CUTC-017
Barista: Jennifer Hepburn
Date: Dec-13-2019
Receipt: CUTC-017
Subject: Division Zulu
It’s early. Too early for this.
Los Angeles hasn’t even shaken off the night yet. There’s still that heavy, in-between quiet—the kind that lingers just before dawn, when everything feels like it’s holding its breath. And yet, the moment we got close to the Hollywood Sign, I knew. I felt it. I don’t need my planchette to sense this.
To sense how horribly wrong this place is.
The air is thick with a foul odor—burnt ozone, sour decay, and something older. Bitter. Metallic. Like blood left out in the sun too long. Alex was right. It’s the smell of a corpse. Maybe more than one. And the closer we get, the stronger it becomes, pressing against my skin like damp wool, seeping into my lungs.
I didn’t need my planchette to tell me something was off, but I checked it anyway. Peering through the quartz at its core, I found no sign of anything from the Otherside. Whatever’s happening beneath this hill—whatever the Zulus are doing—it’s a human-made horror.
I don’t need to see the inside of the base to know. This place is rotting. Not like flesh, but like a wound left open too long. Zulu built their walls, their barriers, their wards—but they didn’t cleanse whatever infection is beneath us. They’ve tried to contain it. Maybe we’ll be doing them a favor by stepping in. …I can hear it. Not with my ears, but deeper. Like whispers in my marrow. Something is still here. Trapped. Writhing. Hungry.
I can’t imagine this is what they wanted…
Well. Nothing left to do but go in.