01-21-2025, 12:24 AM
“You sure this isn’t just a wild goose chase?” Alistair’s question interrupted, his tone carefully neutral, though his unease was evident. “All this for a bear with bad teeth?”
Zholdin, walking at the front of the group, stopped abruptly and turned. The other men paused as well, their collective footsteps halting with a faint crunch of gravel. Zholdin’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed coldly as they fixed on Alistair.
““No bear?” Zholdin said, his tone smooth, almost amused. “If that’s the case, we’ll let you loose and hunt you down instead.”
The group erupted into laughter, sharp and grating against the still night. Even Mikov, his scarred face twisted into a crooked grin, chuckled at the image of the American being chased down like an animal. Limon clapped Alistair on the shoulder, grinning wide enough to show his teeth.
“Yeah, Alistair,” Limon said with a mock growl, “we’ll give you a head start. Let’s see how fast you can run.”
Once on frozen ground away from the petrol station, the others’ laughter faded quickly, as if the sound itself had been swallowed by the oppressive weight of the ruins around them. Zholdin turned back toward the path ahead, unconcerned by the others’ silence. They followed his lead without hesitation, but the momentary levity dissipated like smoke.
The group of eight pushed their way through a broken fence, finding themselves in the skeletal remains of an industrial yard, the kind of place the world had forgotten. Cracked pavement stretched before them, broken by weeds and the occasional protrusion of jagged rebar. Rusting hulks of machinery stood like sentinels in the dark, their twisted frames tangled with decades of grime and time. Overhead, towering silos loomed, their corroded surfaces streaked with grime that looked humorously like blood in the faint moonlight. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the vast emptiness around them. Somewhere far off, the screech of rusted steel groaned like the bones of the dying.
Zholdin stood at the head of the group, his figure carved from the shadows like a statue of some long-forgotten warlord. His coat billowed faintly in the night air, though he stood motionless, a dark obelisk amid the group’s nervous shuffling. Behind him, the seven men whispered amongst themselves, their bravado already unraveling as they took in their surroundings. They’d heard the rumors of a rogue bear stalking these desolate ruins, its monstrous size and savagery spoken of in tones meant to sound amused but always carrying a thread of unease.
“Doesn’t smell like a bear,” muttered Limon, his voice low but sharp enough to carry. He was fidgeting with his cigarette, lighting it for the third time though it had not yet gone out. His eyes darted around the twisted labyrinth of rusted girders and broken machinery. “I don’t know what the hell that smell is, but it ain’t any animal I know.”
“Shut up,” Mikov snapped, though the edge in his voice betrayed his own nerves. His hand hovered near his jacket pocket, where the shape of his pistol bulged conspicuously. “Bears stink. Everyone knows that. You’ve just never been close enough to one before.”
“And maybe I don’t wanna be,” Limon muttered, drawing deeply on his cigarette and exhaling into the night. The smoke curled around his face, vanishing into the dark like a pale ghost. His watchful eyes scanned their surroundings, lingering on every flicker of movement—a torn piece of tarp flapping in the wind, the faint skitter of a rat through broken pipes. Yet, even his imposing figure seemed diminished here, dwarfed by the sheer, crushing emptiness of the place.
Zholdin said nothing. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his cold gaze silencing the conversation as effectively as a pistol shot. He motioned with a curt nod of his head, and the group began moving again, their boots crunching over shattered glass and loose concrete. The air here was heavier, thicker, as though the remnants of industry had not simply decayed but curdled, leaving behind an invisible taint that clung to the skin and burned in the lungs. Every step echoed unnaturally, the sound bouncing off rusted walls and empty windows, only to return distorted and alien.
The further they ventured, the more the ruins seemed to close in around them. The once-vast factories and assembly halls had become a maze of collapsing walls and skeletal machines, their jagged edges glinting faintly in the moonlight. The ground beneath their feet grew uneven, littered with the detritus of industry—warped gears, shattered bricks, a single, rusted chain that coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.
“What’s that sound?” one of the gopniks asked suddenly, his voice tight. He froze in place, his head cocked to the side, listening. The group halted, their collective breath hanging in the air like frost.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, faintly, it came—a low, guttural noise, impossibly deep, as though the earth itself were groaning in pain. It wasn’t a growl, nor a roar, but something far stranger, a sound that seemed to vibrate through their bones and settle deep in their guts. It faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only the muffled howl of the wind.
“The wind,” Mikov said quickly, though his hand had tightened around his pistol grip.
“That wasn’t the wind,” muttered another man, though he didn’t dare voice his doubts any louder.
Zholdin turned to face them, his expression unreadable. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice calm and flat, cutting through their fear like the blade of a knife. “Keep moving.”
The others obeyed, though their steps grew slower, more hesitant. They were a pack of wolves reduced to nervous mutts, their bravado leaking away with every moment spent in the shadow of these crumbling monoliths. Zholdin, however, strode forward as if the darkness itself had parted for him. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, seemed to pierce the gloom, as though he could see whatever lay ahead—even if it wasn’t something meant to be seen.
The smell grew stronger as they advanced, an acrid stench that clung to their nostrils and refused to let go. It was something primal, something wrong—a sickly mixture of iron and rot, undercut with a chemical sweetness that made a stomach churn.
“Boss,” Limon whispered, his voice barely audible. “Are we sure it’s a bear? I mean, what if—”
“It’s a bear,” Zholdin interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. ““You’ll know when you see it.”
But as they rounded a corner into an open courtyard, even Zholdin’s iron will couldn’t prevent the faint hesitation that rippled through the group. Before them lay the remnants of what might have once been a loading bay, its concrete floor cracked and stained with something dark. Scattered around were carcasses—not of men, but of animals. A wild dog, its body mangled and half-eaten. A boar, its ribcage shattered as though something massive had fallen upon it with impossible force. Even a deer, its antlers snapped clean in two, its lifeless eyes staring up at the sky as though it had died in the grip of some unspeakable terror.
The men exchanged uneasy glances. One of them swore under his breath.
Zholdin knelt beside the deer’s body, his gloved hand brushing against the broken antlers. He tilted his head slightly, examining the wounds with the detachment of a surgeon, his expression as cold and impenetrable as ever.
“It’s close,” he said, dropping the broken antler, rising to his feet and brushing off his hands. He didn’t look at the others as he spoke, but his words carried a weight that settled heavily on them all. “We keep moving.”
And so they did, their flashlight beams sweeping deeper into the labyrinth of rust and shadow. None of them spoke now, their silence broken only by the crunch of their boots and the faint, unnatural sounds that seemed to follow them, just out of sight.
Zholdin, walking at the front of the group, stopped abruptly and turned. The other men paused as well, their collective footsteps halting with a faint crunch of gravel. Zholdin’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes gleamed coldly as they fixed on Alistair.
““No bear?” Zholdin said, his tone smooth, almost amused. “If that’s the case, we’ll let you loose and hunt you down instead.”
The group erupted into laughter, sharp and grating against the still night. Even Mikov, his scarred face twisted into a crooked grin, chuckled at the image of the American being chased down like an animal. Limon clapped Alistair on the shoulder, grinning wide enough to show his teeth.
“Yeah, Alistair,” Limon said with a mock growl, “we’ll give you a head start. Let’s see how fast you can run.”
Once on frozen ground away from the petrol station, the others’ laughter faded quickly, as if the sound itself had been swallowed by the oppressive weight of the ruins around them. Zholdin turned back toward the path ahead, unconcerned by the others’ silence. They followed his lead without hesitation, but the momentary levity dissipated like smoke.
The group of eight pushed their way through a broken fence, finding themselves in the skeletal remains of an industrial yard, the kind of place the world had forgotten. Cracked pavement stretched before them, broken by weeds and the occasional protrusion of jagged rebar. Rusting hulks of machinery stood like sentinels in the dark, their twisted frames tangled with decades of grime and time. Overhead, towering silos loomed, their corroded surfaces streaked with grime that looked humorously like blood in the faint moonlight. The sound of their footsteps echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the vast emptiness around them. Somewhere far off, the screech of rusted steel groaned like the bones of the dying.
Zholdin stood at the head of the group, his figure carved from the shadows like a statue of some long-forgotten warlord. His coat billowed faintly in the night air, though he stood motionless, a dark obelisk amid the group’s nervous shuffling. Behind him, the seven men whispered amongst themselves, their bravado already unraveling as they took in their surroundings. They’d heard the rumors of a rogue bear stalking these desolate ruins, its monstrous size and savagery spoken of in tones meant to sound amused but always carrying a thread of unease.
“Doesn’t smell like a bear,” muttered Limon, his voice low but sharp enough to carry. He was fidgeting with his cigarette, lighting it for the third time though it had not yet gone out. His eyes darted around the twisted labyrinth of rusted girders and broken machinery. “I don’t know what the hell that smell is, but it ain’t any animal I know.”
“Shut up,” Mikov snapped, though the edge in his voice betrayed his own nerves. His hand hovered near his jacket pocket, where the shape of his pistol bulged conspicuously. “Bears stink. Everyone knows that. You’ve just never been close enough to one before.”
“And maybe I don’t wanna be,” Limon muttered, drawing deeply on his cigarette and exhaling into the night. The smoke curled around his face, vanishing into the dark like a pale ghost. His watchful eyes scanned their surroundings, lingering on every flicker of movement—a torn piece of tarp flapping in the wind, the faint skitter of a rat through broken pipes. Yet, even his imposing figure seemed diminished here, dwarfed by the sheer, crushing emptiness of the place.
Zholdin said nothing. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his cold gaze silencing the conversation as effectively as a pistol shot. He motioned with a curt nod of his head, and the group began moving again, their boots crunching over shattered glass and loose concrete. The air here was heavier, thicker, as though the remnants of industry had not simply decayed but curdled, leaving behind an invisible taint that clung to the skin and burned in the lungs. Every step echoed unnaturally, the sound bouncing off rusted walls and empty windows, only to return distorted and alien.
The further they ventured, the more the ruins seemed to close in around them. The once-vast factories and assembly halls had become a maze of collapsing walls and skeletal machines, their jagged edges glinting faintly in the moonlight. The ground beneath their feet grew uneven, littered with the detritus of industry—warped gears, shattered bricks, a single, rusted chain that coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.
“What’s that sound?” one of the gopniks asked suddenly, his voice tight. He froze in place, his head cocked to the side, listening. The group halted, their collective breath hanging in the air like frost.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, faintly, it came—a low, guttural noise, impossibly deep, as though the earth itself were groaning in pain. It wasn’t a growl, nor a roar, but something far stranger, a sound that seemed to vibrate through their bones and settle deep in their guts. It faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind only the muffled howl of the wind.
“The wind,” Mikov said quickly, though his hand had tightened around his pistol grip.
“That wasn’t the wind,” muttered another man, though he didn’t dare voice his doubts any louder.
Zholdin turned to face them, his expression unreadable. “It’s nothing,” he said, his voice calm and flat, cutting through their fear like the blade of a knife. “Keep moving.”
The others obeyed, though their steps grew slower, more hesitant. They were a pack of wolves reduced to nervous mutts, their bravado leaking away with every moment spent in the shadow of these crumbling monoliths. Zholdin, however, strode forward as if the darkness itself had parted for him. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, seemed to pierce the gloom, as though he could see whatever lay ahead—even if it wasn’t something meant to be seen.
The smell grew stronger as they advanced, an acrid stench that clung to their nostrils and refused to let go. It was something primal, something wrong—a sickly mixture of iron and rot, undercut with a chemical sweetness that made a stomach churn.
“Boss,” Limon whispered, his voice barely audible. “Are we sure it’s a bear? I mean, what if—”
“It’s a bear,” Zholdin interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. ““You’ll know when you see it.”
But as they rounded a corner into an open courtyard, even Zholdin’s iron will couldn’t prevent the faint hesitation that rippled through the group. Before them lay the remnants of what might have once been a loading bay, its concrete floor cracked and stained with something dark. Scattered around were carcasses—not of men, but of animals. A wild dog, its body mangled and half-eaten. A boar, its ribcage shattered as though something massive had fallen upon it with impossible force. Even a deer, its antlers snapped clean in two, its lifeless eyes staring up at the sky as though it had died in the grip of some unspeakable terror.
The men exchanged uneasy glances. One of them swore under his breath.
Zholdin knelt beside the deer’s body, his gloved hand brushing against the broken antlers. He tilted his head slightly, examining the wounds with the detachment of a surgeon, his expression as cold and impenetrable as ever.
“It’s close,” he said, dropping the broken antler, rising to his feet and brushing off his hands. He didn’t look at the others as he spoke, but his words carried a weight that settled heavily on them all. “We keep moving.”
And so they did, their flashlight beams sweeping deeper into the labyrinth of rust and shadow. None of them spoke now, their silence broken only by the crunch of their boots and the faint, unnatural sounds that seemed to follow them, just out of sight.
There is nothing false in the words of demons