“In war, soldiers dream of Hell; in Hell, they’ll dream of Fallujah.”
Staff Sergeant Angelo Torres (1976 - 2004)
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The moon was full and bright, washing Fallujah in pale light. It reflected off the jagged edges of shattered buildings and turned the rubble-strewn streets into a patchwork of hard shadows. Blake’s team moved fast and quiet, slipping into the bombed-out living room of what used to be someone’s home. The air was cold, dry, sharp with the tang of cordite and dust. Broken glass crunched faintly underfoot, no matter how careful they were.
Torres raised a fist. Everyone stopped. Blake froze in place, back against the wall, his rifle angled down but ready. He glanced through the gaping hole where a window used to be. Their target building was dead ahead. Three stories, concrete, blocky and featureless except for the jagged outlines of its blown-out windows. Sixty meters of open ground lay between them. Nothing but asphalt and debris. No cover. No margin for error.
Mitchell edged forward, his silhouette a ripple of motion in the moonlight. He knelt behind a chunk of broken wall and raised his rifle. His scope tracked the upper windows of the surrounding buildings, slow and deliberate. Blake knew the pattern. Left to right. Right to left. Again and again, until he was sure. Rodriguez held position at the rear, his head on a swivel, watching their six. Blake kept his eyes down, scanning the rubble at his feet. He saw a prayer rug half-buried under the debris. The pattern was intricate, faded but still visible. A splash of color in the gray wreckage.
"Two minutes," Torres said, just loud enough to hear. He checked his watch, then looked up. "We move on my mark. Patrol’s pushing from the south. That’ll draw their attention."
Blake nodded. He adjusted his grip on his rifle. His heart was pounding, but his hands were steady. He’d been here two months. Long enough for the fear to settle in. It was always there, like background noise. But it wasn’t paralyzing anymore. It was sharp, focused. It kept him alive.
Rodriguez shifted closer to the wall. His boot nudged a string of prayer beads. They clicked softly against the concrete. Blake heard it. Everyone did. But no one moved.
"Think Allah’s taking our calls tonight?" Mitchell murmured, his eye still on his scope.
"He’s probably screening them," Blake said. His voice was low, even. It surprised him.
Torres glanced back. Just a look. Enough to remind them to focus. But then he broke out in a grin.
"Hey, maybe he'll appreciate the irony. Feel free to give those a try, Rodriguez."
Blake exhaled, chuckling quietly. He checked his magazine. It was fine. He knew it was fine. But he checked anyway. Then he heard it. A sound that didn’t belong. Low and distant, mechanical. A growl, building slowly.
The sound grew louder. Blake's muscles tensed as recognition clicked. An M113. The distinct mechanical grind of its tracks against pavement was unmistakable. His pulse quickened.
"Torres," Blake whispered, urgent. "We've got an APC rolling up. This isn't right—"
No response. Blake turned to his team leader and froze. Torres stood perfectly still, arm half-raised in a gesture that hadn't changed for several seconds. Mitchell remained fixed behind his scope, unmoving. Even the dust particles hanging in the moonlight seemed suspended.
Blake's throat went dry. He reached out to tap Rodriguez's shoulder, but his hand passed through it like smoke. The wall behind his teammate began to blur at the edges, its texture dissolving into undefined shapes.
The grinding tracks grew closer, the sound filling Blake's skull. His heart jackhammered against his ribs. Wrong. All wrong. The noise wasn't right for a 113. And that night had been quiet—just four men moving through moonlit streets. No armor support.
He blinked hard, trying to clear his head. The walls around him rippled like heat waves off desert sand. His teammates stood frozen in their positions, bodies growing transparent at the edges.
"Mitchell." The name caught in Blake's throat. He knew what came next in that building. The IED. The spray of shrapnel. Mitchell's last words relayed over the radio.
Blake turned to where Mitchell crouched by the window. The scope fell away from what remained of his face - a mess of torn flesh and shattered bone. One intact eye fixed on Blake, accusing. Blood dripped from Mitchell's outstretched finger as he pointed.
"You—"
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Blake's eyes snapped open. His heart hammered against his ribs as he stared up at the ceiling, the phantom sound of tracks still ringing in his ears. Just another dream. Mitchell was 20 years gone come November.
The sheets were a knot around his legs, trapping him like a snare. Overhead, the ceiling fan creaked with each sluggish rotation, its tired motor groaning in protest. Thin bands of moonlight sliced through the blinds, cutting the dim room into fragments. Blake pushed himself upright and dragged a hand down his face, fingertips brushing the familiar, uneven terrain of old scars. His breathing steadied, but the coiled tension in his chest refused to unravel.
It never did.
Blake swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the chill of the floor biting at his bare feet. His hand found the glass of water on the nightstand, and he drained half of it in one long gulp, the cool liquid grounding him. The fan let out another protesting squeal, and he froze. Just for a heartbeat, he wasn’t in his room anymore. He was twenty-three again—young, terrified, and so damn sure he had it all figured out.
A single second ticked by, then another. Blake set the glass back on the nightstand with a dull clink, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural. Too damned quiet. Maybe it was time to pick up one of those white-noise machines people swore by. He was retired now, wasn’t he? No reason to stay wound tight, keyed up like he was still in hostile territory, ready to jump at every shadow and sound.
The thought barely formed before the grinding roar shattered the stillness, and his body went rigid. No way. That sound—it wasn’t just similar, it was the exact same as the APC from his dream. That low, metallic growl, heavy and relentless, like it could crush anything in its path. The vibration hit him first, crawling up through the floor, rattling his bones. The walls trembled, picture frames jittering in protest.
Instinct shoved disbelief aside. Doubt in the face of observable fact would just slow him down.
His alarm clock's red digits burned in the dark: 03:07 AM. Wrong hour for construction. Definitely not a garbage truck. Wrong hour for anything that could make that sound.
A car alarm pierced the night, then another, their electronic wails mixing with the deep mechanical rumble. Blake moved to the window in four quick steps, staying to the side of the frame. His fingers found the cord, and he pulled the blinds open enough to see out.
The sound grew louder, and Blake's hand reached instinctively for his sidearm. Of course, it wasn't there. He had promised himself he'd stop carrying. That he'd try and act the part of retiree until it actually started to stick.
The barking started with Mrs. Henderson's Pomeranian next door - a high-pitched yapping that set off the German Shepherd three doors down. The first car alarm cut off with a chirp, but another blared to life down the block, followed by two more.
Blake heard doors opening and closing in the hallway. Footsteps shuffled past his apartment.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"What's going on out there?" A woman's voice, probably the college student from 3B.
"Power's out in my place," came the reply from Kyle in 3A. "Freakin robbed me, too. I was going to get that pentakill."
More voices joined in, a growing murmur of confusion spreading through the thin walls. Someone's TV clicked on too loud, broadcasting a late-night infomercial before quickly being muted.
The rumbling hadn't stopped. If anything, it felt closer now, making the windows vibrate in their frames.
The babble of neighbors' voices escalated outside, confusion and fear tumbling through open windows. Like Kandahar all over again, not Bay City's usual quiet. Window after window showed only darkness as Blake moved between them, the source of the commotion staying hidden.
He had to get out there and see what was going on for himself. Navigating the apartment was easy–there was almost nothing in it. Blake was buying things as he decided that he needed them. There was no one else here to tell him he had to decorate.
Even in the dark, his practiced hands found clothes, knife, and flashlight. He only struggled with getting his sidearm. It was rarely out of reach before, let alone trigger-locked and in a cupboard. Soon enough, however, the familiar weight of his shoulder holster settled against him like armor. Finally, he shrugged into his old leather jacket. One last deep breath to center himself, then Blake stepped out to meet whatever hell had broken loose.
A splash of color drew his attention left. Mrs. Henderson stood in the hall, ancient fingers white-knuckled on her pink robe. The fear in her eyes added a decade to her already considerable years.
"What in heaven's name is happening?" The words quavered out of her.
Blake gave her his professional smile, the one he'd perfected in worse places than this. The one that lied about everything being okay.
"Stay inside, ma'am. Lock up. I'll go take a look and report back."
She retreated with platitudes about Blake being helpful, the deadbolt's snap signaling and end to the discussion. Blake took the stairs at double-time, his mind churning through possible scenarios, finding no answers. Center Street's shops loomed lifeless across the way, their windows strobing red and white from the car alarms people had somehow still not stopped.
A knot of people had gathered outside—maybe a dozen in all—huddled close like spooked cattle catching the scent of a predator. Every pair of eyes was locked on the same spot in the gloom, their collective focus sharp enough to cut glass.
Blake followed their stares, and the sight hit him like a gut punch. Memorial Park was lit up, but not with anything as mundane as streetlights. The glow seared through the darkness, an unnatural ultraviolet flare that twisted the world around it into something alien, like staring at a photo negative come to life.
His boots struck the pavement in a steady, deliberate cadence as he broke into a run. Each step was controlled, his breath disciplined and even. Age might have added some stiffness to his joints, but muscle memory was a hell of a thing. Running was hardwired into him now, as reflexive as a heartbeat.
The thing came into focus as he closed the gap, hovering over the river like some cosmic mistake that had no business existing. It was a jagged slice of night ripped free, a pulsing black disk that writhed and shimmered, defying reason.
Blake slowed as he approached the riverbank, instinct reining him in even as his mind strained to make sense of what he was seeing. The crowd by the water’s edge stood frozen, their faces slack with a mix of awe and dread, like they expected something to spill out of the thing—treasure or terror, no one could say.
"What do you make of that?" a voice asked, cutting through Blake's thoughts like a knife through fog.
Blake tensed, glancing to his side. A man had sidled up next to him, looking like he'd lost a fight with his alarm clock—mid-thirties, hair sticking up in chaotic spikes, clothes wrinkled and haphazard. Given the hour, Blake wouldn't judge. The guy’s gaze was locked on the anomaly, his expression teetering between curiosity and unease.
"Not a clue," Blake said, his tone clipped. His fingers flexed against his thigh, irritation flickering beneath his calm exterior. Sloppy. He’d let someone get this close without noticing. Rookie move.
The man gave a nervous laugh, the kind that didn't belong anywhere near the oppressive weight hanging in the air. "Looks like someone's science fair entry went nuclear."
"Yeah," Blake offered a tight, humorless smile. "Must have been a hell of a project."
Around them, the buzz of the crowd swelled, a rising tide of whispered theories and shared fears. Someone muttered about aliens; another threw out the usual government conspiracy nonsense. None of it made any more or less sense than the thing hanging over the river.
An elbow jabbed through the crush of bodies, and a young woman forced her way into the narrow space beside him. Her eyes were wide, chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths.
“This is insane,” she said, voice quivering with that fragile mix of awe and panic teetering on a knife’s edge. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
"Not even close," Blake said, the words clipped as his eyes stayed locked on the bizarre scene before him. Playing the voice of reason, trying to steady her nerves—or anyone’s, for that matter—might’ve been the humane thing to do. But what could he possibly say to pull their minds away from the phenomenon suspended over the river?
Pulling out his phone, he activated the camera, angling it toward the anomaly. The device hesitated, struggling to process something that seemed to twist the rules of light itself, radiating and devouring it all at once.
The woman leaned in closer, peering over his shoulder at the flickering screen. “Think it’ll show up in pictures?”
“Guess we’re about to find out.” He snapped a series of shots, watching the images save before tucking the phone back into his pocket.
The earth rumbled again, but wrong—deeper, more primal, like some titanic subwoofer had been buried in the planet's core. The vibration traveled up through Blake's boots and into his bones. The gathered onlookers swayed but didn't break their collective staring contest with the dark whatever-it-was hanging over them.
Static electricity danced across Blake's skin, raising gooseflesh along his forearms. The air felt supercharged, pregnant with potential energy, as if reality itself was holding its breath. The thing in the sky throbbed with an unsettling organic rhythm, and beneath the chaos of sirens and panicked voices, an alien hum began to build—a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, bypassing his ears to resonate directly in his skull.
Blake scanned the crowd, but no one was making any moves to get a closer look at the phenomenon. Then again, they weren't running for their lives either. They were all frozen in that peculiar space between fight-or-flight, paralyzed by equal parts terror and wonder. He couldn't blame them. His training covered a lot of scenarios, but "cosmic horror hanging over the Saginaw River" hadn't been in the manual.
The air crackled. Sharp. Like ice breaking. Like bones snapping. The sound built until Blake's eardrums threatened to burst.
The thing in the sky spasmed with violent, sudden force. Blake didn't even have time to blink. Between one heartbeat and the next, the cosmic wound swelled like a blister ready to burst, feeding on the crowd's terror. A woman's scream pierced the mayhem. Blake's instincts took over before his brain could catch up. He spun, hands finding her shoulders, and shoved her down and away from the nightmare above. His body became a shield, muscles tensing as he braced for whatever otherworldly horror was about to rain down on them.
Raw, unrelenting force yanked Blake off his feet like a marionette on tangled strings. No time to curse, no time to process—just up and away, dragged mercilessly toward the gaping wound in the sky.
Screams echoed in the chaos, sharp and desperate. He wasn’t alone. Others were caught in the same invisible snare, their cries ripped away by the gale. Instinct screamed at him to fight, to resist, but it was useless. Futile. Like punching a tornado or trying to outmuscle gravity itself.
His gaze darted downward, locking on the young woman he’d shoved to safety. She was still where he’d left her, crouched low, her face contorted in what had to be a scream. He couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear anything but the monstrous roar—the grinding, tearing cacophony that consumed the air, the ground, the world. It was sound so massive, so overwhelming, it crushed every thought into dust.
Every thought but one.
At least I did something good, there at the end.
Cold seeped into him, a primal chill that burrowed deep, far beyond skin or muscle. This wasn’t the kind of cold you fought off with fire or blankets. This was something ancient, relentless, a frost that gnawed at the marrow of his soul. His vision narrowed, collapsing into a tunnel of dim, flickering light. He felt like he was being sucked through a pinhole, dragged across an infinite void by forces he couldn’t comprehend.
And then—nothing.
No sound. No pain. No light.
Just an all-encompassing silence.
A perfect, impenetrable darkness.
Peace.
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Understandably, Blake was fairly pissed that the peace proved short-lived.