He grinned again, this time directly at them. Kirov could feel the boy’s lifeless eyes stare into his soul.
The boy grinned wide.
Then wider.
Then wider.
His mouth stretched, the corners of his lips began to crackle. His skin was already brittle from the chemical, and as he smiled, the skin broke. The boy’s smile grew. Finally, it covered the majority of his face, nearing his ears, the boy opening his mouth wide.
“What in the holy—” Kirov whispered.
To make the situation even stranger, the boy looked back down to the head. As if the intruders already bored him. He gazed at the face, the single remaining eye. It was glazed over, dull, life extinguished. But the boy felt the eye was looking at him, calling to him even. It struck his curiosity and he turned the head from side to side.
What to do next?
The boy made up his mind, reaching his fingers toward the remaining eye, prodding at it.
He dug, his fingernails long, seeming to grow.
Finally, he got it, grunting in satisfaction.
Pop!
The boy plucked the eyeball from its socket, the thin cord of nerve endings attached, stretched as he held it before his face. The boy examined it, stared straight into it. He just knew the eye was looking back, and the boy laughed quite loud this time. He found this funny.
Finally, the boy squeezed.
Pop!
The eyeball burst, spraying juice outward, some hitting the boy’s face. He rubbed his hands together, enjoying how the juice squished between his fingers.
He liked how that felt.
Minutes passed and finally the boy tossed the eyeball aside. He stared again at the lifeless head. It was nearly indistinguishable, looking hardly human any longer. The sockets, the windows to the soul, were empty now. Without a soul.
He rooted inside a bit longer, but the head no longer amused him. He licked it a few times for good measure, not finding the satisfaction he desired.
Watching on, this boy’s demented actions rattled the Spetsnaz, shook the battle-hardened soldiers. No man was tough enough for such a sight.
The insanity.
The madness.
Nothing could prepare them for this.
Boris, a man who had seen much carnage in his lifetime, wasn’t ready for this. He gurgled, belching loudly. He took a step to the side, pushing the nearest man back a bit. Boris leaned over, violently throwing up, the splash of his breakfast juices splattering on the ground.
“Silence,” Kirov commanded, his voice low.
But the sounds of vomit, Kirov’s loud bark, the nervousness of all the men — it attracted the boy’s attention. He turned back, his grin still wide, his mouth agape.
“Colonel, look at him,” Morozov whispered. “That boy is fucked up. That chemical did a number on him.”
“Look at his head, it’s deformed. Looks like blisters, but they’re bubbling,” Kirov whispered back.
“His fingers, they’re longer than they should be. I swear his nails are growing,” Morozov added. “Are we really seeing this, Colonel?” The second in command was filled with horror, seeing complete madness around him.
Before Kirov could answer, the boy stood up. He jumped from his seated position, slowly turning to face them directly.
“Oh shit,” Boris said, controlling his bodily functions to the best of his ability.
The boy still held the bloody head in his left hand. His right arm hung at his side. Though he appeared to be the average size of Afghani boys, something was off. His arms, they were growing. Slowly, but elongating nonetheless. Stretching down, hanging well below his waist.
“Impossible.” Kirov had never felt such terror.
28
The boy’s gaze intensified. His expression was curious, at first. The boy began to gradually move forward in a bizarre fashion, headed directly at Kirov and his men. He nearly hobbled in a way, a strange stagger as he took a step, then another, then another.
Slowly.
Another step, then another.
Then, without warning, the boy straightened upright with a jolt, his body rigid. His wide mouth opened, a harmonic noise coming out. At the same time, the boy pulled back his left arm, extending it far behind him. He held the woman’s head, clicked his teeth, and flung it directly at Kirov and his men.
“Watch out!” Morozov screamed.
The head flew through the air, approaching fast. The Spetsnaz had no time to move, no time to think. The severed head smacked into Boris, hitting him directly in the chest. A splatter of blood sprayed the man’s face, the head slowly rolling down his body. Boris grunted, falling on his ass, his rifle clanking on a rock.
“What in God’s name is that?” Morozov blurted.
“There’s no God down here,” Kirov replied grimly.
The boy kept walking, headed straight at them. He hobbled, swaying from side to side, singing a strange song, inching closer. Both arms now hung at his sides, his body hunched, his head lowered.
Closer.
The boy clacked his teeth.
Closer.
He smiled again. The men could hear the flesh on the corner of the boy’s mouth rip even more.
“Tee-hee-hee,” the boy giggled, lurching back and forth.
Another step.
His arms still grew — four meters.
Five meters.
Six.
“This is fucking impossible,” Kirov exclaimed.
Then, at that exact moment, the boy shrieked, his scream filling the cavern. He extended his long arms, slinging them forward, stretching them out, reaching for Kirov and his men.
Growing.
Mutating.
Then, the boy charged, and all hell broke loose.
“Engage! Shoot the motherfucker!” It was the final straw. The madness was too much, and Colonel Kirov made the decision, shouting his orders.
The AK-47s cracked, barking glorious thunder, deafening the room. A barrage of bullets rained across the cavern. Flashes of muzzle blast lit the dim chamber, the crack of fully automatic fire filling the air.
But the boy moved fast. Much too fast. He leapt to the side, tucking under the high stack of piled bodies. Bullets ripped into the pile of dead bodies, shredding them to pulp.
The boy appeared on the other side, near the left wall. He reached up with his long arms, grabbing a jettison of the rock wall, pulling himself up to impossible height. He kept climbing.
The soldiers aimed again, firing once more, bullets cracking all around, bouncing off the wall, missing their mark.
The boy was quick as he skittered up the wall, racing up ten meters, scrambling along like a spider. Jumping to the side, climbing even higher. Finally, he stopped near the top of the cavern wall, fingernails digging into the stone, staring at Kirov and his men.
The boy raced forward, scouring along the side of the wall.
He came fast.
“Engage, dammit! Kill the fucker,” Kirov shouted, his ears ringing as he emptied another magazine. Everyone fired, round after deadly round.
Kirov was sure some rounds had hit, even saw a splatter of blood. It seemed to have little effect though. The boy kept coming, running along the wall on all fours. He closed the distance fast.
Thirty meters.
Twenty meters.
Ten meters.
The boy halted, a crazed grin, a wild look in his eyes. He then leapt from the wall to the cavern floor, landing in the middle of the three Spetsnaz teams.
They were shocked, frozen in terror.
The boy crouched down, looking up, drool forming on his lips, running down his cheek. His face was blistered, his eyes wide, his forehead bulging out in front of their very eyes. He giggled, one last time, clacking his teeth and wondering who he’d take first.