto the knitting, but swiveled to face them.

Christiansen adopted his usual drawl. “Ma’am, my friend and I here heard some trouble with a missing child? We’re in town for a few days and figured we’d like to help out. Assuming there’s a search party going on or something?”

His statement darkened the woman’s complexion, and she set the needlework down on the desk. “Right, the Adles’ kids. It has been a troubling few days. I think Sheriff Cartwright is up on their property now. We haven’t got an official group, but Pastor Evans has gathered some of the local men to search the woods. I’ll see if--” the woman began looking around her desk when Idestam spoke.

“Children? We just heard there was one.”

She stopped and leaned over the desk. With a hushed tone she said “The Adles’ son went missing yesterday. And his sister is gone today. Marissa is terribly worried. Always a hard charger that woman. She came in here screeching that the sheriff is doing enough. And then she flew in here this morning going on about how Fran didn’t come down for breakfast and the girl’s bed was still made. Between those two kids, the Schmidt boys, Roger, and Dean, Dean’s brother, and his nephew, we’re not entirely certain what to do. The sheriff says it’s a camping trip gone wrong, but that wouldn’t explain Fran.”

“Sorry, a camping trip gone wrong?”

The woman put up both hands. “Oh dear. Listen to me go. I’d better stop. Idle hands, you know. My heart just breaks for Marissa. She was my maid of honor, you know. Anything for her. If you’d like, see if Pastor Evans is in today. I’m sure he’ll be putting together another group. You passed the Church of the Holy Family on the way in? It’s his congregation.”

“Well, we were really hoping to aid in any official efforts,” Christiansen leaned on arm against the desk and motioned to Idestam. “See, me and my friend here are soldiers. Visiting for the fish since we got some time off. And when we heard about missing American children, it just broke our hearts. You understand.”

The woman put a hand over her heart. “That’s so sweet of you. I’m sure the sheriff would love to have you fellas around. He did his time in ’Nam, you know. With my dad and uncle, too. The sheriff should be back soon. Come back again around lunch, okay?”

“Right. Thank you, ma’am.” Christiansen stood up straight. He and Idestam left the sheriff’s office and stepped into the morning sunlight. Christiansen surveyed the small town’s main street, looking left and right slowly. He met Idestam’s gaze. “Well, what do you think?”

“We don’t know where these Adles live. She’s going to start get suspicious if we keep pushing things,” Idestam nodded behind them. “We could hit up a diner, ask around.”

Christiansen shook his head. “Don’t want to spread our covers too much. Let’s go to the next best source. I’m betting that steeple over there is their church.”

Snow crunched underfoot as the men made their way across town. The winter winds made it an uncomfortable walk. Idestam stuck his hands in his pockets. Christiansen pointed to the small, white-roofed church when they turned a street corner.

“There we go. Should have brought a jacket,” he said.

The door to the church immediately welcomed them inside with a gust of warm air. Inside, a small walkway led between pews up to a short altar. A wooden cross behind it carried unlit candles. The men entered and looked around. Before they could advance further, a door in the wall by the altar opened. A bespectacled, bald man stepped out and waved.

“Good morning,” the man called with a big smile. He met the men halfway down the aisle. “May I help you with something?”

“Yes,” Christiansen said. “We’re looking for a ‘Pastor Evans’. Had a quick question for him.”

The man stuck a hand forward. “That would be me. You can just call me Matt. I haven’t seen you folks around here before. What’s your question?”

“We’re looking for Sheriff Carter? Was told he’d be up at the Adles’ place, but we didn’t get directions to it.”

“Sheriff Cartwright?” The man’s brow furrowed and his smile weakened. “Yes, the Adles. He’s helping with their children. Dreadful thing. My congregation is actually getting together to help search for them. We’ll have coffee and cookies here in an hour or so, and then we’ll begin. If you’d like to stick around, I think the sheriff was going to join us.”

“We need to speak to him. Could you just direct us to the Adles?” Asked Christiansen.

“Yes, of course. Do you have a map?”

Christiansen talked Jefferson through the directions the pastor pointed on the map. Driving out of town, small ranches and farming plots surrounded them. After a half hour of driving, the forest crept down from the foot of the mountains and trees began to occlude the view from the road. They came upon the Adles’ farm just before fully entering the forest.

A long wooden fence lined the farmhouse and frozen fields. Three large tree trunks, debarked and stained, stood over the driveway as a gate. One rested atop the other two, and on it was inscribed the name ‘Adle’.

The property’s gate rested open, held in place by a larger rock. Tire tracks in the snow led up to the three story house and wooden barn. Idestam parked their car by the fence’s entrance. Both he and Christiansen got out and took in the scene before them.

Two white pickup trucks stood before the house. Their doors bore the crest of the county sheriff. No one moved around outside, though Idestam noted fresh footsteps in the white landscape around the trucks as he walked up.

“Easy, kid, I’ll talk,” cautioned Christiansen as they took to the porch steps.

Idestam nodded.

Voices came from within the house. A woman spoke harshly. Multiple male voices interjected. The walls muffled actual words, but Christiansen gave a glance to Idestam before knocking.

Boot steps on wood sounded through the door. The wide door creaked open to reveal a man in a tan uniform. The badge on his chest identified him as a local deputy. The man considered them silently from under a wool knit cap.

“Ah, yes, we’re hoping to speak to a Sheriff Cartwright? Heard we could be of some use,” said Christiansen.

The deputy eyed them before letting them into the foyer. The wooden floor creaked underfoot. On both walls, pictures of a smiling family watched the men. A bible verse embroidered on white cloth sat in a picture frame. An older, obese man stomped from within the house to meet them at the doorway. He wore a black leather belt with a pistol holster, flashlight, and handcuffs on it. The silver badge on his chest proclaimed him to be the sheriff. The man looped his thumbs in his belt loops and regarded the agents with a squint. A bedraggled woman with bags under her eyes trailed behind him with sunken shoulders.

“Don’t just let them in, Pete. Chrissake,” the sheriff snapped at the deputy. He turned and nodded to the two men. “Whatever this is, lemme have you two stop by the station. We’re working on police matters here and now.”

“Actually, Sheriff, we were here about those matters. My friend and I are hoping to lend a hand. We were told some campers went missing, and we’d like to check out the campsite,” said Christiansen.

“Now, I don’t recognize you two gentlemen, so I assume you’re passing through. This here is a tragedy, not a matter of touri--”

“--oh for God’s sake, Clark,” the woman interrupted him while throwing her hands up. She stepped in front of the sheriff and faced the men. “Pastor Evans is organizing the search teams. I don’t know why we need to waste time looking around here. I told the sheriff there’s been no sign of my kids all morning.”

“Merely want to help, ma’am. Where was it they were camping?” Christiansen asked. Idestam felt the deputy’s eyes on him, but ignored them. The sheriff sidled out from behind Marissa and stood next to her. He continued to glare at the men, but didn’t speak.

“They went up to the Green Creek campground--”

“--Marissa, these folks don’t need to be burdened with our troubles. Let’s have them on their way.”

“You’ve already gone to the trouble of letting them in,” Marissa glared at him. “It’s my damn house and I’ll speak how I damn well please.” She turned back to the agents. “A few of the men around here,” Marissa’s eyes slid to the sheriff’s side as she spoke “...fancy themselves cowboys and like to rough it in the snow. They take the boys up every year. I think Fran got worried when the others disappeared. She and her brother are usually inseparable, especially since their father passed, but he went by himself for this trip. Fran’s not really one for the outdoors. Prefers her fires in fireplaces, sort of girl.”

“And this is Fran?” Christiansen pointed to a photo on the wall. In it, the woman posed with a man behind two young, smiling children on a canvas backdrop.

“That was a few years ago. Actually, here…” The woman walked deeper into the house without further explanation. The sheriff and his deputy regarded the agents with cold expressions while they waited. After a moment, the sheriff cleared his throat.

“Now, you twos are just passing through here?”

“Came for the fishing. Had some time off.”

Sheriff Cartwright and his deputy shared another look. “I’m thinking you’ll want to get back to your fishing, then. You two should dress warmer, though. Nature won’t be as hospitable as we are.”

“You make it sound so deadly,” smiled Christiansen. “We’d just like to help out.”

“I’ve been more than polite, gentlemen,” The sheriff started, but the mother returned. She carried a polaroid in two fingers and handed it to Christiansen.

“That’s Fran, as of a year ago. She’s a little taller now, and had her hair cut to a bob a few months back, but the picture is still good.” She tapped the photograph with a grimace. Reddened skin swelled up around her eyes, and her lips pursed as she looked at Christiansen. The girl in the photograph appeared to be in her early teens. Auburn locks of hair framed her face and fell down across her shoulders. Baby fat hung from her cheeks and chin, but her eyes pierced the viewer’s. Hazelnut-brown irises focused on the camera, ignoring the birthday cake she posed with.

“So, this but with short hair,” nodded Christiansen.

The sheriff put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Marissa, let’s not worry them with--”

--”oh, I’d hate to be an inconvenience,” Marissa snapped at Sheriff Cartwright.

Idestam’s eyes darted between the two. “Yeah, where was this campground?”

Marissa looked back to the agents. “Green River? It’s up the road from here. Keep going towards Blacktail Mountain, the signs will guide you to it.” She motioned to the door with one hand.

“Right. Let’s take off, kid. We wouldn't want to get in the way of official, ah, police procedure,” said Christiansen with a nod to the sheriff. He tapped Idestam on the shoulder, and the two turned to leave.

On their way back to the car, Christiansen held out the photograph. The young woman pictured clearly hadn’t wanted the photograph to be taken. It captured her hunched shoulders and forced smile, waiting to blow out lit candles on the cake before her. Christiansen passed it to Idestam. “She definitely doesn't look like someone who just takes off for the woods.”

“Neither do we,” said Idestam. He blew warm air over clasped hands before taking the photo. “Does it feel like it’s getting colder?”

Christiansen glanced at the sky. Darkened clouds rushed overhead. The wind chastised them and forced snow up into the air around them. “Yeah, it’s looking like that’s going to be a problem. Let’s get up to the campground. I’m betting that’s where the burst happened.”

In the car, Idestam twisted the key and spurred the engine to life. While buckling his seatbelt, he said “So, the Signal bursts in a campground occupied by some locals and the Office just assumes it’s a class one?”

Christiansen shrugged. “No way to know they were there. This far out, the locals probably don’t make reservations with the park or forest service, and the authorities probably just don’t care. We work with what we have.”

“And now we’re chasing some teenager in the woods during a fresh snowfall.”

“No, we’re going to the campground to see if the burst is still there. Or has left any lingering effects.”

Idestam paused. “What do we do if the burst is… still there?”

“Notify Delivery. That’s a problem for them. Remember, we’re here to monitor and evaluate. We’re like… the vanguard. The scouts. If we need the cavalry, we call Delivery.”

Idestam pulled the car out of its parking spot and began driving back down the country road. “I feel like we’ve done a lot more of cleaning things up than checking things out.”

“Also part of the job,” nodded Christiansen. He pulled out a packet of gum. “It’s easier for two agents to go around and quietly smooth things over after a simple burst than it is to have Delivery’s jackboots go fast-roping into every backyard when we catch some online kook getting close to figuring things out. It just makes more sense. Gum?”

“My breath is cold enough, thanks.”

Into the mountains, the roads became less and less maintained. Someone had, at some point, driven a plow through and cleared snow to either side. White mounds rose up along the road. They stood as the only barriers between a car and the expanse of trees mere feet from the icy pavement.

Idestam drove carefully through the peaks and dips of the rural road. Snowfall had started at some point and now the road became slick. Thin sheets of ice already existed from previous days. Now, a white dusting hid the frozen patches of road. Up one particular hill, the car slipped and lost all momentum. Idestam pressured the gas pedal only to hear the wheels struggling beneath them. He carefully plied the brakes and let the car rest back down the hill slowly.

Christiansen’s head swiveled behind them as he watched their gradual descent. “Careful, kid. Looks like we might not be moving as quick as we’d like.”

“I just want to get to the campsite and see if we can find any of the kids. They’ve been gone for a few days by now. If the cold is annoying to us now, it must be terrible for them.”

“Our first priority is the burst.”

“Right, but if nothing comes of that we could at least help out.”

Christiansen shook his head. “Don’t let yourself get distracted. Stop the car. Throw on the parking brake.”

Idestam slammed the door as he got out. He walked to the back tires and put his hands on his hips. The treads sunk into the soft snow. Each tire dug into the snowscape with dovetails of sleet thrown back behind them.

No wind blew here. Only the idling of the car punctuated the quiet forest’s ambience. Idestam kicked one tire as Christiansen left the car. The older man walked around back and opened the trunk. “We’ll have to put chains on. I’m sure the rental place put some in here.”

“A little late for chains,” said Idestam, gesturing to their predicament.

Christiansen waved his annoyance away with one hand. “We’ll back the car up to a nice and flat patch and put ’em on there.”

“Should’ve guessed it’d get this bad in the mountains. The snow can be pretty bad in Washington, too.”

“I’ve walked the Northwest beat for years. Sometimes the winter is mild. Sometimes not,” shrugged Christiansen. “Guess we just got too excited to have a lead on this case.”

“Yeah, so we find this kid. Then what?”

“I don’t really care about the kid. But, we got enough to start looking around for the burst.”

Idestam turned to Christiansen and spread his arms. “The hell? It’s got to be like negative ten degrees out. We’re just not going to help look for this kid. You heard her mother. Not to mention, there’s apparently half a Sunday school missing out here.”

Christiansen pulled a box of tire chains out and shut the trunk. He rested the box on the back of the car and leaned on it. “Kid, we’re not babysitters, a taxi service, or an ambulance. What do you want to do? We find someone out here, what do we do?”

“Take them into town,” Idestam gestured down the road. “It’s maybe an hour out of our day.”

Christiansen pointed at Idestam with a knife hand. “Focus on the job. We’re here to evaluate the area and see what the Office needs to do. What if we go chasing after this child, and the sheriff rolls back up here in the meantime? Burst repeats and boom-- man’s flash fried, fossilized, or worse. There’s more at stake here.” Christiansen picked up the box and turned to look down the road. Idestam turned with him. They began walking down the slope.

“At some point, we’re breaking even with that philoso--” Idestam froze when he looked down the hill. The hairs on the back of his neck stuck up. His heart tightened its pace, and he inhaled sharply. He could feel the muscles in his body tensing up.

Christiansen paused with him. The final, frosty crunch of their footsteps echoed around them.

A young woman stood at a turn in the road. Not in the road, but she stood just beyond the snow berm piled beside it. One hand on a tree, she leaned out and stared at the men. Long, brown hair hung from her head to her hip. A gust of wind blustered around the three of them, kicking snow up at the men and flowing through her hair. A varsity jacket, with one sleeve torn off, hugged around her shoulders. A scarf around her neck imitated her hair as the rushing winds played with it and made it dance. Dark, soaked jeans clung to her legs.

“Kid,” said Christiansen quietly.

“Yeah,” whispered Idestam. Then, he waved to her and began walking again. “Hey, are you okay?”

The woman stuck both hands out towards them and shook her head violently. She opened her mouth and her lips moved, but no sound came. As Idestam continued towards her, she took a few steps back and continued shaking her head.

“Fran?” Idestam tried. She resembled the girl in the photograph, though with a few stark differences. He eyed her hair, and noticed how her gaunt cheeks seemed to be sucked against her skull. Given a few years, the woman could have been mistaken for Marissa. “Are you Fran Adle?”

The woman turned and ran further into the trees. Idestam tried to run after her, but ice caused his foot to slip. Catching himself, he braced himself on the slippery surface. The woman kept running. Idestam called her name one more time before he tried following again.

“Kid, stop!” Christiansen yelled from behind him.

Idestam ignored him. He made it to the edge of the road and jumped over the snow berm. His feet sunk a few inches into the snow with step. He ignored his cold pant legs sticking to his ankles. Branches stuck out at him and forced him to duck and sidestep. Brambles and bushes hindered any chance of running in a straight line.

The woman looked over her shoulder. She mouthed something to him, but Idestam heard nothing. Her hair flowed behind her as she jumped a fallen tree. She turned and began up the slope.

Idestam gained on her and called for her to stop again. The woman spun around. She paused in a clearing. Idestam breathed heavily as he stepped into it. Reaching a hand out, he said “Are you Fran Adle? We’ve been looking for you.”

The woman motioned for him to stay back frantically. Her lips moved. No noise came out. Her eyes bulged out with pin-prick pupils. The irises held a sickly tan color, tinged with brown around the edges. She took a few steps back before halting. Her body twitched. A seizure came over the woman. Her face contorted. One shoulder pulled back in a shrug. Her back twisted around and her arms flung madly at her sides. Fingers curled and cracked with stiff movements.

“Jesus, lady…” Idestam walked towards her.

“Whiskers, what the hell?”

Idestam checked over his shoulder to see Christiansen coming up behind him. “She needs help! Grab the first aid kit!”

When Idestam turned back, the woman’s eyes had snapped to him. He held back as her jaw popped, unhinged, and fell open. A long, black tongue uncoiled out of it. Drool dripped in strands along the length of the tongue. Water vapor puffed out into the cold air with her agonized pants. After a moment, a low, guttural howl blasted out from the hanging mouth.

The painful sound swept over Idestam. Panic began to well up in his chest as he stepped back. His back tensed and he held one hand out as if to block the noise. Something in the back of his mind awoke to the primal cry and urged Idestam to flee.

As she continued howling, black seams grew out of the air and ground and began to lash across the woman. They ran over her clothes, across skin, down into her sleeves and inside her mouth. Reality distorted around the tendrils. Light bent towards them. Smoke curled out from the edges of her clothing. They blackened and frayed as dark ash crumbled from each piece of her outfit. The forest around the woman dimmed. It was as if the dark lines leeched color and vibrancy from their surroundings. Staring at them sent a sharp pain surging through Idestam’s eyes and skull.

He clenched them shut. An arm grabbed him across his chest and pulled him back, throwing Idestam into the snow. It crunched beneath him, and his clothes stuck to him. The frigid ground stung his back.

His ears cringed as a deep, zipping sound emanated from in front of him. It roared like a jet turbine. A gail whipped over his supine body. Idestam could feel snow rushing across his face towards the sound. As quickly as the anomaly occurred, silence replaced the noise.

Idestam took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Looking before him, the woman was nowhere to be seen. Idestam looked back to see Christiansen picking himself up out of the snow. Idestam did the same.

Before them, the snow carved out into a shallow divot. The woman’s footsteps led into the center, but nothing led away from her final position. A branch from a tree above them cracked and fell to earth without warning. It landed in the crater and stuck out vibrating.

“When I tell you to stop, you goddamn stop,” said Christiansen in a dark tone. “What if I was trying to warn you about something?”

“I thought it might be her,” Idestam said. He shivered and tucked his fingers in his armpits. “I have a lot more questions than answers now, though.”

“I’m the senior agent. You’re the rookie,” Christiansen stabbed his finger in the air at Idestam. “I get you got growing pains, but the show goes on. Stop arguing and doing your own thing, and start listening.”

“You saw that, though, right? Was that a Signal burst?”

Christiansen paused. “It looked… similar,” he answered carefully. His eyes darted around as he spoke. The older man considered the scene as he continued. “We’ve definitely found a class four. Now is when things get really interesting.”

“I’ll say.” Idestam caught his breath. Looking around the clearing carefully, he couldn’t see any other tracks. He suspected the woman might have jumped out of the spot. It’s what Idestam would have done to hide tracks from any pursuers. Equally alarming to Idestam, no signs of the seemingly-ethereal lines remained. “So, that was a burst then? Felt like reality itself cracked. Like, how hot glass cracks under cold water?”

Christiansen nodded. The older man brushed himself off. He copied Idestam in examining the woodland clearing. “Yeah. Yeah, you just saw your first burst. Congrats. We’ll get a cake from the store. Okay, look, it’s too cold for this. Let’s head back to the car, warm up, and then we’ll reevaluate. Probably put the chains on and get to the campsite,” said Christiansen. He turned to leave and beckoned for Idestam to do the same.

Idestam stayed behind. He searched around the trees from where he stood. “Was that Fran? Where the hell did she go? Did that… whatever it was kill her?”

“We’ll talk about it in the car.” Christiansen stopped, turned, and shook his head. He motioned around them. “There’s no telling who that was, anyway.”

“Yeah,” said Idestam. “It could have been anyone. Out here. In the woods. Miles away from town.”

“Watch it, kiddo,” growled Christiansen.

“Well, what are we going to do now?” Idestam tried to see between the trees around them. The old growth surrounding the men shortened their line of sight drastically. Flakes of soft snow drifted down from the clouds.

“What we can do,” grunted Christiansen. “Let’s get to the car.” He began to tromp back, placing his feet in the holes their steps already made.

“You said my first burst. How many times have you seen the Signal burst?”

Christiansen shrugged. They continued on in silence.

The men installed the chains with numb fingers. Idestam continually stuck his head up and watched around them. Christiansen said nothing more about the woman or the burst until they sat in the car. Both men held their hands in front of the dashboard heaters.

“Okay, so, a class four burst. What do you remember from your training?”

Idestam closed his eyes. “Class Four, abduction or alteration of persons or things. You saw her, right?” Idestam opened his eyes and looked at Christiansen. The old man held a stick of gum out in front of him. Unwrapping it carefully, Christiansen tossed the gum in his mouth while Idestam watched.

Chewing the fresh stick, Christiansen nodded. “Yeah, I saw. She’s definitely… altered. Poor thing. Between her and the missing campers, definitely a class four. It’s an errant, too.”

“Errant?”

“A burst that repeats. They don’t typically do that. Definitely not one strong enough to pluck a girl out of thin air.”

“So, you think that was Fran, then?”

Another shrug from Christiansen. “I suspect so. Maybe she came up here looking for her brother and the burst repeated. Or, things are a little more serious and that thing we saw replaced her. Who knows?”

“Should we even approach the campsite, then?”

“We gotta, kid.”

The campground welcomed the agents with a weather-worn, wooden sign. A series of tire tracks cut through the winter landscape in and out of its narrow entrance. Beyond the welcome sign, a small wooden building declared itself the visitor center. A red sign on the door turned away visitors due to the winter season. The car crawled past it as both men scanned their surroundings.

Christiansen signaled to one path. “The tire marks are fresher there. Take that turn.”

After a few minutes of travel, the men came upon a small field with tents and a fire pit. Two black, trash bags sat on a picnic table. Footsteps dotted the white ground around every man-made object. Orange, canvas flags hung from wire poles stuck in the snow along the perimeter of the site.

“This is definitely the place,” nodded Christiansen. He pulled the monitor’s briefcase from the backseat and opened it on his lap. From one of the compartments in the briefcase, the agent pulled out a small, yellow Geiger counter. Slapping a battery in the bottom of it, he dialed it on and the box began to click slowly. A radiation sticker sat innocently on its side. Christiansen waved it around a little and then looked back at Idestam. “Let’s go see what we can see.”

Idestam left their car idling while they walked the ground. The tents stood undisturbed save for fresh snow on their tops. He retraced the other footsteps left behind. The firepit had long since frozen over. A few camping chairs circled the pit. One lay on its side with an open thermos. Someone had placed another little, orange flag by that chair.

“Nothing’s in the trash bags but clothes and bedding,” Christiansen said from the picnic table. “Looks like the local lawman actually did something.”

“Great. Do we need to break into their office or something?”

Christiansen rested the Geiger counter on top of a garbage bag and cocked his head. “Now why the hell would we do that, kid?”

Idestam shrugged. “In case they have evidence of this or something.”

Christiansen chuckled. He shook his head. “No, we don’t need to do anything like that. We can swing by the police station with the monitor, but we’re not going to pick anything up. Any little bit of evidence they may have, if not affected by the burst, won’t be enough for anyone to piece this together.”

Idestam shuffled through the snow. He leaned over and unzipped one of the tents. Its interior sat empty. He closed the tent flap and searched around it. Idestam wasn’t sure what else to look for, so he rejoined Christiansen at the table. The Geiger counter ticked away steadily from its perch. Christiansen busied himself pulling out another stick of gum.

“Wait, these are radioactive?” Idestam stepped back from the bags.

Christiansen looked at the Geiger counter and then to Idestam. “Yeah, I mean slightly. They were definitely exposed to a burst.”

“The burst makes things radioactive?”

“Seems to. Aside from some other science mumbo-jumbo, radiation has always been a clear indicator of a burst.”

“Do you think maybe you should stay away from the table, then?”

Christiansen, now chewing the fresh stick of gum, picked up the Gieger counter. “It’s not that bad. I think it was picking some more up from ove--”

A howl erupted from within the forest. As primal as the one from the woman, it echoed off the mountain. The reverb sent chills across Idestam’s arms. Birds flew up from the direction of the noise. The bellowing went on for a second before cutting off just as quickly as it began. The echo traveled over and around them. Its strength dissipated into a quiet decrescendo, until finally they were left standing in a silent forest. Both men paused and searched for its source.

“What do we do if she comes back?”

“Improvise.”

“Great. Hey, check that out,” Idestam motioned to the edge of the woods on the campsite. A large, round indent cut through the snow. The arms of surrounding trees pointed to it with jagged, broken limbs. Twigs and smaller branches studded the snow around the disturbance.

“Yup,” Christiansen said. “We found it. Good job, kid.” He clapped Idestam on the shoulder. The senior agent headed for it with the Geiger counter. “We’ll be having yogurt and filling out paperwork in no time.”

Idestam kept pace with his senior. The Geiger counter began to count faster and faster the closer they got. Coming to the edge of the indent, Christiansen held the Geiger over it. It crackled fiercely. He put his arm down and took a step back.

“You got your watch on you?” Christiansen asked.

“Of course,” said Idestam, rolling his sleeve back.

“Good. Time me in three… two...” Christiansen took a deep breath, checked his own wrist, and began walking across the indent. The only sound around them came from his snowy footsteps. Idestam watched the second hand on his watch tick around. His breath cooled in the air around him as he waited.

Christiansen stopped with a final stomp. “Time.”

Idestam looked up. “Six seconds.”

Christiansen cursed sharply. “I’ve got nine seconds. Let’s get out of here. Back to the car. We need to call this in.” Christiansen walked around the perimeter of the crater with hurried steps and motioned for Idestam to follow. They crossed the campsite to their car, just as a pickup truck with the sheriff’s emblem rolled down the road towards them.

The deputy from the Adles’ house drove the truck alone. He stopped behind the rental car, and he stepped out. The man squinted at the agents over the hood of his truck. Christiansen gave a friendly wave.

“We were down on the farm. Thought we heard something loud coming from this way. You boys in trouble?” The deputy asked.

Christiansen shook his head. “Must have just been our car backfiring. It’s a bit of a beater.”

“You’re lucky you made it out here all the way, then.”

The men stopped at the trunk of their car. Both parties stayed on their respective sides of the vehicles. Idestam noticed Christiansen holding the Geiger counter out to him at waist level. He slowly took it from the senior agent, keeping it hidden behind the car.

“I suppose you’re going to be telling us to head on back to the church now, then?” Christiansen asked.

The deputy hiked up his tactical belt with both hands. He looked both ways and then shrugged. “I don’t much care. Sheriff Cartwright’s been wanting to keep the whole thing on the down low. Don’t rightly see how you two could be of any trouble out here, though. Nature did enough to ruin anything of relevance. Just came out to grab the personal effects for the families back in town.”

“Is it common procedure to leave evidence out?” Idestam asked. Christiansen gave him a soft elbow in the side.

“Had to leave in a hurry when we were packing it up.”

“Because of the new missing kid?” Christiansen asked.

The deputy eyed the forest. He spit a cud of chewing tobacco on the ground and glanced around again. “Well, yeah. That got things going. And…” the man’s voice trailed off.

“I think I heard an elk or something out here earlier,” said Christiansen.

The deputy refocused on Christiansen. “Yeah. Yeah, elk. Probably.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything out here?”

The deputy shook his head. “No. Wish we did, though. It’s a shame this all happened,” commented the deputy. “First, Marissa loses Eddie. Now, the twins.”

“The kids are twins?” Idestam cocked his head.

“Yeah, the kind who are, uh, not look-alikes. But they came out the same time? She and Eddie talked about trying for another kid, but never had the chance. I know the Sheriff’s an impatient man, but I don’t hold any of this against Marissa. Sometimes, life just don’t go right.”

“I’ll say. What do you think happened?”

The deputy pulled out a can of chew and packed it with two fingers. He cracked open its lid while staring into the forest. He pinched tobacco between two fingers and brought it to his lips, but paused before taking it. “Can’t say for certain. It’s honestly like one of those campfire stories people tell.”

Satisfied with the fresh plug of tobacco, the deputy pocketed the can and moved around the truck. “Gentlemen, if you excuse me, I only aim to be here for a few minutes. It’s getting mighty cold and I only need those bags.”

“Of course,” Christiansen smiled. “Been nice talking to you.”

Idestam retreated to the cozy warmth of the car. He unlocked the monitor and slid the Geiger back in its pocket. Setting the monitor’s briefcase behind his seat, he waited for Christiansen.

Christiansen watched the deputy for a moment before joining Idestam inside. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. The senior agent wiped at his nose with a sleeve and then went back to warming his hands. The light snowfall rested in Christiansen’s salt-and-pepper hair. It glistened and melted on top of the slicked-back haircut. He gestured to the road. “Come on, kid. I’m getting hungry. Get us to a diner. I’ll call Delivery on the way.”

“Yeah, I could eat,” Idestam looked over and nodded. His eyes wandered past Christiansen to the deputy outside. And then past the deputy. “Oh, my god.”

In the tree line, a dark figure stuck out from behind a toppled tree. The thicket of trees let it hide as the shape slunk from tree trunk to tree trunk. Hair hung from every limb. It leaned on trees, wrapping what looked to be long claws around the trunks as it did so. Idestam held his breath as the thing approached the clearing.

Christiansen followed Idestam’s gaze. His posture stiffened when he saw it.

The creature’s head bobbed as it skulked out from the edge of the woods. It gingerly took each step. Sickly, yellow eyes focused on the deputy. Sunlight glinted off the irises and teeth as the jaw unhinged.

With a trash bag in each hand, the young deputy started towards his truck. He walked slowly and teetered sometimes with the odd weight of the bags. He made no sign of noticing the creature behind him. It approached closer. One hairy arm began to stretch out towards the deputy.

“Shit,” Idestam leaned across and slapped the glove compartment open. It fell open to reveal both agents’ service weapons. He laid a hand on his, but Christiansen grabbed Idestam’s arm.

“Really, kiddo? You’re gonna fuckin’ fire towards a cop? You think he’s going to take the time to look behind him before he shoots back?” Christiansen said with a glare. Idestam dropped the pistol back into the compartment. As soon as Christiansen let go of him, Idestam popped his door open and stood up out of the car.

“Whiskers, what the he--”

“Excuse me? Officer?” Idestam called out to the deputy with a hand cupped around his mouth. Both the deputy and the creature stopped.

***

The thing from the woods reared back, its arms swiveling in their sockets. It spun on a heel, hunched over on all fours, and began bounding effortlessly through the snow into the forest. Its footfalls made only a slight sound. It paused at the woodline to check over its shoulder before it skittered deeper in.

The deputy, whistling something, coughed and called back. “Engine trouble?”

“No, just a question for you, actually.”

“Shoot.”

“What’s a good place for lunch?” Idestam asked. His own question surprised himself in the moment. He hadn’t thought of what to say when he got out, just that he needed to make noise.

“Tell you what, you gentlemen follow me back into town. A car like that isn’t for backwoods driving. We’ll just go together and make sure you get there safely.”

Idestam gave a thumbs up, and he sat back down in the car. He took a deep breath. His heartbeat still rushed from when he’d seen the creature. He shifted the car into drive and turned it around to wait for the deputy’s truck.

“How'd you know that’d spook it?” Christiansen asked.

“I didn’t. Had to improvise. I was just hoping that thing wouldn’t want to be outnumbered.”

“Good work,” nodded Christiansen.

“So, we can’t tell them there’s this… thing out there. Or that a burst is out there. But, we can’t even make something up? Maybe we saw a bear or something?

“There’s no point. What would we say that wouldn’t garner more attention? Don’t go out there, it’s radioactive? Then you’ve got people asking why on Earth a patch of forest got radioactive all of a sudden. This is a problem for Delivery.”

“What? No, there’s gotta be something we can do. There’s about to be a whole church’s worth of men wandering around these woods. What if a burst hits them? Or that thing jumps them?”

“A group that big would be too much for it. I’m betting it's one of those solitary types, from what we saw. They’d fight it off. Besides, we’re not certain it’s hostile.”

“I mean, it didn’t look friendly,”

“Maybe it wanted to ask for help,” mused Christiansen with a shrug.

The deputy waved to them before getting in his truck. Idestam followed behind as they began down the mountain. A storm front formed above them and already began dropping heavier flakes of snow everywhere.

“It’s a bunch of church-goers searching for a lost child. They’re not exactly chasing O.J. out here. We can at least warn them.”

“And say what? Hey, folks, there just so happens to be a were-beast phasing in and out of reality where your missing kids are. Seems hostile. May prefer the taste of human flesh. Likes long walks on the beach,” Christiansen shook his head. “We’ve done what we can. We’re handing this over to Delivery. That’s the best thing for everyone. They’ll be more equipped for this.”

“For that thing?” Idestam stuck a thumb over his shoulder.

“Well, they’ve dealt with weirder things. I’m sure they can handle this.”

“Weirder things?” Idestam asked with an incredulous look.

“Later, kid. I’m gonna call ’em right now.”

Idestam surveyed the surrounding road while Christiansen waited on the phone. The dead winter trees waved their branches in the wind. He felt like the road took him through a graveyard of tall, twisted headstones. Idestam ignored his senior’s voice as he tried to split his attention between the road and any shadows the trees cast. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Any moment, that creature could jump out at them. Idestam shook his head to banish the catastrophizing thoughts.

The eyes of the woman, squeezing out of her skull, stayed in his mind. Something within them pleaded with him. He could have sworn they glazed over right before the burst overtook her. The humanity drained out of them. Or, maybe, she had surrendered what was left of her to the Signal. Idestam shuddered. I should have been faster.

Christiansen snapped the clamshell cellular phone shut. “Perfect. Agent Gulch already had a cleanup crew standing by. They’ll be here within the day. The state won’t even get to set up shop before Delivery locks everything down.”

“Outstanding,” Idestam said emptily.

“Let’s get lunch. I have a hankering for some vanilla yogurt.”

“Frozen yogurt? In these temperatures?”

Christiansen shrugged. “Frozen yogurt’s for winners. We won today.”

“Right. We win.” Idestam kept moving his eyes from the road to the forest, and back again.

“What’s up with you, kid?”

“How come they’re called Delivery? I kinda see how we’re ‘Inspections’, but the guys with guns and body armor are ‘Delivery’?”

“It’s all obfuscation. We’re the Post Office, you know. Not the Postal Service. And anyone not in the know won’t notice the discrepancy. Back before Reagan pulled some bullshit, we hid our budget with the actual Postal Service. Even though times have changed, the Office has kept most of the terminology.”

Idestam nodded slowly. They continued on in silence. The deputy led them back into town, waving out his window towards a diner they passed. Idestam parked, and both he and Christiansen made their way into the warm restaurant. Neither man spoke much as they ate their food. Christiansen followed up lunch with a small cup of frozen yogurt. Idestam nursed a cup of coffee while staring out the window.

On the way back to the motel, they passed a convoy of trucks and vans. The vehicles’ logos claimed to be with the National Park Service. Someone in the passenger seat of the leading truck waved to the two men. Christiansen waved back. Idestam just shook his head and brought them back to the motel. Just as quickly as their day had escalated, he found himself in the motel room staring at the small television set up in front of the beds. Christiansen took first watch with the monitor briefcase. Neither man spoke. Idestam didn’t want to talk anyway. He just sat there and stared.

“Ten minutes.”

“It has to be more than that.”

“Ten minutes, and then the FBI shows up,” said Rich Christiansen. He opened the Buick’s glove compartment and grabbed two billfolds.

“No way,” said Samuel Idestam with a shake of his head. He took the billfold Christiansen offered him. Opening it, he scanned over the ID card inside. Idestam snapped it shut and slid it into his coat pocket. “Why do I have to be ‘Jefferson’ again?”

“Because you were Jefferson last time, kiddo. Helps you remember your alias, build a character, not get us caught out, that sort of thing.”

Idestam checked his wristwatch. “Fine, ten minutes. Starting now.”

“Starting two minutes ago,” said Christiansen as he opened his door and stepped out. Idestam followed his senior as they stepped behind the car. Christiansen popped open the trunk, grabbed the single, black briefcase inside, and slammed the trunk shut. “Let’s go.”

Wind kicked through the parking garage. Debris scattered and danced in the cold air around the men while they walked to an elevator. Few other cars sat on the gray concrete. Yellow lights harshly glared down on the pair.

Idestam eyed a nearby car as they waited for the elevator to arrive. “Is that a Rolls Royce?”

“Who cares?” Christiansen stepped into the elevator without giving the car a look.

Idestam joined him. “Ground floor, right?”

“Ground floor.”

Idestam keyed the elevator. “I think that was a Rolls Royce. I never figured scientists would make that much.”

“Maybe he’s a Russian spy,” Christiansen muttered.

Idestam scoffed. “It’s been decades since the Soviet Union. I doubt they can even leave Europe right now, let alone come to the West Coast.”

Christiansen shrugged. “It made things a lot more interesting back when they could.”

The elevator gave a soft ring and slid to a stop. Stepping out, a harsher, quicker wind welcomed the men. This time, it nipped through their dress clothes and bit at anything exposed. The cold of night punished them as they left the relative cover of the parking garage. Above the men, city lights drowned out any possibility of a night sky.

“Four minutes,” warned Christiansen.

“We didn’t put money on it.”

“We should have,” Christiansen said. A short walk across the street brought them to the brick and glass walls of the Lush River Research Center. A small bronze statue of a space shuttle stood proudly next to the double doors. The entryway welcomed them in with a warm gust of air from vents above the door as they walked inside. A short man waiting by an empty receptionist desk clapped and walked up towards them. A nametag clipped to his tweed sweater vest said ‘Doctor R. Swan.’

“Gentlemen, good to see you’ve made it. Right this way, please,” Dr. Swan motioned to an elevator bank set in the wall beyond the reception area. “I must admit, I’m surprised to hear the Federal Bureau of Investigation has an interest in our findings.”

Christiansen smiled and pulled his billfold out of his jacket. His New England accent slurred into a perfect, Deep South tone of voice without warning.“Actually, Doctor, we’re with the United States Postal Service.” He flashed the badge tucked within the billfold. “Security and Insurance Division. I’m Agent Jensen and this is Agent Jefferson.”

Dr. Swan furrowed his brow and cocked his head to one side. “Oh. Um, okay then. What would the post office do with a radio telescope’s research, if I may ask?”

“Well…” Christiansen put away the billfold and tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. “The broadcast affected a few of our parcel planes’ navigation systems. We just want to be able to troubleshoot this. We take great pride in being able to ship the mail without any problems. Neither snow nor rain, you know.”

Dr. Swan chuckled and shifted on one foot. “Ah, yes. Of course. I’m so sorry to hear that. I didn’t think the signal was that strong. But, that just goes to show what a momentous discovery thi--”

Idestam interrupted. “Do you have the data of the signal here? Telemetry, recordings, anything else that may help us… fix things?”

“No, not here, actually. I tried to explain to the federal agent who called, but she was very excited and merely wanted to meet. It’s all still at the actual telescope. Dr. Calvin is there now. He’s a bit eccentric, but given the news we’re all happy to burn the midnight oil. He left me some rough notes we can go over.”

“No, that’s all right. What’s the address? We’ll go and speak with him.”

Dr. Swan firmed his jaw, glowered, and stalked around to the back of the reception desk. Taking a post-it note, he scribbled down the address and handed it across to the men. Christiansen took it and nodded.

“Just follow the freeway, and take the third right after the Slick-n-Pick station. It’s a bit of a long road. I always say that right when you feel like you’ve gone up the wrong road, you’ll see the facility. But of course, no one listens to what the museum director says. The one time I allow some after-hours exploration and suddenly the entire Stars and Stripes wants to talk to our resident retiree…” Dr. Swan’s voice trailed off.

“Thank you, really,” said Christiansen.

Idestam checked over his shoulder. Outside, two figures in black suits crossed the windy street. He leaned over the desk and stuck out his hand to Dr. Swan. “Yes, thank you for your help. We’ll be going.”

Christiansen looked at Idestam for a moment before turning around. Idestam followed him outside. Neither man acknowledged the official-looking pair who tramped past them towards. The newcomers walked with an air of confidence. Their shoes clipped and echoed on the pavement.

Once past them, Christiansen spoke in a hushed tone. “Told you. Ten minutes.”

“How’d you figure?”

“Been on the job long enough. Every once and a while, some government drone will get overly invested into being a nuisance. It goes on for a little while until their bosses notice the waste of resources or they fall from a tall building. And, we have a man in almost every branch of the FBI. Got a call that their flight was landing just ten minutes after ours.”

“That’s cheating,” protested Idestam as they got in the parking garage elevator.

“Is not. Besides, that was the same call that gave us the job.”

“Still cheating.”

“Why’d you shake that man’s hand?”

Idestam shrugged. The elevator opened to reveal one more car in the parking garage. He produced the key to the rental car from his pocket. “Just being friendly. He’d remember us more if we were rude.”

“No, he’ll remember you if you are anything. Friendliness is just as memorable as hostility. The point is to be neutral, monotone, baseline. Nothing he can easily recall if asked.”

“He’ll remember us if we speak like robots,” said Idestam.

“Get in the damn car.”

The drive to the telescope proved uneventful. Leaving the city and journeying into the flatlands outside, light waned around them and a soft night sky appeared. Glimmering pinpoints of white sparkled above them. An occasional car broke the monotony of the open road. The headlights flew towards them as two beams before whipping by and disappearing.

Idestam looked over after a few minutes of silence. “So, what’s the plan? Spill a cup of coffee on the keyboard when we get there or something?”

“Some sort of accident, I suppose,” said Christiansen. “We’ll make polite conversation, you distract whoever is there, and I’ll just see what needs to be done with their discovery.”

“Do we need to get a recording of it?” Asked Idestam.

“We weren’t asked to. I’m going to assume the Office has what it needs already and we’re just on clean up.”

“But this is definitely a burst?”

Christiansen shrugged. “Potentially. When I took the call, they couldn’t say. But, I’ve seen bursts play out like this before. Something somewhere gets through the fence and plays in our yard for a bit.”

“What’s the worst one you’ve seen?”

“Dayton, Texas. A good many years back. The Office fucked that one up pretty bad.”

“I think I heard about tha--”

Christiansen pointed over the dashboard. “There’s that gas station. Slick-n-Pick.”

“Yeah, I see it. Only thing around for miles.” Idestam turned the car. The gas station’s neon sign stuck out amongst the dark landscape of trees and lone houses. “No one died at Dayton, though, right? Couldn’t be that bad.”

“No, but it got plenty of attention. That’s almost worse. A body is in the news for a week. A court case is a journalist’s paycheck for at least half a year.”

“At least there weren’t any deaths.”

“Could have been.” Christiansen shrugged again. “I worked with Artemis on it. Told him and his partner it would have been easier to just off the three witnesses, but he got all moral about it. He had a point, there being a kid and all, but… the forest for the trees.”

Idestam shot raised eyebrows at Christiansen. “Jesus. Is it really that common? Killing anyone in our way?”

Christiansen sneered slightly and stared through his door’s window. “No, but sometimes I think I’m the only one who takes the job seriously. There are times we can’t bribe, trick, or discredit someone. If a burst slips a miracle cure into the mind of a nun, you think we can blackmail her to stay quiet? No, she’s going to think the Big Guy came down and gave it to her personally. People like that often pass away in their sleep. Protecting the American people from the Signal is more important than one person’s livelihood, or life.”

“Even for a ‘miracle cure’? What if it was for cancer?” asked Idestam.

Christiansen reached into his coat and pulled a small cardboard packet out. “Gum?” He held it up to Idestam.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Idestam frowned.

Christiansen produced a silvery tab and tucked the packet away. He cocked his head to one side while unwrapping the gum. “Can’t trust the bursts. Anytime the Signal cuts through into our reality, we don’t know why. Sure, maybe for some reason the cure to cancer gets dropped into Sister Mary’s noggin. Purely at random, she gets the cure and the Catholic Church gets to go on healing people and remaining relevant for at least another century. But, what if the Signal is malignant? Hostile? Her drug or therapy cures the cancer, but in exchange you lose free will or something. Can’t trust the Signal’s bursts.”

“It’s been so long and we still can’t figure out what they are?” asked Idestam.

Christiansen smacked his lips a few times as he started on the gum. “Kid, just what is it they taught you during orientation?”

“It was drinking from a fire hose, to be honest. But that’s why I’m training under you, right?”

“Training is one word for it. You think we missed a turn back there?”

A tall, concrete building appeared on the dark horizon. A wooden signboard next to the parking lot entrance welcomed them to the ‘Lush River Radio Telescope Experience’. As Idestam slowed down and entered, he noticed only one other car parked there. Beyond it, the lit windows cast a yellow glow on the parking lot.

“All right. We probably have more time here. There’s no telling if the feds will want to come out here late at night.” Christiansen scanned the building with his eyes before exiting the rental car.

“Yeah, working this late would be crazy,” said Idestam as he followed the senior agent up the path to the front door.

“Easy, kiddo,” warned Christiansen. He approached the front door and pulled a handkerchief out. Using it, he tried to open the door. It creaked and revealed a softly-lit interior. The doorway opened up to a small lobby with a coat rack and a card table with brochures on it. A few chairs lined the wall opposite of the table. A placard on the wall announced the place’s hours of operation. It should have been closed hours ago. Christiansen took a small step inside and looked around the interior. His head slowly swiveled left and right. “Okay, no cameras. So far, so good. Wood veneer walls, also good. We may need to burn the place down.”

“Okay, that’s plan B. Let me take point on this one.”

“No, you had the last job. Just follow my lead. Training, right?”

“Right.” Idestam rolled his eyes. “Training.”

Christiansen walked past the table. He ignored a little bell set on it with a ‘Ring for Service’ placard. The door beyond the table proved to be unlocked, and he swung it open with ease. Christiansen poked his head through and called out “Hello?”

From inside, Idestam heard a startled “Hello? Who’s there? Agent Kaunis?”

Christiansen smiled at Idestam and waved to him, before entering the room himself. He whipped out his billfold and let it fall open. Light glinted off the badge inside. Christiansen’s voice morphed again into a southern drawl. Vowels stretched in each word as he took up a twang accent. “Ah. No, sir. Postal Inspection Service. We were told you got a radar ping of some kind?”

The room circled around itself. A walkway around the outer wall passed by numerous computers and desks. In the center, a small metal walkway rose up to a platform. An older man with a cheap, ill-fitting toupee stood on the platform in front of a computer desk. “Radio broadcast, gentlemen. I apologize for not meeting you at the door. I wasn’t aware that the… post office would take interest.” He started to descend the stairs, but Christiansen raised a hand.

The agents closed the distance between them and the stairs. Christian braced himself on the railings installed on either side of the stairs. “That’s all right, sir. It’s just your little radio play up there,” Christiansen waved a hand towards the computer behind the scientist. “It’s got our planes and helicopters grounded and making a terrible mess of their electronics.”

“Oh, that’s just a play-by-play. The full thing is being recorded on the computers over there,” the scientist nodded his head towards a bank of computer screens.

Christiansen followed the man’s motion with raised eyebrows. “Really? That right there is what’s causing all our trouble? What is the thing behind you, then?” He asked with a voice of piqued curiosity. He began to ascend the stairs towards the scientist. The man excitedly welcomed Christiansen up and beckoned him to approach the monitor.

“Think of it like a window to peer in on whatever signal we’re seeing. Or listening to, rather. I asked them to set the place up like this when we first built the array and the administration got rid of the actual telescope we had here. Makes me feel a bit like the philosophers in the days of old, you know? Watching the stars. Listening, in this case.”

Idestam stood at the foot of the stairway as Christiansen made a point of fawning over the computer screen. Idestam’s hand flew to his holster when the scientist picked up a black object from the table. It was a pair of headphones. He carefully relaxed and hid the weapon holster inside his jacket again. Checking the ceiling, Idestam realized there were no cameras in the observatory anywhere. Part of him felt lucky, but a cold pit began to form in Idestam’s stomach. He kept an eye on the scientist.

“Here, try this on. You can hear what it sounds like through these,” the scientist leaned forward and tried to slide the headphones onto Christiansen. Christiansen ducked back and pushed the headset away.

“Thank you, Doctor…” Christiansen checked the nametag on the scientist’s jacket. “...Calvin. But I don’t need to do that. So this computer here isn’t recording the broadcast?”

“No, just that one down there. It actually has one of those new CD-ROMs that we can use to save it. I plan to burn several copies for when we arrange a press conference.”

“You haven’t told the news yet?”

Dr. Calvin shook his head. His fingers drummed on the headset slowly. “No, I want the full thing to be ready. There’s no telling how much is left. I called Agent Kaunis after the first transmission, since she’s taken an interest in my past work. But, then it restarted. And it’s all different from the first part. I’m letting it complete before I make any more phone calls. I didn’t think to really call anyone else. Not even the… post office. I apologize.”

“Please, Doctor, we’re happy being the unsung heroes. Well, it’s recording right now.” Christiansen clapped his hands and examined his surroundings. “Down there. And surely you must have written down the coordinates or frequency or what have you?”

“Ah, again, all on the computer. I did write out a brief description of it for my colleagues but everything else is electronic.” Dr. Calvin nodded reassuringly. He glanced between Idestam and Christiansen.

“Description?” Christiansen slowed his syllables in a questioning tone. He mirrored the doctor’s head nods and shakes while maintaining perfect eye contact.

“Just what the machines told us at first. I’ve never seen a Fourier decomposition quite like this. At this point, it’s all conjecture,” shrugged Dr. Calvin. “I believe there were few patterns in it, and I could not help but hypothesize. This could be a new chapter in history aft--”

“I take it you listened to this thing?” Christiansen interrupted. The faux southern drawl dried out of his words and betrayed a cold, monotone clip. His native Yankee accent didn’t return immediately.

“It was beautiful. Like a chorus of ang--”

“You listened to it,” nodded Christiansen.

“It’s the first broadcast from out there,” protested Dr. Calvin. “I had to know.”

“Well, it’s fortunate you’re up here,” said Christiansen. The senior agent checked around himself and wiped his palms on the sides of his jacket.

“Anyone would be fortunate enough to hear it. And soon, we can share it with the whole world. You yourselves are fortunate to be here.” The scientist smiled at the men.

Christiansen’s arm shot up and grabbed the man by the back of the neck. “Yeah, saves the poison we’d normally use, I guess.” Without another word, the senior agent tripped the man with one foot over his leg. He followed through and hurled the researcher over the top of the railing. Idestam flinched as the old man gave a short cry and hit the floor below them. A dark puddle spattered out from underneath Dr. Calvin upon impact.

Idestam slowly turned from the murder scene before him to Christiansen. He turned his palms outwards as he glared at the senior agent. “Goddamnit, he was innocent.”

“No, he wasn’t. You heard him: ‘Entire world will hear’ and bullshit. Can’t have that.”

“I mean… Can’t we call the Office and ask for, I dunno, blackmail or something?”

Christiansen shook his head. “A scientist like that doesn’t go quietly. Blackmail wouldn’t work. Besides, an old man working late in unsafe conditions like this? Accidents happen.”

“There’s a safety rail.” Idestam pointed two fingers at the steel pipe on the edge of the walkway.

“Yeah, that’s why I put my whole body into it. It’s a fluid motion, kid. The trick is to use your foot as an anchor and then push your hip to--”

“No, that’s not-- what the hell?”

“We’ll deal with this later. Those agents are bound to show up at any point. Help me find the computer.”

Idestam looked back down. The scientist weakly twisted in place. His face slowly formed a tortured expression. Words formed on the man’s lips without sound.

“Kid, come on.” Christiansen walked back down the stairs towards the computer banks. Idestam followed him after one more glance down to Dr. Calvin. The computers whirred and hummed. Lights danced on and off on various panels. Christiansen stopped at a blinking computer screen. A message on it announced the progress of a recording.

“This looks like it.” Christiansen cracked his knuckles and began typing. “Give me a second. Watch the door.”

“Yeah, sure,” muttered Idestam. He kept an eye on the door for a moment, before giving a side eye to the body on the floor. The scientist shifted uncomfortably in his own blood. The man still said nothing and stared at the ceiling. “So, two FBI agents are going to come here and find a dead man and no recording.”

“And no coordinates,” said Christiansen. He remained hunched

over the computer while talking. It beeped and chirped in response to the commands the agent gave it. “They’ll find nothing of use.”

“Except a dead man,” repeated Idestam.

“That’s not enough for the Bureau to open an investigation. It’d have to start locally. These two aren’t on an official case, anyway. Our man in their office said the expense report came through without a case file or justification.”

“I wonder how they’ll get away with that,” said Idestam.

“Who knows? Friends in high places. Others with eccentric interests. Office politics is a boon and a bane. There we go,” Christiansen stood up. Taking a cloth from his jacket, he wiped down the keyboard. “No recording. No more logs of where the telescope’s been pointing for the past few weeks. And, it’s now going to point elsewhere.” He looked at Idestam and stuck a thumb to a small door in the wall. A neon exit sign cast red hues over its metal frames. “Let’s get going.”

Idestam followed behind Christiansen, mute. The transition from artificial light inside to darkness outside came almost as a relief. Idestam took a deep breath of the crisp night air while they trudged to the car. Still only one other car sat in the parking lot. The buzzing fluorescent light pole on the parking lot’s edge forced the car to cast a long shadow. Idestam could almost make out a bumper sticker on the compact car. My Child is an Honor Student at… He looked away.

“Keys. I’ll drive,” Christiansen said, with a hand outstretched. Idestam fished the rental keys out of his pocket and handed them over. He stared at the entrance of the building. Even as he opened the car door and sat inside, Idestam stared. Part of him wished the scientist, Dr. Calvin, would come walking outside. He knew the doctor wouldn’t be walking any time soon, if at all.

“Where to now?” Idestam asked quietly as they pulled out of the lot.

“I saw a frozen yogurt place on our way into town earlier. Come on, kid. We’ll get some, call the Office, and then find a place to sleep tonight.”

Idestam nodded. He turned to watch the outside world scrawl past as they drove. The stars dimly blinked from their places in the night sky. An occasional tree eclipsed his view for a moment. No sound came from outside. Idestam’s ears filled with the hum of car tires on the earth below him.

----

Hello! This short story is from my fictional work "A Familiar Darkness" and is a standalone story. Think of this as like The X-Files' monster-of-the-week episode, with the main storyline being available on my Patreon. I also publish on Reddit and Royal Road if those platforms are easier for you to access!

The snaps and cracks of weapons fire sounded like popcorn to Colom Fraus. The armor surrounding the tank crew muffled everything from thundering roars into mild disturbances. The rumblings of its own twin diesel engine proved louder than some of the firepower the enemy had thrown at them. The battle continued ahead of them, while the crew of five sat idling.

Fraus himself held a small pen light with which to read the textbook he had snuck in. Cramped in the co-driver position, he hunched over the book and murmured important passages back to himself. A random shell landed close by, shaking the M4 Sherman, and caused enough annoyance for Fraus to look up momentarily.

“What the feck was that?” The driver, Pan, exclaimed over their intercom. Fraus merely turned to the next page in his reading material.

“Lord Oikawa. Calm yourself, child. His mortars are amateurs,” Moskvin intoned. The tank commander’s exhaustion came through clearly over the antiquated communication line.

“That was awful close for amateurs,” Pan whined.

“Broken chrono’s right twice day.” The gunner butted into the conversation.

“Speaking of days, how much longer?” Asked the young Pan.

“Two days,” Moskvin stated.

“Sat here two days now. Sit here two more?” Asked the gunner.

“We’ll do as we’re told,” Moskvin sighed.

“More money out there. Less money here.”

“I’m sure we’ll have our chance to play for the cameras.”

Fraus looked up, mulling something he’d read over in his mind. An absentminded stare out the multi-layered glass viewport revealed an almost idyllic environment outside. Their makeshift operations base had been set up in a rural-esque village. A few of the buildings had burned down from the initial battle around the area, but most still stood beside cobblestone streets. Ahead of the Sherman had been built a small checkpoint with a machine gun sat on a table scavenged from around.. He watched as one man walked up to the guard, exchanged pleasantries, then swapped places. The man relieved of watching the opposing hills for Onis quickly left the frontline and the limits of the viewport as he headed back for the improvised barracks.

“Oughta go out, stretch legs.” The loader broke his usual silence.

“We could move at any moment,” countered Moskvin. “We’re told to sit. We sit.”

Fraus pulled a highlighter out from his coveralls and marked a certain passage. The felt tip squeaked across the glossy page. Pan looked over.

“What’s that now?”

Fraus didn’t return the attention, only muttering “A book.”

“Book of what?”

“Measor non-linear field theory.”

“Sounds like bullshit.” Pin sniffed and turned back to his own viewport.

Fraus took the notepad he had rested on one side of the textbook and began to practice an equation mentioned. The pen he used slid across the page with ease. His eyes followed as each number, symbol, and variable poured out from the pen. In his mind, Fraus could see the rest of the function coming to life and creati—

“You have a book?” grunted Moskvin.

The thoughts evaporated as Fraus looked behind him to the center of the tank. Moskvin hadn’t left his perch in the turret, but Fraus still felt scrutinized.

“Um, yes. I do.”

“Is it religious?”

“Most would say no.”

Moskvin didn’t speak for a moment. “How’d you get it past the pre-game inspection?”

Fraus sighed and closed the book, keeping two fingers inside to mark his spot. “I found a discarded munitions box no one was using during training. I just put everything in the box and slid it on the rack with the others.”

“Thought monitors checked boxes.” The loader sounded, unsurprisingly, confused.

“They do, just not the kind we’re thinking of,” remarked Moskvin. “You’ve been reading this whole time?”

Fraus braced himself. “Well, no. I only do it during the downtime. We’re not doing anything, see?”

“Were you reading when the Onis hit a rocket on Tomas’ tank?” This question came with a veiled anger. Everyone knew the subtext in the question. Moskvin was still looking for someone to blame.

“No. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Medics said the rocket hit the back half of the rig. We were in front of them.” Fraus still tried a defence, though now wary of the delicate territory the conversation had entered.

“Hmmm. Maybe their bog had been reading when the rocket hit.” Moskvin’s comment didn’t appear to be directed at anyone in particular. Everyone in the vehicle seemed rather relieved at that. “It’s getting late. Fraus, hop out to the chow point and grab us bowls.”

Thankful for the excuse to leave, Fraus acknowledged and took off his headset. Fraus set the book and notepad down on the floor beside his stool; he had given up the dummy ammo can when they last resupplied. Opening the deck hatch with a brief struggle, Fraus braced his hands on the sides and pulled himself up and out. The atmosphere outside hinted at gunpowder residue and wood smoke. He swung both legs over the side and slid off.

The cobblestones clicked under his boots as Fraus hurried to the building the support element had dedicated to food and supplies. He paused by one collapsed house, digging a reasonably-sized piece of wood plank out. A few soldiers, rifles slung over shoulders, nodded to him as they passed in quiet conversation. The closer Fraus got, the more the smell of cooked something or others joined in the general aroma of the battlefield. His stomach noticed as well as his nose.

The interior of the house-turned-chow-hall was illuminated by the fireplace and several lanterns. A row of tables had been set up with bowls, cutlery, and a few large containers that wafted steam into the cool air. A soldier waiting behind the tables motioned for Fraus to approach.

“You’re in luck. We just finished this batch. Tanker?” He asked as he made note of Fraus’ uniform. “How many in your crew?”

“Five,” replied Fraus. He brought the plank up and held it as a platter for the cook to place completed bowls on. After a few quiet moments, five were lined along its back.

“You’re with that armor company that’s been sitting out there?” The cook attempted conversation.

Fraus hummed an affirmative as he turned to leave. He didn’t hear what the cook had to say next, instead quickly footing his way back up the street to the crew. The slush inside the bowls mixed left and right as he walked. Chunks of gristle floated at the top of the thin stew.

Moskvin had opened the top hatch on the turret and sat on it, smoking a thin cigarette and dangling his legs over the side. The gunner had also come out and stood on the deck. A stream of urine landed on the cobblestones with a sound like rain. Leaning out of the top hatch was the loader who also enjoyed a drag off a nicstick. The long cannon jutting out from the turret had someone’s socks drying on it. Along the side of the cannon barrel was scrawled the tank’s nickname, Queball. Fraus set the plank of wood down on the deck of the tank and began handing the paper bowls up to his crew members.

“Book boy’s back,” observed Moskvin in his thick Kherson droll. “Learn anything?”

Fraus didn’t respond, instead giving Moskvin a bowl.

The gunner stamped his boot a few times next to the deck hatch. The noise summoned Pan who stuck his soot-streaked face out the hole.

“What’s the dinner?” He asked with a careful eye on the bowl’s contents.

“Dinner,” the gunner snapped back.

“Fair ’nough,” the boy disappeared back into the tank.

Fraus sat against the side of the tank. He fished a spoon out of his pocket and quickly worked through the small meal. Once finished, he tossed the bowl and spoon to the street and stood up.

“You got spoon for you?” The gunner glared at the discarded utensil. “Not us?”

Fraus looked back at it with him. “Oh. Sorry.” He stood up on the track of the tank as a foothold and clambered onto the deck. He dropped himself into the darkness of the hull once more and retrieved his study materials. Pan noisily slurped on the thin broth from his driver’s stool. Fraus grimaced and tried to ignore him, hunching further over his book and notes.

“Didn’t get us spoons, huh? Probably thinks spoons are just for uni boys.” Moskvin’s voice drifted through the open hatch. The gunner said something in response but Fraus couldn’t hear it. Both men outside laughed.

The loader awoke with a small cry. “Bossman. Radio.” There was the sound of someone climbing around the top of the tank. Then, Moskvin began shouting for the tank to be readied.

Fraus stuck himself up and snatched the deck hatch’s handle. Pulling the heavy lid with a resounding bang, he sat back down and gripped the handle of the .30 caliber machine gun resting in front of him. The gimballed machine gun was Fraus’ only contribution to the game until someone in the tank got themselves killed. Then, life got a tad more complicated.

He swung the weapon left and right, making sure it still could. And once satisfied, he let it hang again. Fraus pulled on his headset to hear the radio chatter between the tanks of the armor company.

“Quaker Company is being moved forward. First and Third platoon are meeting us at the road’s intersection a mile up. Queen Bee will take point. Queball, bring up the rear.” Someone ordered.

“Copy, Queball in rear.” Moskvin’s radio voice was substantially more level-headed sounding than the voice he used to speak to the crew.

“Queen Bee moving to the front. Watch yourself, Quickie. We’re moving up on your right.”

“Don’t scratch the paint, Queen.”

The company commander’s proxy spoke over the tankers’ chatter. “Quaker Company, move to grid zero one nine, three one five. Use three-steepled church as reference. Infantry companies in the area report contact with light armor. Casualties approaching high. Get there before they rout.”

Fraus watched through his periscope as the other three surviving tanks of Second Platoon lumbered past them. The black exhaust vomited from the individual stovepipes caused him to wrinkle his nose. He ducked back down and picked up his book. He wouldn’t be needed for a while.

“Driver, forward steady. Keep us fifteen behind Quarrel,” ordered Moskvin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pan muttered. The tank lurched forward and began rolling. The sound of the tracks spinning and hitting the road made a constant clack-clack-clack. Even with the ear muffs of the headset, Fraus glared at the wall for its failure to deafen the track’s sounds enough. He refocused on his book and clicked the penlight on.

Equations, questions, answers leapt out at him from the text. He smiled as he read. Fraus felt like an explorer in a movie peering into a forbidden chamber full of treasure. Whenever a particular point stood to him as especially beautiful, Fraus would sketch it in his notes and play with whatever math lived within it.

“Quaker Company, be advised. Roman Company’s final platoon has lost contact in vicinity of three-steepled church. Initial estimate of armor is to be increased.”

The gunner cursed in his maiden language. “Bossman, armor pierce?”

“Yeah, load one. Push comes to shove, we’ll just make some Oni footman’s day a lot worse.” Moskvin sounded more awake now. Fresh orders made for fresh purpose.

A tinkering of metal behind Fraus was then followed with a clang as the loader readied the cannon.

“Up,” stated the loader.

“Up,” echoed the gunner.

Fraus ignored them as he found an especially interesting passage. He turned to a fresh page in his notepad and set about dissecting its inner workings on the paper. The sounds of the vehicle around him lulled to a drone when focus set in. Fraus chewed on the end of his pen for a moment when an algorithm stumped him. After brief rumination, he smiled and congratulated himself as he found a way around the problem. It all fell into place for him.

“Are you still doing that reading?” Pan asked after a few minutes.

“Hmmm?” Fraus looked up.

“Yes, are you fecking reading right now?” Moskvin joined in with a hint of hostility.

“Oh, um, yes. Yes I am.” Fraus looked over at Pan, who had since put his eyes back to his viewport. The light let in through the porthole made for a reverse raccoon eyes effect on the young man’s face.

“How can you even read in this dark?” Pan wondered aloud.

“How about you don’t goddamn read, yes? Watch for rockets.” The terse order from Moskvin caused Fraus to grit his teeth. He reluctantly replaced his study materials and took the machine gun up in hand. He didn’t see much save for the sides of the road and the back of the tank ahead of them.

The thought of the last concept he read stayed alive in the back of his mind. He contemplated it over and over. In his mind’s eye, he tried to picture how it affected nature and how he could affect it. The materials the university had suggested were truly marvelous, Fraus felt, and he felt some contempt towards Moskvin for delaying his work.

“I don’t even understand why you would bring that shit on board. Don’t do this again,” ordered Moskvin. “Fecking reading during Opening Hostilities. What’s got in your head, boy?”

Fraus shrugged, more for himself than anything, before speaking. “Fall quarter starts a few weeks before the end of the season. I want to be prepared for what I’ll miss.”

“You’ll miss the goddamn Onis if you keep your nose in that book,” growled Moskvin. “Fecking boy wanting to go to Uni. I wanted to go to Uni. You know what’s better money? The game. It’d behoove you to learn that.”

Fraus flitted his eyes back and forth across the viewport. The open fields to the left and right of them wouldn’t hide anyone. He relaxed only a little, but kept his hand on the weapon grip. It was more out of a fear of Moskvin than of death that he tried to stay alert.

“First Platoon in contact,” came a cry across the radio waves. “Lost one. Onis are past the church. We’ve got infantry in that orchard behind it.”

“Second, Third, report,” the proxy picked up after the panicked announcement.

The platoon leaders each reported nothing interesting. Second Platoon reassured First. Third merely stated they were on the way before addressing the platoon directly.

“Okay, Third, we’re going cross country. Turn off this road and cut across the field. Get ready to lay fire on the orchard when we pass the hill.”

“Eyes open, boys,” Moskvin reminded quietly. Pan pulled on one of the steering levers to veer Queball off the cobblestone into the dirt field. The column of armor kicked up mud as they roared across the land.

Fraus allowed his mind to wander, entertaining thoughts of theory and thesis. Answers could be elusive, but he pursued them in his thoughts. Noting questions to ask when finally moving to uni, Fraus reached down and snatched his notepad to scribble in.

“Holy shit,” Pan exclaimed breathlessly. The others in the tank cursed in similar fashions. Fraus took a peek through his periscope. A Sherman rolled in reverse down the road on the other side of the fields. The turret atop was torn open with a hellish blaze shooting out of it, the fuel and ammunition contributing to the fire’s reaching height. Fraus scanned the area it had appeared from, but upon finding nothing looked back down to his notepad.

He was halfway through sketching out an equation he wanted a professor’s clarification on, when a belch of cannon fire reverberated through the tank.

“All, Queen Bee has infantry bearing zero seven one in the treeline!” Queen Bee’s report followed the cannon quickly. It summoned a discord of automatics and cannons. Fraus peered through the periscope again, seeing the edge of the orchard being quickly churned over as tracers from the other tanks raked it back and forth. Their cannons ripped holes in the earth as each long gun slowly lobbed high explosive shells at them.

“Hold fire,” Moskvin told the crew. “Keep watching for armor.”

“Holding,” affirmed the gunner.

The super-heated metal of a rocket streaked out of the orchard and passed in front of the line of armor.

“Pivot the formation to face that orchard!” The platoon leader yelled into his radio.

The tanks in unison began to move the line to bear on the infantry’s refuge. Their barrage continued as they slowly crawled forward.

“Hold fire…” Moskvin reminded, unease setting into his voice. Fraus took the chance to finish his thought on the paper. And as he ended that one, another one popped in his mind. He began to add that particular what-if to the questions he already had recorded. His eyes struggled without the penlight, but Fraus did his best to squint and make sure his writing was legible.

A sound like that of pebbles on metal began to sprinkle back and forth along the front of Queball. Fraus took another look. Tracers came from within the orchard and stroked the forward apron. Satisfied, Fraus returned to the notepad.

“Bog, fire a few bursts at whoever thinks they’re making a difference,” ordered Moskvin as if it was almost an afterthought to him, an annoyance at best.

“Copy, copy.” Fraus dropped the notepad in his lap and took to the machine gun. His only reference for aiming were the green iridescent smears that ran through the air as the ammunition belt encountered another tracing bullet. A gentle motion of his hand let the bullets arc across and pepper a wide area of the treeline. The opposing tracers, and their corresponding impacts on the hull, ceased.

“Good enough, good enough,” Moskvin commented. Fraus released the machine gun and picked his notepad up. Had he finished that query? Fraus held the pad up to the light of his periscope to be sure. Once satisfied, he sat with his hands in his lap, trying to think of anything else he might want to ask. The first section of reading had been self explanatory. It was a refresher from secondary school. He’d had no problems understanding. The second section, however, had be—

Queball jolted with a violent banging. Pan and the loader both yelled in alarm. The turret squealed as the gunner swung it in the direction of their attacker. Pan began to turn the tank, but stopped when Moskvin shouted at him. Fraus just stared at the side of the impact. A brief thought asked what would have happened if the shell penetrated, but Fraus banished it from his mind. The thought retreated but taunted him from within.

“Gunner, swing to two seventy.” Moskvin’s voice held a lick of excitement in its vowels, though stayed flat as he spoke. “Right there, I think they threw some bushes on its deck but that’s definitely armor.”

“I see,” the gunner agreed.

“Fire when ready.”

Queball barked, shook on its haunches, and the sound of an empty shell sliding out of the cannon and hitting the floor echoed.

“Higher,” urged Moskvin. “To the left more.”

“Higher. Left,” repeated the gunner.

“Up!” The loader yelled just as the cannon’s breech slammed shut.

“Fire when ready.”

Queball rocked again. Fraus shook his head and broke off the staring contest with the wall. He checked the periscope. The orchard had more still bodies than moving ones now. One of their sister tanks moved along the tree line firing sporadic bursts here and there.

“All, Queball has armor contact across the road in the treeline. Two seven zero. Camouflaged.” Moskvin invited the other tank crews as the loader and gunner worked Queball’s gun over. “Driver, face left.”

“Yeah,” Pan complied. Queball turned in place slowly. The tank treads gripped the earth and pulled them all forward a little as she spun around. Queball convulsed with the sound of a bell’s toll as another shell glanced off and whistled away in ricochet. “Feck me, they’re trying.”

“So are we. Gunner, fire when ready.” Moskvin hadn’t even finished the order when the cannon recoiled. The gunner whooped and cheered something ineligible.

“Good hit, good hit.” Moskvin allowed him.

Queball finished turning and brought the offender into view of Fraus’ periscope. The now-defeated vehicle had been tucked by an outcropping of rocks. Fire leapt up from the hole in it and singed the leaves of the trees by it. A hyperson monitor, orbiting above the vehicle, swooped in to look at the vehicle for a moment before flying away.

A creeping pain in Fraus’ knuckles reminded him of the death grip he held the notepad in. He set it down, all thoughts being drowned in the adrenaline of being hit.

“Queball, take the road. Queen Bee, finish your sweep of the orchard. Quickie, follow us in. We’re going to tail Queball,” came an order.

“Don’t have all the fun without us,” warned Queen Bee.

“We just don’t need anyone slowing us down is all,” taunted another one of the tank commanders.

Fraus wiped at his brow as the heat of the cannon expanded into the rest of the tank. Queball groaned while Pan steered her up onto the road. A ways ahead sat a church with three steeples, though one steeple had collapsed off its tower.

“By the Deep, they really pushed,” Pan marveled. Multiple Shermans sat burning on either side of the road. A few bodies of crewmembers were scattered in the dirt by one. Figures crossed the road by the church in a hurry. “I guess we found Roman Company.”

“Bog, you got your fecking eyes in the book again? Those were prime targets on the road just now.” Moskvin’s anger shown clear through his words.

“I couldn’t tell who they were,” reasoned Fraus. He had one hand on his weapon, the other grasped the notepad as if it held a salvation.

“I doubt our boys are the ones who cracked open Roman. Next time you see those fools, you drop them.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Pan, you catch that bluntbrain reading or whatever, you tell me.” The order caused a shiver across Fraus’ shoulders.

“No problem.” Pan’s response came almost too quickly. Fraus glared over at the driver.

A hyperson monitor zoomed overhead towards the church. Three beams of energy left the core of the oblong drone, and exploded over the top of the main roof. The hyperson flew a small circle above before leaving.

“What was the point of that airstrike?” Pan asked.

“Probably was meant for the road. Rules say air and heavy artillery are approximate. The Lord took a gamble,” reasoned Moskvin. “Not the worst one I’ve seen. A monitor dropped napalm on us during Asia in Arms Two. It was two hundred meters off.”

Fraus thought he saw something in a shed as they rolled past the orchard. He hurriedly squeezed the trigger and pointed the machine gun’s barrel at the wooden structure. The flurry of lead broke the wall in several places while he fired. Something told Fraus to stop, and he sat back on his stool.

“Hit anything?” Moskvin asked after a few seconds passed.

“I… don’t know.”

“Least he ain’t reading,” quipped Pan.

“Thank the Deep for that,” Moskvin agreed.

A massive shockwave rippled through the tank. It threw Fraus against the dash, and he dropped his notepad in panic. The sound of shrapnel pitter-pattered on Queball’s back. The loader and gunner made loud exclamations, forcing Moskvin to shout them down.

“Quickie’s gone. Where’d that shot come from?” The radio squawked to life.

“I didn’t see nuffin!”

“Scoping now. Left side maybe?”

“Queball, halt.”

Queball protested the sudden braking loudly as Pan obeyed the radio. The turret twisted about. Fraus swallowed and looked out. Still nothing.

“Anything?” Moskvin asked.

“Naw, bossman,” the gunner replied.

“Yeah, me neither. Wait, three twenty has movement. Swing the gun.”

“Swinging.”

Fraus pushed himself off the dash and patted himself down. He knew he couldn’t be hurt but it helped instill a small sense of agency for him. Glancing back towards the turret, Fraus wondered what they’d find.

“Front, front!” Screamed Pan. “Tube in front!”

Fraus startled. He re-engaged the machine gun. Sure enough, some brave soul had ran out and crouched by a Sherman carcass. The wide faceplate of a panzershrek obscured the Oni’s face. Haphazardly, Fraus began firing. The tracers flew far off the mark, towards the other side of the street.

“He’s right there!” Urged Pan.

Fraus clenched his jaw and swung the hail of bullets towards the man. He watched a flash of fire burp out of the panzershrek and Queball revolted. The impact elicited a cry from the loader. Fraus hit his head on the periscope in whiplash. He kept the trigger down. When the smoke of the blast cleared, no one was in the road.

“How’d you miss that?” seethed Moskvin.

Pan groaned something inaudible.

“Were you feckin reading?” Moskvin asked.

“No… I just…”

“I’ve had enough of this. Loader, go grab schoolboy’s shit. We’re tossing it next chance we get.”

The loader ducked down out of the turret and crouched towards Fraus. Fraus panicked and stuck an arm out toward him off. The older man easily overpowered him and invaded his space.

“No, please, it’s not that!” Fraus tried. The loader put a strong hand on the side of Fraus’ jaw and pushed his head into the wall roughly. The hit stayed Fraus as his ears began ringing. He saw the man rummaging at his feet.

“Found book, bossman.”

“No…” Fraus said weakly. His head stung. Both hits, so close to each other, merged into one growing headache across his scalp. He blinked in several times to fight back tears.

The loader quickly scampered away before Fraus could grab at him. The man snaked his way back up into the turret.

“Good. Now there’s nothing distracting you. Loader, toss that shit the moment we unbutton hatch.” Moskvin spoke with an air of confidence. He started to say something else, but the radio awoke with someone asking their status. Fraus sat on his stool numb as he listened to Moskvin report in. That book had cost Fraus a good bit. Fraus glared over his shoulder before bending down and scooping up his notepad. The notepad he stuffed into his coveralls. He patted the pocket for reassurance a few times. Then, Colom Fraus gritted his teeth and looked back through the periscope.

A thin whistle through the streets out of place with the ambience of the battle. Hemp Turk screened his surroundings for its source, taking his eyes off the building across the road. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention promptly, but the twenty-five year old Haitian-Izael calmed himself. That wasn’t artillery. Someone had taken it upon themselves to give away the platoon’s position with a little ditty.

Turk turned to the man behind him. “Damnit, shut that fool up.” He waved to where he thought the offender was. The soldier nodded and slunk past the others lined up by the wall. A light breeze carried the stink of weapon discharge through the city. The crack of a rifle refocused Turk. He inched towards the corner of the building.

“Sergeant,” hissed a man from the lineup. Corporal Levi Armstrong ran up next to him. “Come on, sergeant. Let’s just go up through the alley.” Armstrong suggested between labored breaths. Turk didn’t look at him, instead anxiously searching the windows ahead of them as he inched closer to the edge. No movement. Nothing. Not even a monitor spying on them.

“You think they aren’t watching that approach?” Turk warily asked. He held his M4 low and ready. A part of him hoped the squad didn’t see how much the barrel was shaking. “They’ve had gunners every fuckin’ block so far.”

“I mean, yeah,” Armstrong tried. The younger man seemed unsure, picking his words at a halting pace. “But we’ve made it this far.”

“We’re down three. Did Hodges and Kelp make it back from the medics yet?”

“Dunno, sergeant. I can’t raise them. Dover was a heavy one, though. They’re probably still dragging him.”

“Well, try again, will ya?” Turk lowered his rifle and leaned against the wall. “Crying out loud, get me some good news.” He wiped at the sweat collecting over his brow. His glove was stained with blood, but at least that was starting to dry. Another look at the abandoned office building gave him nothing. He could have almost been home. A stray thought of the streets of Chadash bubbled up from the consciousness Turk’s hypervigilence suppressed. The pavement, street signs, even the kabob cart parked outside the empty bank seemed to have been pulled directly from home. Shit, they even scattered around newspapers. Talk about realism. Turk cut his mental tangent short; he couldn’t afford rest.

Turk met Armstrong’s eye. Turk couldn’t tell if it was fatigue or worry that creased the man’s lips. “Tell you what: get me the mortar section. They hafta be ready again.”

The corporal nodded again and motioned behind him for the radio. Turk leaned over his shoulder and signaled for two other soldiers. Telly slowly huffed his way up to them, flanked by the summoned riflemen. Turk checked his chrono while Armstrong started the dial-out. Seventeen more minutes. The battle was dragging out. Their Lord would have words, no doubt.

“Sergeant,” acknowledged the first of the two men who crouched before him. Sweat wore away streaks of the camouflage grease on their cheeks. Exhaustion oozed out of every pore.

“Right. That building,” Turk highlighted with a knife hand the bank lobby that waited beyond the ten meters of road. “Get in and set me up an overwatch. Signal when it’s clear.”

The two soldiers didn’t hide the skeptical looks they shared with each other. “Yes, sergeant,” they both replied. Turk stepped back to give them space.

“I’ll take lead,” one told the other, lifting his rifle. His junior nodded. The two soldiers crept to the building’s corner. Turk squatted next to Armstrong, watching the corporal listen to headquarters’ response. Armstrong’s expression didn’t change. Telly gazed at the ground with lost eyes. Everyone else behind them shared the same look. A few stole sips from their bladder bags. Some messed with the pieces of their kit, adjusting this and that as if it’d make a difference.

“Here we go.” Turk heard a whisper behind him. He didn’t turn. Instead, Armstrong’s face had set into a glower. Turk questioned it silently. Setting the receiver back on the boxpack, Armstrong hefted up his rifle and turned to the sergeant.

“Central denies. Cavalry has a req-” A burst of an RPK overrode whatever Armstrong was saying. The entire lineup tensed. Turk spun around to see one of the riflemen jerking backwards a few feet from the corner.

“Jesus Christ!” The man’s partner grabbed at him.

“Machine gun, east fifty!” Called Armstrong. Turk ran to the corner, helping the rifleman with the body. They both pulled on his arm as he garbled a mouth of blood. Holes riddled the front of his vest. Others were echoing the corporal’s call. Turk strained with the weight of the warfighter and barely pulled him back into safety just as another string of lead ate away at the concrete. The effort drained him yet again.

“Lifesaver!” Turk ordered. He kneeled above the wounded man. His hands searched for the buckles of his vest. The other rifleman was unbuttoning the casualty’s instant aid kit. Blood began to seep through the canvas webbing. “Lifesaver, damnit!” Turk shouted again. He looked over his shoulder, searching for the squad lifesaver. A man was sprinting up the line. Armstrong was headed back to the others. “Corporal,” Turk called. “Take a team and-” Turk waved to the alleyway next to them when Armstrong nodded. Satisfied by Armstrong’s urgency, he turned back to the casualty.

“Pull him back more,” ordered Turk. He grabbed the man’s legs and together the two soldiers drug him into the shade further. The combat lifesaver knelt next him. Off came the vest, falling into pieces with a pull of its wound wire.

“Fuckin’ shit...” the lifesaver snatched up the aid kit and began pulling supplies out of it. Blood pooled and poured over the casualty’s chest. Turk motioned for the rest of the squad. Automatic fire erupted from up the alley. Their own weapons, Turk’s ears judged.

He moved back from the gathering soldiers and entered it, running past the dumpsters, hopping over strewn trash, and meeting up with Armstrong.

Armstrong’s team had lined up behind a groundcar. All three of them fired in sweeps upwards. Armstrong himself had posted at the mouth of the alley and pulled something from his kit. Turk took a knee next to him and tapped the corporal’s leg.

Armstrong, not pausing, swiveled his head and nodded. “They got at least a squad up in that fuckin’ hotel. We can--” a trail of smoke whizzed overhead of the fireteam and ended in an echoing explosion some distance behind them. All five soldiers ducked. As soon as he heard the rocket’s report, Turk hopped back up and helped Armstrong to his feet.

“Fuck it,” Turk shook his head. “I’m getting a drone. We’re not gonna play this shoot and scoot game anymore.”

“We can’t get mortars, you think the Lord’s gonna dish out air support?”

More explosions rattled windows, doors, and Turk’s insides. This time, the reverbs came behind him. The boys. “Whatever, just plaster the bastards.” He turned and sprinted back down the alleyway. The last reverberations of the enemy volley rippled up through the concrete and Turk’s boots. He spun the corner to find more carnage. A few soldiers had crossed the street, firing bursts into the hotel. Turk stepped over a severed arm and ran to the livesaver, who now focused on a new patient. The original casualty lay motionless where Turk had left him. The lifesaver packed gauze frantically into the wound of a moaning rifleman. A few other bodies were scattered around new craters.

“They got rockets, ser’ent,” The lifesaver noticed Turk. The boy’s arms visibly trembled as he tried to put all his weight on the white fluff he had pushed into his patient. The dark red stains climbed his sleeves, right up to the elbows.

“I noticed. Where’s Telly?”

The lifesaver beckoned over to a shifting body by the street corner.

“Fuck!” Turk flipped on his short-range, only to slap it off again when ear-piercing static met him. He waited until he heard the tinny pops of M4s to run to the radioman. The intersection transformed into chaos. A quick glance at the hotel showed barrels pointed at his men from the second floor. Adrenaline reared within Turk as he picked up the radioman by the legs and dragged him back to the lifesaver. Telly didn’t even seem to register his squad leader’s presence. Glazed eyes meandered about, as if pretending to work.

On a knee, Turk grabbed the receiver from its place on the radio and keyed it. More static bit back at him. He dropped the receiver, ignoring Telly’s anguished twitching. Leaving the radioman behind, Turk returned to the building corner.

Too many noises, smells, sensations overrode Turk’s thoughts. His lungs smoldered with each heaving gasp. Three campaigns had already taken their toll on his body; the battlefield’s miasma didn’t do his scarred lungs any favors. Something in the back of Turk’s mind wore at him, clawed at him, pulled him towards the ground. Tendrils of exhaustion taunted him. Turk glanced around anxiously. All around him the familiar sights and sounds had suddenly transformed into hellscape.

Two wounded soldiers, despite the direct fire, tried crawling back into cover towards Turk. Bloody trails darkened the pavement behind them. A rifleman missing both legs propped his weapon up by a gouged out crater of asphalt; the boy wasn’t even looking up anymore, just firing the rifle every few seconds towards their transgressors. The lifesaver shakily rose from his current patient and ran out towards another in the intersection. Turk numbly watched as the air rippled around the young soldier and sanguine puffs erupted from his body. The lifesaver made it two more steps before collapsing in convulsions.

“Shit...” started Turk. He wanted to say something, to somebody, whoever that may be. Never asked for this. Desperation sputtered in his mind. Just ’cause Sergeant Langley died in Opening Hostilities don’t mean I was cut out for his job.

Turk spun around and ran back to Telly’s body. Two other riflemen ran past the young gladiator as Turk knelt over the radioman and lifted him onto his side. A rocket slammed into the asphalt of the intersection, flecking debris across everyone. Turk gave a brief glance to it and saw a new floundering body in the street now.

Turning his attention back to the radio, Turk keyed it. Cradling his rifle in his arms, he held the receiver up to one ear and clamped a hand over his other ear.

“Central from Puma Actual, come in Central.” He spoke loudly, ignoring the static in the receiver. Another burst from the phantom machinegun beyond them and someone in the alleyway screamed for a medic. “Central! Puma Actual!” Turk attempted again.

A calm voice cut through the static. “Go for Central.”

“Central, Puma Platoon has heavy contact in Northern city block. Requesting smoke barrage, grid to follow.”

“Puma, request denied. All assets engaged. Current orders to advance and recon still stand.”

Turk looked up at the disarray around him. With who? “Central, Puma pulling back. Too many casualties. Radioman down. This will be the last transmission until back in shortwave range.” Fuck it. Central was beginning to reply, but Turk dropped the box set radio and stepped away from it. He stood and leaned against the building. One hand searched his plate carrier pouches and produced a smoke grenade. Turk gripped it tightly and wrenched the pin out of it, keeping his fingers over the spoon.

“Puma, fall back!” He called into the chaos. “Puma!”

Someone echoed his call over the din. And then a few other voices joined in the call to retreat. Thank stars. Turk tossed the smoke grenade underhand into the intersection, the spoon whipping off it with a metallic ping. One man behind a car in the intersection did the same, rolling a smoke grenade into the clear. The RPK began firing longer bursts into the billowing smoke. Turk turned and looked up the alleyway. One infantryman dragged another one away from the alley’s other opening.

“Fuck,” muttered Turk as he broke into a quick run to the pair. Wordlessly, he joined the rescuer in grabbing the casualty’s plate carrier straps and pulling. Eternity passed as they crossed the length of the alley. They were met by only one other man at the end of it.

“Anyone else?” Turk called over the increased weapons fire. Clearly their assailants hoped to catch a few more of them in the smoke cover. Turk grimaced as no one appeared behind the lone man waiting for them. “Fuck it, let’s get out. You two swap. Cover our ass,” He nodded between the two able riflemen. The men changed places, one taking up the casualty and the other readying his rifle towards the intersection. Turk grunted as they began dragging the weight of the wounded man between them.

Turk’s pulse pounded in his temples, the sound of his heart overwhelming his ears. Each footstep became a chore as they came closer to the next street crossing. Turk nodded to the corner, helping the other man prop up their comrade against the concrete building. “See to him,” Turk ordered as he leaned against the wall and quickly stuck his head out. After one glance over, he looked back to the others.

“Nothing,” Turk shook his head. He grabbed his bladder bag’s straw and took a pull from it, the warm water just now reminding him of how parched he had been. He took a longer drink after the new sensation and then let it go. After a few gasping breaths, he looked down at the casualty. The rifleman trying to help had opened the perforated plate carrier only to reveal a gruesome mangle of torn uniform and gore. The boy knelt by the body of his comrade staring blankly. Turk and their third teammate also stared. Nothing to be said, Turk rolled his shoulders back and looked back up the street. A hyperson monitor floated down it towards them.

“We got a babysitter coming,” Turk muttered to the other two. He patted his pockets and found a crumpled packet of cigarillos stuffed in one. Turk proffered them to the others, waiting as both men drew their own. They struck the match ends on various surfaces, letting the nicotine sticks sputter to life. All three quietly puffed on the sticks. Echoes of explosions and gunfire bounced across the city’s various buildings and walls. Turk kept an eye on the intersection of their ambush, though he felt certain they wouldn’t be followed.

The monitor turned the corner and scanned them with a brief, blue line. It muttered into their ears. Orders Stand: Recon elements to continue to advance and reconnoiter Warehouse Districts.

All three soldiers eyed the monitor warily. The ubiquitous machine just hovered there. Their ears tickled again with the hypersonic transmission. One soldier spat on the ground. Turk considered his options. He cocked his head at the other two.

“We aren’t going to be effective with just us. There’s no point.” He shook his head.

“Yeah, well, they could consider us disobedient.”

“We’re protected now that fighting has started. Just counts as a rout on the scoreboard.” Turk took another drag from his cigarillo and then removed it with two fingers. “No point in wasting ourselves over three meters of ground.”

The hyperson monitor’s holographic display changed from blue to red. Inactivity detected. Orders Stand: Recon elements to continue to advance and reconnoiter Warehouse Districts. Inactivity is fineable under the League Accords.

“Yeah, yeah, wouldn’t want to make bad television for you.” Turk dropped the cigarillo and let it smolder on the sidewalk. He looked up at the monitor and waved his arm until it turned to him. He cupped a hand over his mouth and slowly said “Rout. We’re retreating.” Turk motioned for the others. “Let’s go, boys.”

Rout registered. Notifying Lord Baxterly’s Control.

The three riflemen began their slow withdrawal from the city. More explosions and bursts of weapons fire echoed off the gargantuan dome above. The unmistakable beatings of gyrocopter blades roared, followed by the shrieks of missiles. Somewhere behind them, someone was making ground.

“They’ll find a way to dock our pay for this.” Someone spoke after a few minutes.

“Fuck it. Contest the ruling if the money means that much to you,” came the reply.

The outskirts of the city came into view as they rounded a corner. Before they could finish their jog out of the city, the End Game sounded. Exhaustion overtook the men more than it had before. One stopped in his tracks and immediately vomited. Another collapsed to his knees, shuddering. Whatever mental gymnastics used to persevere through the battle evaporated within an instant. Their bodys’ forced them to feel every ache and pain as the adrenaline withdrew from their veins, replaced with a mantle of fatigue. Above them, the Dome projected a holographic ticker tape across the sky with the game’s result.

“After all that? What the fuck are we here for?” The quiet lament disappeared into the city, unnoticed and unimportant.

“I can’t wait for this bloody thing to end,” muttered Robert Duff. His fingers twitched over the loose ends of a cigarette. It folded over, and he gripped it between two yellowed teeth. Fumbling with the matchbox, Duff struck a light. His companion, a young immigrant who introduced himself as Alexi, struck it out of his hand.

“What the bloody hell, you foulgone inbred?” Duff stiffed the boy over the head.

Alexi lifted a quiet finger to pursed lips, and then gestured out over the foxhole. “They told us: No lights, no noises. When darkness falls, so do we.”

“What kind of blasted– When darkness– Bloody hell, the monitors really did a number on you, eh?” Duff stuttered. He crouched in the mud and struck another match. Before Alexi could react, Duff elbowed him in the knee. Satisfied the recruit wouldn’t interrupt him, Duff lit the roll. After a few puffs, he rose again.

“That the sort of propaganda they drown you in these days? Nursery rhymes?” Duff poked Alexi in the chest.

Alexi shrugged. “It is what we were taught. This era preferred sharpshooters at night. Fire is not allowed. Neither is talking for that matter.”

Duff rolled his eyes. “This your first game, then?”

Alexi nodded, watching the horizon.

“An’ you think you’re ready for this? After a month an’ half of marching an’ shouting?” Duff whispered, not for Alexi’s sake but out of actual caution. He was a cynic, not an imbecile.

Alexi shifted uncomfortably. The rookie kept peering down the sights of his rifle, as if willing a Mowbray soldier to appear. Duff’s rifle leaned against the side of their embattlement. It stood next to an equally neglected haversack. Alexi hunched over before answering. “We did not just march.”

“No, lad, you’re right. Shooting a target at hundred meters is exactly like war.” Duff glared at the lad. “Good to know your bayoneting a dead pig has gotten you ready to kill.”

“How many games have you been in?” Alexi ignored the animosity. At least, he seemed to try.

“Listen, boy. I fought back in Glory of the Romans Three. Don’t go goosing me up like the village elder. If you want quiet, then be fucking quiet. I don’t need some grassy green ogling me like a statue.” Duff picked up his rifle and leaned in its place.

“You don’t have to be rude,” muttered Alexi.

“Why not? You’ll be dead by tomorrow. Opening Hostilities always culls the herd. This ain’t a Skirmish, you know. We won’t be leaving in an hour an’ lining up for the showers.” Duff, after a few drags on the limp gasper, spat in the dirt. He eyed Alexi. “Seen plenty of you, boy. I’ll see plenty more.”

“It’s only a week,” Alexi started to protest. Duff began laughing but it quickly turned into coughing and hacking. Alexi shrunk further down beneath the dirt wall with each cough. His eyes shot from side to side searching for someone who might have heard the noise.

“Lad, it used to be two weeks. But then, the League decided that was inhumane. Can you imagine? An’ in those days, playing a Seige had no time limit.” Duff recalled each little detail with scorn. “An’ my training camp was only two weeks. They didn’t care for historical accuracy; the audience only needs to see you carry a weapon.”

“What changed?”

“Lords an’ Ladies began fighting alongside their pawns. Many wanted more realism, the bluntbrains.”

“Basketcases,” murmered Alexi.

“Excuse me, lad?” Duff glared.

“Basketcases. We’re supposed to use their words.”

“Their?– Oh, you blasted grass. Does it look like I got Lord Latymer on my shoulder?” Admonished Duff. “No one speaks the old jabber unless a Lord or one of his bots is eyeing us. You’d have to learn fresh every year. You can’t do that, lad.”

Alexi fell silent again. The two men continued in the uncomfortable silence for quite some time, each one watching in different directions. A flare shot up from the hills where the Mowbray’s Men had been sighted. Both soldiers pushed themselves into their defenses. Light illuminated the field. White shafts danced along the dips and curves of the battlefield. It glided along on the wind for a tenuous moment.

Duff grumbled as he picked up the small shovel from its spot and began deepening their foxhole. Each lump of dirt tossed out strained his back even more. Alexi watched for a moment before disentangling his own tool from his pack and joining.

“Why do you dig?” Alexi whispered.

“Sky’s about to fall,” grunted Duff. He focused on his shovel swing instead of talking. Above them, the flare faltered and blinked out of sight. All brilliance disappeared with as if a cloth had been dropped over a napkin.

“I do not hear anything.” Alexi pointed out.

“You will,” Duff grunted again. “Might be the last thing we hear.”

“What is it like?” The question paused Duff in mid-swing. He carefully reset himself and considered the new soldier. Words, barbaric and crude, percolated at the back of his throat. Duff took a deep breath before answering.

“It doesn’t matter what it sounds like, lad. You only hear it for a moment; you’ll feel it for the rest of your life.”

“They told us to open our mouths when artillery is to hit near us.”

“Oh, they did, now did they? Is that the only thing they said? Did they tell you what to do if it hits you? Keeping your maw open does very little. Instead, get as near the earth as you can. Even if you’re breathing dirt, you’re more likely to live,” offered Duff. He signaled to their hole. “You see this? We should dig it longer an’ wider. Get some sandbags. Make it real an’ proper.”

“Will they bring us bags of sand?”

“Doubt it. I’ve been in Latymer’s Legion forever now; the Lord rarely gets off his arse to order supplies once a game goes long. We fought a Siege during Sea of Tranquility where my cavalry regiment ran out of power cells. Didn’t see action for the rest of the game because we were stranded in the habitat module.” Duff rested from digging. Nothing else had followed the flare. Or at least, nothing that affected him. Away went the shovel and out came his ration can. Alexi made a show of digging for a few more minutes before stopping as well.

“You were in the cavalry?” he asked after a breath.

Duff shrugged. “I tested high enough for any division. I’ve tried most of them over the years. I prefer the ranks of the infantry.” His ration can popped open. The smell of preserved beans and sausages pinched at Duff’s nose. He stuck his bayonet into one small specimen and raised it up for examination. “Three cheers for historical accuracy, lads.”

“The money is good here,” agreed Alexi. Someone shouted far off in the distance. A few whip cracks of rifle fire echoed from the disturbance. Alexi grabbed his weapon in a hurry. As Alexi brought it to bear on the Mowbray line, Duff chuckled.

“It ain’t about the mone– Here, put that down– Not about the money. Everyone joins for the money, but that’s your first mistake. If you want mo– I said put that thing down, lad– you want money, you should have become a miner. You can’t spend money if you’re dead. Will you put that blasted thing away already? No one from our own side even knows we’re here; I doubt the enemy does.” Duff signaled to the spot next to his own rifle. Alexi sheepishly retired the self-loader. Duff shook his head, gazing off towards the opposing side.

“You don’t want the money? Why else then be infantry?” Alexi restarted Duff’s thinking after a restless moment. The older man looked back at his young compatriot.

“We’re the most free. When’s the last time you seen a Lord marching with us? Shite, I ain’t seen one seen since I was in the battery during Fall of New York. Little puke just sat back in an air-conditioned rig while the rest of us hustled around gun emplacements,” Duff reminisced as his guard continued to fall. The long night begun to wear on him. He continued picking at the cold contents of his rations.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Lord,” contemplated Alexi. His face pinched as he thought.

“You would know if you did. They prefer wearing all the fancy ribbons an’ flash.”

“And you have use the campaign’s language around them?”

“Ah, naw. You just stay real quiet an’ give a mean eye when they’re around. They’ll think you’re a crazy one.”

Alexi laughed. “You must play that well.”

Duff allowed himself a short chuckle. “You’ll get there in time.”

“I thought I was going to be dead by the end of the game.” Alexi’s challenge caught Duff up. He squinted at the foreigner before taking a deep breath.

“I’m only passing the time with you, lad. I signed on the day after my secondary graduation; everyone I entered with has either retired or gotten themselves killed. No matter the year’s campaign, whether it’s sticks an’ stones or microrailers, plenty of the young ones get themselves killed. That’s just the game.”

“Teach me to survive, then,” Alexi suggested before Duff had even finished. Duff sneered at the thought. Silence fell between them as Alexi waited. Duff turned back from watching the wilderness to find the boy’s eyes piercing through him.

“How long is your contract, lad?”

“One campaign.”

“Why? You get off the boat and realize you have nowhere to sleep at night?”

Alexi ignored the verbal blow. “Not everyone who signs on are destitute.”

“Sure they are. Why else would they be playing for blood?”

With a shrug, Alexi forged on. “I’m only here to get enough money for uni.”

Duff’s eyebrows raised at that. “Oh, a smart one? How come you aren’t waiting tables or driving a cab?”

“Will you teach me to survive the night then? If I'm supposed to die here?”

“No.”

"Why not?"

"No."

Alexi humphed and inspected the ground beneath him with disinterest. He rose back up. "Why not?"

"Lemme guess, lad. You were born in the colonies an' grew surrounded by gearheads an' smog. Your parents scrap together just enough to put you on a ship, but you never thought you'd make it that far. An' when you reached your utopia, it turned out to be just as shitty as the frontier. So you got no money, no way home, but everyone has sacrificed everything to get you here. Ob-li-gay-shun, it's called. Just another anchor to hang round your neck." Duff fished another cigarette out of his pocket it. He stuck it in his mouth and talked around it as he searched for matches. "You ain't got money for classes— though you grew up being told you was bloody well smart enough for it. You get looped into the League because the recruiter promised thousands of tics and a warm bed each night. Course, they never tell you it might be a hospital bed. The papers are signed an' you show up for training camp expecting glory. Seven weeks later, you're stuck in a foxhole with me. Me. Someone who's been fighting for more than a baker's dozen. Take it from me, lad—" Duff found a match. Striking it on his helmet, he gingerly set the cigarette off. "— The League is your life now. My family stopped responding to letters during my second campaign. They moved an' never told me. The last friend I had on the outside transferred away for a new job. The last friend I had from my training camp got his intestines flattened and divided piece by piece across fifty meters a königstiger during Blitzkrieg Seven. You even seen intestines, lad?"

Alexi switched positions, looking across the battlefield as he listened. Duff continued watching him, despite the sudden lack of eye contact. He spoke faster and faster as the young man shirked away from him.

"You're dead. You're dead. You're bloody well gone, dead, cold, an' buried. New guys come and go all the damn time to play for the Lords. You want money? I could buy the moon. You don't come back for the money," Duff hissed between small whisps of tobacco cloud. The meager light from the cherry lit up his aged beard and jowls. Hollow eyes drilled into Alexi from the cigarettes shadows. "You come back because you never left, lad. No one's going to hire a gladiator; we're bluntbrained. The longer you're here, the more of your old life dies. Forget uni. Forget Mum an' Da. You take one good look at—" Duff was stopped by a flury of sparks and launches from the Mowbray line. Both soldiers stopped and focused.

A line of flares rocketed up above no man's land. Their phosphorus halos crackled and fizzed as bright as day. Beneath them, the entirety of the battlefield revealed itself. Duff snatched up his rifle and checked its chamber. Alexi followed suit after a profane prompting from his superior. The Mowbray Men screamed that war cry they were reknowned for. The entire offensive line leapt up out of fortifications and sprinted with all abandon at the Latymer's Legion.

"You're dead, lad," repeated Duff as he zeroed down his sights. "Forget about surviving the night. You have to survive the hour. Each hour." Alexi anxiously aimed, lowered, and aimed again as the might of one Lord was brought to bear on another. He ducked down and hastily attached his bayonet to the rifle barrel.

Duff spoke again, louder as the nearing rally contested his voice. "You're dead, lad. If you survive the campaign, get out. Get out and go home. There's no surviving this, alive or dead." And with that final line, Duff fired a bullet into the fast-approaching mob. Cacophony drowned around them as the battle crescendoed into frenzy. Through it all, Duff's words echoed through Alexi's mind.

You're dead, lad. You're dead.

Iron.

Sulfur.

Ash.

Chalk.

The tastes swirled in Adney Burl’s mouth. His head spun while he tried to catch his breath. Concussive waves rolled over him, bending bone and flesh with each pass. Each shell that burst around him rained dirt, metal--and sometimes gore--in a fine cloud. Burl gasped another breath of hellish air. He let himself sink into the crater he had fallen in a little more. Best to stay out of the way until I’m ready. A cutting ring drowned everything out of his ears. A rub with the finger did nothing to alleviate it.

My rifle... Where is- His hand settled on the wooden stock of the weapon next to him. He hugged the firearm and rolled onto his back. Numb fingers trembled as Burl examined it. It took Burl’s anxious hands three tries to check the breach. It never gets easier. The breach didn’t matter; the barrel was twisted off near the end. Shrapnel must have bent it in that last volley.

Burl tossed the useless rifle away with a curse. He couldn’t very well fight without a weapon. And the monitors wouldn’t take too kindly to cowardice. A corpse lay on the other side of the Burl’s little crater. It was a younger boy who ended at the waist. Burl crawled over, desperate for a change of luck.

“Sorry, lad,” Burl muttered as he grabbed the dead soldier’s weapon. A pull on the bolt revealed it to be in working order. As an afterthought, he ripped open the pouch on the boy’s rifle belt. “You hardly fired a shot.” Burl snatched two handfuls from it, refilling his own roundabout with the unused ammunition clips. He eyed a dented canteen on the corpse’s hip. Lifting it up, he struggled with the cap.

“C’mon, c’mon... Get it together.” His hand slipped, refusing to obey, but relented despite Burl’s stress. The cap gave way. Tepid water splashed across his face as he tried to drink.

“You’re a mess, lad,” came a shout from behind him. He twisted around, reaching for his rifle. It was an older man, in similar garb to him. The Snyde’s Regiment patch confirmed his friendliness. A Sergeant rank pin on his collar betrayed his age. “Careful now,” the man called over the din. Helifted up a cautionary hand to Burl’s weapon. He slid down the dirt into the crater. “I’m with you.”

Burl nodded, switching the rifle for the canteen again. He offered it. “Water?”

The sergeant accepted it from Burl. “You’ll have to speak up, lad. My ears aren’t liking the mortar fire.” He took a long swig. “We should have brought planes.”

“We aren’t getting air support?” Burl searched the sky. The veteran spoke truth; nothing but smoke and cloud hung in the air.

“Not in this one. I heard Lord Snyde spent his coin on that new lot of cavalry we started out with.”

“Lord Vernon clearly spent his on artillery,” Burl picked up his new rifle. The man capped the canteen and passed it back. Empty. Burl dropped it next to the body.

“The Vernon Corps. always prefers to stay at a distance. Lord Snyde has to relearn that every time he plays against them.” The man motioned to the edge of the crater. “All right then, on we go.”

“Where are your boys?” Burl asked as they both steadied in prone. The sergeant, squinting at the battle before them, gave a disinterested nod behind them.

“That barrage just now took most of them. We’ve been ordered to charge up to that ridge and regroup. Where’s yours?”

“I think the same as you. I got thrown here during the blasts.” Burl winced as he felt his back. I probably broke something. “I can’t find anyone else.”

“Well, follow me then. Most of the rifles should be regrouping right about there, just before that wagon.” The sergeant picked himself up and broke into a run. Burl followed suit, leaving the corpse and crater without a second thought. A few other brown-jacketed Snydes left their respective covers and joined the run. A machine gun opened up from the portion of Vernon line not hidden by the hill. Burl gave an involuntary cry as the sonic cracks of bullets sounded past him. Someone yelped behind Burl, but he didn’t stop. It wasn’t until he was behind the overturned ox cart with the sergeant that he checked. Two other Snydes met up with them; a third writhed in the mud before the road, clutching his stomach.

“Alright, lads,” the sergeant rallied. “We’re scattered all to hell. I assume most of you can’t find your leaders, so I’ll just have to do. Monitors are saying we regroup here with the rest of the rifles,” the sergeant turned to peer over the cart. “So far, so good. The objective is just on that line over there. We’ll be out by the end of the day.”

“Those pipes are going to have no problem sighting in on us out here,” protested a young private.

“Aye, that may be. It’s not our problem, though. Ours is to follow orders.”

A deep rumble came from behind the Snyde territory, prompting tired rejoicing from everyone. The field quieted as whistles grew audible in the clouds above. Some watched the faux sky expectantly. Others wisely ducked under cover. Within a second, gouges of earth were thrown up in deafening explosions. All along the Vernon line shells fell with abandon.

A heartening warcry came from the Snydes as riflemen poured from their trenches. A few monitors flew above them, scanning men at random.

“Here we go, boys,” the sergeant yelled again as more Snydes surrounded them. The four riflemen became engulfed in a river of their peers. The monitors hummed overhead through hyperson speakers: ”...the objective! New orders: Take the objective! New orders: Take the objective!”

The crisp voice giving the order cut through the chaos and settled in Burl’s inner ear. Whispers directed him. New orders: Take the objective...

Burl raised his voice with the others, screaming it hoarse. The horde of soldiers ran unorganized up the small ridge that seperated them from the Vernon line. The artillery barrage cut short just as the Snydes teached the top. A few riflemen took a knee here and there and began to fire upon the Vernon defenses. Most, however, continued to run and flail their weapons.

Automatic fire began to spit from the Vernons. Burl watched as the men in front of him fell to the ground. He tried to duck down and find cover, but someone snagged Burl’s shirt collar and hoisted him back up.

“No turning back now!” The sergeant roared in his ear. “Attack! Attack!”

“You blasted fool,” cursed Burl as he was forced back into the fray. Three battles in and I’m still not ready for this. He could see the helmets of Vernon riflemen frantically preparing behind their parapets. Rifles began barking lead at the offending Snydes. Some readied bayonets. The line of men between Burl and the Vernons thinned. He leapt over a headless Snyde and charged onwards. Another was thrown into Burl in recoil to a well-aimed shot. Burl merely threw the body aside as he and his comrades raced the last few meters to the Vernons. The warcries crescendoed into a harried scream as the two armies clashed.

Burl jumped down into the trench, wincing as his knees took the impact. Beside him landed other Snydes. To his right, a young Vernon unsteadily came at him with a knife. Burl batted away the attacker’s arm with his rifle, and followed through with a blow to the jaw. Burl couldn’t hear in the discord around him. Gun fire, explosions, screams; noises enveloped Burl as he continued to strike again and again. Eventually, his opponent ceased to struggle. Blood stained the man’s gray cloak and his face had contorted enough to fail recognition. Burl heaved a weary breath, but checked around him. Bodies had toppled over into the bottom of the trench. That blasted sergeant was in a grapple with a crazed Vernon. A Snyde crouched down near a wounded compatriot, trying to stop blood from gushing out of a gouge. A scan over the trench head revealed more Vernons running to their brothers’ aid. Burl lifted his rifle, sighted in, and spent three rounds to halt their advance. Satisfied, he bent down and rushed past the wounded Snyde. Beyond them, the sergeant continued his melee. Burl waited for the Vernon’s back and then dug his bayonet deep into the man’s back. The wriggling body fell away. The sergeant and Burl exchanged meaningless looks. Both turned away to rejoin the brawl.

“Can you help me?” Burl looked down at the voice calling to him. The Snyde rifleman rendering aid to the wounded pleaded with watering eyes. I was that lad just a month ago.

Burl joined the two. “Listen, tie it off and get back up.”

“I tried,” wailed the boy “but it’s still bleeding. I can’t s-stop it.”

“Here,” Burl took the tourniquet from the novice. “Take your rifle and be useful.” He pointed to the Vernon side of the trench. Burl tightened the tourniquet as much as he could. Dirt trickled down on the two as bullets landed in the trench wall above. He’s as good as dead now, unless this ends soon. Burl resigned from the effort. He half-heartedly tied off the ribbon. Before he could leave, the wounded man feebly grabbed Burl’s sleeve. His lips moved, but the words couldn’t travel through the chaos. Damn this ringing. The tinnitus continued to be one of a myriad of frustrations.

“Water?” Asked Burl. The man couldn’t even open his eyes. Lips moved. The head twisted from side to side. Frustrated, Burl shook off the cripple. Vernons were reaching the edge of the trench. The young Snyde at the trench wall held his bayonet up against the coming assault. He glanced back at Burl, panic boiling in his eyes.

“Turn, you fool!” Burl ran to the ledge. “Turn-” The zip of a bullet passed through the Snyde’s head. His helmet flew back. His corpse followed it into the bottom of the trench.

Burl replaced the boy. A charging Vernon angled his bayonetted rifle toward Burl. Burl ducked as the soldier met the trench, letting him fall inside.

Burl struck the man’s lower back. Just like camp. Burl grimaced as he repeated the motions his trainers had drilled into him so many times before. His opponent fell after the fourth blow. Burl retrieved his rifle and hurried a shot into the Vernon. He spun around for his next target when a horn interrupted him.

Not a war horn.

Not a truck horn or instrument.

It was the End Game. Everyone halted. Rifles in mid-aim, knives in mid-swing, men in mid-charge. Only the squirming of the wounded animated the playing field. The monitors flew around humming. “Victory for Lord Snyde! Victory for Lord Snyde! Victory for...”

Vernons and Snydes shook hands. Quiet congratulations and dirty looks were shared. Burl took a few steps towards his side. Before climbing out of the trench, he searched around. Where’s that crazy bastard so I can- Burl’s hunt for the sergeant was halted by a bearded Vernon offering a hand.

“Good game,” the Vernon tried.

“You too. Didn’t feel like we were here for five minutes.”

“You weren’t.” The Vernon pointed to the dome. Printed in the cloudscape was the declaration: Victory by Secession. The Vernon began walking down the trench. He called over his shoulder. “I guess Lord Vernon would rather nurse our wounds than hire fresh faces out of the slums.”

“Must be nice.” Burl climbed up the trench wall. It was a long, slow walk back to the locker rooms. He crossed through cratered fields. The impacts of each shell singed the wheat that had once grown there. Small brush fires meandered through what rows of crop remained. Monitors slowed their frenzy. Drones took time to scan the bodies cooling on the earth. They were carrion fleas hopping from victim to victim. Others hovered over open flame and spritzed the area with foam extinguisher. The atmosphere lulled to a graveyard hush.

Burl passed flaming wagons. Bodies scattered around them as crumbs do around a cake. The butt of his rifle drug in the dirt as he climbed over buttresses and through ravines. He reached the first field, where the corpses of an entire cavalry company rotted under the dome’s sun. Poor bastards didn’t last much longer than the very start. Vernon did his homework; Snyde is too predictable. Burl paused by the body of a short rider. The one arm still attached to the rider remained outstretched with saber in hand. The clean blade’s steel juxtaposed the body’s grime and gore. Burl kicked the sword out of the rigored hand absentmindedly and followed the other wandering souls towards the Regiment’s locker room. The double doors set within the dome’s walls invited all to exit the gates of hell.

I've been experiencing some problems with Prose.

First, I have a contest that I have been needing to appoint a winner to, but the site will not let me. Their IT briefly said they'd look into it and haven't gotten back to me since. This is distressing because several people paid into this contest and now I can't set a winner.

Second, even though most of my stories are GoldOpen, I have gotten no money from the views they've gotten. Is paying five dollars a month to this site really worth it? Are any Prosians actually making money off their Gold subscriptions.

It kinda feels like this site is taking our money and running off with it, if you ask me.