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He coughed, the heat stung his eyes, and smoke choked his lungs.

His shoulder struck the locked door. It shuddered in the frame, plywood shaking and groaning.

Growing dizzy, fire crawling over the floor and snaking up the walls of the small bunkroom.

Struggling to breathe, his legs getting heavier, he slams into the door again and again, his shoulder aching. Sliding down the door, he looks back at the flames. Its movements are predatory and animalistic. Burning eyes seem to look back at him through the smoke.

The heaviness of the air presses against his chest, his lungs filling with ash. He closes his eyes, rubbing them against the burning hot air.

He falls onto his back, cold air washes over his face, and fills his lungs.

Crea and Marshall look down at him, concern on their faces. Crea’s arm was in a sling, still recovering from his dislocated shoulder.

“Sorry, Gunny, we know we agreed to let it play out, but we couldn’t leave you like that,” Marshall said.

He struggles to catch his breath and orient himself. They help him sit while he looks into the bare bunk room. Now, only a bed and walls. A small camera pointed down to watch the bed and the door, its red light blinking.

“Was it bad?” Gunny asked, taking a long, slow breath of the cool night air.

“You can go back to sleep, if you want.” Crea offered.

“You want to see it?” Marshall asked. His voice was quiet.

Crea didn’t wait. “We’ve got the footage. But we wouldn’t blame you if you don’t want to watch.”

“Can’t fight this if we don’t face it.” He rises. Brushing his green shorts and untucked shirt off. He slipped his black shower shoes on his feet.

“I don’t know if we can Marine Corps through this gunny,” Crea said.

They walk along the moonlit path to the command center. It was his idea. If the cuffs didn’t work, they would lock each other up and watch each other on shifts, sleeping. Two up, one down, camera on, with the door locked.

The screen showed a camera pointed toward the bed and the door, a tight shot of the empty room. Marshall leaned over while Crea nervously adjusted his sling. The medics provided a makeshift Army green cravat for just a few days to let his shoulder heal after they relocated it.

“Here goes,” Marshall replayed the video. The room was gray, lit by the IR light on the small camera.

Marshall turned down the volume on the speakers. The chorus burned over Sevendust’s chorus, “No one at all is around

So tell me

How does it feel to be the enemy?”

Gunny watched as he rolled out of bed, stumbling around the room frantically before slamming into the door, kicking it with his foot several times.

Gunny let out a breath. “Kinda hoped I’d look more badass on camera.”

Crea snorted. “You screamed like a banshee and shoulder-checked a wall. I was impressed.”

Gunny smiled, then looked back at the screen. He tore around the room for a while before he started to ram the door with his shoulder. There was no audio, but he was screaming, feral rage, until he collapsed against the door.

“You’re the enemy!

Step!

Step!

Step up to me, step up

You’re the enemy!”

“So, what do we do?” Marshall asked.

I’ve never seen anything like this. This isn’t night terrors or sleepwalking.

“I’ve been doing this a while, and I’ve never…”

“I’m not sure how to fight this,” Marshall said, his tone flat, quiet, brewing.

“This is going to bed, sleeping, what the fuck do we fight,” Crea replied, an edge of resignation in his voice.

“We OSMEAC this bitch. Get some intel and make a plan,” Marshall countered. Building some confidence.

“Treat it like we are fighting something,” Gunny leads the conversation.

“Maybe I’m being a chicken shit, but what if we are being attacked?” Crea asks. “Maybe this is PTSD, night terrors, but what if it is more?”

“Like chemical or bio warfare?” Marshall asked.

“I grew up in the church, not that I was any good,” Crea said. “Preacher’s daughter was cute though…” It looked like his mind wandered for a moment.

“Focus, devil.” Gunny guided Crea back to the topic.

“Exactly what I’m saying,” Crea validated. His attention snapped back.

“What?” Marshall asked, his eyes blinking in confusion.

The video on the screen loops through Gunny howling and screaming, banging his fists on the walls, and kicking at the door.

“Tell me that doesn’t look like a fuckin’ possession,” Crea said, pointing at the screen. His good hand was trembling slightly.

Demons? Gunny rubs his temple, trying to process. Demons or not, we should call the chaplain.

The footage kept looping, and something about the way he screamed made his stomach churn.

“Whatever this is, we keep our heads on straight and work together,” Gunny affirms.

“I didn’t sign up for this shit,” Marshall says, looking at the video of Gunny trying to throw his body through the door while he howls in rage.

Gunny affirms, “No backing out now, it’s too late.”

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

A howling scream rattled him awake. Disoriented, he nearly fell out of the chair in the command room.

What was that!

He sat up and stumbled forward, his feet moving before he regained his balance. Checking his pistol was still on his hip, he opened the door.

The iPod played quietly a ragged whisper.

“Two, something’s got to give

Three, something’s got to give now”

Marshall stood at the door, panting. His hair lay flat on one side and stuck straight up on the other. “Gunny, come quick, it’s Crea.”

The scream faded to a more subdued grumbling. Crea lay awkwardly on the floor inside the Marines’ small bunk room, barely big enough for a stack of duffel bags and bunk beds. His arm jutted backward at an unnatural angle, shoulder sagging as if the joint had melted—the purple fuzzy cuff bit into his wrist, connected to the wooden rail of the headboard.

He will be lucky if it is only dislocated.

Crea sucked in air through his teeth and pursed his lips trying to maintain control.

“Marshall, get the medics.” Gunny directed him. “Run.”

Marshall didn’t even nod. He ran. The door swung shut slowly.

“Where are the keys?” Gunny asked calmly.

“I got it,” Crea groaned. He rifled through his boots and pulled out the keys, wincing as he tried to rotate his body back to uncuff himself.

“Give it here.” Gunny held out his hand to take the keys.

“This isn’t working either. We need a better plan,” Gunny said, carefully reaching over his twisted arm and unlocking the cuffs. He held his wrist in place to avoid any jerky movements.

“I dreamed you were all on fire,” Crea said. “I can still smell it. When the flames came after me, I ran. And well, here I am.”

“I was so afraid to go to sleep, I sat up in the command room. Fell asleep anyway,” Gunny confessed.

They didn’t say anything else while they waited for the medics to arrive. Gunny helped ease Crea up and sit, helping him bring his arm to his side. It hung awkwardly, with his thumb pointed in the wrong direction.

“It’s sleep Gunny, what the fuck are we supposed to do if we can’t trust ourselves to go to sleep?” Crea asked.

Gunny stared into his eyes. “It’s the same thing we always do. Make a plan and execute.”

“I don’t think speed and violence of action will help us with bedtime.”

Gunny shrugged, with a hint of a smile betraying his concerned expression, a faint smell of smoke in the air.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

“And you knuckleheads didn’t think to tell me?” Gunny sighed deeply, stretching his arms into the air, trying to wrap his head around what could be happening.

“We weren’t exactly sure what to tell you,” Marshall replied. He leaned back in his chair.

“It was easier just to tell you that we were doing some training that got out of hand,” Crea said.

“No, I shouldn’t have taken it so lightly. I really thought you were just blowing off steam. It isn’t like we can do much else here,” Gunny replied. His eyes moved between the fading bruise on Marshall’s neck that he had been told was an air choke gone too far. And the blue and green spot still lingered at the corner of Crea’s eye.

“Well, there is that, with the Afghan army refusing to leave, there isn’t much for us to do but rough house,” Marshall said, with a grin.

They talked slowly, quietly. Meanwhile, a chaotic cacophony of guitar and drums raged at a low volume. Howling, barely discernible chorus played, “Dig

Bury me

Underneath

Everything that I am.”

“Is it every night?” Gunny asked.

“It happens more now,” Crea said, grinning. “But it’s manageable. We’ve got…controls.”

“What kind of controls?” Gunny leaned forward in his chair.

“So, this freak brings his fuzzy handcuffs. And I’ve been zip tying myself at night,” Marshall says plainly, nodding toward Crea. “I’m not the romantic type like this softie.”

Crea grins with his bulldog smile and a shrug.

“Dig

Dig

Come on mother fucker dig”

“You tie yourselves to the bed?” Gunny asks, thinking it all through. Gunny looked at the marks—Crea’s bruised eye, the fading ring on Marshall’s throat. This is a real mental health issue, but how do all of us have it? I have to report this, but they would pull the whole mission, or think we are faking it. But what do we do out here with just the three of us?

“It doesn’t stop anything but isolates us and gives the other one a chance to wake him up,” Marshall explains the twisted logic. Looking him straight in the eye. “But being honest, Gunny. If this has you, too. I don’t need to be woken up in the middle of the night to your yoked Hawaiian ass choking me out.”

If this has me too.

The music snarled on.

“Deadman walking on a tight rope

Limbless in the middle of a channel

Bombs away”

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

The skin had peeled back, the muscles gray and rotten, leaving only the bone on the last digit of its finger. Through the dark, it reached out with a groan, followed by another groan, moan, and exasperated exhale—the slow, overwhelming, grasping, clawing, howling horde.

“We have to move,” Gunny Dos yelled. They ran through the compound.

It had happened fast, the earth around the tree, the ragged single tree that stood in the graveyard beside the airfield. Lightning struck, and from the overstuffed graveyard, they began to crawl. Rotting corpses spilled out like pus bursting, an oozing, pressurized eruption, like the ground was squeezing out the infected filth.

Before long, the base was overrun. COP Najil, a small outpost nearly thirty miles from any other support, with only around eighty US service members and around a hundred Afghan soldiers, had all turned, bitten, and infected.

Gunny called to Sergeant Crea, a stocky bulldog-faced Marine with his Squad Automatic Weapon, “I need a base of fire.”

“I’m fucking out!” Crea shouted.

He swung the SAW like a club, bashing the rotting thing in the nose. It stumbled, dazed—then another surged forward.

Crack.

The sound echoed from above, followed by a scream. He swung and kicked as Sergeant Marshall was overrun, thinking his overwatch position was clear. The tall, lean, sharpshooter was lost.

Despite his stocky build, the reaching, growling masses were too much. Crea is pushed to the ground, and while the horde overwhelms him, they also move forward, toward Gunny as he unloads the last of his rounds, knocking down two before grabbing the blood-soaked paracord handle of the Strider blade on his hip. He draws out the field knife from its sheath.

He can still hear them calling over the growling and groaning.

“Gunny!”

“Stop!”

He raises his blade, ready to strike down on the charging beast. Arms wrap around him, holding him back. He struggles and fights with every muscle in his body.

Crack.

The sound fractured the world. Gunny blinked. The groaning was gone.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Crea’s face—real, flushed, terrified—filled his vision.

The side of his face stings.

“Agh!”

“Gunny!”

Crea’s face is inches from his. Eyes wide with something between terror and concern.

He can’t hear the groaning anymore. The light is pale inside the small command room.

Marshall’s lanky arms are holding his own, holding his arm high in the air, hands locked behind the Gunny’s head, wrenching his neck to one side but forcing his arm straight up in the air.

“What the fuck Gunny? Are you ok?” Crea said.

“Wait, what are we? You are okay?” Gunny replied, confused, struggling to understand where he was. He had seen the hordes overwhelm both of them.

“I’m sorry I slapped you. You were going crazy?” Crea said.

Gunny relaxed.

Marshall loosened his grip.

He breathed.

On the iPod, he could hear Jonathan Davis growling, “Beating me down

Beating me, Beating me

Down, down.”

“I thought.” Taking his bearings, he looked around the small command room. At night, it wasn’t uncommon for them to hook up their PlayStation to the TV and relax with some video games. A Call of Duty pause screen lingered.

“You just burst in. And…” Crea stopped, obviously shaken. He tightened his jaw and composed himself.

Gunny Dos looked down. In his hand was his blade, the paracord handle, which was gripped tightly. He relaxed and tried to calm his shaking hand while he safely sheathed it. “Devil Dogs, I’m sorry. I…”

They moved around to face him, their eyes flashing back and forth. “We should tell him,” Crea said.

“This is weird, I don’t even know what to say,” Marshall replied, running his hands through his hair, much longer than regulation allowed, but out here. It didn’t matter.

“Tell me what?” Gunny asked.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

“I’m sorry, Mum,” Tillo whispered.

“For what, dear?” Agnelia asked while she tucked him into his small bed.

“I should have stayed. Fought with Clo.” His small body shook, and shame and embarrassment wracked the young boy. His eyes were wet with tears.

“Don’t you say that, little one.” She comforted him, wiping his hair from his face and tears from his cheeks. “If you’d stayed. I’d have buried two boys. Nothing you could have done.”

She held him while he cried, eventually drifting to sleep with his head on her lap. She brushed his hair and hummed a gentle melody to soothe the young boy to sleep.

With a small candle lit, she tidied up the house while she waited for Sigemar to return. It would be late, but she would wait.

The road to the Argenteuil estate was long, and Sigemar would have taken some time to get there, sell the cows, and return. The house was quiet, with the candle flame waving softly to the rhythm of Tillo’s breath. A slow breeze flowed through the spaces between the hold-stacked beams their home was built with. Sigemar would have to pack those shut before winter.

Sitting at the small table, barely big enough for four, too big for three, she rested her elbows. Alone, for the first time since they lost Clodoald.

The first tear rolled softly down her cheek. She remembered Clodoald sitting in the chair beside her, his legs swinging underneath him, eating pottage while his father had just left to fight the Burgundians. Clodoald had been the first to notice the way her belly bulged. He asked her what it meant.

She told him it meant he would be a big brother and needed to eat his pottage to be strong and protect them.

It was a stupid, careless thing to say. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and stiffened her lip. That was what she was supposed to teach him. To defend others. She should have taught him to run. Maybe then he’d be resting beside his brother now.

Through the cracks in the spaces between the beams, the wind whistled, low and sorrowful. And she cried, quietly to herself, falling asleep with her face buried in the wet sleeve of her tunic. It was the first time she cried since she lost her son. Her husband and remaining son came first. But alone in the dark, she cried softly, to avoid waking Tillo. While she waited for Sigemar to return.

***

Agnelia awoke, her face in her arm, seated at the table, where she had fallen asleep.

The door slammed open. Sigemar stumbled inside, silhouetted against the gray morning light. He staggered through the thick wooden door. She flinched—just like her father. The way he’d return home drunk, demand eggs and smoked bacon. Then beat her mother for not serving, what he couldn’t afford to stock the pantry with.

“Sigemar, you are home late. How—”

He growled, a deep, throaty growl. His lips curled at the edges as he stared at her with eyes as yellow as a flickering flame.

She stood up, her heart racing.

His fist still held the door open.

She knew that stance, the way a man balled his fists. Sigemar had never stood that way. It was why she loved him.

He stepped into the house, the door swinging shut, shaking in the frame as it struck.

Agnelia glanced toward Tillo, still asleep. She fumbled with her apron, she found her knife, gripping it and rubbing the handle between her fingers like a rosary. Her prayer that he was only tired and ready for bed.

“You must be tired. Why don’t you rest?” Agnelia flattened the apron and walked toward Sigemar.

“I need to eat.” He said, glaring at her.

“Of course, it won’t take long to get the stew to a boil.”

He huffed, lumbering forward.

“Did the Lord Arduin treat you fair?” She asked, adding a log and leaning over to stoke the fire, under the swinging pot. She watched Sigemar out of the corner of her eye.

Is he drunk? He doesn’t drink. Perhaps, he thought he needed one.

Her father always stunk of ale. That sour mash smell clung to him. Sigemar had a different smell. Usually, he smelled earthy, like dirt and musk. Now, he smelled like copper, old meat. His eyes blazed, but his skin hung from his face, like softened clay or dried leather.

“Hurry it up.” He demanded brusquely.

“I’ve got it, dear. Be patient.”

She remembered when her father had beaten her mother badly enough that she sought sanctuary at the church. They offered her refuge for a short time and counseled her husband. The nobles knew, but didn’t intervene in domestic matters. It was a man’s right to discipline his wife.

“Don’t tell me to be patient,” he slammed his fist on the table.

“Shh, Sigemar. You’ll wake Tillo,” she rose, speaking softly and touching his arm. She heard her mother in her voice, trying to soothe the beast.

He snatched her arm, holding it above her elbow and digging his finger into the muscle. Sharp pain shot up her arm. “Don’t tell me what to do, woman.”

She tried to pull back.

His grip was firm. “Maybe I’m not hungry.”

She stared into his eyes. His eyes flashed yellow—an inhuman coloring.

“Maybe I want something else.” He grins wickedly, his teeth straight and almost sharp in appearance.

Those aren’t your teeth. He had a chip in his tooth, and they were a pale-yellow color, not dirty, but these weren’t his teeth.

She tried to yank her arm back again.

“Yeah,” He clicked his tongue and stood. “I’ll take what is mine.” Holding her tight. He dragged her toward the bedroom.

Off balance, she stumbled. Falling to the ground.

Tillo stirred. “Mum?” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Sigemar dragged her to the bed.

She slapped him, knocking his face to the side. He turned and set his jaw, the skin on his face pushed to the side, like a torn mask. His nose was pointed to the left, and his eye socket slid over.

He snarled at her.

She grabbed her apron knife, jamming it into the space below his armpit as he reached for her.

With a howl, he raged on the floor and let her go.

Agnelia stumbled to her feet. She scooped up Tillo, wrapped in his blanket, and ran out the door.

Her feet crunched desperately underneath her.

Tillo groaned and cried in confusion.

The wind in her lungs burned, and acid built within her calves and knees.

She ran.

Without looking back, she ran down the road until she couldn’t hear the howling.

Leaving the distant sound behind, they slowed to a walk on the road toward Saint Denis. In the pale morning light, a few distant birds chirped. The wind brushed the bare tree limbs together.

“Who was that in the house?” Tillo asked, fidgeting in her grasp, more relaxed but still a young boy who wanted to be put down.

“I don’t know, little one,” Agnelia replied. Her shoulders and arms burned, so she set him on the ground.

He took her hand and walked barefoot, wearing only his night clothes and wrapped in a small woolen blanket, down the old Roman road. “It was like Pa, but his eyes were wrong.”

Further down the road, small monastic buildings surrounded Saint Denis’s Basilica. The modest and simple building was built from what remained of an old Roman bath. Etched in stone on both sides of the doors was a relief of Saint Denis, the saint holding his head in his hands.

She sighed. And knocked.

Saint Denis had been beheaded, then carried his head to Montmartre hill, not far from here. But here he was buried in the crypt under the altar inside.

Behind the door, she heard feet shuffling. She stepped back, looking again at the carving of the man holding his head in his hands.

The Saint’s eyes, weather-beaten and gray, stared back. His face was hard, unmoving. Set in a grim expression, a warning or invitation.

A crack opened in the door. It was dark, flickering candle lights within.

Remigius’s friendly face appeared with a smile.

“Agnelia, Good morning.”

“We need sanctuary, Father.”

“Of course, these are trying times.” He opened the door to invite her in, his concern visible.

She walked in, looking around at a few others sitting on the benches facing the altar at the center.

Candles burned on small tables surrounding the dark room, the faint smell of stone, and the collective musk of the parishioners.

“Do I need to get you anything? Have you eaten?” Remigius asked. “We don’t have much.”

“Is it safe here, Father?” Agnelia asked.

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” he replied.

Agnelia looked carefully around the room at the others. Some appeared to be praying, others in need like her.

“Mommy, her eyes,” Tillo whispered, his arms and legs wrapped around her.

Theudilla, the old widow, smiled from the pew. Her eyes shimmered—yellow, like flame.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

“WOLF!” Tillo’s screaming still echoed in his ears. He wanted it to stop, but another part of him hoped it wouldn’t. Let it burn, that moment when he still believed his son was alive. He had run into the woods like a madman, the branches tearing through his tunic. Stabbing into his chest, legs, and arms. It would take weeks for it all to heal.

It would take less time for Agnelia’s practiced hands to mend his old woolen clothing.

But Clodoald was still alive, at least, at the time, he thought he was.

Now what remained of his son was buried beside an old tree. He had played by that old oak as a boy, and often sat beside it, thinking it was a good place for Clodoald to bury him when it was his time. It had never occurred to him…

Tonight, he kissed his wife goodbye, resting his forehead against hers and promising he’d return, even if it were dark. He walked to the stable and wrapped a rope around the necks of two calves. Barely full-grown, he didn’t know if they’d make it through the winter. Being slaughtered by the lord may save the few remaining animals he had.

It was a long walk to the lord’s manor house, an aging estate built from the old stones of a larger Roman Villa, long abandoned. He had grown up taking that walk, and it was often refreshing. The birds sang in the trees along the road. The cobblestones were looser and more worn than when he was a boy, walking with his father. Grass grew tall, and water had pushed aside the rocks at the edges. He would have to start teaching Tillo the route.

Tonight, the bird songs felt distant. The year had been hard on everyone. The fields produced little, and the forests suffered as well. Birds, rabbits, and other rodents were less plentiful. That was why the wolves pressed closer. They had less to eat.

Through the trees, all he could hear was the faint scratching of branches and a few distant songs. As the sun set, darkness crept in closer. The forest felt like a gaping maw, slowly closing in around him as he moved closer to the Argenteuil Manor. The hemp rope kept the cows close behind him. His walking stick was gripped tightly in the other hand.

He spit on the ground, stopping just beyond the manor’s walls.

He breathed deeply before passing through the old walls surrounding Lord Argenteuil’s estate. The walls remained from the original Roman villa. Surrounding the massive residence at the center were smaller homes, repurposed from the stones and timbers of old, for the Lord’s staff. Many pens for animals around the smaller homes stood empty, some with open gates. A faint metallic smell that reminded Sigemar of blood hung in the air.

He gripped his staff tightly, wishing he had something sharper on him. The great Lord’s residence was a tall, imposing building with lamps lit in the windows as the sun set. He could hear noise near the main hall and knew that was where he was expected to deliver the calves.

The hall was large and imposing, gray and pale in daylight, and a sharp, rigid structure at night.

In the darkness, shapes moved. Shuffling feet and familiar voices. Arduin and his estate’s attendants. He hears Boso’s voice, the miller who usually wouldn’t be here so late. And Theudilla, a widow who lived nearby. Her husband had been lost early in the spring. Usually, she kept her distance, far from everyone, and was a vocal critic of the nobility. He could hear her laughing.

She shouldn’t be here. It’s late.

Shadows and shapes moved in and out of the buildings. Sigemar’s heart pounded instinctively, his nerves on edge, and he felt like prey, being surrounded.

Get your money. Get home. It is late. He reminded himself. His eyes darted left and right. His steps took him to the open door of the Argenteuil manor. Yellow lanterns flickered like watchful eyes from the open door. Arduin’s tall, athletic figure stood near the entrance, giving directions to two figures.

Moving closer, the cobbled walkway grinding under his boots, Sigemar made out the figures, Wolfram, a stable boy, and his father, Hrodebert.

“Good evening, Lord Arduin,” Sigemar stops and bows his head, finally in front of the nobleman.

“Goodman Sigemar,” the silver clasp on his cloak glimmered faintly below his neck. A flicker of yellow was reflected in his eyes while he looked at Sigemar. “Welcome. I’m glad you made it.”

A cold chill rattled up his spine.

“As I’m sure you can imagine. We are starving.” Arduin takes the small bag from his pocket.

“Of course, my lord,” Sigemar said, bowing his head, walking forward to accept his coin.

Wolfram runs around Sigemar, taking the cord from him and leading the cows away.

The cows bellow frantically.

Pressure and shock pushed Sigemar forward. Looking back, he expected to see that his cows had kicked him.

The dark figures had moved, a writhing press of cloaked figures. Sharp knives butcher and flay the cows as they fall. Sigemar can’t make out the people. All he can see were bowed heads and flashing blades as meat is sliced and cut off the still-standing cows.

No one screamed. No one shouted.

But the cows bellowed and mooed, their hooves clopping on the ground, desperate to escape.

The knives flashed in perfect rhythm. Flesh peeled, steam rising from the torn muscle as they pushed the pieces into their hungry mouths.

Heat flowed from his back where he had been kicked. He tried to reach behind to touch it, but struggled to bend his arm. Hrodebert drew the knife from his back.

Sigemar choked on his words, blood bubbling up in his throat.

The cows collapse onto the ground while they are stripped of their meat—the slurping sound of raw flesh follows the last slow groaning sound of the beasts.

He settles onto the ground. His body was slowly collapsing under its weight. Darkness faded in and out with his pulse.

“That will be all, Goodman, thank you,” Arduin says calmly, standing over Sigemar.

His last thoughts were the warmth of his wife’s kiss on his cheek before he left, and Tillo screaming, ‘Wolf.’ The last thing he saw was Arduin’s boot silhouetted by the distant flicker of a lantern.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

The howling unsettled him, drawing a shiver down his spine and making his heart ache.

The gray sky overhead, the sun dimmed by an unknown force, earlier in the year, at the end of winter. The old tree loomed above them, gnarled and watchful. Its leaves fell early this year.

They stood over the boy’s open grave. Sigemar’s howling cries were deep and sorrowful, the primal sound of a father who lost his son.

Remigius spoke from memory. “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

He knows our frame; He remembers we are but dust.

As the flower of the field, so he blooms—and so he falls.

But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting.”

What remained of the boy had been wrapped in linen and laid at the bottom of the hole. Remigius had been asked to offer the family comfort, but he was a novice unable to perform rites.

The church often sent a priest like himself to the unbaptized and poorer community members. A month prior, a noble family had lost a daughter to disease. When her younger brother wept at her funeral while the senior priest read the last rites, his mother had scolded him.

Agnelia wiped her tears and held her husband’s head against her chest. Rubbing his dark hair and comforting him. Expectations of decorum did not bind them.

Remigius helped to lower the boy’s body into the hole his father had dug.

The cool, moist dirt collected at the bottom edges of his dark robes. They needed mending, but not as severely as the families. The edges of their trousers were threadbare, and Tillo’s were a patchwork of repairs, most likely tattered before his brother Clodoald passed them down to him when they were outgrown.

These are good people. Good and simple people.

He had pulled back the linen at the mother’s request and placed a stone on his tongue. Remigius, with the family’s permission, had laid an unmarked cross over the boy’s chest.

His face was serene, peaceful.

They hadn’t heard the attack, but they heard the boy screaming through the woods, and by the time they found the site where the wolves had attacked, little remained. Clodoald’s face, as a mercy, was mostly untouched, but his legs and one arm had been removed. They only found what remained of one leg. The rest was with the wolves.

The young priest sighed. “May the Virgin cradle him as I once did.

May he not wake cold.

May he not thirst.

Let no spirit twist his path.

Let no voice lie to him.”

He bowed his head respectfully as he finished with a few limited rites to offer comfort.

Tillo hugged his mother’s leg. His hands tangled in the faded gray dress. The woolen tunic appeared coarse but warm in the cool autumn air. An unseasonably cold wind blew through the trees. The forest was dark past the edges, where the field gave way to old growth. Remigius should have known to dress warmer. A shudder crawled beneath his robe. Where the shadows of the trees darkened the woods, he could feel hungry eyes, like the forest was ready to spit out another meal.

Remigius tightened his cloak, wrapped around him, and cinched the belt on his waist.

After Sigemar settled, he collected himself with an apology.

Remigius shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize for mourning your son.”

Sigemar nodded and chewed his lip nervously, reaching for the shovel.

He thought about the noble family and how that mother probably scolded that boy again behind closed doors. But it would be tenderness and love in Sigemar and Agnelia’s home.

“Why don’t you let me help you?” Remigius offered.

“Thank you.” Sigemar nodded.

“I’ll take Tillo home,” Agnelia said, her face tired, her eyes red from crying. “Thank you, Brother Remi.”

“My condolences and deepest sorrow for your loss.”

Sigemar stood over the hole for a while, staring down at what remained of his son, a cross on his chest, his body wrapped in pale linens.

Remigius took the shovel from Sigemar’s hand. “I’ve got it.”

Sigemar’s eyes watered, and he sat back against the tree.

“It’s my fault,” he sniffed, wiping his cheeks dry. His beard was tangled, his hands and face worn from long days outside, working the fields and caring for the animals. The skin hung from his face, and his hands where hunger had begun to take its toll.

Remigius started to scoop dirt into the hole. “It is normal as a parent to feel that way.”

“No, not that.” He started. “I’ve done…not just me. This is a punishment.”

He means to confess.

“I’m not qualified to accept confession.” More dirt fell onto the linen-wrapped remains. A clod knocked the cross off the boy’s chest. It lay awkwardly beside him.

Sigemar’s mouth trembled, his eyes deep pools. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I…What are you being punished for?” Remigius asked, realizing the man was unfamiliar with all the church’s institutional trappings, but he trusted his station to be a trusted counselor.

“It was the Battle of Autun. I was an infantryman—a simple soldier. We were told to sack the city. What we did…All this is for our sins.”

Remigius covered the boy, one shovelful at a time. He was accustomed to the work, often handling the graves within the church of Saint Denis. “What did you do?”

“It started with the burning. Our flames tore through grain storehouses. The heat was so intense.”

Remigius listened, continuing to toss dirt.

“But the brothers, Kings Childebert and Clothar. They wanted the Burgundians to suffer. They told us to make them suffer.” Sigemar looked up at the sky. “The nobles, young men on their horses. They understood before we did. At first, it was just looting, but then the women…”

Remigius had heard whispers, but those sins all seemed distant. Sigemar’s words chilled him. That distance was closing in. The Burgundian campaigns, in which the brothers Kings Clovis and Childebert, sons of Clovis, defeated and captured Burgundy from King Godomar, and Autun, were the final battle, which took place four years ago. So many veterans of that campaign were in the community, attending his church.

In Sigemar’s eyes, those weren’t whispers. They were ever-present memories.

“We made jokes. Never want another Burgundian man…” He sighed.

“We’d ruin them for their husbands—the ones who were alive.”

“If you carry guilt, then your heart still lives. And God listens to the living, Sigemar.” Remigius offered. His back and arms started to burn as he scooped more dirt into the hole, wiping his forehead of sweat with his sleeve.

“I couldn’t touch my wife. Not for a season after I returned home. I…”

“You don’t have to say more if you don’t want to,” Remigius said, resting the shovel against the tree and placing his hand on the man’s shoulder to comfort him.

“What we did to those women. How we brought famine to their lands for years with our fires.” Sigemar looked into Remigius’s eyes. “This is our punishment. It wasn’t just me. All of us did. The sun has weakened. Our crops fail. Animals are dying of hunger, and our children…” Sigemar wept again. Quiet convulsions with his face buried in the faded brown sleeve of his woolen cloak.

Remigius focused on the grave as the day faded, letting Sigemar weep until he was spent. He leaned back against the tree, lost in his despair and guilt. When the last of the dirt was a soft mound underneath the tree, the two laid a large flat stone over the top.

In silence, they walked back to the main road, a faded and worn remnant of the empire that once reached beyond these lands. While they spoke, Sigemar, not quite ready to part ways, a rider approached.

His horse trotted slowly and confidently. His dark red cloak was visible in the fading afternoon light even at a distance.

Sigemar stepped off the road first. Bowing his head as custom when a noble passes.

Remigius could see it was the young Arduin of Argenteuil, who had recently returned from his service to Emperor Justinian in Byzantium. He moved beside Sigemar to allow the younger noble to pass.

Arduin stopped, looking down at Sigemar and Remigius. His eyes were sharp, and the silver clasp holding his cloak over his shoulders was the antlers, his family crest, and the stag symbol.

Remigius thought he saw a flash of yellow in his eyes. Yellow, like candlelight in a predator’s eye. He blinked, and it was gone.

“Father Remigius, today has found your work grim.” The noble said, his tone solemn. “And Goodman Sigemar, my deepest condolences to your family.”

They looked upward toward the noble, each nodding.

“It is all in God’s good name, my lord,” Remigius replies respectfully.

“You are a good, pious man,” Arduin says. His eyes fixed on Sigemar. “Goodman, I can’t offer you anything in exchange for your son. But perhaps I can offer you a bit of economic comfort. The vassals on my estate have been ravenous as of late, and I require livestock. Perhaps I could purchase some of yours at fair market prices?”

Remigius looked over at Sigemar, thinking about the offer. Arduin’s right as lord was to take the animals he needed in exchange for their land use. The purchase of livestock was a kindness, especially as these animals were wasted away on withered rations.

Sigemar bowed his head in gratitude. “Yes, my lord. You are very kind.” He responded quickly, but his tone was flat. It was a mercy, but not a choice.

“Two sheep or cows do not disrupt any breeding pairs. This evening, Goodman, please.” Arduin looked away as he finished speaking, preparing to ride away.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

They waited until Arduin was out of earshot. The slow clunk of hooves on the cobbled stone faded before they spoke.

Remigius looked at Sigemar, who sighed in resignation. “A bit of coin will do. Not that there is much food to buy.”

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

“The wolves are hunting. Pressing closer. Be careful, they are hungry, like us.” His hand was sturdy, resting on his shoulder while he kneeled to talk to him—a warning before they entered the forest.

His eyes were warm and tired. The skin hung from malnutrition, the sky had gone dark, gray since last winter, and the sun colder than anyone remembered. The harvest was meager, and his father had started to eat less to save food for what they expected to be a long, cold winter. The trees had lost their leaves early, leaving jagged branches clawing at the sky, and a snap was in the air in a time when they expected to be still harvesting. All that remained in the field were short, limp, diseased stalks.

“Protect your brother,” he said. “Tillo can gather acorns for stew. You gather branches and sticks for the fire.”

Underneath their feet, the dry fallen leaves crackled. Clodoald listened to his younger brother grumbling, his woolen pockets filled with acorns.

“I’m tired of acorn stew. It makes my belly hurt.” The boy grumbled, looking up high for signs of another oak tree.

“Hunger hurts more,” Clodoald said, trying to reassure his brother. “Mum is doing her best. We have to stretch the harvest through the winter.”

“Acorns make my belly burn, Lod. I don’t like it.” Tillo reiterated.

Their mom had started using acorn flour to thicken the Pottage. After eating, there was always discomfort, a burning that ached in their stomachs. The alternative was worse.

Even the forest couldn’t produce. Where they normally could count on the forest for foraging if the harvest were weak, it seemed the whole world suffered this year.

Overhead, the birds flew slowly, their songs melancholy and grim. “These are portents. Something is coming, little brother,” Clodoald said aloud, looking around protectively.

“Like what?” he replies, squatting under a tree, his small hands picking up the acorns that had fallen under the old oak.

“I don’t know.” He fills his arms with long, thick branches. Eager to return home with full arms and bulging pockets. He wanted to make his parents proud and give them confidence to count on their sons, even in tough times.

Tillo hummed a small song while he stuffed his pockets with acorns. Clodoald wandered around the area, filling his arms. Soon, all he could hear was his brother’s song.

Snap.

Too quiet.

Crack.

He froze.

Clodoald looked around frantically. His heart beat in his ears, and his body reacted to a threat he couldn’t see.

A low growl.

“Tillo, run!” Clodoald yelled before he understood why.

Tillo looked up, freezing as he saw the first lean, dark shape step out of the brush.

Clodoald dropped his branches and ran toward his brother.

Tillo moved as fast as his young legs could carry him.

He tripped and rolled into a wolf just as it lunged for Tillo.

The boy broke into a panicked sprint, screaming, “Wolf!”

Clodoald stood unsteady, grabbing a stick, he swung it, putting himself between his brother and the beasts.

They circled, their eyes sharp, their haunches up, and dark patches of prickly fur hung loose. They looked as hungry as he had felt in the long, dark nights.

“Go on. Get out of here!” he shouted, swinging the stick wildly.

He was ripped off his feet, slamming his chin onto the branch. His teeth clacked, sending a spark of pain through his face. His ankle burned like iron. Something sharp. Something wet. He screamed without hearing it. Dirt collected in his open mouth, and cool, damp leaves smeared his face.

Kicking and screaming, his foot connected with the wolf at his ankle. It snapped. Yellow eyes reflected the pale afternoon light. Another snarled near him. His arms went up to protect his face. Fangs dug into his forearm and pulled him.

He saw a figure at the edge of his vision, past the wolf, yanking his arm back. Tall and muscular, his clothes fine and clean, the figure calmly walked toward him.

“Mister, please!” Clodoald cried out while he flailed. The Pinching pain ignited his limbs.

The wolves grew bolder. Getting closer, biting harder, pulling him apart.

His world narrowed, crying out for help, reaching for the man leisurely walking closer.

The gray sky darkened, tinged with red. His limbs were hot, burning, and distant. His own cries felt distant now. A plea choked in his throat as the man stood feet away, watching the wolves tear at him.

His eyes reflected yellow, calm.

Clodoald felt heavy and tired. His eyelids sank as darkness and cold wrapped around him. He focused on the man’s grim expression and the silver clasp that held his cloak around his shoulders—the stag’s antlers.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

The year 536 is often called the beginning of the “worst year to be alive”—an environmental catastrophe triggered by massive volcanic eruptions. These eruptions darkened the skies, disrupted crops, and ushered in a cold, famine-stricken decade across much of the known world. In Merovingian Gaul, these years of blight, war, and societal upheaval were felt most acutely by the peasantry, who survived in the shadows of fading Roman infrastructure and rising noble power.

Against this backdrop, Goodman imagines how fear, grief, and hunger can become fertile ground for the literal and morally monstrous. The story explores how ordinary people endure the extraordinary, and how the old gods and new faiths offer equally uncertain refuge when the world begins to starve.

The Goodman story is a bit of an experimental aside. Transparently, I read the Witcher series and thought, “This would be cool…with Jinn.” Then I started to think about how America’s War on Terror has so many echoes of the past. A continuation of the East vs. West that dates through the middle ages and into antiquity. I’m not committing to anything, in a literary sense, but I did want to reach back into history and layer the jinn into a time and place that was far away from Cop Najil. I hope you enjoy.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

Original Substack post.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

All three of the Horrors of War books are available, free. Follow the links below.

Book 1 – O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) → [https://books2read.com/u/4jM5Kv]

Book 2 – Objective 2 → [https://books2read.com/u/bMdLq8]

Book 3 – Casualty 6 → [https://books2read.com/u/bpo1zg]

Maliha stood outside the door, her bear in hand, while her father stuffed a squirming, very confused chicken into one bag and held another small plastic bag overflowing with flatbread.

Reza had begun to paint the door red, using red paint that he had been storing in his room and an old shirt to wipe it on the door. Red splatters reflected the gray moonlight off the ground and around the stone doorframe.

It began to rain, mixing with the paint. It ran quickly down the door in long, thin, bloodlike streaks.

“Is that how you will protect this house?” Papa asked him.

“I will invite the jinn into this house. They will protect me. They will help me find a wife, and I will give her to them to thank them. Praise be to Allah!” His movements were erratic, the frantic thrashings of a madman who fought for his sanity.

“Do you remember the last time the sun shone in this valley, Reza?” Papa asked him, his voice sullen.

“Yes.” Uncle Reza’s arms fell to his side.

Gunshots echoed through the valley. They were coming from several houses to the south. The screams of dying men followed.

“It was the day the jinn were invited into this valley to protect us. I think that on that day, Allah covered the valley in clouds because he was ashamed of us and didn’t want to look at us anymore.”

Reza didn’t reply. Slowly, he began to wipe the red paint across the door. His arms appeared to be heavier than they had been before.

“Let’s go, Maliha,” her father said. The two ran toward the road.

The sounds of screams and gunfire followed them.

Her lungs burned, and she began to fall behind. Her small legs could not keep pace with her father. His strides were long, and even with his pegged foot, he could move through the fields faster than her.

She fought for the breath to speak. “Papa, I’m too tired,” she said.

He reached back, scooped her up, and dropped the chicken in the bag.

The chicken clucked once—sharp and confused.

They ran, Maliha holding tightly to her father’s neck and her bear.

“Cluck! Clu—” The chicken screamed… then was silenced.

Her father panted in her ear and ran as fast as he could.

He stepped onto the road.

A dark figure became visible behind them.

Maliha screamed, “Papa!” Then she closed her eyes.

The sound of gravel scraping and a rush of wind blew past her. She felt herself falling fast, her father holding her tightly, spinning in the air. She landed on her father with a resounding thud, knocking the wind out of him. He threw her aside.

She rolled across the gravel road. Sharp rocks scratched her skin, and dust dried her mouth. She opened her eyes to see her father being dragged down into the ditch beside the road. He screamed. His eyes were locked on to Maliha.

“Maliha.” Her bear shook in her arms.

“Maliha.” Her bear grew warm.

Her father’s screams were cut short.

A gnashing, tearing sound followed.

Her knees buckled as she rose, palms burning, every breath too sharp to hold.

“You have to run,” her bear coached her.

She felt a sense of abandonment clawing at her on the inside. She stood alone with her bear in hand on the edge of a single-lane road. A massive cliff stretched high into the sky on one side and a small ditch below the road on the other, where her father had carried her up before he was dragged back down.

The sound of scratching claws and plodding hooves traveled up the ditch toward her.

The smell of metal burned in her nose, clinging to the back of her throat, growing heavier as it approached.

Maliha did the only thing she could think of.

She ran, holding her bear close, pushing her tiny body against the wall of the cliff in a crag. She tucked her knees into her chest and made herself small—smaller than she had ever made herself. She pulled her bear close, squeezing the fur and stitching, straining the bits of thread that hung the arms.

The rain was cold, hard, and fell like needles.

Her bear was warm, a shield against the rain and the darkness.

“Oh, Maliha,” Her father’s voice called.

“Shhh,” her bear’s voice soothed, a voice in her head.

She wanted to cry, but the noise caught in her throat. She choked on it.

“Stay very still,” her bear comforted her.

A heavy claw and thick horns poked up over the edge of the road, where what she thought was her father climbed up the embankment. She could see his face—that beard she had tangled her fingers in, his warm eyes that comforted her. It almost glowed now, yellow and orange, searching for her.

She tried to cry out, but her voice caught and choked her. She shook, sobbing and staring at her father. He pulled himself up onto the road and stood tall on two legs, goat legs, twisted backward and distorted.

“Where are you Maliha?” he called. He scanned the road back and forth.

Maliha tried to reach him out of instinct, but her body was frozen.

His hooved feet clopped on the road. Dark fur clung wet to his cloven feet. Rain drenched and distorted everything.

Thunder grumbled in the distance, punctuated by scattered gunfire.

He stepped closer. “I can smell you, little one. My sweet little girl.”

“I’m sorry, this is all I can do,” her bear whispered, the warmth of her bear wrapped around her.

“Why can’t I see you?”

Her breath slowed. Her bear’s warmth blanketed her. The world faded, not in terror, but in…

***

She awoke, the bear curled up in her arms, the rain drumming on her head.

She looked out over the quiet valley and down toward the road. “Come on, Maliha, you have to walk,” her bear reassured her.

Maliha swallowed hard and began to walk down the road.

“Are you my mama?” Maliha asked.

“No, sweetie, she is dead.”

“And Papa?”

“Yes, him too.”

“Am I alone?” Maliha asked.

“No, sweetie, I’ve got you.”

“Thank you.” Maliha hugged her bear close and walked down the center of the winding, gray road.

If you haven’t already, check out my Substack. Where I share a new chapter weekly far earlier than WordPress.

The Story continues in The Horrors of War series.

If you want to know what happens after the last drawing burns, explore the larger story in Objective Two (OBJ 2)—a novel that expands beyond Kevin’s perspective and dives deeper into the haunted valley of Najil, the soldiers who survive him, and the darkness that won’t let them go.

Download Objective 2 – EPUB, MOBI, PDF

Book one of The Horrors of War series is available here.

Download O.P. #7 (Declassified Edition) – EPUB, MOBI, PDF