Finished reading: Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching by Ursula K. Le Guin đ
Finished reading: The Way of the Golden Section by John Michael Greer đ
Finished reading: War for Eternity by Benjamin R. Teitelbaum đ
Operation Watchtower | Chapter Three: Ground Zero

What the Cat Dragged In
Belle Flower. As Red leaves Magnolia Village in the dust of the rearview, you lift your head slow from behind the dash. The road unwinds ahead. Sunlight on the hood. Wind in your hair. You breathe like it hurts. Like coming back costs something.
Red turns to look at you, his eyes hard, jaw set beneath the moustache gone to frost.
âKiddo, you brought a lot of heat upon yourself. Iâll help if I can. But if you got something to say, nowâs the time to spill it.â
You shift in your seat, the truth clutches in your mouth like a dry stone.
âI got folks after me, Red. Bad folks. But I havenât done anything wrong. Thatâs all I know. Thatâs all I can say.â
He nods. Like a man marking a grave.
âJust so it donât reach my doorstep, thatâs all.â
âIâm grateful. For the ride. For this.â You tell him.
He gives a soft grunt.
âBuck vouches for you. Thatâs good enough for now. Him and I, we go back. Big Top days. Place never did sit right with me. Felt wrong. I got out. You wanted out, too. Why I drove you to San Diego.â
You looked down, ashamed of what you werenât saying.
âThanks, Red. When I know more, Iâll tell you. I swear. Youâre not caught up in something youâll regret. Not knowingly. I just need time.â
Red stares straight ahead. Then glances sideways. A long, unreadable look. He knows youâre lying. But he letâs it ride. For now.
Redâs phone rings. He flips it open and holds it to his ear. Says nothing at first. Just listens. The road kept on.
âBuck,â he says, âsheâs with me. Sheâs safe. Ainât pretty, but sheâs standinâ.â
He tilts his head, listening, and then turns to you, handing you the phone.
âHe wants a word, kiddo.â
You take the phone. Buckâs voice.
âBelle, honey! You okay?â
âYeah, Iâm okay. Iâm pretty banged up, but Iâm trying to figure out my next steps. But, yeah, Iâm okay.â
âThank goodness!â He says. âWe just rolled into Phoenix. Gonna pitch tent, get the crew settled. Soon as thats done, Iâll put wheels to pavement, head west. If I push it, I can make San Diego by nightfall. You need anything, Belle? Somethinâ I can lay hands onâ fore I get there?â
âYeah. Could you get your hands on a phone that I could use? I donât think thereâs any way that Iâm gonna be able to get back my own phone. And by now someoneâs probably tracking it. I need a phone. Can you get me some clothes? Iâm a small, petite. Some clothes and some shoes, please. Once I have my phone, I can take care of everything else.â
âAll right, sweetheart, âIâll see you tonight.â he says and hangs up.
Red doesnât say a word for the rest of the ride. The tires hum low over the blacktop. You look up at the rearview mirror and scan the horizon behind you. No oneâs pursuing you. Just traffic. Then, the sign: Kearny Mobile Home Park. Youâve driven past it a hundred times, a thousand maybe. Never knew he was here. Just down the road all these years.
Thereâs a wrongness to it.
A man like Red doesnât live quiet unless heâs hiding from something or waiting on it. And all this time, all these years, you thought him gone to rust or rambling long-haul routes through the desert. Not parked up ten miles from you, tucked in behind chainlink and oleander. If he was that close, why didnât he ever reach out? Why didnât Buck say?
You stare at the sign and your stomach turns, not from fear exactly, but from the wrongness of it.
Somethingâs off.
Either Redâs been watching you this whole time⌠Or heâs not the only one who knew where youâd end up.
Red guides the Bronco slowly through the entrance and weaves between trailers and driveways. He pulls into his slot easy. He reaches across you steady and sure and opens the glovebox. His hand finds a pistol resting there and takes it up without a word. He leaned forward and slipped the thing into the waistband at the small of his back. Metal against spine. His face gave nothing. Like a man readying himself for a past heâd hoped was done with him.
You step out. Across the way, a woman with a hose in her hand watches you like sheâs measuring you for a box. Her face cut from something sour. She shakes her head once, low and mean.
âMy, my, my. Look what the cat dragged in.â
Red doesnât so much as glance her way. Just lifts his hand, middle finger in salute.
Under his breath, he mutters, âWe had a dalliance a while back, her and me. Since then, she donât cotton to women I bring home. Rookie mistake. Donât shit where you eat, kiddo.â
He fishes a key from his pocket, the metal catching what light there is, and unlocks the door.
Swings it wide.
âWelcome to Casa Mathers,â he says. And you step inside.
Redâs trailer is neat in the way a man keeps a space when heâs the only one whoâs got to live in it. Sparse. Ordered. The couch is old but well-kept, a throw blanket folded square across the back. Thereâs a stack of car magazines on the coffee table, an empty ashtray, a battered paperback of Lonesome Dove dog-eared and spine-cracked. No photographs. No clutter. No trace of anyone but Red.
The kitchenâs small, but every dish is washed and put away. The garbage binâs empty, save for a flattened cigarette pack. The floor swept clean.
But the table in the living roomâthatâs where it cracks.
There, in the center, sits Redâs kit. A spoon blackened on the underside. A small, glassine bag folded neat like a love letter. Cotton pulled apart and stained faint brown. A capped syringe lying crossways over a strip of rubber tubing. The needle sharp and gleaming. The heroin measured out, waiting to burn. You can almost see him there, rolling the sleeve, tying off, eyes already slipping half-shut in anticipation before Buckâs voice pulled him back.
The rest of the trailer is clean.
But the table tells the truth.
Red looks at the table, then at you. âItâs a free country.â He says. âBathroomâs in the back. Iâll lay out some clothes. Oughta fit. Close enough.â
Youâre no stranger to folks chasing ghosts in bottles, needles, or smoke. You seen it plenty under canvas, behind the sawdust ring, men and women alike unmaking themselves in slow, cruel ways. It doesnât scare you, but it doesnât sit right either. Youâve not had luck with the kind who use. Been four years since you laid eyes on Red, and now he looks hollowed out, like something carved from meat and left in the sun. It doesnât make you feel good being near him. Like you could catch the unraveling.
But youâre slick with sweat and dried blood and city grime. The stink of panic on your skin. You need the water.
You study him and ask, quiet: âRed, are we safe here? How well do you know your neighbors?â
You think of the woman outsideâher stare.
âWeâre cool. I been here a long while. Too long, maybe. Know some too well. The rest just enough. I wave when I got to. Keep to myself otherwise. What I do in here ainât no oneâs business.â
âSo if someone doesnât belong, youâd know?â
You look to the closed door of the bathroom. âI canât watch the place while Iâm in the shower. Keep an eye out. Just holler if anything doesnât feel right. Iâll be quick.â
He nods. Then sits himself down like a man settling into old pain. Draws the pistol from his back, lays it on the table, and lights a cigarette. Smoke curls up to the ceiling.
You make your way back and find the bathroom. It is as unadorned as the rest of Redâs home. A manâs place. Functional. No frills.
You strip out of your clothes, the sweat-stiffed fabric peeling from your skin. The stink of the street, the stink of fear and flight, rises off you like steam. You step beneath the spray, the water hot, sluicing dirt and filth from you. The water runs. And you let it. Because there is no washing it clean. But you stand there anyway.
You think on Red. On what he was and what heâs become and what of him you mightâve invented in your head to feel less alone in this world. You wonder what youâll do if heâs not the man you want beside you now. You donât know what heâs capable of anymore. You donât know what he isnât.
You move quiet through the bathroom, the fan like breath behind the wall. In the medicine cabinet: razors, disposable. Deodorant. A bottle of aspirin with the label peeled halfway. Nothing strange. Nothing out of place. Still. You donât meet your own eyes in the mirror. Not ready for that.
You think about exits. Bathroom window is small and tight as a coffin lid. You could squeeze through if you had to. Might leave skin behind, but youâd get clear.
You are not helpless. You remind yourself of that. Youâve lived through worse. If it comes to running, youâll run. If it comes to bleeding, youâll bleed.
The bathroomâs your excuse. The windowâs your plan. The fear is yours and yours alone. And it hums in your bones like a thing with teeth.
The steam curls about the room like smoke and you stand there in the quiet of it. You dry yourself. A ritual. The mirror stares back. You catch your reflection and flinch as if struck.
You donât look long. Donât linger. Mirrors arenât safe. Never have been. They call back the old voices, the ones that spoke in praise and pain both. Your motherâs tall shadow, your fatherâs surgeonâs hands. The freak tent. The blood. The whispers. You donât understand now, but you will. And maybe you did. And maybe thatâs why you canât look too long without seeing the ruin they left behind.
You check the damage. Bruises like old fruit. A cut on your elbow. A scrape on your thigh. All of it fresh, soon to be counted among the older scars. A map no one else reads. You press your palm to your ribs and breathe deep.
Out there, the world basks. California sun gilding the flesh of bronzed gods and half-naked saints. They move through the light like it owes them something. The cult of body. You are not among them. You walk a different road. Covered in dark fabric, head down, eyes sharp. You donât wear your pain on the outside. You hide it like a weapon.
You live online. In the hum of servers and glow of screens. Where no one sees. Where no one touches. Outside, the heat presses close, but you wear long sleeves, thick pants. You donât care to be seen. Not really. Not anymore. You tried that once. All it did was invite the knives.
Outside the bathroom door, folded with care, you find a black tee and pink sweatpants laid neat atop a footstool. Beside them, a pair of pink, bedazzled flip-flops.
You pull the shirt over your head. It clings to your damp skin. Across the chest, the mirror throws it back at you in reverseââDavid Allan Coe.â A skull grinning mean beneath a Confederate slouch hat, DAC above the brim. Crossbones beneath, not bone but a Winchester shotgun and a guitar bearing the rebel flag. Behind the skull, a burst of stars and war feathers.
You slide into the sweatpants. Pink as bubblegum and stitched across the ass in faded block lettersââJuicy.â Must belong to one of Redâs lady friends, you figure. You run your hand through the pockets and come up with a pair of folded twenties, faded and sueded. Money thatâs been through the wash.
From somewhere in the trailer, a radio plays the low, mournful twang of steel guitar and sorrow.
Then, a knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Measured. Unhurried.
The feeling of ice spills down your spine. You ease the door ajar. Just a slit. The hallway beyond washed in the pale gold of morning. Red is moving. Slow. Deliberate. Toward the front door.
You hiss his name. âRed,â you whisper. âDonât let anyone in.â
But he doesât turn. Doesnât answer. Just keeps walking. And the silence that follows is thick enough to drown in.
âPolice. Detective Malcolm. Mind if I come in?â says the voice. You recognize the New Orleans accent.
Redâs voice, steady. âSorry, officer. Not without a warrant.â
âIâve got one. Iâm holding it up. You can see for yourself.â
Red steps to the door, gun in one hand. Presses his eye to the peephole. Then, there is a sound that is not loud but final. Red falls to the floor.
There is a hole in him. Blood comes out.
âOh, God!â The words donât rise to your lips but rattle in your chest like dry leaves in a gutter. You dive for Redâs pistol. Your fingers close round the grip like you were born to it. You run. Bare feet on linoleum. The hallway narrows like a throat. Redâs groan follows you like the cry of something already dying.
You slam the bathroom door shut, twist the lock. It clatters beneath your hand like it might come apart. Footsteps. The manâs. Then the door flies inward just as your body clears the sill. Half out the window when the world erupts behind youâgunfire like a cannon from the front of the trailer.
Arms snatch your waist and drag you back inside. Your elbows rake the window frame and split like fruit skin. You hit the floor hard. Bone and tile. The taste of metal in your mouth.
The barrel of his gun presses to your head. Cold. Oily.
âI told you,â he says. âYou run, I follow. And here I am.â
His voice is a stone dropped in a still pond.
âWe got seconds. You know what Iâm here for. Whatâs not on the laptop? Not on the drives? Donât lie to me. Iâll know.â
The pistol. Redâs. There, just out of reach. You stretch. Hope flickers. His boot comes down on your wrist like an anvil.
Pain floods you, white and blinding. You twist. Flail. A knee connects, maybe. He grunts. His gun barks. And then the world folds in on itself.
Darkness takes you. Swift. Without mercy.
Chokehold
Agent Nicholas Grayson. The second you slam the Crown Vic door, Guthrieâs already got his foot in it, tires chirping. Heâs got one hand on the wheel, the other snatching up the radio. âControl, this is Charlie-1. Requesting a plate check on California, 3-Yankee-Delta-3-2-1. Light Green Bronco.â
The radio spits back static and the voice of Dispatch: âCopy, Charlie-1. Stand by for return.â
Guthrie doesnât blink. Eyes locked on that Bronco. Deadpan he says, âSo whatâs the deal, partner? That guy owe you child support? Whatâd I miss?â
âSpotted the Bronco earlierâstood out. At the time, it had a single occupant. Now itâs got two. Thatâs a discrepancy.â
The radio comes to life. “Charlie-1, plate comes back to a William Mathers, resident of the Kearny Mobile Home Park.” says the dispatch, providing an address on Convoy Court. “No wants, valid registration.”
âPull over or pursuit?â
âLetâs just tail on for a while.â
As the words leave your mouth, a black Chevy Impala slides smooth into your lane behind the Bronco, ghostlike, efficient, the way a man moves when they donât want to be seen moving.
âInteresting,â says Guthrie. âYour rodeo, Agent. What do you advise?â
âKeep tailing. Be discreet.â Maybe another agent from the Bureau, you wonder.
Guthrie leans forward and snatches the mic from the dash.
âControl, this is Charlie-1. Run this plate quietly; no alerts: California, 3-Tango-Delta-4-7-3. Black Impala.â
The reply scratches back across the radio. âCopy, Charlie-1. Stand by.â
âCharlie-1,â Dispatch returns after a spell. âPlate comes back to a David Patel, out of San Diego. No wants, valid registration.â
The black Impala keeps its distance, gliding behind the Bronco like a shadow. You track them both as they roll up Convoy Court, into the sprawl of the Kearny Mobile Home Park.
The Bronco pulls into the driveway of a trailer that could belong to any man. Plain. Faded aluminum siding. The jade paint of the Bronco still catching the light of the sun, gleaming. Bill Mathers, who you think of as the cowboy, reaches across the girl. Pops the glovebox. Something in his hand. Leans forward and slides it down the back of his jeans like it belongs there. Pistol, you think.
Out steps the cowboy. Belle climbs out after, her hair looks like hell. She wears the morningâs ruin on her skinâsweat-stained shirt, feet raw and red.
Across the way a woman with a hose in hand watches them come. She wets her begonias, eyes Belle and scowls at the cowboy and says something to him. The cowboy doesnât look her way. Just raises his middle finger. Then he and Belle disappear inside the trailer.
The Impala rolls to a stop half a block down. And waits.
You tell Guthrie to hold back, park where the dust wonât kick up, where the sun doesnât glance off the windshield and give you away. He nods.
You flip open your laptop. Type in the digits. David Patel. Rancho Bernardo. Dentist. Thatâd make a cool nickname. Clean record, clean car. Clean as a whistle. His photo stares back at you. Wire rims, neat smile. A man who flosses.
You murmur to Guthrie without looking. âStay here.â
You step out. The heatâs already pressing in. The world smells like rust, dry weeds, and old oil.
You need a disguise.
You move through the trailers. Knock on oneâthe door opens slowly. A man stands there. Sagging flesh and mottled skin, like someone whoâs outlived their own use.
âCan I help you?â
You show the badge. Flash of federal steel. âSir, Iâm sure youâve heard whatâs happening in our nation today. I need your help. Somethingâs going down. I need a change of clothes. Hatâd help too.â
The man frowns, draws breath like it costs him something. âI pay taxes,â he says. âThat means you work for me, son. Iâm on a fixed income, and if this was any other day Iâd tell you to go to hell!â He shuffles back, opens the door wider. âTake what you need.â
He bitches all the way to the bedroom. The place smells of mildew and time.
You grab what you need. A floral shirt loud as birdsong. Shorts. Sandals. A bucket hat to throw shadow across your eyes. You holster your sidearm and look to the man.
âIf I donât come back,â you say, âyou can keep the suit. Worth a couple thousand if you know where to sell it.â
That shuts him up.
You press the mic. âGuthrie. Iâm heading in. Iâll be the guy in the hat.â
âCopy that,â he says.
You step into the sun again. Slide around back. The Impala waits. The man who steps from it isnât Patel. You know it the second he moves. Bald head. Goatee. Gray suit. He pulls gloves on like a man settling into old habits. His walkâs casual. The kind of casual thatâs practiced. Something about the set of his shoulders and his stride tugs at your memory, but you canât place it.
He looks around. Moves behind Redâs trailer. Reappears.
You look through the Impalaâs window. Empty.
The man raises a hand. Three knocks on Redâs door. Each one deliberate.
Then he holds up a paper to the peephole. The moment stretches.
âGuthrie,â you say. âWeâve got something. Call it in.â
Of a sudden there comes the sound of muted gunfireâa silencer. Then the door gives way with a crack of splintered wood and the man in the gray suit steps into the gloom like heâs always belonged there.
You run after. Feet finding slick blood on linoleum. The cowboy sprawled on the threshold, gutshot and gasping like a landed fish. His hands clutch at his belly. You leap past.
Down the hall. The man is there. Moving. You fireâthe report deafening in the narrow corridor. You miss.
âGuthrie,â you bark into the comm. âGet around the back. Heâs going to kill Flower!â
The hallway tightens. The world becomes the width of your shoulders. You push forwardâthe sound of struggle. A woman crying out.
The bathroom door hangs on busted hinges. And there she is. Belle. Blood in her hair like a crown. The gunman looming over her like judgment itself.
And then you see the shape of him. Something behind the eyes. Itâs Mercer.
You crash into him. Get him in a chokehold.
The world becomes motion. Flesh and drywall. The mirror explodes. Shards of it rake Mercerâs face. He doesnât cry out. He drives backward like a bull. You hit the wall hard enough to rattle teeth.
He tries to throw you. Your grip holds. His strengthâs fading. His body goes slack. Collapses under your weight.
You roll him over, wrench his arms back, cuff him with hands still trembling.
Then to Belle. Sheâs breathing. You press a towel to her wound. It blooms red but slow. A graze. Just a graze.
âGuthrie,â you rasp. âTake him. Flowerâs been hit. Iâm handling it.â
You gather her up in your arms and push past Guthrieâs bulk as he moves into the trailer.
The street outside is alive now. Sirens. Voices. The stink of heat and cordite.
You find the first-aid kit in the Crown Vic, patch her as best you can.
A crowd gathers. The buzz of it rising.
When the ambulance and cruisers arrive, you grab Guthrieâs shoulder. Look him in the eye.
âYou handle this. Iâm taking Miss Flower someplace safe.â
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
And then youâre gone. Her in the backseat. The engine turns over beneath you like a prayer.
Flesh. Hair. Bone.
Senator Wexley. Your limousine rolls south down the FDR like a hearse, black and sealed against the sound of the city. Inside, you sit alone. The tinted glass offers no shelter from what looms beyond it. Smoke pours from the islandâs heart. Not a pillar, not a plumeâa wound. Thick and rising and without end.
Sirens wail. A procession of red and blue. Streets are choked with fleeing bodies and men walking toward death with the stunned gait of sleepwalkers. You watch them pass.
You see his reflection in the windowâhollow-eyed and soiledâand behind it, you. Polished. Whole. The one that stayed behind in Alpine. The one that smiled for the cameras.
The driver says nothing. Eyes fixed forward. The phone buzzes onceâWhitmanâs number, your political advisor.
âBryce. You still in the city?â
âYes. Just left Dohertyâs studio.â
âEveryoneâs watching it. Everyone will remember it. Which is why youâre going to get out of that damn car and go downtown!â He snarls. âChaos is the mother of opportunity. You need to be seen. On the ground. Covered in soot. Looking presidential. A man of the people. Not hiding behind tinted glass in Midtown. Nowâs your chance to be the one who stood there when the rest ran. Trust me, this photo will outlive you. This is legacy!â
âWell, you do know best. It sounds annoying, but I suppose I must.â
The line clicks dead. You lower the phone. The sirens outside scream like distant birds.
The door opens. You step out, blinking against the smoke and soot. Your shoes splash into the gray water snaking along the curb. A crowd has gathered behind the barricade, dazed and murmuring. Firefighters stagger past. A man collapses near a lamppost.
You will not forget the smell in the air. Not in this life nor in any life to follow. The concrete burnt, the steel ran molten in the girders. But that was not the worst of it. There was plastic and rubber and paper, the foul offal of industry turned to ash. Wiring charred and walls crumbled. Carpets gone to cinders. Thousands of screens gone dark. But more. Flesh. Hair. Bone. The meat of man unmade. The stink of jet fuel and death. A reek that had no place in this world. And yet it came. And it lingered.
You walk forward, slowly, deliberately. A flashbulb pops.
A young photographer lowers her camera. âSenator Wexley? Can I take a few?â
âOf course,â you say âtry to catch my good side.â
She raises the camera. The shutter clicks. Soon thereâs a gaggle of other photographers taking photos for the newspapers and magazines. Tomorrow theyâll run your likeness above the fold. Sleeves rolled. Jaw set. The hard angle of your chin catching the light. Eyes like flint. The face of vengeance clad in a manâs skin. A leader born not of ballots but of fire.
A crew arrives. A boom mic floats overhead.
âSenator Wexley, any comment?â asks one of the reporters.
You square your shoulders before the ruin, and your voice cuts through the ash-laced air.
âThey have woken a sleeping giant,â you say. âAnd they shall be afraid. For it is we who are strong!â
The wind turns. Carries the cinders like snow, and the sky weeps gray.
Flip the Tables
Bryce Wexley. You glance at Wong. You squint. And again it comes. The light. Not bright, but warm. A halo like late wheat swaying under heavenâs hush. His face calm. His presence a balm. You feel it in your bones, in the quiet place that knows before knowing. He is not of this place. He is one of the good ones. Of the ones who watch. Who wait.
You step slow. Reverent.
âWong, I know that youâre one of the good ones, one of the ones from⌠from⌠from outside. I know about the secret deal.â
He turns from the screen where the towers bleed black into a bright morning sky. His eyes distant.
âIâm sorry. What you say?â
âI know,â you tell him. âI know that things arenât what they seem, that the, you know, those in power are pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone! I need you to help me! Theyâre chasing me, Wong! They, they want me for something. They said, Iâm, Iâm the door.â
He looks at you with a kind of gentle alarm. Like youâd just told him you saw God in a drainpipe. Then he smiles. A soft sad thing.
âAll right, Iâll help you. However I can. What you need?â
âTheyâve⌠theyâve replaced me with⌠with someone that looks like, like me, but heâs better than me, and I canât get any money from my accounts! I could use, I could really use some money so that I could, I could help. You know, I could, I could figure out whatâs going on.
He sighs. Pulls a worn twenty from his apron and presses it into your palm.
You stare at the bill. Rage climbing you like fire up dry wood.
âA twenty isnât what I need! I need more than that. I canât, I canât⌠What am I supposed to do with a twenty?â
He only shrugs. âSorry. Best I can do.â
âDonât you have a spaceship or something, or some, some technology that can protect me?â
He steps back. His face closed now.
âSettle down. Settle down. I think it time you leave.â
âKeep your secrets, then!â you shout.
You straighten your coat. Whatâs left of it. Shuffle out under the blue sky. He watches you go. Then turns back to serve his patrons, glancing up now and then to watch the horror unfolding on the television.
âThis man is an alien!â you yell. Some heads turn. None stay.
Once again, youâre outside. Exposed. Where they can find you. The twenty crumples in your fist. But itâs a start. You can find Caruso.
You walk the streets. North Park. Too early for the kind of help you need. Still, you find a kidâKangol hat, white tank, pants dragging. You know the look.
You approach him. âDo you happen to know where I could score some drugs?â
He wrinkles his nose. You reek. But then he softens.
âLook, man, you can have this for free.â He pulls out a joint from behind his ear and hands it to you.
âOh, thank you. Thank you! You know, Iâm a veteran.â You lie, âI fought in the war, so the joint, yeah, itâs good for me.â
âAll right, man, you have a good day.â He nods and walks off.
You follow him until he enters an apartment building and closes the door behind him.
You realize your plan is flawed. This is taking too long.
Then a number comes to you. Vince. He made you memorize it. âPayphone only,â heâd said.
You see another kid, leaning on a wall, skateboard at his feet.
âHey, kid,â you say. âWant to buy a joint?â
His eyes widen. âOn a day like today? Fuck, yeah!â
You trade smoke for ten bucks. You walk to a nearby laundromat, exchange the money for quarters, and spot a pay phone.
You feed the coins into the slot. The receiverâs slick with old sweat and breath, and you wedge it to your ear with your shoulder, eyes on the nothing stretched out in front of you. Whoever comes after can clean it if they care. The line rings. And rings. Then he answers. Voice flat. Tired or suspicious or both. âWhoâs speaking?â
âVince, itâs Wexley. I need your help. Some, some. I need your help.â
âHey Senator â caught your little appearance on Tough Talk this morning. Damn shame it got clipped early, real shame. Word is Abu Dhabi TV got a ring from those clowns in the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine. Theyâre saying theyâre the ones behind the whole goddamn mess.â
âOh, that wasnât me. Thatâs another me, but theyâre after me. Theyâre after me! Vince, who?â
âWhat are you talking about?â He sounds confused.
âThe, the bad ones, the ones the government has to deal with!â
âWhoa, whoa, man, slow down. What are you talking about? Bad ones?â
âThese guys are real bad that make us look like clowns. Theyâre after me. Vince, you owe me. I need your help!â
âAll right, Senator, you and I go way back. How can I help you?â
âI need a new identity. You, you have safe houses, right? Youâve got stuff like that, yeah?â
âUh, yeah, I can certainly do that for you, Senator. When do you need it?
âRight away.â
âAll right, I have connections in New York City, but itâs going to take me a while to get you a safe house there.â
âWhat can you do for me in the meantime?
âWhat do you need, Senator?â
âSome money, a weapon.â
âAlright. I can arrange that. Where are you in the City right now? Iâll make some calls and make it happen. See who I can send over.
âIâm not in New York.â you tell him. âIâm in San Diego.â
âNo, man, I just saw you on TV. I know youâre in the City.â
âI told you, thatâs not me!
âI donât know what youâre talking aboutââ
You interrupt him. âVince, they made a fake me! They made one in a lab.â
âOh. Ah, sure. Senator, break it down for me âcause Iâm lost. What do you need?â
âI need a safe house. A new passport and at least $5,000. And, uh, a bulletproof vest, and a gun and some ammo.â
You hear him whistle. âThatâs some serious shit there, Senator; I can have one of my boys pick you up, and take you to a safe house; where are you at?â
You look at the cross streets you are near and tell Vince.
âAll right, Senator. I donât know whatâs going on, but you know, weâve been scratching each otherâs backs for a while now. If thatâs what you say, if thatâs what you want, Iâll have a man sent to your location in thirty minutes.â
âThank you, Vince! Youâre a good one. I knew, I know I could trust you.â
The line goes dead.
While you wait for Vinceâs man, you buy six bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a street vendor, sit on the curb, and eat them. They burn your gut but settle your nerves.
A limo pulls up. Man in slick clothes looks around, confused.
âHey, hey, hey!â You yell as you approach him, bits of bread and onions spray from your mouth.
The man steps back, putting his hands up, âMan, I donât got no time for you. Got no money for you. Fuck off.â
âVincent sent you for me. Youâre Vinceâs boy, right?â
He looks at you. âWhat the fuck?â
âIâm Bryce Wexley. Iâm Bryce Wexley!â
âAll right. All right.â He goes to his trunk, pulls out an expensive blanket, and covers the back seat. âAll right, man, if you say so.â Under his breath, you hear him mutter, âWhat the fuck?â as he opens the door for you.
You collapse into the back seat. âYou would smell bad, too, if you had seen what Iâd seen.â
âRight, right. Whatever you say, Man, whatever you say.â
As you drive away, he picks up his phone. âYo, Mister Caruso, Tommy here. I picked up the… Senator. Heâs in rough shape.â He turns to you and offers you his phone. âHey, Senator, he wants to talk to you.â
You hold the phone to your ear. âSenator?â
âHey, Vince, your man here is not too polite.â
âIâll take care of that. Tommyâs a good boy. Heâs going to take you to a place in La Jolla. You can hole up until we can talk face to face.â
âVince, thank you, Vince! Youâre a saint. The good ones, you know, theyâll, theyâll, theyâll think about you.â
Tommy takes a phone, wipes it on his pant leg, holds it to his ear, listens, and nods.
âAll right, all right. Yeah, Iâll get him cleaned up.â
You drive to the outskirts of La Jolla. Tommy pulls up into the driveway of a decent house. He gets out and opens the door for you, treating you with the respect that is your due. You step out and he wonât meet your eye though you see the question there, flickering. The not-knowing. The what-the-hell-happened-to-you.
Tommy knocks on the door of the house, which is answered by a man in his twenties, eyes bloodshot.
You follow the man and Tommy past a kitchen. On the floor is a stained mattress circled by video cameras on tripods. On the kitchen table are several laptops. A girl wearing nothing but a tight T-shirt and panties walks by, bow-legged. She doesnât look at you so much as through you. She drinks water from a plastic bottle like itâs the only real thing left.
Tommy says, âSenator, anything you need, Iâm at your disposal. If you want to clean up, thereâs a bathroom down the hall.â
You grab the towel from his hand. You shower. Hot water. Mercy.
Afterward, you clothe yourself in whatâs been left. Gym shorts thin at the knees and a t-shirt bearing the faded logo of San Diego State University. You pull it over your head and it smells of detergent and old sweat and something fainter still. You stand before the mirror. The glass is smeared and tired. You wet your fingers and try to set your hair to how it once was or how it ought to be. Like the man on the screen on Tough Talk. The clean one. The one who speaks and the world listens. You rake your hands through the mess of it but it will not hold. Itâs hopeless.
âTommy!â You yell.
âYo?â
âI need a stylist. I need a shave. I need a suit.â
âYou got it. Anything else?â
âAnd the cash. And the gun. And the bulletproof vest.â
âYou got it, Senator.â
The future is looking good. You donât have a plan yet. Youâre still trying to figure out whatâs going on with the aliens. But youâre Bryce Wexley, old boy, and you will flip the tables on them.
Finished reading: The Lover by Marguerite Duras đ
Finished reading: Kult - Divinity Lost by Modiphius Entertainment đ
Operation Watchtower | Chapter Two: Tough Talk

Wexcess
Bryce Wexley. You drag the back of your hand across your mouth, the bile sour on your tongue, and through the fog of sweat and heat and shame you see himâWong. Framed in the glass door of his diner. His eyes dart up from you to the television behind him where the towers burn. Then back to you.
Wong comes upon you slow and sure, like a man approaching something wounded. His face, it creases not in pity but in the quiet knowledge of pain. He holds out his hand. âLetâs get you inside.â
You raise your eyes and for one moment, his head is engulfed in a dandelion of golden radiance. A crown of fire, wild and tender. You blink. It is gone.
He guides you to a table. âI get you something to eat. Something to settle your stomach.â
You hear your name like itâs been dragged out of a well. Takes a second to realize itâs coming from the TV. You look up, and there you are. Sitting next to Phil Doherty on Tough Talk. That grin of his plastered on like always. Only this isnât a rerun. Itâs live. Now.
And the man sitting beside himâitâs you. But it isnât.
The man on screen sat straight-backed and sure. He was what you strive to be. What the press hinted you might become. You watch him, that other you, and you feel like you are peeling away. Like heâs shedding you, leaving the husk behind.
Your first thought is that the man on the screen is not a man at all. That heâs a skinwalker, a lizard wrapped in meat, some reptile thing done up in your own hide like a suit bought cheap and ill-fitting. Itâs wearing you. Wearing your smile, your gestures, the way you hold your hands just so, like they taught you in the greenrooms.
But it doesnât make sense. If the skinâs enough, why would they need yours? And yet you watch and you feel it all the sameâthe shame, deep and black. Your hair stuck flat to your skull with sweat and bile, your clothes a patchwork of filth, your feet raw. And there he is, sharp as a blade, suit pressed, hair combed, the world leaning toward him like flowers to the sun.
Your voice rises from your throat like something choking. âThat isnât me! They replaced me!â
A patron two stools down lifts a finger slow to their lips, eyes sharp over it. âShhh!â
âGood morning, folks.â Says the television host, âIâm Phil Doherty, and this is Tough Talk. Now listen, I wish we were kicking things off with something a little lighter today, maybe even a little fun. Weâve got Senator Bryce Wexley here with usâyes, that Wexley. His familyâs been called the Kennedys of the West Coast. A real political dynasty. And Senator, we appreciate you being here.â
âThanks, Phil.â The other Bryce says, âItâs a pleasure to be here, as always. And Iâve got to say, nice suit.â
Phil laughs, then turns to look directly into the camera.
âBut letâs be honestâweâve got more pressing business this morning. America is under attack. So weâre going to put your reality show segment, Wexcess, on hold and focus where we need to: the safety of our nation and the facts as we know them. This is no time for fluff.â
Behind the host and the man wearing your face the screens play clips from Wexcess. Theyâve stacked the deck for spectacle. The old producers knew their craft. Knew how to gild the rot.
There you are, barreling down some desert highway in that gaudy Humvee like a king of nothing, the sun burnished on chrome and steel. Cut to you again, poolside, flanked by supermodels whose names you never learned, their laughter canned and hollow.
The reel rolls on. Red carpet, flashbulbs, the dumb applause of a thousand strangers. You grinning like a man with no past. No blood on his hands.
Then your boy, Graham. His face lit and sharp. Telling the camera during a talking head segment how you “suck,” and thereâs you right after, telling the world Grahamâs âvery, very sorry for what he said.â
All of it stitched together like some gospel for fools. You watch and you know itâs a lie. But you canât look away.
Doherty turns to the camera. âStay with us. Tough Talk returns after these messages.â
And then a commercial plays, some inane morality play of capitalism. A family at breakfast, their smiles carved and hollow, praising a thing they did not make and do not need.
Wong comes back bearing the plain grace of hot food. A chipped plate. Scrambled eggs. Toast browned and crisp at the edge. Steam rising from the coffee. He sets it down.
âYou want jelly?â
He doesnât wait for an answer. Just smiles that quiet smile of his and lays a packet by your plate. Then he turns and goes.
He doesnât know you from Adam. doesnât know the office you hold or the fortune you command. To him youâre just another vagabond off the street.
And still he brought you breakfast. He treats you with dignity and kindness.
You tear the packet open with trembling fingers, the foil splitting like skin, and squeeze the jelly straight to your tongue. It coats your throat sweet and cheap and chemical. You drag the eggs into your mouth like a man starved, which you are, and the toast follows in great wet mouthfuls. The food hits you like morphine. Your hands shake. Your heart beats fast and light.
You look up, eyes flicking sharp like a hunted thing. Whatâs his angle, this Wong? Man feeds strays, but why? Youâve seen enough to know nothing comes without a hook. You saw his head glow. Maybe heâs one of them. One of the good ones, maybe. The kind who wears a manâs shape to pass in the daylight.
You think about that radio show, late nights in the dark, Art Bell talking about The Greys, the Reptilians, the ones who made the deals. Maybe the things you saw in Alpineâmaybe they were real. And maybe Wongâs not like them. Maybe heâs something else.
You glance sideways. Real careful. Check your hands. Your mouth. You listening to yourself now, the words running under your breath without your leave. You wonder if anyoneâs watching.
And the worst thing is you know they are.
After the meal Wong comes and takes your plate without a word and wipes the table clean with a rag drawn from the pocket of his apron. He looks at you once.
âCome with me.â
You follow him cautious as a coyote, ready to bolt should the air shift wrong. Your eyes fix on the back of his skull, the smooth dome of it shining faint under the fluorescent light, and you watch for some tell, some hidden seam in the meat of him where the zipper might run, where the mask might peel away and show the thing beneath.
At the front door a mop waits, its head limp and soaked in gray suds. Beside it a bucket, the water inside warm and soapy.
âYou clean up,â he says.
You kneel at the bucket like a penitent and dip your hands into the murk, the water warm and citrusy with soap. You bring it to your face and scrub, the suds running down your neck, the sting of it in your eyes, the scent sharp in your nose. You wash as if you might scour something from yourself that the years have left behind. Something that clings. Something that will not come clean.
âNo, no.â he says, âYou clean up.â He points to your puddle of vomit. The scent of it rises and stings your eyes.
You let out a long breath. You roll your shoulders like a man shouldering a yoke and set to the work. The mop clumsy in your hands, foreign. You drag it across the floor in fits and starts. You move without rhythm, without grace. You reckon youâve never done a dayâs mopping in your life. But you do it anyway. Because thereâs nothing else to be done.
And then you see him.
Not straight on. Just a flicker in the corner of your eye. He leans against a wall leading to an alleyway, smoking a cigarette. Watching. He draws on the cigarette slow and easy and flicks it into the street. Its cherry arcs through the air like a meteor before it hits the Earth, and the man turns and walks away.
Down the alley.
You follow his path with your eyes. You see where he goes. You know this street. You know every corner of it. You’ve walked it a hundred times and never once has there been an alley there. Not till now.
The mouth of the alley darkens behind the man’s retreat, swallowing light like a thing alive. Not shadow but absence. A void. As if God himself had turned his gaze from that place and would not look again. You come to the threshold where morning ends. The edge of light. You lift your foot. The air beyond is cold. Frigid.
You place your foot within.
And you know. In your bones. In the red meat of you. One more step, and there is no turning back.
You are not a fool. You turn from the alley and make your way back to the diner, to your mop. You mutter low beneath your breath of dissection tables and cold steel and how wise a man is who knows when to run.
Slyly, you look back at the alley through the tangle of your hair. The alley gone now like it never was. Like the world itself rolled over and smoothed the crease. But there on the pavement, you see it. The cigarette butt still smoldering. Smoke curling thin into the morning air.
Heat
Belle Flower. Youâve been standing in front of the Mira Mesa Public Library so long the shape of you is near worn into the concrete. The sun climbs higher. The shade crawls back. You keep expecting the man in the grey suit to round the corner, to step out from behind the world like he was always part of it. Instead you see the old ones walking. Old Chinese couples bent like river reeds, moving slow through the morning. Filipina mothers pushing strollers heavy with sleeping children. Indian women in their saris speaking low and fast, talking about the towers. The fire. The day the sky came down.
Red pulls up in his Ford Bronco, paint the color of faded jade, light catching on the metal like water in a dry place. It looked new. Lovingly restored. But the man behind the wheel was not new. Not untouched.
Red had lines now, deep and mean. His eyes sunk further in, not cruel, but tired. You remember them clearâsharp once, reckless. A man with miles ahead. Now he wears them all on his face. The years rode him hard. Drove deep. Didnât let up.
Back then, he was all grin and boot leather. Hair long, engine louder than his conscience. Heâd smoked through half a pack before you cleared county lines. Said little. Drove fast. Didnât ask questions. The kind of kindness you donât know you need until long after it’s gone.
He leans there against the Bronco, one arm slung careless over the doorframe. He pulls off his aviators slow and squints at you, his eyes pale and run through with age. He takes in the mess of youâhair wild, shirt twisted, sweatpants stained through, bare feet cut and streaked with road-grime and blood.
âAw, hell. Get in.â
You tell Red about the man in the grey suit. How he killed your doorman and broke into your apartment like he owned the place, and how you escaped, dove through the window, and landed on the hedge like an animal in flight. You tell him you need to go back. Circle the block a few times, make sure the wolf is gone. Maybe get your hands on whatâs leftâyour gear, your papers, a change of clothes. Whatever scraps of your life he didnât take.
He lights a cigarette, draws on it. Smoke curls from his mouth, drifts past the scar in his lip. He doesn’t look at you, not at first. Just stares out over the parking lot.
âBuck did say youâre in some kind of trouble. Trouble seems to find you, donât it?â
âI guess so,â you say.
He taps ash to the pavement. Takes another drag, and then you drive away.
Red turns on the radio, twists the dial and the voice comes raw through the static. Another plane has gone down. United Airlines. Flight 93. Crashed 80 miles southeast of Pittsburgh.
He listens a moment. Just a moment. Then he kills the radio with a flick of his fingers and silence folds in.
âChrist. Can you believe this shit? Whole goddamn worldâs goinâ to hell. I swear, every time you think weâve seen the worst of it, somethinâ new comes crawlinâ outta the pit.â
You let the breath leave you slow like something wounded. Say nothing. Your eyes fix on the window and the world beyond it, the sun climbing indifferent over rooftops and powerlines. You will not meet Redâs gaze. You try not to think about the news burning through the radio. Thereâs too much stirring in you. Too much weight. Like you been sleepwalking and the dreamâs caught up to you. And worse than the dream is the knowing you helped bring it to life.
He glances at you and whatever he saw on your face made the words die in his mouth. Like a man realizing too late heâs been talking to a corpse.
âThunderation, ainât my place to talk about the end of the world when you look like youâve been livinâ in it.â
He drums his fingers once on the steering wheel, then scratches at the back of his neck.
âTruth is, I shoulda kept closer, Belle. I shoulda checked in. Stayed on top of you, made sure you werenât driftinâ too far out. But I didnât. Lifeâs got a way of slippinâ past when you ainât lookinâ. Next thing you know, itâs been years.
âSo tell me, kiddo. Whatâs it been like? What you been up to, besides runninâ from shadows?â
âIâve just been making it work.â You tell him. âI havenât had a proper job. I havenât been able to land any. Things outside of the circus. I mean, Iâm not trained to do any of the stuff that normal people do, so I done what I could. Itâs not very easy, but I do what I can. Nothing worth telling. Just enough to make it work.â
âYou know, you ainât grown an inch since I last laid eyes on you. But hell, I can see plain as day youâve grown in ways that matter. You ainât that scared little doe I hauled across state lines in the dead of night. Back then you looked like a thing thatâd bolt if I so much as breathed too loud. Like the world itself was hunting you."
He flicks his cigarette out the window, watches the spark vanish behind him.
âI never asked what you were runninâ from. Didnât need to. I saw enough in your eyes to know it was bad. Knew it had your folksâ stink all over it. But youâre different now. Thereâs steel in you. Might not see it when you look in the mirror, but I see it clear as day. You been carryinâ yourself like someone whoâs seen whatâs on the other side of fear and decided she wasnât gonna bow to it.â
He clears his throat, thumb tapping the wheel.
âAnd look, I ainât your preacher and I sure as hell ainât your daddy. But on a day like thisâmight be worth pickinâ up the phone. Callinâ your mom and dad. Even if itâs just to say youâre still breathinâ. Worldâs cominâ apart at the seams, Belle. Ainât no shame in lettinâ people know youâre still standinâ in it.â
He grabs his flip phone from the pocket of the shirt and tosses it on your lap.
âYour call. Ha, see what I did there?â
âYeah,â you say, absolutely not. I have no plans to talk to them. I definitely donât need them knowing where I am right now, so I hear what youâre saying, but itâs not something Iâm comfortable with doing now.â
He sighs. âItâs a free country.â
As the Bronco rounds the corner you see police cruisers stacked four deep, strobes painting the stucco in blood and bruise. Radios crackle. Men in uniforms bustle about.
Red slows the truck. The engine idles rough beneath his calloused hand.
âThatâs a lot of heat,â he says.
He turns to you then, eyes narrowed.
âAnything you need to tell me, kiddo?â
âI didnât do anything wrong! I gotta go inside. And if the police are here, that means that most likely no one else is gonna try to hurt me. So maybe this is a good thing?â
You set your hand on the latch and you pause. Old lessons stitched into your bones like scars. Donât talk to the law. Donât let them know your name. You glance down at yourselfâbarefoot, bleeding, sweatpants fouled. You canât be seen like this. Not here. Not now. Not with a man dead on the pavement. You let the door click shut and sit there in the heat. Waiting. Watching.
âPark down the block. I need to think this through.â
Red eases the Bronco down to a crawl and without a word he reaches across and shoves you low, one hard hand on the crown of your head, pressing you beneath the dash like heâs hiding contraband. His eyes never leave the road. His mouth set in a line youâve seen before, a man weighing the cost of something already spent.
âStay down!â he hisses
âWhat do you see?â
âBlack sedan. I donât know if theyâre cops or not, but theyâre definitely law. Guy in the passenger seat looks smart. I think heâs lookinâ for someone. Maybe you, Belle.â
âGosh, Red, I donât know what these people want from me! We gotta get out of here then, because this is not good. We gotta go somewhere else.â
âI can take you to my trailer back in Convoy. I got some clean sweat pants and some flip-flops you can wear.â
âAll right. Letâs just go to your trailer. Let me sit down. Let me think for a little bit, because this situationâs not safe!â

Bronco
Nicholas Grayson. The plane touches down heavy as a stone on the tarmac, tires screaming beneath the weight of steel. The sky above San Diego blue and unbothered, indifferent to the smoke twisting halfway across the country. Youâd been aloft when the first tower fell. Somewhere over Arizona when the second burned.
By the time the word of the Pentagon hit the cabin, it was no longer accident, no longer madness or malfunction. It was war. And every passenger knew it.
The plane docks. There is the slow, somber shuffle of feet, as if you were all walking from one funeral to another.
The badge you carry got you off quicker than most.
The terminal was chaos made flesh. Faces upturned to televisions, mouths slack and eyes burning, herded like cattle by staff who knew nothing and could say even less. You could feel the static charge of grief and terror in the air, a nation realizing it was not untouchable, that something had reached across the oceans and slit its throat.
Then you see him. A man in a suit, holding a placard: GRAYSON in block letters. His shoulders are slumped, his face pale and pinched and hollow-eyed, like someone whoâd rather be anywhere but here. A man wanting nothing more than to be home, wherever home was, with the people he loves.
You walk up. Show him your badge. Tell him your name.
He tucks the placard beneath his arm and offers his hand, the shake firm but not unkind.
âGuthrie. Andrew Guthrie. Wish weâd met on a better day. This way.â
He nods toward the parking structure, and you fall in step beside him, the tide of bodies pressing in close all around. People moving like cattle through a chute.
âCan I take your bag?â
âThatâs okay. Iâll hold on to it. Thanks, though, Mr. Guthrieâ
Something gnaws at you. You slow your pace, your eyes lifting toward the open sky. Empty. Silent. No engines droning in descent.
Guthrie follows your gaze and answers without being asked.
âU.S. airspace shut down soon as the second plane hit. Grounded everything.â
You reach his car. A government sedan, black and anonymous. You slide into the passenger seat.
Guthrie starts the engine, glancing at you sidelong.
âMost agents, they want a minute. Get their bearings. Maybe sleep off the flight. But I read your file. Hell, youâre that Agent Grayson, arenât you? Reckon youâll want to get to it. Where to?â Guthrieâs eyes are fixed forward, hands on the wheel at ten and two.
âMiramar. Magnolia Village. Apartment building. I need to have a chat with a Miss Belle Flower.â
You give Guthrie the address and watch him nod once, slow and sure. Then you fish the Blackberry from your pocket, the plastic slick beneath your thumb. You dial your sisterâs number without thinking. She picks up on the first ring. You hear her television in the background. News about the World Trade Center. The Pentagon.
âNick? Oh, thank God. I canât believe whatâs happening! Theyâre saying itâs terrorists! Do you know anything about it?â
âNot a thing. I just wanted to make sure everybody was okay. I needed to hear your voice. Howâs Pete?â
You reckon her husbandâs decent as men go though youâve long thought him touched in the head. A fool maybe but not the kind that means harm. Just a man who donât know near as much as he thinks he does.
âOh, you know, Pete. His lawn care business is taking off, but he canât get his head in the game today. Heâs coming home, which is for the bestâ
âThatâs good. Okay, Iâve got to go. Stay safeâ
âAll right. Well, thanks for calling. You take care of yourself. Love you.â
âLove you, too, Marley.â
Just as you hang up, your BlackBerry pulses and you thumb the screen, and itâs a message from Alicia Hightower, the shrink the bureau paid for. It reads âIâm here to talk if you need me.â
You text back, âThanks.â
Youâre about to slip the thing back in your pocket when it comes to life buzzing in your hand. You look and the number is one you know. Boyd Whitaker. Fellow jarhead. You pulled each other out of the sand more than once in the war. You owe him more than you ever said aloud.
âBoyd, how you doing?â
âHey there, good buddy. Heard you got yourself transferred. New division, huh? Only good news I heard all damn day. Hell of a day for good news, though, ainât it? Where you hanging your hat?â
âWell, actually, right now Iâm down in San Diego. Howâs the life up in Los Angeles?â
âOh, you know, walking and talking. Working the beat. San Diego? Huh? That donât beat all. Do you remember Silas?â
âSilas?â
You close your eyes. Of course you remember. Silas Mercer. The man with the dead eyes. The one who liked the work too much. How he slipped through the cracks, past the shrinks and the tests and the red flagsâthatâs a question you stopped asking long ago.
âAlways had a weird feeling about that guy, but then I also had the same feeling about Tim McVeigh. We all know what happened there. Seems like I should listen to those feelings.â
âWord around the campfire is, heâs been seen in San Diego. Few days back. Donât know if thatâs why youâre out there. God, I hope not. Heâs a bad hombre, brother. Bad all the way down.â
âYeah, he was a cold motherfucker.â
âHey, something just hit my desk. I gotta run. Hang ten, brother. Iâll make my way down to San Diego. And if I canât, come up to L.A., as long as youâre in town.â
âAll right, buddy, good to hear your voice. Give a hug to the wife.â
He laughs. âCopy that.â
You arrive at Belle Flowerâs apartment building. The flash of blue and red lights turning the stucco walls into a crime scene mural. Four squad cars. Officers milling at the entrance. One of them bent low beside a shape slumped against the pavement, a black tarp folded neat over what had once been a man. A forensic photographer crouched, camera raised.
You knew the shape of it. The stink of death in the air like something bitter under the tongue. Youâd seen it before.
âAgent Guthrie, can you circle the block once? I want to get the lay of the land. Maybe see if Miss Flower is out and about. Keep your eyes open.â
You make your circuit slow and watchful, eyes scanning the crowd for a sign of Flower but she isnât there. What you do see is a man behind the wheel of a light jade Bronco, the paint near luminous in the sun like something freshly minted. Heâs got a cowboy hat stained from years of weather and sweat, aviators low on his nose, a cigarette burning down to the filter in his fingers. He looks like Sam Elliott if Sam Elliott had seen the bottom of a needle more times than a whiskey glass.
You pull into the driveway of Flowerâs apartment building. And then you see it. Small and green and mean as sin. A fly crawling the length of the dashboard like it owns the world. Its legs tapping out some measure older than speech. It pauses a moment, its wings shivering in the stillness, and when you crack the door it slips past you into the wide and waiting air. Gone like it was never there at all.
You cross the lot and the officers watch you come like men waiting on bad news. One of them steps forward. Lean and hard-eyed. He looks you over, your suit, your shoes. The weight you carry.
âYou murder police?â
âNo, sir. Nicholas Grayson. Iâm with the Bureau. FBI. Lookout division. Iâm not here to cause a scene. Just trying to locate a particular individual listed at this address.â You lift the badge from your coat and hold it where the officer can see. It catches the light. âIâm looking for a young woman. Nameâs Belle Flower. Early twenties. Possible connection to an ongoing investigation.â
He looks at you a long moment. Then he turns to the officer beside him, something passing between them that needed no words.
âAll right, let me bring you up to speed. Victimâs Harold Nguyen, works the door hereâlived on-site.â
He looks to the body shrouded in the black tarp at your feet.
âC.O.D.âs a single G.S.W. to the head, close range. Time of death logged at approximately 0602 hours. Weâve got that timestamp off a voicemail he left for one Belle Flowerâtenant in Unit 2B. Nguyen was on the line with her when the shot went off. Suspect made forced entry into Flowerâs unit shortly after. Timeline puts him inside within minutes. Flower either bailed out or was forced out of a second-story window."
The officer points to an open window, and then to smashed shrubbery below.
âWitness reports the perp circled back to the apartment after the fact, cleaned house. Took hardwareâlaptop, portable drives, could be intel, could be leverage. Descriptionâs solid: Male, mid-30s, shaved head, facial hairâgoatee. Dressed like a pro, grey business suit, well-built frame. Neighbor clocks him moving with purpose. No hesitation. Tires on Flowerâs vehicle were punctured. Whoever this guy is, he came prepared. Knew the layout. Knew the timeline. Wasnât here for the doorman. He was after Flower. Question isâwhy?â
The officerâs mouth is still moving when your eyes cut past him, drawn to the jade glint of the Bronco tearing off down the street like a beast loosed from its pen. You donât hear the rest of what he says. You already know.
âAll right,â you mutter, voice flat as the asphalt. âThank you, officer.â
You slide a card from your coat, hand it to him without looking. âKeep me looped in. Any contact with the young woman, I want to know.â
Then youâre moving, the pavement underfoot, the blood in your ears. You throw yourself back into the sedan.
âGuthrie,â you bark, slamming the door. âwe’ve got movement. Follow that Bronco!â
Finished reading: The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones đ
Finished reading: The Forest Passage by Ernst JĂźnger đ
Operation Watchtower | Chapter One: Operation Watchtower

Operation Watchtower
Agent Nicholas Grayson. The drone of the airliner moves through you, slow and rhythmic, a narcotic hum. You drift, thoughts unmoored, slipping backward through time. A stairwell. Cold cinderblock walls. Your steps in tandem with another. The sound of your heels ringing in the emptiness.
General Virek swipes his card. His voice low, measured. âThis is important. Donât scuff the circle.â
You nod. Swipe your own. The MP at the door marks your passing with the briefest of acknowledgments.
Beyond, a vast darkness. A cavernous expanse without measure. The space is unknowable, its borders lost to shadow. A single desk glows dim beneath the feeble light of a lamp. The man seated there is gaunt, his frame stark against the gloom. He lifts his hand, crooks a finger. The movement stretches his shadow long across the floor, reaching for you, the illusion of its touch against your cheek.
A voice not in the air but in your mind. Come.
Your body moves forward of its own accord.
As you near, the chalk line becomes visible. A circle, drawn with intent. You do not question its meaning; you only know that it must not be disturbed. At the last instant, you lift your feet, cross the threshold unmarked.
Sit.
The chair is a cheap, foldable thing. You sit.
On the desk, three manila folders. Names that carry weight. Waco Siege. Unabomber. Oklahoma City Bombing.
His gaze lingers on you, unreadable. Your work has not gone unnoticed, Agent Grayson. That is why you are here.
A sickness coils in your gut. You swallow it down. You wish yourself elsewhere. You are not elsewhere.
Tell me, Agent. What did you see in these operations that others did not? Things only you could see.
âSir, Iâm reporting with the understanding that what I say will remain within the confines of this room and your discretion. What Iâm about to tell you is not speculation. It is analysisâdrawn from direct field experience, intelligence correlations, and post-incident investigation. Iâll be blunt.
âThe official narrative on Oklahoma City and Waco is incompleteâwillfully so. McVeigh may have lit the fuse, but he wasnât the architect. The evidence at the Alfred P. Murrah building suggests multiple explosive sources. Blast-wave patterns contradict a single-device detonation. Residue samples retrieved from interior columns showed chemical compounds that were not consistent with ANFO. Weâre talking military-grade accelerantsâblack budget-level assets. Either McVeigh had help, or we did it ourselves. I lean toward the latter.
âAt Waco, similar irregularities persist. Koresh wasnât just leading a cultâhe was running a rite. Ritualistic diagrams were found in the compound, traced in ash and blood. Burn patterns in the main hall showed circular containment glyphsânon-Christian, non-Western, but deliberate. Interviews with survivors indicate coordinated chanting. Sympathetic resonance, possibly. In plain terms, he was summoning something. And he nearly brought it through.
âI pulled twelve kids out before the fire collapsed the west wall. We lost seventy. I carry every one of those namesâthe kids from Oklahoma, tooâdaycare center, ground floor. I know the reports. I signed half of them. My shrink says thatâs trauma. Fine. But trauma didnât explain what I saw in that building. Evil did.
âIn both casesâWaco and Oklahomaâweâre looking at overlapping anomalies: coded symbols, environmental irregularities, electromagnetic interference pre-detonation. There are threads here, sir. Threads that donât trace back to standard operational enemies. This isnât al-Qaeda. Itâs not rogue militias. Itâs something older. Smarter.
âYou know that already.
âIâve chased conspiracy theories beforeâmost are noise. But some arenât. Iâve seen enough to believe theyâre real. And Iâm not afraid to call it what it is: occult influence on domestic soil, cloaked behind anti-government sentiment, weaponized by people who know exactly what theyâre doing.
âIâm not asking permission to dig deeper. Iâm reporting that I already have. And that I intend to continue.â
His mouth smiles, a smile that is not a smile. His hands move over the folders, sliding them from view. He replaces them with a single file.
Operation Watchtower.
His voice does not change. The weight of the words presses just the same. Events of great portent are unfolding.
You will go to San Diego. You will go alone. There are matters beyond our organizationâs conventional understanding. You will find them, and you will put an end to them. What is required is not understanding but resolve. There are movements in the dark. The Order of the Black Star. The Aryan Solar Circle. Their paths converge. What comes of it is unknown. You will see that it does not come to anything at all.
The Order of the Black Star, led by Erik Dunlop. He believes we stand at the edge of the Fourth Aeon, that the world as we know it must be razed to bring about divine order. Their bookstore, The Veil, is their gateway. A meeting place for mystics, drifters, the lost. It is where they are found. It is where they are made.
Clipped to the dossier is a photograph. Erik Dunlop at a lectern in some dim and cavernous hall. The gathered sit in rapt attention, their faces drawn with something like reverence, something like hunger. Their suits tailored, their jewelry discreet, the quiet wealth of those who do not need to announce themselves.
Dunlop stands among them yet apart. The cut of his Armani suit immaculate, the silk sheen catching the light like oil on water. Around his neck a pendant of obsidian, dark as the space between stars. His smile does not reach his eyes. His hands rest upon the wood like those of a man delivering a verdict, not a sermon.
The Aryan Solar Circle. A Nazi faction under Kurt Maurer. They see the West as weak, dying. They seek empire in its place. Their stronghold is a bar in Ocean Beach. Duginâs.
Clipped to this dossier is another photograph. Kurt Maurer stepping from a black limousine, the door held open by a man whose face is turned from the camera. Maurer is powerfully built, the kind of strength that does not come from vanity but from war. His red hair shorn high and tight, his goatee salted with silver. The sleeves of his expensive shirt rolled back to reveal the ink coiled along his arms, symbols of old allegiances, old gods, the sigil of the Aryan Solar Circle harsh against his skinâa sunwheel encircled by runic inscriptions, jagged script whispering of ascendance through destruction, of blood and fire and the breaking of weak men. A symbol carved from old hate, its lines grim and unbroken.
Behind him the glow of neon, the low slouch of a biker bar, its sign half burned-out. Duginâs. A den for those who trade in shadows and violence, where men speak of war not as history but as prophecy. Maurer stands as though an empire has already been conquered. A man who does not wait. A man who does not ask. A man who takes.
You listen. You do not interrupt.
Our division is small, Agent Grayson. You will have no backup. You will need allies among the locals. Begin with Miss Belle Flower. A hacker. We have watched her. We have found nothing beyond the petty crimes of her kind. But she has reach. Connections. She will be useful.
He opens the folder. The paper whispers against itself, the weight of what is written there bending the air around it. He lifts a sheaf of pages, crisp, orderly, squared at the edges. Stapled clean. Paper clipped to the top is a photograph of a girl not yet full grown, eighteen maybe. She stands outside a stuccoed building scorched by the western sun, San Diego heat rising off the pavement like breath. Overhead, the iron bellies of jets split the sky and leave nothing behind. She does not smile. She does not frown. Her face is a blank page, unwritten. The wind lifts her hair and lets it fall. She does not move.
You thumb through the dossier. The pages are thin.
She was born into the sawdust and smoke of a traveling circus, her parents fixtures in the freak tent. Giants and grotesques. She was neither. Had no claws, no second head, no forked tongue. Just flesh. And so they made use of her the way a butcher makes use of a carcass. She was theirs. No state had claim to her. No birth recorded. No name but the one they gave.
Her mother was a tower of a woman, her arms thick as fence posts. Her voice could still a crowd or send them howling. Her father was small and clever and with many fingers, nimble as rats, a surgeon by instinct and desire. They took her body like a canvas. Sewed into her the limbs of beasts. Goat tail. Rabbit ears. Small things at first. Later, stranger. She could not animate them. They rotted on her.
The scars remain. Lines drawn in tissue. A map of what was done.
The circus knew. Of course, they knew. It was not hidden. It was spectacle. This is the cost, they said. This is life under the big top. And sheâjust a contortionist. Folded but not rare. So they let it happen. Every one of them. Not one lifted a hand.
She fled. One night, under a low moon. Buck Flanagan drove the rig. Weathered man. Hair the color of old bone. He saw what they did to her. Maybe not all of it. But enough. He drove her to the edge of the county. Passed her off to a man named Red. No last name needed. Thatâs how it ends, most stories in the dark. Red took her West.
Next page. A new paragraph. The words are sharper here.
She had eyes on a forum. Lurkerâs eyes. Thread after thread. A cell. Plans. Smoke and fire. Her hands on the wire before it burned. But she said nothing. Maybe fear. Maybe she couldnât believe. But the silence was hers.
Flip again.
A new contact. Anonymous. Knows the circus. Knows what was done. Says they want to help. But she does not trust it. How could she? The past does not reach out a hand unless it means to pull you under. And yet, someone out there knows her. Knows her name, her shape, her history. Knows she ran.
Wants her back.
A silence settles between you.
Then he stands.
And his shadow rises behind him.
You expect the silhouette of a man. What you see is not a man. It is something else.
It is something alien and terrifying. The room does not contain it. Cannot contain it. It does not obey the space it occupies.
The shadow writhed. It breathed and buckled like wind in the grain. Out from it came arms not arms, spindled and black, stretching into the air and gone again like smoke in reverse. It pulsed. Grew. Diminished. You thought you saw teeth in the turning of its head. Long and thin and sharp as awls. But they, too, dissolved, unshaped, and what remained was only the silhouette. A thing unbeheld yet seen. A thing that bore watching. And watched.
You hear a whimper. Thin, dry. You recognize it belatedly as your own.
He extends his hand. You cannot refuse it. The fingers close around yours.
Godspeed, Agent Grayson.
Your memory is a broken thing after that. A series of flashes. The long walk back. The circle unmarred. The door closing behind you. The cool night air and General Virekâs voice, distant, making some empty sound of comfort.
Your apartment. The go-bag waiting by the door, as always. The airport. The ascent into the sky.
Now.
Something stirs against your hand.
You look. A fly. Small. Metallic green, its thorax gleaming like something wet, something unnatural.
The tickle of the fly on your hand is the first thing to call you back. Youâve been gone. Drifted somewhere beneath thought, beneath memory. A hollowness where a man ought to be. You had slipped into the old places, fear-worn paths carved through the meat of you, left there to keep you safe once and long ago. You do not remember where you were. Not truly.
The Agency sent a woman. Alicia Hightower. A therapist, they called her. Said sheâd help you root out the rot. Teach you to listen again. To feel. Said it was new science. Revolutionary. But there is nothing new under heaven. The engine hums through the floor. The air is cold. You breathe. In. Out.
You raise your hand and swipe at the insect but it is gone before you move. Drifts to the window. Impacts the glass. Again. Again.
A soft chime sounds through the cabin.
Then again.
And again.
Something shifts. A ripple in the air. You see a steward emerge from the cockpit. His face is pale, unfocused. The other attendants glance at one another. At their hands. At the lights overhead.
You do not know what is wrong.
Only that something is.
Terribly, terribly wrong.

Swift Knees 85
Belle Flower. Your phone rattles against the wood of your nightstand, insistent. Dragging you up from the depths of sleep. A rare sleep untouched by nightmares, and you resent it for that. You turn your head, eyes heavy, the red glow of the clock staring back at you. 6:01 AM. You lie still, listening to the hum of it. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. In another moment, it will tumble to the floor, a thing desperate to cast itself down, to be done with its purpose, to end.
From the next apartment, you hear the faint sound of a television broadcast and your neighbor sobbing.
Your landline rings.
You know what this is. Youâve always known. You sit in the dark with the knowing of it heavy in your chest. As if youâd swallowed iron. Youâve seen it. Not just once. Night after night. The thing circling in your thoughts, a wheel that never stops turning. You did nothing. And now itâs come. You do not answer. You only listen. And wait.
The cell phone stops buzzing. The landline rings on, stubborn in its purpose, until at last it yields to the tape.
âMiss Flower?â Itâs Harold Nguyen, your doorman. âYour father is here. Shall I send him up?â
Then a sound. A dull percussive thud, like the popping of a paper bag. A sharp intake of breath. A wet and shuddering gurgle.
Silence.
The line goes dead.
You are in shock. Your father. The thought of him. Why is he here? What could he want? How did he find you? Your breath shallow in your chest. Your heart a drumbeat of old fear. The first thought is to flee and fast. You know he could be just beyond the door. You do not want to see him. You do not want to hear his voice. Of all the men in this wide and wounded world, he is the last you want to meet.
Thereâs a knock at the door. Three sharp raps. Measured. Unhurried.
âSorry to bother you, Miss Flower. Itâs Jones, your super. Thereâs a gas leak reported coming from your apartment. Needs to be looked at, pronto.â A southern accent. New Orleans?
The voice flat, even. No urgency in it. No real concern. Just the words, the way they ought to be said.
You take the knife from the kitchen drawer where it waits. You slide it down into the waistband of your sweatpants, where it rests against your hip. Then you go to the door.
âNowâs not a good time. Please leave.â
âI must insist, Miss Flower,â he says. âItâs very dangerous, this gas leak.â
âI donât smell anything in here. Please go away.â
He knocks on the door again.
âIâm warning you,â you say. âPlease leave me alone. Itâs not a good time for me.â
The door explodes open, the force of it throwing you to the floor. Above you stands a man in a grey suit, well-fitted. His skull smooth and bare, the shine of it catching the hallway light. Maybe shaved by choice. Maybe not. Maybe a concession to male pattern baldness.
His goatee is trimmed neat, salt and pepper, the kind a man keeps when he cares about control.
He does not fidget. Does not shift his weight. He stands still as stone, his face blank, unreadable. Not waiting. Not impatient. His gun aimed at your face.
The knife slips from your waistband, but you catch it, the blade cold in your palm. Your first thought is flight. The circus had made you fast and limber and hard to hold, and you move before thought betrays you. Down the hall. Into your bedroom. The window waiting. Below, neatly trimmed hedges. You leap. The branches catch you, scrape you. And then you roll to lessen the impact.
Above, the man leans from the window and laughs. âYou run, I follow. That’s the way it is.â
Then he ducks back inside.
From your apartment, you hear your parrot squawking the name you use on the dark web: âSwift knees. Eighty-five. Swift knees. Eighty-five.â Over and over. A name that should not be known.
You run. Behind you the footfalls of the man and the silence of his intent. You chance a look and there he is, close now, look of grim determination on his face. His hand finds your shoulder but you twist from it, slip the grip. You feint left and vanish right and you are gone.
And then you feel the dew on your soles like the breath of the earth come up through you, cold and quickening. You tear through a strangerâs yard, leap the fence. Your breath is ragged in your throat, and the sweat rolls off you like oil.
You are compromised. Everything you carriedâthumb drives, disks, the laptopâis gone to him now.
You need out. You need to be online. Thereâs a library in Mira Mesa, public and quiet. You run toward it, cutting through streets and backlots like a hunted thing. An hour later you arrive, chest heaving, sides burning, and there it is. Closed. Still dark behind the glass. The hour too early.
So you stand there with nothing.
Except a name.
You cross to the pay phone. You punch the number you havenât used in years, feel the metal buttons press into your fingertips. The line rings.
An operatorâs voice. A pause.
Then Buck.
âYeah. Iâll accept.â
Street sounds behind him, the hum of the world still turning. Heâs driving. Going somewhere.
âBelle, I tried calling you earlier! Phone just rang and rang! Have you turned on the TV? Do you know whatâs going on?â
âGoing on?â
âTwo jets. They just crashed into the World Trade Center. Weâre under attack. Belle, Americaâs under attack!â
Thereâs a sickness low in your gut. A knowing. You are complicit. That much is clear. The blood isnât on your hands but itâs near enough. Close enough to taste.
This is the reckoning, you think. This is the shadow come knocking. That man at your door, he was no accident. You knew. When the phone rang. When the sobs bled through the wall. You knew. And you did nothing. You turned from it. You looked away. A cowardâs silence. A cowardâs sin.
âBuck, someone just broke into my apartment. I barely escaped. He claimed he was my father. Oh, God, I think he killed my doorman!â
âCalm down, Belle. Your mom and dad are in the trailer behind me.â
âOh, God. Okay, so this has nothing to do with my father. Where are you?â
âWeâre in Arizona. Weâre gonna be in San Diego in two weeks. But if someoneâs after you, Iâll ditch this caravan and come scoop you up.â
âIf my parents are with you, I donât want them to know where I am right now, and I still want to avoid them.â
âBelle, theyâre the last people I would ever tell. How can I help you?â
You stand there in the morning hush, breath ragged, heart a hammer in the dry well of your chest. You need your laptop. You need money. Youâd ask Buck to wire you some, but you realize your ID is back at your apartment. You think furiously.
âBuck, is there anyone in San Diego you know that can help me?â Youâve met unsavory folks during your life in the circus. You hope that Buck knows someone big. Someone aggressive. Someone whoâs intimidating who can check on your apartment and see whatâs there, and see if they can grab your things so that you can get out of there.
âBelle, remember when I got you out of the circus? Remember Red, the guy who drove you to San Diego? Heâs in Convoy. Heâs close by. He could be there in like 15 or 30 minutes. Iâm gonna give him a call. You stay put.â
3,333 Faces
Bryce Wexley. You are weary. The sun has carved its mark upon you, and the wind has taken its share. Your skin is dry, cracked at the knuckles, the lips. Your clothes stiff with sweat, and with dust. You smell of old concrete and city heat, of grease from borrowed meals and the salt of your own body. The grime has settled in the lines of your hands, beneath your nails, in the creases of your face where sleep has been a fleeting thing.
Three weeks since Alpine. Since the Black Labs. Since you crawled free of that place like something aborted and unwanted. The city has given you nothing but its empty corners, its cold steel benches, its unblinking neon. Youâve kept moving, though the weight in your limbs grows heavier, though the nights stretch long and restless. Youâve seen the way men look at you. The way they look through you. Youâve learned where to hide when the wrong ones are near.
The morning is warm, the air thick with the quiet hum of a city waking. The sun presses against your eyelids, a dull and insistent light. Youâd like to sleep. To drift a while longer in the half-world between dreaming and waking. But the sun will not be denied.
You push yourself up, bones stiff, the ache of pavement, and restless nights settling into your skin. It is time.
You think of Wong. A light touch. His diner not unfriendly to men like you, men who slip in and out of places without leaving much of a mark. He looks the other way when you take scraps from emptied plates, pretends not to see when you ghost through his diner after closing. Sometimes, if you put a broom to his sidewalk, heâll press a lunch into your hands, a quiet offering. Then thereâs The Big Kitchen. Judy the Beauty and her staff generous with their portions. A kindness that means a long walk, more than a mile, past storefronts, past men who look as if they, too, have woken unwilling. And then, of course, there is Marge Calloway with her soup kitchen, but thatâs even further away. You weigh the choice, the day stretching out before you, empty and waiting. Wongâs it is, then.
You have been nowhere and everywhere. Moving, always moving, because if you stop, they will find you. If you stop, you will think too much. San Diego is too hot, too bright, too full of people who donât see you. Mission Beach at night, when the ocean air makes it almost bearable. The alleys behind the Gaslamp, where the stink clings to you and no one asks questions. A shelter on Market Street, but you donât like sleeping there. Too many eyes, too many whispers. The nightmares come fast when you try to rest.
You have seen things. Too much, really. A man bleeding out behind a bar while the world kept moving. Symbols scratched into brick that made your head throb. A man in a perfect suit staring at you from a diner window. Just watching. You left before he could stand up. Once, you saw a cat slinking through the shadows, tail flicking like it had no worries in the world. You almost called out before you realized it wasnât him. Mister Whiskerford. He probably thinks you abandoned him. He probably hates you. No, scratch that; he probably doesnât think about you at all.
They are still out there. The ones from Alpine. The Black Labs. You know because you helped them. You thought you were doing your job. You signed the papers, greased the wheels, let them make people disappear without a trace. Then you saw things you werenât supposed to see. Security footage that moved wrong, shadows twisting behind locked doors, things speaking in voices that didnât belong to them. The U.S. government has a deal with something not from here. Aliens. Extraterrestrials.
Something happened to you in Alpine. You should have died, but you didnât. You donât know why. You remember a voice that wasnât a voice, something pressing against your skull like it was peeling you open. You can feel things now. Know when someone isnât what they seem. Know when a place doesnât belong. Itâs like your brain got rewired, but you donât know what the hell to do with it. It hasnât saved you from anything, just kept you running.
They havenât stopped looking. General Conrad Voss is leading them. He was always the one with the orders, the real power behind it all. Maybe heâs the one who made the deal. Lorraine Henshaw, your secretary, must have known something. She was different before it all went down. Colder, watching you like you were already dead. Was she always in on it? Did she try to warn you? No, she would have done more if she cared.
You need help. Vince Caruso is your best shot. You did favors for him when you were in office, greased the right wheels, made his life easier. He owes you. He knows it. If anyone can make you disappear the right way, itâs him. Unless heâs already decided youâre not worth the trouble.
For now, you survive.
The other day, you saw a cat waiting by the back door, watching you. Just for a second, you thought it was Mister Whiskerford. Your chest was tight. You wanted to believe he found you, like he had been looking for you this whole time. But thatâs stupid. Heâs fine. He moved on. He has probably forgotten you completely. You would if you were him.
You need a plan. A way out. Something. Because you can feel it now, more than ever. Theyâre getting closer.
Without warning, your head explodes in agony. Like an iron spike driven clean through the crown of your skull. You lurch, knees striking pavement, pedestrians parting round you like water round a stone. The sky blackens. The world peels away. Overhead, stars wheel in unfamiliar patterns. Moons hang low and bright, pale-bellied things that do not belong. Comets trail fire through the heavens, their paths slow and deliberate, as though watching. The constellations shimmer like glass spun thin across the firmament, casting long, strange shadows that move independent of the light.
San Diego still murmurs, its sounds muffled as if heard through water.
You see them thenâtwo black towers, tall and still as grave markers. Between them and beyond, a citadel rises. Immense. Impossible. It recedes even as it sharpens to clarity. You feel it before you see it.
A weight behind your eyes. A pressure in your chest.
Something there is watching. Not with sight but with a mind vast and cold. For a moment, it touches yours. Brief. Wordless. You reel. You are known. And then it is gone. Or worseâit remains.
You blink, and the city is back. But not as it was.
A woman staggers, sits hard on the curb, her hands trembling, staring at her Walkman in disbelief. Cars roll to a halt, their drivers faces a look of stunned confusion. Crows provide a choir with their caws.
No, no, oh, God, that wasnât real, you think. That wasnât real. It saw me. It knew me, not like a person knows another person, like a fire knows dry wood, like an ocean knows a drowning man.
You see after images of towers burning.
I shouldnât have seen that. I wasnât supposed to. Aliens. It has to be aliens!
The people around you look upon you with disgust. Or they look past you, through you, their gaze skimming the world as if you were never there. And some do not see you at all.
Your flesh begins to tingle. Begins to itch. Rivulets of sweat trickle down your spine. You know youâre about to have another terrible vision. And then it hits you like a sledgehammer burying itself into your skull.
The world disappears.
You are in a hallway that should not exist.
It is endlessânarrow, featureless, white, the kind of white that hurts the eyes, the kind that makes everything inside it feel surgical and forgotten. The floor is wet. Not with water. With something else. Something that smells like copper and old grief.
Along either side, at exact intervals, are doors. 3,333 of them.
Each is numbered.
Each bears a single nameâand you know them all.
Names you never learned in waking life, but you recognize every one.
Behind each door is a person you helped vanish. Not directly. But by signing something. Ignoring something. Making a call. Just doing your job.
The doors begin to open. Slowly. One by one.
First, soft whispers. Then voices. Then screams.
A child with no mouth sobbing through his eyes.
A woman whose bones are on the outside of her body, still walking.
A man shaped wrong, limbs moving like water.
They emerge, silent at first, then speaking in perfect unison:
âWe remember you, Bryce.â
You try to run, but the hallway stretches. The lights flicker.
You stumble. The wetness on the floor is now ankle-deep, now knee-deep, now rising.
You turn backâand the doors have vanished.
Only faces remain, embedded in the walls.
All 3,333 of them.
Their eyes open.
Their mouths open.
And they begin to sing.
A terrible, perfect, hymn of remembrance.
The sound drills into your skull, vibrating through your teeth, through the marrow of you.
Then, there is a last voice, quiet and close. It breathes into your ear:
âYou are the last door.â
The vision fades, and the pressure crushing your brain lifts. You find yourself sprawled on the ground. You lay there for a minute, and the sun beats down on you, and you feel piss drying on your leg. You realize that your clothes are in disarray. You were a senator, dammit! Are a senator, and you straighten what, underneath all the filth, is an outrageously expensive blazer.
You stagger towards Wongâs and hear people around you talking about the towers. How could they know about the towers that you just saw in your vision? Just as youâre about to open the door to Wongâs, you see a television above the counters broadcasting the World Trade Center. Smoke billowing into the New York City skyline. As youâre about to push open the door, goose bumps rise on your flesh, and the urge to scratch at your skin returns. You scream because you know what will happen next. And it does.
The sky is dark.
The Alpine wind like razors across your skin, slicing without blood. You are bound to the wood. Arms stretched wide. Ankles strapped tight. The grain of the crucifix rough against your back, splinters finding their way home. Your skin shivers in the cold, and your body, unbidden, betrays you. Your member stands erect, throbbing.
Below you, the crowd moves. Robed and hooded. Faces hidden. They chant in an alien tongue. The sound is wet and clotted and old.
Beyond them, soldiers. Rifles cradled like infants. Eyes forward. Breath held. Waiting.
And behind the soldiers, the scientists. Cold-eyed. Watching monitors that glow with terrible colors. Their fingers dance over keys as if in prayer. Not a one looks up. Not a one looks away.
Then, the twins. Thin as bone, white as salt. Sexless and yet obscene in their symmetry. Their faces smooth and expressionless, their movements like glass through still water.
They approach.
One raises a hand.
The other places long fingers on your belly.
There is no blade. No cutting.
Still, you open.
A door. Hinged in the meat.
And from within you issues a torrent. A flood of shapes and smoke and screaming mouths.
Winged things. Crawling things. Things that burn and things that whisper.
They pour from you, shoving past one another, hungry for air, for space, for violence.
The chanting rises.
And through it all, you hear one of the twins whisperânot aloud, but into your marrow:
âYou were never one man. You were the lock.â
You find yourself on hands and knees, vomiting the meager contents of your last meal on the sidewalk. It splatters on your knuckles. Your tongue burns from the bile.
Finished reading: Modern Man in Search of a Soul by C.G. Jung đ
Finished reading: Cruel Summer by Ed Brubaker đ
Finished reading: Under the Perfect Sun by Mike Davis, Kelly Mayhew and Jim Miller. đ
đż Dog Man (2025)
I saw Dog Man with my grandkid; it was adorable and even the villains are do-gooders. We re-watched Coco later that evening. Kiddo thought it was a tie, but I preferred Coco.
đż Nosferatu (2024) - â â â â â
Eggers does something that no other vampire has succeeded at: our antagonist looks genuinely undead. Not only that, our Nosferatu is the embodiment of death.
đż The Town (2010) - â â â ââ
Another heist movie inspired by Heat, this time set in Boston, which has never looked better. I avoided Charlestown as much as I could because of characters like Gem. Not that living in Southie was much better. You had to be street smart in Boston.