16-9 Defense of the Mad

The young woman falls on the ground before your eyes, a black spear 'growing' out of her body.

Next to her body, a man is flailing with his legs, trying to push himself away from this dangerous place.

Black is closing in. Black, black, black, everything is black, except for bright-red blood. You cannot even tell if you are facing something that is living or not.

The black steps through the bodies, some of whom were miners, some of whom were guards, and some of whom were just ordinary Ursines.

The constant screams make it very clear that, whether you turn to run or not, the spears appearing out of thin air will catch you.

You can only watch as the spears continue to rise from the ground, impaling body after body, threatening to blanket the entire ground.

Suddenly, the spears remove themselves from the mountain of corpses, forming a longsword in the hand of the black shadow.

The entity raises its sword and points it toward you, speaking in an indistinguishable voice.

You feel the heat coming from behind you, like a burning fire that spreads all over you. It makes your blood run hot, and your eyes wide and clear. They shout your name and push you forward.

In the embrace of solidarity, you leap and take aim at what seems to be the thorax of the black entity—

And impale it.

There is no sound of blood dripping, no convulsion.

Only the resistance of the blade growing lesser and lesser, until it disappears altogether.

As the last syllable leaves its mouth, the uniform propped up by the shadow goes limp and stops resisting.

You have put an end to the monster, with courage, with determination, with heart.

With the support of 'friends' who never existed.

*pant*... *pant*...

Your hands are heavy. Where are you?

'—He's down. He's down!'

...Who?

'Rankin, you—we, we killed—'

'We killed him!'

Killed who? Black... snow...

Not enough. One obstacle dead and gone, but the snow is everywhere, abominable snow...

The snow will not stop.

'Rankin? Rankin! What do we do now?'

'Rankin—'

The crowd rushes toward you like the tide. They raise you up, and they pull you back down. You have felt this sense of weightlessness before.

The crowd shouts, the crowd yells. Someone who should not have been here shouts your name in the deafening echoes.

You close your eyes and go back into the forest with his words. A border garrison unit, a one-way mission.

You are not there.

As you rise and fall, you look towards the black dust in the distance, which has yet to fully disperse.

Black smoke seeps out from every hole and gap in the uniform, like countless tiny tentacles, greedily wrapping and covering it, until it is completely hidden.

Under the black smoke, the uniform once again takes human shape, as though—

As though he never died.

The nights of deep autumn are cold in Ursus. Snow falls from the branches as the cold winds blow.

The crowd has already dispersed. There is no light coming from the distant huts.

A tiny flicker of flame still burns on the charred firewood in the middle of the clearing, clinging to its last gasp of life as the north winds tear at it.

A piece of thick firewood is thrown into the pile, and sparks fly in the air.

Dry firewood lies in ash, slowly becoming charred and twisted, before being swallowed by the leaping flames.

The fire shines upon the face of the feeble Infected, but he feels no warmth.

He is in pain, a pain that penetrates his heart like a needle.

He is cold, shivering like he just fell into a frozen lake.

He must make himself warm again.

One piece, two pieces, three pieces.

One bundle, two bundles, three bundles.

The flame that was so faint now pokes its head from the gaps in the wood like a burning demon, threatening to touch its creator with its tongue.

The frail miner picks up a burning firewood and walks toward the silent houses.

Tap, click, tap, click.

The footsteps are rhythmic, one stronger than the other.

The madman carries the torch of fear, but the flame can no longer stem the cold.

The cold pierces his bones. It comes from Oripathy, from the wind, from Ursus.

He needs warmth.

He sees a large pile of hay.

He throws the torch.

The flames awaken all that has withered.

He has never felt so acutely alive.

The ringing continues in his head. In the nightmare, Rankin is clinging to the last vestige of cognition and sanity.

His sensations are returning, but the wailing grown nearer, not more distant.

He forces himself up and staggers towards the door of the tent, seeking a breath of fresh air.

Hot air rushes at him, evaporating the sweat in an instant.

In the blink of an eye, all the feelings return to his body.

This is not a dream. It is real. The stuff of his nightmares has found a foothold in reality.

Everywhere, people are fleeing, as the houses that once offered refuge are devoured by fire.

In the gushing smoke, the scent of charred despair clutches at everyone's throats like a demonic claw. How tiny is man in the presence of terror.

But his commands do not bring order to the crowd. Fear continues to spread unchecked.

He has never...

Died.

Rankin tries to shake off Vetochki's hands, but the girl grabs his arm with all her strength.

The stammering girl gestures furiously, trying to explain what happened, but the terror on her face says it all.

Rankin and Vetochki dart through the fire. The houses on both sides of them are burning, and the slightest misstep could set their clothes on fire.

Rankin wants to yell too, but the feeling of helplessness continues to accumulate in his heart. It is stuck in his throat, preventing him from making a sound, preventing him from breathing.

He knows full well what a fire like this means for an invalid old woman.

At the smoke-filled intersection, Vetochki covers her mouth and points to herself, then at Rankin, and finally towards the fork in the path.

The girl's face is red as tears flow from her eyes. She holds her hands together in a strange gesture of prayer.

She is not praying to the Tsar, nor to the Yurodstvo. She is praying to Rankin.

Fool.

A shadow flashes across their vision. He is limping, but there is an unusual strength in his steps, as though he is being drawn in by something.

The hunched figure ignores Rankin's cries, walking towards the sea of flames at the end of the path.

Surrounded by the bright light of fire, his figure casts no shadow. He prepares to welcome baptism by fire, like the Yurodstvo walking towards the execution grounds in legend.

He continues to walk as he chants, and pushes open a burning door.

Even the scorching light of the flames cannot stop Rankin from seeing what is inside the house, over Hawley's head—

Flames roil and writhe as charred beams totter, cracking like the moaning of the dying.

An old woman sits straight in the middle of it all.

She is sitting on the last chair without a sound. The flames are only inches from her, but they cannot touch her, as though an invisible wall is keeping them at bay.

She has not a speck of ash or dust on her. Even her hair is immaculately clean. Her eyes gently shut, but at the same time she seems to be watching everything.