Session 23- Marcus’s Journal

I woke to find Pierre standing over me, Carter, Will and Tom were all lying in a similar fashion about the ground at the mouth of the first in
the mountain. Pierre was frantically trying to cover us in skins and furs, our exposed flesh causing our lips, skin and extremities to turn
blue. It wasn’t long before I had passed out again.

Waking a second time, now with more wits about me, I turned to face the mountain only to see the rift had closed, no trace of its
existence appearing in front of my eyes. Had this all been a dream. I looked to the skies to see a completely clouded abyss. Overcast, yet,
clearing partially in spots. Behind the clouds, a faint green light pulsating and emanating between the faint cracks in the cloud cover. This
was no dream, we had done something, something world changing. As I closed my eyes a racked my brain in an effort to remember what I
had seen, all I could think of was the painting hanging in Samson Trammell’s library entitled “The Gazer’s Perspective”. The stars in the
painting were similar, yet somehow wrong, different from the starts I had seen above me as I exited the rift.

Our wits slowly returning to us all, Tom and Will were the first to suggest we begin our decent, seconded quickly by Pierre. Taking our
packs that had remained at the peak of the mountain, a thin layer of ash covering them, we began our decent, slowly, Carter’s leg proving
not to be broke, however causing him more pain than I had seen him in since the loss of his hand. Two days of hiking down this mountain,
pitching our tent on the first night, although difficult to tell if the night was indeed a darkened sky, the clouds refusing to part for more
than a few moments, enough time to see the faint green light protrude briefly. Our tent covered in a thick layer of Ash on the second
morning, whatever this was, it was not right. Will made mention of a Volcano that erupted last century, ash covering the world from the
eruption, reassuring in the least, we all knew that this was no eruption, this was our doing.

As we reached the bottom of the slope, our bones tired, our muscles weak, we were expecting to see the pilgrims buzzing around the base
of the sacred mount, instead, we were met only by empty paths and ash covered snow. We knew it was another half days walk to
Darchen, the two housing buildings that stored pilgrims on their journey. The thought of fire and warmth enough to make us walk with
more vigour. We approached the buildings with much caution, the path that had usually been teaming with pilgrims was all but deserted,
not a soul in sight, the only signs of life, dim light emitting from the buildings and smoke from the chimneys, although dark, it was almost
lost in the light ash that continued to fall everywhere.

We entered the usually crowded buildings only to find a handful of people occupying them, after talking as best we could to the people
here, many had returned to Burang in search of news relating to the strange events leading to what seemed to be never ending cloud
cover and the strange green light that formed behind it. Many spoke of potential volcanic activity; however, none were sure, none but us.

Not knowing if we had been spotted returning from our expedition, Tom arranged plates of food to feed our famished bodies, Will stayed
on guard, allowing us shifts to rest before we also followed the masses to Burang, not without a night’s sleep, exhaustion close to setting
in.

After two days of rest and recovery, Carter and I were keen to press on, knowing that if what we suspected was true, we were now on the
clock, something was coming, something that wasn’t going to wait for us. We began our march to Burang, moving quickly as Carter’s leg
slowly improved from the rest we had been granted. The day’s journey to Burang was slow, passing through the lakes rather than
stopping seemed to speed things up somewhat. As we approached the limits of the town, we were met with the sight of dark red robes
and the burning of torches. A sea of monks, all across the city, facing Mt Kailesh. As we drew closer, it was clear that these men were all
praying and shouting repentance and desperate pleas for forgiveness to the mountain. We did not seem to draw much of their attention,
our faces covered in the skins and furs we wore, making us appear as regular pilgrims as we passed by them in search of the inn we had
stayed previously on our way to the mountain.

Inside the dimly lit inn, people were sparse, most having taken the long and winding journey back to India, no one wanting to remain
anywhere near the mountain that seemed to be the source of this strange phenomenon according to multiple local accounts. I heard the
translations of a large beacon of light piercing the sky some nights ago followed by the clouds forming. A story I had heard previously by
my own party about what I had done.

We continued our journey back to the plane, it was going to take a week, by foot, by truck, through Delhi and on to Karachi. The walk was
gruelling, all we could think of was the consequences of our actions, what were we going to tell Janet, or our families, that we had
destroyed the world?

Time seemed to pass quickly now, before I could focus on the reality we had been walking through, we had already reached Delhi, every
day and night blending into one continuous haze of dull light and cloud. The chaos had already started in the city, people walking, running,
trampling each other to get as far away from here as possible. Pressing on, only stopping to refuel the truck, we reached Karachi, again as
we suspected after our journey through Delhi, the airport was a nightmare. Making our way to our private plane, so far unmolested by the
hordes of people trying to escape the country, Tom wandered through the airport in search of newspapers for any information on the rest
of the world, was this a localised event, or was it global.

Frank did not wait for flight plans, confident he could pilot the plain in this weather, as soon as the plane was ready, we were gone,
airborne, on our way to Marseilles. As we broke through the cloud cover, everything in front of our eyes was a blur or spectacle and
wonder. The green lights that littered the sky in long wisps from horizon to horizon littered the sky, the clouds above barely visible
through the green. The patterns above us in the sky constantly changing, like bursts of colour through the maze of luminous green.
Pulsing and repeating, as if the sky itself was acting as some kind of beacon across the blanket of dark space. The patterns that formed
took many shapes, some in brilliant trails of patterns forever disappearing into the infinite abyss, others forming familiar shapes and
symbols that I had seen scattered throughout the wall art and etchings of every strange place I seen with Carter over the last few months.

Will could barely keep his eyes from the window, looking deeply into the constantly changing sky, he seemed quiet, deafeningly so. Tom
also took in the sight, slapping himself constantly to make sure he wasn’t in a dream of on some bad opium ride. As we continued to
watch, lighting began to form, strange lightning, red and orange, skipping from cloud to cloud below us, every so often a slim streak of red
falling from the sky, being caught by the clouds and then passing it around across the canopy of cloud formations only every now and then,
blink and you would miss it. Was I the only one who saw it, no one else seemed to pay it any mind.

Arriving in Marseilles, everything was chaos again, the harbour was a mess, the sky still clouded, ash falling and green emitting from the
gaps in the clouds. The town was on the verge of rioting, buildings were burning along the coast, people were slowly turning from civilised
into something else, more primal, survival seemed to be the only thing people were thinking about. The drive to Nice was difficult, the
roads often chaotic with people, bicycles and assorted modes of transportation. As I looked out the window of the car, the clouds had
begun to separate slightly, however not in the same fashion as normal clouds do, fracturing rather than parting, like glass with pressure
slowly increasing on its surface.

We arrived at the mansion to see Janet waiting at the front door. Entering the library, searching for anything that seemed to have any
mention of gazing or star constellations. It didn’t take long before I found the book entitles “The Gaze of Azathoth”, strange that I had
come across the book “Azathoth and other terrors” not a few days ago.

This book tells the tale of a nameless who lives amidst the “dying lights” of the end of days. Blessed with the “thrice-cursed immortality”
this man nevertheless feels as if a creeping doom has crept into his bones. His dreams are slowly filled by the recurring image of a great
and terrible Eye which “gazes down upon the world”, and he is disturbed to find that many others among his friends and acquaintances
have begun to share these dreams.
At last this “gnawing Eye” – belonging to the “dread amorphity of Azathoth” – manifests itself and its horrible gaze is “turned upon the
last, burning days of his twilit world”.
Rather than embracing or accepting the doom of his world, however, the man seeks an escape. He finds it in the “flesh of Yog-Sothoth”,
creating a gate which allows him to escape to another world.
Unfortunately, the “gaze of Azathoth” had become “locked upon him” through the “barbs which bear the runes of Nyarlathotep”, and the
Eye follows him to the new world and turns its destructive force upon it. The man escapes again, using the same gate as before. And, once
again, the Eye pursues him.
The man skips from one world to the next, watching as the stars he had doomed wink out one by one from the many skies above him until
his nights are marked only by a “haze of unseen red”. But still he runs, carrying with him the curse of Azathoth’s gaze.
At the end of the story he makes the decision to stop running and throws himself prostrate upon the ground. But as he does so, he finds
that he has landed “at the feet of the Herald”, who reveals to him a great truth: That the worlds he has left in his wake have not been
burdened with destruction, for as long as Azathoth’s gaze is fixed upon the man, he will carry that destruction away with him and spare
the worlds behind.
The Herald’s words, however, come too late, for the mind of the man has been consumed by his “gibbering madness”. And neither he nor
any of the worlds he has saved will ever know his sacrifice.

As I read this book, oblivious to the fact that Janet and the rest had entered the room, a strange sensation began to wash over me, as if
this book was in someway a separate version to the book of Revelation, predicting the end times. Something however was missing, this
book seemed to have no starting point, no way of actually starting the end, only a middle and an end. This book, formerly of Echiavarria
and Trammell, was there a piece that had gotten lost along the way? Was this reveared nameless man Edgar Job? Carter had already
asked of Janet to reveal his location, followed by a telephone call to make sure he was still there, Danvers, Massachusetts. Our attention
was shortly called away to the window by Frank who was gazing at the canopy of clouds overhead, the faint red streaks we had seen above
the clouds had begun to build, now dancing from cloud to cloud for all to see. The bright red streaks blazing across the sky, was our time
running out, or was it already over, were we already lost?

I told Carter and Janet of the missing piece of the book, the starting point from where we are, to how to change what was happening
around us, we needed to get back to Trammell’s library, I had to find the rest of the book. The faceless man who bounces around the
universe, what was his means of doing this? Was it the way I had contemplated getting us out of the Yukatan? The so-called Hyperspace
Gate? Did Job already know how to do this? So many questions, how to answer them all. This was not the sort of transportation between
place to place, but rather planet to planet, was this even possible.

Returning to the plane, Frank concerned for our travel through the lightning scorched sky, however knowing that we had to get back to the
States if not for the book, for Edgar. The trip was going to be long, at least a week, across England, Iceland, Canada, plenty of time to read.

Studying this book, the same feeling kept washing over me, like this was all true, something to be read as foresight, something
pre-destined, more so than the book I had based my entire life upon, at the back of my mind, the uncertain feeling that my life based
solely on something less than tangible in the physical world as what we had been experiencing, I felt sick.

Tom consistently grabbed the local and international newspapers wherever we went. I was purely amazed that with everything
happening, papers will still being published. Everywhere we went, looting, rage and strangely, disappearances. According to the papers,
thousands of people had been disappearing all over the world. It was when we hit Canada that horror found us. The headline reading,
“Chicago Burns”, a picture of a lightning strike so large that it engulphed the city. This lighting was touching down, not only in light streaks,
but in devastating towers, Chicago being the only victim of such devastation currently recorded. Further reports of people going mad and
wandering the streets barking gibberish, conducting themselves in a strange way, people we would expect to see in the Sanitoriums Carter
and I had set foot in, only everywhere. Frank told us we would reach LA in the morning, we will sleep on the ground in Canada, so rest was
required. Still pouring over this book, sleep was not easy even in the comfort of the plane.

I woke in the darkness of the dimly lit night sky, the dull green and flashes of red lighting the cabin of the plane. Looking around, Tom and
Carter were snoring loudly at the back of the cabin, Will to my right, across the aisle, his mouth open, his head resting against the window.
Looking ahead of me, someone else sitting there, someone still and not moving, I tried to listen but could not hear breathing. Looking past
the curious sight, Frank was asleep in the cockpit, his obvious form appearing against the dim backdrop of the green light coming through
the wind shield. Alarmed at this new occupant, I reached inside my coat for my pistol, holding it outstretched in my hand at the back of
the head of the man a few rows in front of me. I tried to call to the others to wake, however no noise exited my mouth. I walked slowly
closer, the only thought in my mind, John Smith, the silent and breathless man who had entered Carter’s office when I was sleeping,
completely undetected.

I placed the barrel of my pistol to the back of the man’s head, slowly circling around to see his face. Stunned at what I saw, it was my
friend, my best friend, Father Tom. The same mad I had thrown from my house, a man I once trusted deeply. His face, although covered
in darkness from the dim light, was unmistakable. I at across from him, never taking my gun off him, my voice finally returning to question
his reason for being here. Speaking to me of his sorrow, he in turn questioned my faith, my reasoning, my role in the end of the world. I
pressed Tom as to why he was here, his answer catching me off guard. Speaking abstractly, he stated that “he” whoever he was, is not
going to want to die alone, not like Tom did. As he spoke, a bright flash of lightning revealing Tom to me in some light, his body was
mangled, his face rotting, his glasses broken, around his neck, bruising of a rope, was this even real. Asking through my shocked
expression, Tome told me that it was time to go, he could feel the gaze shifting, his words so cryptic, telling me he could feel the angles of
Tagh-Clatur hyper extending. I shouted for him to explain, as I did, I woke, back in my seat, my lamp shining on the book that had fallen
from my hands into my lap. Cold sweat bleeding from my face, looking in front of me, Tom was gone, was it a dream?

We landed near LA, unable to access the chaotic airport, we drove to Trammell’s mansion, Frank stealing a car as there seemed to be no
need for pleasantries anymore. Everyone checked themselves for what they carried, shotguns, pistols, the familiar sight of a duffle bag for
books to be collected. Everything here was broken, every window, the glass observatory, the windows in the servants building, everything
was broken, whatever happened here, no one stopped it. The gate open, we drove down the driveway to the familiar door we had
entered on our first incursion. Each door however was already ajar, no need for lockpicks or silent movements, every sound echoing
through the empty rooms. Through the observatory, into the library, everything was a mess, books riddled the floor, this was not going to
be easy.

Will, Frank and I all took to the floor and walls, looking for anything regarding Azathoth, Carter and Tom watching the doors. A strange
smell, something pungent, rotting flesh mixed with something else, something fresh, cigar smoke. I looked at Carter, the same instant he
looked at me. There was only one person here we knew who smoked, and he was dead. I rose from my haunches, clutching the shotgun I
had taken from the plane, the waft of smoke coming from the study in the next room, the door only open a slither. Tom, Carter and I
decided that we needed to see what was happening, Tom taking the lead. We moved silently, no sound at all, the doors well-oiled hinges
sliding without noise. We entered the study to see the painting of the Gazer’s Perspective hanging across the wall, underneath it, a large,
leather, winged back chair, its back towards us, plumes of smoke emitting upwards from the occupant who remained hidden to us. On the
desk, a large revolver, Carter was the first to move forward, again perfectly silent. Within a moment, we were at arm’s length from the
back of the chair, Carter looking at Tom, who suddenly moved and grabbed the chair, spinning it around. To our surprise, sitting proudly in
the chair, Captain Walker, the man I had been hunting, the man Tom had been hunting.

Walker laughed at us, all of our questions dismissed in jest, throwing insults at us through his large swigs of whisky from the bottle in his
hand. It didn’t take long, Tom was visibly driven, Walker moving from Carter to me to Tom in terms of insults, it only took one from Tom,
his pistol barking as Walker was silenced by a 38-calibre bullet blowing the back of his head all across the chair. Tom then holstered his
pistol and walked back to the library, Carter looking at me, was it shock on his face, or understanding, it was hard to tell.

My eyes moved to the large painting, the Gazer’s Perspective, what was this, these stars, familiar, however different, they were wrong.
Then it hit me, these were the same stars I had seen in the sky above Mt Kailesh after Gol Goroth had done his work. These were the
same, only backwards, as if this painting was done to emulate the exact sky, only a mirror image. As if what I was looking at were a
window, and this painting had been done by someone on the other side, seeing what I see, only reversed.

I returned to the library, Carter calling Tom to help him clear the house, their search finding little more than a well-stocked pantry. This
was going to take some time, hours, perhaps a day just to get the books back into some sort of order, then the search for what I was
hoping to find. We got to work, everyone reading book spines and shelving books in a crude order. Carter told me that they checked the
basement, the room where we had seen Trammell was a graveyard, only a mountainous graveyard, corpses on to of corpses, that was the
smell, thick and evil, filling the house. After another day of organising and reading, a book stood out, only for its loose binding, its spine
reading “The Bronze Age of England”, the paper within loose and not properly bound. As I opened the cover, inside was a familiar word,
the cover page reading “The Gaze of Azathoth”.

I had found it, I stopped the search, it was time to go to Danvers, it was time to find Job. The looks of relief that overtook Will and Frank’s
faces seemed obvious, both had become quieter since arriving here, something was off with them. Something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Carter asked if we should take the painting, seeing it as something potentially helpful, I agreed and Tom cut if from its frame, rolling up the
canvass and throwing it into a duffle bag. We returned to the plane as fast as we could, we needed to get to Danvers, the red lightning
had started striking the ground more regularly, falling like rain, only without thunder, just light, striking buildings, setting them ablaze.
Once on board, Carter and I both noticed the quiet demeanour of Frank and Will, both seemed withdrawn, as if there was something they
wanted to say, yet were not able to. Carter entered the cockpit, doing his best to find out what was wrong with Frank, our most steadfast
companion. I stood from my seat after the plane had taken off, moving towards Will. As I held the corner of the chair closest to me,
everything exploded, something struck the plane, sending me hurling towards the back of the cabin. Glancing out the window, one of the
plane’s engines was on fire, everything was shaking, everything was tumbling, then there was only black.

I woke to find myself in a field, the smoking wreck of the beautiful plane that had been our chariot across the world laying some distance
from me. Carter, Frank, Tom and Will, all standing close by, all bleeding somewhere, yet no serious wounds seemed apparent. Walking to
join them, Frank was already talking about the distance, it was going to take at least two days driving to reach Danvers, pointing towards a
small barn off in the distance, we had crashed in farming country, our only hope, finding some method of transportation. We trudged
towards the structure, luck finally on our side, inside the barn, a large flatbed truck, with an hour of tinkering, Frank had it roaring to life.

We all climbed aboard, sitting in the cabin, I continued to read the book I had found. For hours I read, what was happening in my head?
Everything was starting to make sense. Echiavarria had planned this from the beginning, it was starting to make sense now.

Before I knew it, we had stopped driving, all getting out at an abandoned house, we were halfway to Danvers, we needed to rest. All of us
fanning out across the house, everyone selecting a spot to rest for the night.

The book was speaking to me, I had worked it out, this book was a guide, a way to get the attention of Azathoth, the incantations within
revealing the way to awake Azathoth, a spectral being of sorts from across the stars, the incantations and symbols, something I could not
understand, only the hundreds of pages all reading the rites for one single action, to wake the sleeping giant. As I read, thinking to myself
of the pure insanity this book was, yet something still seemed so real. In order to get the attention of the entity, several things were
needed, someone with a great knowledge of mathematical calculus, astronomy and geometry, and a sacrifice, a sacrifice of note, the
sacrifice of a god.

It all was falling into place. The ritual of the barn in 1924, they were summoning the mouthed monster, the god Y’Golonac, only to sacrifice
him. Was Job the man with the knowledge and mathematical genius required, he must have been. The separate circles of stones
surrounding the barn, the ones Savitree had not understood, one circle to summon Y’Golonac for sacrifice, the second to summon
something bigger, Azathoth. Continuing to read, the Hyperspace Gate was becoming more and more a reality, could I do this, as I
continued to read, it was like flying a plane, the further you go, the more it would take a toll on you, however the ramifications, this was
not going from Mt Kailesh to France, this was an immeasurable distance across immeasurable space. What would this do to me?

It took all night, but I had solved it, to do this, it would cost something, either my mind or my life, what was more important, was that
worth the fate of the world.

Carter’s Journal – Session 23

I woke up with the taste of bad whisky still in my mouth, my hand was still killing me. Tom was talking about getting away early, he didn’t
want to be caught in Danvers at night. I could understand his logic, even though Will and Frank seemed not to care.

The car was packed again, guns, books and most importantly, whisky. Tom and Will had already climbed in, both looking like they had
slept badly, Tom a little less, most likely smoking is favourite flower.

I walked back inside looking for Marcus and Frank, it was strange that they were the final two to get a move on. I called out to them but
only Marcus grunted a reply from upstairs. I entered Frank’s room to see Marcus standing in the doorway to the bathroom, a piece of
paper in his hand. He saw me coming in, his scar resembling the cracked smile of a madman for an instant as the red lightning briefly
flashed through the window. He handed me the paper, as I read, I stepped into the bathroom. This was Frank’s letter, this was his
goodbye. Carefully written and full of self-pity and loathing, I looked into the bathtub to see his body, his pistol in his hand, his brains on
the wall. Marcus looked at me, he had read it too, Frank could not understand what we had done, he had finished his journey.

Danvers was a strange sight. It looked like there was a glow of pale blue all around the city from the hilltop rise we had driven over.
Marcus wouldn’t stop looking at his book, so he was the only one of us who wasn’t lost for words. As we approached the town limits the
car began to splutter and fail. As if on demand, as soon as we crossed the small sign stating ‘Welcome to Danvers’, that was it, we were
walking.

Will and Marcus were the slowest, mainly because Will seemed to stop and look at everything, the slightly blank expression on his face
giving me the feeling he was slowly slipping. Marcus was busy muttering to himself, I gave me a bad feeling in my stomach, he was
muttering the same nonsense I had done in the belly of Mt Kailesh, he was up to something. Tom and I moved quickly, only coming to a
halt when the sight of a lone policeman took our eye. I called to him, shocked at our apparent lack of crazy behaviour, he gave us
directions to the Sanitorium, his words strained as he told us of the crazy behaviour of the regular people, let alone the occupants of the
Asylum who were now freely roaming the grounds.

The policeman also explained the lightning strikes that had been falling thick and fast around Danvers since it all started, people
disappearing, the Asylum inmates revelling in the strange happenings. His final words to us, ‘Watch out for sharp angles, they come from
the angles.’

I guess everyone was losing their mind in Danvers in some way, maybe the policeman had a childhood accident with scissors, angles?
Really?
We followed the directions given to us by the cop. Down the wide open, partially destroyed streets, the lightning crashing down
everywhere. Tom, leading the way was the unlucky one, a bolt of bright orange and red crashing through him to the ground. Smoke rising
off his frame as his only response was how much of a rush it was. He really is crazy.

We reached the grounds of the Asylum, the large iron gates open and half falling if the hinges. Evidence of being hit by the lightning
everywhere. As we looked over the grounds, there were patients everywhere, all across the grass, dancing in the open space, lightning
crashing all around them with more intensity that we had seen, Edgar was clearly still here, this was not right, nothing about this was right.

We had to get inside, we took it one by one, running from the gate to the main entrance, through crazy inmates and lightning together, it
was clear to us that we were not welcome, this was not going to be a pleasant visit, not like the last visit to a sanitorium.

It took some time, Will and Marcus again dragging the chain. My bad leg still feeling terrible, yet I was still faster than these two. Tom and
I got to work straight away, there was not a sol inside the building, dead silence, everyone was outside, no one here at all. We began
pulling apart the main desk, looking for any reference to Edgar or his room number. Nothing, everything was destroyed or had been
defaced by the now free patients.

Our search was simple, wing to wing, upstairs first. We all moved slowly, Tom in front, followed by Marcus, myself and Will on rear guard.
Probably not the best decision given his constant distraction by anything he was looking at. The upstairs was empty, the only fascinating
sight, looking out over the grounds of the Asylum, the ay the patients moved, almost as though swaying as one entity, one fluid motion,
like being in a trance.

We continued our search downstairs, the ground floor clear, this enormous building not making it easier on us, its numerous wings and
corridors taking what felt like an age to walk down.

The Basement was next, reminding me and Marcus of the basement at Trammell’s house, why does everything always have to be in a
basement?

Tom again took the lead down the stairs, Marcus and I together, Will on the tail. As we descended the stairs, light began flashing from the
stone corridor at the bottom, not flickering lights, more like flashing lightning. Everything down here was broken, doors were in jagged
pieces across the narrow hallway, doorframes and gurneys strewn everywhere, this was a maze to navigate one single hallway. We moved
quietly, watching the flashing light bounce around the corridor in all directions. Our flash lights flickering with every flash of light, on
either side of the corridor, rooms, operating rooms, rooms that I’m glad me and Marcus never saw the inside of.

A scream in the darkness behind us, I turned on my heel, my pistol outstretched, Will, he was standing below a crooked doorframe, well,
he was. Long, animal like arms taking hold of him from the darkness. He looked at me, right in the eyes, before he was ripped into a
corner of the sharp angled doorframe, disappearing in a spurt of blood, like watching a chicken go into a grinder a full speed. He was gone,
Will was gone. The soft sounds of blood dripping from the room to the tiled floor the only thing ringing in my ears.

Marcus was equally startled, his expression vacant, as if what he had seen had slapped him in the face with a cold fish. Tom on the other
hand, hunched over and vomiting up the coffee we had for breakfast.

We spun again to face forwards as more screams came down the hall from a room on the right. Tom, Marcus and I all charged at it, there
was a familiar tone to the voice. Marcus kicked the door open to reveal Edgar Job, sitting on the operating table in the middle of a large,
white, tiled room, naked and rigid. His flesh was not his own, the lightning we had seen glowed from him, was he its source? As we stood
there struck by silence, another flash of red flowed straight through the building, striking Edgar and being dispersed from him in white
streaks as he screamed in agony. His flesh was missing, his face, only half of what I remember, the other half, burnt away, all over his
body, his organs exposed, his muscles charred, his hair melted.

Marcus approached him, in between the screams and bolts of light, Marcus began to talk to him. Explaining that he was the source of
everything, he was what the god was after. He was the key, he as everything. Edgar only looked at him, tears forming before being
evaporated by the lightning that continued to strike him.

Marcus had begun pleading, save u, save our families, save our children. Edgar was not responding well, not seeming to care what words
were being said. Marcus then changed his tone, desperate, he told Edgar that he will not be alone, Marcus was going to go with him. This
made Edgar change, the conversation about where, how and when confused me. Marcus was going to open a gate, a gate to somewhere
else, somewhere far from here. Was this what his constant muttering had been about?

After a few minutes of talking and more lightning strikes, Marcus began drawing and painting on the wall, using anything, oil from the
gurney wheels, grease from the steel cans for cleaning the operating instruments, carving himself again to use his own blood.

I wanted to stop him, Tom wanted to stop him, we were frozen, before long, a section of the wall was covered, at least two meters high
and three meters long, Edgar had begun also drawing, the symbols within symbols, an intricate web of something, was it the stars, was this
the gazer’s perspective in written form? I was stuck, unable to move, unable to make sense of it.

As the two worked, the room became brighter, the intense glow of luminous blue filling the space, whatever was coming, was getting
closer.

Marcus screamed and drove his palm into the centre of the newly created wall, sending one of the tiles back into the wall, instead of
breaking, floating back into the wall, revealing a purple haze that began to appear slowly. The Purple swirling light began pulling
everything into it, the wall falling into itself where the symbols had been drawn until all that was visible was a swirling vortex of purple and
black. I could feel it, sucking everything towards it, the air from outside rattling down the corridors, through the windows, flying past me
and being sucked into the void beyond. Standing in front of this void, my friend Marcus and Edgar. I called to Marcus, my words finally
clear as the lightning hushed for a few moments. Marcus turned to face me, his eyes, white, his skin pale, his face gaunt, this was not
Marcus, this was what was left of him.

Marcus grabbed Edgar by the arm and stepped in, the void taking them both instantly, disappearing from my view, within moments,
blinding light flashed across my eyes, everything went white, a loud thunder clap ringing in my head.

All was quiet, I sat up, passing out from the event, looking around, everything was normal, the wall was whole, no symbols, no lightning,
no Edgar, no Marcus. Only Tom sitting against a wall on the far side of the room. His eyes bloodshot and in shock. The lightning was
gone, the glow remained, the clouds remained, the green lights remained, from the window, this was all visible.

We needed to get out of here.

It took some time. A month passed before Janet could book passage back to the US, Tom and I waiting patiently, watching the clouds
slowly begin to part in the sky, the green lights fading slowly with every day that passed.

The country was slowly starting to find order again. The people returning from their crazed states back to somewhat regular, if there was
such a thing anymore. The walls had begun, the walls of missing people, hundreds of thousands, all across the country, millions across the
world, people had vanished, Chicago had been destroyed. This was worse than coming back from the war. Had we done this all?

I don’t know what time it was that Janet finally arrived at the penthouse, Carl in tow, along with drivers and family members of all
involved. Will’s wife, Janet had already given her the news. Tom’s dog, that fucken dog. Marcus’s family, all I could do was put my hand
on her shoulder and offer my sympathies and support, I had been with him, I had survived, he had not. I owed him, we all did.

A year had passed, the sky was clear again, the days warm. Chicago was rebuilding itself, not as fast as New York would, but not bad. I
haven’t heard from Tom in some time, last I saw him, he was taking his dog back to whatever state he came from, riding on his bike, a bike,
of all things. I moved, Marcus’s wife moved, Indiana, not a bad spot. She and her daughter seemed to be well looked after, a big house,
plenty of money, at least Janet was good for it. I couldn’t help it, I followed, moving to the other side of town so I was close. I needed to
keep an eye on them, Carl seemed to have settled here, baseball still the main focus of his attention.

Life was getting quiet again, I didn’t like it.

Five years had passed, I read the paper as I always did. Obituaries, there she was, the beautiful face of Janet Winston-Rogers, threw
herself from her penthouse balcony. She knew it. I knew it.