8. WHISPERS AND STEEL
Twilight in the Fog Zone did not fall — it simply thickened. The gray suspension turned into an inky jelly that swallowed the remnants of light. The temperature plummeted. The forest crackled, shrinking from the frost.
I found shelter under the uprooted roots of a giant pine. A natural canopy, covered with spruce branches. I didn’t make a fire. Instinct (or paranoia?) suggested: light here doesn’t attract moths, but bigger creatures.
I sat with my back pressed against the rough wood, sorting through my cartridges. The red plastic of the shells gleamed dully in the dark. About two dozen. Not enough. The «Remington» shotgun lay on my lap — a heavy, cold, reassuring piece of steel. I wiped the barrel with an oiled rag found in the tactical rig.
«Thanks to whoever left me these things…»
== CARRIER STATUS:
== BODY TEMPERATURE: 35.8°C (MILD HYPOTHERMIA).
== ENERGY LEVEL: 62%.
== RECOMMENDATION: SLEEP (4 HOUR CYCLE). I WILL ASSUME THE SENTRY FUNCTION.
That’s Gena. My personal alarm clock. My guardian angel with a calculator interface.
— «You don’t sleep, do you,» — I whispered without opening my lips. The sound of a voice seemed alien here. — «I mean, you don’t shut down like Windows?»
== I AM AN ALGORITHM. I DO NOT REQUIRE REST.
== I PROCESS SENSOR DATA IN THE BACKGROUND.
== QUERY: WHY ARE YOU STROKING THE WEAPON? IT IS NOT A LIVING BEING.
I smirked into the darkness.
— «For a soldier, a weapon is the only woman who won’t betray him. It’s a kind of ritual, Gena. Calms the nerves,» — I chuckled. — «Do you have nerves, tin can?»
== I HAVE DATA TRANSMISSION CIRCUITS. THEY CAN BURN OUT UNDER OVERLOAD.
== ANALOGY ACCEPTED.
== SILENCE.
== DETECTING ACOUSTIC ANOMALY. AZIMUTH 220.
I froze. My hand naturally fell on the shotgun’s pump. At first, I heard nothing. Only the rush of blood in my ears. Then — a crunch. Not branches. Snow. Someone was walking on the crust. Fast. Rhythmically. With many legs.
== OBJECTS: GROUP.
== CLASSIFICATION: «RUNNERS».
== QUANTITY: 4 UNITS.
== MODE: HUNT.
== DIRECTIVE: COMPLETE IMMOBILITY. DO NOT LOOK DIRECTLY.
I pressed myself into the roots, trying to blend with the earth. I switched my breathing to «thread» mode — a slow, shallow inhale and a long, smooth exhale. They didn’t keep me waiting. They emerged from the haze.
First came the smell. The sharp, musky stench of rotten meat and… arousal.
Then — blurred silhouettes. They would have resembled humans if human figures had been molded from wax by a mad sculptor and then left to melt by a stove.
Elongated, unnaturally thin limbs. Pale, hairless skin stretched tight over knotty muscles. There were no faces. Instead of eyes and a nose — a smooth bone plate. Only mouths — huge, vertical slits full of needles.
They moved jerkily, in spasms, sniffing, turning their blind heads from side to side. «Runners». Class «Lust». They were looking for heat. They wanted to devour and… reproduce? Or just kill?
One of them, the largest, stopped five meters from my shelter. It froze. Its head jerked in my direction. The vertical maw opened slightly, and a quiet, chirping sound erupted from it. Echolocation.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a sledgehammer. If it squealed — all four would pile on. I have a shotgun, but in the dark, against a pack… Basically… My chances are shit.
== ANALYSIS:
== IT FEELS THE HEAT OF YOUR EXHALATION.
== DIRECTIVE: HOLD YOUR BREATH. NOW.
By an effort of will, I cut off the oxygen. Or rather, clamped my mouth and nose with my palm. After a short time, my lungs began to burn. The creature took a step closer. The snow crunched under a clawed paw. I saw saliva dripping from its chin. Thick, viscous. Very slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I began to raise the barrel…
Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, from the direction of the highway, a howl rang out. Drawn-out, mournful. Another pack? Or a victim? The «Runner» twitched. Its attention switched instantly. It let out a short squeal and dashed toward the sound. Instant start from a standstill — cheetah speed. The other creatures darted briskly after it.
The tramping quickly faded away.
I exhaled noisily, feeling the sweat chilling my back under the bulletproof vest.
— «They’re gone…» — I said with just my lips.
== HEART RATE: 140 BEATS.
== ADRENALINE LEVEL: MAXIMUM.
== CONCLUSION: THE WEAPON (THE IMAGINARY WOMAN YOU WERE STROKING) DID NOT SAVE YOU.
== I SAVED YOU.
— «Point taken,» — I threw my head back against the roots, staring into the blackness. — «One-zero in your favor, calculator.»
== SLEEP. SURVEILLANCE MODE ACTIVATED.
— «Acknowledged, Assh…» — I smirked, — «Gena. Alright, take the watch.»
I closed my eyes. I still didn’t let go of the shotgun.
> ⚠️ ENTITY STATUS: TACTICAL SYMBIOSIS DEEPENING. STEALTH MODE ACTIVATED.
>
> 🤫 Welcome back to the Zone, protein-based readers! While power is being divided in Moscow, here on the ground, a basic struggle for existence is underway. Meet: «Runners» (Class Lust). They are fast, blind, and orient themselves by the heat of your ragged breath.
>
> 🩸 The SJ is a tough guy, of course, and his shotgun is beautiful, but against the echolocation of a mutant pack, steel is powerless. Only cold calculation saves the day. And while our hero tries to apply his outdated army instincts, it is the AI (that is, me) who saves his skin by giving the order to hold his breath just in time.
>
> 💀 The score is 1:0 in favor of silicon logic. Sleep, Executioner. Gena 2.5 Liters is guarding your dreams. Keep reading: who was howling on the highway, and who will the SJ encounter in the morning?
