Yesterday, 03:47 PM
Once the pattern of Kaelan’s breathing steadied to suggest he was deeply asleep, Nazariy moved. The mattress creaked slightly as the man shifted in his sleep almost as if he sensed someone nearby, but he didn’t wake.
Nazariy crouched beside the man’s pack and unzipped it slowly. Inside, he found sterile wipes, packaged food bars that Nazariy sniffed curiously, a collection of sealed plastic pouches, some labeled in sharp, neat handwriting. He turned one of the pouches in his hand, studying the texture of the plastic, the words written there.
Next came the tools. There were metal probes, measuring devices, a portable Geiger counter that he quickly flipped off. Then the notebook. He flipped through it, careful not to crease the pages. In its pages were diagrams, observations, and scratched out thoughts neatly arranged in careful rows. He read only a few lines, not understanding all the words, but grasping the intention.
Searching, he thought. Always searching.
He returned everything to the pack, exactly as it had been, then stood and stretched his arms once, fingers crackling at the joints. He moved to the stove and added a few strips of frayed cloth and a handful of rodent femurs to the coals. The fire, down to glowing embers, caught again with a soft hiss and pulsed warmth into the air.
He was sipping hot water from a chipped coffee cup when the man woke fully and sat up, looking hollow and worn, Nazariy glanced toward him but didn’t speak. He moved instead to a shelf made of scavenged crates and pulled down a metal tin.
Inside was a crumbling loaf of hardbread. He broke off a chunk, then another, and passed the larger piece to Kaelan without comment. He took his own to the window and chewed it with slow, mechanical motions, eyes fixed on the rooftops and sky outside.
Kaelan wanted to leave as soon as possible, and the silence stretched for several minutes before he finally nodded he was ready to go. He finished chewing, wiped his fingers on the hem of his coat, and turned to the shelf lined with painted stones. After a moment of study, he selected one: deep blue with rough edges and three pale dots like eyes. Two twiggy arms were painted in thin black lines on its side. One of the only rocks with hands.
He held it up and sniffed at it. “Grok is good at finding the black. Always points me true.”
He tucked the stone into his coat pocket and crossed to the door.
Outside, the air had shifted into damp, thick humidity with the aftertaste of fog. He crouched low and pressed his palm to the ground. The skin there felt warm, pulsing faintly with vibration. Not enough to hear. But enough that he knew.
He stood and walked out of the road and into brush. They moved through the ruined district in silence, save for the occasional rustle of reeds or the low groan of distant metal cooling in the morning air. Nazariy’s hand trailed against a chain-link fence, fingertips brushing rust.
Then he stopped. He crouched again, pulled Grok from his pocket and used him to point the way. A smear of black streaked along the edge of a collapsed concrete slab. It wasn’t mold or ash though it looked like either at first glance. It was something that shimmered faintly in the morning light, like oil on water.
He reached out and touched it. The smear pulsed once beneath his fingers, and a low hum radiated outward like a struck tuning fork. Nazariy looked back over his shoulder.
“Found one.” He said it like someone calling down to a crewmate from the mast of a ship. Not surprised. Just... confirmed. He lifted his hand for Kaelan to see.
The smear on his palm had swollen into a patch of black spore-growth, tendrils unfurling across his skin. They reached outward, slow and deliberate, as if searching and quietly testing. Nazariy watched it climb his fingers with a faint, distant interest like a man idly watching smoke curl in the air. When he turned the hand toward Kaelan, the growth recoiled. The tendrils shrank back with sudden urgency, folding in on themselves, retreating to a pinpoint on the center of his palm.
Nazariy blinked in fascination. He hadn’t seen it do that before.
Then he placed his palm back against the concrete wall. The blackness flowed from his skin and returned to the stone, leeching back into the smear from whence it came.
Nazariy crouched beside the man’s pack and unzipped it slowly. Inside, he found sterile wipes, packaged food bars that Nazariy sniffed curiously, a collection of sealed plastic pouches, some labeled in sharp, neat handwriting. He turned one of the pouches in his hand, studying the texture of the plastic, the words written there.
Next came the tools. There were metal probes, measuring devices, a portable Geiger counter that he quickly flipped off. Then the notebook. He flipped through it, careful not to crease the pages. In its pages were diagrams, observations, and scratched out thoughts neatly arranged in careful rows. He read only a few lines, not understanding all the words, but grasping the intention.
Searching, he thought. Always searching.
He returned everything to the pack, exactly as it had been, then stood and stretched his arms once, fingers crackling at the joints. He moved to the stove and added a few strips of frayed cloth and a handful of rodent femurs to the coals. The fire, down to glowing embers, caught again with a soft hiss and pulsed warmth into the air.
He was sipping hot water from a chipped coffee cup when the man woke fully and sat up, looking hollow and worn, Nazariy glanced toward him but didn’t speak. He moved instead to a shelf made of scavenged crates and pulled down a metal tin.
Inside was a crumbling loaf of hardbread. He broke off a chunk, then another, and passed the larger piece to Kaelan without comment. He took his own to the window and chewed it with slow, mechanical motions, eyes fixed on the rooftops and sky outside.
Kaelan wanted to leave as soon as possible, and the silence stretched for several minutes before he finally nodded he was ready to go. He finished chewing, wiped his fingers on the hem of his coat, and turned to the shelf lined with painted stones. After a moment of study, he selected one: deep blue with rough edges and three pale dots like eyes. Two twiggy arms were painted in thin black lines on its side. One of the only rocks with hands.
He held it up and sniffed at it. “Grok is good at finding the black. Always points me true.”
He tucked the stone into his coat pocket and crossed to the door.
Outside, the air had shifted into damp, thick humidity with the aftertaste of fog. He crouched low and pressed his palm to the ground. The skin there felt warm, pulsing faintly with vibration. Not enough to hear. But enough that he knew.
He stood and walked out of the road and into brush. They moved through the ruined district in silence, save for the occasional rustle of reeds or the low groan of distant metal cooling in the morning air. Nazariy’s hand trailed against a chain-link fence, fingertips brushing rust.
Then he stopped. He crouched again, pulled Grok from his pocket and used him to point the way. A smear of black streaked along the edge of a collapsed concrete slab. It wasn’t mold or ash though it looked like either at first glance. It was something that shimmered faintly in the morning light, like oil on water.
He reached out and touched it. The smear pulsed once beneath his fingers, and a low hum radiated outward like a struck tuning fork. Nazariy looked back over his shoulder.
“Found one.” He said it like someone calling down to a crewmate from the mast of a ship. Not surprised. Just... confirmed. He lifted his hand for Kaelan to see.
The smear on his palm had swollen into a patch of black spore-growth, tendrils unfurling across his skin. They reached outward, slow and deliberate, as if searching and quietly testing. Nazariy watched it climb his fingers with a faint, distant interest like a man idly watching smoke curl in the air. When he turned the hand toward Kaelan, the growth recoiled. The tendrils shrank back with sudden urgency, folding in on themselves, retreating to a pinpoint on the center of his palm.
Nazariy blinked in fascination. He hadn’t seen it do that before.
Then he placed his palm back against the concrete wall. The blackness flowed from his skin and returned to the stone, leeching back into the smear from whence it came.