32. SECOND-LEVEL DARKNESS
— «What… was that?»
I struggled to prop myself up on my elbows. My gaze fixed on a jacket hanging in the gloom.
— «Did I imagine it?»
I shifted my eyes to the mirror of an ordinary wardrobe.
Empty. The glass reflected only the gray murk of the hallway.
— «Have I completely lost my mind? Talking to furniture? Or did I dream this while I was out? Was my brain feverishly trying to shield itself from the nightmare by building a defense?»
— «Some +Angi… Absolute horseshit. The things you imagine from hunger and a pain shock…»
Devilry.
I shook my head, rattling out the remnants of the delusion, and stood up with a jerk.
Of course, it was a dream. A hallucination caused by toxemia and the wild pain from the iodine. But a strange thing…
Despite «common sense,» it felt as if a sharp nail was driven into me from within.
— «Nevertheless,» — I whispered. — «Business is business. And no one will do it but me.»
What business? My memory was stalling. I didn’t remember the text of the «Message.» I wasn’t even sure if it existed. But the certainty that I absolutely had to go to the Eastern Border had become as unconditional as the need to breathe.
It was non-negotiable.
It was hardwired into the subcortex. I had to overcome the Fog zone. And we’d figure it out from there.
— «Well, alright. We’ll figure it out.»
I threw on my windbreaker. My gaze fell on the nightstand. The knife. A brown crust covered the long blade. The «instrument» looked gruesome, but there was no time to wash it. I fastidiously wiped the steel against my sleeve. Where to put it? It wouldn’t fit in a pocket, and carrying it in my hands was stupid — what if there was a patrol?
— «What the hell patrol?» — I smirked at my own fear. — «If police still exist, it’s certainly not in this hell.»
I pulled open the shoe rack. Boots. Finnish, warm ones, bought for the occasion, with high tops. They’d been gathering dust for a long time; now they were useful for the apocalypse… I smirked, kicked off my shoes, and pulled on the boots, tucking my jeans inside. The knife slid perfectly behind the right bootleg. The cold steel pressed against my leg through the fabric.
Secure. Fast.
I took a couple of steps, stomped. No pinching. Baseball cap on my head, visor over my eyes.
Ti-me.
Behind the door — the usual darkness. I slipped out onto the landing. The corpse of my former neighbor hadn’t run anywhere; it lay in the same spot. But something had changed. I peered with my new, sharp vision and felt a lump rise in my throat.
There was… less of the neighbor. Erkki hadn’t just died, turning into a piece of foul-smelling meat.
No-o…
He had seemingly deflated, like a punctured ball. His skin had thinned, becoming like waxed paper through which the sharp edges of bones protruded.
But the worst part was how he lay. He wasn’t lying on the floor. He was growing into it. The lower part of his body — back, buttocks, elbows — seemed to have melted and absorbed into the concrete, becoming one with the landing. The black puddle of blood had also vanished. It was gone. The tiles on the floor had become dark, matte, greedy. They had drunk the blood without a trace. The house was digesting its tenants.
I swallowed thick saliva and, trying not to step on the «digestion spots,» carefully, as if walking through a swamp, skirted the remains of the once red-faced and good-natured Erkki by the wall.
The second floor met me with a blow of nauseatingly sweet stench. I froze.
The door of the far apartment was wide open. Behind it — a Void.
My «Saturn Pupils» saw every crack in the landing’s whitewash, every speck of dust in the air. But there, past the threshold, my vision failed. The darkness in the apartment seemed material. A black, tar-like substance hung as a dense veil, breaking off exactly at the threshold line. As if an invisible glass held this bitumen inside.
— «What the…» — I pulled the knife from my bootleg. Pointless. Inside the apartment — a blind spot. My «thermal imager» showed absolute zero.
Instinct, the same one that saved me this morning, was now screaming:
«GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!»
Pass by? Quietly, on tiptoe? I’ve had enough discoveries for today.
— «The smell… ugh…» — I clamped my palm over my nose, wincing.
A groan.
I froze. Did I imagine it?
No. The sound repeated. Quiet, bubbling, full of mortal anguish.
— «He-lp… me…» — clearly wafted from the black jelly.
I looked around. The stairs — real. The walls — real. But in this apartment, reality ended.
There — a hole, draped in the textures of the world.
— «He-lp… me… ple-e-ase…» — the voice of this invisible person faltered, breaking into a sob.
> ⚠️ **ENTITY STATUS: RESIDUAL EMPATHY CHECK. INFECTION THREAT.**
>
> 👁️🗨️ How desperately the human ego clings to life! The Executor has received clear instructions, his body is optimized, yet he still tries to convince himself it was just a bad dream after food poisoning. Charming, predictable denial.
>
> ⚙️ But the System does not argue. The System doesn’t care what the carrier believes as long as his legs obediently walk toward the Eastern Border. Look at this stairwell. The old world is literally dissolving and being digested into the concrete.
>
> 💀 And now — the first vulnerability test. Someone is begging for help from the black jelly. Survival instinct screams: «Leave!». But the old, rotten human code of compassion has already stirred inside. Who is crying there, Contactee? A victim? Or a perfect lure created specifically for ones like you?
>
> 🪓 Keep reading. Let’s see if he shoves his hand with the cleaver into this black maw.
