Outside the College.
The Dustbin.
After They Threw the C.D.
A garbage truck rumbled down the street and stopped in front of the college.
The engine coughed.
Black smoke puffed from the exhaust.
The garbage man climbed down from the cab.
His movements were slow.
Heavy.
The morning was cold and he was tired.
He walked to the dustbin and lifted the lid.
The smell of old food and damp paper rose to meet him.
Something caught his eye.
The C.D.
lay on top of the trash.
Clean.
Untouched.
Glinting in the pale morning light.
He narrowed his eyes.
His rough, calloused fingers turned the disc over.
He studied it.
The surface was smooth.
No label.
No scratches.
It felt wrong in his hand, but he couldn’t say why.
With a shrug, he slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.
No harm.
Maybe it was worth something.
— Night.
The Garbage Man’s House.
The garbage man stepped out of the bathroom.
Steam trailed behind him like ghosts.
The small house was quiet.
He lived alone.
He always had.
He opened the cupboard.
Reached into his jacket.
Took out the C.D.
The disc was cold in his hand.
First, he went to the kitchen.
Fixed himself a meal.
Rice.
Beans.
The same thing he ate every night.
He carried the plate to the dining room.
Set it on the table.
The chair creaked under his weight.
Then he placed the C.D.
into the player.
The machine whirred softly.
He pressed play.
No sound.
Not at first.
Then, after a second, a sound crawled out of the speakers.
Creepy.
Rhythmic.
Like someone chanting a spell in a language that had been dead for a thousand years.
His face went slack.
The fork slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the plate.
Sadness washed over his features.
Deep.
Complete.
His eyelids drooped until they were half-closed.
He looked like a man falling asleep standing up.
A man dying on his feet.
He straightened suddenly.
His spine snapped rigid.
His arms hung at his sides like dead weights.
Something was controlling him now.
His eyes were open but empty.
Windows to a house no one was home in.
He took the C.D.
out of the player.
His movements were mechanical.
Precise.
He did not bother with a jacket.
He did not put on shoes.
His bare feet walked across the cold floor.
He got on his bike.
The engine roared to life.
He started driving.
Fast.
Faster.
The wind bit at his bare skin.
He felt nothing.
He stopped in front of Blinc’s house.
The street was dark.
Silent.
He placed the C.D.
on the doorstep.
His fingers moved with care, like he was handling something sacred.
Something dangerous.
He pressed the doorbell.
The sound echoed inside the house.
Then he turned.
Got back on his bike.
Rode away.
He didn’t look back.
He couldn’t.
He drove faster.
The streets blurred.
The houses became smears of light and shadow.
He reached the main road and did not slow down.
The speedometer climbed.
His eyes stayed empty.
A truck appeared in front of him.
Headlights.
Horn.
Screaming metal.
He collided.
The bike crumpled like paper.
The truck exploded.
Fire erupted into the night sky.
Orange and red against the black.
Smoke billowed upward like a dark prayer.
When the flames died, there was nothing left.
Just twisted metal.
Just ash.
Just the silence that follows death.
— The Military Base.
CCTV Room.
Bruce sat alone in the dark.
The only light came from the monitors.
He was watching every footage from before the robbery.
Frame by frame.
His eyes were red.
His coffee was cold.
He couldn’t find anything.
The door opened without a knock.
The sound made him flinch.
A man walked in.
Tom Brown.
Middle-aged.
Worn face.
From the Monovi police.
His presence filled the room like smoke.
“Hi,” Tom said.
Calm.
Too calm.
Like he owned the place.
“Who are you?” Bruce asked.
His voice was flat.
Unwelcoming.
“I’m Tom Brown.
Monovi police.
Someone told me I have to talk to you.” Attitude edged his words.
He didn’t like being here.
The feeling was mutual.
Bruce looked at him.
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t you have manners?
Like knocking?” “No,” Tom said.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just no.
Bruce tossed a file onto the table.
It slid across the surface and stopped near Tom’s hand.
“This is the file.
Take it.
I’ll join you tomorrow.” His voice was dismissive.
Final.
Tom picked up the file.
He didn’t open it.
He just held it, his eyes locked on Bruce for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he turned and walked out without another word.
The door clicked shut.
Bruce stared at it for a long time.
— Blinc’s House.
Night.
Blinc’s Room.
The C.D.
sat on the table.
They sat around it.
All of them.
Staring at it like it was a bomb that might go off any second.
“Guys!
What do we do now?
We can’t just sit here forever,” Cult said.
His voice was tight.
His fingers drummed nervously on his knee.
The silence was eating him alive.
“We have to play it,” Amili said after a moment.
Her voice was quiet but certain.
She had thought it through.
There was no other way.
“What?
Last time, we only got saved by chance,” Zander said.
His voice cracked with fear.
His eyes were wide.
He remembered the Karbu.
The claws.
The teeth.
“But we don’t have any other option,” Lomro said.
His voice was heavy.
Resigned.
He had accepted what they had to do.
Blinc spoke.
His voice was quiet but sure.
It carried the weight of someone who had already made his peace.
“We can’t do anything else.
We have to play it.
This thing — ghost, alien, whatever it is — it won’t let us go until we understand what it wants.” “If we’re going to play it, we have to get ready.
If that Karbu comes again, we’ll tear his ass apart this time,” Zander said.
His fear was turning into anger.
Anger was easier.
Anger was fuel.
— Preparation.
Zander went to the store room.
The door creaked open.
Dust filled the air.
He dug through old boxes, throwing things aside.
His hands searched desperately.
Then they closed around something solid.
A hammer with a long handle.
Heavy.
Deadly.
He pulled it out and felt its weight.
Good.
Then he grabbed an old C.D.
player from the shelf.
Amili searched the kitchen.
Her movements were calm.
Methodical.
She opened a shelf.
A box sat tucked in the back, hidden behind old cans.
She pulled it out.
Opened it.
Inside — two Japanese knives.
Clean.
Sharp.
Waiting.
She took them.
Her reflection stared back at her from the blade.
Cult and Lomro were in the basement.
The air was damp.
Cold.
Cult found a long wooden stick and a sharp kitchen knife.
His hands moved with practiced ease.
He tied the knife to the end of the stick.
Made a spear.
Primitive.
Deadly.
Lomro found a petrol tank.
The smell of gasoline filled the room.
He filled bottles with petrol and stuffed pieces of cloth into the top of each one.
Molotov cocktails.
He handled them like they were made of glass.
One wrong move and everything burns.
In the dining room, everyone gathered with their weapons.
The table was covered with their makeshift arsenal.
Zander looked at Inose.
She had nothing in her hands.
She looked small.
Defenseless.
“Inose!
You don’t have anything,” Zander said.
His voice was soft.
Concerned.
He paused.
Then, gently, he took her hand.
Inose looked at him, surprised.
His touch was warm.
Steady.
Zander’s face was calm.
Normal.
He led her to the store room.
Past the boxes.
He pulled out a water gun with a glass water tank.
Then he opened another box.
“Look.
There’s acid here.
And a water gun.
You can fill it and use it.
This acid burns skin easily,” Zander said.
His voice was patient.
Kind.
“Okay.
But why is this stuff here?” Inose asked.
Her voice was small.
Confused.
“Oh.
Blinc’s father worked in a chemical factory,” Zander said.
Simple.
Factual.
“I know that.
But still.
Why is it here?
It’s so dangerous.” Her eyes were wide behind her glasses.
“Forget about that,” Zander said.
He smiled.
A small, reassuring smile.
Inose took the sulfuric acid.
Her hands trembled slightly.
She poured it into the water gun.
The liquid swirled inside the glass tank.
Then she took two extra bottles and packed them into a bag.
She was ready.
As ready as she could be.
— Everyone sat around the table.
Their weapons lay in front of them.
A hammer.
Knives.
A spear.
Molotov cocktails.
An acid gun.
They looked like they were preparing for war.
Maybe they were.
Zander plugged in the C.D.
player.
His hand hovered over the play button.
He looked around the table.
At his friends.
At his family.
He pressed play.
To be continued…