In a puddle of dried mud lies an old, dilapidated voice recorder, the same kind that the first two expeditions into the portal had carried. Though it took some hours of drying and some fiddling by the squad's resident tech whiz, eventually, a hushed voice fizzled from the worn speakers.

"Oh good God, they're so close... ah, it started. Captain's log, entry 13," a deep man's spoke. He had a strong Southern accent, perhaps from Oklahoma or the northern part of Texas. "T-This is Captain Taylor, commander of the Second Rift Expedition Squad. This is likely to be my final entry. All the men in my squad are dead, and if you're hearin' this, it's likely that I am deceased as well."

There was a short pause. For a moment, we were worried the recorder had given out, but after a few seconds, it resumed.

"It is the 29th of July in the year of our Lord 1953, but... there is no God here. I feel it. Up beyond the burnin' sun of this damned place... nothin's looking down on us. Nobody's looking out for us. It's just us... and these monsters."

Captain Taylor chuckled dryly. There was a rasp in his voice, as though he hadn't drank in days.

"They looked a hell of a lot cuter when they were nothin' but a pile of dusty old bones in a museum, I'll tell you that much. I used to live on a farm before I joined the army, so I know a thing or two about animals- but let me tell you this-"

An inhuman screech in the far distance.

"-these aren't animals. These are monsters. Demons straight from the devil's asscrack. They don't just kill to eat, they kill to kill. They hunt. They wait. They watch. They pick you off, one by one, until there's nothin' left, nobody to watch your back. We were 20 strong when we came through the rift, and now..."

A desperate sob fizzled from the speakers, and a strange rustling could be heard in the background.

"Listen to me," the captain hissed, sounding almost manic. "Whatever orders you got, whatever dreams you had of explorin' this place- turn back. Ignore whatever you read, heard or saw back in our world- this ain't our fuckin' world, you hear me this? This is their world. We don't belong here, and they know it. We rule the Earth, but in this Hell, we're nothin' but prey..."

The recorder suddenly started producing a strange noise. It sounded like rattling, or hissing. We thought it was the device finally dying, but then, Captain Taylor's voice returned, speaking clearly over the hissing.

"They found me. Was only a matter of damn time. Whoever you are, I pray for your sake that you started packin' up camp as you're listenin'. Or better yet, don't even finish listenin'. Just run. Run as far as-"

The hissing turned into screeching, and the Captain's trembling voice swelled into a terrible scream, a scream that would haunt us for the rest of our lives. We sat in shock as the man roared, cursed, wailed like a babe and, finally, with a sickening tearing of flesh, fell silent. The recorder kept playing the sounds of flesh tearing and bones crunching accompanied by an unsettling chittering noise, but someone mercifully reached up and shut it off.

For a moment, we all sat there in silence. None of us knew what to say, to think, to do.

Then, a thundering footstep shook the earth, and a deep, rumbling growl came from right outside the tent. The scent of rotten flesh mixed with hot breath flooded over us like a wave.

My heart leaped up into my throat, and I felt myself getting sick.

The growl was coming from above the tent.