Obsidian series:
day 1
By: Grisly
Silence
What is it that
makes a survivor?
What characteristics define this trait?
Why does one
live and another die?
Strength of will, body, and mind; these things a
survivor make.
This seems straightforward, but what happens when two such
survivors meet?
What happens when they both have strength of will, body, and
mind?
But of course, there is only one solution, one possible outcome.
In
this game, there can be no tie, no draw, and no second place.
Only one of the
two could possibly survive the encounter.
Which one?
The
one with the most of each, of course.
Day
1
“There is something strange on the north side.”
“Strange how?” A lot of things could be called strange. Most
of it was to be avoided.
“Earlier this morning I found a Stalker coming
from up there. He was bleeding badly. Said I should stay away from the north
side. After that I hid. A big pack of blind dogs was following the scent of his
blood.”
“What’s so strange about that? Stalkers die every day. Blind dogs
are everywhere.”
The Stalker looked at Mihail
intensely. “It’s not that he died, it’s how,” he paused. “He was bleeding from
gunshot wounds.”
Mihail’s eyebrows rose. Now
that was interesting. Very interesting indeed. “Sounds
like greed to me. Either military or another Stalker.”
He thought a moment. “Only one thing could cause that kind of
greed.”
“Artifacts,” the man said almost reverently. He smiled
eagerly
Mihail gave him a sideways glance. He
was a little too excited. That made Mihail suspicious.
He had survived on being so. “Why did you decide to tell me, then? Why not go
and get it yourself, not risk getting shot in the back?”
“Because if the
military or other Stalkers are up there, I doubt either one of us would be able
to…obtain it by ourselves.”
Mihail considered.
It made sense. Two Stalkers would be better able to handle a threat than one.
But threats from without weren’t the only threats. This man could just be trying
to have him help get the artifact, but was planning on shooting him in the back.
It was a big risk. An artifact weighed against the possibility of his demise. He
thought about it only for a moment. If one didn’t take risks one would never get
anywhere. Besides, just being in this place was a risk. Even if this man was
going to betray him, Mihail had lived a long time
watching his back, and he wasn’t going to give the Stalker a chance to stab him
in it. Besides, that wouldn’t happen until they had gotten to the artifact,
after Mihail’s usefulness had been expended. When that
happened, Mihail would be ready. He suppressed a grim
smile. Perhaps this Stalker would have to watch his own back.
Mihail nodded, almost to himself. “Sounds like a good idea.”
He thought a moment. “Did the other Stalker give you any idea on what type of
artifact it would be?”
The man shook his head. “No. Just what I’ve told
you.”
Damn. The artifact was just a question mark, and Mihail didn’t know what type of measures he would have to
take to contain and transport it. Artifacts could sometimes be more dangerous
than the Zone’s more permanent residents. That could cause problems
later.
Mihail suddenly noticed the light was
fading. The night was stealing away the sun’s brightness, shading it red and
purple. The air was taking on an unpleasant chill. There would probably be a
freeze that night. “Let’s get into one of these buildings. No sense getting
caught out in the open by something.” He reached his hand forward. “They call me
Mihail.”
The other Stalker hesitated at the
strange way he phrased it, then extended his own and shook Mihail’s firmly. “Svyatoslav.”
Mihail
nodded. “Good. Now that the pleasantries have been dealt with, let us go inside
before it gets any colder.”
Mihail directed him
to the doorway of a building he had already pre-selected on his initial survey
of the area hours earlier. It was a run-down old restaurant with a second story
that seemed to have been dropped on top of the first as an afterthought and was
only precariously perched atop it. It was a wood and stone affair, with paint
peeling and mortar crumbled away and wood eaten by mold and insects. It was dark
inside; the rays of the dying sun barely penetrating the single dirty—but
intact—window, lending a vague crimson glow to the area as if they were seeing
it through a filter. It was a little warmer inside, but not by much. Debris
crunched underfoot as they entered the main room, shattered plates and
silverware, crushed glass and the forgotten refuse of years of habitation. There
were partially burned clothes piled inside a stone fireplace, and all the chairs
and tables looked to have been rolled over by something heavy. The stairway
creaked badly when Svyatoslav tried it, and looked to
be about to crumble away, so he retreated. A candelabrum had fallen from the
high, ribbed ceiling and lay crashed to the floor. A bar to the side once
serviced patrons of liquor. All of the alcohol was gone, but Mihail wouldn’t have drunk it anyway. Svyatoslav sneezed as dust drifted into the air from their
movements.
Mihail locked the door behind him
with the heavy dead-bolt, one of the reasons he chose the building. Crossing the
room, kicking aside a large chunk of wood, he found the back door and checked to
see if it opened. It did, if with a little effort. He locked that too. It was
the second reason he chose the building. He never went into a place that didn’t
have more than one exit.
Svyatoslav watched him
without comment as he went about the room, checking this and that, making sure
there weren’t any weak points in the walls, a potential entrance for something
nasty. There wasn’t a basement, so he didn’t have to worry about the floor
giving way or something unpleasant coming up while they were sleeping. He eyed
the ceiling. He would have to hope the second story would stay situated above
their heads for the duration of the night.
He found a mostly stable chair
from within all of the garbage and pulled it up to the bar. A table that was
missing a leg would have to serve as another. He propped it up against the bar
as well. Svyatoslav had already seated himself on the
chair, so Mihail took the table. He unslung his AK-74 from over his shoulder and placed it on
the bar, then dropped his pack onto the ground next to his makeshift chair. He
searched it for his lantern, set it on the bar, and wound the dynamo handle.
Feeble light streamed from within the dirty glass, casting long shadows of the
two against the aging, decayed walls. He started disassembling his gun for
cleaning. He didn’t want it to jam at an inopportune moment. Svyatoslav dropped his own AKS onto the bar but made no move
to start any sort of maintenance. Mihail could tell
Svyatoslav wanted to say something, but he didn’t ask;
he didn’t need to. Svyatoslav would eventually get to
it.
While he worked, he listened for stray sounds, things that shouldn’t
belong. He heard nothing but for the wind, though that didn’t necessarily mean
anything. The wind had never comforted him as it did others. Others said it
brought in fresh air, cooled them down, and reminded them of better days. They
liked the sound of the wind.
He hated the wind. It masked the sound of
things sneaking up on you. Things that were hungry. It
swirled dust around, obscuring trails and making it harder to see. To him, it
brought the smell of something other than freshness. On the wind he could always
smell the bitter scent of death.
When he first came to the zone, he had
been given to flights of fantasy. That had long since been ground out of him by
the overwhelming, crushing presence of the zone and its inhabitants. He used to
say that the day the wind was loudest and most furious was the day you died. He
used to say that on that day you could smell the scent of your own death in the
wind. He realized it was just superstitious nonsense, but belief in something,
no matter how incredible, gave many people a measure of comfort. Though he
didn’t admit it, perhaps it gave him a measure of comfort as well, or at least a
sort of resolve. All those others that liked the wind were dead as far as he
knew, unless one could rise up and live from being torn to shreds by dwarves or
blind dogs. But then again, you never knew with the Zone. He liked it best when
it was dead quiet. You stood a better chance of living.
Svyatoslav cleared his throat. Mihail gave up on ignoring him and looked over
questioningly. “Something on your mind?”
“I was
just wondering…” He trailed off.
Mihail almost
shook his head. They always started that way. I was just wondering…and then they
deluged you with questions about your childhood, your family, your old life.
Mihail’s old life was dead. So was everyone else’s.
Even if it wasn’t private business—which was reason enough for Mihail to refuse answering—it was long gone, too far away to
be of any use in the here and now. People who dwelled on the past ended up not
thinking enough on the present and they died. That was how it was. Mihail didn’t dwell on the past, nor did he dwell on the
future. What was happening right at that moment was what was important, was what could kill you. What was in the past was
unchangeable, and the future was so vague and uncertain there was no way to
predict or influence it; if you tried you’d end up with the same problem as if
you were dwelling on the past and you’d end up feeding the worms, or something
else.
Svyatoslav started again. “I was just
wondering why you said they call you Mihail? Why not
say that that was your name?”
Mihail looked up
again. An actual intelligent question. “It’s not my
name. I had another once, before all this. It died along with everything else.
Now I am Mihail. That is all that matters.” He looked
away and returned to cleaning the gun. It had gotten very grimy from some
constant use only a few days before.
“It’s getting worse out there,”
Svyatoslav offered after a moment.
Mihail didn’t look up. “The weather or the
Zone?” He stopped to look at the wood surface of the bar. Round stains
from mugs and steins turned the rough grain dark in places, memories of more
jubilant times. That was all gone now.
“Both. Have you
noticed?”
Mihail had noticed. As blowout after
blowout occurred, and more anomalies and strange things started appearing, and
more and more Stalkers died, the weather got stranger and stranger. One day it
would be as hot as hell’s forge, and the next it would be a winter’s night in
“Everything’s going to die sooner or later, you know?
Us, the plants and animals, eventually everybody else.
Makes me want to leave.”
“Then leave.” Mihail had no time for the future. If he died, it would
happen. He wouldn’t die easy, but everyone had a time. Mihail’s wasn’t up yet, because he was still alive. Any
other thoughts on the matter were irrelevant.
Svyatoslav’s brow creased. “Well, why…”
Mihail stopped him with a hand. He thought he had heard
something outside…
Getting a little angry, Svyatoslav started to his feet. “Look here, you can’t
just…”
Mihail fixed him with a glare so hellish
that the man stopped in his tracks and quit breathing. He continued to fix his
gaze on the man until he was sure he would stay quiet. Then Mihail listened. His eyes gathered in the walls of the room.
Suddenly it seemed very small. He quietly turned the lantern off. Everything
went dark. As his eyes adjusted, he realized that the sun had set. There was no
moon out. The entire area was covered in clouds, so there were no stars either.
He could barely make out the outline of Svyatoslav’s
form or the dimensions of the room. But he didn’t move from his spot to try
different angles. He didn’t want to make any sounds. There was a tiny scratching
sound from outside. His heart skipped a beat. He saw Svyatoslav’s eyes go wide. He turned his head to the window.
That was the part he was worried about. He couldn’t see through it, and anything
that wanted in could easily break it. It could be standing just outside the
window and he wouldn’t know. His eyes strained in the dark to make something
out. Illusions flickered at the edges of his visions, whispers of movement. He
ignored them, concentrating on the window. A small scrape
against the wood of the wall outside, mere feet from the window. He heard
a heavy breath. God only knows, but it could be
smelling them. He stopped breathing. His blood thundered through his
ears. He feared the sound of his heart would alert the thing outside to his
presence.
All was silence. It had to be out there somewhere. It couldn’t
have gotten very… gravel crunched right underneath the window. Adrenaline pumped
through Mihail’s veins like fire, grinding its way
through him, instilling him with its harsh need, its power. His hand edged
towards the Stechkin he kept at his belt. His AK-74
was in no state to be used. Something was right outside the window, but he
couldn’t see it. A thousand possibilities rushed through his mind. What was out
there? What was out there? A little voice teased him. He couldn’t answer it. He
feared the thing would hear the sound of his reply.
Something heavy
hammered against the wall. The entire building shuddered, the glass of the
window rattling. Mihail’s hand shot to his gun. Svyatoslav jerked backward and fell off his chair, crashing
into the debris in the middle of the floor. They both froze, staring at the
window. Had it heard? Nothing moved. Mihail leaned
forward ever so slightly, silently withdrawing his gun from its holster. He was
on the edge of the table he sat on, ready to bolt or attack at an instant’s
notice. Whatever was out there could easily kill them. He knew that. He couldn’t
hear if there was any wind through the rush of blood in his ears. Today could be
the day the wind became loud for him. But what would the thing outside
do?
There was a heavy huffing sound from outside. A deep, angry growl
reverberated through the building. The huffing increased. Then it rammed into
the side of the building with tremendous force. The entire west wall splintered
and cracked, scattering dust and wood chips through the air. The window
shattered, sharp chunks of glass clinking to the floor. The stairs behind Mihail finally gave way and crashed to the floor. More dust
rose into the air, turning into a thick, grimy morass. Cold air streamed in
through the broken boards of the walls. A huge black shape passed in front of
the window. He swore viciously, then started for the
rear door as quietly as he could. If the thing outside wasn’t entirely where
they were in the building, maybe it wouldn’t be able to get him before he got
out. He would have to leave his AK-74 for later. He passed Svyatoslav trying to get to his feet without disturbing the
debris around him. Suddenly, the thing roared with fury and slammed into the
wall again. This time it smashed through, breaking apart the wood beams as if
they were toothpicks, sending the thick boards flying through the air. The
splintered ends shattered against the far wall as Mihail dove behind the bar. Its heavy footsteps thudded
against the floor. Whatever it was, it was big.
He heard Svyatoslav scrambling to get away. He heard the thing turn
and start toward the struggling Stalker. Glass and wood were crushed alike
beneath its feet. Mihail slowed his breath. His
heartbeat raged uncontrolled. Blood pounded through his veins. The heady mix of
adrenaline and fear surged and flowed. Fire burned in his eyes.
With a
feral roar Mihail leaped out from behind the bar and
fired at the dark shape clouded by swirling dust. He held down the trigger of
his Stechkin machine pistol. Twenty rounds of hot lead
stitched into the thing’s flesh. He slammed into the wall with a painful thud
and rolled free. The thing roared again, but this time in pain, and turned on
him. Its movements were jerky and fast, but no less powerful. Its footsteps
thundered in his ears. It was too close. He couldn’t tell how much he had
injured it. He dove behind the bar again and ejected the clip to his Stechkin. With shaking fingers, he found the second clip at
his belt and quickly shoved it home.
Before he could prepare for the
thing, it had already crossed the room. Without warning the whole left side of
the bar exploded into dust and splinters as the thing crashed into it in its
frenzied search for Mihail. He fell back as shards of
wood cut into him with slivers of pain. He fired blindly at the thing, bullets
shrieking through the air and thudding into its meaty flesh. It roared again,
stepping back as the hot pieces of shaped metal tore through it. But it shrugged
them aside in its fury and slammed its massive fists against the wall. Bricks
and mortar tumbled down onto Mihail, plaster choking
the air, turning it into a thick white morass. Barely having enough time, Mihail leaped over the remains of the bar just as the thing
crashed into the corner where he had been. Unsteady as he landed, he slipped on
a board and fell heavily to the floor. The Stechkin
slipped from his fingers. White lights flashed in his eyes as he compressed his
chest against the floor. His breath wheezed out. Where was Svyatoslav?
Already the thing realized it hadn’t
crushed Mihail in its attack. It lunged forward,
breaking the bar in half, and stomped toward him. He scrambled forward, his numb
fingers fumbling at his belt for his machete. The thing was gaining on him in
the close quarters of the restaurant. He wouldn’t be able to run forever.
Everything was too damn close together. Sweat and dust stung his eyes and
blurred his vision as he tried to find a way out. His breath came in ragged
pulls. He could barely breathe through the thick dust clogging the air. He could
barely see anything. He stumbled forward, looking for the door. He heard the
thing roar in frustration and pound after him in anger.
He hurtled into
something and fell to the floor, stunned. What had he hit? He hadn’t seen
anything. For a moment he was confused. Then he saw the vague form standing
above him. It was Svyatoslav. With
his AKS.
Mihail tried to stand, but a
sharp pain in his side brought him back down to a crouch. He tore the machete
from his belt, despite how ineffective it was bound to be. Svyatoslav yelled something, but Mihail couldn’t hear it over the noise the thing was making.
And then it suddenly appeared through the dust and slammed into them, tossing
them both aside before they could react. Its gigantic fist jack-hammered into
his stomach, crushing the breath from his lungs with a pain that felt like it
had torn him in two, throwing him across the breadth of the room. He skidded
across the wood scattered over the floor, hit something with his shoulder and
tumbled through the hole in the wall the thing made.
He fell heavily onto
the dirt. Bitter cold air washed over him, but he couldn’t breathe it. Pain
seared through his lungs like acid. Even the thought of taking a breath brought
the pain to full force. Gripping his stomach with his hands, he forced himself
to take that breath. Agony ripped through his chest like a thousand shards
stabbing into his lungs. He screamed and choked on vomit. He took another
shuddering breath. Pure, biting air flowed into his lungs like liquor that
burned all the way down. He forced himself to take another, wincing against the
pain. Tears dripped from the corners of his eyes. He spit the bitter liquid of
his vomit from his mouth.
He heard Svyatoslav
yelling. He heard the thing thundering across the floor with steps that caused
the building to shake. He heard wood and glass breaking. He heard the stuttering
report of Svyatoslav’s AKS. He heard the thing
roaring. He heard all this in a split second’s time. He listened for one sound
in particular. But he couldn’t hear it. The wind was still and dead. Renewed
determination brought him to his feet. He didn’t believe in such things, and yet
it still held meaning for him. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he stepped
back into the dust pouring from the restaurant.
He saw everything through
a haze other than the cloud kicked up by their fierce battle. Calm swept through
him, steadying him. The fear that had gripped his heart like a vise fled before
the onslaught of cold hard resolve. He would not die. Not before he killed this
thing. Not before he brought it to the ground and crushed the life from its
inhuman body. Not before.
Almost immediately his eyes found the long
black shape of his machete. It was only feet from him. He grabbed it by its
leather handle, lifting the deadly sharp blade up from the floor. Fury raged in
his eyes. He looked up and saw Svyatoslav firing
several rounds into the thing. Each harsh flash lit the cloud of dust, turning
everything white. The thing roared in pain and anger as the rounds tore into its
flesh. Mihail saw chunks of its flesh flying off and
blood spurting as each bullet burrowed in. But it seemed to make no difference
to it. It was so big that he doubted the bullets were even harming it very
badly. They went in, but they didn’t hit anything important, didn’t do any
damage. Its vague man-shape made it that much more horrifying, reminiscent of a
more homogenous past. If they didn’t kill it soon, it would win simply because
it could survive much more than they. But everything had a weakness. Finding
this thing’s weakness using trial-and-error would take too long. They would be
dead before they found out, and there was no way to test different theories
while it tried to grind them into bloody sacs beneath its feet. They would have
to do something that would definitely hurt it instead of just putting useless
holes in it. He looked down at his machete and hefted it. What he needed to do
was cut something off.
He stormed across the room to the giant thing;
hate, anger, disgust and terror all gripping him by turns as he in turn gripped
the machete in both hands. It was stopped for a moment, shuddering as Svyatoslav poured more bullets into its belly. It was time
to end it. It was time for it to die. He came up behind it. He twisted to the
right, then brought the machete around with as much
force and fury as he could possibly bring to bear, putting his entire body, his
entire being into ramming the blade directly into the thing. The steel blade
glinted dully in the murky air to the cadence of Svyatoslav’s gun. The edge sliced through the dust and gloom
with razor-sharp efficiency, exactly how Mihail kept
it. He experienced a measure of satisfaction as he noted it, but it was gone in
a flash.
The machete slammed into the side of the creature’s neck with
such jarring force that it knocked the creature to its knees. Gushes of dark red
blood splashed against the walls and ceiling. Mihail
lost his grip on the weapon as his hands went numb from the vibration of hitting
the thing’s spine. Breathing raggedly, he quickly regained the machete, and
again hacked sharply into the thing’s neck. The machete stuck in its thick
spine, so he released it again. He pulled his bayonet from his belt and reached
around the thing while it was still stunned, reeking blood pouring from its
half-severed neck and pooling against the wood floor. With a sudden jerk of his
powerful muscles, he severed it part of the way, cutting through layers of flesh
and blood. He felt the warmth of its life flow out over his hands, staining them
red. With a final grimace, he bunched up his muscles and tore the bayonet
through the thing’s spine, snapping it in half. He let the body slam to the
floor with enough force to cause the restaurant to shudder, bringing down more
clouds of plaster and wood. The machete clattered down on top of the debris. He
held the thing’s gigantic head in his left hand for a moment, long strings of
blood leaking from its severed bottom. It was the twisted visage of a
once-human. What had been done to it, Mihail didn’t
know. Whatever it was, he didn’t want it to happen to him.
He tossed the
severed head away from himself in disgust. He was covered in blood, some of it
his, some of it the creature’s. His clothing was in tatters, torn up from the
ferocious battle. He let his breath out slowly, relief flooding through him. He
replaced the bayonet in its sheath, then gestured to
Svyatoslav.
“Help me find my
guns.”