There was sand all around.

There was nothing but sand.

Nothing but some stray bunch of cacti occasionally jutting out from the golden landscape.

Nothing but the dunes, the wind, the blue skies above.

And, of course, nothing but the ever-scorching, ever-searing, ever-suffocating, choking, blistering heat of the sun beating down on anything — everything — that dared walk its barren lands below.

There was nothing but sand, and the many Cerberus military vehicles making their slow way through the heart of the desert in one neat line, accompanied almost majestically by the two Sky Pirates circling on about overhead.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams never liked dirt roads.

They made him nervous.

And the Sentryman could tell, from just one glance his way.

The Hunter squinted and stared, trying so very desperately to see past what giant dust cloud the rest of the convoy ahead was kicking up. It was not possible, of course.

They were driving too fast.

And the roads were worn.

“Relax, John,” Rhanes said; his balaclava was off, and so were the helmet and goggles. “We’re safe.”

“Yeah?” Jonathan Wicker Abhrams shifted in his seat, clutching onto the shotgun barrel so tightly it might as well have snapped in twine. He craned his neck, catching a glimpse of both Wrath and Little Red — Hunter and Divine; they were sound asleep.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take your word for it when I can actually see a goddamn thing from in here. We’re running blind.”

“No, we’re not. Listen here—”

The Sentryman reached for his radio, clicking it to life with the flick of a finger. It buzzed and beeped and booped before a resounding ping came to. Private Rhanes Morrison spoke into it at once. “Air, respond. Bravo 4 requesting secure communications channel.”

There was a pause.

Silence.

Quiet.

Then, a ping.

And a voice from the other end.

“Air two, respondin’. Secure channel three established. We hear ya loud and clear; how’s it goin’ down there, boy? Got sand in yer' ass?”

“Got sand in my eyes. What’s your range?”

“15 miles in all directions; we got some clear skies today.”

“Anything out there?”

“Nah, yer' good. No vehicles, no movement, nothin' up ahead, behind, left, right — yer' golden. We'll let ya know if trouble's comin’ — mow 'em down for ya too maybe while we're at it.”

“Roger. Closing comms.”

“See ya back at base, ladies.”

A buzz.

A beep.

A boop.

The radio was silent once more.

Rhanes turned to face his much more uneasy friend. “See? We’re good.”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams said nothing.

“Those guys up there see everything in a 15 mile radius, and you can best be sure nothing’s getting by them. Nothing’s sneaking up on us, John, so sit back, relax, enjoy the ride — we’ll be here for a while. Have a breath mint.”

The Hunter scoffed.

He did not relax.

He did not sit back.

He did not enjoy the ride.

And he most definitely did not have a breath mint.

***

“They’re close. Last minute warning.”

“All’s good. We’re packed up.”

“The King?”

“Still sleeping.”

“The boys?”

“Waiting on orders.”

“And the jars? You’re just leaving them there?”

“Yep.”

“The whole batch?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Seems like a waste to me. They’re almost done.”

“Mmm. They’re not going to waste, relax. They’re being put to good use.”

“What kind of. . . Good use?”

“The kind that wins wars before they start.”

“And how are they going to do that, exactly?”

“That damned lieutenant colonel — if we can’t put a bullet through his brains, we’ll be sure to break it some other way. This is some other way; this is insurance.”

“I’m not following.”

“You don’t need to; all you need to do is make the call — so make the call. Get the boys going; let’s cause a commotion.”

“Do let’s.”

***

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams looked out the window of his small, small world, watching the sands, the skies, the great, great expanse beyond pass him by. He watched as the glare of the sun penetrated the sand-crusted windshield and assaulted both him and Rhane's faces. He watched as Wrath and Little Red swayed to and fro in the back seat, still very much so asleep, still very much so dreaming, and most definitely enjoying what little rest they were getting. He watched as a crow flew by outside, matching the humvee, and Jonathan's gaze.

A crow.

A bird.

A lone wandering spot of black.

In a sea of gold and yellow.

The Hunter blinked once, twice, thrice.

He looked for it again, through the sand, dust, and mirage, for as far as his eye could see. He looked for it again, on the horizon.

And found nothing at all.

It was gone.

Long gone.

And not anything to remind the world of its ephemeral presence.

Jonathan's hand moved, finding its way magically onto the grip of his shotgun.

Still fully loaded.

Still pumped ready.

But this time out of the bag.

And comfortably resting in his palms once more.

"Rhanes."

"Yeah?"

"You saw that?"

"Saw what?"

"A bird."

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"A. . . Bird?"

"A crow."

"Erm. . ."

"It was flying right by me — looking at me. You're telling me you didn't see that shit?"

"I'm driving, John; can't exactly be taking my eyes off the road."

"What road?"

"That's hardly the point."

The Hunter shifted in his seat. His finger twitched. "You really didn't see anything?"

"I can almost promise you I didn't, and more so — it's just a bird, John. Birds. . . Exist. What's got you so stirred up?"

"When's the last time you saw a crow out in the desert?"

The Sentryman said nothing.

"When's the last time you saw a crow this far out in the desert?"

Again, nothing.

Rhanes took one hand off the steering wheel and started finagling with the radio, presumably to dial up his friends way up in the sky.

And indeed he was.

Very slowly.

Taking his time.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams didn't listen to the conversation. He was still trying to spot that damned crow, and still trying to convince himself he wasn't entirely losing it — he wasn't slowly becoming a prime candidate for the Hollow Hills Asylum.

Perhaps it was the heat? The desert was basically one giant, nasty frying pan in the day, and the mind loved playing tricks when it grew uncomfortable, restless.

Or maybe it was dehydration.

Or something in his eye.

Or nothing more than the willful imagining of his tired mind.

Well. . .

It was boring out here.

And dusty.

And dry.

Whatever it was, Jonathan Wicker Abhrams knew — with every fiber of his being — that there couldn't possibly be a living, breathing crow out there soaring through the air, keeping up speed with the humvee, and staring him dead in the eye.

It was just an overall, completely absurd situation.

It was impossible.

And it damn sure didn't just happen.

"Nothing," Rhanes clicked the radio back into place. "Nothing around for miles."

"I know what I saw."

"And I'm telling you what they told me, John. I'm not saying you. . . Saw wrong. I'm just saying. . . Maybe. . .”

“Maybe what?”

Something squelched.

“Maybe you saw something else — something you shouldn't have, you son of a whore."

The Hunter turned, stared.

"What?"

The Sentryman turned as well.

He stared as well.

And he cracked a big, big smile stretching from ear to ear.

A smile so big, so wide, it cracked his skin and bled his lips and tore his mouth open ear to ear.

And his eyes too ran and leaked and melted much like eggs, leaving but a dark, gaping hole in its place.

Leaving but an abyss of black.

Leaving but nothing.

An empty socket, perhaps, devoid of life and humanity, and yet Jonathan Wicker Abhrams could sense something from far behind — far beyond — that same darkness gaze deep, deep, deep into his soul.

Its mouth moved.

In all the ways a mouth shouldn't, wouldn't, couldn't move.

"All alone. . ."

And its lips split.

"All alone, Jonathan. . ."

And all the skin came peeling right off its face, exposing the flesh and bones and teeth underneath.

So many teeth.

Too many to count.

The voice that came to then was not human.

Not even close.

"You. . . See me?"

The Hunter froze.

He was breathing hard.

And blinking fast.

And his heart was pounding so very, very loudly it might as well have shot clean out of his chest.

"I. . . See you."

It craned its head forward, and its neck followed — stretched every bit of the way, cracking and snapping and popping and growing and growing and growing some more.

"I see you now. . ."

Jonathan gritted his teeth.

Forced every single muscle in his body to act.

None did, of course.

None did, but one.

His twitching, itchy trigger finger.

The Hunter shut both his eyes.

Sucked in a raspy breath.

Turned away.

And the shotgun fired.

Loud and clear, it rang.

All throughout the humvee.

***

“John?”

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams cracked one eye open.

Rhanes had both his hands up.

His face was still. . .

A face.

And there were no runny eyes or wicked smiles or sinister whispering, chittering, disembodied voices.

Or a neck stretched far beyond possible proportions, for that fact of the matter.

There was just Private Rhanes Morrison.

As he always was.

Black haired.

Brown eyes.

A scar across the nose.

“John?”

A nervous grin crept its way unto the Sentryman's face, then, an equally nervous laugh. He turned his attention — his gaze — from the Hunter all shaky, to the Divine in the backseat all puzzled, to the girl in red beside all groggy, to the lieutenant colonel now standing by his open window, to the rest of the platoon.

With their weapons drawn.

And their eyes glaring.

And their faces stern.

Jonathan Wicker Abhrams tried to say something — anything, really — though nothing but jumbles and mumbles and an occasional mix-match of meaningless words came to.

“Whuh?” he practically spat. "Huh? What’s. . . Guh?"

“You, uhh—” Rhanes pointed at the shotgun, keeping both his hands way, way up, and himself, way, way still. "Ahem. . ."

The shotgun in question was none other than Jonathan Wicker Abhrams'.

And it was aimed right at the Sentryman.

Right at his chest.

"You want to maybe point that somewhere else?"

The Hunter stuttered, as if he was struggling to register every single one of the private's words.

And he was, in fact.

His brain was. . .

Not keeping up.

"Sorry, I. . ."

He lowered his shotgun, took his finger clean off the trigger.

"I don't know what. . . I, uhh. . ."

"John?"

John looked up.

Both Rhanes and Lieutenant Colonel Schneider were staring at him. One had his hands empty; the other had his hands on the grip of a holstered, loaded revolver.

Though the Hunter would never guess.

"You good?"

No reply.

No response.

Nothing.

Just breathing and panting hard.

"Yeah, I'm good. Sorry."

"Sure?"

Another pause.

Another moment of silence.

"Yeah. I’m. . . I’ll be fine."

Rhanes did not look the slightest bit convinced. Still, he offered a smile.

And what resembled a shrug.

"Well. . . Alright then. If you say so."

There was the ever familiar sound of velcro tearing then.

Accompanied by one of metal clinking.

And a cylinder sliding.

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider leaned through the window, making absolutely certain everyone inside saw the revolver in hand. He was glowering, alright, and the gun had bullets in it, alright, and the safety was off, alright. "Just to be clear, John."

He pulled back the hammer, pointing his piece forth.

Right past the Sentryman.

Right at the Hunter.

"If you ever pull a stunt like that again — pull a gun on one of my men, I'm going to blow the back of your god damn head clean off. I'm going to make sure you're dead even before you make the drop. I'm going to fucking kill you."

The humvee was dead silent.

Wrath cleared his throat, opened his mouth.

Schneider looked his way.

And somehow, somewhy, miraculously, the Divine thought it best to keep quiet for once.

He was right, of course.

For once.

"Consider this a professional — and personal — courtesy. Consider this a fucking warning, too, John. Next time, there won't be a next time. Do you understand?"

The Hunter looked at the ground.

He nodded.

If barely.

"Sir."

Schneider turned to face the scrunching of sand beneath standard-issue military wear boots. It was First Lieutenant Collins, and the sunlight glare was not doing the man and his ghastly complexion any favors.

"We've got movement — south, south-west."

"What — who the fuck?"

"Government transport — the only reason air hasn’t blown them clean off the radar yet. Five minutes out, three inbound, rapidly approaching — ETA two minutes."

"Bullshit, government. Nobody knows we're here."

"Well," the first lieutenant flicked his shades on; a stray gleam of sunlight shine caught Jonathan’s eye. "Apparently somebody does."

***

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider stood there, grinding the sand beneath his feet, feeling the cold of metal kiss his palm cool. His glower had turned into a scowl, and his scowl had somehow the surprising effect of intimidating a certain Divine who was still very much so maintaining his silence.

"God damn it," He spat at the ground, gesturing for his first lieutenant to follow suit. Schneider pointed at several of his closest Sentrymen standing by. "You two, you three, you and you — with me, now."

"Roger."

"Copy."

"Moving, sir."

"Government, my ass," Lieutenant Colonel Schneider marched on, with the revolver to his front, and the men to his back, and the sand below his feet scrunching and crunching and giving way with every step. "Captain!"

No answer.

No reply.

Nothing but gusts of wind and the occasional radio chatter.

“Captain!”

Still no answer.

Still nothing.

Lieutenant Colonel Schneider, sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose hard.

“Petra!”

One deranged, demented, clinically-diagnosed psychopath captain hopped gleefully off the hood of an idling humvee, splashing sand and such at two unfortunate Sentrymen standing watch further down below the dunes. There were no protests, of course. There was just distant, muffled murmuring.

She was by his side quick.

A little too quick.

"Yes-u! What's up, wolfy, wolfy? Am I coming with?"

"Two things."

"Oop?"

"One, you ask me before you shoot anyone."

"Bummer."

"And two, you don't embarrass me."

"Now that — that's a little hard."

"Captain."

“Might take the wind out of me.”

“Captain.”

“And it’s so much fun! You get so red.”

“Petra, please.”

The two stopped, if only for a moment.

And Captain Petra gave a smile.

She gave a chuckle.

"Oh, alright, alright; don’t get your hair in a twist. I promise not to embarrass you in front of all your important friends."

"Good. Now come along. You have your rifle with you?"

"Duh! Always."

"Splendid, you might need it."