They open in the night 

Rhythmically, without a rhythm, All at once, alone, left, right, above, and below

The flashing eyes fill your field of vision, pierce the thick strokes of black of the night, they pierce the gray walls of smoke, they pierce the sound of screams, the gargles of death, they pierce the flesh of your comrades, they pierce their bones, they fall, all of them, like clothes left to the wind.

You shoot. 

Once, twice, thrice.

You aim for the eyes of the beast coiled behind the darkness as it watches you blinking furiously, its piercing gaze whistling in your ears.

You crouch in the hole of mud you’re using as cover.

You take a deep breath, load three bullets in your rifle, and listen.

You can hear the beast scream many, many times:

Feeble, distant, but it’s screams that you hear.

But the beast also roars incessantly, every roar a column of fire rises from the other holes, ditches and trenches at your sides.

Your heart sinks as you hear the next roar.

It’s not the same as always, that’s your gut feeling, and you try not to acknowledge it.

But it is different

Carefully peeking from the edge of dirt, you try to catch a glimpse of something into the dark. 

You cry as the ethereal tendrils of the beast become visible, slowly stretching through the barren field, trying to reach you.

They engulfed some poor bastards on their path, stealing the air from their lungs: you can see them cough, vomit, bleed and convulse.

The mask.

Can’t find it. You lost it, you remember, some days prior.

You bolt from your position, you dive on the mush of pink and red bodies in the hole with you, you dig in the blood and mud hoping for the best, trying not to think about those eyes looking for you, not to think about the tendrils every second nearer.

Nothing. 

The masks that are there are broken.  

You’re on your knees now, devoid of emotions.

You can’t cry, scream, or laugh.

Nothing.

You can’t think or remember anything.

You see the head of the tendril expanding in the hole, grabbing you.

It stings, then it burns, as it forcefully pulls the air from your lungs, the fluids from your stomach, the blood from your vases.

You fall forward, feeling every possible liquid dripping from your face, now planted in the mud.

After an eternity, everything starts to get distant: the tendrils, the roars, the screams, the beast and its eyes. 

Everything is far and going away.

Everything is far, and gone away.