Obsidian Series, Part 5

By: Grisly Silence

 

He looked down at them with trepidation. They milled about in the dark, silent, staring blankly at the trees or ground or sky. All were covered in hideous oozing burns. One clutched possessively at something in its hands, trembling violently, blood dripping from its eyes.

Where was it?

Mihail cast his eyes about nervously, wiping his sweaty palms against his knees. After he had killed Svyatoslav and Iashka the day before, he had buried their equipment, except for the Dragunov and Svyatoslav’s watch. With time wasted but no one to slow him, he had pushed on hard until the trail was so fresh he could smell it. He didn’t stop when darkness descended over the nameless forest. Daylight was now only a few hours away.

At first, he had thought that he should return to the Dealer with the extra equipment and make a fair profit out of it. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to continue. Svyatoslav wasn’t lying about the artifact. The dead Stalkers and zombies proved that. No, the artifact was real; he had just used it as a way to come out on top no matter which way events turned. But it wasn’t just the lure of the artifact that drew him doggedly onward. It was the big question hanging over it. What would a controller want with an artifact? What possible use could it be? His curiosity drove him on when prudence may have turned him back.

And now he had his answer. Maybe.

There wasn’t a controller in sight.

The more he looked down at the zombies—the zombies that need a controller to keep them on a leash—the more he didn’t like it. It was crazy. They were zombies. That meant there was a controller. There were radiation burns, a fight over something valuable, and now this zombie was clutching at something. It could only be an artifact. The controller had taken the artifact. So why didn’t the controller have the artifact? If it was important enough for the controller to take from a group of Stalkers, why would it leave it in the hands of a zombie?

There was something going on here that was beyond him. He was missing an important piece of the puzzle. Without it, he had only his imagination, and that yielded nothing that would hold up under scrutiny. He checked the Molniya watch, making sure the movement hadn’t stopped.

He continued to stare down at them. Another question. What were they doing? The six of them just stood there in the trees, staring at nothing. Why did they stop? Why there? Why, when they seemed to have been driven by the devil himself for the first few days?

This was the perfect opportunity to attack. He could see that. They seemed unaware of anything around them. If the controller was gone, then this could be his only chance to get the artifact.

He mulled over all the information, weighing one thing against another, what he knew against what he feared. Finally, he came to a decision. He would take the artifact. He had gone through a lot of shit on the way here, and he wasn’t going to be deterred by one odd thing. Everything in the Zone was odd. He would just have to keep a careful eye out for the controller, and that was about the extent of what he could do. Besides, an artifact with something odd about it might yield more rubles than any normal artifact.

Feeling better moment by moment about his decision, Mihail backed carefully off the dark ridge above the group of zombies. He supposed he could use the SVD to pick them off at a longer, and safer, range, but he didn’t feel that the quantity of bullets for the weapon warranted such an action when he could just as easily kill them closer up with the AK-74.

He crept down the ridge, picking his way cautiously in the dark among the rocks and sticks, careful not to step on something that would alert the six zombies to his presence.

Approaching the white forms, he made sure he stayed within the cover of brush and boulders. The darkness of the early hour would help conceal him, but he didn’t know how well such creatures could see in the dark. They still stared with the blank expression of a lobotomy patient, but who knew if they would suddenly turn and see him.

Reaching what he figured was an appropriate distance, Mihail unslung the AK-47 and brought it to his shoulder, bracing himself against a tree to steady his aim. He had decided not to use the tripod so that if he needed to make a quick escape he wouldn’t have it dragging down his gun. Taking a deep breath, he aimed down the length of the barrel and through the sight.

He pulled the trigger.

Hellish light glared harshly from the barrel with a thunder crack of sound as the left side of a zombie’s head exploded in a shower of blood and bone and brain, the gore splashing against the forms behind it.

Mihail whipped the barrel around and fired again, bullets ripping through two more, shredding flesh and shattering bone. The recoil of each bullet drove the rifle butt into his shoulder. The two zombies tumbled limply to the ground in a pool of torn viscera. He brought the gun around again to fire at another, but stopped suddenly. He stared at them.

None of the zombies had moved from their places. Despite that half their number lay dead at their feet and that they were splattered with their blood, they stood as if nothing had happened.

He felt himself almost willing one of them to move. To shout, scream, growl or attack. Something.

Despite the utter absurdity of the situation, he sat tight for a few minutes to make sure nothing was going to happen. Maybe because the controller was gone, they had no direction, nothing to tell them what to do. Maybe without the controller they were essentially just empty husks, mere vessels for the controller’s power. That just made his question even more glaringly strange. Why would the controller not be there?

Slinging the AK-74 back around his shoulder, he pulled the machete from his belt as he warily approached the three remaining zombies. He wanted to see if he could do this without wasting any bullets.

He walked cautiously next to one, and none of them made any attempts to maim or eat him. He turned his attention to the one next to him. It was repulsively decayed, yet oddly emanated a slightly sweet smell. Considering how they smelled once dead, he thought the sweet was strange.

Gripping the machete in both hands, he unleashed a powerful strike against the zombie. Cutting through air and flesh with the same lethal efficiency, the gleaming blade razored through the thing’s neck. The head spun away, spraying blood around it as the headless corpse collapsed like a boneless bag of flesh.

Mihail turned to the still-stupefied remaining zombies, grunting in disgust when they made no move to attack. He decapitated both in quick succession.

Wiping the blade clean on some grass, he slipped it back into his belt. Searching the corpses, he found the one with its grossly distended hand gripping something tightly. Mihail pried at it, but couldn’t get the fingers to open. Cursing, he grabbed his bayonet and tried to wedge it under the fingers. He stared in disbelief when he couldn’t for the life of him get the sharp point wedged under the tightly clutched digits. He looked up at the thing’s face, or what was left of it, half-expecting to see a mocking grin. It only stared slackjawed and lifeless up at the stars, the tears of blood no longer seeping from its remaining eye. Mihail shuddered a little, then looked back down at the offending hand to keep his eyes off of the disturbing image of its face.

Swallowing in distaste, he decided he would have to cut his way through. Taking a firm grip on its slick hand, he laid the bayonet over the knuckles and bore down. At first, the bone resisted, but it abruptly gave way with a pop and the sharp blade sprang through. He released his grip on the hand. Four fingers tumbled off and left him staring at the object held in the zombie’s hand.

It appeared to be a jagged shard of obsidian. Black and depthless, the glistening stone seemed to look into his soul. He felt like he was falling into it, a black hole sucking him in. He couldn’t look away. It drew him in and refused to let go.

He gasped in a deep breath, struggling to pull away, to look away. But he couldn’t. For some reason he couldn’t. He was in an invisible prison.

Suddenly it seemed as if some grip on him tightened. His back arched. Hot claws of agony raked through his mind. Panicking, he fought it, fought it with all his might. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to get his limbs back under control. Staggering to his feet required a feat of supreme strength. He stumbled back, trying to get away from the thing, twisting this way and that as he fought it. But his eyes never left it. He couldn’t move his eyes away. Pounding his head with his hands, he tried to drive the will that was not his own away from him. He backpedaled, managing to get back behind the ridge. But he could still see it. He saw it behind his eyelids. He saw it floating in front of him, taunting him. He saw it through the rock and the dirt, saw it lying there. A wave of shrieking pain ripped through him. It felt like he was being torn limb from limb.

A scream tore from his throat. The grip tightened inexorably, crushing his mind. Slowly, he was losing ground. Even as he moved away, it was gaining on him. Each second that passed the grip gained a new foothold somewhere deep inside and used it to attack another part. He felt pieces of himself lost and scattered, devoured by the hungry thing in his mind. It ate and ate, consuming more and more of him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He watched shreds of memory drift away into the darkness and into the gaping jaws of the thing in his mind. The jaws shut with the pain and finality of a steel trap. It ripped through his mind and burned everything in sight to ashes.

His will broke apart under the strain of fighting. It was an acid that corroded and dissolved his identity. Before everything was gone, he realized he had the answer to his question. But he didn’t know the question anymore.

He could no longer remember his name.

He ran shrieking into the darkness.



Mihail.

Who? Who was this Mihail?

Mihail.

Who was saying that?

Mihail.

A form appeared before him. He felt he should know who it was.

Mihail.

The form drifted closer. A woman, bathed in white light. He felt awed by her presence.

Mihail.

Her arms reached out for him. His reached for hers. He struggled for her name, but couldn’t find it. Despair washed over him.

Mihail. Come to me.

Tears dripped from his face. Who is this Mihail? He tried to scream. But he found that he had no voice. She must think that he was this Mihail. He tried to tell her it wasn’t so, that he was…His thoughts scattered. He didn’t know who he was. He looked back up at her, beseeching. Who am I!

Come to me, Mihail. You must.

He tried to move towards her. His limbs refused to respond. Try as he might, nothing would obey him. Even his arms remained reaching for her, unbending.

Come to me, Mihail. You will be with me soon, I promise. But first you must come. Please, Mihail.

He cried in agony, torn apart by the realization that he could not come.



He couldn’t see. His eyes must have been seared out. Oddly, he didn’t care. It felt like he must be dead.

Suddenly, he realized why he couldn’t see. Opening his eyes, color came to his world. Daylight seemed to burn into his eyes, but the pain didn’t seem to reach him. It was lost in the storm of ripping agony deep inside. A throbbing, visceral pain doubled him over, gasping for breath.

Moaning, he was inundated with an overwhelming urge to move. Obeying the hissing voice deep inside, he crawled to the edge of the ridge he saw next to him. Down below was a strange sight. There were people. Some were dead, some alive. The dead ones looked to have been viciously slain, and oddly seemed naked. The others were different. Some wore green clothes that blended into the forest and carried big guns. Military Stalkers, said some part of himself buried deep inside. He ducked back when they looked in his direction. The voice whispered sweetly that this was good to do. Cautiously peering back over the edge, he examined the people again. The rest of them wore white coats. Scientists of some sort. They were all bent over something, astonished whispers drifting among them. One moved in the direction of their vehicles. Then he saw it.

His eyes riveted on it. He saw only its long shape gleaming blackly in the muted light of the sun. Calling to him. It wanted him. He needed it. It wanted him to rescue it, to cherish it always. He couldn’t resist its unearthly pull. It was all he could think about. All he wanted to think about. The painfully hissing voice called him. It belonged to him. He wanted it. It wanted him.

Blind rage seared through Mihail as the scientists placed the artifact into a heavy container and loaded it up on one of the trucks. They were taking it away! It beckoned him, calling. He had to retrieve it, make it his. He already belonged to it. They did not deserve it. He would have to follow them.

Eyes tinged with madness watched the scientists and military Stalkers pile into their vehicles. The tires kicked up dirt and grass as they sped away to the south-west. He watched until he could see no more. Fury still burning through him and the voice in his head driving him on, he once more descended the slope of the ridge