Nightfall came quickly in the mountains. Cain Mercer and Dr. Harold Crane each prepared in silence. It was clear—they both had separate intentions for the evening. I stood outside the tent, rifle in hand. In the deep forest, danger could come in any form.
Cain was the first to emerge, hauling his black ritual case.
"I'm heading out," he said calmly.
"You need backup?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No. I won't be long."
Back inside, Dr. Crane worked under the dim light of a portable lamp, flipping through documents, furrowing his brow. He mumbled to himself, occasionally scribbling furious notes.
I waited until past 11 p.m. Cain still hadn't returned.
Dr. Crane stepped out and said, "You should rest, Falcon."
"Cain's not back yet."
"He strikes me as the kind who handles himself. Us old bones, on the other hand, need rest," he chuckled, disappearing back into the tent.
I remained outside. The mountain air turned crisp, and fatigue crept in. At some point, I dozed off.
I dreamed—a strange one. Rabbits darted around me, fleeing from something unseen. One pure white rabbit leapt into my arms. I grinned as it struggled. Then it twisted violently and bit deep into my wrist.
I woke with a jolt, forehead wet with sweat.
2:00 a.m.
I rose and checked the tent—both Crane and Cain were gone.
Gun ready, I switched my flashlight to its lowest setting and crept toward the sanatorium. The gate stood ajar. Something felt wrong. Rather than go through the entrance, I scaled the rear wall and slipped in quietly.
The courtyard was silent. Only the whisper of leaves in the old beech trees broke the hush.
I swept the flashlight in short, quick bursts. The lower level was clear.
Then, just as I reached the stairwell—splat.
Something wet landed on my head.
I wiped my cap. It was thick, warm.
Blood.
I sprinted upstairs.
A shattered black case lay in the hallway. Cain's.
Powdered substances and ritual threads spilled out. I stepped forward and found a severed arm.
Cain's arm.
There was no sign of struggle, no sound when it happened. Had something silenced him before he could scream?
Judging by the blood's color, the injury was recent—one to two hours. It wasn't cut. It had been torn.
I followed the trail westward, into a room we'd used before. Clean. Unremarkable. The blood ended here.
I slipped out the window, dropped into the underbrush behind the building. A clearing lay beyond—lush and flat, something we'd missed before. Abandoned structures appeared under my light. A footbridge. A fake pond. A decaying pavilion.
Was this... a garden?
Blood led me to the pavilion. Beneath it, a dried canal connected to the artificial lake.
I jumped down—20 feet.
Landing hard, I winced. Too dark to roll, so my ankles took the blow. Pain shot upward.
The tunnel was over 10 feet wide, nearly 6 feet high. I crouched and moved forward.
The deeper I went, the more it stank—rotting meat, long-dead rodents, mildew. Water stains lined the limestone roof.
Two minutes in, the tunnel opened into a vast artificial basin. Empty. Dead.
I crossed it slowly, flashlight off. My boots echoed off the stone.
Climbing out was harder. The walls were steep, slick. I climbed like a monkey, flashlight in my teeth.
Then—I heard footsteps.
Rhythmic. Synchronized. Seven or eight individuals.
I froze. Killed the light.
Above me, to my right—footsteps, voices.
I crawled toward the sound, found another stone tunnel—part of the water system.
Inside: light.
Seven figures. Moving in line.
They approached something hanging from the ceiling. Each took turns biting into it before walking off.
It was... a body?
I couldn't be sure.
Then came a voice—familiar.
Crane.
"There was another," he said. "A soldier."
The seven halted mid-step.
Their breathing—wet, growling, inhuman.
Then a low, rasping voice: "A soldier? I hate soldiers."
Crane responded calmly, "It was soldiers who cleared this place out before. With rifles. They wiped you out."
The group began moving again. Murmurs like gargled water echoed in the tunnel.
"Where is he?" the rasp asked.
"East side," Crane said. "In the tent."
"Good. We'll bring him. Fresh meat. Been a while since we've had fresh blood. They keep sending us gifts. What luck!"
"Don't," Crane said sharply. "If he dies, I'm stranded. I can't leave these mountains alone."
"You were always my best student," the voice hissed. "Lucky I sent you away before the cleansing. You never lost your face. Never lost your wife or child."
Crane exhaled smoke. "I searched for you. For all of you. No one knew what happened. Until two weeks ago—I came across a file. I knew then. It was you."
"Do they know what we did?" the voice asked.
"No. But I will tell them. The world must know your sacrifice. Your pain. Your discovery."
"You want us to return?" the voice mocked. "To what? We're no longer men."
"You are eternal," Crane said, passionate. "Your condition proves the research worked!"
"Then kill him," the voice said. "Kill the soldier. Feed us. Then we'll talk."
I had heard enough.
I crawled away, heart pounding.