There was an abandoned factory, way off in the distance of one Heimer Republic town. It stuck out from the greenish landscape as one big block of gray and many pipelines of black, casting its shadowy gaze over the valleys beneath. Prior to an Imperium invasion, this industrial block employed thousands upon thousands upon thousands of people, and served as a major producer of quite the important construction material — that is, cement.

Lots and lots and lots of cement.

It was a bustling workplace, packed to the brim always with striving workers and delivery trucks and all sorts of banging and clanging and screaming and ordering around. There was never any time for quiet.

But that was several decades in the past; that was history. Now, there was but eerie silence, and the emptiness of crumbling hallways and forlorn rooms, accompanied miserably — and quite fittingly — by the cracking of paint from gray walls and tiles from stone floors.

Nobody knew why the factory was decommissioned in the first place, and when they tried to do any digging deeper — any looking around — they were met only by the puzzled looks and the muddled gazes of Heimer Republic officials. Even the owner of such prestigious site had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth. No one knew where he went, or what became of him. He was long gone.

With the money, of course.

And then one night, a boy by the name of Oliver Scryar, who was no older than 18 perhaps, and who spent his days milling about the farmer's market, went poking around, determined to uncover the truth behind such grandeur, and perhaps rewarding, secret. He too vanished into thin air, and without so much as a trace. A great deal of his family was, initially, understandably very much so upset and very much so aggrieved. There was the crying and mourning and regretting that came with Oliver’s disappearance, and after, the many questions.

Which was a problem.

For them, that is.

Questions were dangerous, so to speak. Questions led to answers which didn’t quite fit the Heimer Republic golden narrative — answers that unearthed deep, dark, long-forgotten secrets — and the Heimer Republic did love its narrative.

It loved its secrets.

Many have died to keep it so.

Three days later, there was a Heimer Republic Sentrymen knocking on the Scryar family door.

Four days from then on, it was as if the boy — Oliver — never even existed at all.

It was as if any trace of his existence itself was erased, wiped clean by the invisible hand of the empire.

Suffice to say, a lesson was learned that day, and a boy forgotten.

The people of the nearby town never again ventured close, and did well to steer their children clear of this dark, dark place. There was nothing worth stumbling upon but misery and sorrow, and quite possibly, a corpse long rotten.

It was grim.

Bleak.

Lifeless.

There was a certain "feel" to the factory too, one that would drive away even the most experienced of looters and the most ambitious of graffiti artists. The air was cold, far more so inside than out, and was heavy with the stench of rot and decay. Where this smell came from, no one exactly knew. It leaked from the floors, bled from the walls, dripped and dropped and gushed from the ceilings, but there was never anything. The factory was always, always empty, and ever so dreary.

Except today.

Today, there was a visitor.

It was a man in what one would consider excessively drabby overalls. The brown coat bore marks of an old battle, scratched and torn and missing patches or two in one too many places. The simple, black shirt beneath was wrinkled, and the jeans that were presumably older than even he was, came with the occasional tear. His boots too, had seen more wear than the most scarred of states-guards uniform.

He held onto a scuffed notebook in one hand, and a half-snapped pencil in the other. Slowly, yet almost frantically, the man penned down every single detail of his rather monotonous day, from the minute he opened his eyes, to the time he ordered his stale, morning coffee, to the very moment he stood before this hulking monstrosity of a building — absolutely everything of every second. There was a sense of urgency to his writing, almost as if the man expected to be interrupted, almost as if he knew time was of the essence and was certainly running thin.

And when he had completed his journal entry, when he was satisfied with every word from start to finish, from top to bottom, he slapped the book shut and wrapped a band over its grimy cover. There was an audible sigh from his lips.

Off he went inside, with a sawed-off shotgun slung across his back, and all assortment of goodies strapped to the inside of his coat.

The factory welcomed him with a smile.

It was its first visitor in so, so long.

It hungered.

***

It was cold inside — so, very cold. It was not the kind of cold one could simply shrug off, or drape a blanket over. It was the kind of cold that went for the flesh and bones, for the body, soul, and mind. It was the kind of cold that seemed to freeze the very air right on over, and smother what little warmth remained inside of oneself. It was the kind of cold that killed.

Then, there was the matter of the smell itself. The stink of rot and decay was trademark, and certainly unmistakeable. It was particularly strong, even to the man — and he himself had seen the horrors of war, been through just about hell and back. It clouded his thoughts, robbed the breath from his body, and made both his knees feel very much like jelly.

And, as if conditions were not quite as unfavorable enough just yet, there was one teensy tiny but ever so crucial fact: an abandoned cement factory wasn’t generally the most pleasant of places to be in, no matter the time of day, no matter the situation, and no matter the circumstances. For starters, with the exception of sunlight streaming through cracks in the building and holes in the wall, it was absolutely dark. The fluorescent bulbs which once cluttered this tumultous worksite had ceased to function, and the windows, which were once cleaned daily, had accumulated copious amounts of muck and grime. No light meant more dark, and more dark meant more places for it to hide out in.

Not so ideal.

By all accounts, it was a rather fruitless endeavor. The best case scenario was finishing the job, and finishing the job meant all of last month’s and this month’s way overdue bills paid. The worst case scenario was death, disfigurement, mutilation, and a number of far more grueling fates better not realized.

He opened up the notebook, scratching onto the papers a detailed account of his experience thus far; the date, the time, the place, the state of things — absolutely everything: “March 21, 2099; seven-past-five; Cement Factory, three miles east, Town of Wynzer; Cold, freezing or below; rot smell present, particularly strong. . .”

The man glanced around, once, twice, thrice; the darkness stared right back. There was never anything. Never anything but the sound of old pipes wearing, and rainwater dripping: “Factory, age unknown — consider 60 or older. Need sources. Walls, crumbling; ceilings stained; mold growing into floor tiles; grime and muck visible on windows; ventilation system dusty. . .”

Far off, way beyond the shadows, something banged and clanged and tumbled down the steps of what the man assumed was a derelict staircase. He continued: “Entity unknown; type unknown; description and behavior lacking — consider highly dangerous specimen. Consider minimal sunlight. Consider temperature. Consider minimal disturbance. Conclusion — ?”

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The man glanced over his notes. By all means, it was a sufficient observation. The abnormal cold and stink of decay were telltale signs in and of themselves. These conditions were exhibited by sentient entities — something with awareness, consciousness; a sense of survival, maybe; and perhaps even independent thought or two. What it was though, was a whole nother question. It could be a many number of different things, from something as mundane, trivial, and fragile as a starving rat, to something as violent, bloodthirsty, and rabid as, well, a starving rat.

Under normal circumstances, he would have been briefed with absolutely everything, from head to toe, top to bottom. He would have known exactly what to expect, what to find, what he was walking into, and more importantly, what it was. But today was a tad bit different. Today, there was zero information, and zero information was always bad.

He knew that.

They knew that.

He knew that they knew that.

And did they care?

Probably not.

But still, here he was anyway, ready to dive headfirst into the darkness.

The man looked on ahead, into the dimly lit hallways and whatever was lurking within. He gulped hard, put out the cigar in hand, then sighed — almost as if to himself. The shotgun made its way from his back, off his shoulders, and into his grasps. He cocked it ready.

Time to go to work.

The time was seven-past-ten.

***

There were three floors and a basement to clear. Floors one to three were simple; they were nothing more than dark, long corridors and large, empty rooms. Save for the occasional wooden chair laying by its side; an old desk or two collecting dust; and maybe the myriad of empty, steel shelves, toppled right on head over heels; furniture was scarce. It made sense, after all. Abandoned places were a gold mine for easy scrap, which — if you knew all the right contacts — made for easy money.

Looters were quick these days; cash did not come as easy as it once did.

The man knew that.

More so than anyone else.

He moved slowly, clearing rooms with surgical precision and utmost care. Doors were especially troubling; doors were fickle things. Doors meant an obstruction from one point to the next, and required both time and effort to maneuver open properly — especially these older models. For all he knew, it could be hiding behind any one, waiting for just the right time to pounce, and with over dozens in the building, it was meticulous work.

Meticulous work at a snail’s pace.

Quite the bothersome duo.

The man worked his way from the ground up, clearing the first floor in under 30 minutes, the second in just about 45, and the final third in exactly 63. He opened the notebook once more: “Floors one to three clear — time, 138; no sign of entity; no sign of abnormality; no attempt at ambush. Conclusion — entity in hiding. Further conclusion — entity in basement.”

There it was.

Process of elimination.

Despite the absolute cold, he could start to feel the beads of sweat form and roll. The “first encounter” was always the most dangerous part of any job.

Sure, reading about your enemies on paper might do well to calm your nerves, but meeting them for the first ever time, face-to-face, was a whole nother ordeal. After an initial five or so seconds pass, your fight or flight response kicks in. Some choose to hunker down and face the threat at hand; others choose to bolt for the nearest exit, leaving those they once called friends behind without so much as a thought. Suffice to say, the latter did not survive long in this line of work, both physically and figuratively speaking.

The man did not run.

He never did.

There were voices in his head telling him to turn the other way, to make for the hills and never look back. They screamed and wailed, telling him to heed his instincts and leave the place be — leave it be. After all, it wasn’t hurting anyone anymore, was it? If the locals stayed far, far away, then it’d surely starve itself to death sooner or later.

Or maybe not.

Maybe it’ll move on over to the town.

And start feasting.

The man gritted his teeth.

No.

He was called.

He answered.

And now he was here.

One way or another, it’s going home — it’s going back the way it came, to whatever grisly hole it crawled out of.

Be it later.

Or tonight.

Or now.

He dug around his coat, fingering the matches and newspaper clippings aside and finally coming upon a small silver object.

It was a compass, glow in the dark and ever so durable.

But this was no ordinary compass, of course. It was a compass bestowed upon each and every Hunter to have graduated from The Foundation. It was a compass that pointed to evil, always, and to things that were not of this world — to things that did not belong here.

It was the man’s guiding light to find it.

It was the light in the dark.

The flame in the flood.

***

Slowly, carefully, and rather meticulously, the man descended the steps — one at a time — until the light of day was no more, and the dark of the basement came to smother his senses. Still, he ventured forth, heart thumping, knees weak, and head very much so spinning.

Click!

A single incandescent bulb flicked itself on, swaying to and fro ever so gently. It was not the brightest of light bulbs, granted, but it would assist the man nonetheless. Fighting in complete darkness was an absolute no-no, which made one wonder: why did it turn the light on? Was it mocking him? Goading him, perhaps? Thinking of the man as little less than a mere nuisance?

Only one way to find out, after all.

He stepped off the wooden stairs, and unto concrete.

His boots were heavy.

The basement was damp, and certainly far more crowded than the abandoned factory way above. Skittering pests, with any number of limbs and wings and gnawing fangs, scampered to and fro, darting from floor to wall, wall to ceiling, ceiling to cracks in the bricks, and from thereon, to the shadows beyond. There were all sorts of junk piled high to the ceiling as well: spare parts in cardboard boxes, replacement lightbulb sets, worn tools and unused material, shelves and shelves and shelves of old plans and building blueprints and other such relics of the past. Certainly, it was a museum of useless bits and pieces left abandoned.

Now, this was a peculiar thing, indeed. No looter with half a brain would simply leave all these be. If the factory above was picked clean to the bare bone, why wasn’t the basement? Why was all this stuff just sitting here, and not already in some scrapyard getting resold? It didn’t quite add up.

And to make matters worse, the smell was much worse down here than up there. It was suffocating, and strong, and if you opened your mouth just a tiny, tiny bit, you could even perhaps begin to taste it.

Taste the rot and decay making its way inside of you, slithering and snaking and squeezing what little bravado remained.

And it’d make you sick to the stomach.

The man certainly felt so.

But still he carried on anyways, like the good Hunter he was.

It was his job, after all, and he’d much rather finish the contract than come home empty-handed. It was a matter of professional courtesy, and more importantly, of putting food on the table, and in this day and age, both were practically synonymous — to him, at least. A job well done meant a roof over his head and three warm meals a day, and the man did love his three warm meals a day.

Skrrt.

Something way off in the darkness shifted.

Something way off in the darkness scraped against the bare brick walls.

It had claws.

“Help. . . Me. . .”

The man swallowed, hard; beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face. The voice did not at all sound human. It was more of a mix-and-match of pained groans and ghastly, guttural moans. It was not so much a voice, even — but rather, more of an. . .

Imitation.

He clutched the grip of his shotgun, trusting in it to keep the darkness at bay, and it away. The only thing standing between him and certain death were the bullets in the chamber, and he didn't have plenty.

"Help. . . Me. . ."

There it went again.

Way off in the dark.

The man looked down, to the compass in hand. Its needle pointed westward, past a mound of trash, and towards a wooden door — towards the voice. He forced his legs to move, and his aim to steady. Every inch of the way, dread, terror, and doubt plagued his mind, and made every of his thoughts run amok.

Swallow the fear, bucko, he told himself.

Just get it done, get it over with.

Don’t think.

Just do.

Skrrt.

"Help. . ."

The man went, shaking.

Five steps to the door.

Four.

He rested his finger atop the trigger.

Three steps to the door.

Two.

He reached for the handle with his compass hand.

One step further.

Zero.

Creak. Slam!

The man yanked the door open wide; he leapt way, way back.

Up, down, left, right, his eyes went scanning.

Nothing.

He stared at the empty closet, befuddled.

The man blinked.

There was nothing still. No horrifying entity born of blood and evil. No lone Voidspawn sharking in the shadows. No demons or ghouls or wailing banshees leaping from the darkness.

There was nothing.

He lowered his shotgun, unsure what exactly to make of his findings — or rather, lack thereof. Once more, he checked the compass in hand.

The needle pointed directly south.

And he could feel its breath down the back of his neck.

“Help me!”