“You control the outcome,” the voice behind him said. He wondered if it was that doctor that had operated on him. “This is not a dream. This is reality. You will die if you do not focus.”
The Skull drew closer, snapping, violent. O’Neil could almost feel the creature’s rage and anger. As if those emotions were an ember burning in the back of his mind. He started to feel that same fury. Wanted to tear the Skull apart.
As he grew angrier, more frustrated, more fearful that there was nothing he could do to escape, the monster swiped its claws more wildly, its bloodshot eyes pulsing, its teeth snapping over and over. It let out a scream that matched O’Neil’s own frustration.
O’Neil roared back, fueling the flames of the monster’s insanity.
“You are doing everything wrong!” the Russian behind him said. “Calm, you imbecile. You want calm. Focus!”
“Maybe it didn’t take,” another voice said.
“It took. I do not fail.”
The Skull’s claws tore so close he could feel the air rush past O’Neil’s face.
“Focus,” the first voice said again.
O’Neil wanted to scream and laugh and curse. Maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe he was having a bad trip thanks to anesthetics or some other shit they had pumped into his body.
If he was going to die anyway—in his dream or in real life—what else did he have to lose?
He stared at the Skull. Caught its eyes.
Then did exactly what the Russian had commanded.
Focused. Thought about calmness. Serenity.
A cool breeze curling over a beach in Virginia. A day spent with his brothers before they were sent halfway across the world to take down another cell of fighters. He started to think about deployment, fighting. Heat rose in the back of his mind again, the Skull growing wilder. A claw scraped dangerously close to his nose, and he twisted his head.
Focus.
Focus.
Focus.
He heard the squawk of the gulls again. Saw Loeb’s girls laughing as they dumped a bucket of sand on their father’s cowboy hat.
He tasted a cold lager. Cheap beer, sure. But he didn’t care. Tapped his can against Van’s. Shared a nod as they both watched the waves crest and crash. That rhythmic sound, the salty air. The sand beneath his bare feet.
He could feel and smell and taste and hear and see it all as if he was back there. Back in that dream of his. Those memories when everything in the world seemed to fall in place perfectly. Knowing he was where he belonged. With the teams. With his brothers.
A SEAL.
Just the knowledge of his place, his service to the country, gave him an inner peace.
He had made it. Despite his parents’ insistence that he do something safer with his life, that he become a professor or doctor or find some other job where he was a working professional in a suit, he had made it.
He had come a long way from camping in the foothills and mountains outside of Boulder, from rock-climbing on the weekends, and seeking other cheap adrenaline fixes in the Rockies.
There was nothing he had wanted more in life than to be a SEAL—and he had it.
That was the most calming thought he could muster.
He still smelled the death, the rotting meat.
Felt warm, fetid breath rush over his face.
But the memories of that beach in Virginia, of his fellow members on the teams, gave him a sense of peace no Skull could steal.
When he opened his eyes, he was staring straight at the Skull. Its claws hung by its side, its eyelids drooping. A long string of drool roped from its fanged mouth. The chain on the floor was completely slack. The monster looked like a drug addict after finally getting his fix.
If the beast wanted, it could take just one step forward and end O’Neil’s life.
“Very good,” The Russian said. “Very, very good.”
The chain pulled taut and yanked the Skull backward. The monster broke from its lethargic reverie and started twisting and fighting against once more. But it had been pulled well out of O’Neil’s reach.
“I told you, I never fail,” the Russian said. “It worked. Once more. It worked.”
A hand gripped O’Neil’s shoulder. Then he felt the jab of a needle in his neck. A cool sensation spread through his bloodstream.
No matter how hard he focused, he could not keep his eyes open, once again falling into the pattern of horror and unconsciousness.
None of this made sense.
Just another bad dream. Another nightmare.
He wondered when it would end. When he actually woke up, when he actually returned to the world, what horror would he face next?
The world came at O’Neil in a blur. He felt the press of bodies around him. The smell of all those people left in the cages, unable to bathe, stung his nostrils. His bones ached, and he had only feverish dreams and visions of the people around him as he struggled to keep his eyes open for long.
He remembered only vague details of the dreams before now. Disembodied feelings. Terror.
Over and over, he passed out then came to. Each time struggling to remember where he was. What had happened to him.
He wasn’t sure how long he had really been out before he woke again to finally realize where he was with painful lucidity.
“Mister O’Neil, you are okay?” a frighteningly skeletal face with a beard asked.
Took him a moment to realize it was Hassan.
The man’s cheekbones jutted out, pressing against his sallow flesh. His eyes appeared to have sunken into his skull.
Maybe it was just his imagination, but O’Neil thought Hassan looked worlds worse than he had when the SEALs had first tried to rescue him.
O’Neil pushed himself up. “Where’s Tate? Loeb? The rest of our guys?”
“O’Neil?” Tate shoved through a few of the prisoners, kneeling beside O’Neil.
Loeb came through next. “O’Neil, Jesus, brother. You’re back.” He put a hand on Hassan’s shoulder. “Thanks for watching him.”
“Yes, my brother. I will always be thankful to you all.”
“Thankful?” O’Neil asked. His head started to throb. He pressed a palm against his forehead. His throat felt scratchy, too, and he thought his voice sounded deeper. Raspier, even. Hell, everyone sounded a little off. Maybe his concussion was getting to him. “We fucked up, Hassan. There is nothing to be thankful for.”
“That is not true,” Hassan said. “You risk your lives to save our lives. You try. Even with a failure, it is more than many others would do.” Then he straightened. “We are also still alive. This is not over yet.”
“You feeling okay, man?” Tate asked, squinting at O’Neil.
As O’Neil met the operator’s gaze, he realized Tate looked almost as skeletal as Hassan. “I… I don’t know…”
He looked up at Loeb. Gone were Loeb’s almost boyish cheeks and the blue eyes. His skin was ghost-white, and O’Neil could swear he saw Loeb’s skull beneath his skin.
Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he was just having a nightmare.
Something wasn’t right.
“Where’s everyone else?” O’Neil asked.
Loeb combed his fingers through his hair. A few greasy strands came out as he did. He looked at them, then brushed his fingers together to drop them on the floor. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”
O’Neil sat straighter against the cage bars. “I—”
Then he realized what he had done earlier. He’d pushed himself upright. With his arms. The same ones that had been damn near useless last he remembered.
He held his hands out in front of him, squeezing his fingers open and closed. He could actually feel the tips of his fingers. Only a slight pain echoed in his bones.
“What… how is this possible?” O’Neil asked.