I wake up for the thousandth time in who knows how long. I don’t know how long it’s been or how many days have passed. There’s no clock, not even a window. My pupils dilate as they adjust to the lack of light. I take in my surroundings, not expecting to find a table next to my bed. It has a tray with bread and a plain chunk of meat, and next to it is a bottle of water. I painfully push myself upright. I’d usually be more wary, but the pain in my side had made me forget how absolutely famished I’ve been. I scarf the tasteless offerings like I haven’t eaten in years.

I set the tray down and curl up uncomfortably as my stomach painfully adjusts to the sudden intake of food. I hear footsteps echoing in the hallway. My head snaps up towards the door as it clicks open and in comes death. Just like before, he completely ignores me in favor of his desk, except this time he’s sitting down. It seems like he’s planning to stay a little longer this time since he’s pulling out papers and a pen.

“Hey!”

“…” He ignores me.

“Where am I?” I try again. I don’t care if I end up annoying him, that’d just be returning the favor. He’s got no reason to be all mysterious, this pretentious ass-

“You’re at a camp.”

Huh. So the man does speak. More importantly, I’m not hallucinating this whole thing. His voice is gruff and cold, no surprise there. His mask muffles it a little.

“Government or rogue..?” I ask warily.

“Rogue.”

I go weak from relief. I don’t know what I’d have done if I landed in a government base. Too many close calls lately. My eyes flit back to the man, his back turned to me. This guy’s difficult, but I’ll squeeze as much as I can from him.

“What’s your name?”

“…” Nothing. Just the quiet hiss of his breath.

“Why do you wear that thing anyway?”

“…”

“God damn, am I talking to myself here?!” I groan, exasperation lacing my voice. This man may just answer what he feels like, probably ignores anything he deems pointless. “Could you at least tell me when you brought me?”

“Two days.”

“Damn…” I sigh, burying my face into my knee. I lazily look back up at him. “What’s your name?” I ask again. Nothing better to do around here.

The writing comes to a stop, his hand clutching the pen, and I can’t help but grin. I might’ve pissed him off already.

“Go to sleep.” The taps of pen across paper resumes.

“If you don’t tell me your name, I’ll make one up y’know. I’m already thinking of some good ones. So, what’s it?”

His pen stops again. “842.” Even he can’t keep the irritation from creeping into his words.

“Codes don’t count, reaper. Hey, that’s a good one isn’t it? First name Death, last name Reaper?” He can probably hear the smile in my voice.

The sound of writing intensifies as he scribbles down the rest of his notes. He slides the paper into a filing cabinet before standing up abruptly. For someone so reserved, it’s awfully easy to get under his skin. I think this as he steps out and shuts the door, taking my momentary fun along with him. I feel oddly disappointed.

It’s just me and the fluorescent light again. Flicker.

Five, six, seven, eight, flicker.

Going off of how many meals have been dropped off, I’d say it’s been two days since that encounter. I haven’t seen the guy since then. That only leaves me with my usual activities: sleeping and counting.

Thirteen, fourteen, flicker. 

I spoke with an actual doctor today, and she told me I’d be good to go soon. However, as much as I despise this dreary place, I know that If I leave, this stupid wound will make sure I don’t last long. The doctor told me I could stay at the base until I fully healed, so long as I take up a job. I weigh my options.

Pretty much everything is telling me to stay for a while, but either way, it seems my days of counting seconds are over soon.

967 is my number, hunting is my job. I wander through the endless maze of rooms with only the faded signs on the walls and a crudely drawn map from the doctor. After an eternity, I finally reach my froom. I use my keycard to get inside.

The hotel sector of the abandoned conference center is pretty standard, nothing extravagant, but god… anything feels luxurious when you’ve spent months in tents, dirt, and hospital beds. There’s even a real shower!

In the room there’s two small beds separated by a nightstand. I know I’m supposed to have a roommate, but the room is so desolate that it doesn’t feel lived in. The only thing indicative of another human is the plaque above the bed with the engraved number “842”.

842? I know I’ve heard that somewhere, at least I think so… dammit, why can’t I remember?! 842, 842… I try my hardest to remember why I know it as I open my bag, but nothing’s coming up. I finish unpacking and slump down onto my bed.

“842, 842, 842….” I mumble to myself, willing myself to remember. As if I’d just chanted a summoning ritual, a beep comes from the door, followed by the click of a door handle.

In walks a man, mid to late twenties, dressed in full black and tanned skin littered with scars. Most notably of all, around his neck hung a military gas mask.

Oh.

842.

Death Reaper.

He seems to recognize me too, judging by the way he tries to muster up a glare but ends up being too exhausted to bother. Before I can say anything, he disappears into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on not long after.

God, why him? Not only did I manage to piss him off, but I’ll be stuck with someone who’s damn near mute! I might as well just talk to imaginary friends. Whatever. I’ll just try my best to make peace with the guy.

I take over the shower once he’s finally out, and by the time I’m finished, the sun is down. I leave the bathroom and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, inhaling out of what seems to be a nebulizer machine. I haven’t seen one of those things in ages, I didn’t think they’d still be around, and I can’t help but be curious as to why he needs it.

The silence is deafening. This time, there’s no fluorescent light buzzing to distract myself with. I hear him click off the machine and store it away.

I let out a sigh. “Hey.”

“…” Ignored.

“Listen, I know you don’t exactly want to get friendly with me, but I’m still gonna ask for your name. I’m not a fan of referring to you as a number, and you’re sure as hell not a fan of the name ‘Death Reaper’.” I attempt a joke.

“…” He stares at me irritably as he switches off the nightstand lamp. He turns on his side, facing away from me.

I inwardly groan. This difficult bastard, god forbid I try to be nice. Why do I even try? I know I’ll never get anywhere with this dude… what’s his deal anyway-

“It’s Salem.” A rough voice abruptly cuts through the silence. “My name is Salem.”

I look over at him in surprise, but he’s still turned away. I feel a little bad now for thinking of him that way. I can’t help a smile. I like the name Salem.

“Hey, Salem. I’m Xavier.”

It’s been three weeks since then. Having my life revolve around hunting is more rewarding than I thought it’d be, it’s nice to help feed people. Even the daily inspection at the gate is much less daunting than it was before. With every person that goes through, their number is called through an intercom. What follows next is a long beep at best, and a gunshot at worst. In my time here, only two people have been put down.

Best of all, though, is Salem. At first, trying to talk to him was still like trying to talk to a tree, but with time, he’s become more relaxed around me. He’s still a man of few words, but a conversation is actually possible unlike before, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t what I looked forward to most every day. Going back to the room after a long day, showering, then ranting about whatnot to him. He doesn’t reveal too much about himself, but I can piece together a few things.

I’ve come to the conclusion that he’d been in a fire a few years ago and damaged his lungs. It would explain why he never goes on missions without his mask, why his voice is prematurely gruff, and why he takes the medicine every night. Most notably, though, is the wide burn scar that covers his entire side. I see it when he changes, starting beside his chest and disappearing beneath his hip. I’ve decided it’s better not to ask about things like that. I don’t know why, but I can only stick to surface level conversations like missions or whatever else doesn’t matter. But god, do I want to know more than his opinion on the weather.

I want to know how he grew up, did he have a family? What kind of person was he before the apocalypse, how old is he? I want to know what he hates, what he loves, what scares him, what makes him feel safest. I wish he’d tell me about the fire, or let me point to every single scar on his body and tell me how he got them. I wish he wouldn’t fall asleep with his back facing me, I wish he’d ask me more about myself. I want to tell him that I no longer feel like he’s the intimidating embodiment of death, that I admire how hard he’s fought against it. I hope that one day I can talk to him about all of these things, then ask him if it’s normal to feel this way, then maybe he could tell me he was just as curious about me too.

I could ask Salem if he’s just like me, if he looks at me and feels affection some days, but others it’s a pang of melancholy. I could ask if he wants to see me happy too, if he wishes he could have met me in another world without the apocalypse, because I sure as hell do.

It’s what I’m wishing right now as I lay down flat on my bed, staring at the ceiling as I listen to the rustle of his bed sheets from across the room. The room is cold. I wonder if Salem is cold too.

“I’ve been feeling like eating rabbit lately, but I can’t find them anymore in the places I hunt.” I complain meaninglessly.

“…” Salem always takes longer to respond. He likes to think over his words. “Come with me tomorrow. The forest I go to has rabbits.”

I perk up in a mixture of surprise and giddiness. I feel childish, but I don’t mind right now. “Holy shit, really?!”

He nods. “I’ll cook it when we get back.”

I can’t help the stupid grin that’s covering my face, nor the warmth that’s now coursing through me, but I decide to indulge in it because Salem’s going to cook me a rabbit tomorrow.

Leaves crunch under our boots as Salem leads me into his forest.

“Why’s it that you come all the way over here for your job? What do you do?” I ask idly.

He thinks over his words for a long time.

“Back when I wasn’t fit to be a hunter anymore, I was switched to being a gatherer. One day I brought back a random flower. Since then my job has been to find more of them.” He pauses again. “They told me they can finally make an antidote.”

In my shock I nearly trip over myself, I mean, who the hell wouldn’t?! An antidote?! “Holy shit Salem, what?! How haven’t I heard of this yet?”

“It’s classified.” He shrugs casually, as if he just revealed his favorite color. “The only people that know are me, the scientists, the council, and you.”

‘And you.’

I walk back to the clearing where we agreed to meet. The weight of three nice, plump rabbits sit beautifully in my bag. I lean back against a tree, waiting for Salem to come back.

I’m guessing it’s been fifteen minutes of standing there when I hear staggering footsteps behind me. My heart drops to my stomach when I turn around.

“Fucking hell, what happened Salem?!” I rush over to steady him, but I jerk my right hand away as I feel his blood soaked sleeve. He’s making an expression I’ve never seen from him, he looks terrified.

He’s shaking and coughing and his left arm is limp, tied up by a bloody piece of cloth.

“It’s fine, It’s- COUGH! There was… it was a fox…” He stares into the ground.

I can hardly hear him over the blood pounding in my ears as I rush him back in the direction we came from. All the way back to the base neither of us says a word. As we wait in line, we’re given no more priority than anyone else, we wait and wait and wait as every mere second feels like a nauseating hour. It’s unbearable. I can almost collapse with relief as we approach the inspection area, closer to the medics, closer to our room, closer to safety.

726 inspection. 

BEEEP

Salem weakly shrugs off his bag, handing it to me with a trembling hand.

960 inspection.

BEEEP

I don’t question it. His despondent gaze focuses for a moment. He looks so human when he looks back at me.

135 inspection.

BEEEP

“You’re a great guy… Xavier…” he rasps. “But we shouldn’t have met In a place like this.”

“What?”

143 inspection.

BEEEP

“But I still can’t regret saving you.”

“Salem, wait! What the hell are you saying?!”

842 inspection.

BANG!

It was mouse number 24601. A gray specimen, with no distinguishing marks, one of many. Yet, while Amedeo was monitoring their activities through the infrared camera, the mouse raised its head and stared at him.

Directly.

It wasn’t possible. Animals didn’t know they were being watched. They didn’t understand the concept of a camera. But 24601 was staring at the lens with eyes as black as a bottomless pit.

Then he turned to the other mice.

And made them all turn.

Amedeo felt his breath catch. A hundred eyes were watching him through the monitor.

He turned off the camera.

For the first time, he felt like he had made a mistake.

3. The Second Law

In the following days, something changed.

The mice began to organize themselves in an increasingly structured way. They built a kind of central arena and held meetings there. Amedeo tried to record their sounds, hoping to find recurring patterns.

He found them.

A phrase, repeated several times in their ultrasonic emissions. A precise rhythm.

Translated into human language, it said:

“The Second Law: The Guardian Exists.”

Amedeo shivered.

Was he the Guardian? Had they seen him? Had they guessed?

He decided to intervene for the first time.

In the middle of the night, while the mice were sleeping, he went down to the basement and removed the McDonald’s poster. In its place he put a mirror.

That was his biggest mistake.

4. The Third Law

At dawn, he found the mice gathered in front of the mirror.

They were mutilating themselves.

One by one, they tore off pieces of their tails, ears, and left them in front of the reflection. As if they wanted to offer something to the Guardian. As if they had realized that he had never shown himself because they were not worthy.

Civilization had discovered sacrifice.

Amedeo felt invaded by a sense of deep nausea. They had built it on their own. It had never been a controlled experiment: it was a cult born from a wrong truth.

And the truth was that they weren’t worshiping him. They were looking for him.

That’s when 24601 climbed onto the mirror.

He stopped at the top, stared at him—and Amedeo felt, with horror, his voice in his head.

Not a sound. Not a whisper. A thought.

“You are not the first.”

5. The Fourth Law

Amedeo felt himself sink into a bottomless void. How could he? How could he communicate? The mouse was an inferior being, a parasite, a nobody!

Yet, now, 24601 came down from the mirror and began to walk towards his control station. He wasn’t running. He was walking. As if he knew where he was, as if he had always known.

Amedeo, in a desperate gesture, turned off all the lights.

But he still heard it.

The sound of small paws approaching.

The pungent smell of his fur.

Then, the pressure of a tiny thing on his hand.

He turned around.

And he saw the mouse, standing on his desk.

“You are not the first.”

“Neither am I.”

And Amedeo understood.

Compressed in a second of absolute horror.

The miniature city, the spontaneous cult, the laws emerged from nowhere.

It had happened before.

It always happened.

And he wasn’t the creator. He was just the umpteenth experiment.

One of many.

Epilogue: The Fifth Law

When his colleagues found him weeks later, Amedeo no longer spoke.

He didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t sleep.

He sat in the basement, staring at the mice in silence.

And they watched him.

They watched him with their empty eyes, waiting.

Because a new civilization was being born.

And this time, their God was there with them.

PART TWO

Rinaldi Amedeo, Doctor

Amedeo always had an obsession. Not people, not books, not the future. Mice. He always found them fascinating. Tiny replicas of civilization, perfect, precise, inevitable. He watched them in alleys, subways, abandoned warehouses. What did they do? Where did they go? What did they think?

Then he decided to build something bigger. An experiment.

In the basement of his house, he created the perfect city.

Modular cages, transparent tunnels, sections dedicated to agriculture, commerce, war. A miniature habitat, a civilization made of twitching tails and sharp teeth. He gave them a name. He educated them. He wrote their laws.

And they learned.

In the beginning, it was fun. The mice traded pieces of food, formed hierarchies, built nests that resembled miniature Gothic cathedrals. But then they started to develop something else. A religion.

At the highest point of their city, they erected a small monument. It wasn’t random. It couldn’t be. It was him.

A photograph of him, cut out from an old university card and stuck between two bars. They worshiped him.

The Great Eye.

FIRST MISTAKE

Amedeo laughed. They were just mice. A game.

Then one night he found the first scroll.

A piece of gnawed paper, tiny, dirty with ink. A message. Written in a language that could never have existed, yet perfectly translatable.

It said:

“Start over. Start over. Start over.”

Amedeo felt something crack inside him. How many times had it already happened?

He looked at the old recordings again. Day after day, month after month, always the same evolution. Society grows. Society flourishes. Society falls.

And then, every time, it starts again.

Without explanation. Without him doing anything.

SECOND MISTAKE

One night, the silence breaks.

In the basement, a ticking. Not mice. Something bigger.

Amedeo goes down the stairs with his heart in his throat. The air smells of metal and dampness. The yellow light of the only neon projects wrong shadows on the walls.

The cages are open.

The floor is sprinkled with signs engraved with surgical precision. Curved lines, spirals, a language too articulate to be casual. Messages.

Amedeo approaches. With a tremor, he caresses one of the symbols engraved in the wood of the desk. He feels something move behind him.

He turns around.

And he sees it.

A man. Sitting at the desk. Identical to him.

THIRD MISTAKE

His double stares at him with a tired smile. He has a notebook open in front of him and a pen between his fingers.

“You were wondering how many times?”

Amedeo can’t speak.

“Seventy-two.”

The double’s voice is calm. Familiar. Almost compassionate.

“Seventy-two times you built the city. Seventy-two times you saw civilization born and fall. Seventy-two times you found the messages. And seventy-two times you came down here, saw me and understood.”

“Understood what?” Amedeo whispers.

The other Amedeo gets up, shrugging his shoulders. “That it’s not you who studies them.”

The ticking gets louder.

Amedeo feels his breath catch. Something tightens his stomach, twists it from the inside. The basement is changing.

The walls move. The The shadows move on their own.

The mice were never mice. They were observers.

And now, finally, they have finished their study.

Amedeo wants to scream, run away, destroy everything. But it makes no sense. He already knows it. Because this scene has already been repeated seventy-two times.

And it will be repeated again.

Amedeo’s double approaches, leaning towards his ear.

And whispers:

“You are the last piece.”

Then everything dissolves.

THE CYCLE BEGINS AGAIN

Amedeo wakes up.

He is sitting at the desk. The basement is intact. The mice are in their cages. The city is perfect.

But in the corner of the room, barely visible in the shadow, someone is watching him.

PART THREE

Amedeo (Dr.) Rinaldi

The Code 72

Amedeo opened his eyes and the basement was already written. The walls, the cages, the ticking of time that didn’t exist: everything already engraved in a notebook that he didn’t remember filling. Seventy-two times. Seventy-two lives. Seventy-two collapses. Seventy-two awakenings.

He looked at the table: a sheet of paper. “Read.” It was his handwriting, but not his mind. He had written what had not yet happened. Reading meant remembering the future.

He did it.

“The city was never yours. The mice have always been the scientists. You are the variable. And the cycle… the cycle is already compromised.”

The words changed as he read them.

“You are not Amedeo. You are not the first. You are not the last. You are an interference.”

The Eye and the Tooth

When Amedeo turned around, he saw the Thing.

It was not a mouse. It was not human. It was a twist of reality, a patch of skin, fur and teeth overlapping. It watched him without eyes, with a wrong smile, open on several layers.

“Speak.”

It was not an order. It was an invitation. As if the language he knew was a prison, and the Thing was the exit.

Amedeo tried to scream, but his voice twisted into an ultrasonic hiss. He understood. The language of mice was not made of sounds, but of the absence of them. They didn’t speak. They subtracted.

And he was disappearing.

The Grafting Ritual

Amedeo woke up. He was still in the basement. But the skin was not his. The time was not his. He looked at his hands: there were lines engraved, not scars, but a language. Words that he could read by touch. “You are the last piece.”

The night has too many eyes. Black eyes, round, shining like obsidian shards, that move under the floor, in the air ducts, between the cracks in the walls. Amedeo feels their rustling, the ticking of their nails on the linoleum. There is no silence in the basement. There never has been.

The city grows. The organism proliferates. And now it speaks.

They write. The first message is engraved in the wood of his desk with sharp teeth: “God does not watch.”

Amedeo laughs. They cannot understand. They cannot know.

But then why does he find another one the next day, engraved in the glass of the surveillance camera?

“God is blind.”

Then again, days later, engraved directly on the skin of his forearm while he sleeps:

“God does not exist.”

Amedeo stops sleeping.

The mice now wait for him every night. Every night they gather in silence under the flickering neon light, still, standing on their hind legs, without making any noise. They wait. They wait.

One day, Amedeo finds them all kneeling in front of an old cracked mirror. They are watching something. He looks inside.

He notices the pain. Something inside him moves. He gets up with difficulty, looks at himself in the mirror that he didn’t remember hanging.

The reflection is not his.

It’s 24601.

And he smiles.

Because the one in the mirror has too many eyes.

The US is losing VENEZUELA ┃ Caracas arrested 30 CIA agents & started WAR preparation

Not being reported in Western “news” media.

Alaska Salmon Melts

Yield: 7 servings

Ingredients

• 1 (14.75 ounce) can or 2 (7.5 ounce) cans traditional pack Alaska salmon or 2 (6 to 7.1 ounce) cans or pouches skinless, boneless salmon, drained and chunked
• 1/3 cup low-fat mayonnaise
• 1 teaspoon dried parsley
• 1 teaspoon lemon juice
• 1/2 teaspoon seasoned salt
• 1/4 teaspoon celery seed
• 1 cup shredded Cheddar cheese, divided
• 3 to 4 English muffins, split

Instructions

Spread

1. Mix salmon with mayonnaise, parsley, lemon juice, seasoned salt, and celery seed.
2. Stir in 1/2 cup cheese.

Sandwich

1. Set oven to broil.
2. Lightly toast cut side of muffins on baking sheet about 5 inches from heat.
3. Spoon 1/4 cup salmon mixture (for 8 servings) or 1/3 cup (for 6 servings) onto each toasted muffin half.
4. Top with remaining cheese.
5. Broil for 3 to 4 minutes until cheese melts and is lightly browned.

Notes

Variation: Substitute shredded pepper-jack or Swiss cheese for Cheddar.

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