《Nova Road》 Prologue 1 - The Gate Approximately 2AM, Wednesday, 18th October, 1978 Thrum. øB¾Ó¤¬Ë½¤òºô¤Ó¤Þ¤·¤¿. It called out to me. Not with a voice, or an emotion, not in my ears or in my head, but a heavy resonance, deep within my chest. It was familiar, like a question I had heard before, but not in this existence. Far before. Before Japan. Before this life. I got out of bed. Out the window I could see the mist on the sea in the moonlight. I thought about how far I was away from the Mystic, now I¡¯m looking out at Suruga Bay. Thrum. I felt it again. I knew it was cold out, so I got out of bed and got a light coat from my closet, quietly as I could. I opened my door carefully, went down the hall, past my sister¡¯s room, away from my parents¡¯ room, down the stairs. I put my shoes on at the door and listened for any stirring upstairs just for a moment, then I went out the door. No one locks the doors here, maybe not in this decade. I headed out the garden and into the street. Thrum. Left, up the hill. I know where to go. I counted the streets and muttered their names to myself. I read every sign and noted every alley. All in their place, I thought. Right where they should be. I was told stories in this life, fantastic traditional folklore, tales to put me to sleep, the call of the itako, the shamans of old who speak to the dead. I thought, in this second life, I would have an easy go of it. That who I was before, or, I guess, who I will be, wasn¡¯t good enough for the Noosphere. Instead of remaining or transitioning into whatever plane, here I am, a 30 year old in a 6 year old¡¯s body, living the life of Ono Yumatori in 1970¡¯s Japan. I died in 2020 in Casablanca, so how the hell did I get here? The road. That damn road. One minute I¡¯m on assignment, writing an article for the Globe, next I¡¯m a Japanese baby. 6 years so far, keep thinking I¡¯m going to wake up. I am now Ono Yumatori. I live in Numazu, Shizuoka. I have grandparents and parents and a sister. I go to an elementary school. It¡¯s helpful, I guess, mostly for learning Japanese. Wait until they get a load of my eigo, I¡¯ll mess them up with my wicked sweet Southie accent. I haven¡¯t had to use it, don¡¯t want to shock anyone. Maybe in high school. For now, play the part. Enjoy a second go at being a kid, a second go at being someone else. Then figure all this out. How I got reincarnated in the past. In Japan, of all places. After a long walk up the hill, I made it. Yanagihara. Thrum. I held my chest. The wind was biting. It had not started to snow, but I felt it wanting the chance to exist. My skin goosebumped at the chill in the air, greeted by a lone torii gate and the grounds of a Shinto praying shrine. I looked around, not out of any fear of anything or anyone. I¡¯m technically 36 years old, I can handle myself, even in a 6 year old¡¯s body, but just to take in anything in case it could be pertinent or helpful. It was about 2AM, streetlights dotted the walkways and streets in the distance around me, but this was a sacred space. There was no lights, not even candles for prayer. Well, I guess that¡¯s more Christian or Antemortemism than Shinto, best I could have used were the embers on an incense stick if there were any. It was dark, save for the moonlight. I focused on frequency changes, anything out of the ordinary beyond the sound of trees rustling in the wind, leaves fallen scraping against the stone, the creak of wood. No bending of sounds. No warble or wail. Nothing. Yet. Thrum. It wasn¡¯t a sound, it was a calling. A pull from beyond anything. Was the road coming to greet me again? Is this something different? I instinctively turned to where the call came from, some 5 meters away from me. The torii. The gate. I paid mindful attention to my periphery. It was hard to look ahead while focusing on the edges of my vision, especially in the dark. They live in the corners of your eyes, just out of sight. I took a step. It was heavier than it should be. Thrum. I took another. Thrum. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. I couldn¡¯t move. I could feel the ache of tense muscles pulling at ligaments and sinew across my body. I said I wasn¡¯t afraid, but my body was betraying me. THRUM. My chest hurt, the border of my vision darkened, the moon dimmed for a moment. And there they were. Like something you aren¡¯t sure about just at the edge of your vision, you look, and they¡¯d be gone, but for me, they remained. Hard to discern in the waning moonlight, second-guessing my child eyes, and as I looked at one headlong it blurred, yet the ones that appeared just at the limits of my vision were so much clearer. One. Two. Four. Seven. Twelve. I was losing count. I was losing ground. I was surrounded. You cannot appeal to echoes. Some you merely observe, watch the pathetic show of a life once lived play out like a broken, hazy play, a translucent masquerade of lost existence. Some go bump in the night, stirring the living to be reminded of the dead. Others hunt, jealous and petty, envious of the loss they had wrought in life. Some crawl into your dreams, slither into memories that are wholly not theirs and can invade, alter, destroy. Some haunt things, objects cursed to remember stories that should be forgotten. Some haunt places, the crack in the mirror, the creak in the floorboards, the moan through static on the radio. Some haunt people, and that¡¯s what the living fears the most. I watched them. They didn¡¯t move, they didn¡¯t advance. They were there, in the low hum in my chest and the precipice of my sight. THRUM. My chest ached. My hands trembled. My legs were weak. The torii called me. I took a single step forward, in absolute spite of myself, in spite of everything in me telling me to leave, to run, in spite of the night and the shadows and the call, I took a step to spite it all. THRUM. I fell to my hands and knees. I couldn¡¯t stop shaking. I could see them, just on the edge, staring back at me with darkened eyes. All I could manage was to pull my head up. The torii stood a meter away. The shadows in front of it parted, clearing space between me and the gate. I stared into it, like a veil of black silk draped in water leading to nowhere and darkness, I felt it resonate and break through my chest once more. THRUM. Like water, the veil rippled in the torii, and the small, hollow, tumbling of something came skittering to a stop a few centimeters from me, out from the gate. I tried to focus on it, but as I did, it was as if the darkness became too much. The echoes saw their opportunity. The moon gave up on me. And the world fell away. ¡°Yuma! Yuma!¡± I felt hands on me and a shaking. I struggled up and, bleary eyed, tried to make sense of my surroundings. Right, the shrine. ¡°Ah shit,¡± I said, in English, holding my head. ¡°Envy?¡± I heard a familiar voice ask in Japanese. Envy? Oh, ¡°shit,¡± or I guess ¡°shitto¡± is envy in Japanese. Numazu. Right. I was Yuma. I rubbed my eyes and concentrated on focusing. Emiko. Ah shit. It was my sister. I spoke to her in Japanese. ¡°Hey, big sis. Guess you found me, hide and seek! At¡­2 in the morning,¡± I said sheepishly, obviously knowing she wouldn¡¯t believe me. ¡°It¡¯s 4 in the morning, you moron! Yuma, you¡¯re an idiot! Idiot, idiot, idiot! Do you know how worried I was? I heard the door shut and thought we had a vandal, but when I checked, no one was there, so I thought, maybe just a wayward yokai, I took out my mirror, but no, and I checked on your room, and you were gone! Mom and dad are out looking for you too!¡± ¡°Oh fuck, you told them too?¡± I said the oh fuck in English. ¡°Yes, and they¡¯re really mad. Come on! Get up! What are you doing at the shrine?¡± ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know,¡± I lied. ¡°Well come on! Let¡¯s go!¡± I went to counter her pulling me up by one arm with my other hand to press off up from the ground, but my fist was clenched around something. She pulled me up and looked at me, and then at my hand. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± she asked. I opened my fist. I held in my hand a bone. It looked like a finger bone. ¡°Where did you get that?¡± I wasn¡¯t sure how to answer. It must have been the thing that skittered through the torii. I must have grabbed it. I stared at it. Familiar. The weight in my chest. The call. Not a sound, not an emotion. A resonance in my chest. A memory. The road. Casablanca. 42 years from now, Gerald Reyes, an immigrant¡¯s son from South Boston will die. He¡¯ll be between two worlds, where the mysteries of death, the noosphere, and echoes will culminate in his obliteration. A road will groan and stretch, like a titan of old, it¡¯ll cast off the dawn, the sunset, and the night and disappear into the void of belief, recollection, and forget, taking with it anyone who was foolish enough to be curious. Gerald Reyes will watch as he waits, foolishly, at the border to nothing, as every particle of his being slowly subsumes into the dark, while a road that wasn¡¯t a road but was a road, shakes off the mortal world. He¡¯ll watch as the darkness consumes a finger, then his hand, then up his arm, and his chest, and as it will crawl along his face and his vision will go black, he will know the infinitesimal cry of his soul in the cacophony of the dead. And then¡­ Nothing. Until light. Until warmth. Until memory latching on to a breath first taken, the cold air stinging against fluid filled lungs, and swaddle, and arms, ears filled with noises both familiar and foreign. A pair of friendly smiles. A second chance. ¡°It¡¯s mine,¡± I finally said to Emiko. I tucked it away, a relic of a future-past life, the first thing taken by the road. The bone of what used to be a finger. I took my sister¡¯s hand and let her lead me home. Back to my parents, back to my life. Back to another chance. As we walked, I muttered to myself as I looked from street to street and my sister stopped me. ¡°What did you say?¡± ¡°Nova Road.¡± She looked at me confused, but we kept on walking. ¡°It¡¯s never where it should be.¡± Ch 1 - Quantico 0912 local - Friday, 5th January, 1996 I arrived at Quantico right after breakfast, my first station after 2 years at Camp Fuji, a 36 hour plane ride (with layovers) and 45 minutes in a car with nothing but the pack I had for special training and the uniform on my back. They took all my other stuff at the airport I landed at for inspection. The lobby was like a mausoleum, black marble floors, tall white walls overlooking trees and hills, and a single dias-like desk with a single receptionist. My footfalls echoed as I approached, and her voice broke the hallowed silence of the IERF. ¡°Welcome? Your name?¡± ¡°Ono Yumatori.¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry! Sumimasen! Anata wa nihonjindesu. D¨­ ka watashi ni hanasa sete kudasai.¡± Really good accent. ¡°Oh, no no, I speak English fine, sorry, Yumatori Ono, sorry, forgot, Family name second, been Japanese a while.¡± Mousey blonde, hazel eyes. Pretty. First time in the West this go. I hope I haven¡¯t lost it.She paused at my Americanized accent. ¡°I¡¯d assume your whole life?¡± ¡°Yeah. Right.¡± ¡°Why do you sound like you¡¯re from Boston?¡± She typed my information into a computer, making small talk. I thought for a bit. ¡°Paul Newman fan. The Verdict? Learned English through movies.¡± She nodded absently as she looked at me on the screen. Good Will Hunting will be out next year and I could use that eventually. ¡°Private Ono, welcome to Virginia.¡± She looked up. Pretty. Small talk. Virtueless smile. I¡¯ll pass on chatting. This was another day for her and she probably gets bothered a lot. She opened a drawer, pulled out a premade introduction folder and a name badge that aggressively said ¡°VISITOR¡± on it, and wrote my name on it, First name first, family name second. She handed me both. ¡°You¡¯ll get your official badge after you settle down, keep this on while you¡¯re on campus. Elevators just behind me, you¡¯ll want the second floor. When you¡¯re on 2, walk down the hall, first double doors on your right, room 202. Can¡¯t miss it.¡± ¡°Thank you, ma¡¯am.¡± I held the badge up in acknowledgment and clipped it onto my collar. My footfalls resonated on black marble as I went to the left bank of elevators, pressed the button, got in, and went up to 2. Room 202 was windowed, classroom style, 50 seat stadium, a training room with an overhead and screen, dry-erase on the wall. Walking in, there were three others sitting facing the front. They turned in their seats to look at me. An SO leaned up against a table in the pit, his arms crossed. He was a well-toned but slight man, graying brown hair. The rest I could tell only a few details as I walked down the steps: blonde woman, blue-eyed, tall even sitting, American from her languid posture; brown-haired hulk, he sat very formally, probably French or German; heavy set, olive complexion and tribal tattoos, a warm, inviting face, Polynesian of some sort for sure. They all wore different colors of fatigues, so I fit in with my uniform. I made it to the pit, dropped my pack and saluted to the SO. ¡°Private Yumatori Ono, sir.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that rank in Japan called, son?¡± His southern drawl was like molasses. ¡°Itt¨­-Hei, sir. Private, first class.¡± ¡°At ease, son, we don¡¯t gotta be so formal where we is. Take a seat. Others should be along shortly. Just don¡¯t sit too far away, I don¡¯t like raising my voice none.¡± I loosened up, picked up my pack, and looked around. The French/German was in the seat to the left, the Polynesian behind him, and the American girl was on the right of the aisle with a seat away from me. She saw my eyes on the chair and her hand patted on it. ¡°C¡¯mon! Won¡¯t bite you!¡± She sounded smaller than she was. I sat in the chair and heard the Polynesian guy giggle to himself. When I looked up at her, she was a full head taller, sitting slouched. I¡¯m 171 cm, I was kind of afraid to see her standing. She smiled down at me and offered a hand, ¡°I¡¯m Bonds, Kelly Bonds, with an ¡®s,¡¯ not like the secret agent. Oh, Private too, we all have that in common. I¡¯m American though, if you couldn¡¯t tell.¡± Her hands were cold but gentle. She talked wicked fast. Midwestern? She let go of my hand and I looked around at the others. The French/German looked at me. ¡°We can do introductions later once everyone is here, I think.¡± Stick in the mud, German accent. The Polynesian guy shrugged with a smile, his hands crossed over his belly. He looked pleasant. ¡°Oh, c¡¯mon, Kaufmann, don¡¯t be like that. Go on, be friendly, might help with training later,¡± said our SO. The German sighed. ¡°Soldat Egon Kaufmann. Munich.¡± He turned to face the front. ¡°Hey bud, Private Koroi, but you can call me Sammi. I¡¯m from Fiji,¡± he hummed more than he spoke. Over the course of 15 minutes others filed in much as I did, a gearpack or two about them, dressed in their military garb from whatever country they were from. Yvette Vivec, France. Brown hair, alarming green eyes, probably turned heads back in Paris. Rohit Kaur, Britain, Indian descent, charming, but I detected a bit of cockney when he spoke, so savvy, I¡¯d wager. Hector Jimenez, American from Puerto Rico, built like a short brick house. Finally, last in the door was Hyeon-Seong Kim, Korea, tall and lean, martial arts, if I were to gauge. Once there were eight of us, the SO spoke. ¡°Howdy, y¡¯all. Welcome to the International Echoic Research Foundation, internally, the IERF. To others, the Foundation, much to the chagrin of our principles and the higher ups, Interek. Call it what you will, it¡¯s your new home, so learn to love it. I am your commanding officer, Corporal William Hogue. You¡¯re fine to call me sir, but everyone just calls me Hogue, makes it easier. If you come up with a cute nickname, I might let it slide, but I better like it, or you¡¯re doing laps like it¡¯s booty. Now, you¡¯re all here because you applied, tested, and passed with some semblance of flying colors, and each of you brings something unique to the table to help in what it is that we do. Now, to start, what is it that y¡¯all think we do here?¡± The first to speak was Kaufmann. ¡°Sir, we are here to research and contain echoic phenomena, sir.¡± He looked pleased with himself. Hogue looked satisfied. ¡°Soldat Kaufmann, generally that¡¯s true. So, correct. But what do you think we do? Look around. Everyone here is military trained, and last I checked, bullets, bombs, and bayonets don¡¯t do a lick of shit to these things, so what do we do?¡± A pause before Sammi spoke. ¡°We protect the scientists?¡± ¡°Sure, but again, bullets, bombs and bayonets, lick o¡¯shit.¡± Silence came over the room as some thought. ¡°I use a bokken,¡± I said. Everyone looked at me. ¡°A wooden sword,¡± I clarified. A couple faces nodded, most looked perplexed. Kaur looked at me confused. Vivec seemed really impressed. Hogue had a grin. ¡°Good, that¡¯s what I¡¯m talking about. A blade. Ono here is a spiritblade.¡± ¡°I can hear them when they think they¡¯re being sneaky,¡± Bonds said beside me. ¡°A seer?¡± asked Sammi. ¡°We call them radiographers here, but yes, some traditions and cultures do call them seers, sure,¡± replied Hogue. ¡°I can track them, it¡¯s like a feeling I get,¡± Sammi said enthusiastically. ¡°A tracker, good,¡± affirmed Hogue. There¡¯s a brief pause before Vivec spoke. ¡°They can speak through me.¡± ¡°A medium, always need one in the group. You okay doing that, Vivec?¡± ¡°Yes, I just need a rest after it,¡± she said quietly to her feet. Everyone stayed silent after she spoke. I think in any culture a medium is fairly well respected. ¡°I see them easier than most,¡± Jimenez broke the reverence. ¡°We got a spotter,¡± said Hogue. ¡°I don¡¯t really know how to describe what I do,¡± Kaufmann relented. ¡°Well, best you can, how do you do what you do?¡± asked Hogue. ¡°If they¡¯re semicorporeal or visible, I can touch them, but not like others can. When I touch them, I see flashes of their living life.¡± ¡°You are a rare one, an empath, particularly, a physical touch empath. You don¡¯t see your kind abouts, very medieval. I like it,¡± Hogue beamed. Kaufmann looked happy with his talent, probably the first time that¡¯s ever happened. Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°In Korea sometimes dokkaebi can become overly restless. I can stop them from being a bother,¡± shared Kim. ¡°A warder, okay, getting a well rounded group here.¡± ¡°I can hurt them,¡± Kaur said flatly. ¡°Can you elaborate, Kaur?¡± inquired Hogue. ¡°When I know they¡¯re there, I think, like, I want them to go away, and they do, but usually, they¡¯re screaming. They scream when they go.¡± ¡°And we have a mage,¡± Hogue said with a finality. ¡°There you have it. All of you are sensitive, in a manner of speaking. All skills we can utilize. All of you have been vetted, psych-eval¡¯d, cleared, and trained by your respective military branches to help mediate the international front of the ongoing phantasmic war we wage. I don¡¯t care if you¡¯re an Antemort nut or an Order hoarder, but here, we see these things as an everyday nuisance, to beg at it simply. Sure, you can get all philosophical or faith-thumping, technomagic bull and respectful of the departed, but at the end of the day, we live in a multinational society that wants to get on with it. After the Industrial Revolution, as you all know, there was a marked uptick on echoic phenoms. People can¡¯t turn on an electronic device without some spook hollering out of it. It is up to us to investigate what¡¯s out there and stymie the tide. ¡°You are all now a part of this platoon, my platoon. We are the 8th, Kilo Company of the IERF field branch. Our task is to investigate the hardest to track, itinerant phenomena out there in the world. The noosphere is getting too noisy for the greater public, and if there¡¯s a chance to halt, slow, or cancel out their DRF, we¡¯re going to do it. We are a field op, and upstairs gives us the locales, we go out, investigate, corroborate, substantiate, mitigate, and celebrate. The last one is when we get on the bird heading back. I¡¯m sure you got questions, and I more than likely have answers, but for now, let¡¯s get you bunked up and settled, we can go over everything you need to know once you get to the ¡®racks and know where the head is. I¡¯m sure some of you are just getting off planes or trains, so some R&R is required. Grab your shit! I¡¯ll show y¡¯all the digs.¡± Hogue stood up and we all got up, grabbed what we came in with and followed in file march. At some point, he looked back on us and raised his voice. ¡°Now c¡¯mon, I know y¡¯alls military, but this ain¡¯t boot, I ain¡¯t your den mother sarge. Loosen up!¡± We looked at each other and broke rank. Kaufmann looked the least bit impressed at the relaxation of protocol. Bonds walked next to me with her duffel over her shoulder. She was easily 210, maybe 215 cm tall? The tallest among us. ¡°So Ono, a spiritblade?¡± it¡¯s like she was poking at me with her words. I looked at the others, Kaur and Sammi were small talking. It looks like Jimenez was trying to chat up Vivec. Kaufmann was dutifully following Hogue, Kim trailing behind them. ¡°Yeah,¡± I sheepishly replied. ¡°I¡¯ve heard of some Easterners using swords against EPs, I thought it was superstitious. Is it really real?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m sure Kim could back me up. In Asia mostly, as a kid you¡¯re taught swordsmanship. Martial arts are good for the body, discipline, willpower, but swordsmanship, it¡¯s a way of life. Obviously swords aren¡¯t used in the traditional sense, only for ceremonial reasons, and some people keep them as trophies or decoration, but not since the Meiji era did we stop killing each other with them in my country. It was Asia that figured out that yokai, uh, EPs, in Japan were mostly due to the use of the blade. When cuneiform glyphics became seen as the most effective way of runologic application, celtic meditative materials such as specialized wood became the most reactive substance, and the tradition of sword wielding all wrapped together, itako, as we would call it. Wooden warriors. Sword shamans. All across Asia, they use mutou dao, mok keom, espadang patpat, or bokken.¡± She might as well have been staring at a kangaroo, her eyes were so big and engrossed in me. Maybe don¡¯t nerd out so hard next time, Ono. ¡°So where¡¯s your¡­your bokken?¡± ¡°It¡¯s being scanned by IERF. They took it at the airport I came in at. Soldiers seized my stuff.¡± ¡°Oh, mine too, I got to keep my carry-on though. That¡¯s so fascinating! I can¡¯t wait to see it.¡± ¡°It¡¯s really just a wooden sword.¡± ¡°You ever killed a, what is it? A yokai?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t kill what¡¯s already dead, but yes, I have used it.¡± Genuinely I was being stared at by a Midwestern near 7-foot tall squirrel with puppy dog eyes. ¡°Once you get it back, can¡­can I try it?¡± ¡°What, swinging it? It¡¯s a wooden sword, sure, just be careful, it¡¯s pretty dense and would actually hurt.¡± Pretty sure I made her day, she bounced/skipped all the way to the barracks.
Each platoon got a private dorm, not a ¡°barracks¡± in the traditional sense; this felt like communal living with a military flare. I¡¯m guessing we were special enough to keep relatively comfortable before the actual work started. We had a common area complete with a kitchen, dining, and living room on the first floor, second floor were our private dormitories, third floor meeting and mission briefing, and we had an underground training area. Thankfully our rooms were assigned. I was worried that Western tradition of first come, first serve would be a thing like it was in school back in Boston, instead it was like school in Numazu. The stairs cut up in the back of the building and through the middle, so four rooms on the left and four on the right on the second floor. I was smack in the middle on the left, next to Vivec and Kaur, Kaufmann at the end, Bonds was across from me. The room was nice: double bed against a wall, end table, wardrobe for clothing, a desk with a chair, covered claude glass mirror, a wall clock, and a private bathroom. I assumed that everyone had something similar. A window facing out, my view of the hills and trees was a welcomed sight, not the bay view I grew up with in Japan, not South Boston, which felt like ages ago now. I¡¯m 54 inside, 24 in this body. Gerald would be born by now. He¡¯d be 6, the same age as I was when I went to Yanagihara Shrine. I would look him up, but I¡¯m afraid of Back to the Future rules. I could snap the fabric of space and time in two if I met the kid, met myself, and best as I could recall I didn¡¯t see some Japanese guy ever giving me mournful looks when I was him. I know my previous mother and father are alive, real, and this isn¡¯t some alternate universe thing. I looked them up when I could. I¡¯m the closest to Boston I could be without invading my own past. I¡¯ll leave it for now, but I do need to try and understand it, part of the reason why I joined this outfit. In Reyes¡¯ life and in this life, I¡¯ve never put much stock into the Order or Antemortems. The Foundation made the most sense to get concrete, solid answers, and the easiest way in is the military, showing some aptitude for echoic sensitivity. A knock came at the door. A quick beat, a pair of two, one two, one two. I went to the door, opening it, the rest of my personal effects sat on the floor just outside. I looked left and right down the hall, but no one was there. No one else had things at their door, no one else had their doors open. Does the Foundation have echoes on base? Delivering things? I took my things in, a few bags of clothes, one pack of personal items from Japan, a guitar case, and my bokken. I¡¯d unpack later, I took the time to make sure the sword was fine. I took it out of its canvas slip. The belt harness seemed fine, worn, needed oil, and the inspectors were kind enough to not do anything to it. The sword itself seemed fine, but there was a tiny notch, triangular shaped, taken out of the tip of the kashira-gane, just at the base. They probably thought I wouldn¡¯t notice. It¡¯s fine, they had their tests they had to do. Can¡¯t bring in cursed objects into a military base. It took ten years to make this sword. After Yanagihara, my parents had me meet with the itako. They claimed me as one of theirs. The finger bone, my finger bone, was placed in the ground with a silver birch tree sapling. In 9 years a tree formed around it. This sword was formed from that tree, my old self¡¯s finger bone within. Cuneiform runes lined the length, prayers of the dead, black mineralized metal lined the back of the blade, and the tsuba featured intricate designs of a torii gate. I gave it a few swings and a flourish, before putting it in the harness and setting it on the desk. I was tired, but it was only late morning, so I left my room to explore the rest of the barracks. I went upstairs first, a fairly unremarkable sight: it looked like an office building, two set rooms lined with glass, the room on the left looked to be for planning with whiteboards and a conference table, a cloth draped over a box object, which could only be a television, and a side table. The other room looked to be a secured armory in a cage and prep tables. There was a door at the end that went to an outdoor roof area, similar to what you¡¯d see in high schools in Japan, but with seating and a few short trees for a bit of shade. I went for a look, the air from outside was cold, but warm for January as I opened the door. It didn¡¯t seem as though it¡¯d snow, in spite of it being the season for it. It was a blue sky out. ¡°Bonjour.¡± I hadn¡¯t noticed Vivec was sitting by one of the trees on a bench near me. I held my chest and took a breath. ¡°Damn, got me. Vivec, yeah? Pleasure.¡± ¡°As with you, Ono, yes?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Her eyes would be the death of me. ¡°Did you come out for fresh air?¡± ¡°I was exploring, didn¡¯t think we¡¯d have a garden.¡± ¡°This is hardly a garden.¡± ¡°Well it¡¯s not Versailles, sure.¡± ¡°Mon cher, bien s?r que ce n''est pas Versailles, but this is three trees. Nothing more.¡± ¡°Well, the view is nice.¡± ¡°An American forest fraught with peril, more than likely.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve heard the stories?¡± ¡°Of course, Quantico was selected for its strategic location. The dead hide behind the wood.¡± ¡°A Powhatan story.¡± ¡°A truth. I think we are EPs here.¡± ¡°You might not be wrong. I got my personal effects delivered by no one.¡± She tutted at this. ¡°Ah, there you go! The Foundation employs the dead as porters! We are doomed while we sleep.¡± We had a good laugh at this, but I couldn¡¯t help but see that she seemed off, even though I¡¯ve only known her all but 10 minutes. ¡°You okay?¡± I asked. ¡°We are doing this to fight them?¡± ¡°The echoes? I don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°But you are here. A spiritblade. I have never met your kind.¡± ¡°And you¡¯re my first medium.¡± She looked away. ¡°It is a burden.¡± ¡°I cannot imagine.¡± ¡°Do you know what the dead want? More than anything?¡± I thought for a moment. A few answers came to mind, but I rather she said what she believed. ¡°I cannot say.¡± ¡°They just want to be heard. That¡¯s all. They want to be heard, because they do not understand why it is like this. They spent their entire life living, wondering, seeing their ancestors meander past them, call to them, a hundred and twenty five thousand years wondering why, and all we know is that, when we die, it¡¯s the terrasphere or the noosphere. We all want the noosphere. We want heaven. But those that are trapped here, even in death, we don¡¯t know why.¡± ¡°Is that what they say to you? Or, I guess, ask you?¡± ¡°Most, yes. They ask why, and I do not have an answer.¡± I knew what I wanted to ask. I was afraid to. ¡°Is that why you¡¯re here? Why you applied for the transfer?¡± I reluctantly inquired. ¡°I think so, yes. Maybe if I knew, I could set them to rest.¡± ¡°If that¡¯s so, I¡¯ll help you. I¡¯d rather you talked them through it, then we wouldn¡¯t need me.¡± She politely laughed at that. ¡°If you¡¯d like.¡± She held out a hand, and I shook it. ¡°Deal.¡± Ch 2 - Aokigahara Vivec and I spoke for a while longer before I left her to explore some more, nothing of consequence was said, just where either were from specifically and a few cultural comparisons. I went downstairs to the first floor to find Hogue cooking for Kaur and Bonds. ¡°Oi mate, have a seat,¡± Kaur seemed enthused. It was a treat to have an SO cook for you. ¡°Hogue is making blueberry waffles, my request¨C¡± Bonds said, but was interrupted by Hogue. ¡°Just this once, wanted to stick around to see if anyone had any questions, figured I¡¯d be back in the morning tomorrow or in a few days once y¡¯all got over your jet lag.¡± ¡°He was telling us about his time here at the Foundation,¡± Bonds was a very pleasant person and I couldn¡¯t help but appreciate it. ¡°Nah, nothing special, I¡¯ve done a few ops, came in like all of you as a private. Great thing about the IERF is whatever ranks you obtain here cross over into your country¡¯s military, so if you ever decided to go back, you¡¯d be immediately promoted to an equivalent rank. I was just telling them about one op in Finland, the Nummela Sanatorium. Places like that, where they kept the infirm, the dying, the plagued, cursed, or insane, only to leave them to die there? Echo-rich environment. You ever seen the like, Ono?¡± He gestured to the waffle iron offering to me, I nodded. ¡°No, I¡¯ve never been to an epicenter before. Is it frightening?¡± I asked. ¡°Terrifying, you think, sure, you¡¯ve seen it all, you ain¡¯t no spring chicken no more, seen your fair share of grandma moving the chair in the morning, a dead shopkeep who replays stocking the shelves when you¡¯re out shopping, you just kind of get on with it. Damn place sounded like abattoir. It¡¯s like they wait for enough people to be there to start wailing. Old gurneys and derelict wheelchairs squeaking behind you, doors half open slamming shut as soon as you pull your flashlight away. Shadow patterns changing as soon as you turn a corner.¡± ¡°What was the mission objective?¡± Kaur asked as Hogue handed him a plate and a bottle of syrup. ¡°One haunt, what locals believed was a girl kept there, bit noisy for their liking. Sometimes these ops make you feel like a bug exterminator. Her DRF rated a 6, three times normal, screams could be heard down into the town at night, and by the time we took the call, got down there, it was happening in the day. More serious when some townie died investigating it, making sure it wasn¡¯t an actual person.¡± ¡°Someone died?¡± Bonds sounded genuinely distraught asking that, in spite of her mouth being half full of waffle. ¡°Yup, old man, one of the doctors who worked there when it was open, worried his guilt conjured something malevolent. We get there, EP was visibly spacial and tangential, knocking all manner of shit off the roof before replaying her death, leaping over the side at us.¡± ¡°How¡¯d you deal with it?¡± I asked, Hogue placing a plate in front of me. ¡°We tried a medium, wasn¡¯t any reason to her, she was just unmitigated rage. So we warded her. She¡¯s locked in an effigy on the roof. Long as no one breaks the thing, she can spend the rest of forever up there.¡± We all sat there in silence, I¡¯m sure the others at the table had their own thoughts on it, but for me, if I became an echo, I¡¯d hate to be stuck, frozen in time forever. ¡°Piece of mercy, I think,¡± Kaur commented. ¡°Better than I¡¯ve done. I feel right bad each time I have to tell them to sod off. I feel like I¡¯ve done ¡®em wrong.¡± ¡°Kaur, can¡¯t do that to yourself. You¡¯ve done what you¡¯ve had to. I¡¯m sure Ono here has had to do things as well,¡± replied Hogue. I looked between them both. ¡°Yeah. I can count them on one hand. I¡¯m in the middle, honestly. My first, felt reluctant to do. Second, felt it was my duty. The most recent one¡­¡± I trailed off. My mind wandered. Bonds¡¯ hand was on my shoulder, but I didn¡¯t hear her. She must have said my name a couple times before I finally caught it. ¡°Sorry.¡± ¡°You okay?¡± She looked genuinely concerned. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, fine, I¡¯m fine.¡± I wiped my lips with the back of my hand, got up, and took my plate to the sink. Hogue hit the faucet before I could. ¡°I got it, son. You hit the dateline, you ought to get some rest.¡± ¡°Thank you, sir. For the meal.¡± He nodded to me. I looked to the other two: while they looked concerned, they also looked like they knew. They have things they could do, and they probably have been through their own experiences. It was a knowing look of reciprocal woe. I went to my room. I took a shower and got ready for bed. Clock on the wall showed just after 12:30PM, a bit early, but Hogue was right, jetlag¡¯s awful. I took my sword out from the harness and propped it up next to my bed. Lying down, I thought about the last time I used my sword. Dangerous as it was, feeling as tired as I was, I couldn¡¯t really help it. I thought about waffles just an hour ago, and how I lied to them. I had been in an epicenter. It was more than two handfuls. I felt like I had seen much enough. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. Aokigahara needed quelling every few years by itako. The fabled Sea of Trees and a place of great pain. No war was ever fought in that forest. No nexus lived there. Yet, for whatever reason, due to its isolation, the natural silence of the place, or for something beyond reasoning, Aokigahara is unique in that it welcomes despair. The living and the dead congregate en masse; those that take their lives, or echoes of sadness that wander in, the ground itself and the trees, ancient and aching, grasps like fingers towards sadness and pulls them even further in. After becoming itako, I was tasked with a band of nine others to go in. Only three made it out. I still kept in contact with Shirakami and Houshou, but we don¡¯t talk to each other about it. I felt myself drift off. My feet touched earth, soft, damp, riddled with conifer pins and pinecones. The trees hung low, keeping the air cool, only a dim, sulfurous glow from the sun could press through the dense canopy. Barefoot, garbed in traditional red robes, my bokken in my hands and at the ready, I walked cautiously. Like I was told when I was young, like I had done in Yanigahara, as I was trained to do, I let my eyes relax, I let the world blur, my vision drifted from tree to tree, rock to branch, a world out of focus, allowing my mind to notice the fringes. They lived at the edge of sight and sound. I took tentative steps, instinct taking over, my nerves ready to switch into fight or flight. Walking became graceful, deliberate, and I began my hunt. Like melted colors, I moved through an opaque palette of greens, grays, and browns, nothing was clear, only my hearing and concentration. I caught sight of something red in my periphery, another hunter. I whistled my distinct melody, and the call came back. Himari¡¯s song. She may have been younger, but she had been an itako longer than I have. The calling of the itako favors women over men, but among our ten there were four men with varying degrees of aptitude, including me. We needed our sight, where the women did not. I continued, seeing movement in the distance. I flanked, hoping to catch the feeling of cold anguish and perhaps yurei no katachi. Red, another of us, and I whistled. Young Sota responded back with his trill, like a bird. I knew if I focused, I¡¯d see his face, but not in this forest, not with so many yurei around. We faced east together but went in different directions, quicker now; we had until nightfall to quell what we could. I sprinted, over felled trunks, across small creeks, between the trees and through the brush. Then I heard it. A snap of a twig, but it had a flat, tonelessness to it, as though it were snapped inside a box. Again, closer, and I faced towards it, then slightly away, allowing the edge of my vision to let it manifest. I took a step back, my sword at the ready. It was a harsh intake of breath, but where air was sucked into lungs that weren¡¯t there, only a cool air that bit into my skin lingered along the floor, scraping like acidic pins between my toes. I stood my ground, my head slightly turned, listening, watching out of the corner of my eye. A rotten hand, attached to a disjointed arm, lifting a decrepit torso, wrapped in a stained and tattered white gown, white eyes peering through a veil of matted, filth-ridden hair from a head that lolled on a still-broken neck dragged the lot towards me, legs hissing behind as it slithered across rock and moss at me, a baleful moan turned turbulent scream as it went from pulling dead weight to a full raucous charge. I waited. I felt blood drip from my ears and nose. I waited. The crack of bark and tumble of rock grew louder above the cries of the dead. I waited. It took in a final mimicked breath as my eyes turned towards it, my vision clearing, my pupils narrowing, my bokken came down. Like a rush from a wave on the edge of a beach, a swell too high to keep your footing, sadness and mourning washed over me. Like cold embers, white cloth turned to black filaments bending and fading in the light. I let my breath leave my chest. I continued my hunt. I would fell 24 in similar ways as the sickly yellow light became orange with the coming of the night, then a dim hue of pinks and purples. I whistled to call, at first, I couldn¡¯t hear anyone. My feet began to freeze, and I let my vision cloud as I reeled around and back, but fast as I was, I did not react fast enough; I stepped on a loose rock and felt earth give out from beneath me, and as I course-corrected, it took advantage of my imbalance, and my held breath was forced out of me with unmitigated force as I saw the world tip and felt the searing hot pain of wood splintering across my back. I broke through one small sapling and then slammed into a bigger tree, coming to a stop after my body hit hard earth. I tried to take in a breath, but try as I might, this thing broke a few ribs and the air was impossibly cold. My eyes couldn¡¯t blur, my fight or flight was activated and my vision hyperfocused, and I could see it. I could see them. Yurei. Spirits of sadness, unlike any yokai. Vengeful, jealous, angry, hollow. People came to this forest to die, and though some have been killed or by their own hand, some the yurei took and made them as they are. The pale figures of hate. I got to my feet, realizing that not only were some of my ribs broken, but my left clavicle snapped; my whole arm sat at a jaunty angle. I held my sword with my right, trying to ready my resolve. My feet felt like ice, my heart was pounding, I felt the blood dribble from my ears and nose. A blur of red, and another. Watanabe. Oyama. The eldest of the itako, the strongest women I had ever known. Their blind eyes were no less a detriment as their safeguard, and they cut through the now quickly swollen army or yurei coming from the trees. ¡°Hashiranakya!¡± In the din of the cries of agony, wood splitting, the sounds of fighting, all muddled by the blood in my ears, I ran. I couldn¡¯t tell if Oyama, Watanabe, or even my own thoughts told me to run, or even something beyond all of us told me to, but I heeded the plea, and I ran. I kept running, my left arm useless, my breaths painful, my legs giving out from exhaustion and terror. I kept running until I saw light. That is how I remembered it. Running until I saw the light. It was a road, and a car was passing by in the twilight. He must have thought I was a yurei at first because he sped up, but then swerved at the end and came to a screeching halt. He picked me up and brought me to town where I met up with Houshou and Shirakami. But this wasn¡¯t a memory. Not my memory. There was no light. I was still running. The trees felt never ending, and I was not hitting any road. I stopped. I took a deep breath. I could breathe. I moved my left arm. It was fine. My sword was in my hand. I stabbed it into the earth and looked down at myself. I was wearing my fatigues from Camp Fuji training. Wait. This wasn¡¯t Aokigahara. I picked up my sword. I checked the trees around me, the light of day gone, but the moon crawled into spaces to help me see a bit better in the dark. These weren¡¯t the silver birches and conifers in the shadow of a mountain. Oaks. I fell asleep in my dorm. I did not clear my mind before I let sleep take me. The dead hide behind the wood. The forests of Quantico would be tested tonight. If they wouldn¡¯t, I would. I was not dying in Virginia. Ch 3 - Boswell I ran. I messed up, messed up really bad. I let myself dream waywardly and I somnambulated, like an idiot child. They teach you basic oneironology when you¡¯re 4, and I just made the worst fucking mistake. I had no light, whatever was out here knew me, probably walked my head while I walked in my sleep, figured me out, and now it was messing with me. If I knew what it was or how it behaved, I could figure it out, catch it off guard. I just needed to leave, to run, to go where it wasn¡¯t and hope it wasn¡¯t omnipresent, hope that it was semicorporeal and liked the chase. I heard it, melodic and far, but not far enough for my liking, whistling a tune I came up with. That was my signal call. My whistle. I only use that call with other itako. I haven¡¯t used it in 3 years. Since Aokigahara. I was the last call, the last one to whistle through the forest. Now whatever was after me, wherever the hell I was, it was whistling, distant, periodic calls through the trees. I had to be near Quantico, probably just off base. The fact that no one was here with me, no one saw me leave. My window? No, they seemed pretty firmly placed, I didn¡¯t see a latch, so I couldn¡¯t have gotten out like that. Was I transported? Can it do that? Maybe something I can do but haven¡¯t realized? No time, think about it later, maybe there¡¯s cameras on base watching. Just go. Later. Think about it later. The whistle pierced the cold, night air. My run wasn¡¯t held back by much; the trees here weren¡¯t dense and stood out in the moonlight. The level ground started declining and the tree density was getting thicker with narrower, smaller trees. The decline got steeper, and the ground became soft with leaves. I was leeward to a natural valley; wind blew down this way. The Potomac River was east then, I was facing west. I stopped on the hill, I thought about going back up, but then I saw the lights of a car heading southbound on a road I hadn¡¯t noticed yet. I let the natural incline of the hill take my momentum and I slid/ran down the hill. I could cut it off and get in front of it, wave it down. The moonlight caught the road as I got closer and I let myself slide the rest of the way, hitting flatter ground and getting into the road. Thankfully this car had their high beams on, so they¡¯d see me, and as I edged up on the road and held up my hands, the truck came to a stop. A wiry man, well into his 60¡¯s, dressed in flannel and a trucker hat stuck his elbow out the window at me. ¡°Can¡¯t be out here, pal, woods ain¡¯t safe.¡± ¡°Yeah, I fucking know, can you drive me to Quantico?¡± ¡°The base? Hell no, what this look like, a tank? This here¡¯s a Chevy S10, they¡¯d look at me funny if¡¯n I took you to the gate. I¡¯ll take you to town, pal. You can call the base from there.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have a number to call.¡± ¡°Pal, it¡¯s the Commonwealth, if¡¯n you want into Quantico and got reason to be, they¡¯ll know where to route the call. Yer dirty. Get in the truck, Gon¡¯ get you fed and cleaned up, figure out your way back to mama after that.¡± I got in the truck. I didn¡¯t really have a choice, I¡¯d rather this guy than whatever was on that hill. As I shut the door, I clipped the safety belt on, the clear pierce of a whistle, sharp and distinct, rang out in the cold night, shaking the trees, cutting through the truck engine¡¯s hum. I froze, my head turning to the wiry man. He gave me a side eye, looked in his rear view mirror, adjusted it, and then looked me head on. ¡°You haunted, pal?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡± ¡°Well, better we go then in case the trees get keen on us. Stare forward, don¡¯t look to the sides.¡± ¡°Where we going?¡± ¡°Boswell, quaint little place. Protected from whatever¡¯s ailing ya.¡± He looked back again in the mirror. I wanted to turn around but as I turned my head, he caught my eye and shook his head. ¡°Eyes forward, pal. Best you do or this night will get too interesting.¡± I obliged. He drove intently, not too fast, nothing over 40 miles per hour, not a single street light in sight, just the splay of a two-lane road and trees at either side. This was oddly reminiscent of another road I¡¯ve been on, and I wondered. ¡°What¡¯s this street we¡¯re on?¡± ¡°This? State Route 1, or the Richmond Highway. Parallels I-95 and ends in Richmond, hence the name, goes all the way north to DC if¡¯n you go that way.¡± I took a light sigh. It¡¯d have been an odd circumstance if it was the road. Its rarity was really only known to people who studied it, have seen it. It was a legend, generally speaking, kind of how we still aren¡¯t sure if King Arthur was a real person. Still haven¡¯t found his echo yet. I felt compelled to ask, just to be severely sure. ¡°Have you ever heard of Nova Road?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t say I have, pal.¡± ¡°This road kind of reminds me of it.¡± ¡°This is an ¡®everywhere¡¯ kind of road, see its sort all over America, probably also Europe or Australia. If¡¯n you was an amnesiac, I could put on a voice, tell you we was in Norway or some shit and you¡¯d believe me.¡± ¡°I guess you¡¯re right.¡± There was a thud on the windshield. I was staring straight ahead, was paying as much attention as I could and didn¡¯t see what we hit. The man slowed, and another thud hit the window. I kept an ear out for whistling or any indicative sounds behind us, even though I knew not to look beside or behind the truck. I kept staring forward. ¡°I see you got a sword there, pal.¡± ¡°Yessir.¡± ¡°Wooden?¡± ¡°Yessir.¡± ¡°Know how to use it?¡± ¡°Yessir.¡± ¡°Well, ¡®long as we ain¡¯t bothering the locals, think you can stow it, just comforting to know you¡¯re packing.¡± Another thud and I blinked, and then I could see. The high beams stretched out, cascading light up and out, a blanket of vision against old oaks and thinner birches, the road, unkempt with cracks and leaves as it disappeared out of view under the truck¡¯s tires. The trees stretched over the road in a lethargic lean from either side, but the light had trouble with what was directly above us, as though we were below the surface of a black river. The thud we heard was feet. In the shadow of the upside down river, feet, bare feet, human, bare human feet, hundreds as far as I could see, hanged out of the darkness. Once in a while the top of the truck would brush up or hit the low dangling feet of someone hanging from the trees. I could only assume the feet were attached to something, to someone, legs possibly, weird to say, but hopefully attached to legs and a torso after that. I would hate for the river to part and see it was just severed feet. ¡°Those aren¡¯t real, like, physical, right?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t be this calm if they wholly were. Nah, Virginia¡¯s history is a bloody one. We¡¯re just being reminded of it. At least it ain¡¯t daylight out.¡± ¡°Is it worse?¡± ¡°In the day? Hell yes, you gotta look them in the face. Why do you think they built the Interstate?¡± The Hanged eventually began to reduce in number as our headlights caught sight of street lights ahead. The trees gave way and the two lane turned three as Richmond became an avenue. It must have been late enough; in the darkened valley of a hill, surrounded by trees, Boswell stood out to be a semi-modern village with nothing more than portable buildings and mobile homes, all lights off, dark to the closing of night, save for the orange glow of a street lamp every 500 or so feet. One thing that did stand out was the cars. Cars were parallel parked all along the main avenue, as though we were in a city, and there was at least ten used dealerships on either side, pocked among the spare pre-fab mobile units converted into a random cultured eatery or tax accountant, redolent with hundreds of cars. The curious thing was the era that these cars were from: every era. There was a Firebird from the 1980¡¯s, a Karman Ghia from 1958, I didn¡¯t even know they sold Citroen in this country, and there was one from the 1930¡¯s, there was a DeLorean, Jeeps from World War II, a vintage Mini Cooper from the 60¡¯s, it just kept going. It was a car museum. ¡°Boswell¡¯s known for its car sales, got whatever you want, all well loved and low mileage.¡± ¡°Low mileage?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t know how the dealers do it, but it¡¯s like these cars, at one point ¡®er another, were dreams. Well loved dreams of a car that never made it to the person they were meant for. Ended up here.¡± ¡°What do they usually go for?¡± ¡°Depends on the dream, pal.¡± He pulled up to a glued-together hostel with a dollar-store Waffle House rip off attached to it, The Vroom Rooms Inn and Waffle Stop. ¡°They got a phone in there, pal, they¡¯ll help.¡± ¡°Thank you for the save, mister¡­¡± I trailed off, never caught his name, never gave him mine. ¡°You¡¯re fine. Keep the sword close pal, never know.¡± I waved him off and headed in as he pulled away into the night. The dull, dim light wasn¡¯t enough to penetrate the doldrum of this 1970¡¯s decor of the lobby. Beatrice sat attendant at the desk among oranges and browns and yellows, a woman heavy set and in her 50¡¯s who looked unmistakably as a Beatrice would, her nametag at a proud spot on her lapel. I could smell the ashtrays that were retired from here even 25 years on. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°You lost, soldier?¡± She had a look like this was usual. I played it overly familiar. ¡°Quantico.¡± ¡°Is seven miles that way,¡± she thumbed in a direction behind her. ¡°They might be looking for you, but you¡¯ll have to wait until morning. It¡¯ll be easier for them.¡± ¡°Can I use your phone?¡± ¡°Sure, soldier, don¡¯t think it¡¯ll do you any good.¡± She handed me the old rotary. I pulled the receiver off and held it up to my ear. ¡°Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten ten ten. Eight. Eight. Eight one ten. Five¡­¡± in a disjointed, robotic, static-riddled tone, I held the receiver away from my ear as it got louder. ¡°Echoes in the line, best you wait for morning.¡± She said soberly. I replaced the receiver and pushed the phone back towards her. ¡°There¡¯s vending machines outside in the hall, only coffee and cigarettes. We don¡¯t have a television, wouldn¡¯t work anyway if we did. You¡¯ve got¡­¡± she looked at a watch on her wrist, ¡°...three hours until dawn? You can wait around here or get something at the Waffle Stop. Kevin¡¯s there.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll¡­I¡¯ll look around.¡± ¡°Sure, soldier.¡± She gave me a wink. I came to the quick conclusion that anyone who unironically winks well has my best interests in mind. I went out. Three hours to kill. I went around to the outdoor ¡°hall¡± she mentioned, more a breezeway than anything else, with a vintage cigarette machine, the kind that had the pull knobs, and a somewhat more modern coffee machine, the kind that boiled water piped into the back over burnt grounds they only changed out each week. I didn¡¯t want burnt coffee, and I had smoked in my previous life, hadn¡¯t started in this one. Three hours, I thought. I looked at the brands of smokes. Marlboro Reds, Camel Turks, and Lucky Strikes. 30 cents? Kept the prices from when this thing was new, couldn¡¯t imagine these packs were fresh. Well, in my past life I got into smoking out of teenage boredom. I checked my pockets for change. A nickel and a quarter later, a pack of Turkish Blend Camels sat in my hand. I packed it down and realized I didn¡¯t have a light. I went back in the lobby, but no Beatrice. There was a seating arrangement towards the front, an ashtray in the center of a coffee table with a book of matches in it. I swiped the matchbook and went back outside. I mused to myself that I hadn¡¯t had a smoke in 24 years. Muscle memory never forgot how to pack tap a cigarette up to your mouth. When I realized what I did, I felt like a tool. I lit a match, the sulfurous burn briefly lighting up a logo of an anthropomorphized cartoon car with the bubbled lettering ¡°Vroom Rooms Inn¡± underneath appeared before being swallowed the darkness and my intake of cancerous breath. These lungs were physically not used to the harshness of Camels, but I guess the memory was too strong; I didn¡¯t cough, but the nicotine hit my blood-brain barrier immediately. Damn, can¡¯t let this new body get used to this. I felt high instantly, and after a couple of drags, I flicked the half used cigarette. Break in case of emergency, I thought. I pocketed the matchbook and the smokes for a rainy day, and looked through the window at the diner. The Waffle Stop was semi-attached to the hotel, tungsten light filtering through yellowed glass, painting a scene of Americana that was both annoyingly Nighthawkes-esque and sad reminder that diners have always been the destitute man¡¯s bastion of hungering carnality. No, Kevin, as Beatrice had named him, wasn¡¯t sexy, it was the idea that sitting at a bartop diner, being served burnt eggs and bacon with burnt coffee, waiting for the sun to come up plays to the nightcrawler journalist in me like a bad pulp fiction, that notion, that was sexy. Less than three hours. I went in. Music played on an overhead, some crooner delight, Frank, Sammy, Dean, couldn¡¯t tell who, and Kevin was wiping down glassware as I sat at the bartop. ¡°Oh good, you came,¡± I heard Beatrice say. I reeled around to see her sitting, smoking at one of the booths. ¡°Want to come and sit, soldier?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± I sat down and Kevin, a black man in his 40¡¯s, limber, greying slightly, paper hat and apron, came over and handed me a menu. ¡°What¡¯ll you have?¡± he asked. ¡°Toast, two eggs, rasher of bacon, thanks,¡± I said, not looking at the menu, just at Kevin. He nodded, walked back to the kitchen, but left the menu. ¡°What¡¯s your name, soldier?¡± ¡°Ono.¡± ¡°Ono, okay. You seem like a sweet boy. How¡¯d you by this way, soldier boy?¡± ¡°I got lost.¡± ¡°Lost, huh?¡± ¡°Slept wrong.¡± She nodded knowingly at this. ¡°I took a matchbook from the lobby, hope you don¡¯t mind,¡± I said. ¡°You can thank me for the light later, when you need to use it,¡± she said, ¡°We¡¯ll mind you, sweetie, just until morning though. Then you¡¯ll head back to the Base on your own.¡± I gave her a confused look. My eyes wandered down to the menu. The menu items: Don¡¯t look outside. Don¡¯t wander into the trees. It¡¯s waiting for you. It knows you. Ono Yumatori, you¡¯re in danger. Keep your sword close. My eyes shot up to Beatrice. She, unbothered, pointed her index and middle finger to her eyes and said calmly, ¡°Eyes here, sugar.¡± I did not break eye contact. In the corner of my eye, just to the right, something pale, visceral, and derelict pawed at the window silently. ¡°Beatrice,¡± I started. ¡°Shut the fuck up Ono, if you know what¡¯s good for you, just talk to me. Talk to me, honey, like you would anybody else. Don¡¯t pay it no mind, don¡¯t look at it. Just here. Look at me.¡± ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°The dead that hide behind the wood.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°I think you do, sugar.¡± She looked away from me and down my person, eyeing the sword. ¡°You¡¯ve hunted. It can smell that, and it don¡¯t like that one bit. The Forests of Quantico were made from bones. If you slept wrong into this place, you¡¯re best kept by good company who¡¯ll mind you.¡± It began to whistle. It whistled an unearthly resonance through the glass, the flattened tonality of my sing-songy warble that I created to signal I was there, alive, and well called out through a single pane of yellow glass, slow and low, eventually trailing off before whatever it was, crawled up the window and onto the roof. I wanted to look to make sure it had left but the slight micromovement of my chin wanting to turn caused Beatrice to violently shake her head no at me. ¡°You¡¯re better than that, c¡¯mon now.¡± I shut my eyes and took a deep breath and opened them, focusing just on Beatrice. Kevin came to our table, Beatrice scooted over and he sat down, sliding a plate of my order to me and some utensils. ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°You can look down at it. Just don¡¯t look out the windows,¡± Kevin said. The eggs were done sunny side up next to each other, toast beneath them with the bacon on top of the toast, making a face. I appreciated the gesture. ¡°Eat, Ono, it¡¯ll keep you safe,¡± Beatrice ordered. I listened and I ate. The food wasn¡¯t bad, in fact, it was great. As I ate she lit a cigarette and looked out the windows. Kevin got comfortable and leaned back. ¡°We¡¯ll pass the time with you. I¡¯m sorry you¡¯re here,¡± Kevin said, seeming genuine in his remorse for my presence. ¡°Does this happen often?¡± I asked. ¡°Not often, but it has been a while since Jacob has caught a live one and brought them here,¡± she replied. ¡°Jacob¡¯s the guy with the truck?¡± ¡°Yeah, he drives around at night. Patrolling. A kind enough gesture.¡± I ate in silence with the sound of my whistle cutting through the night occasionally. At times close, at times nearby, the sound of embers burning from a cigarette, Kevin and Beatrice sitting vigil with me in a yellow booth in an old diner at the edge of the echoing woods. An echo against an echo. ¡°This¡¯ll all be gone in the morning? As will you and Kevin?¡± ¡°Afraid so, sugar.¡± ¡°Why help me?¡± ¡°We don¡¯t ask for much, Ono. Just that on occasions, when the nights are long and no one dares to be awake, that someone, anyone just gives us the acknowledgement that we were here once.¡± ¡°And that I cooked good,¡± Kevin added. ¡°This is absolutely delicious, Kevin, thank you,¡± I said enthusiastically. I finished the meal. ¡°Much obliged, Ono, was it? On the House! Come by and see us anytime!¡± He got up and took the plate back. When Kevin returned, I asked them how they died. Beatrice was a war widow. Her husband trained at Quantico before the IERF came, when it was still part of the Marines. He didn¡¯t come back from Korea, and one day, working at the hotel, alone, in the dead of night, she keeled over at the desk. Pulmonary embolism. Kevin was in a car accident not too far away, on his way back home after a shift at the diner. They told me Jacob used to be a car dealer himself but died old and alone in town due to an aortic aneurysm. He drove a different car every night, said he liked that he could drive any car he wanted now. They asked me about me, and I told them about being from Japan and being conscripted by the IERF. I figured I could ask since I¡¯ve never tried asking an echo before. ¡°What if I told you I died, what would you say?¡± They looked at each other. Then to me. ¡°Like, actually died?¡± Beatrice asked. ¡°Like, I think I¡¯m reincarnated.¡± Kevin looked up, as though to reflect on it. Beatrice looked at me heavily, dragged from her cigarette, and blew the smoke sideways. ¡°I¡¯d say you¡¯re lucky, but then again, what does that make us?¡± she asked, more than likely rhetorically. ¡°Chopped liver, god damned noosphere,¡± Kevin scoffed. I looked down at my hands. ¡°Either of you ever heard of Nova Road?¡± I looked up at them. No notable reactions from either of them. ¡°Guess not.¡± We sat in an awkward silence for a bit before Kevin spoke up. ¡°Well, even if you¡¯re flesh and bone, if you did die, makes you one of us, I say.¡± Kevin got up and walked back to the kitchen. ¡°If you did die, you must have been brought back for a reason. Any idea on that?¡± Beatrice asked between puffs. ¡°Figuring it out, I guess.¡± ¡°When you do, let me know. I guess Kevin, Jacob, and I are doomed to save people like you on nights like this. When the woods are hungry.¡± ¡°I am honestly in you¡¯re debt, Beatrice.¡± ¡°Call me Trixy, if you please. Or baby, I like that. My late husband used to call me that.¡± In my head we were about the same age, in our 50¡¯s, and though I wanted to, I only replied back, ¡°Trixy,¡± and she smiled at it. Kevin returned with apple pie a la mode, three plates, and we talked and ate. As morning began to crease the night away, I watched the diner flicker around me like a bad motion picture reel skipping. The smoke from Trixy¡¯s cigarette began to fade in scent and Kevin at the kitchen bar, polishing glasses from 40 years ago came in and out of existence in the morning sunlight. I was about to turn my head east to catch the sun before a hand caught my chin. Trixy¡¯s hand. ¡°Sweetie, don¡¯t look that way. Ain¡¯t time yet. Still ain¡¯t safe. Watch us fade, then you¡¯ll be good.¡± I listened. I watched the living memory of a somber woman, smoking her cares away as her eyes betrayed the calm she exuded, a sadness of a lost soldier, eyes clinging to a notion of love lost to war, began to dissipate like a shadow. I glanced at Kevin, a skilled cook who had the unlucky chance of heading home one night, turned to me with a smile, then turned away, and was gone. I watched the diner fade from its yellow tinted shell into an abandoned, dirty, husk, windows shattered, dirt and nature crawling in as time reclaimed the land, the hotel dilapidated and unkept, and I hoisted myself out of the booth which had turn green with moss and algae. I stepped out of the old building, no door to speak of, and looked out into a town of empty lots and an empty street, not a car in sight. I walked out into the sun, birds chirping in the distance. As true life returned to the town, I could hear, like a faint cry, my song, my whistle, fading into the retreating shadows of the trees. I took out the matchbook from my pocket, the cartoon car looking back at me from it. ¡°Thank you for the light,¡± I said to no one in particular. I walked towards the sun, down the road, east.