Through the Grey

Thunder rumbled, echoing through the bunker and waking Mark. He rolled from his bunk, grabbing his rifle before noticing no one else was panicking or moving for their weapons. Some watched him, curiously for a bit, before returning to what they had been doing.

Some played cards, others chess, and one was typing away on a typewriter. The iridescent bulb hummed, its light making the bunkroom appear an off-grey; once it would have made it yellow, those days were long gone.

Mark closed his eyes. Listening to the room, hearing the distant thunder, the pouring rain of the zone. Trying to focus, to force color back into everything. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with the omnipresent shades of grey.

He thought of his home, the brown wood, green grass, kids drinking from red cans, pink meat turning red as it was cooked by licking tongues of orange flame.

That was long ago, before something twisted parts of the world. There were many stories Mark had heard. Some claimed secret government weapons, others aliens, a few said cultists summoned the devil, and god struck with divine punishment.

Mark wasn’t sure why it happened, only that it paid well to bring back pieces of the zone. Relics, as the Papal state called them. Other groups had different names, of course, but they didn’t pay for them. Well, officially didn’t, that is.

Mark grabbed his gear and started donning it. As his watch started beeping at him, he shut off the alarm before finishing.

“Heading out already?” Peter asked, not looking up from his typewriter.

“Yeah, it doesn’t pay to sit here,” Mark replied, sliding his gas mask on.

“Course it doesn’t unless you're a checkpoint guard, that is,” Peter replied, still typing away. “By the way, don’t go towards the east checkpoint, heard the Sov’s got kill on site orders.”

“Thanks,” Mark replied as he checked the seal around his face. “Anything on the NATO side of things?”

“Not recently, though, if rumors be true, they’re hunting Relics of their own. Specifically, the cloakers”.

“Noted,” Mark stated, sliding over a few roubles and a single euro. Their typical transaction fee for information, especially when it's useful information.

Checking the chamber of the Kalashnikov he carried, as he moved into the airlock, his boots echoed through the concrete structure.

“Expecting trouble?” The guard asked as he began cycling the airlock.

“It's the zone,” Mark stated, watching the man.

“Right. Just keep it on safe while in the base. God be with you,” the guard ordered as the door opened with a popping hiss. Unclean grey light filtered in, and Mark felt that if everything wasn’t eternally gray, it would be a sickly red.

Stepping out of the airlock, he pulled his hood up as he heard the rain slapping against the tin roofing. Even the Rain was deadly, if unprepared.

He stopped at the door, watching rain pour over the grey landscape. Grass and tree limbs danced in varying directions as if the storm moved in every direction. For a moment, he almost felt color from his memories trying to peer through the grey veil that covered the world.

Drawing out his phone, he looked at the map, several locations marked out with big X’s and hundreds of red dots.

He picked through and decided to head west, rather than risk running into the damned Sov patrols.

Boots popping in and out of the mud, the smell of sewer following each step. Finding the splintered tree, and rechecking his map, searching for the next landmark on his path.

Something popped and snapped.

Mark’s rifle had come up in an instant, years of military training kicking in as his eyes scanned the forest about him.

After a moment, Mark’s breath was visible in the suddenly chilled air; something shifted in the distance, easily a hundred meters away.

It moved on all fours, with an impossible gate. One leg moved, then the next. It turned its head, revealing a piglike snout. One side covered in bright masses, the other in a dozen unblinking eyes.

A snort, and the thing moved impossibly quick for its mass, vanishing amongst the foliage.

Mark waited, watching his rifle tracking the unseen. He knew better; it wasn’t that thing, though. Those Porkers weren’t the trouble. What hunted them, though, was the real danger.

His eye tracked a brush as it smashed down seemingly on its own, damned Yaga’s, at least the Cyclopses fought in plain sight.

A blink, and the world was green once again. A child hiding in a bush, jumping out and scaring another. Another blink, and the child was replaced by a bipedal thing with crystal-like needle teeth and five eyes, peering and tracking the Porker.

Mark took a breath and waited, watching it prowl, then scanning about. When his eyes returned, the thing was gone.

Mark breathed out slowly. If there is one, there are two. If there are two, a Nest must have been made.

He slowly crept back, going opposite the beasts. He’d have to double back later to head the path he’d originally planned. He might just pick a different spot to stalk.

Once he was certain he’d gotten a fair distance back, he slid out his phone, marking that broken tree as a possible Yaga nest area.

Then he looked at the markers again and decided to shift more east than he had originally planned.

His boots hit the pavement, parts perfect and pristine, others crumbling and overgrown. His eyes scanned, and he froze in place; the hair on his neck stood on end. He stepped back quickly, his off hand reaching into his pouch and pulling out a brass casing.

Tossing the casing forward, it bounced once—twice—then lightning screamed from the ground, catching the casing, and blinding Mark for a moment.

Blinking, trying to clear the burned image from his vision, he then saw the blue sky. Someone laughing, a car’s engine idling. He looked back at the street, a yellow car approaching, not slowing.

Throwing himself aside, he slammed his shoulder into the asphalt before rolling to his feet as the car flew past, honking its horn.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the world returned to the grey it had become.

Looking about, his heart racing, nothing moved but the waving tree limbs. A yellow car, he thought as he breathed heavy, just like the one his father once drove. That’s when he felt his blood turn cold, his father— he hadn’t thought of him in.

No, not now…

Never again.

Looking at the scorched mark on the road, he listened; he’d been listening for footsteps he’d forgotten— that's when he heard it, the snapping and popping of electricity.

Pulling out his phone, he scanned, finding roughly where he was. This one has moved since the last time the maps were updated. Damned sparks, they moved too often to be tracked properly.

Tossing casings, bolts, and other assorted metal bits as he moved, avoiding any spot that sparked into vibrant, blinding life.

Finding himself atop a burm of dark grey grass, and little else, looking out on a mostly open field, save for the Hind still burning in the center. He stared at it, knowing something was wrong; this field was clear just last week. Well, as clear as the Zone can be, but what was this doing?

Leaping backward, his gut screaming, as something exploded at the foot of the burm, tossing dirt on high. He hit the ground, rolling and sliding down the hill. Slamming into a tree and just lying there, the world spinning.

Groaning, he heard something moving. Speaking. He crawled quickly as the boot falls grew closer, getting inside a thick gray bush.

Forms appeared atop the burm, a bright light playing through the forest; voices speaking in Russian. They spoke, guns slowly searching the forest for Mark.

Something howled, Mark’s heart beat harder as he recognized it. A pack of Yaga, and they’d found dinner.

One of the forms turned, firing his rifle at something. Others followed, the howl grew louder, and the world shook.

Giving up his concealment, Mark took off, running down the bottom of the Burm. The sounds of gunfire, tapering off, as screams of agony cried out.

Tripping on a tree root, He fell again and just lay there panting.

“Where do ya think ya going, son?” a man asked. Mark groaned as he rolled over and looked up, seeing his Father staring down at him. The red sun high above, casting odd shadows on the blackened forest.

“You're dead,” Mark answered as the red light changed like a half-remembered memory to the normal yellow of the sun.

“Boy just drew the short straw, I did, you too,” his father said back, as his neck slowly tore open, blood oozing out.

Smacking himself, falling against a tree, the world became grey. His father gone, replaced by a Sov trooper, gasping, his lower belly torn open.

Mark lifted his rifle and shot the man, ending the Sov’s suffering. Gut wounds out here, well, better to just die.

Without another moment passing, Mark checked the ammo pouches on the man, finding a few magazines and an Iska ration pack. Truly a score, not for the ammo, but the rations went for a pretty sum on the market.

A howl in the distance reminded him he needed to get moving.

Sprinting into the distant forest, he found a landmark. A rusted Soviet BTR, right next to it, a pristine Soviet Ural truck. Looking between them, two bodies lay there. Skeletons, with nearly ment gear.

Olog and Anton, two other Relic hunters. Few knew their names; others just called them a warning.

Never step between two things, especially when only one is trapped in the past.

Quickly going far to the right, keeping distance between the oddities, and moving onwards. The sounds of firing and howling of wounded Yaga’s, growing from the field far behind.

Pulling out his phone, he checked the map as he slowed his pace. He’d taken the wrong turn at the last land— no, he hadn’t. No, this was the way he had intended all along.

So he moved forward, hearing patrols approaching the fighting and adding to the chaos.

Without realizing it, Mark had stopped. Standing before a hole in a mound, an old mine. The sun slowly starting to set in the distance.

A snap, and a pop, the sound of a large patrol’s footsteps. Followed shortly by their chatter. Mark looked, they carried Kalashnikovs, so Sov’s most likely.

Finding a barrel to hide behind, he watched as a few looked his way. Had they seen him, they said something in Russian that Mark didn’t know. The patrol stopped, and all looked his way, rifles raised.

“Shit,” Mark muttered to himself, pulling the pin on a cylinder. Thinking quickly, he looked at the mine and decided. Tossing the grenade to the side, and suddenly the men were shouting in their language, as smoke erupted out of the cylinder.

Dashing forward, as gunfire started, hissing wisps of hate screaming overhead. Mark entered the mine, the darkness enveloping him.

The sound of Sov’s kept him moving through the tunnels, following the directions of his instincts. Without thinking, he stopped, instincts screaming.

Looking to his right, a door, his hand already opening it. He blinked, confused; he didn’t remember stepping into the room. He found himself staring at a glassy, glowing black sphere in the center.

The air gained a metallic tang, and before he could think, before he could pull back—

Something shifted.

…

Moving through the grey darkness of the mine, rifle raised, flashlights on. Lev listened. Someone was running hard.

“What do you hear, Lev?” Oleg asked, only a pace or two behind.

“He is headed further in,” Lev answered.

“Looks like Peter’s information was spot on today,” Ivan said from further behind.

Lev froze as the faint echoes of running suddenly stopped. Waiting, the others close behind, the sound of metal suddenly screeching echoes through the tunnel. The scent of a coming storm filtering through the air.

“What was that?” Oleg asked.

“Don’t know,” Lev answered, grabbing his radio, “All teams check in”.

“Bravo team, all accounted for”.

“Charlie team, all— wait, weren’t there only three of—” the radio suddenly screamed in static, as the sound of someone yelling echoed.

Without thinking, Lev started to move, his team following close behind. That's when he saw it. The cave walls weren’t gray, they were an off-blue, almost like the sky.

Shaking his head, the walls were back to grey, as a gunshot echoed; the sound painful to the ears.

“Left,” Someone said. Lev looked down that tunnel, nothing, then turned right, just a wall.

“Who said that?” Lev asked as they reached a corner.

“Said what?” Oleg asked.

“Said left,” Lev stated, looking behind him, seeing Oleg’s violet eyes. Lev half jumped, and his eyes had returned to grey. “What the hell is going on?”.

“This is Charlie,” a voice started on the radio. “All clear.”

“This is Alpha, continue search. Remember, get that phone,” Lev ordered over the radio.

Turning, he found himself standing in a yellow forest, the sounds of children laughing in reverse, a house built of crimson logs, the sky an odd pink.

“Alpha sound off!” He ordered, but nothing answered. Then something hit him; he didn’t see what, his head hitting an unseen wall.

Looking about him, back in the hellish grey, back in the mine. Oleg and Ivan, standing over him, weapons trained down the two corridors.

“Where’s Ilya?” Lev asked, slowly pulling himself up.

“Ilya?” Ivan asked, then suddenly went rigid, his eyes on Oleg, before answering uncertainly, “Ilya died last week.”

“What do you mean, he was—” Lev started and then looked around himself, “Just here? Where th—”

A scream, a gunshot, hellish, deafening thunder echoing through the tunnels. Lev was up and moving before he was conscious of deciding to do so.

“Bravo, Charlie, sound off!” Lev ordered.

“Left,” A voice said back through the static.

Ivan was the first through, and a gunshot rang out as he jerked back. The flash of a pistol, an odd shade of pink and blue.

“Left,” The voice said again, though less controlled.

“Left what?” Lev asked the radio.

“All left… color… friends…”.

Ivan rolled on his side, Oleg grabbing him by the back of his armor, firing his rifle offhanded down the tunnel while dragging Ivan back.

“What?” Lev asked, confused, “Who is this?”

“Who?” The voice asked, and a small laugh echoed in the static.

“Lev!” Oleg yelled, grabbing his shoulders.

“Oleg?” Lev blinked, looking down at Ivan’s now unmoving form.

“Lev, either we got a traitor in there or the last one standing has lost it.” Oleg stated, “Who were you talking to on the radio?”

Suddenly blinking, an ache just behind the eyes, as Lev saw crimson flowing from Oleg for a moment. The color shifted, becoming off-yellow. It reminded him of little Elaine and her coloring books— that's when Lev looked around him, most of the world gray, yet at the edges of his peripheral vision, color kept creeping in.

“What is it?” Oleg asked, his rifle still aiming at where the shot that took Ivan came from.

“It’s here,” Lev answered. A flash of Elaine’s pink eyes hit him, her smile a laugh. He shook his head as memories kept flashing, forcing their way into the front of his mind.

Then a loud bang brought the world back into focus, Oleg falling backward, a look of shocked horror on his face.

Lev stood looking down at the dead man, his rifle still trained on him.

“O—leg…” Lev’s voice trailed off. When had he? No, he hadn’t done. Why.

Something in the grey darkness moved. Lev’s rifle trained on it, the flashlight’s beam suddenly turned a brilliant red.

“Who’s there!?” Lev demanded, stepping back, his foot passing through Oleg’s body.

Then his radio squawked to life.

“This is Bravo, they’re dead, all of them. Something, it's in— Oh god, why, why, why”, a voice cut through the static, slowly gaining an edge of hysteria. Then a loud bang, and the voice stopped.

“This is Charlie, Bravo team is down, Alpha, what's your location?” Charlie team’s lead asked.

The cave walls shifted and turned pink; the thoughts of his daughter, Elaine, forced their way forward. Hot tears rolled down his face as he felt his body move.

He saw Charlie team, all two of them that remained.

That's when something felt off, as the rifle started moving.

A child laughed backward, the metallic tang of ozone burned his throat, a flash of memory. Standing looking over a forest, made of all the wrong colors. A single question finally echoed through Lev’s mind, as he felt the recoil of his rifle.

Who’s Elaine?