Chapter 5: Meatballs and Monsters

Upon arriving at Caldwell’s stronghold, Tanya and I immediately joined the front lines, facing the Maple Heights army of the Northern Campaign. After all, Professor Livingston had told me to do everything I could to stop them.

We drove up to the barricades, camo tents dotting the hillside, the smell of burnt diesel and gunpowder hanging in the air. Tanya tied her hair back, jaw set, and took a position beside me. We were outsiders here, but we had no choice but to stand our ground.

But because we looked so different from the people of the Heartland, Sam Mason quickly recognized us. Unexpectedly, he said little and instead held a banquet in our honor.

In the army tent, the cooks brought out dishes far more sumptuous than anything in Maple Heights. The spread looked like a football Sunday gone wrong—jumbo meatballs, cornbread, mashed potatoes swimming in brown gravy. The most eye-catching was a plate of jumbo meatballs—each as big as a fist, glistening, fragrant, mouthwatering.

The tent buzzed with nervous laughter, but the meatballs were the talk of the camp. Mason raised his glass, smiling wide, and the soldiers thumped the table in encouragement.

Sam Mason recommended them highly, saying they were his own creation, beloved by the soldiers and served at every meal.

Tanya reached for one, but I stopped her. During these times, supplies were scarce—even powerful Caldwell couldn’t serve meat every meal. There was definitely something wrong with these meatballs.

I leaned in, whispered, "Something’s off. Don’t touch them."

"General Mason, we’ve been traveling so long, our stomachs are unsettled. We’ll skip the meat for now."

Sam Mason saw right through me and smiled calmly:

"General Holt, wondering what’s in the meatballs? Don’t worry—I’ve got nothing to hide. Watch and see."

He clapped his hands, and a cook entered the tent. Right in front of us, he began making meatballs. The man wielded his knife without expression; flesh and blood were minced beneath his blade, bones cracked with a sickening sound.

The meatballs’ raw material was nothing other than the corpses of dead soldiers.

A couple of soldiers glanced away, others stared in morbid fascination. Tanya covered her mouth, horrified.

The cook placed the minced meat before Sam Mason. I watched as Mason muttered an incantation, cut open his own finger, and let his blood drip into the meat. The moment blood and flesh mixed, the meatball instantly formed.

The smell hit me first, coppery and wrong, and my stomach lurched. I wanted to claw my skin off just watching. The air in the tent grew thick with revulsion. The cook’s hands shook as he presented the steaming, blood-flecked meatballs. I felt the urge to bolt, to run as far as I could from this nightmare masquerading as dinner.

Witnessing all this, Tanya and I couldn’t help but vomit.

The taste of bile burned my throat, my body shuddering in horror. The tent erupted in nervous whispers, a few soldiers looking pale as ghosts themselves.