Everyone in camp knew where Mandai Training Ground was.
It lay beyond the outer fence, past a stretch of overgrown road no one used anymore. Official maps still marked it as a former training zone, sealed off after a landslide decades ago. Drills never took place there, patrols never passed through, and explanations were quietly withheld.
Still, the name lingered.
Among soldiers, a different story passed from batch to batch. It came wrapped in warnings, lowered voices, and a rule no one remembered being taught—only obeying:
Never go near Mandai after sunset.
I broke that rule without meaning to.
The First Call After Midnight
During my first reservist cycle, I was assigned lone night duty along the forest edge—close enough to Mandai that the fence line curved out of sight.
At first, everything felt routine. Cicadas hummed without pause. Floodlights buzzed overhead. The radio crackled with check-ins from other posts, each voice flat with fatigue.
Just after midnight, the radio hissed again.
“Section Four, fall in.”
The voice was calm and practiced—too calm. It did not belong to any officer I recognized.
I checked the display. The channel was inactive, one no unit used anymore. I lifted the radio, waiting for static or laughter.
The message repeated, sharper this time.
“Section Four. Fall in.”
I pressed transmit.
“This is Post Three. State your call sign.”
Silence.
Then the forest answered.
Branches creaked though the air stayed still. From beyond the fence came a measured rhythm—boots striking soil in perfect time. Not rushed. Not searching. Certain.
I should have stayed where I was.
Instead, I followed the sound.
Where Procedure Refuses to Forget
I did not realize I had crossed the fence until the wire caught lightly against my sleeve and slipped free. It sagged low in one section, pressed flat, as if something heavy had passed through often enough to leave a path.
The ground changed beneath my boots—softer, colder. Ahead, the trees parted into a clearing that did not appear on any map.
My breath fogged. Sound dulled.
Old helmets lay half-buried in the dirt, rusted through, moss filling their cracks. A single rifle leaned against a tree, wood warped, metal eaten by time.
Then the ground began to move.
Footprints pressed into the soil—one pair at a time—until a full formation stood before me. The earth accepted the weight without protest.
No faces formed. No bodies appeared.
Only shadows, standing where soldiers should have been.
“Fall in properly.”
Something settled on my shoulders—heavy, deliberate—straightening my spine. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. Around me, invisible rifles lifted together.
The roll call began.
Names rang out, steady and familiar, spoken with the patience of repetition. I knew the cadence. My body recognized it before my mind did.
The last name came after a pause.
Mine.
The Rule Behind the Count
Silence fell.
Every shadow faced me.
“You answered,” the voice said. “Stand fast.”
The words were not a threat. They were instruction.
Fragments surfaced—half-heard stories of a night exercise long ago. A unit that failed to respond before roll call ended. No confirmation. No correction. By morning, the ground was sealed.
But no one closed the count.
The formation remained, waiting.
The dirt tightened around my boots, cool and patient, pressing downward as if completing a task left unfinished. Panic broke discipline. I tore free, stumbling as the marching resumed behind me—closer now, perfectly timed.
I ran until the floodlights cut through the trees.
The sound stopped all at once.
I collapsed beneath the light, shaking, unsure which name the count had paused on.
What Remains on the Roster
By morning, officers found me near the perimeter fence.
They called it exhaustion. Forms were filed. Statements were shortened to what fit. By afternoon, crews reinforced the fence and sealed Mandai Training Ground again.
No one asked what I heard.
I finished my reservist cycle, but I was never assigned night duty after that. Sometimes, half-asleep, I wake certain someone is still counting—waiting for a response that does not come.
Years passed. I noticed the pattern only later.
Each year, when duty rosters rotated, one name vanished. Quietly. No notice. No explanation. Just an empty line where ink should have been.
Near the forest edge, a helmet surfaced one season, half-buried, as if the ground had shifted to make room.
I stopped checking the rosters after that.
Some records do not close. They move forward through transfers, handwriting, and silence—carrying unfinished names.