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  And as I glimpse peace, my back to the earth and eyes to the sky, I wonder…

  Richter began to crawl, forcing herself forward in small increments through the heavy sand. Slowly, she inched closer, using whatever reserves remained in her slowly dying body, until she had reached the base of the next dune.

  This terrible darkness in us—this anger and rage, hatred and fear, this violence—where does it come from? What’s behind it, pulling the strings, telling lies and making us dance? Is it some other, a devil come to divide and tear us apart, to show us the ways of killing and destruction, to distract us from everything just and right? Is it some deity come to punish us, expressing its love through fire and death? Is it the child of an empty and pointless world, its creator old and tired, weeping helplessly at what might have been, what could have been?

  Moments later, she had clawed to its summit, flopping over onto her belly at the top, her head hung into the sand with exhaustion. She tried to speak; to call out to whoever might be there, but only a dry cough escaped her.

  Or is this our burden, this universe of agony and broken glass? Are we and we alone to blame? In the night, when we’re all falling through that sad and beautiful darkness, can we feel it in us then? Can we feel that beauty snuggled up close to the rage, love trying so desperately to live, to be alive in a world of indignation and fury? Or is it only the night within us, and all the dread darkness and fear breeds?

  Lifting her head, she blinked away sweat and sand and squinted at the buildings below. The crumbled remains of an outer wall encircling two small buildings, one with a once-ornate dome roof and the other connected to an outlook tower that stood fifty yards or more in the air.

  Amidst the blood and butchery, the tears and screams and horror, does it even matter? Do we truly despise mercy so? Or is it mercy that despises us?

  Though her body could no longer muster tears, Richter wept. She was saved and damned all at once, because impossibly, despite the fact that she’d gone in the opposite direction for days, she had somehow arrived back at the outpost. Returned to where she’d fled from by some insane providence.

  Owens had been right all along.

  There was only one way out of this place, and escape wasn’t it.

  10

  Through her binoculars, Richter watched the pillar of black smoke billow toward an endless expanse of sky, the sun a brilliant sweltering globe lording over miles of barren desert for far as the eye could see. She slowly panned to the right until the figure staggering along the distant dune came into focus.

  It had finally happened. She’d dreamed about this moment, sometimes happily, sometimes not, though she’d never been certain it would truly come to pass. No matter. It had happened. The desert had taken what it wanted. Again.

  It was already over one hundred degrees, and before the day was through, the desert would get even hotter. Richter drew a breath of dry air and watched the figure a while, waiting for the inevitable. It arrived quickly. Not far from the wreckage of the downed plane, the figure collapsed and rolled away lifelessly, vanishing from sight between the dunes and leaving in its wake a wide swath in the sand.

  “If he’s lucky, he’ll be dead by the time I get to him,” Richter mumbled. Or had she only thought it? She couldn’t be sure. How long had it been since she’d spoken? How long since she’d heard someone else speak? Didn’t matter, she supposed, nothing much did out here.

  Richter returned the binoculars to her belt, slid on a pair of sunglasses and shouldered her rifle. After a quick look behind her at the ruins from which she’d come, she adjusted her backpack, then started off across the sand toward the fallen stranger.

  Night was coming soon.

  They’d need to be ready.

  About the Author

  Greg F. Gifune is a best-selling, internationally published author of several acclaimed novels, novellas and two short-story collections. Called, “One of the best writers of his generation” by both The Roswell Literary Review and author Brian Keene, and “Among the finest dark suspense writers of our time” by legendary best-selling author Ed Gorman, Greg’s work has been published all over the world, translated into several languages, consistently praised by readers and critics alike, and has garnered attention from Hollywood. His novel The Bleeding Season, originally published in 2003, has been hailed as a classic in the genre and is widely considered to be one of the best horror/thriller novels of the decade. Greg resides in Massachusetts with his wife Carol, a bevy of cats and two dogs, Dozer and Bella. He can be reached online via e-mail ([email protected]) or on Facebook and Twitter.

  For more information on Greg and his work visit his official website at: www.gregfgifune.com.

  About the Publisher

  DarkFuse is a leading independent publisher of modern fiction in the horror, suspense and thriller genres. As an independent company, it is focused on bringing to the masses the highest quality dark fiction, published as collectible limited hardcover, paperback and eBook editions.

  To discover more titles published by DarkFuse, please visit its official site at www.darkfuse.com.

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