Jonathan struggled up the muddy hill, trying to catch up with Przemek and Peter. His feet fought for traction as he clutched his assault rifle. Atleast he wasn’t carrying his machine gun, Jonathan thought trying to take comfort in that. About 20 meters ahead, Przemek and Peter pushed forward through the trail, moving as quickly as they could. All three were eager to get this mission over with and return “home.”

They knew Liam and his horse should be somewhere along this 12-kilometer trail. The sellers had radioed earlier, confirming they’d received the package of home-made antibiotics and that Liam was on his way back to Oksjo. Young and inexperienced, Liam had no reason to abandon Oksjo. Skipping town with the bags of ammunition they’d traded for the homemade antibiotics wasn’t an option—at least, if they could trust what Sven had told them. The “buyer” were the same group that were refurbishing the refinery, they could be trusted.

They hoped Liam's horse might have slipped and fallen, forcing him to make his way back on foot. When they first left Oksjo in haste, they were worried for him, but now, drenched and chilled by the relentless rain, their concern had taken the backseat to their own comfort. The rain jackets they wore provided little relief against the downpour, leaving them cold, wet, and eager to finish the job.

Przemek was in an even sourer mood than usual cursing at why it was raining in spring, and he and Peter were as silent as ever. Jonathan had tried to lighten the mood at the start of their trek, but his efforts were quickly shut down by both of them.

The trio trudged through the narrow forest trail, the dense canopy above offering little shelter from the relentless early spring rain. The ground was a treacherous mix of slick mud and scattered leaves, turning each step into a careful balancing act. Raindrops pattered against the trees, their bare branches just beginning to bud with the first signs of new life. A cold, damp chill hung in the air, seeping through their rain jackets and clinging to their skin. The forest was a maze of dark trunks and tangled undergrowth, with the trail winding unpredictably through the maze of wet, glistening foliage.

Jonathan could hear the squelch of his boots in the mud, a sound echoed by Przemek and Peter ahead of him. The rain blurred the edges of everything around them, turning the landscape into a drab palette of grays and browns. Every now and then, a gust of wind would send a fresh spray of water down from the branches above, adding to the cold that gnawed at their bones.

As Przemek walked, he tried to comfort himself by the thought of him having a warm wash in a few hours. That he’d change clothes, have a good meal and throw himself in bed to rot in as he’d continue reading the book he had been meticulously reading. He looked up down the road instead of watching his boots walk. His dark brown eyes and black brows raised as he sensed something.

The only sound that could be heard was the sound of their boots and the birds trying their best to sign over the rain. Jonathan train of thought was interrupted by Przemek throwing himself at the side of the road, kneeling as he signalled with his fist for the rest to stay still. The cold rain dripped down his neck, but it was something else that sent a shiver through him. He saw how Przemek bolted the bolt of his FNC back, loading a bullet in the chamber. Peter and Jonathan followed suit silently. His eyes darted to the shadows between the trees, searching for the source of the unsettling sensation that prickled the back of his neck.

Przemek turned around and looked down the path, his cold, dark eyes narrowing as he scanned the trail behind them. Jonathan caught the look, a sharp, calculating gaze that sent a chill through him. He had seen that stare in Przemek more than once during the nearly five months they had known each other. A look so sharp it could cut through wood as easily as an axe. It was the same look Jonathan had seen in him during their escape from Dragör—a hard, focused intensity that came when danger was near, and nothing could be left to chance.

Peter and Jonathan understood immediately; no words were needed. As Przemek crept forward, they fell in line behind him, half-crouching as they moved through the bushes about twenty meters from the road. Their eyes were fixed on the path ahead, ready for anyone—or anything—to appear. Przemek’s sharp gaze darted around, scanning the surroundings with a practiced vigilance.

Jonathan edged closer to Przemek, his voice low as he asked, “What do you see, what do you hear?”

Przemek didn’t respond right away, his eyes still sweeping the area. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured. “Some birds took off up ahead. They stopped chirping even before we got there.”

Peter and Jonathan exchanged glances, waiting for Przemek to give them a cue.

“Didn’t think much of it at first,” Przemek continued, “until I saw something move through the bushes about a hundred meters ahead.”

Peter silently cursed under his breath, the tension thickening as they realized the potential danger lurking nearby.

“It’s stopped raining,” Peter whispered, his voice tense. “If there’s anything out there, we’ll hear it coming better now.”

“Yeah, vice versa,” Przemek muttered, his gaze still scanning the distance.

Without taking his eyes off the trail ahead, he gave a quick, firm command. “Stay in line. Don’t fucking wander off. We’re moving ahead through the woods.”

With that, Przemek stood up, signaling the others to follow as they prepared to advance cautiously through the dense, rain-soaked forest.

As Przemek stood up and began to move forward, Peter and Jonathan fell in line behind him, their senses heightened by the tension in the air. The forest was eerily quiet now that the rain had stopped, the only sounds being the soft crunch of their boots on the damp undergrowth and the occasional rustle of leaves.

They moved slowly, keeping low and close to the trees, their eyes constantly shifting between the path ahead and the shadows around them. The feeling of being watched still lingered, making every small noise seem amplified. Przemek led them deeper into the woods, away from the trail, hoping to approach whatever—or whoever—was out there without being seen.

After several minutes of cautious movement, Przemek suddenly froze, raising his hand to signal the others to stop. He crouched down, peering through a gap in the bushes. Jonathan and Peter quickly did the same, their eyes following Przemek’s line of sight.

He pointed down the forest. At first, Peter and Jonathan didn’t see it. Until they moved a bit they saw the brown, red figure laying down about twenty meters ahead. They didn’t need confirmation of Przemek to know what it was.

As Przemek, Peter, and Jonathan crept through the underbrush rifle ready, the quiet of the forest was suddenly pierced by the sight of a gruesome scene. They stumbled upon the remains of a horse, its body grotesquely mutilated and strewn across the forest floor. The animal’s once-proud form was now a twisted mess of blood and torn flesh, its coat matted and stained. The eyes, once full of life, stared blankly into the void, their sightless gaze a haunting testament to the violence that had taken place.

The surrounding area was marked by a chaotic mix of hoof prints and deep gouges in the earth, evidence of a violent struggle. The underbrush was trampled, and several trees were marred by what looked like frantic, desperate scrapes from the horse’s flailing hooves. A faint, metallic scent mingled with the smell of blood, adding to the horror of the scene.

Jonathan’s stomach lurched as he took in the sight, his mind racing with the implications. This was Liam’s horse, and the state of the animal left little doubt that something terrible had happened. The realization hit them hard—whatever danger they had been expecting was closer and more immediate than they had anticipated.

“What could have done that? A bear?” Jonathan asked, his voice tinged with unease as he scanned the surrounding forest.

“I know bears,” Peter replied, his rifle trained on the forest, eyes darting between the trees. “This isn’t their work. And there aren’t any bears down south here.”

Przemek, still kneeling by the horse’s remains, studied the ground closely. “I only see one set of footprints. No shoes or boots—just some bare feet. I doubt Liam would have gone out barefoot.”

Peter approached the gruesome scene with a grim determination, his face contorted in disgust. The stench of the freshly killed horse was overpowering, a nauseating blend of blood and decay that seemed to cling to the very air. He worked hard to avoid breathing it in, his eyes fixed on the task at hand.

With careful, deliberate movements, he reached for one of the bags lying beneath the carcass. The bag was partially obscured by the twisted, bloodied mess, its strap caught among the wreckage. Peter grunted with effort as he wrapped his hands around the strap and heaved, dragging the bag out from under the horse's remains.

The bag was heavy, its contents shifting with a dull thud as it emerged from beneath the carcass. Peter set it down with a relieved sigh, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts. He wiped his brow, smearing a streak of sweat mixed with grime across his forehead, and then quickly opened the bag to inspect its contents. The sight of the ammunition inside was a small comfort. He gave it to Jonathan who put the satchel on him, it was heavy, must have been a thousand rounds in it inside of separate bags.

Peter opened the other satchel on the opposite of the horse, also containing munitions. He carried this satchel before making his way to Przemek.

“What now? We got the goods.” He asked Przemek.

Przemek looked around. “What do you mean what now? I’m not your boss!” he answered frustrated and as loud as the situation allowed him to.

“Better we go back, drop the ammo, and come back with more people to look for Liam,” Jonathan said, his voice steady but tinged with urgency. Peter nodded, then cast a glance back at Przemek.

Przemek hesitated, weighing the plan. It was logical, the safest move for the three of them. But it lacked something essential—compassion. He didn’t know Liam well, but if the roles were reversed, he wouldn’t want them retreating, only to return who knows when.

“The kid might be injured, lying in a ditch somewhere,” Przemek said, his eyes scanning the darkening woods with the intensity of a wolf sensing danger.

“Fuck it,” Jonathan muttered, suddenly dropping the bag on the ground.

“What the hell are you doing?” Peter asked, eyes wide as Jonathan began putting the bags in his empty daysack.

“He shouldn’t be too far away,” Jonathan replied, his tone resolute. Przemek shot him a look, a silent thank you for choosing to stay and search.

“The kid owes me two bottles of wine anyway,” Jonathan added, trying to mask his concern with sarcasm.

“This is madness,” Peter said, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him as he dropped his satchel to the ground.

“If you want to leave, then go!” Przemek snapped, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Take the other bag with you and tell Sofia to come—she’s got more balls than you!” Przemek spat in Polish, his voice sharp. Peter and Jonathan only caught the name “Sofia,” but it was enough to fill in the gaps.

“Fucking shit,” Peter cursed under his breath, his frustration boiling over as he hastily concealed his satchel.

Jonathan, now on edge, switched his rifle to automatic and began to move down the trail, eyes locked on the ground. The hoof prints in the mud were fresh, barely smeared. The horse had struggled, its tracks chaotic, mixing with human footprints—signs of a desperate attempt to flee.

Przemek knelt, closely examining where the footprints first appeared, trying to piece together the story written in the mud. Jonathan’s gaze followed the trail ahead, every sense heightened.

Peter, tense and alert, kept his rifle pointed behind them, making sure nothing crept up from the shadows. The forest around them felt alive, like it was holding its breath.

Przemek noticed it immediately—the footprints were noticeably deeper on one side of the road, as if something had sprinted from beneath the thick pine tree. They were about five meters away, but the pattern was clear enough to raise alarm. Without a word, Przemek grabbed the back of Jonathan's vest, halting him. He lifted his rifle, pointing towards the tree with the thick, low-hanging branch that obscured the spot where the unknown assailant had likely burst onto the road. Jonathan nodded, understanding the silent command, and raised his rifle as well.

Side by side, they moved cautiously, circling the tree. Przemek's flashlight, hastily attached to his rifle, flickered on, cutting through the shadows. The beam revealed an empty hiding spot, and for a brief moment, they allowed themselves to exhale. But the emptiness of the ambush point only heightened their anxiety—what kind of force could set up such a trap?

“Keep an eye over there,” Przemek whispered, his voice tense as he moved further down the trail, examining the ground. The hoofprints and footmarks collided here, where the ambush had begun. He forced himself not to dwell on the terror Liam must have felt in that instant.

A slight smile crossed his face when he spotted the faint outline of boot marks in the mud, followed by broken branches. Liam had clearly fallen off his horse and scrambled in that direction.

He let out a low whistle, and Peter and Jonathan quickly joined him. Przemek didn’t need to say much—he pointed to the footprints and the broken branches, and Jonathan understood immediately, slipping silently into the forest.

Peter, however, hesitated, confusion etched on his face as he asked for an explanation. But Przemek was already moving, disappearing into the trees after Jonathan, leaving Peter to catch up on his own.

Jonathan, still leading the way, was now oblivious to the rain, the cold, and the gnawing hunger. The downpour had returned, stinging his face, but he barely noticed. The only thing that bothered him were the few stray drops that managed to slip into his eye, momentarily blurring his vision. He adjusted his boonie hat, tilting it just enough to shield his face from the relentless rain. But beyond that small gesture, he gave the elements no mind, his focus unbroken.

He moved cautiously along the improvised trail, his mind racing as he tried to decipher the path Liam might have taken. It felt eerily similar to tracking prey during a hunt, every broken branch and disturbed leaf telling a story. But Jonathan had to remind himself—this wasn’t the kind of game he was here to shoot.

The sight of a few broken branches, followed by leaves clearly pressed down beneath a bush, caught Jonathan's eye—it looked as if someone had taken cover there. He pointed it out to Przemek, who crouched down to inspect the spot, his brow furrowing in confusion. Why would Liam have hidden there? The thought gnawed at them both, adding a new layer of unease to their search.

He realized they were far enough from the trail for the assailant to have had time to finish up the horse and catch up with Liam in the woods.

Przemek’s boot shifted some spent casings on the soggy ground. Peter and Jonathan glanced at the scattered evidence, their expressions hardening.

“I hope he took it down, I don’t see any blood” Peter murmured, his eyes scanning the dense undergrowth.

Before Peter could say more, Jonathan grunted as he attempted to climb a tree. He didn’t reach far, but it was enough to spot something through the tangled branches and mist. "There’s a farmhouse down the hill," Jonathan called out as he scrambled back down.

Peter’s gaze sharpened. “You think he made it there?”

Jonathan nodded, a flicker of hope in his soaked eyes. “Maybe he did. Or maybe he’s gone somewhere else entirely.”

“Either way, we need to find out,” Przemek said, his tone resolute as he wiped rain from his face.

The farmhouse stood isolated, its once vibrant red paint now dulled and peeling under the relentless assault of the elements. The yard, once neatly tended, had surrendered to nature’s encroachment. Wild grass and tangled weeds thrust through the cracks in the worn gravel driveway, and rusty garden tools lay scattered among broken flowerpots, relics of a life abruptly interrupted.

The roof of the farmhouse sagged slightly, and missing shingles revealed patches of weathered wooden planks beneath. A broken window on the second floor gaped open, draped with tattered, moth-eaten curtains that flapped intermittently in the breeze. The door, hanging askew on one hinge, creaked ominously as it swung with the wind.

Przemek, Jonathan, and Peter moved cautiously through the overgrown yard, their boots crunching softly on the gravel and wet leaves. Their path was marked by sporadic spent casings scattered across the ground, glinting dully in the low light. Each casing was a silent marker leading them towards their objective.

Jonathan led, eyes constantly scanning the area. He crouched low, using the shadowed edges of the dilapidated barn and scattered outbuildings for cover. He paused to examine a spent casing embedded in the mud, its metallic sheen catching his eye before he continued forward. His gaze shifted between the casings and the farmhouse, his senses alert to any signs of movement or hidden threats.

Peter followed closely, his focus sharp on the farmhouse. His boots crunched over the gravel, and he carefully stepped around the scattered casings, his hand resting on the grip of his weapon. The occasional glimpse of a casing, half-buried and weathered, confirmed they were on the right track. His vigilance was heightened by the sense of urgency in their search.

Przemek brought up the rear, his eyes darting over the yard as he maintained a keen watch. He observed the crumbling stone steps leading up to the porch, now cluttered with broken furniture and rotting wood. The porch light, once bright, hung crooked and rusted, its glass shattered and flickering faintly in the gloom. All three men had their rifles lifted and pointed somewhere as they approached the house. As if police officers serving a warrant for a criminal inside of it.

Following the trail of casings, they moved towards the farmhouse door, which was slightly ajar and creaking on its remaining hinge. The spent casings grew more frequent as they approached, each one a silent testament to the recent violence that had occurred here.

The oppressive silence of the place was broken only by the distant rumble of thunder and the intermittent drip of rain from the eaves. The yard’s eerie, rain-soaked atmosphere seemed to amplify every sound as they advanced. Each shadow appeared laden with potential threats, and the occasional glint of a casing served as a grim reminder of their purpose.

They didn’t need to exchange any words. They realized whatever attacked Liam had followed him all the way here.

Jonathan took the lead as he cautiously pushed the door open, the creak of its rusted hinges cutting through the silence. His rifle was shouldered, ready for any sudden confrontation. The dim light from outside barely illuminated the entrance hallway, revealing a kitchen to the left, a staircase leading upward, and a hallway that extended towards what might be a living room.

“Liam!” Jonathan called out, his voice echoing through the empty space. The house remained silent, the only sound the persistent patter of rain against the broken windows.

Jonathan stepped back from the doorway, glancing at Przemek, who gave him a subtle nod of reassurance. He then looked at Peter, who stood near the edge of the overgrown yard watching their back. Peter’s face was pale, and his eyes darted nervously around the surroundings. He struggled to mask his fear, his hands trembling slightly on the grip of his rifle.

“Peter!” Jonathan called softly, his tone firm yet urgent. Peter’s eyes met Jonathan’s, and the trembling was more evident now. Jonathan raised a thumb in a gesture of encouragement.

Peter, visibly shaken, managed to awkwardly juggle his rifle before giving a shaky thumbs up in return. The gesture was clumsy but conveyed his attempt to steady himself and keep his composure.

With a final look at his team, Jonathan’s expression hardened with resolve. He took a deep breath and moved back to the entrance.

Jonathan stepped inside with swift determination, his boots barely making a sound on the damp floor. His rifle scanned the hallway as he moved quickly towards the kitchen, each shadow and creak analyzed for potential threats.

Przemek and Peter followed closely. Przemek took up a position in the hallway, his rifle trained down the corridor leading to the kitchen, while Peter kept his weapon pointed upward towards the staircase, eyes darting nervously.

Jonathan swung his rifle across the kitchen, first pointing at the blind spot on his right, once he knew it was clear he shifted it around the room before checking under the table.

“Kitchen clear,” Jonathan reported, his voice low but authoritative as he joined Przemek in the narrow hallway. He grabbed Przemek’s shoulder in a firm but reassuring grip, signaling that he could now proceed towards the living room.

Przemek, muscles taut with tension, moved cautiously down the hallway. He adjusted his rifle, shifting it from one shoulder to the other as he approached the corner. The darkness beyond the turn was impenetrable, but he edged forward, straining to listen for any sound.

Once he cleared the corner and confirmed the space was safe, he quickly scanned the room, noting Jonathan’s swift movement to the opposite side of the room. The two exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgment.

“Living room clear!” Przemek announced, his voice carrying a note of relief.

The duo made their way back to the base of the stairs, where Peter waited.

“Watch our back and close that door,” Jonathan instructed, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. He moved into position, taking the lead on the stairs, with Przemek close behind. Peter nodded, visibly relieved to be in a more passive role, and he promptly stepped back to secure the door.

Jonathan's grip tightened on his rifle as he ascended, doing his best to keep it steady. Przemek squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder, a silent signal that they were ready to proceed.

The staircase was narrow and creaked softly under their weight, each step marked by the occasional glint of spent casings that crunched underfoot. Jonathan felt them press against the soles of his boots as he moved upward, his senses heightened by the tension of their situation.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Sweat dripped from Jonathan’s brow, mingling with the rainwater that had soaked him earlier. It wasn’t a raindrop that stung his eye now, but the sweat of his exertion, trickling down his face as he focused intently.

As Jonathan reached the top of the stairs, he peered around the corner. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light filtering through the cracks. “One room on the left, door’s open,” he whispered to Przemek, his voice low and measured.

They made their way down the hallway, the door had clearly been broken in as they saw more spent casings and fragments of the door.

Jonathan was now one meter away, he tried his best not to tremble as he waited for the signal.

He was taken a back by Przemek hand squeezing his shoulder, as if he had been waiting for it for hours.

Jonathan moved into the room with swift precision, his rifle sweeping to the left as he cleared the space. Przemek followed closely behind, positioning himself on the opposite side of the room. Both men’s rifles quickly converged on the figure slumped against the far wall, their breath caught in their throats.

Liam was sprawled on the floor, his back propped against the wall and part of the low window. The room was eerily silent except for the distant patter of rain. A puddle of blood had pooled around him, the stark crimson staining the dusty floor. His submachine gun lay awkwardly across his body, the weapon's barrel pointing downward in an unnatural angle.

A small crack in the window, the size of a bullet hole, was surrounded by a splash of blood, starkly marking the violent end he had met. Jonathan and Przemek, their faces pale and sharp brows furrowed, couldn’t hide the shock in their wide eyes as they tried desperately to maintain their composure in the face of the grisly scene before them.

The gravity of the scene weighed heavily on them, each man struggling to hold onto the last shred of their sanity in the face of such a brutal reality. The silent room, now filled with the heavy air of loss, seemed to close in around them as they processed the grim tableau.

Peter hurried into the room, his eyes widening at the grisly scene. Jonathan’s reflexes kicked in, and he instinctively raised his rifle towards Peter, momentarily forgetting his presence in the shock of the moment. Realizing his mistake, Jonathan quickly lowered the weapon.

“What the fuck?” Peter exclaimed, his voice a mix of horror and disbelief as he took in the sight of Liam’s lifeless body.

Przemek, his face etched with grim determination, glanced at Liam’s mangled form. “What happened to his jaw?” he asked, his voice strained as he examined the horrific injury.

Jonathan forced himself to take a closer look at Liam with the help of his pocket flashlight. The bottom half of Liam’s face was gone, leaving a gaping, open wound. The exposed flesh and shattered bone already had flies nesting there. “You’re right, his jaw is missing,” Jonathan said, trying to mask his own rising terror. His voice betrayed a hint of the fear he was struggling to conceal.

“9mm doesn’t do that!” Przemek said urgently, his gaze shifting towards the window as he considered the implications. The realization that the injury was far beyond what a typical bullet could inflict caused a chill to run down his spine.

“Peter, go back to the stairs, cover the entrance!” Przemek yelled.

Peter nodded as he was more than glad to leave the room.

“Guy ran out of ammo, used his last bullet against himself as whatever the fuck that was broke in the door.” Jonathan said as he inspected Liam’s machine gun before throwing it in his backpack with the rest of the ammunition. Despite the scene of sheer horror and brutality, leaving behind a perfectly functional submachine gun was something they would never have done.

Przemek, still processing the scene, moved cautiously to the window, peering outside with a look of disbelief. His mind raced, trying to piece together the events that led to this.

Jonathan, seeing Przemek's distant expression, placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Brother, you’re good?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of urgency.

Przemek, momentarily snapped from his daze, turned to Jonathan. The intensity in Jonathan’s gaze broke through his shock, and he gave a terse nod.

“Don’t lose me here!” Jonathan said sharply, his grip tightening slightly. Przemek’s nod was a silent promise that he was focused, despite the overwhelming fear and confusion.

“What do you suppose we do now?” Jonathan asked, breaking the heavy silence as Przemek laid out his map on the empty bed.

“We’re three kilometers away,” Przemek said, scrutinizing the map. “We need to follow that road all the way to Oksjo. Its just a road in the valley going one way, there’s fields around it.”

Jonathan glanced at his watch, the click of the bezel sharp in the quiet room. “18:03. We’ve got two options: either we head back in the dark or we camp here tonight.”

Przemek looked around at the grim scene, his face set in resolve. “I’m not staying here. We can make it back before it gets too dark.” He cast one last glance at the dismal remnants of Liam’s final moments, the gravity of their decision settling heavily on him.

After a moment of silence, the trio made their decision. They gathered their gear along with Liam’s submachine gun and headed out into the rain-soaked night. The road ahead stretched out before them, its wet surface glistening under the dim light of the full moon. The relentless rain hammered down, but they were too fired up by the urgency and their physical exertion to care.

Peter struggled to keep pace, his breathing labored and uneven. Every few minutes, Jonathan, leading the way, would pause to scan their surroundings, ensuring they weren’t being followed or about to be ambushed. After one such stop, Jonathan noticed Peter's struggle and made the decision to slow their pace.

“Peter, sit down a minute” Jonathan instructed, his tone firm yet sympathetic. “Catch your breath.”

Peter gratefully sank onto the wet grass, trying to regain his breath. Przemek, equally relieved by the break, joined him, allowing himself a moment of respite.

Jonathan, more serious than ever, scanned their surroundings with a practiced eye. He let his rifle hang loosely from its sling and slipped his arms into his combat vest, allowing his sweat-soaked shirt some much-needed air. "It’s the little things," he thought to himself as he took a deep breath, letting the cool air refresh his damp, heated chest. Przemek looked at him while being amazed by the boy’s ability to switch from utter seriousness to some joyful attitude

Under the pale glow of the full moon, a small flock of sheep appeared, their wool shimmering in the silvery light. They moved steadily towards the trio, their fluffy coats reflecting the moon’s soft illumination, creating a ghostly, ethereal appearance. The gentle bleating of the sheep punctuated the otherwise quiet night, a peaceful counterpoint to the tension that lingered with the trio.

A small barbed wire fence stood between them and the approaching flock, its rusted strands catching the moonlight in fleeting glimmers. The fence, weathered and sagging, cast intricate shadows across the ground. Despite its jagged appearance, it was not particularly high or menacing. The sheep, drawn by some unspoken curiosity, edged closer, their soft, curious eyes glancing at the figures on the other side. The moonlight enhanced the contrast between the delicate wool of the sheep and the harsh, angular lines of the barbed wire, adding a surreal, almost dreamlike quality to the scene.

“Let’s remember where these are so we can come back for them,” Peter said, his voice tinged with a mix of hunger and humor as the sheep began to make their soft, persistent noises. “I haven’t had mutton in a long time.”

Przemek chuckled at Peter’s comment as he took a sip of water.

The sheep suddenly fell silent, their earlier soft bleating replaced by an eerie stillness. Jonathan, ever alert, immediately noticed the change. He turned his gaze toward the flock, his senses sharpening.

The sheep, who had been aimlessly wandering and occasionally glancing at the trio, now stood rigid and attentive. Their heads were turned towards a single point in the distance, across the road, their bodies tense and their eyes wide with apprehension. The shift in their demeanor was palpable, as if they had sensed something that escaped the trio’s notice.

Jonathan froze as he followed the sheep’s intense gaze, his pulse quickening. With a slow, deliberate movement, he dropped to one knee and lifted his rifle, his eyes narrowing on the distant figure across the field near the edge of the forest.

Przemek and Peter, sensing the shift in Jonathan’s focus, quickly caught up. They moved into position, their weapons at the ready, eyes fixed on the shadowy figure that loomed a few hundred meters away in the field. The figure was tall and white, standing starkly against the dark landscape. Its form was indistinct, shrouded in the dim moonlight, and they couldn’t make out any clear features.

If it weren’t for the overwhelming sense of danger that gripped every fiber of their being, they might have mistaken it for something ethereal—an angelic presence against the night. But the tension and the sheer unease were unmistakable. The figure remained motionless, its eerie presence casting an unsettling aura over the field, making their breaths shallow and their grips on their weapons tighter.

Jonathan’s terror surged like a tidal wave, an all-consuming fear that he had never before experienced. As soon as his eyes locked onto the distant figure, every instinct within him screamed to keep his gaze fixed, compelling him to focus despite the overwhelming dread.

His heart pounded violently in his chest, and his hands trembled uncontrollably as he gripped his rifle. The figure, tall and white against the dark expanse of the field, seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy that pierced through the calm night. Jonathan's mind raced, trying to make sense of the unidentifiable shape, but the deeper he looked, the more his fear intensified.

H

The terror was profound and paralyzing, a raw, visceral fear that gnawed at his resolve. Even as he forced himself to maintain his focus, his mind was awash with panic, the sense of impending danger almost suffocating. The feeling of dread was so intense that it overshadowed any rational thought, leaving him rooted in place, shaking with a fear that felt almost beyond comprehension, as if he knew he couldn’t shoot his way out of this situation.

Peter let out a piercing cry, his terror completely overwhelming him. He dropped his rifle, his hands shaking as he buried his face in his arms, desperately trying to block out the horrifying presence that loomed in the distance. His panicked cries cut through the night, reaching Przemek and Jonathan, but neither dared to break their gaze.

The figure across the field was a towering, unnerving presence—far taller than any human they had ever seen. Its proportions defied logic; its head seemed disproportionately large, and it was draped in what looked like a flowing white robe but none of them could make out what it was. Its hands were clasped together, creating a figure of unsettling grace and menace.

Jonathan’s voice, though trembling, was resolute. “Grab Peter, sprint down the road, and wait for me to catch up. When I run, don’t you dare look away from it.”

Przemek, his face a mask of determination despite the fear, quickly moved to Peter’s side. “Peter, we need to go!” he urged, helping him up and guiding him away.

As Przemek and Peter began to sprint down the rural road, Jonathan remained rooted in place for a moment longer. The road stretched out before them, flanked by open fields that led into a valley surrounded by forested mountains. The moonlight cast long shadows across the ground, and the silence of the night was occasionally punctuated by the rustle of the wind through the trees.

Jonathan realized with mounting dread that he had no idea how long they would need to run. The absence of Peter's and Przemek’s sounds intensified his anxiety; their shouts and footsteps had faded into an eerie silence. The air had grown colder, each breath visible in the chilly night. His rifle trembled in his hands, the weight of fear and exhaustion making it difficult to maintain control.

The moonlight illuminated the field in ghostly hues, and Jonathan’s eyes began to deceive him. The figure, still hauntingly distant at what he estimated to be around two hundred meters, seemed to shift and fluctuate—now appearing to grow closer, then retreating farther back. It was a cruel trick of the light and his own nerves, but it only deepened his terror.

Jonathan's fear surged, propelling him forward as he sprinted with a desperation he had never known before. His legs moved with an almost superhuman speed, driven by pure adrenaline and terror. The night air, cold and sharp, cut into his lungs as he pushed himself beyond his limits, the moonlight and shadows blending into a chaotic blur.

Occasionally, Jonathan cast frantic glances over his shoulder, and each time, his heart seemed to freeze in his chest. The figure in the distance appeared to spin unnervingly, its head and upper body constantly swiveling to keep its gaze locked on the fleeing trio. This relentless, eerie motion made it seem as though it was always watching them, regardless of the distance between them. The sight of it, turning to follow their every movement, intensified Jonathan’s terror, making him feel as if escape was an ever-elusive dream.

As Jonathan closed in on Przemek and Peter, he saw Przemek aiming his rifle with steely focus at the spinning figure. Despite the fear etched into his features, Przemek's aim was steady, his eyes locked on the figure as it continued its unnerving rotation.

Peter, still gripped by sheer panic, was crouched beside the road, his earlier cries now reduced to a stunned silence. His wide, unseeing eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Jonathan skidded to a halt beside them, gasping for breath. “We need to keep moving!” he urged.

They had no idea how long they had been frog-leaping down the road back to Oksjo. Time had become an abstract concept, overshadowed by the primal drive to escape the relentless terror pursuing them. All their training, their lessons on being cautious even when fear gripped them, had been discarded in the face of the sheer, unrelenting need to flee. The only thing that mattered was the ominous figure trailing them down the valley.

The figure moved slowly, an unnervingly deliberate pace that somehow always kept it at a constant distance of about 400 meters. It didn’t approach in the usual manner—they couldn’t see it move in any conventional sense. Instead, it seemed to exist in a perpetual state of being exactly where it needed to be, regardless of the trio’s frantic efforts to escape.

The figure’s presence was constant, a looming specter that hovered at the edge of their vision, never gaining ground in the traditional sense, but always within the bounds of their terrified awareness. It was as if it was simply part of the landscape, an inescapable element of the night, and no matter how fast they ran or how far they traveled, it remained a haunting, unfathomable force always just within reach.

As they saw the walls surrounding the village of Oksjo, they threw all remaining caution out of the window.

“FUCKING MOVE” Jonathan shouted at Peter and Przemek as he caught up with them. Przemek had never heard Jonathan shout that loudly. The trio bolted towards the village, the settlement now only about two hundred meters away. Every instinct screamed at them to disregard the safety measures the village had established to prevent accidental friendly fire. There was no time for protocol. They ignored the red headlamps they were supposed to use to signal their approach, the safety mechanisms of their normal procedure vanishing into the urgent necessity to reach refuge.

As they sprinted down the road, the adrenaline coursing through their veins left no room for hesitation. Each stride was a frantic escape from the looming presence that seemed to close in with every passing second. The road, though familiar, felt like an endless stretch of desperation, the village lights ahead a distant beacon of hope and safety.

Every fiber of their being was focused on not stopping, their bodies pushed to the brink by the sheer force of their fear and urgency. The sound of their rapid footsteps was the only noise in the dark, save for the distant, haunting echo of their relentless pursuer, just out of sight but never out of mind.

The three of them collided with the gate in a desperate, synchronized rush. Jonathan spun around, lifting his rifle despite his exhausted limbs. Every ounce of his remaining strength was focused on keeping the weapon steady.

“For the love of god, open the fucking gate!” Peter shouted in Swedish, his voice cracking with urgency as he pounded on the gate alongside Przemek.

“What’s the password!” a voice on the other side of the gate called out, completely oblivious to the imminent danger they were facing.

“Amir, open the fucking gate!” Przemek yelled back, recognizing the voice. His desperation was evident, each word a plea for immediate action.

The gate creaked open with a groan, its heavy wooden planks parting just wide enough to admit the trio. The darkness outside seemed to press against the gate as it slowly opened, an ominous reminder of the danger they had narrowly escaped.

Przemek was the first through the gap, his movements fueled by sheer urgency.

Jonathan stood still outside, his breath ragged and his hands shaking. The night was still, the eerie silence broken only by the distant sound of their own frantic breathing. He strained his eyes, desperately searching the shadows for any sign of their pursuer.

But the figure was nowhere to be seen. Jonathan’s heart raced as he turned back to the gate, his terror palpable. The absence of the menacing presence only added to his anxiety, the fear of what might still be lurking out there gnawing at him.

Przemek, already inside and realizing Jonathan was still outside, hurried back to the gate. With a grim determination, he grabbed Jonathan by the vest, yanking him inside. Together, they heaved the heavy wooden door shut with a deafening thud, their combined efforts making the thick planks slam into place with a final, resounding impact.

The gate’s closing was met with a sudden, almost tangible silence, broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing and the distant, haunting echo of their earlier terror.

Peter was hunched over on the grass, sobbing uncontrollably with his hands clutching his face. The raw, uncontrolled emotion was a stark contrast to the controlled urgency of the others. Amir and a girl they didn’t immediately recognize hovered near Przemek and Jonathan, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion.

“Get on the fucking wall, sound the alarm!” Przemek shouted, his voice hoarse but commanding, as he and Jonathan scrambled to their feet.

Amir, responding swiftly to the command, grabbed the referee whistle and blew it with a piercing shrill that cut through the night. The sound was sharp and urgent, intended to rouse the settlement and prepare them for whatever danger might be approaching.

“I’m going for my machine gun, you stay with them!” Jonathan yelled over his shoulder at Przemek, who was now doubled over, vomiting from sheer exhaustion and stress.

Without waiting for a reply, Jonathan turned and sprinted down the road towards the mansion. The road stretched out before him, illuminated by the pale light of the full moon, but his focus was solely on reaching the armory. As he ran, the distant sounds of alarmed voices and hurried footsteps filled the night air as villagers, armed and anxious, began to converge on the gate and to their designated positions.

Jonathan ignored their shouted questions and concerned calls, pushing himself to the limit. His heart pounded in his chest, each stride fueled by a desperate need to arm himself and return to the gate.

Jonathan burst through the mansion’s front door, his desperation making him almost reckless. The grand entrance, usually a place of calm and order, was now a chaotic hub of activity. People were streaming out, their faces marked by confusion and alarm as they hurried to the gate.

He ignored their startled questions, their worried calls for explanations. His mind was single-minded, driven by the immediate need to arm himself. “Go to the gate!” he shouted over the din, his voice a harsh command that cut through the confusion. His tone brooked no argument, though he barely registered their responses.

Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was thick with tension. Jonathan stormed past the startled faces of the residents, his eyes locked on the staircase. He climbed the steps with heavy, pounding strides, his breath ragged and his heart racing with a mix of fear and adrenaline. The ornate banister and polished wood of the grand staircase seemed almost surreal as he barreled up them, driven by sheer willpower rather than rational thought.

Reaching the top, Jonathan charged down the hallway towards his room. His movements were frantic, almost chaotic, as he navigated through the dimly lit corridor. The luxury and serenity of the mansion seemed alien to him now. His mind was a blur, focused only on the need to retrieve his machine gun and return to the gate.

Sofia and Nikolaj burst into Jonathan's room, both already geared up and armed, their hurried movements betraying the urgency of the situation. Their expressions were a mix of confusion and readiness, their weapons and equipment clanking as they moved.

“What the fuck is happening?” Nikolaj demanded, his voice tense as he saw Jonathan frantically loading ammunition belts into his backpack. Jonathan threw the heavy pack onto his back and grabbed his machine gun from the wooden table, his movements driven by a fierce, almost uncontrollable urgency.

“What the fuck are you two doing standing around with your dicks in your hand?” Jonathan snapped, his voice edged with raw frustration. “Get to the gate!”

Nikolaj, unable to contain his concern, grabbed Jonathan by the vest and slammed him against the wall. The intensity in Nikolaj's eyes was matched by the fierceness of his grip. “Brother, calm down. Tell us what’s happening!” he shouted, his voice demanding clarity.

Jonathan's frantic gaze locked onto Nikolaj’s. The panic in his eyes gave way to a deep, pained understanding as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Liam’s gone. Something ripped his jaw off. And that thing—” His voice cracked, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to maintain control. “—that thing probably followed us all the way here!”

The gravity of Jonathan’s words hit Sofia and Nikolaj like a sledgehammer. None of them had ever seen him so undone, his usual composure shattered by the sheer horror of what they had encountered.

“It’s fucking huge,” Jonathan continued, his voice breaking with desperation. “Wait till you see it. Just get to the gate—let go of me and move!”

Nikolaj, his face a mask of grim worry, released Jonathan but kept his eyes locked on him. “We’re going,” he said firmly. The urgency in his voice left no room for debate.

With that, Jonathan dashed out of the room, the pounding of his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Sofia and Nikolaj followed closely behind.

Jonathan crouched behind his machine gun, its cold metal pressed against the wall as he fought to keep his eyes open. The first rays of morning sunlight pierced through the gaps in the makeshift defenses, casting a harsh light that illuminated the exhaustion etched into his face.

A figure carrying a pot of coffee moved steadily down the wall, handing out plastic cups to the guards. The smell of strong coffee mingled with the acrid tang of fear and sweat that lingered in the air. The guards accepted their cups in silence, their faces drawn and weary, their eyes reflecting the weight of the night's terror.

Everyone at the wall had heard the harrowing accounts of what had happened. The real fear, however, came not just from the horrifying story but from the visible distress of those who had fled to safety. The sight of Peter being subdued and dragged to the infirmary, his terror palpable, had left a profound impact. He was now under sedation, his frantic energy replaced by a drugged calmness.

Jonathan, normally the one to crack jokes even in dire situations, was now a stark contrast to his usual self. His face was set in lines of tension, his grip on the machine gun and his thermal scope in the other hand almost desperate. It was as if the weapon was the only thing anchoring him to reality in a world that had become suddenly and terrifyingly alien.

The contrast between Jonathan's usual demeanor and his current state of fear underscored the gravity of the situation. The guards, sipping their coffee and watching the horizon with wary eyes, could only speculate about the true nature of the threat they faced and the deep-seated fear that had driven their comrades to the edge.

“No sense talking about it,” Przemek repeated, his voice gravelly from exhaustion and cigarette smoke. He leaned against the wall, the third cigarette of the morning dangling from his fingers, the smoke curling around him in lazy, despairing tendrils.

Sven, standing nearby with a furrowed brow, was visibly frustrated but chose to let the matter rest. He knew better than to press Przemek further. Jonathan, clearly drained, offered no additional insight, and Fred, usually a reliable ally, was out of commission, sleeping off the night's ordeal in the infirmary.

“Get some sleep,” Sven said with a reassuring firmness, squeezing Przemek’s shoulder with a gesture of both camaraderie and command. His grey eyes, sharp and expressive, flicked towards Sofia, silently conveying the weight of responsibility for Przemek’s well-being to her.

With a measured stride, Sven made his way down the line to where Jonathan was sitting, a tired figure amid the chaos. Sven’s presence was both commanding and oddly incongruous against the backdrop of the makeshift defenses. His tall, solid frame and the lines etched into his face spoke of years of experience and authority, but age had tempered him with a certain weariness.

“Jonathan,” Sven addressed him, his voice carrying a blend of authority and warmth. He eased himself down beside Jonathan, the shift from his usual commanding role to a more personal, concerned figure highlighting the gravity of the situation.

“Go get some food and try to sleep,” Sven said, placing a reassuring hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “Someone will take over. Just leave your machine gun behind.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan replied, his voice wavering with exhaustion as he stood up. With a mechanical, tired motion, he leaned his machine gun against the wall and removed the ammunition belt from his bag, placing it beside the weapon.

Sofia, sensing the gravity of the moment, gently took Przemek’s arm and guided him away from the wall. He stumbled down the road, his body visibly protesting. The adrenaline that had fueled him through the night had long since dissipated, leaving him drained and aching. Every step was a struggle, his joints and muscles sore from the relentless stress and exertion of the past hours.

Przemek emerged from the small bathroom, his movements slow and deliberate. The shower had done little to wash away the fatigue that clung to him, but it had offered a brief respite from the grime and sweat of the night.

He collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs. The bed creaked softly under his weight as he threw himself down, his body sinking into the softness of the mattress. Automatically, he placed his Glock on the bedside table—a ritual that had become second nature to him, a small anchor in the chaos. Today, more than ever, that small act of order was a comforting gesture.

As he pulled the sheets over himself, he took a moment to inhale deeply. The fresh, clean scent of the linens was a rare and precious solace amidst the turmoil. He let the aroma envelop him, letting the soothing smell work its way into his senses as he tried to calm the storm inside his mind. The comfort of the bed was a stark contrast to the fear and tension of the night, offering a small, fleeting sense of normalcy.

Przemek sat up, the bed's creaking a soft protest against his movement. He noticed Sofia rummaging through her bag, her actions methodical but hurried.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, his voice rough from fatigue and disuse.

Sofia glanced up, her expression momentarily puzzled before she answered. “Yeah, I’m supposed to help in the kitchen.” Her gaze lingered on him as she paused, noticing the exhaustion etched into his features.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern evident in her voice.

“Never been better,” Przemek replied with a forced nonchalance, but his haggard appearance betrayed the toll the night had taken on him. Dark circles under his eyes and the hollow look in his gaze told a story of sleepless, harrowing hours.

Sofia checked her watch, frowning slightly. “It’s still early,” she said, her voice softer now. She stopped her packing and took a moment to assess Przemek more closely. The sight of him—clearly worn out, with his face lined from stress and sleeplessness—made her reconsider her departure. It was early and she could do with the extra hours of sleep.

Sofia glanced at Przemek, her concern evident as she saw how shaken he was. Wordlessly, she began undressing—first her jacket, then her jeans. The soft thud of her clothes hitting the floor blended with the distant sounds of the morning outside.

In just her briefs and a t-shirt, she slid into bed right beside him. The mattress shifted slightly as she settled in, and Przemek, caught off guard but visibly relieved, looked at her with a mix of surprise and gratitude. Her presence was a comfort he hadn't anticipated but sorely needed.

Sofia moved closer, her body warm and inviting against his. Przemek felt the softness of her skin, the gentle curve of her hips and her chest pressing against him. His hand rested lightly on her back, feeling the warmth radiating from her.

After a moment of hesitation Sofia's arms wrapped around him, her touch firm yet tender. As Przemek responded, pulling her in closer, he felt the delicate rise and fall of her breathing against his chest. Their bodies molded together in a way that was both comforting and deeply reassuring. The warmth of her skin, coupled with the subtle strength of her embrace, created a cocoon of closeness that made the outside world seem miles away.

In the stillness of the room, the heat between them grew more palpable. Sofia's fingertips traced lightly along Przemek's side, sending shivers through him as he mirrored her by tracing her back. The natural alignment of their bodies, pressed close together, heightened their awareness of each other. Every breath, every shift, seemed to amplify the attraction they both felt but hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

As they lay together, the fear and exhaustion from the night seemed to melt away, replaced by a profound sense of connection. The physical closeness, combined with the emotional support, made them both acutely aware of how much they leaned on each other. With Sofia's warmth enveloping him, Przemek tried to push away the memories of the night, finding solace in the deep, reassuring bond they were sharing.

As Przemek fought the instinct telling him it was a bad idea, he finally gave in to the overwhelming urge. "Fuck it," he thought, as he gently grasped Sofia by the waist and guided her to position herself on top of him.

Sofia's eyes sparkled with a mix of understanding and desire as she smiled at him. She gracefully removed her t shirt before leaning down, her slender fingers cradling his face, and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was tender at first, but quickly deepened as they both felt a surge of renewed energy.

Their bodies aligned perfectly, Sofia’s hips meeting his with a natural rhythm. She began to move against him, her movements slow and deliberate, igniting a fresh burst of passion between them. The sensation of her grinding against him brought an intense, almost primal connection, intensifying the feelings they had been pushing aside.

Sofia's movements became more insistent, her body pressing down against his with a mix of urgency and desire. Each subtle shift and roll of her hips sent electric jolts through Przemek, heightening his senses and breaking through the remnants of fear and exhaustion that had lingered.

Przemek’s hands roamed gently along her back before stopping at her backside, feeling the smooth contours of her body under his touch. His hands finding themselves under her briefs as he pulled her closer, feeling every rise and fall of her breath as their chest pressed against each other. The intimacy between them grew more palpable, blending physical closeness with a deep, unspoken connection.