What they expected to be a simple return to the encampment turned into anything but. They had lost a number of men on the streets of Damascus, and while they were on the path back, children sprang out, from behind trees, rocks, from hiding places underneath in the ground, from dark places, not simple caves but the real dark places of this world, the true nether regions, the bottommost areas, beyond the river Styx of man’s heart.
Telos and his men became pinned down around a rocky ridge, trading gunfire with the children who seemed to be everywhere. They would shimmer against the muddy-green landscape: appearing, shooting, vanishing.
Was it a trick of the eyes? Was it a trick of reality?
The fight was lasting longer than Telos would have liked, and he could sense that old panic returning. They had to fucking get out of here. If they stayed, they were going to be slaughtered. Telos couldn’t focus, he couldn’t breathe, Jesus, holy fuck, they were all going to be murdered, right here, right now, we have to leave, oh my God we’re all going to die, here it comes now, here comes the spirit of Damascus, it has come to kill us all, all I can do is open my arms and embrace the coming oblivion, here I am death: take me.
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