Chapter 5 · free to read
Nine days in a wet nave and not a mark on them. Callahan's boots still had the shop's cardboard label glued into the tread.
Callahan's hat is fused into the floor of the nave. I have been standing on it. And it is also on his head, and it is brand new.
It copies what it eats. And it cannot copy a wound, because it has never once watched a body heal. It has only ever watched bodies open.
He bit through eleven-gauge galvanised wire the way you bite a liquorice lace. And behind him, where the fence parted, the ground had already started to swell.
Artwork and narration generated with AI.