Dear Planet Earth,
In between my tumbles into the past and present, life and death, a face appears — a face I know can’t be real. It’s a memory, a shadow of the sanity I once had.
He wasn’t there.
Back in the past, on the border of the mole people’s slave labor camp, Maria, Karter, Halston, Linares, and I take swigs from a whiskey bottle I swiped from a store in LA. We check our rifles and cover our faces with black makeup as the sun sets behind the colossal drill.
“We’re ninjas,” says Halston. “We’re scouting the area, that’s all. In and out. Find vulnerable points, memorize patrol routes, and get back up here.”
Karter takes a swig and snickers. “Easy peasy,” he says.
We enter the camp as soon as the last ray of sunlight disappears and the mole man guards are nowhere to be seen. Not much of anything can be seen, really. The area had thousands of slaves and slavers roaming around just hours before, yet it now stood almost completely deserted. A small part of me wondered if they all went inside the drill or under the ground at night, while the rest of my mind stayed focused on swerving between the strange structures ahead of us and not curling up into a ball weeping. I remember thinking ninjas was an apt word as we ran along in a crouched, silent formation.
And in a matter of seconds, everything changes.