The camp was exactly as one would expect it to look — at first glance at least. Past the tents and remnants of an unlit campfire was what looked like an abandoned diner. If you looked closer, through the nearly-opaque with grime windows, you could see it had been set up with a large weapons rack display on the back wall. In front of the small building were four parked motorcycles and two cars (all looked old and used, yet still capable and in fine condition).

Refusing to say anything more, the four men exited the vehicle, leaving Pete tied to the back. The sun crawled across the sky. Hours passed. He tried yelling and kicking, even found a way to unmount from the trunk area and stand beside the car, but then could not climb back in and was left standing (the rope wasn't long enough for him to sit) beside the car, his wrists pained from the rope digging into his already injured flesh and his shoulder uncomfortable from the position. The pain in his leg, head, and stomach only grew as time passed and he started to feel the after-effects of the chloroform.

The sky had sufficiently darkened, the sun half-hidden behind grey clouds and mountain ranges in the distance. The balls of Pete's feet throbbed from standing for so long, so he hung lazily from the rope. Just as he began to lose hope, a bell rang in the distance and out came the redhead from earlier. Pete straightened his legs, the pain in his knee growing with the motion, and squinted his eyes against the setting sun. The blonde trailed behind closely, both men marching with such confidence and power.

"What are you going to do to me?" Pete called out as they approached. The blonde reached behind his jeans, having now shed his jacket, and pulled something out, the mystery tool glinting in the sunlight. "Answer me!" he demanded, anger boiling underneath his bruised skin as he yanked on the rope in another failed attempt to free himself. The two still-unnamed men stood only inches from him now. The blonde held something in the air which Pete identified as a pocket knife. His heart sped and he pressed his eyes shut as it neared his skin. Snip.

"Move," the redhead said, uninterest laced in his voice. Pete opened his eyes to see that his hands were now free. Instantly, he held them close to his chest, rubbing the red marks that had formed along both wrists. The sudden change in position made his shoulder hurt. He winced and began to limp after the two men. They walked around the jeep and made their way over to the unoccupied tents. The redhead (who seemed to be in charge) pointed to a tree and Pete walked over to it, slumping down against the weak trunk, wincing and groaning in pain all the way down until he felt the warm cushion of sand beneath him. "So, what's your name?" The redhead kneeled in front of him. Pete noticed the blonde had placed down a bucket of murky water beside them, an equally dirty cloth hanging off the edge.

"You care?" he snapped. The redhead just stared at him as if he hadn't said anything and waited for the answer he wanted. "It's Pete," he mumbled in response after a moment's consideration.

"Well, Pete." He stretched his arm to the side and grabbed the cloth off the bucket, dipping it into the water and twisting it until the excess water finished dripping off. "What are you doing here?" He shook the cloth over the bucket and grabbed Pete's arms. From a distance, it would appear gentle, but his nails dug into Pete's flesh to make sure he wouldn't resist. Pete gulped and pulled his body away. He found himself looking to the blond, who was perched upon a log a few feet away.

He shook his head as the cold fabric touched his skin. "I wish I knew." Both the men sent him a half-hidden confused glance and the man moved on to the other hand. "I just woke up here a little bit before you guys picked me up. I don't know what happened. I don't even know where 'here' is." The tender flesh of his wrists had turned pink, but the dirt and dried blood had begun to wash away. Without making eye-contact, he felt the redhead's eyes on him, his glare boring into his eyes as if trying to find a lie. Once he seemed satisfied, he stood and tossed the cloth back onto the edge of the bucket and went to consult with the other. They whispered to each other for a while, until the redhead looked back at Pete and nodded, walking away. Pete watched him leave and heard sand crunch under the other man's boots as he approached, taking his counterpart's earlier position next to the bucket. He picked up the cloth and repeated the action of wetting and squeezing it. He hesitated and the two men locked eyes.

"Pete," he muttered and drew his hand up to Pete's face. The cloth stung his cheekbone and Pete remembered the hit he had taken, the flesh there probably still raw. He winced in concert with the other man. "Sorry." He focused on Pete's face, on cleaning off the dried blood and dirt, and Pete focused on him.

"What are you guys gonna do to me?"

He paused. "Don't move so much. Makes this harder."

"What are you going to do?" He repeated.

The man dipped the cloth back into the bucket with a splash and squeezed away the excess water. "I don't know, we haven't decided yet. But for what it's worth, I think I believe you." His voice quieted near the end of his words and he brought the cloth back to Pete's face.

You should believe me, Pete wanted to say. But instead, he said, "what's your name?"

Clearing his throat, the blonde answered: "Kobra Kid, but you can call me Kobra. And that guy was Party Poison." Pete nodded as if he understood. "Are you really not from here?"

"Really." Following Kobra's earlier request to remain still, Pete stopped himself from nodding.

"So which zone are you from?"

"Zone? Uh, central, I think." He was met with a confused look. Kobra shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Yep, you're definitely not from this world."

Pete smiled awkwardly back at him. "Definitely."

Kobra finished cleaning Pete up, wiping away at the pale lines where tears had slashed through dirt. Much to Pete's dismay, he retied his wrists and wrapped the rope around the tree to secure him to it, but left them more loose around the raw flesh of his hands. The sun had finally begun to set; the last strong golden rays kissed his skin, giving it copper hues and casting him in crimson. Eyes were weary from the day's toil, he simply wanted to shut them and sleep for a very long time. When he awakened, he would be in his own bed again, the memories of the past twenty-four hours just a dream. He blinked, keeping his eyes closed for a few extra seconds, and when they opened, the empty tents were still set up, his hands still bound, the endless sands still stretching as far as he could see, and the four men, each now sporting their jackets once more, striding towards him.

Kobra watched Pete as he sat on the log closest to him, Party Poison claiming the space to his left. After they settled, a man in black and yellow accompanied them, plopping down next to Poison on the edge of the cut-in-half slab of wood that had been fashioned into a bench. The two began chatting too quiet for Pete to make out their words as a fourth man in black sat alone on the adjacent log and tossed some stray kindling into the wood-filled circle of rocks. He pulled a match box out of his pocket and lit one, tossing it into the circle. It exploded into flames, licking at the wood and sending feeble sparks to die midway through the air. All five of the men found themselves subconsciously leaning in closer to the campfire's heat as the night took over and the temperature dropped.

"So what are we gonna do with him?" The man in black spoke up, silencing the rest of the group and attracting their attention in one fell swoop. They glanced between each other, Kobra sneaking a quick look at wide-eyed Pete, his own eyes darting around in anticipation and fear. Despite his restraints, he found himself leaning in closer still.

"How about nothing?" Kobra offered.

"What do you mean 'nothing'?" The one in yellow asked, leaning over Poison as if to hear better.

Kobra shrugged. "He didn't do anythin--"

"And we can't give him a chance to!" He argued. "How do you know he's not a drac?"

"I trust him."

Poison scoffed. "Trust him? You don't know him."

"Neither do you," he snapped back, challenge hot in his voice. Pete's heart skipped a beat as Poison rose and paced around the campfire, the palm of his hand rubbing his stubble-ridden chin.

The man in yellow began to say something, but was cut off by Poison suddenly yelling "I'm thinking!" They sunk back in their seats and remained silent as he continued to pace around. Pete held his breath waiting for the verdict. "Ghoul, come here." The man in yellow — Ghoul — stood and followed as Poison walked off into a tent.

"Don't worry," Kobra said to himself as much as he did to Pete and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his weary face.

"Don't worry," Pete said to his mother, rubbing her knee through the thick blanket with his small hands. "Don't worry, mama. Don't cry. Please." Her shoulders shook, sending sad vibrations through her back. Pete drew his hand back in fear that he was the cause. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. "I'm sorry, mama."

"No, baby," she said through sobs, "it's not you."

"Then what is it?" She rolled over and lifted one arm to make room for the young boy. Pete crawled into her arms and laid next to her on the messy bed. He listened to her uneven heartbeat next to his ear.

"It's—" She choked back a sob, "It's papa." A new round of tears fell as Pete looked straight ahead at the bare wall of her room. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. He's gone. He left."

"What do you mean?" Pete felt small and stupid for not understanding. Gone? What?

"Sweetheart, you know how mama is sick?" Pete's mother had been diagnosed with an unidentified form of cancer a year and a half ago. Pete nodded, the vague memories of many hospital visits flooding back into his mind. "Well, papa... Papa didn't want to, um, he, uh..." Pete grabbed her shaking hand and intertwined his small fingers in hers. Then, he felt her lips, cold and unsure, touch his head in a kiss. "He left."

Pete didn't quite understand why she was so upset. "But he leaves everyday. Don't worry mama, he'll come back when I come home from school." He tried to look up at her, but her eyes were closed and she dug her face into his head.

"No, sweetheart. He won't."

Poison and Ghoul returned a few moments later, Poison leading the way. "Kid, untie him." Ghoul reclaimed his seat by the fire.

Kobra rolled his eyes, probably at the choice of name, and jumped up. He kneeled in front of Pete and wrapped his arms around to reach his hands. With their noses nearly touching, Kobra sent him the smallest of smiles and undid the already loose ties. Once his hands were free, he snapped them up to his chest, accidentally touching Kobra in the process, who stood almost immediately and turned away. He sat back on the log facing the fire as the fourth man stoked it.

Pete braced himself against the rickety tree and stood as Poison approached. "What are you gonna do?" Poison looked past him as if he were debating one final thing and, once he seemed decided, extended his hand. His face laced with confusion, Pete stared at the outstretched arm. When he didn't take it, Poison sighed and retracted the arm.

"Nothing," he finally said, "we're not going to do anything. You can stay with us tonight, then you're on your own." With his face unviewable from the lack of lighting, Kobra turned his head and Pete hesitantly shook Poison's hand, who had lifted it back up.

"Thank you."

Nodding, the two found empty spots around the fire, Poison next to Ghoul and Pete across the fire in front of Kobra. The sputtering flames obscured Pete's view of Kobra's face, but he looked through them anyway. The five men stayed mostly silent, Ghoul and Poison chatting between themselves quietly and the man in black who Pete knew barely anything about, including his name, simply sitting in silence, tending to fire. Kobra would seldom speak, mostly just cutting into conversations with his own input, which would more often than not cause laughter. When he wasn't talking or listening he would hum, play with his fingers, or just look around. Probably curious about the foreigner they were now temporarily housing, he would often stare at Pete, but looked away right before they would make eye contact. He seemed fascinated and enveloped by the dark sky the other times, bright stars sprinkled across the navy-blue canvas. Pete also found himself gazing up at it. The skies in Chicago were polluted and bland, stars hidden behind either clouds, fog, or skyscrapers; so different from anything here.

Even under mittens, Pete's fingers couldn't decide between remaining frozen or succumbing to the heat of the fire. His teeth clacked together and his leg shook. "I wanna go home," he whined, the breath in front of his face turning to a smoke-like puff.

Two strong arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands rubbing his side. He leaned into the warm body of his father. "I know, bud. But camping is supposed to be fun! Just power through tonight, yeah?" Frowning, he nodded. "Hey." He nudged him. "Look!" Unwrapping one arm from around him, his father pointed towards the sky. Having not noticed it before, Pete instantly became mesmerized by the abundance of stars. There wasn't one inch of space without a large or small congregation of shimmering spots. Flying across the view came a beam of light — a shooting star! Wide-eyed and unable to keep a smile off his face, Pete locked eyes with it. He vaguely heard his father whisper, "make a wish."

Pete found himself gazing up at the stars again that night, the sight absolutely and completely captivating him. So much so that when three of the men had left, he was oblivious to the change.

"Pete?" Someone sat next to him on the log. "You good?" He snapped out of his starry trance and turned to see Kobra sitting next to him, the dark night and flickering flame distorting his features. It cast and eerie warm light into his skin as embers sputtered and flicked out of the circle and landed close-by. He dragged his feet in, crumpling into a small ball, and nodded. "You looked kind of... distracted or something." Kobra looked down at his own lap where his fingers played mindlessly.

"Yeah." Pete smiled and looked back at the darkening sky. "It's just... the stars. I was just thinking." He shook his head, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. "It's nothing." Looking around, he realized they were the last two people around the fire.

"So," Kobra ventured, "if you're not from here, then where are you from?"

"Chicago," said Pete; an automatic response. Kobra's confused face, although hazy from the lighting, let Pete know he could've been speaking in Korean for all Kobra knew. "The United States...?" He tried again. Kobra thought for a moment before lighting up in understanding.

"Oh, yeah, I think that's where we are, sort of. This whole place used to be called The States. We're in California, one of the last areas."

One of the last areas? Letting his lips part, Pete barely stopped his eyes from bulging out of his skull. "Oh. Uh, what year is it?"

"2019." Pete nodded. So no time has passed? "Can you, uh, could you tell me about your world?" Beneath the dim light from the stars above, Kobra looked like a little kid — curious about the world and filled with questions, his wide eyes and light blush giving him a childish glow.

So, Pete told him.

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2,818 words
December 5, 2019
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