Series
Wrong Identity
The man didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his canvas jacket and produced a small, handheld device that looked like a vintage radio tuner, though it lacked a speaker. He turned a dial with a slow, methodical precision, and the humming from the television shifted from a low drone to a piercing, high-frequency whine. Curtis felt the sound vibrate through his teeth, a digital needle stitching its way through his consciousness.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"The diner," Curtis whispered. "Which one?" "The Rusty Spoon," the man replied, leaning back against the wall. "About two hundred yards from where you were lounging in the mud. You had a fever that would have melted a lead pipe, kid. I gave you some aspirin and a glass of water before you passed out. You’ve been out for two days."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Let go!" Curtis screamed, though the sound that left his throat was a distorted, electronic screech. He could see the Enforcer advancing through the haze, its movements fluid and devoid of doubt. It didn't hate him; it didn't even see him as a person. To the machine, Curtis was simply a misplaced piece of equipment, a tool that had fallen behind a workbench and needed to be retrieved. The Enforcer reached out a ceramic hand to grasp his shoulder, and in that moment of proximity, the tether's signal peaked, attempting to force a hard reboot of his consciousness.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
"Don't celebrate yet," Soren cautioned, though he was limping toward Curtis with a look of fierce pride. "The signal didn't just break; it rebounded. We’ve effectively shouted our location to every satellite in the quadrant. This was a skirmish, Curtis. The war is just starting."
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Soren didn’t flinch, but his hand tightened on Curtis’s arm, a silent command to remain an extension of the stone. The machine began to scrape at the narrow opening, its talons screeching against the salt-crust, carving deep, jagged grooves into the wall. It wasn't seeing him, but it was feeling the displacement of air, the heat signature that the grounding plate had dampened but not entirely extinguished. The Stalker let out a low-frequency chuff, a burst of compressed air meant to clear the dust and expose the hidden prey.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
As they climbed a steep incline of basalt, the narrow confines of the tunnel gave way to a wide, open plateau. Below them lay the heart of Anchorage. It wasn't the city Curtis had imagined, but a cluster of dwellings woven into the very anatomy of the gorge. Homes were carved into the magnetite spires, connected by swaying rope bridges made of cured hide and rusted cable. Gardens of pale, light-drinking ferns clung to the undersides of cliffs, and small fires flickered in the depths of the canyon, sending thin ribbons of peat smoke drifting upward toward the purple sky.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis looked around the hall at the sleeping forms of the others. They looked so fragile in the soft light, a collection of scarred skin and clicking gears. The thought of a recovery team descending on this precarious sanctuary sent a cold spike of dread through him. He thought of the Stalker—the blind, scent-driven horror—and realized that the machine had been a mere curiosity compared to what a full-scale extraction team would look like.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
Wrong Identity
Curtis awoke to the sound of metal scraping against stone. The emerald glow of the fungi had dimmed, replaced by a bruised, purple twilight that filtered down from the distant rift. Soren was standing by the iron table, packing the phonograph and the wax cylinders into a heavy wooden crate with a tenderness that bordered on the religious. The oil lamp was low, casting long, flickering shadows that made the salt pillars look like frozen sentinels guarding their retreat.
By Forest Greenabout a month ago in Fiction
