—Chapter 3—

—Alone—

Kellan unlocked his apartment with a quick click.

He stepped into his 700-square-foot abode and then hung his keys on the ring by the door. The sterile living room, complete with one couch, a lonely TV, and a cheap coffee table, had all the welcoming charm of a motel lobby. No pictures hung on the walls, no plants filled the corners. Everything was neat, but everything amounted to three plates and a fork stacked in the attached kitchen sink.

Mavis followed Kellan inside and took note of the surroundings. She walked, scanning every inch, until she stopped behind the dusty couch.

“Quaint,” she said.

“Thank you. I decorated it myself.”

Mavis pointed to the dark green suede couch, the off-white coffee table, and then to the black flat-screen television. “I see you have an eye for cohesion.”

“What can I say? I don’t like to discriminate. All colors are equal.”

Again, Mavis snorted and laughed.

Kellan peeled off his wet sweatshirt and shoulder holster, tossing both onto the kitchen counter. Mavis followed suit and removed her own sweatshirt. She had changed her outfit after work. As a bartender she wore form-fitting jeans and a black T-shirt. As a civilian, she wore a pair of low-riding cargo pants and plain gray T-shirt.

Not much of a difference.

He understood why the tips would be higher in her bartending outfit, but he also understood the need to be comfortable. Women’s clothing baffled Kellan from time to time. He had seen torture techniques less sadistic than some fashionable high heels, and he appreciated the fact that Mavis wore a practical pair of black flat top shoes.

She gestured to the walls. “No pictures?”

“Nope.”

“None? Why not pictures of your family? Your mother and father?”

“I thought it would be depressing to have pictures of tombstones on the wall.” Kellan walked over to the fridge but stopped himself before opening it. He already knew the contents. He didn’t want to drink, especially given the circumstances.

“I’m sorry,” Mavis muttered. “I didn’t know.”

“Forget about it. That was a more a joke, anyway. A bad joke, but still.” Kellan turned away from the fridge. He didn’t have any cups, so offering water was out of the question.

Mavis forced half a laugh and angled her gaze to the countertop. “To be honest, I figured you would have pictures of a girl somewhere.”

“So, this was a recon mission?” Kellan asked with a smile. “You didn’t think I was single, and you had to make sure? Sneaky.”

Mavis lifted an eyebrow. “You might still have pictures hidden away somewhere.” She glanced around. “This place is really clean. Like maybe… You threw everything into a closet to hide it all.”

“Huh. Perhaps. You’ll never know till you search the whole apartment.”

“Oh, we’ll get to that.” Mavis ran a hand through her hair, leaving her wet locks disheveled. “But first, I say we watch a movie. I’m sure Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is playing nonstop on at least three different channels.”

Kellan shrugged. “Sure.”

“It’s cold, though. You should shut your kitchen window and we should huddle together to conserve body heat.”

He chuckled, the idea of “generating heat” on the edge of his thoughts. Then he cut himself short. “Wait, what?”

Mavis threw herself back on his tumbledown couch and craned her head up to get a better look at him. “Shut the window and come join me on the couch.”

The… window?

Catching his breath, Kellan whipped his head around and stared at the window above the sink. How had he missed it? The window… was open. Kellan walked over and glowered at the sill. Holy shit, he thought, his mind a white noise of realization. Someone has been in my apartment.

With unsteady hands, he closed the window. He never forgot to shut it. Hell, most days he never fucking opened it. Kellan could hear his own heart rate as he continued to stare. They aren’t messing around. Someone is watching me—following me—invading my privacy. How could I have let it get this far? How could I have been so unobservant?

“Are you coming?” Mavis called from the living room, her voice sultry.

“You need to get out,” Kellan stated. He turned around and went straight for his bedroom, snatching his gun from the holster on the counter as he passed by.

Mavis jumped up, her body stiff. “What’s wrong?”

Kellan’s stalkers could try to kill him. But with what?

His mind raced with ideas.

Hydrogen cyanide, sarin, and botulinum gas were all odorless, colorless, and extremely deadly. Improvised explosives had been known to decimate entire vehicles or bedroom-sized areas with ease.

But one guy lying in wait with a gun was all it would really take, and Kellan knew he wasn’t safe. He couldn’t stop reviewing each and every possible situation.

Kellan kicked open the bedroom door and allowed his muscle memory to do the work. He waited a few moments, in case of possible gas threats, and shifted into the room, his back always to the wall and his gun held tightly in front of him. His bedroom—no immediate threats—had only three places to hide. Kellan kicked in the door of his bathroom. Clear. He ripped opened his sparsely populated closet. Clear. He tore open a window and unceremoniously flipped his queen-sized bed over to get a better look at the underbelly. Nothing.

Mavis stood in the middle of his tiny hallway, her eyes wide. “What’re you doing?”

Kellan took a few backward steps out of his room and turned to Mavis. She had her arms crossed and her hands tucked tightly into her armpits, a wide-eyed look of disbelief written across her face.

“Someone’s in my apartment,” he said. “You should leave.”

“Your apartment only has three rooms,” Mavis replied, motioning to everything with a sweep of her hand. “Clearly, no one is here.”

From his position in the doorway of his bedroom, Kellan saw every inch of apartment, from the kitchen-living room combo, to the cramped bedroom and bathroom. Mavis was right. No one was here.

He took a deep breath. “Someone was here. It’s not safe. It’s—”

“How can you tell?” Mavis interjected. “Unless that’s why your house is so empty. Because thieves ransack the place on the daily.” She half-laughed and then motioned to his living room. “Thieves who leave the TV, for some reason.”

“I know someone was here!” Kellan stormed into the kitchen and reexamined the window. “I never leave the window open. And… And I saw those guys in the bar and park. I know it was them—somehow, it was them. They’ve been in my apartment!”

He turned around.

Mavis took a step back, her shoulders bunched around her neck. “Wow. You really are paranoid.”

“I—” Kellan stopped himself short of yelling. He inhaled and exhaled with calculated breaths. “I’m not paranoid.”

With slow and dramatic timing, Mavis turned her gaze to Kellan’s bedroom. The mattress—overturned and smothering the collapsed nightstand—sagged and then crashed to the floor. The two stared at it a long time before Mavis returned her gaze to Kellan, her eyebrows lifting to her hairline.

Kellan shook his head. “Listen. There are these guys. Two. Maybe four. I’m not sure. It’s been going on for days now. Days. I knew, but, I just couldn’t—” He slammed his gun down on the kitchen countertop and ran both his hands through his hair. His head hurt with anxiety. He couldn’t articulate his situation without taking a moment to comb through his own convoluted thoughts.

Mavis approached with a furrowed brow. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

“Can you calm down on command?” he snapped, jerking away from her touch.

He tensed and Mavis flinched back. Kellan held his breath—a technique he had learned throughout his time in boot camp. For a moment, the apartment sat cold and silent, neither person moving. Rain pelted the roof unabated.

Mavis once again crossed her arms over her chest. “I should go.” She grabbed her damp sweatshirt and threw it on. “I’ll get an Uber.”

“Wait,” Kellan breathed. “I apologize. I…”

What explanation did he have? More ravings?

He scrunched his eyes closed. In his mind, Kellan knew what he had seen and what he thought, but when he heard his own voice, even he doubted himself. What would he tell Dr. Hanley? Anything he said about the evening would end with him being discharged from the Delta Force. A mystery group stalking him and entering his apartment to no end? What was he thinking?

“Hey.”

Kellan opened his eyes, surprised by Mavis’s close proximity. She stood directly in front of him, her gaze locked on his chest.

“I’ll stay,” she muttered. “Just take a deep breath, relax, and tell me everything you can.”

Mavis wrapped her arms around his torso for a gentle embrace.

Kellan’s teeth hurt. And his stomach. And his chest burned. He returned her embrace, but not without grimacing. He felt… ill. And it had come on without warning. Much like the itching had.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

Kellan grabbed his gun out of instinct and stepped around Mavis. She watched him go, but said nothing.

Once he entered his bedroom, Kellan shut the door. Mavis moved around the kitchen, likely looking for something to drink.

It had become difficult to swallow.

Kellan barely made it to his bathroom before doubling over the sink. He closed the door and waited, feeling the dry cotton sensation that heralded vomiting. After a few tense moments, nothing happened. Kellan stood back up and ran his tongue over his teeth. He felt something stuck between two molars—a piece of spaghetti, perhaps?—and he dislodged it with his thumb and forefinger.

He examined his hand.

A worm writhed around his finger. It left him pale and speechless.

Kellan threw the wretched yellow and blood-coated worm into the sink. His hands shook. He staggered back into the wall. He couldn’t breathe.

Something was terribly wrong.

As if the apartment were going through the same ill effects, the lights flickered and strained. One light above the bathroom mirror burst in a shower of glass. The power drained from the entire complex with a single soft electrical sigh.

The rain ceased.

Kellan didn’t move. In the darkness of his bathroom, he felt the twisting of tiny creatures beneath his skin. Squirming. Struggling. Wriggling.

Somewhere in his unconscious mind, he heard a thump in his bedroom. Then silence.

“Mavis?” he asked, his lungs devoid of air and his voice inaudible.

Kellan forced himself to breathe. Before he could call out again, the bathroom door handle turned with the slow, quiet precision of a master surgeon.

He readied his gun and waited.

The bathroom door creaked open, and the silhouette of a person emerged from the darkness of Kellan’s bedroom.

It definitely wasn’t Mavis. Too large. Clearly masculine. They walked without a limp.

Kellan didn’t hesitate. He threw the door open and fired. One shot to the chest, one shot to the head. The intruder flew back from the force of the Colt .45, crashing to the floor of the bedroom sprawled out on his back.

Then something flashed across Kellan’s eyes—a box with text that only he could see.

[Alex Kellan] shot [Puppet2] twice for a total of 14 damage (9 +50% Sharpshooter Modifier).

[Puppet2] stops functioning.

It was as if the text was across the flesh of his eyeballs. It was so thin and transparent that it didn’t affect his sight, but it was still clear enough that he could read.

Kellan rubbed at his eyes, his heart racing.

Fuck.

But he heard more noise, and his training kicked in.

Kellan stepped out of the bathroom, his gun still at the ready.

A second figure appeared at the edge of his peripheral vision. The second man lunged from the corner of the room—he had been waiting. Kellan pivoted on his heel and shot twice more.

Clean. Perfect. Efficient.

[Alex Kellan] shot [Puppet1] twice for a total of 15 damage (10 +50% Sharpshooter Modifier).

[Puppet1] stops functioning.

Both men dead.

Both… puppets?

Kellan’s heart raced faster than before. He didn’t know what any of that meant, but at least the information was straight forward. He dealt damage. The enemy stopped functioning. He could give it more thought later.

He checked his body and gun.

Minimal bullets expended. He had four more shots before he had to reload.

Kellan’s pulse ran quick, but his nerves held firm. Even the ear-shattering bang of the heavy handgun hadn’t broken his concentration. He had been in this scenario too many times to choke, and his adrenaline drowned out the aching of his gut.

There wasn’t any light. All bulbs in the house seemed to have shattered.

In the past, when the power had gone out, the lights from the nearby street had always provided visibility. Kellan’s attention lingered on the open window. He heard the rustle of leaves and wind, but he saw nothing in the void of black beyond the sill.

A thunderless strike of lightning illuminated the room for a fraction of a second. A rumble of power shuddered through the floor of the apartment a half second later. No other sounds. No other murmurings. In the brief glimpse of his room, Kellan identified the men. They had been the two in the park.

Kellan forced himself to take a deep breath as he moved to the living room.

“Mavis?” he asked, his voice carrying only a few feet before dying.

Nothing.

The low hum of the television caught his attention. Kellan glanced over, his arms tense and the gun up. The television sat on a channel with no programming, the white “static” offering a tiny amount of light to the otherwise bleak room. Kellan didn’t bother to turn it off, but a small piece of his mind gnawed on the mystery of its apparent power. Everything else was dead. Why did the TV remain on?

Another strike of lightning cast long shadows from the windows and trees outside. He walked to the front door and noticed it was ajar. Had Mavis left? Kellan felt the urge to look.

The inky darkness that surrounded his apartment couldn’t be pierced. Only the occasional flash of lightning brought about any information.

Kellan’s apartment complex, a series of one-story buildings with a single pool and a laundromat, appeared empty in the brief flashes. His car was missing—all cars were missing—and the nearby walls seemed half-busted and cracked. Paper trash clung to the powerful winds that blew between buildings and gathered in corners.

The short bursts of light weren’t enough for Kellan to feel confident about exploring. He stood one foot outside his front door and knew he was in a vulnerable position. What if his stalkers had cut the power to the apartment complex? They were clearly after him. If he ran around in the dark—without proper protection or gear—he was practically giving them an easy kill.

Kellan turned his gaze to the sky.

In the distance, between fog and jet-black clouds, he saw the flashing of red lights, similar to those of an airplane or a radio tower. No stars. No moon. No Christmas lights or trees. The subdued enigma of his circumstance left him on his toes and in an odd mix of pensive tension.

Was he alone?

Was he… going insane?

The wind howled.

Where had the rain gone?

Kellan stepped backward, and right before he returned to his apartment, he spotted a figure in the darkness, lit up momentarily by another flash of lightning. He readied his gun and stared.

Another flash.

Nothing there.

“Mavis?” he called out, his voice steady and loud enough to carry.

No answer.

The skittering of metal on pavement brought shivers to his spine. His training had prepared him for the unknown, but he had never thought it would be used in such a dreamlike circumstance. I should fall back to familiar territory, Kellan thought, repeating the words of his CO in his mind.

Kellan returned to his apartment and closed the door, locking it behind him. He went to the kitchen, the apartment layout ingrained in his mind. With quick ease, and quiet movements, Kellan opened the topmost counter drawer. Two flashlights sat inside, along with a handful of batteries. He turned one on and slowly illuminated every corner of his apartment.

He was alone.

Taking a deep breath, Kellan made his way back to the bedroom. The flashlight turned his apartment into a glowing fishbowl—he couldn’t see outside, but he knew the light would act as a beacon in the darkness. He kept the flashlight low and avoided shining it toward the windows.

Kellan pointed the light at his bedroom floor.

He caught his breath and tensed. No bodies.

Kellan took short breaths as he scanned the carpet. No blood. That’s not possible, he thought. I definitely shot them. I saw it. He even rubbed at his eye. The notifications had said…

What notifications? That was insane. He knew it.

Information on his eyes?

Impossible.

Wheeling around, Kellan frantically searched the walls. To his relief, he found the bullet holes, but that led him to two conclusions…

Either the bloodless men had picked themselves up and left… or there hadn’t been any men at all. Kellan had shot at figments.

Logic demanded he settle on the latter.

Am I paranoid? The thought swirled in his head. Perhaps… Mavis left because I was just blindly shooting shadows in my apartment. And words were scrolling across my eyes like popup ads…

The doubt clawed at his confidence.

Kellan shut his bedroom door and ambled to the window. The wind continued its howl. He shut the window and locked it. Then he drew the blinds and stepped away.

“Hey, God,” he said, addressing the empty room. “I know I’ve never spoken to you before, but… I get it. I really do. I’ve got PTSD. Or unresolved psychological issues. Or I was drugged by the enemy. Or whatever this is. I won’t deny it anymore.”

He grabbed his mattress and hefted it up onto his metal bedframe, positioning it into place. Once situated, he haphazardly threw his sheets and pillows on top.

Kellan continued with, “You’ve convinced me. I’m unstable. I shouldn’t be in the Delta Force. I’ll resign immediately.” He chuckled, the sound more nervous than jovial. “What’re the stages of grief again? Denial, isolation, anger, fucked-up-hallucinations, acceptance? Can we skip the other stages and go straight to acceptance? I’m ready now. I’m more than willing to admit whatever it is you want me to admit. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Silence reigned supreme.

Kellan reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialed Dr. Hanley, but the device beeped with an error message.

No service.

“Of course not,” Kellan murmured, unable to stop another anxious chuckle. “That would’ve made sense. Who needs sense when you have trauma-inducing nightmare scenarios to deal with?”

His mind overflowed with history lessons of soldiers from Vietnam who had come home with terrible nightmares and horrific delusions, all of which were brought about from the reality of war and death. They had spoken of seeing things at all hours of the night and hearing voices. Tragic tales. None of them had ended well. Most, in fact, had ended in suicide.

Kellan glanced down at his gun. The idea that he still had control over whether he lived or died gave him a small bit of reassurance. He had control over something, at least. With a deep breath, Kellan calmed his excitable heart rate, switched off his flashlight, and stared into the darkness of his room.

“I’m going to sleep,” he announced. “And when I wake up, I’ll be well enough to visit Dr. Hanley. No more hallucinations. Deal?”

Kellan sat down on his bed—fully clothed and uncomfortable with the idea of undressing, even in his own home—and rested back, his head cushioned by his lumpy pillows. He inhaled, closed his eyes, and placed his handgun on his chest.

The minutes dragged.

Outside his window, the wind moaned, and tree branches scratched the glass of his windows. He gripped the blankets, refusing to investigate, and instead, focusing on sleep. He had to sleep. Everything around him was nothing more than a nightmare brought about by stress.

It would disappear in the morning.

Kellan laughed to himself. “Was Mavis even real?” he asked aloud. To no one.

Knowing my luck, she wasn’t. He half-smiled. The first girl I’ve connected with in a long while was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

The silence of the apartment seeped into Kellan’s spirit.

He lay motionless, only daring to open his eyes after what felt like an eternity. Sweat pooled around him. What would he do in the future? How would they treat his illness? Would he ever be normal again? Kellan had never heard of a case of severe anxiety being “cured” as much as being “dealt with” via copious amounts of drugs. Would that be his new reality?

His body itched. Kellan felt squirming just behind his eyes. He had a knife—in the drawer of his nightstand—and the idea of digging into his skin and removing the struggling worms just beneath crossed his mind.

Kellan laughed again—dark and sardonic. “Nothing is more insane than cutting yourself to remove illusionary worms.”

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be.

Sleep never came, only new worries and possible outcomes. Kellan stared at the ceiling, watching the reddish gray hue of the dawn break through the darkness and creep past the drawn blinds. The clouds—fog?—weakened the intensity of the light.

“Good morning, Fayetteville!”

Kellan jerked upright, his gun tumbling into his lap. The energetic announcement had emanated from the living room, like a ringmaster was somehow in his apartment.

“This is the morning news! I’m your designated host, here to deliver you information straight from the Arbiter.”

Confused and disorientated, Kellan leapt from his bed, threw back the blinds, and glanced out the window. The fog obfuscated everything. He could make out the hints of trees and the black of the street, but not much else. Kellan rotated his arms. He was stiff from the long night of tension, never managing to relax.

His mouth dry, Kellan walked out of his bedroom and headed straight for the kitchen. The television had remained on for the entirety of his “rest”—the news program had started on its own—and the volume allowed for the voices to carry throughout the tiny apartment. Kellan ignored it and went straight for the fridge.

Although it wasn’t a breakfast of champions, Kellan withdrew a beer. He uncapped the bottle and drank the thing in one long take, guzzling the drink as fast as he could without choking. He needed to numb his thoughts.

Kellan gasped for breath once done and grabbed another. He hesitated for a moment, holding the second bottle in one hand. He turned over in his hand. The drink was warm. Kellan stared into the fridge. The light was off. He clicked the switch on the side of the fridge door. Nothing.

Right. The power was out…

But how did the television remain on?

“—and now that the Conflux is upon us, a curfew has been levied across the city,” the TV continued. “Those found out on the streets at night will be punished! What a time to be alive.”

Kellan ambled over to the couch, his eyes fixed on the television.

The news anchor, a thin and narrow man with sharp features, sat manacled to a metal desk, his wrists raw and his fingers blistered. He wore a suit with a uniform color scheme of black and white, stitched tight enough to constrict the man’s breathing, but it was clean enough to be brand new.

Across the man’s face, snug over his eyes, was an ivory blindfold, the same high-quality fabric of the man’s white tie. The man—a news anchor, maybe?—had dark red hair, matted with dried blood, creating a disheveled and unkempt appearance from the shoulders up.

Despite his bizarre appearance, the man smiled with perfect white teeth, his voice strong and confident. “Remember, those interfering with the duties of a Pestbyter will also be punished! And—most importantly—those who defy the orders of a Justice will be severely punished! No one is to interfere in this year’s competition! It’s much too important. Much too special.”

The background of the “news” program was just a rusted wall. No TVs with displays. No scrolling words. It was just… an ominous room, with a blindfolded man chained to a desk.

Kellan almost dropped his warm beer.

What the hell is going on?