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“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

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Heavy pounding against the thick metal door shook the house.

Maliha’s father shuffled beside her.

Maliha pulled her head under her covers.

It felt like a dream… a bad dream.

Her father’s peg scraped across the stone, and his barefoot slapped the ground beside it.

The metal door ground against the rocky ground.

Slam!

Crash!

Maliha shot up in bed, the blanket still over her head.

Footfalls beat the ground rhythmically.

Gathering herself tightly into a ball, she huddled underneath the blanket.

Uncle Reza screamed from the other room.

Powerful hands grabbed her, still wrapped up in the blanket, and hefted her up.

The weight of the blanket dragged her down.

She was juggled and tossed until the blanket’s warmth fell away, and she stared at a pair of eyes reflecting the green light from a device hanging from its helmet.

Her legs hung limp beneath her.

Their eyes weren’t eyes. They were lights. Like bugs. Like monsters.

“Are you ok?” he asked, his voice hard and raspy but wrapped in kindness.

His words were foreign, and all she understood was that her father and uncle were yelling in the other room, and she had just been ripped from her bed.

She screamed.

“We aren’t going to hurt you, just relax.” He pulled her tightly against him. The sharp metal points sticking out from underneath the thick course material stabbed at her arms and just under her ribs.

She struggled in his grasp while two other men tore the room apart, their eyes glowing green while they shook her mattress, tore into their small plastic bags holding clean clothing, and tossed her father’s sleeping mat aside.

The man carried her. His manner was gentle, and she could feel his warmth through the rough material he wore. His arms were thick and powerful, different than her papa’s, which were thin and tightly wound.

He felt like how she imagined a bear to be, holding her close.

They talked around her, green eyes hovering in the dark room. The sound of her home being torn apart was all she could hear through her cries.

The raucous noise settled quickly until all she could hear was her whimper. Then, a match was struck. She saw her father’s face—long and frightened. His eyes looked up at her, and he smiled. “It will be okay, Maliha.”

Her chest shook, and tears streamed down her face while she tried to calm herself, focusing on her father’s reassuring smile.

He lit the wick of the lantern and stepped back. There were five of them, hulking giants thicker than she had ever seen men grow. They were wrapped in thick materials, holding strange devices and ammunition to their bodies. Reza was brought to sit beside Papa, which he did begrudgingly. A husky man with a full beard stepped into the light. He switched off the device on his eye and lifted it up, sitting beside her father. “My name is James. What is your name?” he asked.

Papa looked at him, surprised. “My name is Hamed. You know Pashayi?”

“I learned it in school. I have questions to ask you.”

“Why did you do this to my family?” Papa asked.

“I apologize. We have many enemies in this country and do it to protect ourselves, but we do not mean any harm to you. I hope you are not injured.” His tone was calm, but his eyes consumed Papa, tearing at every inch of him, looking for something.

“I would like my daughter. Then I will talk.”

James nodded to the man holding her. “He wants his kid.”

“I would too,” the man said, walking over to her father and handing her to him gently.

Papa accepted her into his arms. He looked down at her, his eyes warm in the lantern light. He reached down and brushed the tears off her cheek.

“What is it you wish to know?” Papa asked.

“We are here looking for insurgents or Taliban.”

“There are none in this valley,” Papa replied.

“We keep hearing that, but we want to know why?”

“Because they are not welcome.”

“They are not welcome in many valleys, but they come anyway. Not here. Why?”

Papa didn’t answer. He just stared at the man.

Maliha cuddled closer to her father. His heart raced in his chest, and she could feel it through the thin material of his evening shirt.

“You do not have any weapons. How do you defend yourself against the Taliban?”

Papa didn’t answer.

A beam of light tore through the room’s darkness and illuminated Papa’s pegged foot.

“Ask him about that peg of his,” the American said.

James nodded. “What happened to your foot?”

“A landmine as a child,” Papa replied.

“Most landmines take both feet and take higher up the leg. Or if it were a mine left by the Russians, it would have taken your hand. Why only your foot?”

“Allah wills.”

“You are the fourth person with that same injury, with that same answer. I’m starting to think that maybe the people we are talking to are the Taliban, and you are all learning how to make bombs the hard way. Do you understand?”

Reza fidgeted, his eyes darting around the room, his foot tapping. The soldiers observed him while they spoke with Papa.

“I understand. I understand that you have torn my home apart, and you have not found the supplies to make a bomb. If you had, we would not be talking. It was a landmine as a child.”

“A good point. There is a house just west of here. No one will tell us who lives there; we never see anyone coming in or out. Windows are boarded up, too. It makes us think that is where you store your supplies. Am I right?”

“No! You are wrong,” Uncle Reza barked.

The men laughed.

Papa put his hand on his brother’s shoulder to hold him in his seat.

“You men are soldiers, correct?” Papa asked.

“Yes,” James answered.

“There is an evil in that house that your guns cannot defeat. You will regret entering it.” Papa’s heart pounded faster and harder.

“What is the guy saying?” one of the men said.

“Something, something, unstoppable evil,” James replied.

“We should expect it to be booby-trapped then,” the man said.

“Yup,” James said. “Do you have any advice for fighting this evil?”

“Do not disturb it,” Papa replied.

“What are you doing?” Reza whispered. “You have to stop them.”

Papa ignored him and looked at James, “Do you have any other questions?”

“Do you have anything else you want to tell us?”

“No.”

“Then no, we will let you return to your beds.”

The men gathered together and moved out the door.

They left the house in silence.

“Pack your things, Reza. We are leaving.”

“But,” Reza said.

“Then stay. I wish to leave while I still have at least one good foot.”

“I won’t go,” he said. Then ran into his room.

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

After breakfast of a boiled egg and some flatbread, Maliha watched her father sew her bear’s eye back on. The rusty needle penetrated the furry black fabric her father pinched between his thick, cracked fingers. Biting off the end of the thread, he tied it tight. His lips brushed against the button while his teeth tore the last lingering thread off.

“Go play,” he said with a smile, handing her bear back and pulling the black thread from his mouth.

She gathered the soft, stuffed animal into her arms and ran toward the door. She stopped in the gray light of the sun in the doorway. “Thank you, Papa.”

“You are welcome, Maliha, now be safe.”

“Yes, Papa,” she replied, then ran into the field. Hiding behind the thin gray clouds was the sun. She had never seen the sun without the clouds. It was always a distant, glowing ball hiding away.

She crunched through the field, careful not to damage any of the unevenly planted stalks of corn. There was a spot where Father had always made sure not to plant anything; it was her spot, he said.

She found it, a small break in the corn where she could set her bear down and draw pictures in the dirt.

Before long, her short fingers were caked in dirt, and she had a small mud pile with a mommy and daddy made of corn leaves that lived inside. The two loved one another very much and were talking about having a baby girl.

A rustling noise drew her out of her domestic fantasy.

She froze.

Voices followed along with the rustling. They were muffled and didn’t sound like her father or uncle. She grabbed her bear and pulled it close. It felt warm against her chest.

The sound grew closer. Faint rustling and heavy stepping feet.

She knelt low, with her hands in the dirt, and looked through the stalks. Shadows took shape in the distance and moved through. She could see thick brown boots and pants that were mottled green and brown.

The boots stopped.

It sounded like a man, his breathing heavy. “Hold on, guys, I’m going to check out this clearing.”

She heard him speaking but didn’t understand the foreign language he spoke with.

The boots turned toward her and stepped into her play area. They nearly landed on the house and happy parents-to-be. “Whoa! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. There was a thick helmet on his head, patterned like his pants. He had a long black rifle and was fat with armor and ammunition. Dark glasses hid his eyes, and he looked like he hadn’t shaven in several days.

She jumped back but was unable to scream.

He smiled, lifted his hand from the pistol grip where it rested, and waved.

She waved back before she knew what she had done.

He grabbed the black thing on his shoulder and spoke into it. “Never mind, just a kid.”

She stared at him.

“Roger,” a voice replied.

“Have a good day.” He waved again and walked off.

Maliha waited until she couldn’t hear the rustling anymore, then sprinted back to the house.

“Papa, there are men in the field!”

“I know, baby, get inside,” he said from the doorway. The yard was already clear of animals, and she could hear Uncle Reza inside.

“You know who that is? That is the Americans, and they will kill us because we are true believers in Allah. You could have protected us, but you chose not to,” Reza yelled.

Papa knelt beside her. “Go to your room and wait for me.”

She nodded.

“Brother now is not the time,” Papa replied.

Maliha ran through the house and into her room, jumped into her bed, and pulled the blanket up over her head. The blanket protected her from the dull gray light that shone through the twisted metal over the cracked glass window, but it didn’t protect her from the sound of her father’s and uncle’s voices.

“You knew something like this would happen. That is why we invited them here, to protect us.”

“At what cost, Reza? We sacrificed our freedom and our dignity. Was it worth it for the security they provide?” Papa asked.

“You were willing to sacrifice our father’s home for a woman!”

“You watch your mouth, or by Allah, it will take more than the jinn to protect you from my wrath.”

“The jinn won’t help me. You made sure of that when you painted the door blue and put your handprint in white. You have cursed this family.”

She curled tighter beneath her blanket, wishing her bear would whisper something—anything. But it stayed quiet. Maybe it was scared, too.

“I did it because I loved her. I don’t expect you to understand that.”

“Women are to bear children. You and I both know that.”

“She did bear me a child, my child. Because I was unwilling to sacrifice that for anything, most certainly not for my safety.”

“And the women you loved died because you were so stubborn.”

Smack.

Someone fell.

Maliha listened to the sound of her breath. Her breath bounced off the blanket and warmed her cheeks. The air grew stifling and uncomfortable inside her small cocoon.

“They are surrounding the village,” Uncle Reza said. His voice was weak and barely audible. “Everyone in this village will turn them on us. These Americans will kill you and take your daughter. And what will you have then?”

“Maybe I will send them to the only other house that the jinn aren’t welcome,” Papa replied. His voice filled with more resolve and anger than she had ever heard.

“You wouldn’t dare. Please, Hamed, you wouldn’t,” Reza begged. His voice was thick with fear. “You know more than anyone else the danger trapped in there, what they would unleash.”

“Then you should understand why I need your support to protect this home, our home, from the Americans. And anyone else who would be our enemies.”

There was a long pause.

“You are stubborn, Hamed. But I don’t have a choice. I will help you.”

There was a long pause.

“Thank you, Reza.”

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

Maliha washed her feet with the small water jug on the step outside her house. She made sure to clean the dirt out from underneath her nails and between her toes. She needed to have clean feet for Allah. She patted them dry with the fabric of her shirt. It hung low while she squatted over, focused on her tiny toes. They looked like stubby fingers, and wiggling them made her smile.

She picked up her bear and returned to the house with her feet dry. Her father was setting the last of the dinner out. A handful of brown rice was on her small plate beside a piece of flatbread torn in half because she was not big enough to eat a whole piece herself.

Her uncle Reza was already sitting down to eat when her father walked in. His hand was balled in a fist. “I have something for you, Maliha,” he said, sounding quite pleased with himself.

“What is it?” she asked, looking up into his warm brown eyes and down at his hand.

He opened it, revealing a bright red tomato. “This just ripened today. Not many survived this year.”

“Oh, Papa, thank you,” she replied. She loved tomatoes. They were tangy and went very well with her rice.

He kneeled beside her and reached for the thin, curved knife beside his plate. Uncle Reza’s eyes followed his hand. He rotated the tomato in his hands, placed his thumb on one side, rubbed the blade up and down until it broke through the thin skin, and sliced it gently. Red juice and seeds oozed out onto his hand. The blade touched his thumb. He pulled his thumb back and cut through the ripe tomato. Taking off the top half, he offered it carefully to Maliha, a bright red jewel that held Uncle Reza’s gaze.

She accepted it with both hands and gently set it on her rice.

Uncle Reza forced a cough.

Papa and she both looked at him. He stared back, displeased with the unusual treat.

Papa took a deep breath and sliced the tomato in half again. He set one half onto Reza’s bread.

“This is all?” Reza asked indignantly.

“Yes, brother. If it is not enough, then perhaps you should consider working in the field with me to help grow more,” Papa replied.

“How dare you! You give your brother less than this child, then you insult me.”

“This child is my daughter,” Papa replied. His voice was calm, but his eyes were beginning to tighten shut with frustration.

“You put your daughter before your brother, before Allah,” Uncle Reza said. He slammed his fist down on the table.

“I put nothing before Allah, and I will not have someone who lives under a roof I provide and eats the food from my table question my faith.”

“I wouldn’t question your faith—if you prayed more and fed your brother before your daughter.”

Papa took another deep breath, asked Allah for patience under his breath, and turned to face his brother. “Allah asks for one hour. I give him that time before you wake up to drink chai at the market. I finish that time after you have gone to bed tired and fat from the food. I have spent all day making sure it is on your plate. I do not use my prayers to get out of work.”

“I always pray that Allah will provide me with a job. Allah will provide.”

“Allah does provide. He provides to men who stand up and work, not to men on their knees begging,” Papa said.

“You forget I am your older brother and our father’s heir. You must honor me.”

“I will honor you when you honor our father’s name. When you stop using Allah as an excuse, and you take responsibility for yourself and our father’s legacy.”

“I do not have to stand for this. I am going to eat in my room.” Reza stood.

“That sounds like a very good idea, brother,” Papa said.

Reza glared at him and cursed under his breath while he gathered his plate and took it into the small room to the west, where he slept.

Papa turned to her and smiled, “It is ok, my beautiful Maliha, eat.”

“Papa,” she said, turning to her food and poking at her rice with her finger.

Her stomach had turned in knots. It was hard to eat. The bright red tomato turned dark gray while the last of the light fell behind the mountains.

Papa struck a match and lit a small lantern beside the table.

Her tomato reflected the orange and yellow of the lantern’s light off its bright red skin.

She watched the fire dance on its thick oil-soaked wick.

“Do you know why you are so special to me, Maliha?”

“Because you love me,” she replied.

“Because you are mine. Someday, Allah willing, you will understand what that means. But no other father in this valley can say the same. Only me.” He beamed with pride while he said it.

She ate her tomato but couldn’t stomach anything else. Her father kissed her head and gathered her food. It would end up going to the animals. They often ate what she didn’t.

She held her bear tightly and wished the tomato hadn’t been so red. It was supposed to be a happy thing.

Gathering her bear in her arms, she made her way toward bed. She had a thick mink blanket her father had purchased last year in the market. It was folded twice, making it extra thick, and lay beside his thin plastic mat on the hard stone ground. He walked back in, smelling faintly like hay and manure. He knelt beside her and pulled another thick blanket over her. Gently, he kissed her forehead. “Get some sleep, Maliha. I will see you in the morning.”

There was a wooden peg strapped to his calf to keep him standing even, and he had grown to be quite nimble with it. He shifted with the slow precision of someone used to pain. The peg strapped to his calf thudded softly as he knelt beside her. He was able to negotiate the field and grounds. But it often caused him pain, and she could see it in his eyes when he knelt close. It was an awkward angle for him, but he always knelt beside her at night to kiss her, tell her that he loved her, and then go pray before he crawled into the bed beside her own.

“Good night, Papa,” she replied, pulling her bear close.

“Your Mama made that bear for you, you know.” He rubbed his finger over the spot where the button had fallen off. “Did you lose another button?”

“I didn’t lose it, see.” She reached down and pulled it out of her pocket.

“Good, I’ll take care of it in the morning. You know, she was so proud of that. She stitched it with her own hands, based on one her mother had. You are probably the only other child in the valley with one.”

“Why don’t I get to meet the other kids? I want to play with them.”

He hesitated—just for a breath—before answering.

“I know, but you can’t. I will explain it when you are older, Allah willing.”

She didn’t understand why. She loved her Papa, but he never let her play with the other kids. He didn’t leave the farm very much unless it was to occasionally sell extra food he had grown in the market or buy something that they couldn’t grow on the farm.

He kissed her. His rough beard scratched the soft skin of her cheek. “Good night, Maliha. I love you.”

“Good night, Papa. I love you too.”

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

Short, thick fingers dug around the rocks of the gently flowing water. It felt cool on her hands while she fumbled through the slick river rocks for her eye.

It had torn off again. If she could find it, she would return it to her father to sew on tonight. She had dragged this bear through the mountains and fields in the Alishang valley in the Laghman Province of Afghanistan, where she had lived for as long as she could remember. Her father told her that she would be five in the summer. Nearly five years of abuse had damaged the stitching that her mother had sewn in herself before she was born, stretching the seams, holding the legs and arms on, and splitting open in the back. The left eye was particularly unfortunate, always falling off at the most inopportune times.

This time, she tripped while walking out of the field toward the river. The dirt where the corn was beginning to come in was soft and elevated slightly. The sudden drop caused her to lose her balance. She scuffed her knee and scratched her hand on the coarse rocks at the water’s edge.

She had watched the small black button bounce into the stream.

With the greatest care, she set her bear at the water’s edge and knelt beside the stream. The cool mountain water was refreshing against her torn skin and soothed the sting of her scraped hand. She rooted around in the water. Gently, she overturned rocks one at a time, careful not to stir up any sediment. The sun never shone in her valley, but a hint of light reflected off the distinct black finish of the button. Reaching elbow-deep into the water, she retrieved her prize. She turned triumphantly toward her bear to show her.

She knew her bear only had one eye and could not see as well as normal, and without both eyes, her bear couldn’t protect her.”

With a hard shake, she flipped errant water droplets off and into the shallow stream. Small ripples spread outward and quickly disappeared. With a couple of hard wipes on her light blue dress, she dried her hands and picked up her bear.

“Thank you for being patient. I found your eye,” she said.

“Thank you,” her bear replied.

“I’ll be more careful walking,” she explained while cautiously stepping back up the mound and into the field.

“Just be careful. I don’t want to see you get hurt,” her bear replied.

“I won’t, I’m tough.”

“Ok, Maliha, just be careful.”

Careful not to fall again, Maliha navigated over the mounds of black dirt rows toward her home. The daylight ran low, and dinner would be ready soon.

Her father had always warned her not to go too far. And to never be out past dark. He was too busy to watch over her between the farm and the house. His brother didn’t appear to help much, and she wasn’t old enough to be of any real assistance, only learning what she could at her age. Often, she was tasked to feed the animals and run down the occasional chicken. She was looking forward to practicing her letters after dinner. Her father was barely literate, but he taught her everything he knew and encouraged her to study independently.

Lost in thought, Maliha missed her footing and stumbled into a dirt mound. Her arms were thrown up; it smacked into her chest and knocked the air from her lungs.

“Maliha! Are you ok?” her bear asked. She grew warm in Maliha’s hand. Her grip was tight on her lifelong friend.

Tightness and spasms wracked her tiny body while she rolled onto her back and grasped at her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes. She pulled her bear into her chest. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but the air wouldn’t come.

“Maliha! I need you to breathe, just breathe,” her bear begged.

Short bursts of air slipped into her heaving chest. Desperately, she blinked and fought to regain her breath. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

A low growl crept up over the row of dirt she faced, followed by two sickly yellow eyes.

Her bear reverberated a growl in response, vibrating against Maliha’s shaking chest.

A lanky black dog hackled up and crept toward her, close enough for her to smell its putrid breath—the air around the beast stank of rancid meat and dung.

Maliha slowly pushed herself backward up the mound behind her. Unable to scream, she stared into its piercing eyes.

Her bear continued to growl.

Yellow eyes darted from Maliha toward her bear nervously and then back up at her.

Another growl rose over the mound, followed by another set of yellow eyes. Its hair was matted against its bony sides, smeared with blood around its snout, and clumped into its beard.

“You are not welcome here!” her bear screamed.

The dogs crept forward, growling low and with their shoulders dropped.

Maliha hugged her bear close while the dogs began to circle.

“Hey!” her father yelled from behind her. His voice was followed by a rock that whizzed past her head and bounced on a mound beyond the dogs.

They popped up and looked at the man running awkwardly toward them.

Maliha kept her eyes glued on the dogs in front of her.

Her bear growled until her father moved closer, hobbling quickly across the mounds of corn. He had lost his foot a long time ago, which made him rather clumsy in the soft dirt.

More rocks flew past her head while her father yelled threats at the beasts.

One rock bounced off the dog’s ribs, another off its skull.

It yelped and jumped back.

He scooped her up in his arms; her bear swung around. His pegged foot kicked at the dogs until they ran toward the river. Wrapping her up in his arms and holding her tight, he whispered in her ear, “Maliha, are you ok?”

“I am Daddy. My bear protected me.”

“I know she did. You were very brave. But you need to be careful. I told you that you need to be careful.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

“Remember what I told you about those dogs? They are evil.”

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

The sound of shuffling paper woke him up in a dark room. He could make out Afsoon’s small shape standing at the edge of the bed.

No, please.

Walsh fumbled on his desk for his flashlight. Finding it, he clicked it on. The light bounced around his room, illuminating every corner.

Every inch of his walls and across his ceiling was covered in Afsoon’s drawings of the two of them playing. Some had dogs, and others were running. The sun shone brightly in every image.

How can this be?

He moved his flashlight beam back toward her.

I can’t take this.

She was holding his rifle out to him. A smile stretched across her angelic face.

“Os sta war di.”

“No,” he said, waving it aside.

She looked down at it, then pointed it at the room next to his, aiming it at where Miller slept, her finger moving toward the trigger.

“Bia da valagha war di.”

Lunging forward, Walsh grabbed the rifle, hoping to point it upward.

She stared at him, the rifle locked in her arms. It didn’t budge. She didn’t budge, her small feet remaining firmly planted. He used every ounce of strength he had, but he couldn’t move the rifle from the direction of Miller’s head.

“Please, no,” he quietly pleaded, releasing the rifle and dropping to his knees in front of her.

Her face didn’t change—calm, angelic, cruel. A child’s smile masking a god’s judgment.

He thought of home. His niece. Miller. The sound of helicopters.

“I can’t do this.”

She pointed it at him.

“I can’t do this.” His voice cracked, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“Taa bayed prekra wakry.”

She pointed it back at the quarter-inch thick wall that Miller was sleeping on the other side of.

“Why?”

Slowly, she drew the charging handle back.

“Taso bayed ghura kri.”

She can’t be. I can’t.

She released it. A round slid forward into the chamber. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

The rifle was now loaded.

“Yo sok bayed mar shi.”

“What was that?” Miller asked, his voice a groggy, half mumble.

She pointed it back at Walsh.

“Aya taso prekra kary?”

He licked his lips and took the rifle barrel in his shaking hands.

“Hey, Walsh, you up?” Miller asked.

Walsh placed the cool muzzle underneath his chin, the butt of the weapon on the ground. He looked down and heard the clunk of the rifle safety switching to fire.

“Walsh!” Miller screamed, from the other room.

“Paa makha mo kha, Kevin.

Afsoon’s small fingers pressed down on the trigger.

He heard a pop.

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