The bandit leader, Killjoy, leads two of his remaining mates out of the cursed swamp. He holds out a rough map of the area in one hand, a dimming lamp in the other. He bought the map scroll off a local cartographer for a cheap price. Its value shows. Landmarks are misplaced and poorly illustrated. Contour lines are nothing but kindergarten squiggles while elevation numbers are exaggerated, not to mention illegible. Pen ink is a rarity.

Despite these setbacks, Killjoy is willing to power through it all.

"Shame what happened to Jarhead," says Faceless. "He may have been an idiot, but he didn't deserve to die like that."

"Quiet," commands Killjoy from the front. "We are not out of tribal country yet."

Again, Faceless is met with hostility by his superior. When you have a leader like Killjoy, who needs enemies? There is an urge to talk back, but he swallows his pride. He knows what happens to those who challenge the boss which typically involves them digging their own graves. So instead, Faceless tilts his head down and mourns his friend in silence.

The bandits continue on their lost journey, wading through muddy water up to their thighs and hacking through thick foliage with their machetes. Something large passes over them, leaving a chilling breeze behind. Caw. Caw. Caw. Faceless looks up and sees a mutated snipe flapping its wings. He goes for his revolving rifle and aims it at the sky, ready to shoot down the big game when Killjoy jerks the barrel away. The gun fires off anyway and misses, scaring away dozens of crows.

"What do you think you're doing?" asks Killjoy. His left eye twitches.

Faceless is taken by surprise. The boss seems to be losing more of his composure each minute. "Well, uh, I was afraid that bird was going to swoop down with its sharp talons and maul us. Plus, it's extra protein for our lackluster diet."

Faceless tries his best to caress Killjoy with his sophisticated words, but it's ineffective. If anything, Killjoy perceives his little improv more as snarky than endearing.

"I told you to stay quiet, you twit, but you just couldn't follow one simple order. Now you've alerted an entire tribe to our position!" Killjoy shakes his head and bends down, fiddling with his bootstraps. Faceless observes anxiously and gulps. Killjoy slowly pulls a sharp dagger out of his boot and stares at Faceless with his menacing eyes. He steps towards him, bringing the point of the blade underneath his chin. "All I have to do is thrust, and you'll be choking on your own blood, a less preferable death than Jarhead's, hmm?"

"You're sick!" mutters Faceless.

"Hey, you guys!" shouts Poppy. "Found something."

Killjoy stows the dagger as Faceless breathes a sigh of relief. "You're lucky." He points the blade at him. "If you make another mistake like that again, I will kill you." They converge to where they last heard Poppy's voice and find light shining from an opening in the grassline. There's a visible dirt trail on the other side.

"Good work, Poppy." Killjoy pats him on the back. He looks left and right for any trouble, then takes a knee. "Hmm, fresh footprints. Lots of them. Must be from tribals."

"Which way to the hamlet?" asks Poppy, scratching his head.

"Well, we can follow the footprints and find out."

"Wouldn't that just take us back to the tribals?" questions Faceless.

"We don't know for certain. There's a slight chance it doesn't."

"And you're willing to take said chance?"

"Absolutely." And with that, Killjoy puts his hands behind his ramrod back and walks alongside the stampede of footprints, staying on the trail's shoulder. His two lackeys follow almost instantly, though they are secretly hesitant of his plan.

"It's good to have you back, sir," bows Anton. Petrov returns the gesture.

Grigori checks out more of the shop while the commissar and Anton catch up with one another. He circles around the gondola fixture for a while, browsing the same items sitting on the perforated shelves. Grigori hops off that aisle carousel feeling rather dizzy and bumps into a magazine rack. All of these fine, preserved reads are in Russian except . . .

FUTURE. The red Anglican letters pop out at him from a magazine tucked behind a travel brochure. He takes the foreign magazine off the rack and inspects the front cover.

Huh. A tin man carrying what I can only describe as some sort of sci-fi movie prop depicting a laser weapon. Yeah, that thing is one hundred percent made of cardboard. The same probably goes for the armor set too. The Pre-War military would've never showcased such advanced technology to the public.

Thankfully for Grigori, English was a required language to learn in primary school, so he entertains the thought of turning to a random page and lands his eyes on pure fantasy.

March 2077; Manifest Democracy

"The H&K L30 Gatling Laser is a prototype squad automatic weapon. Weighing in at twenty-four pounds, the Gatling Laser features six heavy duty barrels for sustained firing, a carry handle for user-friendly mobility, and a feeding system for self-contained fusion plants, or microfusion cells. Designed in 2052, it saw extensive use on the battlefield in mainland China during the Sino-American War. Combat engineers in T-51b power armor would spearhead major assaults into urban centers and implement their standard issue Gatling Lasers as clever suppressive devices. One laser alone can sever a man's limb off. Now imagine one volley of lasers eviscerating an entire platoon of Red Chinese! They may have the numbers to summon humans like waves, but Uncle Sam most certainly has the industrial means to fend them off!"

Grigori flips back to the front cover and reads some flavor text in the bottom left corner that he initially ignored. There's a story of a U.S. Marine who served in Nanjing on page forty-two. Never heard of that place before. He fans through the pages until his thumb stops at the right spot.

June - August 2074; The Yangtze Campaign

Interviewer: "Staff Sergeant R.B. Vickers—"

Vickers: "Please, call me Vick."

Interviewer: "Tell us about your deployment to mainland China. What was it like being one of the first to participate in turning the tide back on the Reds?"

Vickers: "Well, it definitely wasn't a Sunday stroll. The war had been raging on for eight years then, and boy was I fed up with it. The free ferry ride the Navy provided me with was all right, save for the Xian-85s that were harassing the carrier fleet. Anyway, we made a hard landing at the port city of Nanjing. The Chinese had her locked up tight. I mean, dragon's teeth, razor wire, and pillboxes everywhere. Fighting on the beachhead was chaotic and deafening."

[SSGT R.B. Vickers takes a long pause.]

Interviewer: "Is everything all right, Vick?"

Vickers: "I need a moment."

[A short intermission is taken.]

Interviewer: "You were telling us about the beach landing."

Vickers: "Ah, right. Yeah, there were bullets, lasers, and fragments flying everywhere. Not one square foot on that beach was safe. We had to move inland fast because we knew the Chinese already had their artillery guns perfectly coordinated on the coastline before the invasion began. I had arms and legs thrown at me, yet somehow, I mustered up the courage to rally my boys out of the killing zone. It was Hell on Earth!"

Interviewer: "Mm. Your commanding officer told me you were one of the first frontline troops to receive a Wattz 2000 Laser Rifle. What can you tell me about it?"

Vickers: "Ol' Reliable? That hunk of metal saved me more times than all the fingers on my hands."

Interviewer: "Were you able to use it on the beach?"

Vickers: "It was the only thing I had on me besides my sidearm. The machine gun nests were far enough away to still hit us, but we couldn't hit them back, those bastards! And since I was the only designated marksman in my fire team, I took it upon myself to snipe those pesky turrets from afar! The laser on that thing travels far with pinpoint accuracy. It also acts as an everburning tracer round which does wonders for follow-up shots."

Interviewer: "Any confirmed kills with it?"

Vickers: "Well, besides the soulless turrets doing their dirty work for them, of course!"

Interviewer: "How many?"

Vickers: "Oh, I don't remember that sort of stuff. I'm no sadist who tallies up his kills. I want to say . . . at least twenty."

Interviewer: "I'm curious how a laser weapon affects human targets since it's only accelerated light."

Vickers: "Well, I'm certainly no expert, but think of it as a water hose. When the pressure's normal, it's harmless. Set the pressure too high though, you've got yourself a power washer, and you don't wanna stand in front of one!"

Interviewer: "I suppose the particle accelerator is similar in nature. It propels particles well beyond the speed of light. If a man were to stick his head into a beamline, well, he'd have the headache of a lifetime. Sorry if my previous question was poorly worded, but I'm wondering, since you're an eyewitness, do people really disintegrate like they do in those midnight sci-fi flicks?"

[SSGT R.B. Vickers takes a long pause, then a drag out of his Lucky Strikes cigarette.]

Vickers: "You want the short answer? No. You want the long answer? You're a heartless, spineless loony, and this sad excuse of an interview is over! If you'll excuse me, I have a flight to catch. Have a good day."

[Interview ends.]

Leaving off on a sour note, Grigori tries to salvage something a little more lighthearted. Once again, he seeks the front cover for inspiration, feeling a bit more sympathy for the tin man. Perhaps he or someone like him fought alongside the Marine sniper at one point. His eyes drag up to a line of small text in black. It reads:

"Exclusive, Colonel Moretti slams the venerable P94!"

As Grigori is about to read up on some good old fashioned drama regarding the military bureaucracy, Commissar Petrov finishes his talk with Anton and irks the bookworm.

"What are you reading there, mein Freund?" Petrov playfully tilts the magazine's spine down.

"Future Weapons Today, a digest magazine that flexes America's technological superiority to the rest of the world."

"Yeah, well, their technology is half the reason we're in this mess."

"I know. What were you and Anton talking about?"

"I told him the scavenge team needs some supplies before embarking on its first hunt, so he lended me all the scraps he could."

Petrov dumps out a burlap sack and flattens the mountain of clutter, spreading it across the tabletop like butter on toast. He fishes out an orange case with a red cross painted on it.

"Anton only had five medkits in the back. Each one contains five syringes. Just pop off the cap, jab the needle in, and inject the medicine until it's all gone. Trimeperidine is no miracle drug, so don't expect it to fully heal a broken limb or stop internal bleeding. The side effects are debilitating though. I suggest you only take it when there's a lull in combat."

"Okay." Grigori pockets the medkit. "Was there anything else?"

Petrov snaps his finger and turns around, presenting a tattered hiking bag to Grigori. "You'll need this to carry all your gear on top of loot. Fifteen liters of space should suffice."

Grigori slips the worn straps over his shoulders, adjusting the tightness to his liking. "Am I all set then?"

"Almost. Hiram is putting together his recon pack, and Pasha is cleaning up his Valve. Go and wait for them by the main gate. Any questions?"

"How will I communicate with them since they only speak Russian?"

"The job is simple. Talking isn't required, but if you want to get a point across, try using body language."

"Seems like I'll be more of a liability than an asset."

Commissar Petrov rubs his graying mustache and sighs. "Would you prefer going solo instead?"

"No. I'm just thinking logically here." Ironic, considering it feels I have a piece of my brain missing! "What if something bad happens and one of us gets incapacitated?"

"You extract immediately. If you can apply first aid to them or yourself without putting everybody at risk, then do it by all means necessary. I'd rather have one survivor come back alive than nobody, as harsh as it sounds."

"I don't want to be left for dead, let alone leave somebody to rot."

"I understand. It's risky. I won't force you to go if you're hesitant. I can just ask Commissar Rusakov to lend me a third man, but you are always welcome to join the scavenge team at any time. There's a lot of things to learn about the Wasteland, Grigori, and I believe going on this small hunting trip will be a good lesson for you."

Here I am, given the greatest opportunity in the Wasteland to grow as a survivalist, and I'm blowing it off! I'm being smart by not putting myself in such a dangerous position, but this is a different world I'm living in, one that's constantly challenging the human will. I'm afraid I'll get too comfortable staying in the village, never wandering out of my comfort zone.

When I go to style my greasy hair and graze that permanent mark on my head, I'm reminded of my attacker. They let me live just so that I can think about them every day and night, wondering when they'll come back and finish the job. I'm walking in the Grim Reaper's shadow. I don't know when death will come knocking at my door, but I better have a double barrel shotgun in my hands before answering.

Grigori clears his stuffy nose, turning it red. "All right. I've talked myself into going."

"Excellent!" Petrov smacks his dusty hands together. "Ooh, I almost forgot." He unbuttons his spare ammo pouch, sifts out an empty magazine, and tosses it to Grigori. "Take this and fully load it with your remaining pistol rounds before heading out. Trust me, you don't want such a tedious chore weighing you down by the time bullets start flying. Always stock up on full magazines."

Grigori sits at the table, pushes the plateau of junk aside, and begins feeding the magazine. His right thumb grows a bit sore from manhandling the stubby 7.62x25mm cartridges down the tube. Nonetheless, he finishes in one minute. It would've taken longer had he loaded a seventy-one round drum magazine from a PPD-40. Grigori should consider himself lucky. He leaves Anton's shop, nabbing the March issue of Future Weapons Today on the way out.

The bandits lay low in the tree-line, stalking the village from afar.

"And you're sure this is the one off of the Dnieper?" asks Faceless. "Or was it the Pripyat?"

Killjoy ignores his subordinate's words, only feeling the slightest of soundwaves hitting his sensitive ears. He pulls out a spyglass from his satchel and surveys the trio of men standing guard outside the main gate. "Out of all the hamlets we've encountered so far, this one seems the most well-kempt."

"What makes you say that?"

"I spotted the three armed guards first, then the concrete wall surrounding the village, both of which are decent deterrences against raids." Killjoy zooms in a few notches and sharpens the blurry image. "The villagers also live in actual houses, not rickety tin shacks held together by spit and rusty nails. They grow their own crops too (very self-sufficient), and half their people aren't one radiation dose away from joining Atom."

"We should evict them, heh, heh." Poppy snorts.

"Not yet."

"Huh?"

"You can't just raid a settlement like that without spending at least a week observing its people and how they carry themselves on a day-to-day basis. Are they fearful or resilient? How many of them are there? Where do they patrol? These are the types of questions you should be asking yourself."

It's about damn time we take on a real challenge. Razing defenseless hamlets to the ground was getting too old for me. "Where do we go from here?" asks Faceless.

"I want to see how close the Dnieper is to the village, and that requires us heading due west. Once we reach the river, we'll set up camp there and spend the night. The next morning, one of us will head back to the village and spy on it for eight hours. Then that person will come back and rotate with the next person in line. Rinse and repeat. This will allow us to keep our eyes on the village for twenty-four hours straight."

"And you expect us to camp out in one spot for eight hours, alone?" questions Faceless.

"Nothing more, nothing less!" Killjoy puts on a conniving smile. He pops open his compass and turns roughly forty-five degrees to face west. "Come on, boys." His hand beckons them, and they go deep into the pine forest.

Pasha looks up after wiping his gun down and sees three silhouettes moving in the treeline. "What is that?" He stares off in the distance with beady eyes, but they vanish before he can identify them.

"I don't know," answers Hiram. "I was too busy reorganizing stuff in my pack. What spooked you anyway?"

"I saw shadows in the forest, possibly people."

"I think paranoia is playing tricks on you again."

"Maybe, but I'm still cautious." Pasha turns to Grigori squatting on his toes, his heels not touching the ground. Westerners. "All right, Greg, let's . . ."

"He can't understand you."

"Oh, right."

Hiram recalls Soviet war flicks depicting German NCOs shouting like barbarians to mobilize demoralized troops and decides to put on his best Unteroffizier impression. "Los! Los! Los!"

The oddly familiar command sends Grigori running down the patchy country road, forcing Hiram and Pasha to chase after him.

After hiking half an hour north, they find the hunting ground, a five acre plot of irregular terrain surrounded by hedges. There's hardly any vegetation out here compared to the marshes. Only a few burnt shrubs and trees remain. Grigori spans his arms out, embracing the openness. The botanical hands of Polesia slowly release themselves from Grigori's neck, for he can roam freely now without the overgrowth suffocating him with its dank aura.

Grigori looks up at the white sky, then down at the overcooked earth. He massages his aching soles on the dense soil. It's still moist from the morning shower that occurred earlier. A crisp breeze eases the tight creases on his worn face. Springtime is at its peak in Polesia, but Grigori is unaware of the changing seasons. He can't keep track of time nor write out today's date in that scrambled mind of his. Time to him is seamless, a constant forward motion. He lives in the present, occasionally visiting the past through distinct visions triggered by certain events.

As for his comrades, they can't seem to let go of the past. Unlike Grigori, their memories of the Old World are as strong and clear as vodka. They drink those memories out of rose-tinted shot glasses and become drunkards nostalgic for the Soviet days.

"Dogs," whispers Hiram to Pasha. Reality sobers them back up.

"How many?" asks Pasha.

Hiram looks through his binoculars, breathing softly from his mouth. "Five. Heh. Looks like those pooches are snacking on something shiny."

"Rules of engagement?"

"I say we kill the alpha first. Doing so will break the cohesion of the pack."

Pasha chuckles. "How do we know which one's the alpha?"

"Hmm. We'll have to watch how they interact with one another. The alpha is typically territorial and doesn't like other dogs getting too close to its chow."

"If that's the case, I've met plenty of alphas in the Army. In the mess hall, to be more precise, but that can't be right. Only one alpha can rule them all. Me! Hahaha!" His laugh exudes cockiness.

"Riiight." Hiram experiences a sharp pang of vicarious embarrassment in his chest. "Well, let's watch them eat for, I don't know, ten minutes?"

"We should hurry before they finish their last bite."

They both nod at each other while Grigori sits in the backseat clueless. Grigori grows fond of his new pistol, a reproduction of the Soviet TT-33, inspecting it thoroughly to pass the time. He racks the slide, changes the magazine, and inserts a reserve one to practice on reloading. The sliding and clicking of metal comes off as a cacophony of mills and lathes operating without laborers in an empty shop.

The more Grigori repeats the process, the faster he becomes. Grigori blurs out the hunting ground, the snarling mutts, and his comrades as he focuses harder on mastering his reload time. He fails from jittery nerves, rushing to the next step with anticipating hands instead of being patient and building muscle memory.

He wrinkles his nose and gives the repetition a break.

A gust of putrid wind comes in from the west and forces Grigori to turn his cheek the other way.

His heart skips a beat.

While the human hunters were preoccupied with the pack, the alpha was well aware of their presence and decided to flank them from the sides, in the hedgerows. Standing at one hundred-one pounds on all four paws, the German Shepherd mix growls at Grigori, revealing his blood soaked canine teeth.

Grigori frantically grabs his TT and pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He pulls the trigger again. Empty.

What the hell?

There's little to no time for him to analyze all the technical problems with his gun, so he discards the paperweight. The Tokarev wasn't jammed, however. Grigori made the simple yet grave mistake of leaving his gun unloaded after training.

He shouts for help in German. Pasha and Hiram quickly turn around to see what has Grigori all riled up. The German Shepherd stands forty meters away, ready to pounce on fresh meat. His litter had a hard, rancid bone to pick.

"Greg!" Pasha yells at the frozen Grigori. "Move your ass!"

The German Shepherd locks on Pasha, deeming him the biggest threat. As for his puppies, they'll be attacking the lesser game.

Pasha swipes his elongated tube of a rifle off the ground with his dominant hand and aims it at the charging beast. His right arm struggles to keep the hefty Valve from swaying. He eventually drives the stock into his shoulder to align the sights with the alpha.

His whole world turns upside down, the German Shepherd now on top of him. It was closer than he thought. Pasha uses his arms to shield himself from the lashing bites.

Hiram wants to save his comrade, but the alpha's litter is running towards him at an alarming rate. His Mosin carbine holds five rounds of 7.62x54mmR in total, and there's an equal number of dogs for him to euthanize. Every shot counts.

Hiram goes prone, takes a deep breath, and gauges how far the closest dog is. He fires true and hits the front one in the chest, killing it instantly. He cycles the stiff bolt and acquires his next target. The second dog hurdles over her fallen brother and almost trips on his dead body. With rage in her heart, she covers ground faster than the rest of her kin.

The pack is closing in, and half of them are concealed by hills. Hiram has to adjust his sight picture. His aim is a tad high, but he manages to snipe another dog in the head. It pains him on the inside having to slaughter these lost creatures, but he knows he's doing them a favor.

A lot of these wild dogs end up dying a slow and painful death to radiation. They catch autoimmune disease, and from there, their bodies try to ravage themselves. Skin and fur start to peel off, creating a plethora of wounds on the surface such as lesions, lacerations, and abscesses. These wounds cannot be healed due to lack of white blood cells which leads to festering infections and incurable diseases, but worst of all, a complete failure of the digestive system. By that point, death is imminent. The same happens to humans, if they don't become feral.

"AAAHHH!" Pasha screams.

The alpha bites a chunk of his arm off and flings it to the ground. The ghastly image of Pasha bleeding out smacks the absolute fear out of Grigori's soul. He swiftly loads his TT and empties eight bullets into the alpha's back and loin. The beast stops its bloody assault on Pasha and stands on its hind legs, wobbling. Pasha shoves the dead animal off of him with his other arm.

"Three more!" yells Hiram.

Pasha grunts in more pain, but he's not out of the fight yet. He crawls towards his Valve on one good arm and takes up position next to Hiram. Grigori joins the two after reloading his pistol. They lie at the top of the hill, waiting for the other dogs to come and avenge their father.

Hiram spots a disinterested dog wandering away from the hunting ground.

Is it really worth wasting a bullet on him? The poor bastard just wants to leave and not fight anymore. I can't shoot a living being in the back like that, not after shooting two of its family members, brother or sister. It's for the village, Hiram. Hunt these once domestic pets like those mutated amphibians at the Pripyat, quit being so sensitive. At least they still have their souls. We're sacrificing theirs for our sake, unfortunately.

BOOM!

The muzzle flash lights up Hiram's face as he helplessly watches a tracer round hit the fleeing dog. He turns to Pasha and his smoking Valve.

"Two left," mutters Pasha. An empty steel case cartwheels out of the single-shot rifle. Even as a crippled, I'm still a crack shot.

Grigori grabs a syringe out of his first-aid kit and gives Pasha a shot of Trimeperidine. He jabs the needle in Pasha's arm without his consent and startles him. The opioid analgesic sedates him shortly after.

"Spasibo, tovarisch." Pasha commends Grigori, patting him softly on the shoulder.

"Pasha, can you still fight?" Hiram asks anxiously.

"Greg . . ." Pasha coughs and shivers. "He gave me Trime—"

The analgesic? That'll put him to sleep.

Hiram tugs on Grigori's sleeve to grab his attention. He points at the dead alpha, shows his index and middle fingers, then flicks them out at the hunting ground. "Two. Dogs." He talks in a broken English accent. Grigori can understand and speak a bit of English too, though he's not fluent.

"Okay." Grigori gives him a thumbs-up. Hiram smiles back and plans on saving a graceful prayer for later. For now, the two hunters bunch up together with guns at the ready.

The dogs finally emerge from the shady hills after what felt like an eternity of hiding. They raise their wet snouts in the air and smell something foul. One of them whimpers, and the other howls, sending shivers down the hunters' spines.

Hiram figures the pups are just mourning. He carries on with his duty when, suddenly, angels reach out to him, plucking on his heartstrings like a harp. The celestial women from the heavens beg Hiram to spare the dogs, whispering sweet nothings into his toasty ears. They promise him he'll be granted passage to Eden, a faraway garden full of life and innocence. Tears begin to well up in his eyes.

The angels of Polesia giggle, then tangle Hiram up in rose vines. A strong pacifist sensation overcomes him. Grigori is unaffected, however. The angels have no power over a corrupt heart, so they flee. Hiram stays trapped in the vines of mercy for now.

Grigori tries bringing Hiram back to his senses, but to no avail. He takes charge and snags the binoculars dangling from Hiram's neck. He checks on the dogs again and sees two pairs of glowing red dots staring back at him. Foaming at the mouths, they growl and bark for bloody human flesh.

Gunshots ring out from Grigori's TT and resonate in Hiram's chest cavity. A Stalker's spirit infiltrates his soul and starts strumming violently on his heartstrings like an acoustic guitar until they all snap from tension.

Hiram awakens with bloodshot eyes, his fingers fidgety. Free from the spell, Hiram shoulders his carbine and waits for the perfect moment. Patience is a virtue. He inhales, pulls the trigger, and embraces the stout recoil.

The last dog goes limp and drags its wrinkly face through the dirt.

As Hiram rests his frayed nerves, he turns to see Grigori offering him a fist bump.

"Good work." Grigori compliments him in English.

"You too." Hiram responds awkwardly.

They nod and dust each other's knuckles.

Now that the pack's been dealt with, they check up on Pasha and see that he's laying on his back, unresponsive. Hiram hurries and drops to his knees next to Pasha. He pours rubbing alcohol over the grizzly wound, then covers it in gauze.

Doctor Rostov better have antibiotics back at the clinic. Hiram holds the roll of gauze in one hand and snips off a strip, tucking it in the dressing. A bite from a wild dog may as well be a death sentence. Nothing terrifies me more than rabies. Back then, a shot from the doctor's office could cure you of said disease. Such convenience died four years ago. Now it's just Rostov's clinic, a fraction of what modern medicine used to be. I pray for Pasha.

Hiram crouches down and grabs onto Pasha's legs. He tries dragging him a few meters forward but unfortunately loses steam. Grigori catches on and picks up Pasha by his arms. He tests his might, lifting the heavy brute a few inches off the ground. His muscles start to grow weak, so he places Pasha back down.

Hiram and Grigori doubt they have enough time to carry Pasha back to the village before he succumbs to the infection on his arm, and neither want to abandon him. They fret over the situation in silence, feeling hopeless.

Hiram eventually comes to, having that same morbid curiosity when the dogs were gathered around their supposed meal. Whatever they were eating was awfully shiny. Metallic, even. His detective bone rattles. Grigori raises his head up and stares blankly at Hiram, wondering what sort of plan he's cooking.

"Wait here," says Hiram, "and watch Pasha." He stands up straight and proceeds towards the middle of the hunting ground. Grigori loses sight of him once he climbs over a hill. He feels something tight like a knot in the pit of his stomach.

Alone again.