Gotland had been locked down early, in the chaotic days when the world order began to crumble. To the Swedish government, it had always been an appropriate Plan B—a fallback fortress if the Scandinavian peninsula ever fell. But now, no one knew what was happening on the island.
The few reports that had trickled out months ago spoke of boats being fired upon if they ventured too close. Since then, silence. Even Emil, with his knack for knowing things others didn’t, was in the dark.
“Either they’re out of ammunition,” he said, breaking the uneasy stillness, “or everyone there’s lost their minds.”
The Zodiac ride across the channel had drained them, their energy sapped even before they reached the island. The relentless pounding of the waves had taken its toll on Jonathan’s back, leaving him aching and fatigued.
As they neared the island, the exhaustion only deepened. They stowed the motor and took up the oars, rowing silently under the cover of darkness. Each stroke was a battle against the weight of the water and their own weariness, the quiet splashes of the oars blending with the distant sound of the tide. The coastline loomed ahead, shadowy and foreboding, as they pressed forward.
Jonathan cast a sharp glance at Emil, then at the two others—“Mouse” and “Hyena.” The pair made up an all-Danish crew, and it was clear they shared a history with Emil that stretched back years.
When Jonathan had left Copenhagen, he never thought he’d find himself working for the Danish government again. Yet here he was, working for their paycheck once more.
The mission itself was as perplexing as it was critical: how a Danish nuclear engineer—one skilled enough to operate a power plant—had ended up in Swedish custody was a mystery Jonathan didn’t have time to unravel. Their orders were simple: either break him out or take him out.
From the very start, nation-states had declared open season on nuclear engineers. No one wanted to risk one of them losing their grip on sanity and triggering a meltdown. The stakes were too high, and the consequences too catastrophic. Or atleast that was the reason Emil told him. He knew he shouldn’t trust this “spook” too much.
Jonathan strained to recall the face from the outdated photos he had shown him. It hovered at the edge of his memory, elusive and uncertain. Just as he thought he had it, the image slipped away, wiped clean the moment he plunged into the freezing water.
The icy sea lapped at his knees, but the cold was the least of his concerns. Every step was deliberate, his focus locked on reaching the shore as quickly and silently as possible.
The sharp click of Hyena’s tongue snapped Jonathan back to focus. He and Emil were the only ones equipped with night vision goggles, leaving Jonathan and Mouse to rely on their guidance, much to his misfortune, Jonathan night vision goggles had stopped working.
Thankfully, the clear moonlight offered just enough illumination for Jonathan to navigate his way toward the beachhead. His boonie hat under his ghillie hood camouflaging his form in the night. He hoped the piece of netting he had put around his scope would prevent any reflection of light. His rifle had received some ‘free’ modification by Emil and Mouse.
Emil and Mouse crouched atop a sandy, grass-covered dune, their eyes scanning the landscape ahead. Behind them, Hyena and Jonathan sat quietly, keeping watch on both ends of the beach, their ears tuned to the rhythmic crash of distant waves.
About 400 meters away, Gotland’s main power station loomed against the horizon. It was a critical hub, linking the island's wind turbines to the local grid. More importantly, it was where they expected to find “Havkat”—the Danish code name for their target.
Once a chief nuclear advisor, their target was now relegated to managing a small substation. It was a stunning fall from grace, but in times like these, who could have predicted anything else? The collapse of the world order had rewritten careers and lives alike, leaving even the brilliant to drift in obscurity.
But a demotion was nothing compared to the deaths, starvation, sickness, and the countless horrors that had unfolded since “the world lost its shit,” as Sofia so bluntly put it. Compared to those fates, managing a substation almost seemed like a blessing.
Jonathan, however, couldn’t help but question himself. After everything he had endured—the violence, the brutality—why hadn’t his mind given out? Why hadn’t he reached his breaking point? He had seen enough chaos to know the edge was never far. Yet, here he was, holding on.
What baffled him most was the restraint. The countless moments he could have snapped, picked up a shovel, and lashed out at whoever stood too close. Why he hadn’t crossed that line was a mystery even to himself.
as Emil scanned the substation. Something was off. He didn’t need to see his face to understand this. None of them knew what they were getting into.
“Power is off.” Emil said out loud.
“Thought this was habited.” Hyenna asked in a quiet voice.
“The entire island is supposed to be habited but can’t hear a squeek” Emil said in an anxious tone.
“It’ll be dawn in two hours, we should get moving.” Hyena said out loud before kicking Jonathan in the foot, thinking he wasn’t listening.
“Fucking asshole, watch it!” Jonathan said as loudly as the situation allowed.
“Move your ass” Hyena answered as he layed himself on the hill as the rest walked down it towards the station.
Jonathan led the way, his rifle steady against his shoulder as he scanned their surroundings. The jagged hole in the fence was barely big enough to squeeze through, and the sharp edges snagged on their gear. Emil brought up the rear, his night vision goggles casting the world in ghostly shades of green.
"Still nothing," Jonathan muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the crackle of his comms. "Too quiet."
Emil frowned. His intel had been clear—there should have been patrols, maybe even floodlights sweeping the area. Instead, it was all shadows and silence.
Mouse crouched low, his compact frame making his movements fluid and quiet. He held his weapon at the ready, eyes darting toward the looming control building ahead. "It's giving me the creeps," he whispered. "Where is everyone?"
"Stay sharp," Emil said, his voice calm but firm. "Hyena, you see anything?"
The comms crackled softly, and Hyena's voice came through, low and clipped. "Negative. North road’s clear. No movement anywhere."
Jonathan exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible. "Something’s off."
They moved forward in a staggered formation, every step deliberate. The air smelled of ozone and metal, the kind of scent that clings to a place soaked in electricity. The control building loomed closer, its dark windows staring back like empty sockets.
"Eyes on the doors," Emil said, scanning the perimeter. The faint glow of his night vision goggles reflected in Mouse’s wide eyes as she glanced back.
Suddenly, the faintest shuffle broke the silence, coming from their left near a cluster of transformers. Everyone froze, weapons snapping in that direction.
"You hear that?" Jonathan hissed.
"Yeah," Mouse breathed. his voice was taut, adrenaline sharpening her every sense.
Emil keyed his comms. "Hyena, you sure about no movement?"
"Reconfirming now, but I’m not clairvoyant and I can’t see through walls." Hyena replied, his tone crisp and annoyed.
Rain hit the window of the tavern as Jonathan looked outside at the people sheltering themselves from the rain.
Emil was with Hyena and Mouse around the table, staring at the map and the plan.
“Caretaker’s office and lodging is in that building. Now, why they went downstairs is beyond me. But that’s where he’ll be sleeping.” Emil said yet again as he pointed at the map.
Jonathan walked over and looked at it.
“What kind of fire power do they have?” Hyena asked. “Nothing incredible. There’s four care takers including our target. It’ll be an in and out.”
Emil signalled for all of them to be quiet, Jonathan could make out the anxiety in his face even with the darkness.
At this point every fiber in Jonathan was urging him to leave. Just turn around and walk back to the beach. The generator, liquor, and ultrasound machine promised to Oksjo for this outing weren’t worth it. He sensed Emil and Mouse were also scared but they made a better job at hiding it.
Emil eased the door of the two-story administrative building open, the hinges creaking softly in protest. Rifle at the ready, he swept the hallway ahead with a practiced precision, every muscle taut. Jonathan followed close behind, his footsteps light and deliberate. Above the doorway, an emergency light flickered weakly, casting pale, intermittent glows across the abandoned corridor.
While Emil kept his weapon trained downrange, eyes scanning for movement, Jonathan’s attention snagged on something to his right. He froze for a moment, brow furrowing as he spotted faint, jagged scratch marks etched into the wall at knee level. The gouges were deep, as though made in a frenzy. Beneath them, a dark, sticky pool of dried blood clung to the floor like a sinister shadow.
Jonathan reached out and tapped Emil lightly on the shoulder to get his attention. Emil paused, his stance unwavering, before turning his head slightly. Jonathan pointed toward the scratch marks and the dark, congealed pool of blood beneath them. Emil’s gaze followed the gesture, his face partially illuminated by the faint green glow of his night vision goggles. The light glinted off the edges of his goggles and cast a subtle gleam on the tips of his thick mustache, giving him an almost ghostly presence in the dim corridor.
For a moment, neither of them spoke, the air thick with tension. The hallway ahead stretched on, silent and shadowed, broken only by the occasional flicker of the failing emergency light above the entrance. Outside, the faintest hint of dawn began creeping through the shattered windows, casting soft, gray streaks onto the walls. Jonathan glanced at the growing light and tried to reassure himself: in about an hour, maybe less, the sun would fully rise, and the darkness would lose its grip. He told himself things would feel less oppressive then. Less deadly. But the marks on the wall and the pool of blood told a different story.
Jonathan muttered a quiet prayer under his breath, hoping against hope they’d find Havkat in one of the rooms ahead—dead or alive. Even if he was gone, at least it would give them a reason to leave. To turn around and abandon this decaying labyrinth to its ghosts. But as his eyes drifted down the hallway, following the faint, uneven trail of dried blood, his stomach churned. He dreaded the thought of where it led—down the corridor, toward the staircase descending into the underbelly of the building. The administrative structure might have been modest above ground, but beneath it lay a sprawling network of substations, compartments, and interconnected underground hallways. A maze where darkness thrived, where air seemed to hold its breath.
As Emil led the way, Jonathan and Mouse followed, their footsteps hesitant and heavy on the small cement steps leading downward. The stairwell was tight, its walls stained with moisture and cracked paint. Each step felt like it carried the weight of a hundred doubts, trembling slightly underfoot as if the building itself wanted to push them out. Every fiber of their beings screamed to leave. None of them wanted to be the first to voice it aloud, though. Not Emil, with his officer’s resolve. Not Mouse, whose silent determination masked the same fear that gnawed at all of them. And certainly not Jonathan, who already felt the chill of regret in his bones for coming this far.
Jonathan’s stomach twisted as he stood at the base of the staircase, his hand brushing against the cold metal of the door. He hated himself for leaving Oksj?—the regret clung to him like a second skin. If it weren’t for the state of his mind these past few weeks, he wouldn’t be here, descending into some forgotten, festering hellhole. He’d be home. Safe. Warm. Maybe even happy. The thought of it twisted deeper into his gut, torturing him.
He pictured himself back at Oksj?, surrounded by his friends. Reading a book by the fire, or, hell, even laying in bed with Skadi. That thought struck him hard, a bittersweet ache blooming in his chest. He tried to shove it away, only for it to be replaced by another memory—Przemek, always pushing him through grueling workout sessions, laughing at Jonathan’s groans of protest. Sofia, ever-patient, guiding him through medical drills with her steady hands and calm voice. And Nikolaj, with his endless MMA debates, spouting opinions that always sparked an argument but somehow never a fight besides that one time.
God, how he missed all of it. The warmth of the communal meals. The sense of belonging. The feeling of being a part of something that mattered, something solid. And now, here he was, chasing a blood trail into the dark, wondering if he’d ever feel that warmth again. If he’d even survive long enough to regret losing it.
Jonathan shook the thoughts away as his fingers tightened around the door handle. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Just open the door, check the basement, and get the hell out of here," he told himself, his internal voice sharp and commanding, like he could bully himself into courage. He jiggled the handle, testing it. To his dismay, it wasn’t locked.
The door gave no resistance as it creaked open a fraction. Jonathan’s jaw clenched as he turned to Emil, nodding silently to signal that the way was clear. Emil returned the nod, his face gleaming with sweat beneath the faint green glow of his night vision goggles. He was the one wearing the NODs, so he’d take point. He’d lead the dance down the hallway ahead.
Jonathan stepped aside, his breath shallow and his heart pounding against his ribs. The door hung open just a crack now, the shadows on the other side seemingly waiting to swallow them whole. As Emil moved past him, rifle raised and his posture tense, Jonathan couldn’t help but wonder if they were walking into the jaws of something they couldn’t escape. The hallway yawned before them, its silence oppressive, as if the very air was waiting for them to make the first move.
To their surprise, it wasn’t a hallway they entered—it was a cavernous space. The air was heavy, oppressive, and cold. Massive generators loomed like ancient, dormant beasts in the dark, their bulky forms blocking Emil’s view of the far walls. He instinctively refrained from reaching for his flashlight, knowing better than to risk giving away their position. Instead, he caught the faint glow of an emergency light casting long, eerie shadows across the space. With careful hand signals, he motioned for Jonathan and Mouse to stay by the doorway, their silhouettes barely visible in the faint ambient light.
Jonathan nodded, his figure blending into the darkness, though Emil couldn’t help but stifle a flicker of humor. With his ghillie shoulder cape and hood hanging down loosely, Jonathan looked absurd—like a bush trying to hide in a factory. That dumb, wide-eyed expression was almost identical to the look his son Dieter used to wear when he didn’t understand something. Emil allowed himself a brief moment of bittersweet memory before turning his focus back to the task at hand.
Moving silently through the space, Emil slipped deeper into the room. Every step was calculated and deliberate, his boots barely making a sound against the dusty floor. The IR light mounted to his rifle shone its invisible beam into the blackness, cutting through the dark in a way only his night vision goggles could see. Without the NODs, though, the rancid smell would have been all the guidance he needed. The stench of rot hung thick in the air, sharp and nauseating, clinging to the back of his throat and filling his lungs. They’d smelled it even from the stairway—it was unmistakable.
As he pressed forward, the blood trail finally came to an end beneath what appeared to be a blanket. The fabric, roughly the size of a human body, lay crumpled in a heap. But it wasn’t alone. Three other such "blankets" were scattered nearby, each one exuding the same stomach-turning stench, the kind that promised decay just moments from bursting into something even worse. Emil’s gut tightened as his eyes adjusted to the details in the NOD display. He realized the soft “rice grain” like objects he felt under his boots were maggots. The ground was littered with dead maggots, their pale forms brittle and shriveled, a macabre border to the decaying mounds. Whatever life had once wriggled there had long since been extinguished.
He didn’t need to see more to know they were in deep. He signaled mentally to himself: enough. Emil turned slowly, shifting his weight as quietly as possible, intending to return to Jonathan and Mouse. But just as he was about to take the first step back, something flickered at the edge of his vision.
A movement. Quick. Sudden. Not in the green glow of his night vision display, but in the corner of his eyes—the part submerged in total blackness. The kind of dark where nothing should move, where nothing alive should linger.
He froze, his heart pounding, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Whatever it was, it had been fast, darting too quickly for him to register fully. He tightened his grip on his rifle, tilting his head slightly to scan the area, but his NODs revealed nothing. The blackness beyond their range felt alive, pulsing, watching. Emil held his breath, the silence in the room now suffocating.
And then it was gone. Or was it?
Had Jonathan and Mouse misunderstood his order to stay by the door? Or were his tired eyes betraying him, conjuring shadows out of fear and exhaustion? Emil clenched his jaw, staying perfectly still as his pulse hammered in his ears. He risked a glance back toward the doorway, his night vision goggles casting the faintest green hue over the distance.
The dark outline of the open door was there—and so were Jonathan and Mouse. They hadn’t moved, their silhouettes barely visible in the ambient gloom. For a fleeting moment, Emil felt a small, bitter relief knowing they hadn’t misunderstood his order after all.
Mouse, crouched just to the right of the doorway, tilted his head slightly as he watched Emil in the distance. Through the faint emergency light, he could make out the green glow reflecting off Emil’s eyes—his night vision goggles standing out against the darkness. But something felt off. Why was Emil standing so still? Why was he looking around like that?
Emil knew he was done for the moment the blow struck. It came out of the darkness—an axe, maybe a shovel, he couldn’t even be sure—but the edge bit deep into his throat, cutting through flesh and windpipe in a sickening, wet crunch. He staggered backward, his rifle slipping from his grasp, before collapsing onto the cold floor. The taste of blood filled his mouth, metallic and suffocating. His vision blurred, narrowing to a pinprick as he lay there, choking, drowning in the warmth of his own lifeblood. He didn’t even have the strength to clutch at his throat. He could only hope—pray—that he would bleed out fast enough, that whatever had hit him wouldn’t linger to finish the job.
At the doorway, Jonathan and Mouse barely had time to register what had happened. The sharp, fleshy thunk of the blow echoed through the vast room, followed by the dull clatter of Emil’s body and gear hitting the floor. Then came the sound—the horrible, wet gurgling of someone choking on their own blood. Emil’s breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, the noise enough to freeze both men where they stood.
“Shit!” Mouse hissed, his voice barely audible over the panic racing through him. Without thinking, he raised his HK416 and opened fire. The rifle's deafening roar shattered the silence, the muzzle flash strobing the room like a violent, pulsing light show. The recoil slammed into his shoulder as he sent round after round downrange, his shots wild and furious, aimed at the shadows where he thought Emil’s attacker might be.
Jonathan flinched at the sudden eruption of gunfire, his own grip tightening on his weapon. The shock of Mouse’s action nearly caused him to discharge his rifle negligently, but he caught himself, heart hammering in his chest. In the brief bursts of light from Mouse’s muzzle flash, Jonathan caught glimpses of the room—the hulking generators, the scattering debris, and something else. Something tall. Naked. A shadowy figure darted across the far side of the room, ducking behind one of the generators. The impacts from Mouse’s rounds sparked off the thick metal casing, sending sharp pings ricocheting through the air.
Jonathan didn’t hesitate. Reaching up, Mouse flicked on the flashlight mounted to his rifle. A harsh, bright beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the area in front of him. The stench of blood and rot hit him harder now, mingling with the acrid tang of gunpowder, but Jonathan forced himself to focus. He swung his rifle toward the corner where the figure had disappeared, his movements sharp and controlled. His finger found the trigger, and he let loose a burst of fire, the rounds tearing through the air and slamming into the metal and concrete just shy of the figure’s last known position.
The figure was gone, vanished deeper into the shadows of the room. Jonathan’s breathing was labored, his ears ringing from the chaos. Mouse’s rifle fell silent for a moment, and in the sudden, deafening quiet, all that could be heard was the faint drip of blood pooling under Emil’s motionless body and the distant sound of something shuffling—something fast and deliberate—just out of sight.
Jonathan didn’t think, he just moved. With his rifle tucked tightly under his arm, his finger still on the trigger, he fired a controlled burst at the corner where the shadow had disappeared, suppressing whatever might be lurking. His other hand clamped onto the drag handle of Emil’s plate carrier, and he heaved with everything he had, dragging Emil’s limp, blood-soaked body back toward the door where Mouse stood watch. Emil’s dead weight was a burden, but adrenaline surged through Jonathan, pushing him forward, step by desperate step.
The coppery scent of blood and the sharp tang of sweat filled his nostrils as he hauled his new colleague, but deep down, he already knew Emil was beyond saving. His throat was a torn, gaping wound, and the gurgling breaths had long stopped. Even still, Jonathan couldn’t abandon him—not yet.
Just as Jonathan pulled Emil closer to the doorway, the scream pierced the air, sharp and guttural. Mouse. Jonathan’s head snapped toward the sound, his heart plunging into his stomach as he realized Mouse wasn’t behind him anymore. He hadn’t noticed Mouse stepping forward, further into the room, unknowingly standing directly beneath a rusted metal platform.
Jonathan froze as a shadow dropped from above, fast and brutal. The figure landed on Mouse with bone-crushing force, knees slamming into his shoulders and driving him violently to the ground. Mouse crumpled, his head snapping forward at a grotesque angle that almost broke his neck. He let out a guttural, strangled cry, the sound of a man overwhelmed by both pain and shock.
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Jonathan’s eyes locked onto the scene illuminated by the faint flicker of Mouse’s flashlight, which had been knocked loose and now lay on the ground, casting chaotic beams across the carnage. The figure crouched over Mouse was another one of them—naked, emaciated, its pale, filthy skin stretched tight over sinewy muscle. But this one was different. Smaller. Feminine. Her matted hair clung to her face as she moved with a predator’s precision, pinning Mouse beneath her.
Jonathan’s stomach turned as he watched her head dart downward, teeth sinking deep into the soft flesh of Mouse’s neck. Blood spurted in a sickening arc, painting the concrete beneath them as Mouse’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his vocal cords crushed under the weight of the bite. His arms flailed weakly, his hands grasping at the figure’s back, but his strength was fading fast.
Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He raised his C7 rifle, the stock pressing firmly into his shoulder as he lined up the shot. His sights locked onto the exposed back of the creature, its spine visible beneath its stretched, pallid skin. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle roared to life.
Two rounds punched through the air, the muzzle flash momentarily bathing the room in fiery orange light. The gunshots were deafening, reverberating off the walls in a cacophony that rattled Jonathan’s skull. The woman-like figure jerked violently as both rounds slammed into her back, the force of the impact pushing her forward, momentarily loosening her grip on Mouse’s neck.
Before Jonathan could figure out the who or the what, his attention snapped to Mouse’s trembling arms. Both of them were lifting weakly, slowly, as if moving through water. His bloodied hands met in front of his chest, clutching something in one of them. Jonathan’s eyes widened as he recognized it—a grenade, pin already gone. The faint, metallic click of the trigger mechanism being pulled sounded deafening in the silence that followed.
“No—!” Jonathan started to shout, but his voice was swallowed by the surge of adrenaline that hit him like a freight train. He barely had time to react, his body moving on instinct alone as he threw himself to the ground.
The grenade detonated.
The explosion erupted in a blinding flash of light and heat, followed by a concussive wave that tore through the room like an angry beast. The force slammed into Jonathan, throwing him flat onto the cold concrete floor. His ears filled with a deafening, high-pitched whine as the sound of the blast reverberated off the walls. Dust, debris, and shrapnel rained down around him, clattering like hailstones against the machinery and floor. For a brief, chaotic moment, the entire world felt like it was splitting apart.
Jonathan groaned as he pushed himself up slightly, his head pounding and his chest heaving as he gasped for air. The acrid smell of smoke and burning metal filled his nostrils, stinging his lungs with every breath.
The aftermath of the explosion was pure carnage. The body of the creature that had attacked Mouse was obliterated, shredded into unrecognizable chunks smeared across the floor and walls. One of the nearby generators had taken the brunt of the blast, its thick metal casing warped and blackened, hissing faintly as it vented smoke. Mouse, still pinned beneath where the creature had been, was motionless. Blood poured from his mangled neck, mixing with the fresh gore from the explosion. His lifeless nearly sever arm still clutched the remnants of the grenade’s lever.
Jonathan’s ears rang painfully, his hearing distorted, as though he were underwater. He shook his head, trying to clear the haze as his hands scrambled for his rifle, which had been knocked out of his grip in the chaos. He grabbed it, pulling it close as he staggered to his feet, his legs wobbling beneath him.
Out of the corner of his eye, through the swirling dust and dim light, he saw it.
The two figures stumbled into view, their jerky, inhuman movements disrupted by the explosion. The blast had thrown them off balance, and their skeletal forms wavered like drunken marionettes in the swirling dust and dim light. They hissed and clicked their teeth, their pale, stretched skin smeared with blood and soot as they tried to orient themselves, their heads darting back and forth in search of prey. For a moment, Jonathan realized they were just as disoriented as he was.
Jonathan pressed his back against the cold concrete wall, his chest heaving as he forced himself to steady his rifle. His hands trembled, his ears still ringing, but his instincts kicked in, pushing the terror aside. The figures were too close—too fast. If he didn’t act now, he’d be dead before he had a chance to get up.
Lifting his C7, he aimed at the first figure, its tall, wiry form staggering forward with its head tilted unnaturally to the side. He squeezed the trigger, the rifle roaring to life once more. The muzzle flash illuminated the room in brief, blinding bursts, and his shots slammed into the figure's chest and shoulder. The impact sent it stumbling backward, its body jerking violently before it collapsed onto the ground with a sickening thud.
The second figure, however, darted erratically to the side, throwing itself against a nearby generator.
Jonathan pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking but still strong enough to carry him. He knew he couldn’t stay there. The longer he waited, the closer they’d get. He had to move—now. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he began backing hastily toward the door they had entered from, his rifle raised and trembling in his hands. His boots scuffed against the floor, every step sending echoes through the cavernous room that mingled with the faint scraping sounds of the creatures hunting him.
The shadows moved—at least, he thought they did. He couldn’t tell anymore. His vision swam in the dim light, and his adrenaline-fueled mind was seeing threats everywhere. One of the generators groaned softly as the building settled, and he flinched, jerking his rifle in that direction. A flash of movement caught the corner of his eye, and he didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger, and the C7 roared to life, its muzzle flash cutting through the dark like lightning.
The sound of gunfire was deafening, each shot booming like thunder in the enclosed space. The bullets slammed into metal and concrete, sparks flying as they ricocheted wildly, but he didn’t care if he hit anything. He just needed to keep them at bay, to make them think twice about getting closer. The creatures screeched in response, the guttural sound a mix of anger and confusion. The noise seemed to disorient them, their erratic movements becoming more frantic, more chaotic, as if the sound of the rifle was driving them mad.
Jonathan slammed the door shut behind him as he burst into the staircase, the metallic clang echoing up the narrow shaft. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his hands trembling from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The faint warmth of sunlight greeted him as it streamed down from the hallway above, illuminating the staircase in soft, golden hues.
Back pressed firmly against the door, he steadied himself, gripping his rifle tightly as his mind raced. The hissing and scratching sounds on the other side of the door grew louder—closer. They were coming. He couldn’t leave it like this. If those things made it past the door, there wouldn’t be anywhere to run. Not upstairs, not outside. Nowhere.
With his back still braced against the door, Jonathan reached down into his dump pouch. His hand fumbled for a second before closing around the cold, reassuring shape of a grenade he kept stashed for emergencies. This definitely counted. A special occasion.
He drew the grenade out and held it in front of him, his fingers working quickly but deliberately to pull the pin. The metallic ping of the pin being pulled was crisp and sharp, setting his nerves alight. He could hear the scraping on the other side of the door grow more frantic, the creatures almost sensing what was coming. Jonathan’s lips curled into a grimace as he gripped the lever tightly, then twisted his body slightly to crack the door open just enough to slide the grenade through.
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the grenade into the room. The clink-clink of the metal sphere bouncing against the concrete floor was followed by an almost deafening screech from within, as though the creatures suddenly understood the doom they faced.
Jonathan didn’t wait to see what happened next. He shoved the door shut again and spun on his heel, sprinting up the staircase two steps at a time. His boots pounded against the cement, his muscles screaming in protest, but he didn’t stop. He had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the explosion that was about to rip through the room below.
He reached the landing halfway up the stairs when the grenade went off.
The explosion was deafening, the shockwave reverberating through the walls of the stairwell and rattling his teeth.
As Jonathan entered the hallway, his mind still buzzing from the adrenaline and the grenade's blast, his heart sank. Two more of them. They stood at the far end of the corridor, their pale, greasy skin glinting faintly in the morning light streaming through the broken windows. They were nearly naked, their emaciated forms moving with unsettling speed and precision.
And him and his two friends had just woken them up. Those two probably exited from another building to flank them. All of this crossed Jonathan’s mind in an instant as he raised his rifle, aiming down the hallway. The first target moved fast, ducking into a nearby room before he could fire. His finger tightened on the trigger, but he knew he’d missed his chance. The second figure, however, didn’t run empty-handed. Jonathan’s stomach dropped as he caught sight of the hunting rifle slung across its bony shoulders.
He’d heard the rumors before and had seen it before. It was rare, but it happened. Besides the lunatics he had the misfortune to meet in the mall, they weren’t usually precise—hell, they weren’t even careful about maintaining their weapons or ammo. But none of that mattered. A bullet fired by one of those things could kill you just as easily as one fired by anyone else.
The second figure darted for cover, disappearing behind a crumbled wall at the far end of the hallway. Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He fired, the loud cracks of his rifle echoing through the corridor as the muzzle flash illuminated the space in bursts. His shots missed, sparking against the concrete, but he didn’t stop. He knew he couldn’t stay exposed, not with that hunting rifle pointed anywhere in his direction.
Without thinking, he flung himself toward the nearest door. He hurled his shoulder against the aged wood, his body crashing into it with enough force to splinter the frame. The door gave way, swinging inward violently as his momentum carried him through. His rifle caught the edge of the doorway, the impact wrenching it out of position, and Jonathan landed hard on his side, his shoulder striking the cold, unforgiving floor.
Pain shot through his body as he struggled to regain his bearings, his ears still ringing from the gunfire. The room was small and dim, cluttered with broken furniture and scattered debris. He scrambled to his feet, dragging his rifle back into position as his mind screamed at him to move. Jonathan leaned into the doorway and unloaded his rifle, the staccato bursts of gunfire roaring out into the hallway. He wasn’t aiming to hit them—he didn’t have time to—but the sheer noise and chaos was enough to keep them from rushing him. He could hear their screeches of frustration and the hurried scrapes of their feet as they darted in and out of cover, trying to outmaneuver him.
His finger pulled the trigger again, but nothing happened. The rifle gave a dull click. The charging handle locked back, the unmistakable signal that the magazine was empty. Jonathan didn’t panic. His body moved on instinct, driven by hard-won experience. He dropped the empty magazine with a practiced flick of his thumb, letting it clatter to the floor as his other hand reached for a fresh one from his vest. The adrenaline coursing through him made his movements quick but steady—insert the new mag, pull the bolt back, and get back in the fight.
The moment the bolt slammed home, he fired again. Three sharp, controlled shots punched out of the doorway, the muzzle flash briefly lighting the hallway. The lunatics screeched and scattered again, the echoes of the gunfire drowning out the noise of their retreat. Jonathan didn’t know if he’d hit anything, but he didn’t have time to care. The constant pressure was keeping them at bay, and that was all that mattered for now.
As the smell of gunpowder filled the room, Jonathan took a moment to glance back behind him. His eyes locked onto the window at the far end of the room. The glass was old, fragile-looking, the grime coating its surface doing little to hide the sunlight streaming through. His heart pounded as the realization hit him: he’d have to break it to escape. There was no other way out.
Jonathan pivoted, rifle raised, and aimed at the fragile window at the back of the room. The grime-coated glass caught the sunlight faintly, casting streaks of golden light onto the dusty floor. There was no time to hesitate, no time to overthink the noise or the consequences—he needed out. Now.
He squeezed the trigger, firing a quick burst into the window. The room erupted with sound again, the muzzle flash illuminating the dust hanging in the air. The glass shattered on impact, fragments exploding outward like jagged snowflakes. The noise of breaking glass echoed loudly, mingling with the lingering reverberations of the gunshots. A gust of cold air rushed into the room, replacing the oppressive heat of fear and gunpowder with the sharp bite of the outside world.
Jonathan didn’t pause. As the last shards of glass clattered to the floor, he turned and sprinted for the window. His boots crunched over debris as he closed the distance in a few strides, his rifle slung close against his chest. The jagged edges of the broken window glinted in the sunlight, but Jonathan didn’t slow. He raised his arms, shielding his face and chest as he threw himself forward, diving through the opening.
For a split second, time seemed to stop. He felt the sharp sting of glass scraping against his arms and gear as his body sailed through the frame. The light outside blinded him briefly, and the world blurred into a whirlwind of sound and motion. Then gravity took hold.
Inside the 7-Eleven in Copenhagen, Jonathan crouched down to clean up the boy's vomit. The kid’s mom stood nearby, offering yet another apology.
“It’s the sauce from the hotdog,” she explained with a nervous laugh. “His stomach never could handle it.”
Jonathan suppressed a sigh, biting back the question that immediately came to mind: Then why let him have it in the first place? And inside the store, no less?
Instead, he forced a polite smile. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, tossing the soiled paper towels into the trash.
The mom gave no response, slipping out the door without so much as a thank you. Jonathan straightened up, brushing his hands off on his apron as he walked back to the till.
Two girls stood there waiting, their bottles of alcohol set on the counter. They’d been watching the whole ordeal, waiting impatiently for five minutes now. They looked about his age, but everything about them—from their polished appearances to their air of casual entitlement—screamed a completely different social class.
Their expressions dripped with annoyance, a silent rebuke for the time he’d just "wasted." Jonathan braced himself for their sharp tone or snide remarks as he stepped behind the counter again.
Jonathan hit the ground hard, his body slamming into the dirt and gravel just outside the building. Pain shot through his side and shoulder, the impact forcing the air from his lungs in a single, violent gasp. His rifle clattered against the ground beside him, still strapped to his vest. He rolled instinctively, getting himself into a crouch as quickly as his aching muscles would allow while he thanked his lucky star the water bottles in his backpack had softened the fall.
His hands scrambled to grab his rifle, eyes darting back toward the shattered window above him.
Jonathan’s chest heaved as he crouched by the shattered glass of the window he’d just thrown himself through. His muscles screamed from the impact, but adrenaline kept him moving. The gravel beneath his boots felt unstable as he scrambled to his feet, gripping his rifle tightly. For a moment, he risked a glance back at the window, trying to gauge if the lunatics were following him.
That’s when he saw it—a head, pale and greasy, peeking out from the window frame above. Its hollow red eyes locked onto him with an unnatural intensity, and a guttural hiss escaped its lips, the sound carrying across the space between them like a challenge. Jonathan didn’t think. His instincts took over. He raised his rifle in one fluid motion, firing two rapid shots in its direction.
The sharp cracks of the rifle echoed across the desolate landscape, and the head ducked back as shards of glass rained down from the frame. Whether he hit it or just scared it off didn’t matter—he had bought himself a few precious seconds.
Jonathan turned, shaking off the haze clouding his senses, and started sprinting. The world around him blurred, the building behind him fading into the background as he focused on the sand dune ahead. That was where Hyena had been keeping watch, the boat anchored just beyond it, their only way out of this hell. He didn’t look back; he couldn’t afford to. His lungs burned with each breath, his boots kicking up small clouds of sand and dirt as he pushed himself forward.
Every step felt heavier than the last, his body still reeling from the fall and the chaotic escape from the building. His mind screamed at him to keep moving, to ignore the fatigue and pain. Behind him, he could faintly hear screeches and shouts—those things were following him, angry and relentless. They wouldn’t stop. But he wasn’t going to stop either.
Jonathan's boots slammed against the hard earth, his breaths ripping through his chest as he ran. The dune loomed ahead, maybe four hundred meters of pure desperation stretched between him and salvation. Every muscle in his legs burned, his chest felt like it was about to collapse, but he couldn’t stop—he wouldn’t stop. The screeches behind him were growing louder, a cruel reminder of what would happen if he faltered. His rifle bounced heavily against his chest, its weight dragging at his already strained body, but Jonathan kept moving, each step pounding his resolve into the ground.
Then it happened—a sharp crack that rang through the air, loud and deliberate. His instincts kicked in, and he ducked mid-stride, expecting the worst. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it: a muzzle flash, clear as day, erupting from the top of the dune. His heart leapt into his throat, and for a moment, he thought it was aimed at him. But then the sound of a bullet whizzing overhead shattered his thoughts, and he heard the wet, sickening thud behind him.
Jonathan risked a glance over his shoulder and saw one of the lunatics crumple to the ground, their grotesque body convulsing before going still. Another crack split the air, and the second lunatic dove for cover, screeching as they scrambled behind a jagged boulder. Jonathan’s eyes darted back to the dune, where a familiar silhouette stood tall against the horizon.
Hyena. Relief flooded through Jonathan like a wave, giving his battered legs a second wind. He was there, at the top of the dune, his rifle steady, deliberately engaging the lunatics. Hyena had spotted him, covering his desperate escape. Another crack echoed out, and Jonathan knew Hyena wasn’t missing his mark. The lunatics were pinned, their erratic movements betraying their frustration as Hyena’s bullets rained down with precision.
As Jonathan closed the last fifty meters to the dune, he raised his arm, signaling frantically to Hyena. His motions were sharp, desperate, and unmistakable: Get moving. Get the zodiac running. His chest burned, his legs screaming in protest with every step, but he forced himself forward, shoving through the exhaustion. The sand beneath his boots shifted treacherously, slowing him down, dragging at his momentum, but he refused to stop. His breaths were harsh and ragged, his heart hammering in his ears as he used the last of his stamina to climb the dune, one stride at a time. Each step felt like an eternity, and he knew there was no way he could shoot accurately while this out of breath—but it would have to do.
At the top of the dune, Hyena caught Jonathan’s signal immediately. Without hesitation, he jumped to his feet, spinning around and sprinting toward the zodiac waiting in the water below. Jonathan’s eyes briefly flicked to the trail of bodies Hyena had left behind. Ten, maybe more, littered the slope and the base of the dune. Their greasy, pale forms were twisted and broken where they had fallen, the sand around them stained dark with blood. Hyena’s aim had been precise, picking them off methodically as they emerged, but the horde was still coming. And now, Jonathan was their sole focus.
Jonathan reached the crest of the dune and threw himself onto the sand, collapsing in an ungraceful heap. His body screamed for air, his lungs raw and his muscles trembling, but there was no time to rest. He rolled onto his back, clutching his rifle to his chest, and looked down the slope.
They were coming. Fifteen, maybe more of them. Another wave, surging toward him like a flood. Their bodies were pale and slick with sweat and grime, their wild, jerking movements making them hard to track. The closest was no more than twenty meters away, moving with an almost animalistic speed as it scrambled up the sand. Others followed close behind, their filthy, sunken eyes fixed on him with unrelenting focus. At the far end of the slope, near the buildings, a few figures lingered in the shadows, crouching low behind cover. They weren’t moving, their heads swiveling between the advancing horde and Jonathan, as though calculating the risk. Even lunatics could recognize when it wasn’t worth exposing themselves to rifle fire.
Jonathan wasted no time. He shoved himself up into a crouch, his legs trembling under him, and brought his rifle to his shoulder. He aimed at the closest figure, its twisted body bounding toward him with unnatural, jerky strides. His hands shook with exhaustion, but he squeezed the trigger. The rifle roared, and the first shot rang out. The lunatic twisted at the last second, its unpredictable movements throwing off Jonathan’s aim. The bullet grazed its shoulder, a spray of blood erupting as it let out a guttural screech, but it kept coming.
Jonathan adjusted his aim, gritting his teeth as he fired again. This time, the bullet caught the lunatic in the chest, and its body crumpled into the sand, tumbling awkwardly down the slope. The others didn’t stop. If anything, they seemed to move faster, darting erratically across the dune, their movements chaotic as they zigzagged to avoid his fire.
He shifted his aim to the next closest figure, this one weaving side to side as it advanced. Jonathan fired again, the shot kicking up a plume of sand as it narrowly missed. The lunatic let out a sharp, guttural hiss before diving into a crouch, using the body of a fallen comrade as makeshift cover. Jonathan cursed under his breath, adjusting his aim again as another figure broke from the pack, sprinting low and fast toward him. He fired a burst, the rifle jerking against his shoulder, and caught the runner in the leg. It collapsed with a scream, clawing at the sand as it tried to drag itself forward.
Further down the slope, the figures closest to the buildings stayed put, crouching low behind doorframes, rubble, and machinery. Jonathan could see their heads peeking out from cover, watching the scene unfold, but none of them dared to move. They were waiting—waiting for their chance, or perhaps deciding that it wasn’t worth the risk of exposing themselves. Their hesitation gave Jonathan a fleeting moment of hope. At least they weren’t all coming at once.
He focused on the immediate threats. Another lunatic surged forward, ducking and weaving to avoid his line of fire. Jonathan fired again, his arms trembling with fatigue as the rifle’s recoil slammed into his shoulder. The shot grazed the lunatic’s ribs, and it stumbled but kept moving. Jonathan fired again, this time hitting it square in the chest. It dropped, tumbling lifelessly into the sand.
His breaths came in rapid, uneven gasps, his vision blurring with sweat and exhaustion. He could feel the sand beneath him shifting, his body struggling to stay upright as he fired another shot at the advancing horde. He was buying himself precious seconds, but the closest lunatics were now within ten meters, their screeches deafening, their filthy, outstretched hands clawing at the air as they closed the gap.
Below him, the sputtering roar of the zodiac’s engine suddenly grew steady. He glanced over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Hyena in the boat, his hands working frantically at the motor. The engine came to life fully, a deep, rhythmic hum blending with the chaos above. Hyena turned, locking eyes with Jonathan for a split second, his face a mix of urgency and resolve.
“Get down here, now!” Hyena shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. He waved a hand, urging Jonathan to abandon the dune and make his way to the boat.
Jonathan fired another shot, the recoil slamming into his already battered shoulder as he took down one of the lunatics surging toward him. The others hesitated for a brief moment, their erratic movements faltering as they seemed to process the sound of the engine below. Jonathan didn’t waste that fleeting hesitation. Slinging his rifle across his chest, he spun on his heel and bolted down the dune, his boots sliding on the loose sand as gravity pulled him forward.
The descent was chaotic, his legs struggling to stay beneath him as the soft slope threatened to send him tumbling. Behind him, the screeches grew louder, and he risked a glance back to see the horde still chasing him, their greasy bodies scrambling up and over the bodies of their fallen comrades. A few figures farther back, still near the buildings, remained in cover, their hollow eyes watching the spectacle unfold. They didn’t join the pursuit but seemed to track Jonathan with an eerie, calculating gaze.
“Come on, come on!” Hyena yelled, gripping the side of the zodiac as Jonathan closed the final distance. The boat bobbed slightly in the shallow water, its nose pointed out toward the open sea. Hyena had the motor running, one hand on the controls and the other outstretched to help Jonathan aboard.
Jonathan hit the water at full speed, his boots splashing into the cold shallows as he reached the boat. Hyena grabbed him by the arm and his backapack, hauling him over the side as Jonathan scrambled into the zodiac, collapsing onto the floor in a heap. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his body trembling with exhaustion. He barely managed to push himself into a seated position, his rifle still clutched tightly to his chest.
“Hold on!” Hyena barked, slamming the throttle forward. The zodiac’s motor roared as the boat surged forward, cutting through the waves with a jolt that nearly threw Jonathan off balance. He grabbed onto the side of the boat for stability, his breath still ragged as the shoreline began to recede behind them.
Jonathan’s heart still pounded in his chest as he slumped his back against the side of the zodiac, his rifle resting across his lap. His body felt broken, his muscles screaming with every movement, but relief began to wash over him as the figures on the dune grew smaller and smaller. They were safe—at least for now.
Hyena glanced back at him, his face set in a grim expression. “You good?” he asked, his voice loud enough to carry over the engine.
Jonathan nodded weakly, forcing out a strained, “Yeah... I’m good.”
As the zodiac cut through the waves, its engine roaring in defiance of the chaos they had just escaped, Jonathan slumped against the side of the boat. The rifle in his lap felt heavier than ever, his body trembling with exhaustion, blood, and sweat mixing on his skin. He looked down at himself, at the red streaks running down his arms and dripping onto the floor of the boat. Emil’s blood. Mouse’s blood. It was all there, painted on him.
Hyena glanced back at him, his face hard and unreadable. His eyes briefly scanned Jonathan, taking in the blood smeared across his face and the faraway look in his eyes. It was more than enough for Hyena to piece together what had happened. He knew better than to ask. There was no need to ask about Emil or Mouse. Their absence spoke louder than words, and the blood on Jonathan was a testament to everything that had gone wrong.
Instead, Hyena’s jaw tightened, his grip on the throttle firm as he turned his focus back to steering the boat. The engine roared louder as the zodiac surged forward, salt spray misting the air as the shoreline began to fade behind them. Hyena didn’t say anything, didn’t press Jonathan for details. The silence between them was thick, heavy with grief and unspoken understanding.
Jonathan turned his head, looking back over his shoulder. The dune was still visible, the figures at its crest standing motionless like shadows against the horizon. The rising summer sun bore down on them, illuminating their pale, slick bodies and casting long shadows that stretched down the slope. It was almost surreal—this image of chaos and death bathed in golden sunlight, as if the sun itself was announcing the arrival of summer. The blood-streaked sand and lifeless bodies scattered across the slope stood in stark contrast to the warm, idyllic light.
The figures on the dune didn’t follow. They stood there, watching in eerie silence, their hollow red eyes fixed on the retreating boat. The sunlight gleamed off their oily skin, making them look even more otherworldly, as though they didn’t quite belong in the world that the summer sun was illuminating. A few of them screeched faintly, their frustration carried on the wind, but most simply stood there, unmoving. As if they knew the hunt wasn’t over. Not really.
Jonathan leaned his head back against the side of the zodiac, his breath still ragged. His chest felt tight, not just from the physical exertion but from the crushing weight of what they’d left behind—and who they’d left behind. The salty breeze stung his face, mingling with the dried blood on his skin, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him that he was still alive, that he’d made it out when Emil and Mouse hadn’t.
Hyena broke the silence after a long stretch of roaring engine and crashing waves. His voice was low, almost hesitant, but steady. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
Jonathan didn’t answer, just nodded weakly, his eyes still fixed on the figures shrinking in the distance. The sun climbed higher, its warmth spreading across his battered body, but it did nothing to ease the chill in his chest. The boat rocked gently as they sped toward the horizon, the shoreline fading into nothing, but Jonathan knew one thing for certain: the summer had arrived, and with it, something dark had woken.
