His thoughts churned like a violent storm as he trudged through the forest, the events of the past days clawing at his mind. Sergei's broken body, David's haunted eyes, Little Guy's lifeless form—all of them bled together into a gory mosaic. Each face flickered in his mind, not fading, not healing.
"Monsters aren't born; they're made," he thought bitterly, the words tasting like ash on his tongue before he got interrupted.
"Why?"
He didn't stop walking. He didn't even look up. But the voice was there, lingering, all too familiar, all too painful.
His gaze flickered to the side—no, don't look—but it was too late.
There, walking beside him was his father. His charred flesh clung to him, the remnants of clothes melted into the grotesque form beneath. Every step he took sent a ripple through the earth itself, as if the ground recoiled from the unnaturalness of his presence. His movements were unnervingly fluid, disturbingly human, but wrong in a way Gas couldn't articulate.
Gas's jaw tightened. He refused to look directly at him. His breath fogged his gas mask as he muttered under his breath, "Not real. You're not real."
"Is this what you wanted?" His father's voice was low, devoid of anger, but it carried the weight of something deeper—disappointment, regret, or something more suffocating.
The lullaby began to play, soft and distant, as if it were rising from the ground itself, creeping beneath Gas's skin.
Rock-a-bye baby, on the treetop,
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
Gas's pace faltered, his fists clenched.
His body screamed to move, to escape, to leave the voice behind, but the melody—that melody—it held him there, like a hook through his ribs, dragging everything to the surface. His mind roared against it, against the music, the memories, the weight of everything!
...
"I love you, son..." The whisper came again as the music faded, this time softer. It cut deeper than any blade, deeper than the burn of a wound that refused to heal.
Gas spun around, breath catching in his throat, his heart pounding against his ribs.
Nothing.
The forest stood still, silent as death. The weight of the world seemed to press down, yet the space around him was empty.
At his feet, a small teddy bear lay—its head missing, its body half buried in the dirt, as if discarded in a moment of unspoken grief.
Gas stared at it, his chest heaving with each breath, the rhythm of his pulse hammering in his ears. Slowly, he crouched down, fingers trembling as they brushed the worn fabric, the texture familiar yet unbearably distant.
"But what am I, when the making never stops?" He whispered to no one, the words hollow, as if they were a mantra he no longer understood.
He straightened slowly, his body stiff as he stood, leaving the toy where it lay.
As he turned to walk away, the forest seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with something ancient and waiting. The stillness clung to him like a shroud, as if the trees themselves were watching, waiting to see what had become of the boy he once was.
His footsteps echoed more than before as silhouettes of buildings started to form in the distance, contrasted by the moonlight.
Gas stared at the buildings for a long moment, old and barely standing, like hurt animals waiting for something to save them.
The moon shined above the village as stars flickered around it. The closer Gas got the louder the village became, there was something about children's laughter at night that made Gas's skin crawl.
"THE APPARITION!", Boomed a voice, silencing the village as a dozen men ran out with weapons aimed at Gas.
"Oh I like that name.", Gas muttered under his breath, then raised his tone, "I don't have weapons!".
One of the skinny villagers approached him carefully, his SKS gleaming in the moonlight as it aimed at Gas's dome, "Why are you here?!", he asked commandingly.
Gas tilted his head, his gas mask reflecting the faint light of the moon. His hands remained at his sides, loose, unthreatening.
The ragged group of villagers encircled him, their faces pale but resolute.
"I told you," Gas said, his voice muffled but steady. "No weapons. Just me." He spread his arms slightly. "As for why I'm here... well, let's just say I needed a change of scenery. Didn't realize you folks were so fond of midnight welcomes."
"Don't play games with us!" barked another villager, a grizzled man clutching a double-barreled shotgun. His eyes were sunken, bloodshot, but his hands were steady. "We've heard the stories.", he paused before continuing, "Monster!"
Gas chuckled, low and humorless. "Killer, monster, apparition... you've been busy coming up with names. Maybe you'll write me a ballad next."
The skinny man with the SKS took a step closer, his finger hovering just above the trigger. "Why should we believe you're not here to hurt us? You look like you crawled out of hell."
Gas moved his head to the other side, the motion slow and deliberate. "Maybe I did. Or maybe hell crawled out of me." He let the words hang in the air, heavy, before continuing, "But if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't be standing here talking, now would I?"
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances. The tension was thick enough to choke on, but the skinny man didn't lower his weapon. Instead, he stepped closer, close enough that Gas could see the tremor in his hands.
"If you're not here for blood," the man said, his voice quieter now, "then why come at all?"
Before Gas could answer, another voice rang out from behind the wall of armed villagers.
"It's you!"
Gas shifted slightly, peering past the ring of weapons. His mask caught the faint glow of the moonlight. It was David.
His wide haunting eyes locked onto him, brimming with a mixture of relief and familiarity.
"He really trusted me to come here," Gas thought, almost amused.
David pushed his way forward, his slight frame dwarfed by the tense and wary men surrounding him. "Lower your weapons," he said, his voice steady despite the unease in the air. "He's no threat."
Gas glanced back at the skinny man, a slow shrug rolling through his shoulders as if to say, See? Told you so.
The man hesitated, his knuckles white around the stock of his rifle as he threw questioning glances toward the others. His grip loosened ever so slightly.
"He's the one who sent me here," David added, his tone taking on a cheerful insistence that felt almost jarring against the backdrop of tension.
"DO NOT LOWER YOUR GUNS!" the grizzled villager barked, his voice slicing through the moment like a whip. The shotgun in his hands was steady, and unyielding, a testament to years of surviving whatever horrors had made him so resolute.
"No," David said again, more firmly this time. He stepped closer to Gas, his movements slow and deliberate.
Gas stayed perfectly still, letting the moment play out. His gaze flickered briefly to David, and something softened, just a fraction, in the line of his shoulders. He didn't say a word, letting David carry the weight of the moment.
David stopped just short of Gas, his hands open at his sides. "You don't understand," he said, turning to face the gathered villagers. "He saved me. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for him. He could've left me out there. For bandits to kill me. He didn't."
The grizzled man scoffed, spitting on the ground. "And you think that means he's safe? Look at him! He's wearing a damn gas mask! What kind of man does that unless he's hiding something?"
Gas finally spoke, his voice low and almost conversational. "Maybe I just don't like the smell of paranoia. You're giving off a lot of it right now."
A few of the villagers shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to laugh or take offense.
David ignored the remark and pressed on. "He's not here to hurt us. I'm asking you to trust me."
The skinny man's weapon wavered again, the conflict written all over his face. He looked back at the grizzled villager, who glared at him like a man on the verge of snapping.
Finally, the skinny man exhaled shakily and lowered his SKS. "If the kid's vouching for him, maybe we ought to hear him out."
"You're a fool, then," the grizzled man snapped, but his shotgun remained steady.
Gas turned slightly to face him. His voice came again, even and calm. "Look, I'm not here to cause trouble. I needed shelter. If that's too much for you, I can move along." His head tilted slightly, again, predatorily.
"But if I wanted to cause trouble, you'd already know."
The grizzled man's face twisted, his lips pulling into a sneer.
David stepped between them, arms outstretched. "Please. Just give him a chance."
After what felt like an eternity, the older man finally lowered his shotgun. His glare didn't waver, though, sharp enough to cut stone. "One wrong move," he growled. "One."
Gas tilted his head forward, offering a mockery of a respectful nod. "Fair enough."
Before he could take another step, David suddenly flung himself at Gas, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug. Gas froze, his arms hovering awkwardly above David's head, unsure of what to do.
Then, slowly, hesitantly, Gas let his arms lower, patting David's back in what could barely pass as a hug. His confusion lingered even as David pulled back, his face bright with a cheerfulness that felt almost out of place.
"Welcome," David said, his voice carrying a rare warmth.
Gas blinked, still processing the hug.
The skinny villager shifted awkwardly, breaking the moment as he extended a hand toward Gas.
They shook hands.
"I'm Emir," he said, his tone casual but cautious. He nodded toward the grizzled man still glaring daggers from a few steps away. "That over there is Andrijan."
Gas glanced at Andrijan, who hadn't moved a millimeter, his shotgun still resting in his hands, ready to spring into action. "What's his problem?" Gas asked.
Emir winced slightly but managed a faint smile. "He's... a bit on edge since..." He trailed off, his eyes darting briefly to Andrijan. Whatever memory had surfaced in his mind, it clearly wasn't one he wanted to share. "Never mind."
He turned back to Gas, placing a hand on his shoulder with a friendly but firm grip. "Follow me."
Emir began leading Gas through the village, the armed villagers trailing behind like a pack of wolves. Their presence wasn't subtle; boots crunched loudly on the gravel paths, and their weapons glinted ominously in the moonlight. Gas could feel their eyes on him, sharp and unrelenting, but he gave no indication he cared.
The village was a patchwork of survival and defiance against the Zone's merciless conditions.
Two towering, crumbling socialist-era buildings dominated the village, their concrete facades weathered and cracked but still standing.
Makeshift repairs—planks of wood, sheets of metal, and tattered tarps—gave the structures an almost haphazard appearance. These buildings served as the heart of the village, housing its people like a fortress of shared desperation.
Gas caught movement from the corner of his eye. Faces peeked out cautiously from shattered windows and crooked doorways. Women pulled their children closer, their hands firm on small shoulders, while the elderly stared with hard, unblinking eyes. Whispers filled the air like a low, uneasy breeze.
"Is that really him?"
"The Apparition..."
"He doesn't even look human."
Gas tilted his head slightly, catching a fleeting reflection of his masked face in one of the windows. The distorted image seemed to ripple, momentarily blending with the rumors of the man who could vanish into thin air, leaving nothing but bodies in his wake.
Emir gestured toward one of the structures. "That's the bar," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Not much to it, but it's where people gather. Drink, forget, make trouble."
Gas's gaze lingered on the building. The faint flicker of candlelight spilled from its narrow windows, accompanied by the distant hum of conversation. A world he didn't belong to, even if he tried.
"And over there," Emir continued, pointing toward a small shack with a hand-painted sign above the door, "is my shop. If you need gear, food, or anything to keep yourself alive, that's where you'll find it.
Though," he added with a raised eyebrow, "you don't seem like the type who needs much help staying alive."
Gas didn't respond, his eyes scanning the shop briefly before flicking back to Emir.
The tour continued in silence for a while, the villagers' weapons still trained on Gas like shadows that refused to break away. Finally, they stopped in front of one of the towering buildings. Emir led him inside, the dim light of an oil lamp illuminating the narrow, cluttered hallway.
It smelled of damp concrete and old wood, the faint aroma of cooked cabbage wafting from somewhere deeper within.
"You'll be staying here," Emir said, leading Gas up a narrow staircase. The steps creaked under their weight, and the chipped paint on the walls flaked off at the slightest touch. "With David."
They arrived at a door. Emir pushed it open, revealing a small, cramped room. A bunk bed occupied one side, its thin mattresses sagging under the weight of years. A single wooden work table sat against the opposite wall, accompanied by a rickety chair, and an old gasoline lantern. The room's sole window looked out into the woods, the moonlight spilling through and casting pale streaks across the floor.
"It's not much," Emir admitted, leaning against the doorframe. "But it's better than the dirt outside."
Gas stepped into the room, his boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. He scanned his new surroundings, taking in the faint scratches on the walls.
It was bleak but functional—much like everything else in the Zone.
David appeared in the doorway, a snug smirk on his face. "It's cozy, ye?"
Gas turned to him, his mask betraying no emotion. "Cozy," he repeated flatly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
David, unbothered. "I'll take the top bunk."
Gas nodded once, stepping to the window. He placed a hand on the sill, leaning forward slightly to gaze into the dark expanse of trees. The forest stared back, silent and still, as if it had been waiting for him.
Behind him, Emir cleared his throat. "We'll leave you to settle in. But remember, people here don't trust easily. You've got a lot to prove if you want to stick around."
Gas didn't turn from the window. "I'm not here to make friends."
Emir's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Didn't think so." He patted David on the shoulder and stepped out of the room, leaving the two alone.
As the door clicked shut behind them, David turned to face Gas. The cheerful facade he wore in front of the villagers faded, replaced by a quiet seriousness. He stood for a moment, studying the man before him.
"Why?" David asked, his voice low but steady.
Gas, mid-step toward the bunk beds, froze. He turned sharply, his eyes widened behind the glass of his gas mask. For a moment, he looked almost startled, as if the question had struck a nerve.
"Huh? What?" Gas asked, his voice muffled, almost dismissive. But the tension in his posture betrayed him.
David's gaze didn't falter. "Why didn't you kill me?"
Gas sighed, the sound harsh and mechanical through his mask. He turned away, his hands twitching slightly before he stuffed them into the pockets of his hoodie.
"You… you seemed different than the others I had to kill," Gas said after a pause, his voice quieter this time. He walked to the window, the faint light casting his shadow across the small room.
David looked at the floor for a moment, the question still lingering in his eyes. He pulled the single chair toward him and sat down, crossing his legs as he leaned toward the work desk.
"How so?" he asked quietly, his tone devoid of judgment but laced with curiosity.
Gas turned to face him again, locking eyes with David's haunted eyes. For a moment, he said nothing, his mask hiding whatever emotion might have been flickering across his face. Then he spoke, his voice uncertain.
"I'm… not sure," he admitted. His words hung in the air, tinged with confusion. "There's something just different about you."
David nodded slightly. He didn't push further, sensing the conversation had reached its limit. Silence fell between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
From outside, the muted hum of village life filtered through the walls—children laughing, adults chatting, the faint clatter of tools at work. The sounds felt distant, like they belonged to another world entirely.
After a while, Gas broke the silence. His voice was flat, drained of emotion, carrying only the weight of exhaustion.
"I just need some rest," he said, Shrugging off his backpack. Something metallic within clinked softly as it hit the ground. He straightened up, his movements stiff, as if the weight of the day was etched into his very bones.
David watched him for a moment longer, his own shoulders slumping slightly. He turned back to the desk, his fingers tracing the worn edges of its surface absentmindedly.
"Yeah," David murmured. "We all do."
The night stretched out in silence.
Only the occasional creak of the old bunk bed echoed through the room as Gas shifted restlessly in his sleep, the wood groaning under the weight of restless dreams.
Meanwhile, the soft, rhythmic scratching of David's fingertips against the desk broke the stillness, each delicate movement marking the passage of time in the lantern's light. Shadows danced lazily across the walls, amplifying the solitude that enveloped them.
Outside, the village settled into its usual quiet, the sounds of laughter and tools fading into an eerie stillness.
A sharp crack cut through the air.
David froze, his hand hovering over the desk.
Gas woke up, tilted his head slightly, listening.
Another crack followed—closer this time.
Then a barrage of bullets erupted.
David stood up, his voice a hushed whisper. "What the—"
Gas's expression darkened as a river of fury washed over him, while he slowly crouched and unzipped his backpack.
From within, he pulled out a Swiss knife and tucked it into his pocket. His hand lingered over the pistol at the bottom of the pack, hesitating for the briefest moment before withdrawing it. He checked the magazine, his motions precise, then slid the gun under the waistband of his hoodie, hiding it from view.
Outside, a scream cut through the night, sharp and short. Heavy boots pounded against the ground, drawing closer.
David's voice wavered. "What do we do?"
Gas turned to him, his tone sharp but quiet. "We don't panic."
The door rattled violently, the hinges groaning as something heavy slammed against it.
"Stay behind me," he said, his voice chillingly composed as he moved to the corner closest to the door.
Another slam. The wood splintered.
Gas straightened, his silhouette framed in the dim light. "Big mistake," he said coldly as he pulled out the knife from his pocket.
The door broke.