Chapter 1

                                          credit: USArmyAfrica

It was zero three hundred hours and the hot dampness of the Zangora night lay thick on his body. A bead of sweat slid down his brow which he wiped away before it could sting his eye. He hated the humidity and even a six-month stay couldn’t bring him any closer to getting used to it. A mosquito buzzed erratically throughout the tent, looking as if it were frantically searching for a body or an exit. One couldn’t be sure which. The buzzing was the only audible sound around the entire camp. Every now and again, he could hear the nightwatchmen shuffle and adjust their stature so the weight was on the other foot. Beside that, there was nothing. He leaned forward and sat straight in his cot. Across the room, hanging from a clothesline fashioned from rope and tape was a mostly-dry chamois. It absorbed the wet of his face and he tossed it on the ground as he exited the tent, leaving the flap open a moment to allow the mosquito to leave. He wasn’t sure if it did.

The difference in temperature between the tent and outside was nonexistent. Air even might have been thicker out here; he couldn’t tell. He made about twenty paces from his tent, pulled a pack of Wellerfields from his pocket and lit one with a match. The sky was alight with billions of pinholes against its stark backdrop and as he tilted his head back to exhale the first deep draw, he thought, That really is the only nice thing about this place… Can’t see that many stars at home. He took another long, deep draw and exhaled it through his teeth. At the gates of the camp was a private standing alert, looking from this way to that and back again. He kicked some dirt under his shoe to get the guard’s attention. The private spun around so fast, it startled him. His rifle was aimed and he looked ready to fire.

“At ease!” he shouted to the young man.

“Oh, Jesus! Sorry sergeant!” the private let the weapon drop to his side and stood straight in salute.

“At ease, at ease,” he walked over to the soldier and stood beside him, “what’s got you so on edge, Private…” he read the name badge, “Patrelli?”

The kid seemed nervous, “I just… I keep thinking I’m hearing something.” He paused, looking uncertain of whether or not to go on. The sergeant nodded approval.

“I keep hearing what sounds like rustling leaves… branches. Like an animal moving throughout a jungle or forest or something but…” the two of them looked to the horizon before them and said in unison, “there’s nothing but desert.”

The sergeant let out a calm sigh and knew it was time to switch out watchmen. He wasn’t worried about Private Patrelli or his sanity. The kid would sleep and be fine when he woke up. What worried him was that every nightwatchman stationed on this side of the camp began suffering from paranoid delusions after just a few hours. He was worried even more by the fact that, though none of them had spoken to one another, they all complained of hearing the exact same sounds. Always animals in a jungle or forest, always rustling leaves.

“Where do you come from Patrelli?” the private was tall enough that he had to crane his neck to look up at him.

“Southern California, sir.” his eyes still paced back and forth.

“Ah, wonderful. Beautiful. Near the beach?”

“Near enough. Say about a thirty minute drive.”

The sergeant clapped Patrelli on the back, “Sit tight son, I’m gonna get someone to take over for you. Just think about those sunny California beaches until I get back.” He pulled the pack from his pocket again and presented them, “Cigarette?”

“Thank you sir.”

credit: jurvetson

The sergeant let out another weary sigh and made his way to the captain’s tent. He got about thirty paces away from Patrelli and had another thought.

“Hey Patrelli!” he shouted.

Patrelli turned around, but that was the last thing he ever did. Before he could respond a flash of light appeared behind his head and exploded through his face, slinging blood and matter onto the desert floor between them.

The sergeant fell backward, letting out a shrill, “WHAT THE F**K!”

As if in response to his question, an incredible green beam of light shot upward from the ground outside the camp, nearly one hundred feet in the air. It was accompanied by the sound of one thousand jet engines, all roaring to life at the same time. He scrambled to his feet and began to scream. The wailing of an alarm started smoothly as dozens of groggy men and women, half dressed, appeared at the entrance of their tents. Some alert and some getting that way, all of them looked around in confusion until their sights found the tower of light pulsing like a beautiful menace. Already, a group of soldiers was huddled taking order from a nearby commander.

“Alright, men! Just hold your positions! We don’t know what the f**k that thing is. Walker! Finstein! You’re on scout detail! Get as close to that thing as possible and see if you can’t figure out what the hell is going on out here! Be careful d****t!”

Walker and Finstein raced to the camp opening and this time, the whole camp got to see what became of Private Jordan Elio Patrelli. The pillar of light let out two electric tentacles like one of those plasma balls you get from Spencer’s. In a fraction of a second, the tentacles exploded from the top of the pillar and down into the troops faces, blowing out the back of their skulls. Their bodies fell lifeless and the commanding officer shouted for everyone to fall back.

Life was still in the camp. Every troop and officer stood frozen, staring slack-jawed at the deadly phenomenon before them. Three mostly-headless bodies lined the south entrance to the camp like a horrific doormat. For minutes, none said or did anything. The area was silent except for the thunderous whirring the pillar was letting out, which was actually so loud it made for effectual silence. Then it happened. Several more pillars erupted from the ground on all sides of the camp, shaking the earth and deafening the soldiers. Simultaneously, the pillars let out hundreds of tentacles which all aimed for an individual soldier and vaporized them instantly.

The sergeant stood shaking in the middle of it all. His mind was breaking. Less than thirty minutes ago, the most unbelievable thing in his life was that all these nightwatchmen were experiencing the same hallucinations. In a blink of an eye, every single person he was stationed with had been rendered to splatters. On the walls, on the ground… he looked down. On himself. He couldn’t tell if he was crying or laughing. He thought it sounded like a pretty bitchin’ metal band name: Baptism by Blood! His eyes rolled and he fell backward, unconcious.

credit: T Altered Art

His vision was blurred when he opened his eyes so he closed them again. Everything was fuzzy but it seemed like his hearing was clearing up. He thought he heard seagulls, but he couldn’t be too sure. It’d been over fifteen years since he’d stepped foot on a beach. Certainty came however, in the form of ocean waves. He was positive that was the sound of the ocean. The ocean and seagulls! How could it possibly be? Had everything been a dream? Was this a dream?

He tried opening his eyes again and found vague sunlight. His hand felt for his face and found rough stubble. He laid his hand on his chest and realized it was bare. As his vision began to clear, he sat upright and a sick queasiness struck his gut suddenly. He turned and vomited onto the sand. The sky was a clear, beautiful blue and the position of the sun told the time to be approximately thirteen hundred hours. Provided he was on a west-facing coast. He realized he wasn’t sure of that and resolved to figure out where he was.

As he struggled to get to his feet, he felt an ice pick shoot through his frontal lobe. He moaned agony and sat back down. There wasn’t a soul in sight and to his left he saw what looked like the aboriginal tribe version of a homeless person’s shopping cart filled with junk. It was made of bamboo and driftwood and covered in a large burlap cloth. He studied it for a few moments and decided to have a closer look. Then a sound came from behind him that startled him so badly, he felt his heart might burst out of his chest.

“Hi!” was the sound. He jumped and turned face so fast it made his whole world spin and he was forced to vomit again. The sound came from what appeared to be a child in what looked like silk robes. He looked at the little person and saw it was offering him a wrinkled piece of cloth. The sergeant took the cloth, nodded his head in thanks and wiped his mouth.

“What’s your name?” The child asked innocently.

“Uh…” he stammered… “F**k… where am I?”

“Fukwa Ramai?” The child giggled, “That’s a funny name!”

“No…” the sergeant coughed, “No, it’s Healy… Spencer Healy.”

The child laughed again, “Healy Spencer-Healy? That’s a little better.”

The sergeant was able to muster a chuckle this time, “No, it’s just Spencer Healy.” He looked around again, “Where am I?”

The child shrugged his shoulders indifferently, got to his feet and made for the bamboo shopping cart. He lifted the burlap cloth and rummaged for a few moments before he let out a delighted, “Aha!” and strode back to Healy.

“I got you this.” In his outstretched hand was the same locket his mother had given him twenty-three years before. The day he left for boot camp in Dahlgren, Virginia. He took it and opened it. Time hadn’t had an effect on it. Last he looked at it was just days before the incident and it had been weathered and worn, almost to the point where you couldn’t recognize the faces in the photo. This one was beautiful though. You could see their faces and hair and clothing and everything perfectly. Thomas Gerald Healy, his father and Nora Jean Spencer, his mother.

Welp, I’ve been writing for long enough today. My brain hurts. Stay tuned for Chapter 2!