КНИГИ КИРИЛЛА ПОТЁМКИНА

10. AT THE CAMPFIRE (Redux)

We had been walking for, probably, six hours. The fog around us had thickened to the consistency of sour milk, in which the inky shadows of the trees floated. My new, «upgraded» legs didn’t feel fatigue in the usual sense — the «servos» of the muscles didn’t ache, the joints didn’t creak. But my mind… my mind was dead tired. Every step became an effort of will. It seemed the very air here was saturated with something viscous, sweetish, and soporific.

«Attention. Detecting an increase in the density of neurotoxins in the atmosphere. Concentration: 15 ppm. BIO-HAZARD mode activated», the impassive voice of Gena cut through the cotton in my head.

— «Threat?» — I asked hoarsely, adjusting the shotgun strap. My fingers felt like cotton.

«Classification is difficult. Direct aggression signatures are absent. Carrier, detecting a 12% decrease in cognitive functions. Increase vigilance.»

I parted the branches (they broke with a dry, dead crackle, like the desiccated bones of birds) and froze.

Ahead, in a small clearing, a campfire was burning.

Real. Warm. Orange.

The flames crackled, driving away the gray murk, casting cozy highlights on the pine trunks. People were sitting around the fire. Five… no, six. They were sitting on logs, shoulder to shoulder, stretching their hands toward the flame. It smelled of smoke, roasted meat, bread, and something achingly domestic.

Comfort. Childhood. Safety.

I was drawn there with such force that I almost dropped my weapon. Saliva filled my mouth, my stomach clenched painfully.

— «People,» — I exhaled, taking a hesitant step. — «Normal. Alive.»

My legs carried me toward the warmth on their own. I suddenly realized how sick and tired I was. Why go to Imatra? Why save the world or anyone else there? Here it was. Right here, in front of me. Warmth. Peace.

I could just sit down. Just close my eyes. Relax. Forget everything and everything will pass.

«WARNING. PERCEPTION DISSONANCE. CARRIER, DETECTING EXTERNAL MENTAL INFLUENCE. THIS IS NOT A VISUAL IMAGE. THIS IS A DIRECT INJECTION INTO THE CEREBRAL CORTEX! BLOCK IT!»

— «Oh, shut up,» — I waved Gena off like a pesky fly. The AI’s voice in my head was annoying. It was stopping me from being happy. From realizing myself in a good mood. I had already forgotten the last time I felt such peace. — «See, they are sitting calmly? They aren’t attacking. They are just resting. I also need… it’s time to rest. Let’s take a breather.«

I stepped into the light of the fire.

None of those sitting turned their heads. They continued staring into the fire, as if enchanted. Their postures were relaxed. Even too relaxed. Like rag dolls with their frames pulled out.

— «Hey, guys,» — I said amiably, lowering the barrel. My tongue was getting tangled. — «Got room? Like to warm up…»

One of them, in an old, faded windbreaker, slowly, very slowly nodded. I stepped closer. The heat of the fire touched my face, soft as a mother’s palm. My eyelids began to stick together. God, it feels so good. Just to sit. No need to run anywhere. No need to rush anywhere.

I had already started bending my knees to sink into the empty spot next to a woman in a puffer jacket. She smelled of perfume and… something sweet. Putrid. At that moment, Gena erupted in my brain with a siren that nearly burst my eardrums:

«DIRECTIVE SEVENTY-SEVEN ALPHA! FORCED ACTIVATION OF THE OPTIC NERVE! LOOK, YOU IDIOT! LOOK AT THE HEAT SOURCE!»

The world blinked. Reality rippled like water from a stone. An indigo tactical filter covered my retinas, washing away the delusion. The cozy orange light of the fire became a dirty-gray, sickly-phosphorescent glow. And I saw.

There was no campfire.

In the center of the clearing gaped a pit filled with pulsating, moist mycelium. It wasn’t wood, but the living flesh of the Earth, turned inside out. The «campfire» turned out to be a giant bud emitting not heat, but clouds of spores. And the people around…

They weren’t sitting on the logs at all. They were growing out of them.

The man in the windbreaker had grown into the tree up to his waist. His skin had become bark, covered in moss and sticky slime. His eyes were open, but had leaked out, and the empty sockets were overgrown with whitish threads of mycelium. The smell of «roasted meat»…

That was them smelling. The mycelium was digesting them alive, generating heat during decomposition.

The woman in the puffer jacket… her legs had already turned into knotty roots going deep into the earth. A blissful, idiotic smile was frozen on her face, and… her lower jaw was seemingly absent — it had dissolved, becoming part of the mycelium, which pulsed rhythmically, pumping nutrients from her body into the shared network. Through the transparent skin on her neck, one could see spores flowing through her veins instead of blood.

They were still living. Technically. But their consciousness floated in a sweet syrup of laziness and decay. They were rotting alive and enjoying it.

«Class ‘Sloth’ Creature. Apatites. They do not hunt. They wait. The victim voluntarily gives up their biomass in exchange for an endorphin coma.»

— A-a-ah… A-a-ah… — what tore from the woman’s throat was not a groan, but a wet, gurgling sigh, popping with bubbles of viscous saliva. — Sit dow-w-wn… it’s goo-o-od here… no pai-i-in…

I was jerked back. My stomach twisted in a spasm. The desire to «sit down» vanished, replaced by a primal, animalistic terror of being consumed by this slow, sweet rotting. Of becoming fertilizer for this monstrous flowerbed.

— «No!» — I yelled, throwing up the shotgun. My finger rested on the trigger.

«HOLD FIRE! The noise will attract ‘Runners’. Buckshot is ineffective against a subterranean structure. Recommendation: tactical retreat. RUN!»

I backed away, feeling my feet bog down in the soil, which had suddenly become too soft. Swampy. As if the forest didn’t want to let me go.

The woman slowly, with the crunch of tearing cervical vertebrae fibers, turned her head toward me. Her face was melting:

— Why go-o-o?.. — she rustled. — There is fo-o-og everywhere… Here is pe-a-ce… We… are one… We… fe-e-el goo-o-od…

I turned around and ran.

I dashed away from this «sticky comfort,» breaking branches, tripping over roots that now seemed to me like the fingers of dead men grabbing at my combat boots. My lungs burned, but I didn’t stop. Only after a kilometer, probably, when the sweet smell of decay was replaced by the familiar dampness and pine needles, did I finally stop and lean against a cold, wet pine tree.

I was shaking.

— «Thanks, Gena,» — I exhaled, sliding down the trunk.

«You are welcome. Analysis complete: The Creature uses empathetic projection. It offers what you desire most — the cessation of the struggle. This is the most dangerous trap for you, Carrier. More terrifying than ‘The Gorger’.»

— «I already got it,» — I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead. My hand was shaking. — «Sloth is a slow death.»

«Correct. Movement is life. Stasis is decomposition. We continue our journey. 68 kilometers to Imatra.»

I nodded, picking up my pace. Now the cold, hostile forest seemed to me the safest place in the world. Better to die in battle, from cold or a bullet, than to warm up and slowly turn into a vegetable by such a «campfire».