Chapter 6: The Sun, the Moon, and the Enduring

I braced myself for what was coming. The path was clear, even if it led straight into hell.

Less than 100,000 Americans survived; Foster died for his country, paving the way to the Dust Abyss. Erikson’s tribe took me prisoner, dragging me back to the plains. It was a strange place; the cattle and sheep had been stripped of flesh. Tribal shamans held ceremonies, welcoming the outer gods.

Losing Foster hit me hard. I rode in silence, the faces of the dead haunting my every step. Even the land seemed to mourn, the grass stained red with blood.

They took me to the holy mountain for a grand ceremony, planning to kill me at the end. America’s fate might end there, and all humanity become slaves to the outer gods.

The mountain loomed overhead, its peak lost in clouds. I felt tiny, a pawn in a game I barely understood.

Tied to a pillar, I finally understood my father’s and great-grandfather’s words. The Carter family’s mission was never just about America—it was about buying a chance for the heartland to survive.

The realization was humbling and terrifying. I closed my eyes, whispering a silent prayer to the ancestors.

The shamans lit torches, dancing around me. The red moon in the sky sang its gospel, subtle but stirring, making the tribesmen wild with excitement. Erikson faced me, his spear at my chest, and said in broken English:

The air was thick with smoke and chanting, the sound rising to a fever pitch. I could feel the power building, pressing in from every side.

"Eagle! I caught an eagle!"

His words rang out, sharp and triumphant. I met his gaze, refusing to show fear.

The red moonlight washed over Erikson, making him look years younger. His gray hair turned black, his face fierce, eyes shining with excitement, waiting to skin me alive.

The change was horrifying. I realized then that the moon’s power was real, its touch able to reshape the world.

The tribesmen weren’t as sharp as folks from the heartland; while Erikson danced, I cut the ropes with the dagger hidden in my sleeve. Great-grandfather’s blade could slice hair, let alone these ropes. Erikson’s face twisted in shock as I leaped through a crack in the holy mountain.

My heart pounded as I ran, the dagger flashing in my hand. For the first time in years, I felt wild, desperate hope.

Below was endless darkness; Erikson didn’t follow. Thick, stagnant water seeped in, soaking me, cutting off my breath. I didn’t feel pain, but the loneliness was sharp, deep in my bones—a sense that I didn’t belong anywhere.

The darkness was total, the silence smothering. I floated in the void, my thoughts unraveling like threads in a storm.

Every memory rejected me, everyone I remembered felt like a stranger. I kept sinking in the water, losing track of time and space. But I knew I wasn’t dead; despite the fall, I was unharmed.

I clung to that fact, repeating it like a prayer. I am not dead. I am not dead.

Only then did I understand why the outer gods were so eager to come here. In emptiness like this, loneliness eats at you until you forget your own face. Maybe the worst pain isn’t death—it’s the poison of the soul.

The emptiness gnawed at me, alive and hungry. I realized then that the greatest enemy wasn’t chaos or monsters, but the slow rot of hope.

I could feel my body changing in strange ways. Like the Three Johns, I was turning into something unspeakable—tentacles, fangs, claws, scales, all sprouting. I didn’t dare call that mess of chaos myself. But my heart told me this was just the start; soon I’d be lost to it all.

Terror gripped me. I fought to hang onto myself, whispering my name into the dark.

As I started to dissolve, a colorful light appeared. The little dagger pierced the void with mysterious power…

The light was warm, familiar. I reached for it, desperate for anything to hold onto.

The space shifted again; in shallow water stood a giant bronze gate, slightly open, a blinding red light behind it. Four huge totems had faded; nobody knew what they meant. Twelve smaller ones circled them, one shining bright.

The gate loomed above me, ancient and terrifying. I felt its power in the air, a heartbeat older than time.

It was a giant sphere, like a moon, with a huge eyeball beneath it. The eye was the source of the red light, humming with power. Its body sang a gospel, driving those touched by the red light insane.

The eye stared at me, unblinking. I felt its gaze burrow into my soul, searching for something I didn’t want to give.

Below the totem, strange writing shifted and changed. At last, the meaning burned into my mind: Sign of extinction: Geheros!

The word echoed in my head, heavy with dread. I knew, deep down, this was the enemy I had to beat.

It’s the horn of the outer gods, the spreader of gospel, a beacon that appears in certain places. The outer gods in the void use its gospel to draw near and descend. It’s not the strongest, but it’s the most terrifying—every horror revolves around it.

I understood then: the real battle wasn’t for land or power, but for the world’s soul.

I sat cross-legged outside the bronze gate; sealing its descent wasn’t hard. Its huge eyeball stuck out from the gate. All I had to do was stab it with the dagger, drive away the red light, and the gate would fix itself. It was like a pebble jamming a door—close it, and you’re safe.

But the job was deadly. I gripped the dagger, heart pounding.

To pierce the eye, I had to look right at it, letting the red light touch me. As I got close, it blasted visions into my mind.

The visions came fast—fire, blood, nations falling. I saw myself crowned and cursed, my family destroyed, the world swallowed by chaos.

The Carter family couldn’t escape fratricide, the U.S. would fall. The northern tribes would conquer the heartland. If the outer gods arrived, it wouldn’t end with America—nothing could stop them. The president would become the old gods’ greatest slave, ruling the land. The outer gods even promised me immortality, freedom to travel time and space. The price: bow to them, and all humanity bows too, becoming slaves.

The temptation was real, the promise seductive. I felt the weight of history pressing down, ancestors whispering in my ear.

But then, the dagger blazed with infinite light, and ancestor after ancestor stood before me. The founding president, Carter, grandfather, father, even the deposed Henry Carter. They helped me grip the dagger. They said nothing, but their actions told me America would never yield. Humanity would never bow.

Their silent strength filled me with courage. I raised the dagger, ready to do what had to be done.

The sharp dagger pierced the giant eyeball, red light and blood spraying over me. Endless curses rained down; at that moment, the world changed. The bronze gate closed, the red moon vanished, as if it had all been a dream.

Relief crashed over me. I slumped to the ground, exhausted but triumphant. For the first time, I believed we might have a future.

But my dagger stabbed into a man’s body—my half-brother, Samuel Carter. He was the new president. Fate was a cycle; twisted time and space dragged me into fratricide. The whole White House, cursed, its time thrown into chaos. All they remembered was the day I returned—the Incident at the Gate!

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d become what I feared, my family’s curse playing out again and again.

The enemy had already taken Washington, the U.S. had fallen. Just like my father wrote. The heartland and its people were sacrifices for the outer gods. Samuel Carter, the Three Johns, Daniel Foster—none could stop it.

The cost of victory was written in blood and loss. I wondered if any of us would ever break the cycle.

When the dagger struck, the world slid into another time and place. There, a great war was called the Defense of Washington. A hero named Daniel Foster was Chief of Staff. The president was Samuel Carter—a better man than me.

The names and faces changed, but the story stayed the same. I watched it unfold, powerless to stop it.

The moment I struck, the worst curse fell on me. Killing loyal advisors, killing my brother for the presidency. I became a madman, unable to tell anyone the truth. Because to speak is to chant, and the outer gods would come.

The silence was a prison, the truth a poison I could never share. I carried it alone, the weight growing heavier every year.

All I remember is that many years later, on my deathbed, I could still say to the ancestors in the underworld:

My voice was weak, but the words rang true. I closed my eyes, hoping my ancestors would hear me, hoping they’d understand.

"Carter did not disgrace the Carter family. The sun, moon, mountains, and rivers will endure—America will endure!"

And in that last moment, I believed it. No matter how dark the world became, there would always be someone willing to fight for the light.