The fire was everywhere. It licked away skin, and boiled blood. It was everywhere.
Whitman looked about him, flailing limbs to drag himself away, but only two responded. "LIEUTENANT!?" He dragged, he bled. "DRAPER!?"
Whitman's vision blurred black and a red at the edges. The waves of heat rolled all around causing an illusion in the distance.
A figured stood over the charing body of Lieutenant Draper, kicking a mangled leg, disappointed, as if at a flat tire. The figure paused, then turned its head toward Whitman.
There was no face, only a suit and haircut worth months in the service, years on the farm.
Whitman strained to listen to a whisper from nowhere and at the final word Whitman could only say one thing. "Yes."
A mouth appeared, cracking with a fanged smile, and the rest of the face materialized. It was Whitman's own visage with obsidian eyes, cavernous and inviting, like a wish in a well.