The Tesla sat silent at the edge of the treeline, lights off, matte black body blending with the shadows. Heat shimmered off the hood in faint waves, rising into the dead Vermont summer night. Crickets sang lazily in the tall grass around the clearing, unaware that within minutes, they'd be drowned out by blood and fire.
Frank sat in the driver's seat, still as a statue, chewing on a toothpick like it owed him money.
Bruce hadn't stopped fidgeting in ten minutes.
The air inside the car was thick with tension and Kevlar sweat.
Bruce tapped the screen on the dash. It didn't respond. Dead.
"Tesla's offline," he muttered.
Frank didn't look over. "Good."
"You ever think maybe we should've brought something with a real engine?"
Frank blinked once. "You mean one that makes noise?"
Bruce scratched his arm. "Noise is power."
Frank finally turned to look at him. "You have the brain of a gym bag, Bruce."
Bruce grinned. "And the arms of a god."
Frank rolled his eyes and looked back at the house. "Shut up and scan."
The mansion sat at the end of the winding dirt road like a bunker that forgot how to be subtle. Three stories tall, basement and attic included, square-shaped like it had been assembled by Lego engineers with anger issues.
No windows on either side. Just long, flat walls of wood. Freshly painted. Too clean.
Floodlights at every corner.
Dozens—maybe hundreds—of black cars were parked in perfect disorder across the wide lawn. No plates. All tinted.
Like a dealership run by people who shot customers in the parking lot.
Frank zoomed in with binoculars.
Bodies slumped on the porch. At least five visible. Laughing. Eating. One pissing directly into the grass while holding a sawed-off shotgun in the other hand.
Bruce leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Mexicans, British, and Brotherhood. All of them in there. You believe that shit?"
Frank grunted. "Can't believe they haven't killed each other yet."
Bruce squinted at the left side of the house. The fuel tank glinted under moonlight.
It was massive—rusted, dented, bolted to the wall like a tumor. Industrial. Dangerous.
Bruce sat back slowly.
"…You see it?"
Frank didn't look. "Yeah."
"You know what I'm thinking?"
Frank sighed. "That you're hungry and about to say something stupid."
"I'm thinking," Bruce said, voice lowering, "that's a gift."
Frank turned now. "A gift?"
"A sign."
"From who? The propane fairy?"
"From God, man. You don't put a fucking fuel tank against a house full of gangsters unless someone upstairs is telling you to light it."
Frank stared at him.
Bruce shrugged. "I'm just saying. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is why we're here."
Frank looked back at the house. The voices. The flickering porch lights. Laughter and bass vibrating the windows.
"We're not cleared for this."
"No radios. No witnesses. It's just us."
Frank didn't respond.
Bruce unbuckled.
Got out.
The door barely made a sound.
The trunk opened with a hiss.
Two black ballistic cases.
Frank followed in silence.
They flipped the lids.
Bruce's gear looked like it had been designed by a war-loving graffiti artist. His M249 SAW was matte black with etched words on the barrel—"GOD'S LEFT HAND." His mask was custom-painted: a snarling wolf, red eyes, and a jagged tooth grin that stretched ear to ear.
Frank's gear was military. Clean. Efficient.
M32 grenade launcher. Glock sidearm. Tactical vest. Smoke grenades.
His mask: flat black. Blank face. No smile. No mercy.
Bruce snapped his armor into place like he was suiting up for a wrestling match.
Frank did it like he was going to war.
Because he was.
They stood at the edge of the woods, fully armored, weapons loaded, masks down.
Bruce looked over.
"Army of Two."
Frank didn't flinch. "Army of Regret."
Bruce chuckled. "We ever get out of this, I'm putting this on a T-shirt."
"You won't get to wear it if your dumb ass lights the tank too early."
Bruce slapped his SAW. "You cover the front. I'll circle left. You draw the eyes. I'll bring the fire."
Frank looked out across the sea of black cars and the glow of the porch lights.
Then he nodded once.
And said, "Let's wake the fuckin' dead."
Frank moved first.
Slipped between the blacked-out cars like a shadow with teeth. The floodlights above the mansion buzzed quietly, still off. The place looked asleep. That wouldn't last.
Bruce peeled left, low and fast, cutting around the edge of the lawn with his massive M249 slung tight across his chest, boots crunching soft against the short-trimmed grass. His mask caught a sliver of moonlight—just enough to give it a devil's grin.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
They'd done this before.
Just not like this.
Frank stopped behind a black Mercedes and adjusted the grip on his M32 grenade launcher.
He breathed in once, slow and deep.
Then stood, stepped into the open, and fired.
Thunk–BOOM!
A grenade arced into the mansion's second-floor window like a fastball from God.
The explosion tore the shutters off the side and lit the night with orange flame. Glass rained down like glitter. Screams followed a half-second later—muffled, drunk, confused.
Then Bruce moved.
He bolted to the fuel tank, crouched low beside it, and popped the valve with a satisfying metallic click.
Gasoline hissed out like a snake's breath, soaking the grass in a widening arc. Bruce didn't stop to admire it—he grabbed the cap, twisted it further, and whispered under his breath:
"God's left hand, baby. Let's fucking go."
The mansion erupted.
Lights flicked on.
Doors slammed open.
"YO WHAT THE FUCK?!"
"GET THE STRAPS! GET THE FUCKIN' STRAPS!"
"SOMEONE'S FIRIN' ON THE CRIB—MOVE, BITCH!"
Gangsters poured out like ants from a burning nest—half-dressed, barefoot, stoned out of their minds and waving guns like parade flags.
Frank fired another grenade into the porch.
BOOM.
Three men vanished into red mist.
"YOU SEE THAT SHIT?!"
Bruce heard someone shout as he worked his way behind a row of SUVs, laying down a burst of suppression fire across the front steps. He cut down four in a heartbeat. The SAW rattled like a chainsaw, hot brass flying in every direction.
Frank moved with surgical control—grenade launcher one hand, Glock in the other, snapping off headshots between bursts.
Bruce moved like a riot.
They were the fucking apocalypse.
Inside the mansion, someone triggered the alarm system—old speakers began blasting a mix of sirens and old school Tupac, somehow at the same time.
The front door exploded open.
A wave of gangsters charged, some wearing gold chains, some barefoot, one in a bathrobe and ski mask screaming "WE OUT HERE!"
Bruce mowed them down.
Didn't blink.
Didn't flinch.
He turned the porch into mulch.
But they kept coming.
From every window.
From the attic.
From the goddamn laundry chute.
Bullets screamed across the yard. Cars got shredded. A gas can blew up behind Frank—he dove, rolled, fired another grenade into a side window.
BOOM.
Bruce shouted over the gunfire, "This is a party!"
Frank, crouched behind the smoking hood of a Corvette, yelled back, "You're the reason we don't get invited to barbecues!"
More gunmen flooded out, now firing in trained bursts—Brotherhood tacticals. Frank clocked them immediately.
"Black side's coordinating. They're moving to flank."
Bruce huffed, unloading another mag. "That's cute. They think they can flank us."
"Fuel's still pouring."
"Give me five more minutes."
"You've got two."
"Then I'm making 'em count."
A bullet clipped Bruce's shoulder, spinning him against the side of a truck. He hissed, shook it off, and poured a full belt of fire into the doorway. Men screamed. Wood exploded. The porch collapsed.
Frank emptied the last of his grenades into the side deck. Smoke. Flame. Screams.
"FUCKIN' COPS!"
"NAH BRO THESE AIN'T COPS, THESE ARE GHOSTS!"
Bruce laughed. "You hear that?"
Frank dropped beside him, Glock smoking.
"They think we're dead men."
Bruce smiled behind his mask. "Let's prove them right."
They came from every fucking door.
Every window.
Every stairwell, closet, crawlspace, and crumbling gutter.
Like ants from a kicked anthill—if the ants were armed, coked out of their minds, and screaming in six different dialects.
Bruce and Frank stood at the center of it all. Black armor. Ballistic masks. Blood-slicked gloves. Guns smoking. They weren't cops. They weren't soldiers.
They were vengeance.
Frank ducked behind a flipped Lexus, reloaded with calm, precise motions. He popped back up, Glock out, dropped two gangsters trying to flank behind the cars. His arm snapped from target to target, each shot a death sentence.
He paused. Adjusted. Fired a smoke grenade from his now-empty launcher to cover Bruce's flank.
A shell exploded just behind them.
Car windows shattered. Metal screamed.
Bruce dove through it.
Came up firing.
His SAW roared, and with each belt-fed scream, more bodies dropped.
Gangsters shouted back in every tongue:
"AYO FALL BACK—THEY GOT A FUCKING MINI-GUN!"
"YO, TOSS THAT MOLOTOV—TOSS IT NOW!"
"FUCKIN' HELL, BRUV—THESE CUNTS ARE NUTTERS!"
"SHEEEEIIIT, I'M OUT—FUCK THIS!"
But most didn't run.
Most charged.
High.
Armed.
Suicidal.
The Black Brotherhood came first—organized in waves, carrying semi-autos and shotguns, screaming war cries and kicking over their own wounded.
Then came the Mexican Mafia—shirts off, machetes out, two of them dragging a mattress for cover and throwing it at Frank while firing behind it.
And from the house, laced in British slang and tweed-patterned rage, came the UK Mob—firing Lee-Enfields like they were reenacting the Boer War, screaming "Oi! Cunt's under the Range Rover!"
Frank ducked.
Returned fire.
Grenade out.
BOOM.
The right porch collapsed entirely, crushing three cartel members mid-scream.
Bruce saw it.
Laughed like a lunatic.
"FUCK YEAH!"
"Fuel's still going!" Frank barked. "How long you wanna wait?!"
Bruce crouched behind the wreck of a Jeep, reloaded his SAW belt, blood running down his arm.
He glanced at the fuel line—now stretched halfway across the lawn, soaking the grass in a sheen of death.
He reached into his pouch.
Pulled out the cheap orange Bic lighter.
Flicked it.
A small flame danced to life.
"Time to close the gates," he whispered.
And dropped it.
The flame touched the gasoline and came alive.
It didn't crawl.
It raced.
Across the lawn. Under cars. Toward the tank.
The fire hissed like a demon being born.
Bruce turned and ran.
He made it twenty feet before he took a round to the hip.
Then another.
Then two more.
He dropped.
Hard.
Behind a burnt-out SUV.
The SAW clattered from his grip.
He tried to stand—but his right leg wasn't responding.
He reached down and saw nothing.
It was gone.
Or maybe just not working.
Didn't matter.
He dragged himself forward by his arms.
Each pull carved skin from his elbows.
The tank was behind him now.
The fire getting closer.
Closer.
Frank saw it all from the hood of a Lincoln.
He was bleeding too—somewhere in his side—but he was upright, still shooting.
When Bruce went down, he didn't hesitate.
He sprinted.
Bullets ripped past him.
Two hit.
One in the vest.
One glanced his neck.
Didn't stop him.
He reached Bruce, dropped beside him, grabbed the vest strap, and hauled.
Bruce groaned, coughing blood. "What the fuck are you doing?!"
"Dragging your dumbass out of the fire."
"You're shot—go!"
Frank growled through clenched teeth. "We said forever."
Bruce grabbed his arm.
"Frank—"
Frank pulled harder. "SHUT UP."
The fire behind them exploded upward with a hiss.
Then—
Boom.
The fire hit the tank.
There was no warning.
No rumble. No dramatic buildup. No heroic music.
Just a snap—like someone breaking a matchstick—and then the world was on fire.
The tank didn't explode so much as detonate.
The metal split in two. The shockwave shattered every car window on the lawn. A wall of fire roared upward into the sky, hot enough to peel paint off a Buick fifty feet away. The mansion's entire left side blew inward—wood, drywall, windows, and half the second floor erupting into ash.
The blast flattened two gangsters mid-run. One flew clean over the porch railing, still screaming. The others dropped, ducked, or died where they stood.
At the heart of it—
Bruce was barely conscious.
He couldn't hear.
Couldn't feel anything below his chest.
Smoke filled his lungs with each ragged breath. His hands were burned, scraped to shit, but they still clung weakly to the strap on his vest.
And over him—
Frank was bleeding out.
Riddled.
A bullet had torn through his thigh. Another through the side of his neck, carving a bloody canyon beneath his armor. But his arms still worked. And they weren't letting go.
He dragged Bruce ten more feet before he dropped.
They landed behind a flipped SUV, frame burning above them.
Bruce tried to speak.
Coughed instead.
Blood on his lips.
Frank grabbed the side of Bruce's mask and yanked it off.
Beneath it—his face, dirtied, bloodied, eyes flickering in and out.
"Hey," Frank said, voice hoarse.
Bruce blinked. "...The tank…"
Frank looked up.
The fire was chasing them. Still crawling. Glowing like judgment.
"You lit it."
"Yeah," Bruce breathed. "...Biblical, right?"
Frank let out half a laugh—bitter, broken.
"Yeah. Real fuckin' poetic."
Another explosion behind the house.
Screaming.
Gunfire.
Distant now.
Unimportant.
Frank looked down at Bruce.
"You stupid, stubborn bastard."
Bruce smiled, faintly. "That's me."
His breath caught.
"I'm not gonna make it."
Frank's eyes stayed steady.
"You're not dying alone."
Bruce shook his head. "You got kids. A wife. You gotta go."
Frank leaned in closer.
"You're my brother. I made you a promise."
Bruce's eyes were glassing over.
"What promise?"
Frank pressed his forehead to Bruce's.
"Partners for life."
And then the fire hit.
The edge of the gas wave caught the car.
Heat turned everything white.
Frank didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He just pulled Bruce into his arms.
And held him.
One last time.
The final blast lit up the forest.
The trees groaned.
The night went silent.
And two ghosts died side by side.
---
Darkness.
Not peaceful.
Not silent.
The kind of darkness that sticks to the inside of your skull—hot, wet, pressing.
Bruce stirred.
Or something stirred.
His mind moved before his body did, slipping sideways, scraping against memory.
Frank.
A flash of fire.
The roar of a tank splitting in half.
The weight of a brother's arms around him.
Then—
Nothing.
He gasped.
Air rushed in—burning, thick, swampy. It scraped his throat on the way down and filled tiny lungs not used to holding much.
He tried to move.
His arms were… light. Small. They flailed.
His legs kicked something—vinyl?
A high-pitched groan escaped his lips, and the moment he heard it, he froze.
That wasn't his voice.
That wasn't even close.
He blinked rapidly, forcing his eyes open against a wave of crusted sweat and tears.
A windshield.
Blurry.
A dashboard with cracked plastic.
The interior of a car—overheated, suffocating.
The sun beat down through the glass like it was trying to cook him alive.
The air didn't move.
The heat pressed in like wet hands.
Bruce looked down.
Tiny limbs.
Thin legs.
A pale chest in a too-small dress clinging to damp skin.
He froze.
"No…"
His voice—light, high, wrong—cracked as he whispered it.
"No no no no no—"
He pushed against the door.
Locked.
He turned, tried the handle.
It clicked uselessly.
He slammed his fists against the window.
"Help! Somebody—!"
Nothing.
Just heat and dust and the sound of his own frantic breathing.
The backseat was empty. A torn paper bag on the floor. Crushed candy wrappers. A single pink sock.
A purse on the front seat. Keys inside. Wallet. Lipstick.
No phone.
Of course.
He gritted his teeth.
Or tried to.
There were fewer of them than he remembered.
His mouth felt small.
He punched the glass with his tiny fist.
It hurt like hell.
Then he saw it.
On the floor, half-wedged under the driver's seat.
A rusted hammer.
He scrambled.
Squirmed.
Reached for it with trembling hands and snatched it up.
Didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
He brought it down on the window.
Once. Twice. Again.
The third strike cracked the glass.
The fourth—
Shatter.
The heat hit him like a wall of flame as he crawled out onto the asphalt.
Air. Real air.
He coughed. Gagged.
Collapsed into the dirt at the edge of the parking lot.
He rolled onto his back, blinking up at a too-bright sky.
Sweat poured into his eyes.
His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.
He didn't cry.
He didn't scream.
He just laid there.
And whispered,
"…Not again."
The sky was blinding.
The pavement beneath Bruce's hands burned like a stovetop left on high. He rolled to the side, gasping, arms shaking. Sweat dripped from his chin, soaking into the dirt, mixing with bits of broken glass and dry weeds.
He didn't understand.
Not fully.
His brain was still on fire, still clawing through smoke and blood and gunfire and Frank's voice in his ear saying "You're not dying alone."
But he wasn't dead.
He was here.
In the wrong body.
In the wrong skin.
And the world wouldn't stop fucking spinning.
He forced himself up onto his knees.
His dress—a dress—clung to his body like a second layer of shame. Pale legs, tiny hands, everything too small, too soft, too fragile.
He wiped his face with the back of his arm.
Felt the braid slap his shoulder.
He reached up, grabbed the tail of hair, and yanked. Hard.
It didn't come off.
Of course it didn't.
He gritted his teeth—smaller, duller now—and muttered, "This has to be a dream."
But he knew it wasn't.
The heat pressed against his back like a warning.
Behind him, the car sat crooked in the shade of a broken tree. Its windows shattered, its doors still locked, the smell of sweat and sugar and rot slowly fading into the wind.
He turned away from it.
Stumbled.
Caught himself.
And looked up.
There, beyond the brush and tall grass, beyond a crumbling parking lot and a rusted sign half-swallowed by weeds, stood the ridgeline.
Mount Mansfield.
Its peak stretched sharp and distant against the sky, framed by pine and silence.
Something inside Bruce shifted.
He didn't know why.
But the mountain felt right.
Familiar.
Like something was waiting.
He took a step toward it.
Then another.
And another.
His bare feet hit the dirt with soft slaps, the dress fluttering weakly against his scraped knees. Sweat dried against his skin in itchy patches. His breath came fast. His legs already ached.
But he kept walking.
The road curved.
The trees swallowed him.
And the voices from the world he'd left behind—cars, radios, air conditioners, human voices—faded into silence.
All that remained was the sound of birds, the rustle of wind, and the call of the forest.
He whispered, not sure if he meant to say it out loud:
"…Frank?"
But there was no answer.
Only the trees.
And the path forward.
---
The trees grew thicker the further he walked. Taller, older, their trunks wide and gnarled like twisted arms reaching toward the sky. The underbrush pulled at his bare legs, scratching delicate skin he didn't yet understand how to protect. His breath came in tight bursts, and every step burned—not because of pain, but because of misfit.
The world felt too big.
His body too small.
But the mountain didn't care.
It didn't reject him.
It didn't question him.
It simply let him pass.
By the time he stumbled onto the deer trail, the sun had dipped behind the trees, turning the world amber and shadowed. The wind had died. Everything was still.
And then—he saw it.
A shape.
A break in the ridge.
Between two boulders, half-covered in moss and leaves, was a dark opening in the earth. Not a crevice. Not a crack.
A doorway.
Low. Rough. Just wide enough for a child.
Bruce froze.
Something in his chest tightened.
He didn't remember this place. Not really. But some deep, animal part of him recognized it.
It felt like home.
Or maybe a grave.
He didn't care.
He dropped to his knees and crawled inside.
The stone scraped his elbows. Dirt clung to his fingers. Roots hung from the low ceiling like limp veins.
He pulled himself forward, deeper, until the dim light of the forest vanished behind him.
And then—open space.
The tunnel let out into a small chamber, roughly ten feet wide, domed and dry. The air was cold, still, laced with the scent of wet stone and ancient moss.
He sat there.
On the floor.
Alone.
In silence.
His chest rose and fell.
The dust settled around him.
And slowly, for the first time since he woke up in the car, Bruce let the stillness in.
No sirens.
No bullets.
No Frank.
Just… now.
He leaned back against the wall and looked up into the pitch black above.
No stars.
No ceiling.
Just dark.
A living dark.
And he whispered, soft:
"…Alright."
His voice echoed once.
Then vanished.
And the cave said nothing back.
But it didn't need to.
Because this—this hollow, this crack in the world, this forgotten space in the mountain—
Was his now.
---
Bruce didn't plan to sleep.
He told himself he'd just rest. Catch his breath. Wait until night passed, then go back out—find food, water, something.
But the moment his back hit the cave wall, his body stopped listening.
The adrenaline had burned out hours ago.
The heat from the car, the walk, the climb—it was all crashing down now like a wave.
He sat there, knees tucked up to his chest, arms wrapped tight around his legs.
Shivering.
The cave floor was damp and cold, but it was still better than the vinyl of the car, better than the forest floor, better than the idea of moving anymore.
He looked around the tiny chamber with hazy eyes.
Just stone.
Moss in the corners.
Roots poking through the ceiling.
No fire.
No noise.
Only the soft drip of water somewhere deeper in the dark.
He shifted to the side and felt something poke into his hip.
A piece of bark. Flat, wide.
He grabbed it.
Then another.
Then a clump of leaves.
Instinct took over.
He scraped together what he could reach—dried ferns, a chunk of old moss, half-rotten twigs. The pieces came together awkwardly, but his hands knew what they were doing.
They moved like they'd done this before.
Like they remembered something his head didn't.
In ten minutes, he had a crude nest. Uneven. Scratchy. But it held his shape.
He slid into it, teeth chattering, and curled tighter.
The moss under his cheek was wet, but soft.
His eyes fluttered shut.
Then—
His stomach growled.
Loud. Angry.
Bruce groaned. "Shut up."
It didn't.
He sat up just long enough to crawl toward the sound of the dripping water.
A dark crack in the cave wall.
He leaned in, lips pressed to the trickle, and drank.
It was cold.
Clear.
Earthy.
Probably full of bacteria.
But he didn't care.
He crawled back to the nest, wiping his mouth.
Laid down.
Closed his eyes.
A breath in.
A breath out.
He counted heartbeats.
Somewhere in the dark, the cave creaked. A root shifted. Something dripped again.
But nothing reached him.
Nothing chased him.
For the first time since the fire, since the gunfire, since the explosion—
He was alone.
And he was safe.
He whispered into the dark:
"…Thanks."
Then pulled his legs in tighter.
And let the stone swallow him.