Chapter 193: Visions of Wars

What was this place?

Everything seemed wrong—shrouded in darkness that wasn’t quite night, filled with dust and smoke that moved like living things, choking the air with particles that caught nonexistent light and refracted it into sickly colors I had no names for.

No, it wasn’t just dark. It was a battlefield. But not any battlefield I’d ever seen in history books or war documentaries. This was something else entirely—something that made World War trenches and modern combat zones look like schoolyard scuffles by comparison.

Screams echoed from every direction. No—not screams. Shrieks. The kind of sounds that came from throats not built for human vocal ranges, pitched too high and too low simultaneously, vibrating through my bones in ways that made my teeth ache and my skull feel like it might crack from internal pressure.

I spun around, trying to locate sources, trying to make sense of what I was witnessing.

Explosions detonated constantly—not the familiar boom of conventional ordnance, but stranger detonations that warped the air itself, creating ripples of distortion that spread outward like stones dropped in reality’s surface. Dust clouds rose in towering columns, rocks and debris launched skyward, the ground itself heaving and buckling as if the planet was trying to shake off whatever infection had landed on its skin.

When I turned toward the sources of destruction, I saw things I had absolutely no frame of reference for.

Vehicles—except they weren’t vehicles in any sense I understood. They were massive, easily the size of buildings, hovering or crawling on dozens of articulated legs, covered in angular armor plating that seemed to shift and reconfigure as I watched. Weapons protruded from every surface—not guns or cannons, but apparatus that defied mechanical logic, releasing beams of concentrated energy that disintegrated everything they touched.

The colors were wrong. Some weapons fired rays of deep purple that left afterimages burned into my retinas. Others unleashed cascades of sickly green that made the air itself seem to rot. Still others produced brilliant white lances that carved through matter like it was nothing more substantial than fog.

And the combatants themselves...

I recognized Frost Walkers immediately—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, scattered across the battlefield like terrible statues brought to murderous life. But these weren’t the Frost Walkers I’d encountered before. These were bigger, easily twice the size, their crystalline bodies more elaborate and varied in structure. Some had four limbs, others six or eight. Some moved on legs, others seemed to float or glide.

Fire Spitters too, or things that resembled Fire Spitters in the same way a flamethrower resembles a campfire. These were massive—building-sized organisms that launched torrents of flame so intense the air around them ignited spontaneously. Their shapes varied wildly: some quadrupedal, some serpentine, some that defied description entirely because my brain refused to properly process their geometry.

But those weren’t the only infected variants present.

I saw things that might have been Screamers but warped beyond recognition—covered in bony protrusions like organic loudspeakers, their mouths splitting impossibly wide to release sonic blasts that shattered stone and metal alike. I saw shambling masses that might have started as human but had been transformed into walking biological weapons platforms, their bodies bristling with organic cannons and blade-like appendages.

Around and between them, scattered across the churned landscape, lay technological debris that spoke to civilizations far more advanced than anything Earth had achieved. Vehicles overturned and burning with flames that produced no smoke. Weapons the size of cars lying broken and sparking with energies that arced between fragments. Structures that might have been buildings or might have been machines—the distinction seemed meaningless here—reduced to twisted frameworks and melted alloys.

All of it designed to destroy. All of it optimized to kill.

But kill what? Kill who?

I turned my gaze toward the other side of this apocalyptic battlefield, toward the sources of those inhuman shrieks that weren’t coming from the infected variants.

And there I saw—

"Ryan."

The voice cut through the chaos in my head, dispersing the scene instantly.

"Huh!"

I snapped my eyes open suddenly, gasping, my entire body jerking in the chair hard enough that it scraped backward across the floor with a harsh scraping sound.

I blinked rapidly, trying to force my vision to focus, the battlefield dissolving into fragments that slipped away like water through fingers. Gradually, shapes resolved into something I could process.

Clara was looking at me with obvious concern written across her face, her eyes wide and worried, one hand slightly extended toward me like she’d been trying to reach me but hesitated.

She was awake. Conscious.

I looked around quickly, reorienting myself to reality.

This was the hotel room Molly had provided last night—the Emerald Casino Hotel, first floor, one of the rooms "emptied" by Callighan’s violence. Morning sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains I’d forgotten to close properly, casting golden bars across the floor and illuminating dust motes floating lazily in the still air.

After washing myself in the ocean last night, I’d come back here and apparently fallen asleep sitting in the chair beside Clara’s bed rather than finding somewhere more comfortable to rest. My neck ached from the angle I’d been slumped at, and my back protested as I straightened.

"Ryan, are you okay?" Clara asked again, her voice carrying genuine worry. "You were muttering something in your sleep. I couldn’t make out the words, but you sounded... scared."

"Y...Yeah, I’m fine, I think..." I said awkwardly, my voice rough with sleep and confusion. The images were already fading rapidly, the way dreams did upon waking—that battlefield of impossible technologies and engineered horrors slipping away into mental static.

But the emotional weight remained, sitting heavy in my chest like I’d swallowed something cold and sharp.

"You’re crying," Clara said softly, pointing toward my face with concern.

I reached up automatically, touching my cheeks with tentative fingers.

They were wet. Tears had tracked down both sides of my face, cutting clean lines through whatever grime I hadn’t successfully washed away last night.

"I... don’t know..." I muttered as lost as her.

Why was I crying? I had absolutely no idea. The dream—if it had been a dream—was already fragmenting into pieces I couldn’t quite reassemble. And some deep instinct warned me I really didn’t want to think too hard about it, didn’t want to examine those images too closely, because acknowledging what I’d seen might make it more real than I could handle.

I forcibly turned my attention away from my own confusion and back to Clara, grateful for the excuse to focus on something concrete and immediate.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, standing up from the chair with joints that cracked and protested. I leaned toward her to check her shoulder, scanning for any signs of fresh bleeding or complications.

"Um... Ryan?" Clara’s voice carried a strange note as she actually recoiled slightly on the bed.

"Yeah?"

She looked away quickly, her face coloring, and pointed vaguely toward my chest without making eye contact.

"You should... probably wear something," she said, her voice small and embarrassed.

I looked down at myself and realized with sudden clarity that I was completely shirtless.

My eyes widened. Right. Last night I’d washed both my jacket and shirt in the ocean to get the blood out, then hung them up to dry here in the room on improvised lines near the window. In my exhausted state, I’d apparently just collapsed into the chair without bothering to put anything back on.

I turned quickly toward the window, checking on my clothes.

Both jacket and shirt still hung where I’d left them, draped over the curtain rod and window latch. They were still noticeably damp—not dripping anymore, but definitely not fully dry either. Dark patches showed where moisture remained trapped in the heavier fabric.

"You really should find other clothes, Ryan," Clara said from behind me. "You’re going to get sick wearing damp things, especially after being in cold ocean water and then sleeping in them."

"It’s fine," I said, pulling the shirt off its makeshift line and shaking it out. The fabric was clammy and cold against my skin as I pulled it on, making me suppress an involuntary shiver. "I don’t have any other clothes with me, and a little dampness won’t hurt me."

That was technically true—my Dullahan enhancements made me significantly more resistant to environmental factors that would sicken normal humans. But I didn’t elaborate on that.

The jacket followed, equally damp and uncomfortable, but at least providing coverage.

"More importantly," I said, turning back to face Clara properly now that I was decent, "tell me honestly how you’re feeling. Pain level, mobility, any symptoms I should know about."

Clara’s expression sobered as she assessed her own condition. She shifted slightly on the bed, testing her range of motion carefully, and winced.

"It hurts," she said quietly. "A lot, actually. I feel like someone’s driving a hot poker into my shoulder with every breath. And I have a splitting headache on top of it—probably from blood loss or the painkillers or both." She groaned softly and laid back against the pillows, closing her eyes. "But I should still be able to travel back to Galloway. I can walk."

"You’re absolutely certain you can walk properly?" I pressed, needing to be sure. We’d still have to cover significant distance to reach where our group was waiting, and the last thing we needed was Clara collapsing halfway there.

"Yeah, I’m confident I can manage the walking part. It’s just that I’m a bit..." She trailed off as her stomach chose that exact moment to emit a loud, prolonged growl that echoed in the quiet room.

Clara’s face flushed bright red, and she looked away in embarrassment.

"Well... you see..." She started weakly.

I couldn’t help smiling slightly despite everything. Some problems, at least, had straightforward solutions.

"I’ll go ask them for some food," I said, moving toward the door. "You just stay here and rest. Don’t try to get up or move around until I get back."

"Ryan," Clara called out as I reached for the doorknob.

I stopped and turned back toward her. "Yeah?"

"Thank you," she said, her voice tinged with genuine, heartfelt gratitude that made her eyes shine slightly. "For staying with me all night. For watching over me. For taking care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. It means more than I can properly express."

I smiled a little.

"Don’t worry about it," I said. "Just focus on resting properly so we can get you back to the others."

I stepped through the doorway and pulled the door closed behind me with a soft click, leaving Clara to her recovery.

Now I just needed to find Molly and ask about getting Clara some food. Shouldn’t be too difficult—

"Oh, you’re the one who came in last night?"

A voice to my right made me turn. Two men were approaching down the hallway, neither of whom I’d seen before. Both looked to be in their late twenties, with the lean builds of people who’d survived months of apocalypse. One had close-cropped hair and a scar running through his left eyebrow. The other wore his dark hair longer, pulled back in a small ponytail.

"Yeah, that’s me," I replied simply, turning to face them but not moving toward them.

"Hey? Is that how you thank people who gave you shelter?" The scarred one asked, his tone shifting toward offense or irritation. "You can’t even have a proper conversation or even give small thanks?"

I was immediately tired of this interaction.

I’d answered his question directly and honestly. Why would he get upset because I didn’t elaborate or engage in extended pleasantries? We were strangers, I had things to do, and I owed him nothing beyond basic courtesy.

"I thanked Molly for the shelter last night," I said quietly, my voice turning flat and emotionless. "That should be sufficient."

I moved to step past them toward the staircase, intending to simply end this interaction through physical distance rather than continued engagement.

"What?" The one without the scar—the one with the ponytail—frowned deeply, his expression shifting from mild irritation to genuine offense. "We saved that woman’s life and even gave you a room when you had nowhere to go, and you’re going to act all arrogant and dismissive?"

I couldn’t cope with this bullshit. I was exhausted and was still reeling from that vision of nightmare.

I should just ignore him completely. Keep walking. Let it go.

But that strategy only seemed to inflame them further. I heard footsteps behind me quickening, closing the distance, and then felt the presence of a hand reaching toward my shoulder—not quite touching yet, but the intent clear.

I turned my head sharply, my gray eyes locking onto the scarred man’s face before his fingers could make contact.

The man froze instantly. His hand hovered in the air just inches from my shoulder, fingers still curved in the gesture of grabbing, but his entire body had gone rigid. Whatever he saw in my expression, whatever coldness or warning my eyes were broadcasting, it stopped him.

"Flinn. Mike. That’s enough."

Molly’s voice cut through the moment thankfully. I turned to see her approaching from the stairwell, her expression tinted with exasperation.

"He’s our guest," she continued. "And what exactly are you two begging him to thank you for? You were both sleeping in your beds when he arrived last night. It was Shawn who treated the injured woman, if I remember correctly. I may be getting older, but my memory’s still sharp enough to recall who actually did what."

"That’s not the point!" Mike protested, his face flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and defensiveness. "This guy is just acting all arrogant and superior, like he’s better than—"

"Enough," Molly cut him off with a single word.

She looked at me then and gave a small nod—half apology, half solidarity.

I returned the nod and moved to join her, keeping my back to the two men as I passed them.

"Sorry about that," Molly said quietly once we’d put some distance between ourselves and the confrontation, descending the ornate staircase side by side. "Every community has its own collection of hot-blooded idiots who need to prove something, right?"

Her smile carried meaning beyond the surface words—she was clearly drawing a parallel to Brad, Kyle, and Billy from our group.

"Yeah..." I agreed simply.

"Anyway," Molly continued as we reached the ground floor and she steered us toward a different corridor, "Marlon wanted to see you this morning. I’m taking you to meet with him now."

"I actually wanted the Doctor to check on Clara first," I said.

"I’ll send Shawn to your room right after your meeting with Marlon, I promise," Molly assured me. "But our leader wants to speak with you first. He was very specific about that when I reported in this morning—said he needed to meet the stranger who saved Shannon.

I nodded in the end. I was also a bit curious about that man.

"Lead the way," I said simply.