#itneverstops

̴̲̝͓͋͒͊͜I̸͓̽̆̏n̵͎͛̈́͘ ̵͖͈̓̑͘t̵̜̭̄̽h̷̬̏i̴̝̯͂s̴̙̐̅̕ ̸͙̺͛̆̓͠h̶̹̽̋̅͝ę̵̪͉̒̆͋́l̷͛̕ͅḻ̸̨̝̦̀͌͝ ̷̧̫̻͂̀o̶̙̿̅͂͌͜f̵̘̹̱̽́̽ ̵̡̖̟̑͛́ŗ̸̋̄̎ȍ̴̮̼͔̺t̶̡̟͔̼͒̓̾͒t̵̬̋͒̈́̕é̴̲̺n̷͚͎͒ ̶̨̒f̸̛͇̆ͅļ̵̘̹͋̑ë̴͚̜́̌̚s̴̙̖̟̑̉͒͜h̶̯̜͆̌,̶̣͘ ̴͎̍͑d̵̤̭̮͐͗͘͝i̶̻̓͌͝s̵̳͈̓̉̕͘e̵͙̅̓́̉a̸͑̽͌̇ͅs̸̰̭̻̲̎͝͝è̶̛͚̞̻̰̓̊d̷̠̰̬́̓ͅ ̴͎̱̭͌͊̾m̷͚͝i̸̞̤͠ņ̵̳͙͉̾͗͐͗d̴͍͓̳̈́,̶͍̻̩̄ ̶̱̟̼̿̽̂a̴̝̖̔̓̑n̷̢̢̎̈͌͛d̴̝͖̬̪͛ ̶̺̙̈́̓d̸͖͓̗͛̓̿̂ȩ̸̔͝͝c̵̨̱̾a̷̡̲͖̅y̵̳̯̩̘̅́͛ȋ̵̱̗̖̮̎̽͝n̵̰̂g̶̺̾̕͠ ̵̟̌̉̚m̶̮͕̮̹̾e̵̛̹̓̕m̸̤̬͛̓̈́o̸̬̜̗͋̆̀͠r̶̭̓̌̅͜ͅͅi̵̡̭̫̘͠e̶̻̟̋ś̵͚̳̹̋̃ͅ

̴̱̩̱͒Ḩ̴̬͕̇̍ơ̷̯̞̄̋͗͜p̵͇̹͖̙͒e̵͖͛ ̴̡̬̙̺̈́ĩ̵̧̲̀̒͠s̸͓̗͖̬͊̂̏ ̷͑̀͝ͅy̷̲̱̅̾õ̶͓̥͓͐́̈́ǘ̷͖̲̔ȑ̷̦ ̶͚̳̆̀̊ǵ̶̥̊͗̇r̷͖̪̄̃e̶̞̼̅̆̓a̶̠̓̆͋͌t̷͖̙̋͋è̸̖̜̱͜s̸̤͔̭̹̃͊̀͝ṭ̵͈̮̎͛̆͘ ̶̜̯͒̏̎b̶̧͓̠͐̈́ę̷͍̠̈́͌͝t̵̡̛͎̭̲r̴̡̝̦̪̓à̴̗͓̪̞͌y̴̥̩̏̍̈́̒e̷̞͐r̸͚̰̯̐͌ ̶͓̳͉͗̿̕ͅ

This place gives me a fucking headache.

It eventually clicked into place - it was a shopping mall. Or maybe a school? Or a hospital... I tried reading the signs on the wall, what few there were. The text didn't make sense. It... swam, shifted, like trying to read through gasoline fumes. On LSD. If I looked at them for too long, I could feel my brain throbbing like it was growing too big for my skull, while the blood in my head felt like it was the consistency of peanut butter. I could feel my eyes throb and pain radiate through my head for an hour after I looked away.

Either the muzzle flash or report of the rifle scared away the mutant flesh-bugs for a bit. They would always come back. Always with more. I would fire a burst, the rotting smell combined with the noise making my head throb harder, and they would skitter away.

Every so often, I looked down a long hallway. Through the flickering lights, sometimes I could see something move. Something that... looked human. Something so distinctively inhuman that the resemblance seemed like a cruel joke. Something that made my brain feel like it was being chewed between giant molars and my guts feel like a mass of writhing worms every time I saw it.

I never could see it up close enough to make out any features.

Y̴̢̲̦̩̓ǫ̴͍͎̠̽͛u̴̝͝'̷̗́͊̎r̷̳̦̻̈́ḛ̶̮̄̔̏̉ ̴̭̥̏ą̵͊̽̀̔ ̸͚̓̌͂̔f̶̼̀͜u̶̧̦̽͘c̴͓͌́k̸̪͇̿̊̐̚i̵̘̳̻̮͒̓̓ṋ̸͍̠̋͘g̵͙̜̉̃͠ͅ ̸̝͉͛͐͊̊t̷̢̢͋̈́̽ỏ̵͍̈́͂̉ͅy̵̤͒͋̂̾ ̶͇̠̅h̷̼͉͘e̸̺̜̘͉̅r̴̝̫̺͗̒e̸͕̾̄̓͠

̵̹͙͎̱̋L̵̙̀̓e̵̦͋s̶̞̐s̶̯̐̉ ̵̥̆̊t̴͎̱̽h̴̢̡̛̺̿̽͜ą̶̨̭̊͝n̴̥̗̄̈́ ̴͕̼̞́̍̑͋h̴̠̘̾̀͋̀u̸̳͈̽͛m̴̱̯͉̍̿̎ä̸̤ṉ̸̦̐ ̸̞̩͙̅̐́͆

̶͇̈́̀L̵̡͆͜ḛ̵͉͆͛̀͒s̴͈̥͗͂͜s̶̠͝ ̶̦͍̦̭͊͊͂̽t̴̲̣̞̘̃ḧ̷͚́̍ä̷͍̯́̑͑̚n̵̙̿̑̊̚ ̶̢̖̹̯̔̽͗a̴̧͉̯̓ͅ ̵̺̗̼̯͝r̶̞̓a̶̧̩̖͇̅̓̿͠ť̷̞͉͔̹ ̵̙͖͖͗̚i̵͔͖̾̍̅n̶̨͖̞̄̈́͐ ̴̦̄̌̈a̸̧̳͓̔̊͗ ̸̥̤̫̂̚m̸͓̹̣͖̅ã̶͙̘̺z̷̮̠̓͆͘͝e̸̤͉̓͋̾͂

̵̨̫͎̣̱͓̓T̸̻̏̔̃́͊̂̄͐ẖ̴̝͖̥̳̜͉̟̈̂̂̐̈̓͐̎î̸̧͓̺̘͙̼͍́̃s̵͔̮̩̒ ̷̧̻͎͂̅̀̋̚i̵͓̰̭̜͒̃s̸̳͙͐͌̈́̐ ̴̩̪̮̻̆͂̌̑̊͒͋m̷̖̬͉̭̥͙̞̻͌͗̌̇̚͠ͅō̸̢̹̩̭̗͕͔͋́̊͜ṛ̷̡̲͚̹͇͕͕̎̃̅̅̍̒̓ȅ̵͍̫̗͛͊̀̊̃͌̋͝ ̶͇̫̝̟̮͈̻͙̳͂̃̕ţ̶͇̑̀́̈h̸̢͉̘̭͌͛ͅa̵͉̒̈́͛̾̍̚͘n̵̜̜̣̤̳͍̭̅̓́̒ ̴͇̎̋̓a̴̦̅̃̌̈́̀̃̍̈͝ ̶̨̡̛̹͔̖̼̆͒̎̇͑̏͠d̸͍͓̞̫̉̃̆̈̇̾̚r̸̞̦̟̘̮͍͌̃̀̕e̴̡̳̲̠͇͐̏͛̎ą̴̹̟̯̭̹͌̔́̓̇̊̎̒m̵͚͈̉̓̄̚

̶̡̠͎̼͍́̌̋̍͋̏Ẹ̷̡̱̭̈́̐̇̕v̴̞̙̫̪̯́̅ę̸͔͎̣̼̲̹̞̠̓̄r̷̛̪̫̓́̈́ͅy̷̡̟̥̟̫͊̍͗̆̇̚t̸̝̞̟̟̥̪͈̏h̶͇͔̙̬̓͗͋̐̈́͘i̵̲̖͎͈̮̳̱͐̏̾̔̚͘n̷̨̘͈̘̣̺̒̏͐̔̒͗̐̃g̵̩̩̞̣̻͑̈́̾ ̵̝͇̯̻̮̋̐̓͑͐͊̑i̷̠̠̳͒̊̋̄́̆̐̇͘s̴̯̣̘̟̫͒ ̸̧̬̍̂̏̅̀̐h̵͉̗̖̻̘͔̃͒̂̆͗̈ē̶̛̠͍͇̻͛̈́̇͊͝r̸̻̣̼̣̤̊͐̾̃̈̑͘̚e̷̳̘̗̐̇͐̆͌̋̃̚͝,̴̮̭͓̦̖̍̐͊͒̆ͅ ̴̥̠̹̟̹̩̺̈̓̀͗̊̾̍̉ä̸̛̝̖̤̤̺͎̙̻̰́̎͋͆́́n̵̨̟͚̠͍̺̬̯͑͆̎̀̊̒̉͘d̵̳̭̘͙͗͒̊͜ ̵̨̧̛̮̯̹̭̟̆͛̑̀͝n̷̡̞̠̙̣͚̞͉͂̉̈́̒̽̅̆̓̕ͅo̵̫̟͚̘̩̙͇͙̝̓͆̉̔̃̅̚̚t̷͚͕̹̦̯̀̈́̈́͋̅͜ḩ̷̇͒͗i̷̢̺̜͙̟̣̫͂̄̈́̉̋̏̕n̷͔̪̆͌̓̌̓̀̄̚͠ͅg̷̬̜̖͈͔̙̳͔̒̃̄̅̈́

̴̛̘̯̔̎́͠͝Ẅ̶̡̧̲̭͎̫̱͊̚͜ö̷̲̳́͐̊̆͗̌r̴̼͔̯̓̇͂͝t̸̡̞̱̹̐̈́̃̈́h̷̜̪̯͔̰̰̝͎̙͒̎l̷̛̜̜̊̽̒̄̓͝e̵̩̍͋͜͜s̵̞͖̗̮̭͊̈́̋̓͛̾̀͝s̶̼̠̣͓̤̋̇͒̎ ̷̢̹̭̳͕͚̘͇͔̄̃͆̚͝à̵̹̂͐͌͐̔̌͘̕ͅn̶̛̥̿̒́͗̓̈́d̸̬̣̥̉̎͋͘ ̴͔͆̀͛̏̾̚r̵̤͔̺̯̗̀̿o̶̢̞̣̼̜͓̓̋̎͛͛̎̏̅́ţ̷̯̘̼̯̰͔͒̈́̂t̴̝̜̥̫̹̥͚͉͌̓̉͗̆͑̄͜í̷̧̡̢̝̯̤̘̺̱́̒͐͗̋́͝͝n̷̘͉̺̥͙̖̓̐͑̑̍̓̎̐ǵ̷̢͓̪̦̹͓̖̤̒̈́̈́͑̂̽͝

Mannequins.

I fucking hate mannequins.

Even more when they have eyes...

I turned a corner and there they were. Posed casually as you like, all turned to face me like I just crashed a party.

Staring at me.

The hallway was so quiet I could hear my steps.

Could hear my clothes rustling.

Could hear my heart pounding.

.... I almost wished I could hear the flesh-bugs chittering again.

I turned another corner, there were a hundred more. And another. And another. I started to sprint. Eventually running into one. Its eyes went wide in shock, unmistakably human, but the body went to pieces and shattered, hollow...

Hollow...

Was I hollow?

Could I even be considered human anymore?

I felt the fog creeping into my brain again as I turned right down a particularly narrow hallway and shoulder-checked a door, closing it behind me and leaning up against it.

It was dark.

A small room. Maybe 4 foot by 13 foot long, with a dirty window partially covered by some black, nearly opaque, organic substance.

I let my head lay back against the door and sunk down until I was sitting on the floor. Let my rifle drop.

Y̴̺̭̺̣̗̓͌̂́̈́͆ǫ̶̧͇̤̲̰̺̋̇͗̏ư̸̧̝̮͖͍̮͓̮̲̂̔́̄̿̇͂̆̇̊͆ ̷͙̻̟̘̩̇̈j̶̘̯̘͙̍̐̒̀̐͛ư̷͈̱͕͇̖̳̯̹͊̐̔̍̋̾̂̂̄͌͘̚̕͝ͅs̶͇̪̦̻̭̼͔̏̒́̎́̀̿͘͜ͅṱ̸̗̯̜͕͕̝̔̂̏̈̍ ̴̤͋̅̅̃̏͑̀͂̆͂͐̕͠͝d̵̮̟̹̐͆̄͛̍́͌͝ò̷̢̱͈̫͔̦̗̮͓̝̟̳̘͒̓̈̿̈̉̀n̶̢̧̹͉͖̘̒̈́̊̀͌̆͜͝'̸̼͔̔͛̅͑̀͊͌͗͋͐͋͊̕͠t̵͔̣̠̦̤̮͐̂̄̈́̈́̀̿̒ ̴̠̳̝͔͗̽̕g̸̟͚̺͙̰̝͈͙̣̳͊́̀̉̎̏̉̽̽̾́́̐̌ẹ̵̡̫͙̮̤̟͚̱̬͍̏͛̇̎͐̄͠t̷̩̰͍͙͎̼̤̪̫͇̰̩̲̬̱̃̃͐̍́͐̓̈́͌̚ ̷̙͇̯̩͕̩̳̰͈͊͆ì̷͓͎̰͕̱̝̭̩̯̖̫̖͔͔̊̇͆̚t̶̗̝͍̝̠̗̔́̈́̓̑̎̐͜͠,̴̨͕̜̱̭͉̤̬̤̈́ ̴̼͍͙͕͈̅͆͊̔̀̈́̑̓̎ḓ̷̹̱̙̚ö̴̢̩͇̝̹͎̼̰̍͌̇́̈͛̀̏͊̂̚̚͝͠ͅ ̵̨̼̖̠̰̻͇̦̩̬̣͓̿̂̑̆͂͌̌̎̕͘̕͜͜y̴̛̺͚̲͔̗͎̹̭̰̏̀̒̒̄̎̀͌̄̅̃͘͝o̵̬̪̟̖̬̞̤̟͖͔̜̦̽̈̿̓̍̕ͅŭ̵̙͑̈́͛̃̾̆̈́̿̕͝?̵̧̧͉̠̺̮̳͆̾̆

Pulled my knees up to my chest, tossed my hat across the grimy room. Laid my head across my knees.

Just need to breathe. Just breathe.

J̸͚̟̜̤̭̣̺̥̓̽̅̽̀̇u̶̧̲̙̥͋̉̈́̊̋͌̽̂̾͋̃ͅs̷̡̲͇̦̰̪͓̰̭̬͗͂͋̓̈́́͊̀̀̄̇ͅṭ̷̛̜̯̰͉̅̌̊̋̈́͘ ̵̛̯̙̩͇̫̥̭͐̆͆̈̈̓͒̏̚g̶̢̤̞̞̹̜̮͔̫̺̻̘̀͊̃͑́̃́̕͘͜͝į̵̧̹̭͕̼̯̥̬̭͈̥̓̾̀̋̀͜͠v̵̨̢̗͍̤̻̥͕̮̺͈͔̱͕̆̀̌͐̎̀̊̉̕̚͠͠e̶̝̭̖̲͙͓̟͈̯̯̟̪̲̼̘̅̓́̽ ̵̱͍̙͚̻̈́͆͗̿͑̑u̶̖̙͓̙͔̤͔͙̘̣̝̐̄͑̈́̄̍̎̎͋͆̏̀̾̊p̴̛͙͔͍̎̐̉͊̿̍̅̅͋͝

I just want to go home.

T̶̗͖̲̬̱̻̠͉̻̲̙͍̬̤̲͌͒͒̑̚ ̷̡̛̜͓̼͇̰̼̪̫̓́̓̆̾̈̔͒̈́̐͜ͅH̶̛͕̗͑͋͛̌̉̀̚ ̷̛̜̇̾̆̀͜Î̵̧̢̩̘̮̜͈̠̟͖̼̼͜ͅ ̴̛̯͇̫̼̥͚̣̹̟̹͖̅̄̒͋̌͒̀̀͘ͅŜ̸̺͓̯̘̙̤̜͖̙̖͔̙̟̖́̎̐͑̾͂͆̃͝ ̶̤̯͙̈́͋͊̐̄̔̌̕̕͜͝ ̸̩̪̟̈́Ẅ̷̧͎̮̞͈̖̬͖̠̥̝̠͎̣́̀̓͗ ̶̧͚̞̘̗̱̮̪̞̈͋̌͘Ĩ̴̡̡̧̘͕̫̈́͘ ̷̫̪͙̑̎̒̔̈́͑͗̅͂͗͌̾͗͠L̶̘̪̻̥͊́͑́̇̔̚̚͠ͅͅ ̸͍̳̠̠̯̥̤̯̺̩̟͉̈́͆̇̓Ḻ̵̨̛̦̺̠̤̤͈̦̯̲̎́̍͗͛̾̍͜͝ͅ ̶̮̯̱̜͉͈̼̻̔̉̌͗͑͋͋̍̎ ̶̖̺̣̦̟͙̯̖̫̜̥̠̏͐̉̐̃̇̓N̸̨̟̻͒ ̶͎̟̥͙̠̻̘̗̞͇̒͘͜Ę̶͉̹̼̠͈̪͍̝̘̾̉̏̽̈̆̌̈́̄́̽̋̏͝͠ͅ ̵̢̼̇̈͂̏̀̓͐͆́̍̌̿͌̚V̵̛͕̑̒͒̓̃̍̍͐ ̵͖̼̬̳̩͎̹̐̀̽E̴͓͓͖̓̄̓̔͑̀̆̕͝ ̶̨͔̞̯͇̩́̃̌͒̓̓̾̍̈́͆R̵͍̲̗̘̫̟̭̱̤̫̹̅͑̓̈́͊̔̆̂ͅ ̶̛̲͈͖͕̤̑̈́̒̋̊̆̀̏͊̈́̽͐̕̕ ̴̮̰͎͙̗͘͜Ẻ̶̛̛̥̩̺̦̲̻̱̤̬͛̈́̋̂̓̓͌͝ ̴͕͑̎͛͒̍͘Ṉ̶̡͙̼͖͍̣͊̑͑̐̏ ̵̨̣̺̻̺̣̊̄̒́͋͗͂̀D̴̖̞̯͉͉̱̹̲̰͗͋́́̑̈́̀̄̀̄̓̄̕

I pulled myself together enough to grab my rifle.

Find something else to focus on.

I pulled the shotgun off my back, put it next to the rifle.

Pulled off my coat.

Breathe, just breathe.

Pulled the bandolier of shells off my chest.

Started counting them. 62 total.

Breathe, just breathe.

Took the mags out of the slots on my belt. Three empty, now. Three full. One almost halfway, in the rifle.

Checked my pistols. All full.

Breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe.

Y̸̥͍̯̰̯̠͎̮̊̈́̂͌̂̽̎o̵͇̳̎͛́́̋̑̃u̵̹͗̕ ̶̛̻̅̎̂̚͘͘c̶̡͉͇̣̼̫͊̐̌̏͋̄̈́̂ͅa̴̢͎̐ṋ̷̀'̶̳̌͐̐̈t̸̠͍̐̀̽̈́̆̾͘ ̵̟̙̖̥̫̳̥͕̊͆̍̌ḑ̸̫̥͓̤̠̻͙͒̄̎̊̕͠͝i̶̛̩̹̹̝̺͉̊̄̋̿̔͘e̷̛̞͇̞͓̮͖̒̔̇̌͆̚͘͜ ̴̭̼̦̽̃̈́̉͗̄̈́ḣ̵̜̪̖̲̦̱̋͂́̍͐͝e̵͔̰̰̖̋̉̒̑̄́͠͝r̷͙̈́e̷̡͕̭̩͂̅

̷̨̟̺͖͕̀

̴̧̛̜̹͂̾̄̅͂̅Ỷ̴̨͈͕̭̞͓̝̽̈́ò̵̰̣̙̀̆́̈́̒̈ǘ̷̬͠ ̵͈̩̪̳̒ͅw̴͉̮͐̍́̈́̅͑͐o̸̲͚͂ͅn̷̩͍̮͒͋̂̃̓͝'̵̡̺̪͖͍͍̤͂̂̄̿̊̎̚ẗ̴̢ ̶̻̼̳͙̎̀͑̋͒̚ş̸͓͈̽̾ư̸̲̦̅͑͋̔͊r̸̫̹̩̭̥̈́͑v̶̡̻̩̻̫͓̜̣͌̒̈̍̾̀̅̈́ḯ̸͈̝̄̊͜͜v̶̦̰̘͎́̏͆̀̕͝è̸̡̢͕̅̄̒͗̅̐͝ ̸̳̝̃͒̐̔ḛ̷̢͕̎̆̔ĩ̸̥̩̭͆̊̈̂̏̅ṭ̸̝̫̫͈͂͗͂̎̅͊ḣ̶̜̝̠͚̻̆̍̍́̉͘ē̸͎̭͙͎͗́͐̓r̸͚̜̳͎̳̲͊̓͆̀̽

̶̨͎̣͔͎̖̃̚͝

̵̟̳̣̗̩̲̹͇̊̐̀̀́̉͘Ẏ̶̛͎͍̲̇̆̓̕͘ȍ̷͙͖͕͍̄̓̿͆̂̇͝u̷̳̖̽̈́ ̸̝͉̈w̵̱͖͋̀̈́͑͋́i̸͖̭̱̋͘͜l̵̜̏́͐̒ͅl̷̤̲͈̉͌̈́́͝ ̸̡̣̫̞̘̓̉̃͐͆̕͘͝n̴̯͓͇̟̻̠͌̃̾͐̍ȇ̸̢̮̟͕̦̪͉͖̃̋̋̃̉̃̉v̴̳̯͕̳̪̤̋ȩ̸̛̻̰̩͓͖̔͝ͅŗ̶̳̹͇̫̱͓͊̚ ̷̡̘̭̝̏b̷̖̻͓̲̽̀̈́͐̄͘͝e̶̦̙̼̯̬̾̒̇̿l̵̨͇͍̝̖̤̆͆̕ơ̷̢͖̱̩͊̒̓̒ṅ̶̳̟͆̍̎̅̿̈͠g̴̨͔̺͖̥̯̿͋̈́̄͒̀͠ͅ

My hair was getting... long. Hanging down past my chest in oily waves, almost curls.

My clothes were filthy, splattered with stains, sweat, blood, and other things I didn't want to think about.

I almost wish I had a mirror, but I knew I would hate what I saw.

S̷̡̱̻̼̠͓̲̪̜̲̻͍̔́̒̈̀̋̈̓̈́̔̿͘õ̸̯͖̠͕̞̆͠m̶̞̥̺̪͉̘͔̦͑̿e̴̛̛̮̘͈̺̤̯̔̋͌̾̃͑ ̴̯̉̓̂̃̓̊̓͊͑̔̀̚t̶̬̦̫̥͇̓̇̍̔̅̌ḩ̶̝̖̇͆͊i̷͕̩͛n̶̡̥̣̩̞̟̓͊̀͐͌̅͂͒́͊̐̕ǵ̸̘̗̮́̌ś̴̨̩̙͎͖̫͍̹̜̉̇̍̚̕͝ ̶̨̝̫̩̲̊n̵̛̛̟͆̿̾̈́̉̌̃̈͘̚͝ę̵̱̬̠͕̗̻̠̍͛͑̂̽v̷̡̰̝̣̮̪̩̥̝̝̍̒͆͑͗͐̽̿̓̕͝ȩ̶̨̡̧̧̲̭̬͉̅̑́̑r̸͉̺͔̫̟͖̹̀̌͆̈̾͋̆́͝ ̵̧͖̹̿̾̈́̈́͂̆́͛͋͝c̴̨͓̜̣̩̳͎̣͌̊̇͑̅̔̒̈́̒͗̌̚͜͠͠h̷͍̝͇̫̜̰͕̯̲̮́̑̄̑̏̄́ą̴̧̳̳͇̪͇̟̱̭͛̈́̊̋͊̈́̈́̔̎̓̀̈́̕͜n̶̡̹͔͎̟̦̼̱̜̥̍͆̒͆̑͑̉͆́̆̓̚͝ĝ̸̨͉̰̜̼͊̒̄̋̅̿̈́͑̑̍͑̚͝ȩ̸̛͍̝̦̻̰͍͔͎̍͐͊̓̓̽̂̒͠ ̷͉̘̉͊́̔̍̆̔̅͠

When was the last time I slept?

I cleaned off my coat as best I could, managing to at least get the excess chunks of viscera off, before balling it into a makeshift pillow. I could feel the exhaustion in my bones as I laid myself down.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨?

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵... 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘺...

J̵u̶s̴t̶ ̸p̴u̵t̷ ̸t̵h̷e̵ ̸g̴u̸n̸ ̸u̷n̵d̸e̵r̸ ̸y̶o̵u̷r̷ ̴c̷h̴i̶n̴ ̵a̵n̵d̴.̵ ̸.̴ ̶.̴ ̷B̸͚̒́͗̐O̴̧̡̜̥͐͝O̶̬̒M̴͈̃̃ͅ

The building seemed empty.

It always did at first.

Lights cut off, or at least very dim. Everything dark and silent and still. If you listened closely and carefully, you might be able to hear some half-dead, diseased, mutant... thing, dragging itself around.

If you were lucky, you might be able to sneak up on it. If you were unlucky, it found you first. And if you were really, incredibly unlucky, and the gods of this Nightmare really wanted to bend you over and make you their bitch, it was one of the screaming ones.

I hated those in particular.

Small, almost sounding like a toddler at first. If you're stupid, you went to help the baby... then you see it. Like some kind of twisted, malformed fetus, dragging it's body around. And it would scream. It would scream so damn loud that you could feel your eyeballs vibrating and blood coming out of your ears. And then other flesh things came running, with you half blind and deaf.

I stepped in, raising my rifle, trying to force coherence into my mind, trying to reorder the chaos The Nightmare had clouded me in.

Start with the basics. Start with what you know for sure, start with what can be immediately proven.

Clothes.

I was wearing all black. BDU pants and long-sleeve shirt. Trench coat. Combat boots. Cap. Black clothes blended in better. Some monsters seemed to have trouble keeping track.

A little more complex. Weapons and equipment.

Autovomat Kalashnakov rifle. Ak-103. Black polymer furniture. Bareboned. I was carrying seven magazines. One in the rifle. Six were on my belt. Right hip. Three cells, two each. Good rifle. Dependable. Heavy enough to beat the monsters to death.

Pump shotgun across my back. It held six shells, plus one in the chamber. A bandolier with about 70 shells sat across my chest, under the trench coat. I'd had the shotgun the longest.

A pair of m1911s, strapped into holsters on either thigh.

Ten millimeter.. 10 rounds each. Six inch stock... no. Barrel. Stock doesn't make sense.

Where did I get these?

Six mags.

Plus one loaded in each. So sev- eight.

Eight mags. One's a bit wonky. Have to check it...

Damn. I need a cigarette.

I need...

What do I need.

I need... fuck.

... actually, I could go for a fuck right now.

And a smoke.

Where was my lighter?

My body moved on autopilot, rifle raised, eyes scanning the gloom as the fog outside gave way to a dimly lit, vaguely familiar... something, but the mental haze blocking any information from reaching my higher brain.

I shook my head as if it would dissipate the confusion, and attempted to focus.

Why did I come in here?

Well. It was either that, or wander around the endless fog-covered midnight outside.

I grabbed a chair, moving it so that my back would be against the wall before fishing the cigarettes and one of my five lighters from my pocket, and leaning the rifle on the wall beside me.

Flick, flick.

Nothing.

"Fuck."

Flick. Flick.

"Come on, you little... piece'a shit..."

Flick. Flick.

"Fuck!"

I threw the lighter across the room, listening to it clack against the brick wall and fall to the tile floor before fumbling for a new lighter.

Flick.

Fire.

I took a deep drag and held my breath, slowly letting it out. Letting the cigarette hang between my lips as I rubbed my face.

It tasted foul. Expired. Too much moisture. Or was it not enough?

I thought it was a blessing. Every time I opened the pack, there was ten or twelve cigarettes inside, no matter how many I burned. Should've known better.

I felt myself retch.

Probably would have vomited if anything was on my stomach.

... when was the last time I ate?

Or had anything to drink...

Or but anything into my body that wasn't smoke...

When was the last time I heard another human being's voice?

...

How long have I been here...

Y̴̠͒O̷̱̜̾͑Ủ̸̡̡̜ ̷̲͌W̴̜̦͛̓̏͘Ḭ̴̝̥͊̈L̴̪̯͇͕͆̊̕Ḻ̵̠́̒͂͝ ̸̜̇Ǹ̵̹͎͎̈̐̚Ȅ̴̤͈̎͌̀V̶͔̘̺̈́͜Ë̵̻̘͎̮́̑R̵͈̱͔̓͋͝ͅ ̴̡̹̐̂E̶̹̝̪͕̒̆̒̃S̴̞̦͍͛͒̽͘Č̶̝̼̖̖̈̚͠A̵͇̰̫͊͗P̴͍̬̥̾̉͘͘E̵̜̻͛̍ ̷̹͐̿̕͠

T̴͕̞͂̃̓H̷̝̲̗͑̉ͅI̵͎̻̬̽̑͊͗S̵̳̜̹͆̒̀́ ̷̓̍ͅW̴̨̖͖͛́I̶̬͖͙̍L̵̤͎͔͛̽L̷̢̡̻̎͗̄͆ ̵̪͖̿̔̽͝Ṇ̵̻̠͚̊Ẻ̶̤̞̑́̐V̶̧̘͙͉̈̾̃E̴̢̙̼̫̽̈͆͑R̶̛̰͆ ̵̞̐͜B̷͙̠̃̈̀͠ͅE̴̟̝̊̈́̈ ̶̧̙̍Ȱ̷͖̦V̵͕̝̠̹́͒͘Ḛ̵́̈̕R̷̙͛̓͠ ̴̢͕̃̒̈́̎

I braced myself and took another drag. The nausea was still there, but I could keep it back.

Just need to focus...

A light flickered up ahead. Before I knew what I was doing, I was on my feet. Quick, shallow breaths through the cigarette burned my throat. Rifle raised.

The little... fleshy... bug-looking thing scurried out at me, the size of a small dog.

I reared back and punted it, firing a round when it hit the ground. It splattered, like a water balloon filled with viscera and raw, rotten meat, the air smelling instantly like a three day old roadkill and shit that sat out under a July sun.

This time, I puked. Pure stomach acid burned whatever the cigarette didn't.

I heard more of the cursed, fleshy abominations, chittering like roaches.

I could either stay here, and deal with them... and possibly more... or take my chances in the fog.

I woke from my sleep to my stomach howling for substance.

I lit a cigarette in response, taking a long drag and holding it in as my stomach growled again. I managed to hold off the nausea this time, sitting up against the wall and watching the weird mold-like stuff on the window writhe ever-so-slightly.

The nap only made me feel worse.

The fatigue made everything hurt, my limbs felt a thousand times heavier, my eyes burnt.

Sore. Everything was sore. Almost like I could feel rust on my joints every time I moved.

I slowly set about reassembling myself; putting together each thought wholly in my head before forcing my limbs to follow suit.

Find a fresh mag, load it in the rifle.

Pull the coat over me.

I did my best to comb my hair back with my fingers before putting my hat on.

God, I'd kill for a shower.

I let out another cloud of smoke, sliding my pistols into their holsters.

I stood up, my stomach screaming in protest, and the taste of the cigarette threatened to empty it even further.

𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦?

I pivoted on my heel to face the door.

It was a solid door before. Maybe an inch and a half, two inches thick. Wood. Metal handle.

Now... it wasn't?

I couldn't figure out how to describe it. Like having something on the tip of your tongue but your brain just won't spit it out.

And I really. Really didn't want to touch it.

I slung the rifle across my back and raised the shotgun to hip-level. Racked the slide... and a shell fell out.

I bent over to pick the shell up, smacking my head against the doorknob in the process.

"FUCK! Fucking door, fucking shotgun, loaded, goddamn piece of shit bast-"

I hit my head.

But at the same time, there was no resistance. I felt the impact, but no...

I took a step back, sliding the shell towards me with the toe of my boot, pushing it back into the gun.

With one hand, I pushed the shotgun against the door. There was... a sound. The sound you'd expect from tapping the muzzle of a shotgun against a door.

But it...

Went through?

𝘈𝘮 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?