The thing known as “Dissona” had gone by many names throughout the ages. Some of them included: The Lurker in the Dark, Khythos Raparian, Yictaagner…she’d even been mistaken for Randall Flagg by a slack-jawed yokel, just before she’d drunk his marrow. It had tasted disgusting—like damp earth and fresh dew—but she’d been ravenous with hunger, so it had been better than nothing.
Now, she faced a new challenge: the fucking Timekeeper had stripped her of power. Not all of it, but enough to prevent her from consuming this reality. The last time she’d fought him, she’d managed to lock him in a nightmare and reign supreme over a cold, dead multiverse.
As eons passed, she’d grown increasingly content, until she’d lapsed into a forgetful slumber. Then, while she’d been dozing, some fuckwit had restarted linearity. As a result, the typical rancid bullshit—love, laughter and dreams—had reared its ugly head. And just like always, those gave birth to smaller annoyances like hope, beauty, and altruism.
As soon as she’d woken up, she could smell the possibility, the untrammeled novelty. It was utterly sickening.
The Timekeeper had hit her with a Theosophic emetic. In addition to stripping away her powers, she was now confined to a physical body. She had to deal with breathing, eating, and all the horseshit that went hand-in-hand with being mortal.
Being human was a blessing and a curse. It decreased her hunger—her belly was nagged by a dull ache instead of an all-consuming craving—but it came with serious disadvantages. As soon as she shifted into her black-mist form, her appetite took hold and she began to cannibalize herself.
She’d have to accept her new limitations; she was now a teenage girl with a smattering of parlor tricks. It would take a few months to rebuild her power, but until then…
Enter Dee Sonay: Dissona’s human incarnation.
ANOS had built a network of pipes that funneled sludge into an out-of-the-way pond, bordered by foothills on all sides. In between the yellow-grassed slopes, a pair of sentries patrolled the muck.
People rarely came out to Depot 58 (or as it was called by the guards: the Slime Reservoir). The guards passed the time by bitching about management, talking football, or reminiscing about the Good Old Days. The pay was good, but this was some ridiculous shit. Who the fuck hired kitted-out gunslingers to guard a murky pool of dirty sludge?
That’s what Ricky Lashley, who’d done four deployments as a Marine Corps door-kicker, was thinking as he walked the perimeter around Slime Rez. His partner, Gonzo (real name Jose Gonzalez; he’d gotten his trigger time as an Army doggie in the 101st) was walking beside him, tracing the same, circular route they always took.
Clockwise, clockwise…always clockwise.
Their shoulders burned from the weight of their gear, and their fingers and faces were uncomfortably cold—not frigid, but that annoyingly distinct chill that came with long hours spent in the field.
“Fuck,” Gonzo grumbled. “Sick of this bullshit. I can’t wait to get promoted so I can—”
“Sit in the guard shack and try to stay awake?” Ricky laughed. “Yeah—that’s a real step up from what we’re doing.”
“At least we’d be warm,” Gonzo said, “instead of out here, freezing our nuts off.”
“It’s not that bad,” Ricky said.
Which was God’s honest truth; they’d spent their share of teeth-chattering nights huddled beneath a poncho liner, pressed against a smelly Marine (or soldier, in Gonzo’s case), trying to grab a couple hours of fitful sleep. Slime Rez was annoying as hell, but it didn’t grind you down day after day, hour after hour. You didn’t have to wake in a shambling daze, and lock yourself on with a boatload of stimulants.
But therein lied the problem—working for ANOS wasn’t physically hard, but unlike the Corps, it didn’t provide Ricky with any sense of purpose. Of meaning.
On more than one occasion, he’d heard Marines wish they could stay overseas, and just keep fighting for the rest of their enlistment. Back then he’d thought they were stupid, but now—as he was walked clockwise, clockwise, endlessly clockwise—he was tempted to agree with them.
He dipped his chin and chuckled softy.
“The fuck is so funny?” Gonzo asked.
“You ever miss your time in the service?”
Gonzo snorted. “You’d trade a six-figure paycheck and an eight-hour workday for all the bullshit we used to put up with? Come on.”
Ricky continued walking. “This sucks too, though, doesn’t it? Back then, we had a purpose.”
Gonzo stopped walking. “You’re not thinking of re-enlisting, are you? Dude, you do not want to—”
Ricky lit a cigarette and fit it to his lips. ANOS allowed him to smoke on patrol, which was a big no-no back in the military. Part of him was disgusted by how little they cared, but a stronger part was gonna take advantage of it. If the boss was being genrous, you got what you could and kept your mouth shut, because he’d tighten things up soon enough.
“It’s funny…” He blew a funnel of gray, eyes creasing as he stared at the dimming horizon. “Back when I was in, I would’ve loved this gig. Regular hours, a real bed and hot meals…but now, it feels like all I’m doing is standing still.” He took another drag, tapped some ash off his cigarette, and looked over at Gonzo. “You feel me?”
“Standing still?” Gonzo spread his arms wide, letting his rifle hang from its tactical sling. “Bro, we get paid to walk in a circle. The fuck d’you mean, ‘standing still?’ ”
Ricky looked annoyed. “You know what I mean. Stop twisting words so you can sound sm—”
“Quiet.” Gonzo held up a loose-fingered hand and turned toward the reservoir. “The hell is that?”
Ricky followed his gaze. In the middle of the sludge was a six-foot oval that looked like it was made from cratered, rotting flesh. The muck around it was bubbling and hissing.
Ricky ground his cigarette beneath his boot, and pointed his rifle at the pond.
Gonzo was sighting down his weapon. “Bro…it’s some kind of egg…”
Ricky’s non-firing hand rose to his chest, clicking the key on his inter-squad radio. “Overwatch, this is Groundside.”
Hank Slake, their watch chief, sounded bored and resigned. “Groundside, you have ten more minutes before you check in; you know that right? I swear to Christ, if you tore me away from Adventure Time because you spotted a coyote or a squirrel, I’m gonna—”
“There’s something in the pond. Some kind of…egg. Six feet in height.”
The egg rose, nearly clearing the muck. Its bottom curve was still a few inches in, but the rest of it was visible. Sickly green mist—faintly glowing with hazy swamp-light—was pouring down its sides. Its core was pulsing with emerald luminescence.
There was a long, hanging silence.
Ricky knew what Hank was thinking; they’d both served as ground pounders and had solid reputations. Unless Ricky had lost his marbles (which wasn’t out of the question—assemble enough grunts and you’d start losing some to the Batshit Crazies) he was telling the truth.
Hank’s voice came back on. “Did you just say there’s a six-foot egg in the middle of the reservoir?”
Ricky stifled a surge of annoyance. “I say again, Overwatch: I’m looking at a six-foot egg that’s risen from the reservoir.”
“Uh…ok. Should I scramble the Special Response Unit, or…” Hank lost his radio etiquette and let his statement trail off. Ricky couldn’t blame him; one of his guys had just reported that a giant fucking egg had emerged from the Rez.
Ricky thought about it. “Wait one.”
Ricky turned to Gonzo. “Should we scramble SRU?”
Gonzo’s eyes flicked back to the egg. “I dunno man…”
Ricky didn’t know either. He eyed the steaming, pulsing oval, then decided fuck it—why not? This wasn’t Iraq or Afghanistan; this was like the start of a cheesy horror movie.
“Call ’em in.”
“Stand by.” After a few seconds (it seemed like forever; Ricky’s nerves were jumping and thrumming) Hank said, “They’re on their way.”
SRU was based ten miles west of ANOS’s central facility. If something happened inside ANOS, SRU would have a secure location where they could assess the threat and deploy a response. Slime Rez had never been a concern, and even if it had been, ANOS was pretty damn lazy about minding its Ps and Qs when it came to security. Consequently, the reservoir hadn’t been apportioned its own response unit.
All this meant SRU was going to drive fifty miles before they arrived on-site. Ricky knew this, and it only served to increase his anxiety. That goddamn egg had gotten brighter; it looked like a fucking Christmas lawn ornament.
“ETA?” He tried not to grind his teeth.
“Forty-five minutes,” Hank replied.
At that moment, the egg began splitting open, wilting into a quartet of slime-coated petals. They were meaty and thick, speckled with lesions and boils. Something was emerging from the center…it looked vaguely human.
“Ricky,” Gonzo called. “The fucking egg.”
“I know man—I see it.” Ricky clicked back on. “Overwatch, the egg is open, and something’s coming out. Air assault division? Are they available?”
“Negative. They’re on maintenance stand down. Budgeting chiefs couldn’t get their act together. The only asset we’ve got are the guys en route.”
“Well tell them to hurry the fuck up!” Ricky lost his comms etiquette and swore over the net.
Hank’s reply was fast and heated: “I’m a hundred yards away, Ricky; I’m in the same spot as you, remember? Stay calm and keep cool. Help’s on the way.”
Ricky’s voice trembled with fear. “You’re not seeing this, Hank.”
The egg had blossomed fully open. Its wattled flaps floated listlessly atop the surface of the muck. The creature inside was definitely female, but Ricky couldn’t pick out any of her features due to the wash of green light pouring off her body.
“Yo!” Gonzo called. “Ricky, I think it’s a girl! Yo, man, it’s a fucking teenage gi—”
She raised a hand and spread her fingers. A torrent of snot-like gunk shot from her palm and enveloped Gonzo.
He let out a scream and cut loose with his rifle. Rounds sparked and plinked off the girl. Ricky yelled at Gonzo to aim his damn shots, but when he looked over at him, his eyes widened in horror. Gonzo was coated in slime…and also in worms.
“Help me!” Gonzo stopped firing and swatted at the worms. “Fucking HELP ME!” The worms began boring through his uniform and gear, opening bracelet-sized holes all across his body. Chunk-speckled blood poured from his wounds, spilling down his legs like gory vomit.
“Fuck!” Ricky screamed. “FUCK!” He was sighting on Gonzo, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Friendly fire was a cardinal sin.
He knew it was right. He just couldn’t do it.
Gonzo began spasming and seizing, emitting a series of spine-chilling ULK ULK ULK noises. He threw his head back and a fountain of blood jetted up from his mouth.
That broke the spell—Gonzo wasn’t human; he was a convulsing piece of meat. Ricky squeezed the trigger, drilling a neat red hole into his partner’s temple.
Gonzo collapsed. The worms bounced upward from the sudden impact. Then, in perfect unison, they rose up on their back segments and faced Ricky. Now he could see how they’d tunneled into Gonzo; each one had a mouth. Tiny circles filled with needle-like teeth.
Ricky turned and ran.
“Overwatch,” he gasped. “Fire up the Suburban! We need to get out of here! Now!”
“Got it,” Hank answered.
Ricky felt a surge of desperate hope. Just might make it, he thought. If we can get to the car and—
Something thick and muscled coiled around his ankles, cinching them together and yanking him off his feet. His jaw clacked shut as his chin hit the ground, and a bright flash of pain crashed through the nerves of his broken teeth. His mouth filled with the cloying taste of copper, and a second later he realized he’d bitten off the end of his tongue—it was lying on the ground a foot away. The moon reflected off its slick, shiny surface, bringing its ruined end into clear relief.
“Nnnn…” He fumbled with his rifle, but he’d landed on top of it; the weight of his torso was keeping it pinned. He tried to flip over but he was being dragged backward too damn fast.
I’m going to be eaten, he thought wildly. Holy Mary Mother of CHRIST IT’S GONNA EAT ME!
Without thinking, he slapped his right arm down and drew his pistol, aiming it in the direction of his hungry assailant. His first shot tore through his foot. His heart was beating so damn hard he could hear its rhythm—could actually feel it—in both his ears and on the edges of his skull. The second shot skated across the front of his shin, and the third punched through the meat of his calf (despite his amped up state, that one hurt), but he kept firing, determined to keep going until—
“Shit!” Ricky screamed. “Shit shit SHIT!”
There was a slick, sucking pop. In the dim, smoky swamplight, he caught a glimpse of his leg flying off his body, torn away like a Thanksgiving wishbone.
“No!” he wailed. “No no no NO—”
Dee Sonay dragged him underwater.