Adam Fenner's Blog

Uruzgan, Afghanistan

32°36’15.2”N 65°52’28.9”E

She struggled with the angle of the hand mirror. Cutting off the tattered bits of flesh on her throat. It was her fault, and she knew it. But a dog only has a few options. She had to go for the throat.

It was important to clean the area before replacing the skin. She winced as she trimmed off the tattered strips where the dog’s teeth had shredded through. It curled at the edge of the open wound where the muscle and sinew of her throat were exposed.

It would take her some time to clean and prepare the area.

The memory of how she tore into Casta’s throat kept replaying, a broken recording.

She had whined to bring her closer, gain her trust, and snapped. Violent final memories always lingered like this. It would fade with time.

Lawrence’s body lay on her side. She felt a passive instinct to protect. Keep her safe.

“I think she liked you. You probably didn’t realize it. Don’t worry. I’ll have you back up and running in no time. Well, not you, but you know.” She said aloud.

She looked at the body for a while, deciding where to cut. She couldn’t blend in here unless the tattered flesh on her neck were replaced. The back of the thigh was always a good choice, with larger patches of smooth skin. It would be easier to hide when this corpse was reborn as one of her children.

Not that her larvae were ready, they would take some time to brood in this new body. She’d have to put this corpse on ice until then.

But first…

Lawrence’s eyes stared, glassy and still, at the far wall. Her mouth parted, open, a slit of darkness with her front white teeth pressed against her bottom lip. Her hair was a tousled mess. Her brown shirt was untucked, and her belt was undone.

She undid a few buttons on her trousers and pulled them down. Hefting Lawrence’s waist a few times, exposing her PT Shorts underneath.

Through the haze of an old memory, she felt Casta’s waist lifted. Her hips shook as her pants were pulled down. While she groggily swatted the hand away. Her limbs were heavy with drink.

Most memories played like a videotape, pictures and faint sounds. This was a crushing weight.

Hot air brushed her face and the back of her neck. His eyes were familiar. His face was trusted and respected. Cold air brushed her bare skin and his rough, sweaty hands.

“Please stop,” she heard her voice whisper in the dark.

If he heard her, he didn’t care.

In the morning, she lay on her side. Although she covered up, she felt exposed. She was hungover. After she had finished vomiting the beer, cheap rum, and bile that burned in her nose, all that she felt was rage.

There was a residual burn in the back of her throat, of bile sitting in her sinuses.

She examined the skin on the back of Lawrence’s thigh, using the handle and blade to approximate the length and width needed.

“I’ll take this, you won’t even notice it is missing. A girl has to be presentable. I can’t go out looking like this. Am I right?” she chuckled.

Pressing down, the blade pierced the skin, the tip splitting the soft tissue, until she found the muscle underneath. Taking her time to draw a sizeable rectangle of skin to graft in place of where she had ripped Casta’s throat out.

She worked the corner loose, slicing through the stubborn flesh anchoring the skin. Examining it in the light, she stretched it up to the long fluorescent lights to make sure it was appropriately thick through the whole strip of flesh before pressing it against her throat. She then trimmed along the seams with small nail scissors she found in a drawer. Observing each piece through the hand mirror on the table.

The process was slow, and she was running out of time. The sun would be up, but she still needed to put Lawrence on ice to store for later. It would stink if she left the body in her room all day.

Focusing on the task, she found her headphones and put them in her ears. Courtney Love howled over ragged guitar chords.

“Yeah, I’m the one with no soul”

Humming to herself, her attention narrowed. With each body she occupied, her personality became a patchwork. She would borrow aspects like the new skin on her throat. Making it her own. Casta had a bite to her, and she liked it.

“When they get what they want, and they want it again”

She hummed along, wiping the dried blood from her throat and inspecting the seam as it healed.

“Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to”

Wrapping the scarf around her neck, she prepared to head out and get what she needed to move Lawrence.

When she heard a soft knock.

Shit.

Carefully, she opened the door.

Standing in the hallway, his eyes wide, he wrung his hands nervously.

“Sergeant Tower,” Casta said. Grateful for her body’s memory.

“I’m sorry it is early.” He said, “I was hoping you’d be getting ready for chow, and I wouldn’t wake you. Is she sleeping?” He pointed to Lawrence.

“Yeah, she won’t wake up, don’t worry.”

“I told you from the start just how this would end”

He nodded. “I’ll be quick,” his big hands nervously squeezed and rubbed his thumbs, back and forth.

“What is up?” Casta asked. Looking up at the man, over a head taller than her and more than double her weight.

His robust frame filled the doorway even when his posture was slumped and immature, like a child.

“I just found out my wife and I are having another child, and I don’t think what we are doing is right anymore.”

Casta hadn’t fantasized about him holding her and loving her. In her mind, he had been a toy, like she was to him. She’d reject him when he got too physical, let the rumor swirl, and play the part of the junior female soldier following her heart if they got caught.

That familiar scent of bile crept up in her throat.

She stepped back into the room, giving him space to follow her into the doorway. “Wow, but I thought you loved me. You said…” She played her part.

“Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to”

“I know, and I meant it, but you always knew I was married. This was never going to last.”

She felt the pressure of the nail scissors in her hand, gripping them firmly.

Drawing him deeper into the room with another backward step. “You said you’d leave her, for me.”

“We are having a little boy, you know I always wanted a son.”

“It’s my lie, you’re mine, you’re mine”

Jabbing high, she drove the point into the side of his neck. Blood spurted across the floor.

Oh, you aren’t going to try to play my girl like that.

She pushed him against the lockers in the corner, closed the door, and pounced on him, covering his mouth before he could make a sound.

“Go on, take everything, take everything

Take everything, take everything”

The life drained from his bulk, his legs stretched across the floor. Heavy arms limp, hands turned up toward the ceiling.

Standing up to look at him.

“Fuck I made a mess,” She looked around.

The song finished, followed by a familiar riff—a chipper, repeating pop-ska guitar riff with Gwen Stefani’s voice.

“Take this pink ribbon off my eyes.”

“I better get this cleaned up or I’m going to have some real explaining to do.”

She ran through the things she would need to grab: a mop bucket, bleach, and towels. She’d have a lot of laundry to do.

“’Cause I’m just a girl, oh, little old me.”

Taking the scissors in between her teeth, she tasted the blood. At the same time, her free hands tied her hair in a ponytail.

Maybe a bite to eat.

She sighed. There was a lot of meat on his bones.

“Well, girlfriend, let’s get to it.”

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]

Uruzgan, Afghanistan

32°36’15.2”N 65°52’28.9”E

Its yellow eyes stared at her from the gate.

“That dog makes me uncomfortable,” Lawrence said to Casta.

“Fuck yeah, look at this bitch,” Casta laughed strolling over to the gate where the dog sat, quietly watching them.

Lawrence would have preferred they finish their walk and get some dinner chow. This had become their routine after a couple of months on the base. When the normal workday was done, they’d go for a walk. It kept them active but at a safe distance. When they tried out the gym during regular hours, it was hard to stay focused with how much attention they were getting.

Being the only females on the base was suffocating.

Casta stood at the gate. Her black PT shorts rolled up twice to show off more of her legs. As much as she complained about the attention, she encouraged it. Confidently, she reached out to scratch the dog behind the ear.

It was subtle, but Lawrence thought she could smell copper.

The dog opened her mouth, leaning into Casta’s hand.

Lawrence could hear Casta’s headphones blaring, standing a few feet away, at the simple gate, between the two towers operated by some active-duty infantry guys. Two sets of eyes that should have been focused outside the walls, glancing sidelong at them.

Boy Harsher moaned over a synthetic beat.

“You see me you see a stranger

I see you, I see danger”

Casta stood from where she had knelt next to the dog. The dog’s eyes caught the sun, flashing yellow when it surveyed the base. She encouraged the dog to follow them inside.

“What will you do with it?” Lawrence asked.

“We are building our squad. She knows how to take care of herself.”

With an eye roll, Lawrence turned and started back down their typical path, walking along the gravel road near the outer walls of the base. They were headed toward the old Tower One, past the mortar pit, where the HIMARS had set up their launch point. A big hangar tent was in disrepair near the back wall, collecting junk equipment in the open bay.

The dog followed at Casta’s side, while she fed it bits of a protein bar she had.

They turned around at the kangaroo graffiti left over by the Australians—the previous occupants of the base who had left in a hurry a couple of years prior. When the Americans reoccupied the base, they had fewer people and occupied a smaller footprint. An entire section of the base, multistory housing, a command center, a dining facility, and a recreational facility stood empty in what was now called Zombie Land.

“Do you want to read the latest?” Casta laughed, breaking off another bite of protein bar and holding it out to the dog.

“He is married, what are you doing?” Lawrence reminds her. “And he is your platoon sergeant.”

“That’s right, he should know better, but here he is, and I quote.” She coughs and makes mocking theatrical movements with her arms, pulling the note from the waistband of her shorts.

“Your voice sticks in my head

Like a song I don’t know the words to,

But still hum all day.”

Casta doubles over laughing, “What a chode. After gushing over me, he says he wants to meet in the old Command Suite and says we can have some privacy.”

Lawrence’s face can’t hide her disappointment, but she takes the handwritten letter from Casta and reads through it anyway. Ignoring the misspellings and other weird comments, it finishes with, ‘Don’t show this to anyone, seriously.’ “Girl, seriously?”

“What?!” Casta chuckled. “This is funny.”

“It is serious. You don’t even like him, and he has a family.”

“He is an idiot,” she jokes, a wild smirk on her face.

“Yeah, and you are going to get yourself hurt, or in real trouble. Not to mention ruin his career, his marriage.”

“You are naïve. If it weren’t me, it would be someone else.” Casta defends her position with a hint of seriousness in her tone. “He is practically throwing his career at my feet. I haven’t given him the goods. He wants to toss them away. If anything, I’m doing his wife a favor.”

Lawrence shook her head. “I’m not ok with this, you know that, right? Letters and flirty texts were one thing, but meeting him in private…”

They stop walking beside an old housing area. The pale gray two-story building of fabricated rooms, metal stairs, and two dark hallways with empty, open rooms facing inward. It almost bothered her how the decayed husk of a building felt normal to her now.

“Who cares?” Casta replied flippantly, then sighed. “I get that you are better than me.”

Lawrence flinched. That isn’t what she meant. It was not better, but they always treated Casta like she was the pretty one, which made her feel invisible beside her. But here, that meant safer.

“Maybe I am doing the wrong thing. Who cares if I do get hurt? Not you. You are only my friend because you have no one else. Even if the command does find out, you could tell them. I don’t really fucking care, it won’t matter. Besides,” She grins knowingly. “I’m a dumb specialist. He is the one with a career. I’m just trying to survive this shit hole.”

While Casta flared her arms around, the dog sat beside her watching, its long pink tongue hanging between her white teeth.

Lawrence stepped back, feeling more heat and emotions from Casta than planned. “Look, I.” She sighed. “You shouldn’t do this. Let him down easy. I don’t want to see you get hurt. Come get some chow with me.”

The wind shifted, carrying the burn pit’s stink—plastic, rot, something faintly metallic.

Something always unsettled her about the game Casta played. It felt defensive. Not that Casta ever admitted it. As much as Lawrence tried to open up to Casta, to build a relationship, she always felt like the relationship was surface level.

“Please,” Lawrence pleaded, a bit of water collecting in her eyes. She thought about the note in her hand. She could leave it lying about, easy for someone to find. Or pass it to one of the other soldiers who vied for Casta’s attention, let them run to the command.

Casta snorted. “Nah, girlfriend. I’m going to recon that command suite.”

Her headphones crackled a heavy drumbeat, PJ Harvey raged, “I’m going to twist your head off, see.”

Lawrence stared at her, waiting for something. Not sure what.

Casta turned and walked down the sidewalk beside the old billets. With a wave of her hand, “I’ll catch you later tonight, don’t worry. I got my new bitch here.”

The dog looked back slowly at Lawrence, licked its chops, then followed behind Casta.

“Don’t you, don’t you wish you never, never met her?” Casta sang off-key along with the lyrics.

Lawrence rubs the note between her fingers, looking at Casta as she steps between buildings and out of sight. She folds the letter and tucks it into the waistband of her shorts.

Sleep on it. Maybe she will do the right thing. She could be playing me on this, too, because this is what she does.

Rubbing her hands on her face and through her hair, she looked up at the sky, splashed with red, purple, and orange as the sun set behind the mountains. She sighed and walked back to the barracks to change for chow—a knot in the pit of her stomach.

***

She had fallen asleep leaning against the wall of her room. A bunker-like metal wall was part of the prefabricated structure used to build the new command structure. Her room was down the long living quarters hallway leading to the command suite, a large room filled with desks facing the many monitors, which generally showed maps or drone feeds. The roof was fortified to protect against rocket or mortar attacks.

The screensaver on her computer had turned black, and the power saver had put the device into standby mode. She had waited for Casta later than usual, finally passing out without changing for bed. Wearing her uniform pants, boots unlaced, and a brown shirt untucked.

The door creaked open. The hallway light flashed across Lawrence’s face, silhouetting Casta as she slipped through and closed the door behind her.

Lawrence rubbed her eyes and looked over at Casta, still in her PTs, as she was when they parted ways in Zombie Land, a makeshift scarf wrapped around her neck, and her hair a mess.

“Girl, you okay?” Lawrence asked. Her voice cracked with drowsiness. She grabbed some water and tried to rouse herself, flipping on a small flashlight to illuminate the room.

“Yeah, all good.” She rifled through her things, back to her. The backs of her legs were dirty, and her black shorts were dusty, like she had lain on the ground.

“What did you get into? You are a mess.” Trying not to sound disappointed.

The light was dim, but the scarf appeared soaked with something dark. Casta finally pulled out her Gerber utility tool as she went through the drawers. They were all issued an all-purpose pair of pliers, a screwdriver, or a knife.

She slid the pliers out, flipped them open, and pulled out the blade.

“You are really dirty, I hope you didn’t…” Lawrence sighed. “I won’t judge you.” She turned her head to look at the wall, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to be the kind of friend that Casta needs, without judgment.

Opening her eyes, she sees Casta’s face inches from hers. Her eyes were brown, deep, soft—but something yellow shimmered in the flashlight’s beam. She can see the fabric clinging to dried blood and tattered meat down the scarf, like her throat had been ripped out.

What!

Casta’s hand covers her mouth before she can scream, her eyes wide with the intense pressure of the hand that seals her mouth and nose. A strength she has never felt before, pushing her against the wall.

Stop, please!

She struggles, her head moving to escape the force of her head being pushed against the back wall, the hand over her mouth, the pain as her nose is wrenched upward, she could barely open her mouth to taste the gritty sand and dirt on her hand. Finding no air.

“Aargh,” her screams are muffled by the hand over her mouth.

Her arms flail, pushing back and trying to pull away, before she strikes Casta in the head and arms. Slapping, scratching down her arm.

Her vision darkens—flashes of light sparkle.

She squirms, her movements slower, weaker.

Why?

Screaming into Casta’s hand, trying to bite…something.

The back of her head grinds against the wall as she squirms to escape. She can hear her hair. Feel it tangle and grind against the cold metal wall.

Her eyes look desperately into Casta’s as the room fades.

Why…

Cramps and twitching rolled up her leg, her muscles deprived of oxygen, convulsing. Too heavy to lift, her eyelids hung low, her eyes rolling to the ceiling. The light of the flashlight faded 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]

Uruzgan, Afghanistan

32°36’15.2”N 65°52’28.9”E

The ground had a heat to it, crunching under her paws. She didn’t like how the burnt, curled plastic crackled with each step and burned her nose. But there was food here. More importantly, she was less likely to be attacked by villagers. Aside from the daily dump of trash, there were few humans here.

She sniffed at an open bag. The oversized black ones appeared to be from their dining facility.

The Americans were wasteful. If she could count on anything from them, they threw away a lot of food. She no longer remembered how long she’d worn the dog’s skin. It was useful. That was enough. Dogs went largely unnoticed, and as the nation fought bitter internal struggles and against the foreigners, she hung in the shadows and survived.

Near the wall of a less-used portion of the base, they burned trash, an always-smoldering pile of refuse. The Afghan army shared it, but the Americans produced double the waste with half the soldiers. This section of the area was still on the larger base. A wall separated it from the airfield, partitioned off from the individual operating areas of the Americans and the Afghans.

The black plastic stretched gray. Her teeth punctured the thick material, stretching longer and longer until the bottom burst, spilling its contents across the trash heap’s ground. It was breaded, still warm, and smelled like chicken and pork with cheese.

She devoured it, tore it apart. Breaded crust cracked under her teeth, white meat and pork fat spilling over the ground. Cheese burst out, oozing around her muzzle, and she tore into the folded bits of pork in the middle.

Lost in the moment, she barely heard them approaching her.

Crunch.

An aluminum can was crushed behind her. Her hackles stood up, and she turned quickly to see several other dogs of various sizes. Their musk hung in the air. Four, all male, were potentially brothers by their matching coloring and scent.

Each was larger than her, but they were still stupid dogs.

I still haven’t finished eating.

She licked some of the tangy-sweet cheese from the side of her mouth while she watched them. A wafting of smoldering trash and acrid chemicals burned her nose while she debated whether to run, finish her meal, or defend her position.

They hung their heads low, baring their teeth and creeping forward.

Shit, not worth it.

Grabbing one large chicken, she ran.

With a burst of speed, she darted away, the wind blowing her long hair behind her, while she moved far enough away to feel comfortable finishing her chicken.

Glancing left and right, she stopped.

She dropped the chicken onto the ground. It collected ash from the trash fire. From the corner of her eye, she watched them, three tearing at the pile of chicken.

Three? Where is the fourth?

She sniffed, but the air burned in her nose.

His snout bumped her from behind. She jumped forward out of instinct.

Sharp yellow teeth flashed.

Spinning quickly, the chicken was on the ground between them. She snarled and snapped. From under his fur, she could see his pink length growing while he stalked forward.

Ah. Nasty!

Her chicken lay between them, white cheese bubbling in ash.

Of course — Simple beasts, eating and fucking.

Dark brown eyes were fixed past the chicken, toward her swishing tail.

Is it worth it?

I’m hungry…

He stalks closer, stepping over the chicken, sniffing the air while he walks, his head lifting to appear less threatening.

Well, a girl has got to eat.

The lips at the back of her mouth curl as she opens her mouth slightly.

With a few more cautious steps, he moves closer, his snout beside hers. The intake of breath through his nose, short chuffs of air, while he captures her scent.

Slowly and provocatively, her tail flicked. Dropping her head lower, her eyes fixed on his.

Her snout nuzzled close to the side of his face, a tender invitation until she found it, the artery that ran alongside his neck.

Dogs always snarl before they snap. Telegraphing their attack. She wasn’t a dog, though. It was a simple skin she wore.

His shoulders relaxed. He raised his head.

Exposing his throat.

Before he realized there was a threat, her jaws had clamped down on his neck, tearing through his skin. His blood filled her mouth. Dog blood always had a bitter taste to it.

A canine tooth pierced his throat. Tearing through as she pulled back, blood soaking her snout, while he spun and dropped. His death throes were a gasping, twitching show while his three brothers looked on.

With a low growl, she stood over his body, tearing into his belly, rutting around for the warm, textured liver. The only part of his body that she may enjoy eating. Her eyes fixed onto the other three dogs while they watched their hackles up.

An uneasy peace fell upon the trash heap while everyone ate their fill.

She ate slowly, with a pit in her stomach. Waiting for the three to leave first.

I need a new body. I can’t do this anymore.

She hears a voice on the other side of the wall beside the dump.

“Oh.” A female voice sang. “Am I making myself clear?”

Her ears perked up as she listened to the off-key melody, the haphazard tone, and the pain and rebellion in her voice.

“I’m just a girl.

I’m just a girl in the world.

That’s all you’ll let me be.”

Licking her muzzle clean, she paws at her muzzle. Wiping the blood from her snout.

That voice — confident, broken, sharp at the edges.

She didn’t sound afraid of anything.

I want her.

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]

Uruzgan, Afghanistan

32°36’15.2”N 65°52’28.9”E

“Congratulations, you’ve been promoted.” The young corporal said. Yelling across the plywood terminal. A confident, boyish grin on his face. His arms raised with excitement, like he had scored a goal.

Who is he talking to?

Lawrence looked over her duffel at him, confused by the outburst. His eyes were locked on hers.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of how alone she felt in a room full of men.

They were waiting for their ride to Tarin Kowt from Kandahar Airfield. The Army had constructed a terminal for passengers to wait for their flights. Some were helicopters, others fixed-wing aircraft going around the country. Flat-screen TVs showed the routes and boarding times on the wall, and a simple, unfinished wooden box for a terminal counter was near the door.

“You are going from a KAF six to a TK eight. That is a big move.” He was easy on the eyes. In his early twenties, like her, he had an athletic build and rowdy, long hair that he kept close enough to the Army regulation standard.

I don’t get it. She didn’t know him, but he had already taken stock of her. Assessing her like a product on a shelf. Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of her book.

She glanced down at the only other female in the room. Lawrence had seen her when she first walked in and took a seat. They initially nodded to one another but didn’t say more. Her nametag read Casta. She had laid her uniform top over her duffel as she relaxed against the wall beside her weapon and pack.

“Bro, you are embarrassing yourself,” a specialist with a 5 o’clock shadow told him, his dark eyes focused on the younger man.

“Yeah, bro, turn around,” Casta said in a confident, mocking voice. Looking up from her phone with one headphone in her ear, she glanced at Lawrence and rose to her feet, staring at the corporal.

“Oh, ho ho,” he chuckled, not dissuaded. “I’m sorry I missed you. KAF eight to a TK ten.”

What a jerk.

“Still a stateside 6, though,” He added.

Casta leaned over the bench with theatrical confidence, her glasses sliding down her nose as she stared him down. She pushed the black square-rimmed glasses up her face. “Aren’t we lucky. Maybe then we can finally find a man to fulfill our needs.” Her voice dripped with sarcastic seduction.

Lawrence grimaced while Casta mocked the young man.

“Sit down, Murphy,” the older specialist tried again, his voice growing stern.

“Well, if I can help in any way,” Murphy replied.

“Oh, thank you, but I’m a ten, and you are being demoted to a TK three, from a KAF five. Maybe if I’m bored and need a quick snack. But I doubt it.” Casta grinned, her eyes fixed on his.

The other soldiers laughed.

“Sit down, bro, she got you.”

Murphy rolled his eyes and sat down, huffing his back to her.

Casta watched him for a moment longer, then turned and sat beside Lawrence. She leaned back and crossed her arms confidently over her chest. “You shouldn’t take their shit you know.”

“I wasn’t worried, he is harmless,” Lawrence replied, wiping the sweat from her hands onto her pant leg.

Casta stared into her eyes through her glasses. They framed her face nicely and gave her a sassy, Alt-model look. “Knock them down. They will do the same to you.”

What is with her?

The Terminal attendant announced. “Big Apple, loading in 10 minutes, move to the staging area.”

Happy for the distraction, Lawrence grabbed her gear, weapon, and pack, ready to walk out the door. They filed out the door and into a line beside the smaller forklift, prepared to load the pallets with duffel bags, rucksacks, and tough boxes full of equipment. A thick netting was draped over and clipped tightly. The movement was slow but deliberate. The dual-rotor Chinook set down, the pallets were loaded, then they filed in on either side of the aircraft.

A tall, powerfully built Sergeant First Class is the last to board the helicopter. His pack is over one shoulder, and he has a protein shaker bottle in his hand. He strolls onto the helicopter and counts the heads. His eyes linger on her just a moment too long. Lawrence looks away, her stomach tightening.

Beside her, Casta bumped her shoulder. “There’s trouble,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She called over the whirling rotors of the Chinook as it started up.

His nametag read Tower, which was appropriate given his size.

Lawrence looks at her confused, then over the pallets stacked with gear at the towering Sergeant First Class, finally settling into his seat.

“I’m going to have fun with him.” With a smile that didn’t appear playful.

Lawrence wasn’t sure if that was a joke or a warning.

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]

Uruzgan, Afghanistan

32°36’15.2”N 65°52’28.9”E

The sound of sniffing woke her groggily. Through the haze of her splitting headache, she heard it. A large hound ran its cold nose over the open spot in her black burqa where the blood had collected. Drying over the last few hours, she had been lying in the ditch.

Cautiously, it moved and sniffed up her body, looking for exposed flesh, but it found only her face.

Groaning, she reached up to unwrap the scarf wrapped around her head, bits of skull bone and flesh pulled off her scalp as she exposed her head.

This was where they had shot her, a burst of rounds up her legs, through her back, tearing apart her insides and ripping open the side of her head. They left her to die where she fell.

The dog sniffed closer, licking at her throat. It probably tasted of sweat and dried blood.

Her leg started to twitch, distracting the beast, and its head turned to where the leg spasmed. All she wanted was to leave this body. All the pain associated with it, now made viscerally real while she bled out unceremoniously in the ditch.

It was her punishment to be in this ditch. She had shamed her mother and not been good enough. Never meeting her expectations. Or was this always that old woman’s plan? What use were daughters for in this country anyway?

The dog went back to licking and sniffing for exposed bits of flesh, finding fresh blood in the space where the AK round had cracked the side of her skull.

She blinked slowly, wincing at the rough texture of the dog’s cool tongue against the tattered meat of her head.

This could be it. I could die here. I should die here.

The filthy musk of the dog’s mange-covered fur filled her nose. It wouldn’t be long until it started to bite, to tear bits of flesh from her face.

She never liked this face, but it did the trick. She survived, at least to this point. It hadn’t been so bad until the Taliban started to take over, which put pressure on her. Unmarried, she was under constant scrutiny but played the role of a poor widow.

The dog nipped at her with its front teeth, pulling bits of exposed skin from the side of her head. The skin separated from the muscle below.

When the Americans invaded, everything fell apart, and everyone fought to decide the future. Except for her, she hid among the crowd.

They found her, though. She was a threat to them. That wasn’t what she wanted, but all they could see were threats, risks to their power.

It burned at the edges where the wind blew across the exposed flesh on her face. She sighed slowly. The familiar movement started in her chest.

This is it, Bibi.

Her body was in its last gasps, a final attempt to survive.

Are you willing to wear this beast to survive?

Startled, the dog pulled its head up. Staring nervously at her. Its eyes were searching for a threat.

Fuck it.

She convulsed and shook. Before the dog could pull back, she grabbed its ears and pulled its face to hers.

It struggled, pawing, scratching at her arms, and desperately fighting for its life. It whined and rolled. She clamped its head down in a vice-grip.

This face had been hers for years, but she needed to find new skin to wear—a host.

She grappled its mouth open, feeling its hot breath on her face as she opened her own. The writhing worm pushing up her throat. She gagged as it slithered up, past her open mouth. Teeth dug into her hands as she forced the dog’s mouth open further, over her open mouth, the worm slid up into the dog’s throat.

Her conscious control faded while the worm that she was left the dying widow’s body and slithered into the dog’s.

She felt her body go limp, losing control over limbs that released the dog’s ears.

Her consciousness followed the worm’s path into the beast, settling into its chest and feeling a flood of memories.

Puppies were rolling.

Sandaled feet kicked her into a field.

Pulling scraps from the trash near a bazaar.

Afghanistan was a shit place for a woman, and an even shittier place for a dog. But at least this body wasn’t dying. The dog’s consciousness faded while she took control, looking down at the face she had worn for years.

It was always like this when she occupied another’s skin—the flood of memories, the dying gasps of the host’s consciousness. Bits always remain.

This beast had a savage need to survive, hunger, and an overwhelming fear, a jumpiness that raised the hair between her shoulder blades.

She would find a new body if she didn’t get that under control. But this would do for now. It would be easy to remain hidden this way.

At least the meat was still fresh. She bit down on the throat, feeling the rush of blood as the last few heartbeats sprayed blood into her mouth. She nipped inside the widow’s mouth and pulled out her tongue, a tender, dense bundle of muscle. Her favorite part.

That night, she ate her fill, ripping open the sides and feasting on the warm flesh of her entrails. She always enjoyed liver.

With a full belly, she trotted off into the night. In the distance, she could hear gunshots and mortar fire as the local insurgency fought the Americans. Or each other, it wasn’t her problem. 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.

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]

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]