I sway in half-consciousness. My mind spins, jumping chaotically between scenes of slaughter I witnessed and memories of something trying to come back.
A figure.
A shadow.
Always right beside me.
Always just out of reach.
When I try to focus, it falls apart like smoke.
Then I realize the burning tension in all my muscles is gone.
In its place is paralysis.
I can’t move.
Not my fingers.
Not my eyelids.
I lie stiff as a corpse. I think that’s ironic. Then even thinking starts to blur.
I see something moving inside the walls.
Not on the surface.
Underneath.
Like worms beneath skin.
Sometimes it just shifts.
Sometimes it presses.
I don’t know how long I lay there.
Suddenly the image sharpens.
I blink.
I hear a sound. Distant. Dull. Like something working. Or breathing.
And then everything releases at once.
My muscles loosen. Air floods back into my lungs. I’m drenched in sweat. Shivers run down my spine.
The fever is gone.
I don’t feel the burning anymore. Not in my body. Not where the corpses bit me. Just normal pain remains. Dull. Honest.
And hunger.
Deep. Strange. Not just in my stomach.
I look at the watch.
6:00.
Morning.
I get up. I’m numb. Everything hurts. My head hurts worse than yesterday. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe something else.
I look at myself.
I’m normal.
I breathe. I bleed a little, but I’m not rotting. I’m not growling. I don’t feel like biting people.
Yet.
I think about the shadow.
And then something strange hits me.
I want to see it.
I don’t know why. But I feel it clearly. I miss it. Like something that should be beside me.
I still remember nothing.
Who the hell am I?
Then suddenly something cracks.
A memory.
An old city. Ruined, but proud. A white fortress on a hill above the Volga. Thick walls. History. Freedom Square.
A monument to Vladimir Lenin.
I see it clearly. Too clearly.
And then emptiness again.
I breathe deep.
I have basic survival skills. I know how to fight. How to improvise weapons. How to assess risk.
That means I was someone.
I gather my gear. Think about options. I can try going up. Or head back down.
I pry at bolts. Metal squeals. The hatch gives.
A ventilation shaft.
It leads upward. A good forty feet. Smaller ducts branch off, too narrow to crawl into. At the very top I see a grate.
And daylight.
No other way.
I squeeze inside. The climb is easier than I thought. I brace my back and feet against opposite walls of the shaft. Inch by inch.
I breathe shallow.
After a few minutes I’m at the top.
I look through the blades of a massive industrial fan. Dead. No power. Beyond it I see an underground parking garage.
Exit gates.
Two entry lanes.
Two exit lanes.
Clogged with vehicles.
Ladas. Volgas. Trucks.
All abandoned. Doors open. Windows shattered. Blood everywhere. Splattered. Trampled.
But no bodies.
Like people were just pulled from their cars.
Like someone took them.
– Yaaaeeeh! – I suddenly hear a scream.
Long. Piercing.
Doesn’t sound like a walking corpse.
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Fuck,” I think. “I hope I never find out what that was.”
I wait in the shaft five minutes. Maybe longer. I see no movement. Hear nothing else.
I feel too exposed up here.
I go back.
I climb down into the bunker again. I choose the stairs. Rooms that give off no sound.
Safer.
Near the soldier’s body I found a knife. Solid. Narrow. Single blade. Saw teeth on the spine.
It sits in my hand like it’s always belonged there.
I took it.
Just in case.
Silence.
Dead. Unnatural.
Where an hour ago there was a choir of moans and shuffling, now I hear only the echo of my own steps. All the walking corpses are gone.
Most were probably cut off on the lower levels. In those industrial depths I barely escaped. The ones from this floor must’ve gone higher. Maybe to the surface.
But not all of them.
I still hear that one sound.
Heavy, uneven scraping.
Far away. Behind thick concrete. It carries through the walls like vibration. I can’t see the source. I have to be careful.
I check every room on this level. Maybe I’ll find something. Anything. Clues. An explanation.
My head throbs with a muted ache.
A new wave moves through my body.
Hunger.
Not from my stomach. Not from lack of food. I feel it in my bones. Like my whole body demands something I can’t name.
I pass through a glass corridor. Then another.
Offices.
Laboratories.
Most look like a hurricane tore through them. Overturned desks. Chairs. Papers on the floor like snow. On the walls huge control cabinets covered in dozens of dials and gauges.
Some have thin antennae.
Most have massive copper coils.
Between them voltmeters and ammeters flicker. Weakly. Like they’re dying too. On the floor, among shattered glass, scattered vacuum tubes lie broken.
This isn’t an ordinary bunker.
It’s something else.
Eventually I reach the source of the scraping.
A room behind thick glass.
He’s inside.
A walking corpse.
A man in the remains of a white lab coat. Strapped to a heavy metal chair with thick metal cuffs. Wrists. Ankles.
He isn’t struggling.
He sits tilted slightly forward. Head hanging. Staring at the floor. From his chest comes a constant low hum. Like resonance.
When I enter, he doesn’t react at all.
Doesn’t raise his head.
Doesn’t strain against the cuffs.
Doesn’t moan louder.
Like he’s somewhere else.
Like I don’t exist.
I’m not going to test it.
I turn around. Leave. Close the heavy door behind me.
That was wrong.
I keep going and reach a larger hall.
The walls are covered with rows of monitors. Dark now. Dead. The floor is white with papers.
Hundreds of sheets. Folders. Reports. Abandoned in panicked haste, like someone was fleeing in the middle of packing.
I kneel.
I feel the hunger inside me rising. But now it’s different. Focused.
I grab the first folder within reach.
Thick gray paper.
On the cover a large red stamp: OF SPECIAL IMPORTANCE.
Below it a smaller one: CLASSIFIED.
My heart starts pounding.
These aren’t reports about generators.
I turn the page.
December 15, 1985.
Subject 34.
Induction of the brain into gamma state (60 Hz) using strong, oscillating electromagnetic fields. Neuronal synchronization to high frequencies triggered uncontrolled bioelectric discharges. Epileptic seizure of critical intensity. Hypoxia of subcortical structures. Irreversible loss. Subject 34 was liquidated in accordance with purification protocol.
I set the folder down.
Next.
December 22, 1985.
Subject 47.
Exposure to high-energy electromagnetic radiation in the microwave band. Cerebral edema, epileptic seizure, coma. Irreversible loss. Subject 47 was liquidated in accordance with purification protocol.
My hands start to shake. The paper is cool. Slick.
April 27, 1986.
Subject 79.
Artificial stimulation of the limbic root using concentrated ionizing radiation. Manifestations of pathological aggression. Subject 79 breached the security zone, damaging the chamber seal.
I read on.
During attempted administration of sedative (diazepam), Comrade Dr. Makarov sustained lacerations to the hand and forearm (bite inflicted by Subject 79). During restraint attempt, two privates sustained soft tissue injuries (bites and contusions). Subject 79 was pacified using physical force and pharmacological agents (chlorpromazine, lethal dose). Comrade Dr. Makarov was placed in quarantine in the medical ward. Disposal of Subject 79 carried out due to unsuitability for further research.
I stop breathing for a moment.
Bite.
Quarantine.
I look at my wrist.
My calf.
Fresh scars.
Another folder.
June 15, 1986.
Subject 81.
Summation of resonant gamma frequency effects (60 Hz) and abrupt electrical discharge (corrective impulse of 50 kV). Subject 81 experienced destruction of memory structures. Total loss of temporal, spatial, and personal identity. Subject 81 does not recognize medical personnel. In current state lacks informational value, but may be utilized for research into reprogramming conditioned behaviors.
The world narrows to a few words.
Total loss of identity.
I take the last folder.
The thickest one.
September 7, 1986.
Subject 106.
Despite exceeding the critical threshold of ionizing radiation and administration of high-voltage electrical impulse (70 kV), Subject 106 shows no biological degradation of brain tissue. Instead of expected death, began functioning as a biological relay.
I read on, but the words start to blur.
Emergence of carrier wave of unknown characteristics noted, modulating local electromagnetic field. High levels of static noise and spherical crackling within 50-meter radius. Subject 106 remains in deep cataleptic state, vital functions minimal. Recommendation: continue exposure despite risk of total synaptic burnout.
The paper slips from my hands.
Falls onto the white carpet of documents.
My head is empty.
Total loss of identity.
Biological relay.
Bite.
Quarantine.
I don’t understand any of it.
I know only one thing.
These were human experiments.
Here. In this bunker.
And me?
How did I end up here?
My gaze drifts across the floor until it stops on one folder.
It lies apart. No stamps. No number.
Only a word written in black marker, large and uneven: WARNING!
I grab it.
The paper is rough under my fingers. Different from the rest.
I open it.
It’s an emergency report. Written in haste. The letters uneven, smeared in places.
October 12, 1986.
Threat to technical integrity of Smolan radar station and military base. Uncontrolled spread of anomalous behavior among research personnel following incident with Subject 79. Comrade Dr. Makarov and both privates, after incident and quarantine, display symptoms of extreme atypical rage, aggression directed at medical staff.
I read on.
Additional cases of direct aggression (bites) reported in technical section. Personnel exhibit resistance to pain and fury directed against staff and infrastructure. Direct risk of mechanical damage to main chamber shielding and cooling systems.
The last paragraph is underlined, like the author pressed the pen with all his strength.
Neutralization of any employee displaying symptoms of agitation, aggression, or atypical apathy, regardless of academic or military rank.
Smolan.
The name still means nothing to me.
It started with bites.
It spread.
Like a plague.
Like a virus.
I feel the hunger inside me changing.
Not into warmth.
Not into a need for food.
Into something cold.
Pressure in my chest. Like a vise. Ribs squeezed from the inside. It’s not pain. It’s craving.
The answers are below.
I have to go deeper.
I rise from my knees.
And suddenly the world collapses.
A wave of weakness hits me without warning, like someone cut off the air supply. I hear my own breathing. Shallow. Wheezing. Too fast.
The outlines of the hall ripple. Monitors. Consoles. Doors. Like everything is behind thick glass.
I take a step toward the exit. Toward the stairs leading down.
My legs fail.
I lean against a console. Cold metal burns through my shirt.
“What’s happening to me?” I ask out loud.
It’s not pain.
It’s not exhaustion.
I feel tingling at the bite on my wrist. It doesn’t hurt.
I slide down to the floor.
I don’t fall. I just lose tension.
My back rests against some panel. Above me I see something still lodged in the wall. Near the ceiling. Trying to get out. Scratching insane patterns.
I hear that single sound.
Scraping.
Not loud.
Certain.
It’s closer. Much closer.
Is it the one in cuffs?
Did he free himself?
I can’t turn around. My neck is stiff.
I see part of the hall.
A pile of papers.
The white floor.
A shadow moving somewhere to the side.
Consciousness drains away.
The image narrows to a bright point.
Then goes out.
My last conscious thought isn’t fear.
It’s hunger.
The scraping is right behind the door.
Then silence.
And darkness.
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