by TheWonderous Fri Jul 27, 2018 10:11 pmBoris jolted upright from his uneasy slumber, the sweat of the nightmares still clinging to him as a second skin. He wrenched himself from the shitty wire-frame bed and scrambled across the small apartment, nearly losing his balance twice as he reached a hand forward to steady himself on the door-frame. Without a second to spare he made it to the bathroom, the following eruption of bile painting the pure porcelain a hideous shade as he wretched. With a hand clutching to the dirty sink and the other pressed to the toilet he heaved and shuddered, less and less bile rising with each convulsion. His skin shone brighter still now in the dull light of morning, the first tendrils of red sun snaking through his blinds and bathing the apartment in an insidious glow.
It took a while for the heaving to stop, for the images to flee his troubled mind as he rocked naked on his heels in the cramped bathroom. He rose to splash his face in the sink, swilling his mouth clear of the taste as he supported his weight on the rim and sucked shuddering breathes through gritted teeth. He wanted to look in the mirror, the confirm that he was still him, that he was still the same bald Russian that had passed out suddenly yet he worried the answer. With a sharp slap to the head he forced himself to look, his steel grey eyes watered with the effort of throwing up as he stared at his mirrored self. Same bald head, same grey eyes and same deep gouge missing. He was him alright. Reeling in relief he thudded back to the only other room in the apartment, sinking into the couch with relief as he fought back the memories and abhorrent nightmares. Absentmindedly he reached for the remote control and depressed the button, his crappy TV sparking and spluttering to life as the screen was awash with static. He groaned, flicking between channels only to be greeted with the same wash of grainy static no matter where he went.
"Blyad." He muttered, tossing the controller to the side before suddenly freezing. The nightmares, the darkness and horrific images. It took him no more than a breath to remember what had happened as he bolted from the seat, throwing open his blinds and looking skyward. Bronze skin paled to ivory and the darkened sky above throbbed constantly. He watched a moment as his skin prickled with fresh sweat, rivulets running down his face as he waited with baited breath. Suddenly he saw it, a vast tentacle the thickness of a bus lazily coiling across the sky as the thunderous clouds cleared to reveal that thing, that alien that hung in the sky. He collapsed, sinking to his knees as he wept openly with shuddering breath. He had thought it was just part of the dream.
Ten minutes passed and the naked Russian still lay coiled fetal on the bare wood floor. He hugged to his knees as the tears finally run dry, his throat hoarse from crying. With a shake of his head he dragged himself to his feet. He may have ignored the evacuation order when it came through, but he knew when to get the hell out of dodge. The next few minutes were a blur of activity as he slipped into his heavy-duty work clothes and tossed anything he could find into a blue duffel bag, the bright white letters spelling Adidas on the side. In no more than twenty minutes he had cleared his apartment and thrown it all into a bag; cans of beans and sausage, a few bottles of water, some spare clothing and his prized crowbar were all slung into a bag. He had enough to last a few days maximum, the realisation dawning on him. With one final look around he grabbed the latest issue of Mechanics Monthly laying on his table, fished out a cigarette and swiped his keys from the bowl. He may have no food, no water and only a crowbar but he was not going to die in a puddle of his own piss on the floor. If those ... those Husks wanted to get him, they'd have a job on.
With a flourish he lit the cigarette, twisting the handle and yanking to door open. Crowbar in one hand and a dying flashlight in the other he poked his head free of the door. For such an imposing figure, a meek an quivering voice called down the hallway in thickly accented Russian.
"H--H--Hello?"
It took a while for the heaving to stop, for the images to flee his troubled mind as he rocked naked on his heels in the cramped bathroom. He rose to splash his face in the sink, swilling his mouth clear of the taste as he supported his weight on the rim and sucked shuddering breathes through gritted teeth. He wanted to look in the mirror, the confirm that he was still him, that he was still the same bald Russian that had passed out suddenly yet he worried the answer. With a sharp slap to the head he forced himself to look, his steel grey eyes watered with the effort of throwing up as he stared at his mirrored self. Same bald head, same grey eyes and same deep gouge missing. He was him alright. Reeling in relief he thudded back to the only other room in the apartment, sinking into the couch with relief as he fought back the memories and abhorrent nightmares. Absentmindedly he reached for the remote control and depressed the button, his crappy TV sparking and spluttering to life as the screen was awash with static. He groaned, flicking between channels only to be greeted with the same wash of grainy static no matter where he went.
"Blyad." He muttered, tossing the controller to the side before suddenly freezing. The nightmares, the darkness and horrific images. It took him no more than a breath to remember what had happened as he bolted from the seat, throwing open his blinds and looking skyward. Bronze skin paled to ivory and the darkened sky above throbbed constantly. He watched a moment as his skin prickled with fresh sweat, rivulets running down his face as he waited with baited breath. Suddenly he saw it, a vast tentacle the thickness of a bus lazily coiling across the sky as the thunderous clouds cleared to reveal that thing, that alien that hung in the sky. He collapsed, sinking to his knees as he wept openly with shuddering breath. He had thought it was just part of the dream.
Ten minutes passed and the naked Russian still lay coiled fetal on the bare wood floor. He hugged to his knees as the tears finally run dry, his throat hoarse from crying. With a shake of his head he dragged himself to his feet. He may have ignored the evacuation order when it came through, but he knew when to get the hell out of dodge. The next few minutes were a blur of activity as he slipped into his heavy-duty work clothes and tossed anything he could find into a blue duffel bag, the bright white letters spelling Adidas on the side. In no more than twenty minutes he had cleared his apartment and thrown it all into a bag; cans of beans and sausage, a few bottles of water, some spare clothing and his prized crowbar were all slung into a bag. He had enough to last a few days maximum, the realisation dawning on him. With one final look around he grabbed the latest issue of Mechanics Monthly laying on his table, fished out a cigarette and swiped his keys from the bowl. He may have no food, no water and only a crowbar but he was not going to die in a puddle of his own piss on the floor. If those ... those Husks wanted to get him, they'd have a job on.
With a flourish he lit the cigarette, twisting the handle and yanking to door open. Crowbar in one hand and a dying flashlight in the other he poked his head free of the door. For such an imposing figure, a meek an quivering voice called down the hallway in thickly accented Russian.
"H--H--Hello?"
