The night was silent as Zughaib and Bobbin left Old Town in Bobbin's battered old sedan, the vehicle creaking under their weight as it rolled down the dark, empty streets. The engine's rumble was the only sound as they sped past the shadowy buildings and abandoned storefronts, the world outside a blur of rain-slicked concrete and dim streetlights. Zughaib, sitting in the passenger seat, glanced over at Bobbin, who looked more worn than the car itself. His face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his brow, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
As they drove, Bobbin broke the silence, his voice low and strained. "You know," he began, his eyes focused on the road ahead, "I think there's… there's more to this than just the cultists. A hierarchy. Layers that we can't see. The cultists, they're just pawns, acting out orders from… someone—or something—that's beyond our understanding."
Zughaib nodded, listening intently. He couldn't respond verbally, but his gaze conveyed his attention. Bobbin, perhaps sensing his silent encouragement, continued.
"These people," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "they're being controlled. Driven by something that's not… human." His grip on the wheel tightened, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's like they're trapped in their own minds, forced to act against their will. I've seen it. It's terrifying."
Zughaib looked out the window, the grim reality of Bobbin's words settling over him. He had seen the strange, crooked figures, felt the dark energy that seemed to permeate the air whenever the cultists were near. The thought that they were mere pawns in something even larger was unsettling. But he was no stranger to shadowy hierarchies and hidden forces. He'd been dealing with them for years, but this felt different. More insidious.
Just as they rounded a corner, headlights suddenly illuminated the road ahead. A station wagon, black and white, was parked at an odd angle, blocking their path. Before Zughaib could react, a shot rang out, shattering the quiet. The windshield cracked, and Bobbin grunted in pain as a bullet tore through his shoulder. His grip on the wheel loosened, and the car veered wildly.
Reacting quickly, Zughaib lunged across the seat, gripping the wheel to steady the sedan as Bobbin slumped back, clutching his bleeding shoulder. With a determined look, Zughaib pushed Bobbin gently into the passenger seat, maneuvering himself into the driver's position. He pressed the accelerator, steering them into a sharp turn as more bullets peppered the car from the station wagon ahead.
The chase was on.
The old sedan roared as Zughaib floored it, the battered vehicle responding with a burst of speed that surprised even him. The station wagon gave chase, its headlights glaring in the rearview mirror as it closed the distance between them. Zughaib's heart pounded as he weaved through the narrow streets, his focus split between navigating the road and avoiding the bullets that whizzed past them, some grazing the sedan's battered frame.
They passed through a desolate stretch of buildings, abandoned and crumbling, their shattered windows reflecting the glow of the sedan's headlights. Zughaib stole a quick glance up as they sped by an old building, and that's when he noticed movement—a dark figure, crouched near the edge of the roof, aiming a sniper rifle. The figure's weapon tracked the cars below, waiting for the perfect shot.
Zughaib kept his focus on the road, his eyes darting between the sniper's position and the station wagon trailing them. Then, with a sudden flash, the sniper fired. A loud pop filled the air as one of the station wagon's tires exploded, sending the vehicle into a wild skid. The wagon swerved violently, nearly flipping as it tried to regain control.
In response, one of the men in the station wagon leaned out, raising his gun and firing blindly up at the building. The sniper ducked back, disappearing from view, the shot narrowly missing as it echoed through the night. But the sniper had done enough damage—the station wagon lagged, its driver struggling to keep it on the road.
With the immediate threat behind him, Zughaib's attention returned to the road, his mind racing. Whoever the sniper was, they were on his side—at least for now. He took the opportunity, pressing forward as Bobbin, still clutching his shoulder, gestured weakly to him.
"Drive us to the forest road gas station," Bobbin managed to mutter, his face pale from blood loss. "I… I need to patch this up."
Zughaib nodded, steering the car toward the isolated gas station Bobbin had mentioned. It was far from civilization, hidden deep in a maze of old roads that twisted through the forest, barely visible in the thick fog that had begun to settle over the area.
---
The gas station appeared as they turned a final corner, its faint neon sign flickering in the foggy night. The place looked abandoned, with cracked asphalt and rusted pumps, but it was secluded. Safe enough for a quick stop. Zughaib parked near the entrance, and with careful precision, he helped Bobbin out of the car, guiding him over to a bench near the station's doorway.
Bobbin winced, his face contorted in pain, as Zughaib carefully examined the wound. His military instincts kicked in, and he retrieved a makeshift first aid kit from the sedan's glove compartment. Zughaib wrapped a clean strip of cloth around Bobbin's shoulder, applying pressure to slow the bleeding.
Bobbin managed a weak chuckle. "Guess… I owe you one," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "Didn't think I'd get out of that alive."
Zughaib didn't respond, only gave him a nod of reassurance. He wasn't one for words, but his steady hands and calm demeanor spoke volumes. He finished tying the bandage securely, patting Bobbin's shoulder gently before standing up.
The gas station was eerily silent, and as Zughaib stepped away from the sedan, his instincts prickled with unease. The place felt wrong, too still, as if it had been frozen in time. He glanced around, his flashlight cutting through the darkness as he checked the area. The convenience store attached to the gas station was empty, the shelves bare, dust covering every surface.
He was about to turn back when he heard a soft thud behind him. He spun around, his heart pounding as he saw Bobbin slumped against the car, his face ashen. Zughaib took a step forward, but something stopped him in his tracks.
Bobbin's eyes flickered open, and Zughaib felt a chill run down his spine. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and sickly. His mouth twisted into an unnatural, blood grin, his lips stretched too wide, his teeth stained red.
Zughaib took a cautious step back as Bobbin slowly straightened up, his movements jerky and unnatural. His bloodied grin widened, and with a shaky hand, he reached into his jacket, pulling out Zughaib's pistol, which he must have taken while Zughaib was helping him. He raised it, aiming it directly at Zughaib.
For a brief moment, the two men stood frozen, Zughaib's mind racing as he tried to make sense of what was happening. This wasn't the Bobbin he had helped. Something had taken control, twisted him into a puppet, a mindless servant of whatever dark force was pulling the strings.
Without thinking, Zughaib spun around and sprinted toward the woods. Behind him, he heard the crack of the pistol, the bullet whizzing past him and embedding itself in a nearby tree. He didn't stop, his heart pounding as he pushed through the dense undergrowth, the sound of Bobbin's heavy footsteps trailing behind him.
The forest was thick, the branches clawing at his clothes and face as he ran. He could hear Bobbin's ragged breathing behind him, his heavy footsteps crashing through the underbrush. But Zughaib was faster, his movements more practiced. He darted between trees, his breath steady despite the terror coursing through him.
After what felt like an eternity, the sounds of pursuit faded, and he came to a stop, his back pressed against a tree as he caught his breath. He waited, listening, but there was only silence. He had lost Bobbin.
Or at least, whatever Bobbin had become.
---
Meanwhile, at the BIF base, Orwen sat in a dimly lit room, his arm in a cast from the recent confrontation. He was scowling, his expression dark as he listened to a recording on a walkie-talkie—a recording from the sniper who had intervened in the chase.
"Target Zughaib and the wagon... wagon swerved. Target on the move."
Orwen clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the walkie-talkie. The operation was falling apart, and Zughaib was proving to be far more resilient than expected. He had underestimated him, and now things were slipping out of control.
He took a deep breath, composing himself. Zughaib's unpredictability was a problem, yes, but he was still a pawn in the larger game. A pawn that could be manipulated, directed. Orwen's eyes narrowed as he formulated his next move, his mind racing with plans to regain control of the situation.
"Keep tracking him," Orwen growled into the walkie-talkie. "I don't care what it takes. Zughaib isn't slipping through our fingers again."
As he ended the call, Orwen glanced down at the cast on his arm, a reminder of how close he had come to capturing Zughaib. But he would have another chance. And this time, he wouldn't let him get away.
Back in the woods, Zughaib emerged from his hiding place, his eyes scanning the dark trees around him. He didn't know who or what was after him, but he knew one thing: he couldn't stop now. Rex, the cultists, the twisted puppets that had once been people—he would find them here, and he would put an end to whatever darkness had taken hold of them.
As he made his way deeper into the forest, his resolve hardened. This was only the beginning, and he was ready for whatever lay ahead.