The cave floor was prepared for living. Sleeping pads laid out in orderly rows. Weapons leaned carefully against the rock wall. Boots lined up. Clothes stacked in tight squares. Boxes of food tucked into the corner beside a neat little weapons stash.

  But not a soul in sight.

  “Where the fuck is everyone?” Mac whispers, like his voice could wake whatever’s waiting for us.

  We let the cave settle around us. When the rush of our own breathing fades, another sound rises—the faint, steady hum of a river somewhere deeper in the mountain. It’s soft. Constant. Alive.

  One day Earlier

  CPT Duphragne sits at the front of the classroom that doubles as our mission briefing room. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. He’s short, pudgy, glasses sliding down his nose. The kind of man who would look natural behind a desk at an accounting firm.

  But there’s something steadier beneath the surface. A quiet confidence. He doesn’t lean on rank; he leans on expectation. He believes men should be virtuous.

  A topographical map of Afghanistan glows on the projector screen. Mountain ridgelines cut across the image like scars. Routes are highlighted. Estimated travel times noted. Possible encampments circled. Large red letters mark AVOID areas.

  “Alright, gentlemen. Settle down. Settle down,” CPT D says in that flat, measured tone of his.

  “Eight weeks ago, drone footage caught a group of ‘civilians’ entering a cave entrance here.”

  A red laser dot trembles over the southern edge of a massive mountain system.

  “We maintained surveillance. The ‘civilians’ were observed entering and exiting for approximately four weeks. Supplies transported inside—crates, bags, Vehicles.”

  He clicks the slide.

  “Four weeks ago, approximately ten individuals entered with additional supplies. They have not re-emerged.”

  The room shifts. Just slightly.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Our mission: enter the cave. Assess supplies. Assess military capability. Exfiltrate. Rules of engagement—shoot to shoot. Weaponry unconfirmed. Assume hostile.”

  He pauses.

  “It’s a Fly mission. You six will form the squad.”

  He points without looking at the roster.

  “Sgt. Smith, you’ll take point.”

  Smith’s chest expands like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear that sentence. Newly minted sergeant. Hungry for something he can bring home besides stories.

  “SPC Espellier—comms.”

  A nod.

  “Hernandez—photography.”

  A grin.

  “Blevins, Mac, Davidson —you’re hot sticks.”

  Rifles. Front-line.

  “Got it? Questions?”

  Smith shoots his hand up, back straight as a rod.

  “Sir, what’s the primary theory based on the known supplies?”

  Duphragne exhales through his nose.

  “We don’t know. Supplies were transported by crate—vehicles and animal caravan. They could be digging a tunnel.” A faint shrug. “Or storing their mama’s rugs. We don’t know.”

  Hernandez raises his hand halfway.

  “Yo, Capt D… what if there’s monsters in that cave? What if they got eaten? My wife would kill me if I got eaten in a cave, Cap.”

  A few snickers. A few eye rolls.

  CPT Duphragne closes his eyes like he’s silently reconsidering every career decision he’s ever made.

  “Hernandez… how old are you?”

  “Twenty-two, Captain.”

  “And you already have a wife? I try not to stereotype…”

  “Whoa, sir,” Mac cuts in. “I’m twenty-one. Been married three years.”

  Duphragne tilts his head.

  “Let me guess. Alabama?”

  “No, sir. North Carolina.”

  A long blink. A small, almost invisible shake of the head.

  “Nothing is off the table, gentlemen.”

  Smith leans forward. “Monsters don’t exist. And God will protect us. Always.”

  Davidson snorts. “Yeah—God and Joseph Smith, right?”

  Smith nearly comes out of his seat.

  Duphragne ignores it.

  “What about you, Espellier? Any caves on the island?”

  Espellier leans back, smooth Caribbean cadence rolling out easy.

  “Hey, only monster I’m afraid of is the kraken.”

  He lets it hang. Looks around the room. Shrugs.

  “And Blevins mom.”

  The room breaks.

  “Alright, alright, that’s enough,” Duphragne cuts in, standing. “I’ve got things to do. You have your mission. Study it. Wheels up at 0600. Dismissed.”