More bodies.
This time they weren’t strewn about, instead stacked in a single pile, a perfect square. Six per row, eight rows they counted. Forty-eight more dead, their eyes hollow, their flesh exposed.
A small path on either side was the only way around, and the Spetsnaz slowly passed. They attempted not to look at the bodies, but couldn’t help it. They pushed past, green team leading, stepping over extended arms, half-severed heads.
Their flashlights flickered, searching the dark spots, shaky because of their nerves.
Then, they saw something.
“Colonel, Green Leader,” a man said. “I see movement.”
The clack of rifles pointing, everyone on guard.
Kirov slipped his flashlight into his pocket, grabbing his AK-47 with both hands. He jammed it into his shoulder, peering through the sights. He caressed the trigger, aiming straight ahead, into the shadows.
“What did you see?” Kirov asked.
“Something, sir. I don’t know. Movement,” the green team leader said.
Another flash, something moving in the shadows.
“There, I see it!” Boris barked, pointing. “Far side of the room. Look into that opening. Seems to be another hallway.”
“I see nothing,” Kirov said.
“Colonel, I saw it. Looked like the outline of a person. Ran into the shadows.”
Kirov waited patiently, his sights back and forth, left to right, watching, waiting.
Suddenly, he called out, “There! Left side.”
Green and red team pointed in that direction. Yellow team followed their years of training, covering all other angles.
“I see it,” Boris said. “Yup, that’s a person all right.”
Their flashlights, crudely strapped to their rifles, weren’t enough. The overhead lights, flickering madly, only worsened visibility. They weren’t close enough, but they could see someone.
Something.
Darkness was ahead, and in the shadows lurked death.
“Hold steady. We observe first. Hold your fire,” Kirov ordered. His voice was hushed and he took a few silent steps forward. Cautious, heel to ball of foot to remain quiet. The crinkle of his plastic chemical suit, making noise regardless of how slow he moved, annoyed him. None wanted to alert of their presence.
“What is it, Colonel? Survivors?” a voice whispered from the group of men.
“Don’t know, it’s too fucking dark,” Kirov said, taking three more steps.
Beams of light attempted to illuminate the darkness, penetrating into the dark opening of another tunnel, into a great shadow. It wasn’t enough.
The shadows, the darkness, was enough to drive a man insane.
Something was wrong, Kirov could feel it.
He took another step.
And another.
He stopped, his body jolted. Kirov’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open as the shock crept across his face. He could see it now.
Someone.
Indeed human, or so he thought.
It was a child. From this distance, it looked like a boy. Kirov guessed maybe ten years of age, perhaps twelve. The child was skinny, malnourished, dark hair. He wore only ripped pants, no shoes, no shirt. The boy was a dirty mess.
“It’s a fucking kid,” Morozov declared. “See him? Looks alone. You don’t think he did that, do you?” he asked, speaking of the mutilated bodies.
“No way,” Kirov said, refusing to imagine such an impossibility.
“Think he’s still alive, Colonel?” Morozov asked.
“I saw movement, but he’s still right now. Crouched down,” Kirov relayed to the group of men hovering behind, “… what’s he doing?” Kirov questioned.
“Maybe it’s the chemical. Maybe he’s dying,” Morozov suggested, hopeful that was the case.
“Can’t tell. Wait a minute, he’s moving.” Kirov moved closer, his men reluctantly following. Finally, the Colonel said, “He’s alive. There’s no doubt about it.”
His men were silent, frozen. They huddled closer for a false sense of protection. Never in their wildest dreams could the image of a boy frighten these men, but it did now. Their eyes battled the dark, their minds battled the carnage, the grotesque things they had witnessed.
“He’s moving sir, I see it now,” Morozov said. “Looks like something is in his hands. Can’t tell what.”
There was something sickening about the boy, his movement. Something didn’t feel right. The three teams waited, not moving. Even yellow team, tasked to watch their six, couldn’t take their eyes off the child. They waited, holding their breath. They felt as if their racing heartbeats could be heard miles away.
They watched the boy, confused.
He appeared to be playing with something.
27
The child was indeed playing. His toy of choice was the severed head of a woman.
She appeared to have been perhaps forty, though it was impossible to tell. The skin on her face had been licked off, nearly to the bone. Exposed flesh and white jawbone could be seen. Her hair was matted, wet, her tongue missing.
Bravely, Kirov stepped closer. His men followed.
The boy muttered something, licked the head some more, then stopped. He grumbled, not words but noises. He whined. It sounded like crying, but was something far more eerie. Almost a howl, though it seemed to have a tune to it.
Was the boy singing?
They couldn’t tell.
It didn’t sound like speech, no more than a baby’s babble.
The boy looked back down at the head, interested, entertained. He seemed not to notice the Spetsnaz presence, even with their lights pointed his way. If he did notice, he showed no signs of it. He turned the head side to side as if determining where to feast next.
A giggle.
The boy eased his oddly long finger into an empty eye socket. He burrowed it in deep, twisting, digging around and giggling some more. Obviously he found great pleasure in the act. It felt good, the gooey insides of the woman’s skull. The sensation made the boy feel something strange. It was erotic, almost, the sensation quite refreshing. The boy grinned, ear to ear, finding much humor in his act.
“Should we fucking kill him, Colonel?” Boris asked, itching to waste this monstrosity.
“Hold your fire,” Kirov ordered, though it went against his instincts. He’d never want to harm a child, but at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill this boy.
They waited.
The boy eased his finger into the hole, in and out.
In and out.
He pulled his finger out, a jelly-like goo sticking to his fingers. He giggled again, looking closely at the wet, stringy matter.
The boy sniffed his fingers, his tongue flickering out, extending from his mouth. His tongue was long, much too long. It stretched out farther than it should. He gently licked the tasty substance, giggling at the savory experience, and proceeded to lick his fingers clean. The taste was delicious, addicting.
He sucked off the remains, gulping it down. He licked and licked, getting the last remnants of flesh. Then, horrifically, he kept licking his finger. Over and over, the boy’s body beginning to shudder.
He began to chew, to gnash at his own fingers. Soon enough, the boy’s own flesh began to pull away, the boy slurping it with glee. Another nibble, another pull. The boy feasted on some of his own fingers, and within a minute, the Spetsnaz could see the bone of the boy’s hand.
“Colonel, what the fuck we doing here?” Boris said, his mind whirling, afraid and near panic.
“Quite!” Kirov demanded, but it was too late.
The boy looked their way, staring directly at the twenty-four men. Their presence didn’t intimidate, though. The boy showed little reaction. He remained seated, severed head in his hands, and merely stared.