I lie here blighted at the bottom of a deep crater surrounded by protruding metal, dull rigid concrete, and the skeletal remains of rusted vehicles. My body drowns in radiation, my suit having torn during the fall gives me little protection now. I feel my system writhing and changing, the spasms and taught pains are almost constant now. I want to die, but perhaps even Death refuses to visit 'The Zone.' Above me through the withered leafless branches of the overhanging trees the lucid sky slowly darkens, night comes once again, and with it warm southerly winds carry a drifting and melodic song that has haunted me since I have been down here, it tempts me to follow, but I resist unable and unwilling to move. I deserve this, a coward’s death. And if death will not take me a blowout will surely come soon, so I write as quick as a shaking hand can manage. This as a eulogy to my comrades, hoping they will never be forgotten, and an apology to the dealer, we failed.

Rabelais, Gogol and myself, had been assigned a retrieval mission into the Dark Valley to acquire a Mercury Ball-as a Blowout had just occurred, it was known to be an opportune time. Only Rabelais had seen one before and knew of the Dark Valley therefore he was assigned leadership; Gogol appeared upset, as for myself, being new to the clan I was merely happy to be with my kin. Dealer briefed us on the general whereabouts of the item, -he had some idea how the material was created- and a vehicle we could use. We left before dawn, making good time to the checkpoint, where we waited for the change of guard before crossing over.

The 'grab' was a success however, on our return we were attacked by a group of ambushing mutants. The odious creatures, yelping in high-pitched squeals, obviously pleased with their efforts, began to open fire. The fight was brief as they were easily overcome, their lack of cohesion leading to their downfall. The only casualty: our Moskvich, the tires were shredded, the radiator and the coolant lines punctured and being that none of us understood how to fix late twentieth century machinery, we left the vehicle to the scavengers. Now we were forced to trek the remaining eight to ten kilometres on foot, to make matters worse the sun had just set.

We came to a thoroughfare, a few streetlights blinking to life as we made our way through. The whole area, houses, cars and trees were a frozen moment before evacuation, though now the memories were charred and twisted by the blowouts. The street was void of colour, even the new grass was pallid. Everything was guttered, left solely to rot. Shrill ululations of blind dogs echoed throughout the crimson sky, which brought an icy flutter to my heart, it was then we decided to take shelter and wait the night out , not wanting to get caught in another ambush especially at night. We would be at greater risk otherwise, as unknown dangers have been rumoured to stalk the night. I have heard of dwarf like creatures that move in packs ,like wolves and scavenge remains, for what I am unable to say, the stocky things tear machines and buildings apart with their hands, I find it unimaginable to think what they could do to a stalker. Other horrid creatures dwell in this dead land no doubt, but their anonymity only adds to their menace.

We snaked through a patch of soft grass passing over strangely laid stones and took shelter in a pitted grey stone building. The floor was missing leaving only porous dirt and small concrete patches, the roof too was missing revealing several blackened struts, from one a single dirty lemon light shone from a twisted wire, buzzing with electricity. The whole place smelt noisome, rotten, but it would suffice for a temporary camp.

Rabelais was about to speak when his words and our attention were stolen by a soft sound that hummed above the light and the chirping insects. As the sound grew louder the soil began to shake, then in the dusky sky a helicopter passed overhead, the floor continued to convulse, was it a riot? A rescue? Rabelais told us to stay put as military business was none of ours, adding that our job was done. Suddenly we all jerked in fright as an explosion burst in the distance, the lights flickered then died, as did the vibrations from the ground. All of us sat waiting listening for a call, a scream there was nothing but silence, as far as I know the helicopter never returned.

Rabelais lent forward the moonlight striking his ageing staunched features, he told us that we were to set up shifts, one would rest the other would guard and the third would patrol. I realised immediately that I being the 'greenest' would be patrolling, I would probably end up outside all night. I rose without question or complaint, though knew it was unfair comrades are the only asset in the Zone, my current position a lesson to all who beg to differ.

I had never been in the Zone at night, to date I had only completed some quick retrieval missions by day, nothing more. Throughout my circuit, which was around the building and the small grassed yard, shadows danced in the winds, weird howls, the occasional screams or asylum cackles, pinched at my paranoia, everything was given a surreal sense of life, where it was all but nonexistent. I had to make sure if we were in danger I knew the difference between shadow and fiend.

I watched forms skitter in the darkness avoiding the moonlight, then their luminous eyes would watch at a distance venturing no closer eventually dashing away, I wondered who really feared who in this place, or was it merely dubious curiosity? A normal thing in an odd place.

On my first pass, I noticed Rabelais was already sleeping, he lay idle on the dirt, spine towards me his breathing was steady and normal, how he could be so calm I would never know. Gogol however had sat himself down, his back against a broken stone pillar, he pecked at a dry loaf eating the centre then tossing the hard crust to the ground, when he noticed me he whispered, 'I hate crusts, okay?' I ignored him and moved into the yard, the small stones that lined the grass continued to intrigue me. The stones were all evenly set out in lines and columns, at first I though it some sort of ritual markers, as the first few stones I looked at were nondescript, but toward the centre I knelt at a larger one. But before I could examine it I noticed in the sky a shining form, it moved too naturally to be a missile as it came closer my hand clenched the handle of my pistol, though to my surprise it was in fact a pigeon, obviously drawn to the crumbs that Gogol had scattered. It spiralled down then began to peck around, the pigeon, rather than radiating light was in fact pulsing with a soft white glow, Gogol though appeared uninterested-I think he was actually asleep. I was hesitant to chase the bird away as it was only one and I believed would not cause any trouble, so I returned to the stone. The piece was like a brick about a foot across cold to the touch and rather heavy, I ran my fingers over some gouged marks, and spelt a name, 'Petrov.' The layout of the stones, the rotten smell. It was a cemetery!

When I looked up I noticed more of the birds had joined the lone pigeon. The faint glow was now more like a pulsing fluorescence, the sound of hooting, shuffling feathers and scratching aroused the sleepers and both Gogol and Rabelais were attempting to hunt the birds away, but they just fluttered a short distance to the other side of the small building.

I almost smiled but the rumbling began again this time it was only the ground, I raced over and stopped at the threshold of the building. “Earthquake?” Rabelais, asked, but neither of us answered as the ground in the building began to bulge and loosen, the rotten stench now burned at my nostrils even through the mask. The birds had all but fled lighting the sky, obviously sensing something. Below our feet, hands and arms began to punch through the soil seizing at flesh and clothing. Gogol his balance lost slumped to the ground, more hands then slithered up and clenched anything loose until he disappeared under a sea of rotten flesh. Rabelais too struggled stomping and slashing at the digits that groped at him. My attention focused on what was before me I failed to notice a blanched hand which wrapped its bony fingers around my boot until it squeezed. I panicked then drew my Marakov, and without aiming pulled the trigger. Each round popped as I loosed it into the soil and the withered hand. It finally retracted after the third shot, others though came up, however, I had stepped back away from the building out into the street.

The horde of hands that surrounded Gogol slowly withdrew back into the ground taking my comrade with them. The mound in the centre stretched then broke, these zombies filing out like ants from a disturbed nest, some lumbered on two feet others moved about on all fours, though they were all the same withered beings. None took any notice of me instead lunging at the struggling Rabelais who still stood. I heard him call my name, I raised my pistol to fire but my hand simply atrophied, I then dropped my weapon as horror itself turned to confront me. Its head stooped, the things face no more than torn skin stretched over muscle and bone, lips were drawn back revealing a unhallowed smile of black and green teeth; it had one glassy bulbous eye with blackened veins webbed over the gelatinous surface, the other only a hollow space. Words escaped from its gaping mouth as a dry wheeze. Arms came up, gnarled hands groped at the wind. With little co-ordination, it began to shuffle towards me.

Fear clenched at my whole body as the zombie loped closer, its eye in an feverish ecstasy, jutting and jerking in all directions. Then I came to my senses as Rabelais called for help yet again. Emotions controlled my body, I screamed, like that I had heard earlier that night, cowardice compelled me to run, it led me away from the cemetery, away from the maddening screams of my fallen brothers, if I can call them that any longer. At the end of the street I chanced a glance over my shoulder, to my anguish I saw Gogol walking a slow limping gait with the horde that followed me, his head lulled to the side his unblinking eyes told me he was no longer himself. A dread cry left my lips as I continued to run, tears blurring my sight.

Like something feral I wove through rusting girder forests, past once proud buildings that now lean as empty shells against one another, the sounds of bloodshed disappearing behind. I ran south I think, the remainder of the journey a blur, guilt still itching at my being. I only stopped when I collapsed my legs giving way to fatigue and numbness. I tried for a breath but my mask was tainted with that smell of putrid rot, with ease it came off, the unfiltered air no different, it was I however, that smelt of death. My stomach knotted and I doubled over and vomited.

At least an hour passed before I lifted my head, I had expected the zombies but they never arrived. First to my knees then to my feet, I only managed a slow walk. Aimlessly I wandered, there was no reason for me to return, I had failed, failed because I allowed fear to determine my actions, some may call it self-preservation but it is a veil for cowardice. With my mind occupied with pity I never saw the edge of the crater, I lost balance and fell. As I tumbled rocks and metal tore away at my suit then broke and scarred skin until I eventually came to a halt. Dizzy at first, I had no need to look down as I felt my ankle burning, then the pain surged up my leg tightening my entire left side, I was then overcome with euphoria as I lost consciousness.

I would sit up awake every now and again as I lulled into nightmares of my comrades, they reach out to me calling my name, catching one in my arms only then to see him rot and fall away. I knew I was at my end.

Alone through these few days and nights, I had but one other thought, be it clear, ridden with conspiracy or a grasp for absolution, I began to wonder whether we had fallen unknowingly into an unusual ambush. The first attack, weak as it was, failed but succeeded in ruining our vehicle forcing us on foot, then the grim howls of blind dogs made us question any further travel, then to wait out the night. The first vibration on the ground was not the helicopter but the zombies I believe, when the lights went out they had no idea whether we were still there until the pigeons, unknowingly gave away our position and they then attacked, whatever their aim, it was achieved. As I said it was just a theory and maybe pain has meddled with my mind.

As I finish writing the end has not yet come, how much radiation I have taken in I cannot say, my Geiger counter broke last night. But my skin has worsened it is now clammy changing to shades of yellow and grey, blisters burst and never heal, I struggle for air my throat swollen and dry, though I no longer crave food or water, what am I becoming?

The voice has returned, calm and steady, I resisted at first but I fail to understand why, it offers aid and salvation, a home it calls me innocent. I see a figure on the edge of the crater, it stands and looks down to me the setting sun revealing its slightly tilted curiously large head with familiar eyes, a smile widens on the humanoids thin lips, has this been calling to me? it tells me to relax, I must follow, as it has followed, rise to the voice, ignore the pain, forget my guilt, m-move, peaceful voice, no more thoughts, no more guilt, a...

-[END]-