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Static, echoes of cries that never happened. Warmth running down the cheek from a cut that couldn’t be. Pain of a wound that wasn’t there, memory of the pain that never was.

Panting as he stood surveying the destruction about him, wiping the nonexistent blood from his cheek.

He moved towards the cries that echoed, unheard. Finding a body half was nothing more than charred destruction, the other untouched. Yet it cried without a breath to cry with.

Paul moved forward; something had happened, and he couldn’t remember what. He saw an indent in the snow where it had melted, turning to ice, and slowly being covered by more snow.

A flash, Paul fell into the snow, memory fragments slamming him. A man had stood there, and yet he hadn’t. He’d been there; the line had fired at him. Then… Paul shook his head. Nothing had happened yet everything had.

He walked toward where his tent should have been, only to find it crumpled on the ground. A new flash, the man had been here. He tore open Paul’s… then the memory was gone, replaced with a phantom pain in the neck.

Paul breathed hard, his breath visible in the cold. His heart raced as he tried to remember what happened, but nothing came. He saw something buried in the snow and moved towards it. He dug about the snow, the pain in his neck growing with each handful, like something was telling him to stop.

Then he felt something warm, wrong even. He lifted the snow to his eyes, and it was red. No, not snow blood. A new flash of pain caused him to fall back, and he blinked several times as he calmed his breathing.

Looking back at where he’d been digging, there was nothing, no blood, no shape. He turned about, looking for anything, someone else moving in the wreckage.

Nothing moved, save for the snow slowly drifting down from above. He moved forward, not knowing what else to do.

He saw someone lying against a tree, hand to his chest. A new pain hit him, but far more faint this time, like it was older. He lifted his hand to the pain, realizing it matched the man at the tree’s placement. He blinked, and the man was gone; nothing replaced him, no evidence he had left.

Paul felt himself breathing harder as he looked around. Something warm poured down from his nose, as memories flooded.

…

Paul woke in his tent, his heater coughing on its last legs. Sitting up, he looked around and wondered… what had he been dreaming about?.

A scream sent Paul into motion, grabbing his rifle as he left the warmth of his tent for the hellish snow of the outdoors. He found the line; Someone was shouting.

“Turn back or be shot!”

The man kept moving forward, the black of his attire hiding everything about him. Someone fired, and he was gone. A new scream, one of fear and pain. Paul turned his rifle raised, and he watched as Artyom fell into the snow, half his body aflame, and that man stood over him.

Paul fired at the man while he moved backwards, the gun fire deafened out the screams and cries of Artyom.

The man didn’t move; he was simply not there and was elsewhere. Paul tripped, falling into the snow; his foot caught a tent line, and they both tumbled to the ground.

Paul lay there, the cold embrace of the snow and ground holding him for a moment. He started standing, pushing the canvas away from him.

He stood and moved, the fight continuing as the thing killed them one by one. He started forward before looking down at the shape in front of him. Oleg lay there, his neck torn asunder, blood oozing out into the snow.

Paul looked at his once-friend, feeling tired, just wanting to be home, not in this snowy hellscape.

Then he moved forward; he had to do something after all, following the sound of battle and human cries of agony.

Against what his mind was screaming, he moved towards it. Towards his people, and that thing.

He moved along a path of utter destruction; the things that were once people he knew lay scattered across the now blood-red snow.

Paul saw someone lying against the base of a tree, blood pouring from his chest, gasping, trying to call out.

Something warm rolled down from Paul’s nose as a headache slammed into him. He stumbled, keeping himself from falling from the pain. He lifted his hand to his face and tried to wipe away the blood, only for it to smear across his cheek.

Paul moved to the man, and his eyes turned glossy; his arm fell limp before Paul could get to him.

Paul listened as the gunfire tapered off. Had they gotten it? He didn’t know and started to wonder if he cared.

He felt something was wrong and turned. A blade cut through the air where his neck had once been. His gut screamed once at him, and he rolled as a gunshot rang out.

The monster was before him; it stood weapon drawn, head cocked curiously like what just happened couldn’t have.

Paul hefted his rifle, firing before aiming, and it fired back. Something hot flashed across his cheek, and started slowly pouring down his face.

The thing was gone for a moment, then it was back, standing before Paul, slapping his rifle aside. Swinging a knife in its other hand. Paul fell back, tripping over something, his back slamming against a tree while the blade tore through the bark.

The thing’s pistol practically materialized in its hand, aimed at Paul, and in the same moment, fired.

Paul screamed as pain flooded his chest. He kicked his foot, finding nothing but open air where the thing had once been.

He lifted his arm holding the wound, only to find it gone. The pain was a distant cry. The thing was gone, and he woke once more.