The fear of getting old, said Homer condescendingly to himself. In his time he had read books about psychology. If they would just help him now.
The corpse eaters on the other hand weren’t afraid of humans. To waste a single bullet for one of these harmless corpse eaters would have been considered a criminal waste at the Sevastopolskaya. The passing caravans tried to ignore them even though the creatures liked to provoke them.
At this station they had reproduced strongly and the more the group progressed, while bones broke under their boots with a disgusting breaking sound, the more corpse eaters abandoned unwillingly their meal and moved slowly back to their dwellings. Their nests were in inside the trains.
And for that Homer hated them even more.
The hermetic gates of the Nachimovski prospect were open. It was said that when you passed the station quickly you would only get a small dose of unhealthy radiation, but you couldn’t stay there for long. So it came that some of the trains were still well preserved: The windshields and windows weren’t broken, through the open doors you could see the dirty but intact seats and also the blue paint of the train was still there. In the middle of the hall was a true mountain of twisted bodies made up by unrecognizable creatures. When Hunter reached them he suddenly stopped.
Achmed and Homer looked at each other worried and tried to see where the danger came from.
But the reason for the delay was a different one. On the edge of the mountain of bodies two little corpse eaters gnawed on the skeleton of a dog– you could hear how they creaked and growled pleasurably. They weren’t able to hide in time. Maybe they hadn’t finished their meal or didn’t understand the signals of their older creatures or their greed had overpowered them.
Blinded by the shine of the light, but still cowering, they started their slow retreat to next wagon when they both suddenly tipped over with a dull sound and hit the ground like two filled sacks.
Homer looked at Hunter surprised while he put his heavy army pistol with the long suppressor back into his shoulder holster. The face of the brigadier was as impenetrable and dead as always.
“Seemed like they had were hungry.” whispered Achmed. A little bit disgusted, a little bit curious at the dark puddles where the pulpy remains of their dead skulls lay.
“I agree.” answered Hunter with an unclear voice and Homer winced.
Without turning around Hunter continued walking and Homer seemed to hear silent, greedy growling. It exhausted him, trying not to be tempted to put a bullet into the head of another creature!
He talked to himself reassuring until he was the same again. He had to proof himself that he was a grown man that could control his nightmares and didn’t have to act crazy. Hunter didn’t seem to suppress his desire.
But what did he actually desire?
The silent demise of the two corpse eaters brought movement to the rest of the pack: The smell of fresh death chased away the boldest and slowest from the train track.
Slowly, croaking and whining they retreated to the two trains, squeezed themselves against the windows or gathered at the two doors and waited. But they didn’t move.
The creatures didn’t seem to feel anger and you couldn’t recognize any intentions to avenge their killed brethrens or to fend off this attack. As soon as the group would leave the station they would eat the two killed corpse eaters without any hesitation.
Aggression is a trait of Hunters, thought Homer. Who survives on dead bodies doesn’t need it because he doesn’t have to kill. Everything living must die some day and becomes food. They just have to wait.
In the shine of the lamp they could see their monstrous grimaces looking through the dirty-greenish windows, the tilted built bodies, their hands with long claws, it was like they viewed into a satanic aquarium. In absolute silence hundreds pairs of eyes watched every move of the small group, the heads of the creatures turned fully synchronized with the passing humans movement. The small ballsin their formaldehyde glasses must have probably looked at the visitors of Petersburg’s art chamber the same way, if their eyes wouldn’t have been sewed shut as a precaution.
Even though the hour of atonement for his godless view of the world came closer and closer for Homer, he couldn’t overcome himself to believe in god or the devil. If there was a purgatory than he was looking straight at it.
Sisyphus was damned to fight against gravity, Tantalus sentenced to endure torture through eternal thirst. For Homer in his wrinkled train driver uniform there was a dead station waiting for him, with this monstrous ghost train, filled with its inhabitants, that reminded him of medieval gargoyles and the laughter and mocking of all gods that where seeking revenge. And when the train left the station the tunnel would transform itself, just like in the old metro-legends into a moebius band, a dragon eating it’s on tail.
Hunter had lost all interest in the station and its inhabitants. He left the rest of the hall behind him with quick steps. Achmed and Homer had problems keeping up with the hasting brigadier.
The old man had the wish to turn around, to scream and to shoot, to do anything that would scare this bold spawn away just like his heavy thoughts. But instead he followed with his head lowered and tried not to step on any rotting body parts. Achmed did the same as he did. While they fled the Nachimovski prospect nobody thought about looking back.
The ball of light from Hunters lamp flew from one spot to the next as if it followed an invisible acrobatic through a fatal circus but even the brigadier did no longer pay attention to what the light illuminated.
In the light of the lamp you were able to see fresh bones and a definitely human head that had been gnawed on, for a second and then they disappeared into darkness.
Right next to it, like a pointless shell laid a steel helmet and a Kevlar vest.
You could still see the with white color printed word on it: SEVASTOPOLSKAYA.
CHAPTER 4
Ties
“Dad… dad! It’s me, Sasha!” She loosened the straps of her father’s helmet from his swollen chin. Then she reached for the rubber of the gasmask, pulled it from his sweaty hair and threw it away like a wrinkly, deadly-grey scalp.
His chest raised and lowered itself heavily, his fingers scrapped over the concrete and his watery eyes looked at her without blinking. He didn’t answer.
Sasha laid a bag under his head and stormed to the gate. She pushed her thin shoulder against the enormous gate, took a deep breath and crunched her teeth. The ton heavy mountain of iron retreated reluctantly, turned around and fell groaning into its lock. Sasha looked it again and sank to the ground. One minute, all he needed was just one minute for him to catch his breath… soon he would return to her.
Every expedition cost her father more strength. It was almost hopeless in the face of their weak harvest. Every expedition shortened his life not by days, but by weeks, yes even months. But it was their need that forced him to do so. When they no longer had anything to sell, there was only one thing to do, eat Sasha’s pet rat, the only thing in this hostile station and then shoot themselves. If he would have let her, she would have taken his place and would have gone. How often had she asked him for his gasmask so that she could go up on her own, but he remained relentless. He probably knew that this holey piece of rubber with its filled up filters wasn’t any better than a talisman but he would have never admitted that. He lied that he knew how to clean the filters, even after hours of expeditions he acted like he felt fine and when he didn’t want her to see that he was throwing up blood he sent her away to be alone.
It wasn’t in Sasha’s power to change something. They had driven her father and Sasha into this abandoned part of the metro, they had left them alive, not out of mercy, but out of sadistic curiosity.
They must have thought that they wouldn’t even survive a week, but the will and stamina of her father had provided them with what they needed and that they had survived for years. They hated them, despised them, but brought them food regularly. Of course not for free.
In breaks between expeditions, in these rare minutes when the two sat on the sparse lit fire, her father loved to talk about earlier times. Years ago he had realized that he didn’t have to fool himself, but when he no longer had a future, than at least nobody could take away his past.
